#so this thought has been massively comforting to me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 3 months ago

Text

YOUNGBLOOD

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ . ۫ ꣑ৎ . ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

rafe x fem! black cat! pogue!reader

masterlist | kofi | next part

wc: 9.3k (sorry)

summary: summary: You’re the girl. Every guy who asks you out gets the same answer: No. You don’t do dating anymore. But as your reputation grows, so does the challenge. And when Rafe Cameron gets you in sights, he’s not about to give up.

cw: Rafe and reader are both assholes (hers is justified bc to me women are always correct) but it works out. oh also this one is a little spicy !! ofc not full smut but this is Rafe Cameron we’re talking about i can’t NOT include a LITTLE. ward jumpscare for like two seconds, references to past shitty relationships

tags/tropes: he falls first and harder (seriously he wants her BAD) black cat x doberman, kind of how to lose a guy in 10 days vibes, at first Rafe wants her bc of the challenge but eventually he just WANTS her, mild hurt/comfort, dom! rafe but also he does whatever reader wants (except stop trying to date her)

a/n: in this fic i imagine reader being one of those super fluffy feral black cats and then rafe is this doberman sitting behind her. walk him like a dog sis walk him like a dog

i’m so glad i finally finished this i’ve been writing it for ages but here it is !! hope u guys like it <3

EDIT 2: part two is up you heathens :) (affectionate)

songs i listened to while writing: Youngblood by 5 Seconds of Summer, Meddle About by Chase Atlantic, Champagne Coast by Blood Orange, Salvatore by Lana Del Rey, Brooklyn Baby by Lana Del Rey, Sad Girl by Lana Del Rey, sex money feelings die by Lykke Li, Angel by Massive Attack and Horace Andy

title taken from Youngblood by 5 Seconds of Summer aka this fics anthem

. ݁₊ ⚜️ . ݁˖

He meets you in, of all places, a fucking Barnes & Nobles.

There’s one Barnes & Nobles in the entirety of Kildare Island; it’s on the North side.

Rafe is only there because one of Kelce’s current flings is obsessed with reading those smutty books. Race doesn’t get the appeal. Apparently, the fling is at home sick and Kelce wants to get her something to make her feel better.

Rafe and Topper both think the partying might seriously be affecting his brain chemistry.

But anyway, Kelce asked Rafe to help because he’s “got a way with wooing women” and then since Rafe was going he said fuck it and invited Topper, who will surely be the voice of reason in all of this.

(He seriously doubts it, since Topper almost died in a burning building for the sake of his girlfriend, but whatever. Rafe just doesn’t want to deal with pussy-whipped Kelce by himself.)

They’re on their third go around the store and Rafe is beginning to contemplate the pros and cons of just grabbing the nearest book of the shelf and telling Kelce to just fucking pick something when he spots you:

Straining to reach a book on one of the top shelves. Looking perfectly and immaculately delicious.

“Yo,” He smacks Topper’s arm, getting his attention, “Who the hell is that?”

Topper follows his eyeline, landing on you.

“No fucking way, dude. No chance.”

He frowns, turning and looking at Topper, affronted.

Topper shrugs. “No offense, man. I tried once. All the guys in the island got this stupid-ass nickname for her, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm. The Pogue Princess. She’s turned down every single guy to ever ask her out. Even the Kooks.”

Rafe snorts. “So she’s arrogant?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. I totally thought she was a bitch when she turned me down, but honestly, it makes sense. People only ask her out because she always says no.”

“So?” He scoffs. “She’s fucking hot. She should be flattered.”

He looks her up and down again. “I’m gonna ask her.”

He can picture it exactly: having the one and only Pogue Princess hanging off his arm. The girl no other guy has banged— she’d be his, and his only. He’d have those lips and that face— he’d have you.

And you’d have him, of course. Not many girls can say that.

“Suit yourself man. Don’t come crying to me when she turns your ass down.”

He strides over to you, sidling up next to you, leaning against the shelf.

“Hey,”

“No.”

He blinks. “What?”

“No. No I don’t want your number, no I don’t want to sleep with you, no I don’t want to go out with you.” You say, not looking over at him once.

“Well, how come, doll?” He says, leaning down a bit so he’s closer to your height. “We could have a good time, you and me.”

“First of all,” You start, pulling a book off the shelf. “It’s a known fact that Rafe Cameron doesn’t date Pogues. Secondly, I can tell you exactly how this relationship would go. We’d date, and then after a few weeks you’d grow sick of my Pogue-ish ways or something like that. We’d break up, and then I would be seen as even more of a social pariah than I am now. I’d be unwelcome in Pogue spaces because I’d forever be the girl who dated Rafe Cameron just to get her heart broken like all the others, and I’m already a stain on this side of the island, but I’m willing to bet your groupies and fanclub would increase their ridicule if I was ever seen here. So no.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve thought this out.”

“No I haven’t. It’s predictable.”

You re-shelf the book you were holding then walk away, stalking deeper into the store.

He looks back at Topper once, flashing his best friend that dangerous smile.

Topper groans in the distance, all too away of the effect a challenge has on Rafe Cameron.

—

You have to say. You’re a little surprised to feel his continued gaze on your back, even more displeased to hear his footsteps trailing behind you.

“You won’t better your chances by annoying me.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You don’t have to,” You slow your walk, reaching out to tap your hand on the spine of a book you’ve been eyeing for awhile. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“And what does my reputation say about me?”

“That you’re an asshole and a heartbreaker,” You turn and look back at him over your shoulder. “You’re not exactly selling me, here.”

Your eyes latch on something tucked under his arm. It’s the two books he saw you eyeing. His gaze catches yours and he gives you a cocky smirk.

You roll your eyes and turn back around. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Rafe Cameron.”

He trails after you the entire time you’re in the store, picking book after book off the shelf that he sees your eyes even linger on.

“What’s your plan here?” You ask, turning a book over in your hands and scanning the blurb on the back. “Buy the entire store? Woo me with your credit card? You’re not the only guy on the island with a piece of plastic.”

“Pretty sure I’m the guy with the most on his plastic, though.”

You sigh loudly through your nose. “I’m not interested in men who are only interested in me as an object. You want the trophy you get from ‘bagging the Pogue Princess.’ So fuck off.”

You’re so sick of this. Sick of every guy being the same— only being interested in you as an ego boost. No guy has ever been interested in you for you.

And they never will be, so long as you keep turning them down. Every man wants what he can’t have.

“You’re seriously not going to get anything?”

You pause in your storm off, turning around to look at Rafe. “What?”

His arms are laden with a thick stack of books, muscles flexed at the weight of the stack, straining at the sleeve of his t-shirt.

He gestures to the shelves around you. “You must have looked at the entire store. You’re really just going to leave?”

“I’m a Pogue, Rafe. You do the math.”

Your hands clench and unclench on the strap of your bag. You never thought you’d catch the attention of Rafe Cameron. If Sarah’s the Kook Princess, then he’s the Kook Prince. Dating him would give you some major points on the North Side of the Island.

…And ruin your relationship with 90% of the Pogue’s on The Cut.

Besides. Even if you did date him, he would stick around. No way in hell he would. And then you’d be back right where you started.

Your fumbling with your keys out in the small parking lot, groaning as your ancient beater car key once again refuses to turn in the lock when you hear footsteps behind you.

You rub a hand over your face and turn around.

“Can you please leave me alone? Seriously.”

He’s got that stupid smile on his face again and he’s holding something out to you.

A book. Just one.

You take it from his hands cautiously. “You had a whole stack. Why downgrade to just one?”

He clasps his hands behind his back. “Cause you looked at all those other ones once. You stopped at this one three times. Figured you might’ve wanted it.”

You chew your lip. “I’m still not going out with you.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d change your mind right now.”

He leans down, reaching forward, breath fanning your face. You screw your eyes shut, bracing.

A loud click behind you. He pulls away.

“But you will.”

With that, he turns, walking back into the store. At the doors, he flashes you one last smile.

You take one breath. Two.

You climb into your now unlocked car, tossing the book onto the passenger seat.

When you get home, you won’t be able to stop thinking about how in the moment, you kind of wanted him to kiss you.

—

He finds you at the Boneyard, because of course he does.

You’re sitting on one of the drift wood-slash-benches near the bonfire, pretending like you’re not shivering.

“You know, most people come to beach parties to let loose and have fun. That includes me. Having fun and letting loose does not include you.”

“Oh, come on. This is neutral territory, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What am I allowed to call you?”

“Nothing. Go find another girl to stroke your ego. Or your dick. I don’t care either way.”

He leans down into your space. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Fuck. Off.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I only came over to give you this.”

This time, instead of holding out a book (that you had, in fact, read in a matter of days. It was as good as you’d thought it’d be) he holds out a jacket. One of those expensive North Face fleeces.

You scrunch your nose. “And why are you giving me that?”

“You’re cold.”

“So?”

“So, I’m being a gentleman.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you knew what that word was.”

He drops the fleece on your head. “Take the fucking jacket.”

You slide it off your head, putting it on and glaring at him all the while.

“I’m only putting this on because I’m cold.”

“Sure you are.”

“This has nothing to do with you. I’m still not dating you.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate you.”

He cracks the same smile he gave you at the bookstore. “Sure.”

He takes a swig of his beer, walking backwards towards his group of friends. “You look good in my clothes, princess.”

You flip him two fingers, and he flips them straight back.

You’ll deny it later that you smiled after the interaction.

—

He shows up at your job. This time, Topper’s with him.

You close your eyes and count to ten, mentally picturing fleeing the country and never having to deal with men again before speaking.

“You know, there’s a term for you right now.”

He smiles that same stupid fucking smile, tapping his fingers on the table of the cafe you work at. He’s seated outside in your section. You highly doubt it’s by mistake.

“Determined? Persistent?”

“A repeat offender,” You say flatly. “Now will you please order and get the hell out here?”

To his credit, Topper looks vaguely uncomfortable with his own presence. Though that might be because you did turn him down particularly brutally. You wince internally. It wasn’t his fault, per se. It was just… not a good day.

Rafe is perfectly capable of handling your top-notch bitch-ery, and secretly, you enjoy the chance to be as openly angry as you want to be.

Rafe pretends to read over the menu. You know he’s only pretending because you watched him read it for five straight minutes when they first arrived. He probably has it memorized.

“I’d like a blueberry muffin,” He says, still smiling. “Just one.”

You scribble it down on your order sheet, then turn to Topper. “And you?”

“Uh,” He clears his throat, “Just a water, please.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Seriously? You came all the way to my job to harass me and that’s what you order? One muffin and a water?”

You write the water down anyway, clicking your tongue. “And the asshole-ery continues.”

“And what would you have us order, then?” Rafe asks, eyeing you from his position at the table.

It’s scary how well he commands a space just by being— he’s Rafe Cameron and he knows it. He exudes power and control.

He’s the exact kind of man you turn down hard. No chance of anything.

“Something actually worth bothering me for,” You slip the notepad into your apron pocket and spin on your heel, “I have other orders and tables to wait. Don’t expect to get your muffin and water soon.”

As you wait and bus the tables that need to be dealt with before your orders are ready, you begin to wonder if you’re going too far.

This isn’t just any Kook. This is Rafe. He could completely and utterly destroy your life if he wanted to.

Maybe you’re better off agreeing to go out with him. Just to be safe. Women don’t turn a man like that down.

Finally, you get their orders out to them, setting them on the table a little less harsh than you were originally planning.

“There,” Can’t quite stop your mouth, though. “Do you want the check now?”

Rafe picks up his muffin, shrugging. “Sure.”

You slide them the bill— you had it ready the second you got the chance. You’d rather not have them here any longer than you have to.

It was hard enough to get a job outside The Cut. You don’t need to give your boss any more reason to fire you.

Rafe tosses a few bills onto the bill and you take it, counting the money.

“You overpaid.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Your total was nine dollars and twenty six cents. You just handed me two hundred dollar bills.”

He tilts his head at you like he’s confused. “I thought you were supposed to tip waiters and shit.”

You blink at the bills. “Yeah like, five dollars. Not two hundred. I don’t even think we accept hundred dollar bills.”

“Tell your manager I’m the one who paid. Can’t take issue with a Cameron.”

“You’re the worst,” You tell him, but take the money back to your manager. He isn’t happy, but like Rafe said— can’t take issue with a Cameron. He gives you the change you need and bores holes into your back with how hard he’s staring as you walk the money back.

“Here.” You thrust your arm out, handing him the change.

Rafe crosses his arms. “I said that was your tip.”

“I can’t accept this. I don’t accept pity money.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not pity money.”

“Then what kind of money is it? Cause it sure feels like pity money. Oh wait, is this you-owe-me-now money?”

He groans. “Can’t you just take the fucking money?”

“Not if there’s a consequence.”

If Topper looked uncomfortable before, he looks almost nauseous now. You kind of feel bad for him.

Rafe scrubs a hand down his face. “Will you just take it? No consequence.”

“Why?”

Topper chokes on his water.

“Why?” Rafe asks, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Because it’s what I do. You’re the Pogue Princess, yeah? I’m giving you the princess treatment.”

“But why? What do you gain from this?”

“I’m just gonna go wait at the car,” Topper says, getting up so quickly he bumps the table.

Rafe’s eyes never leave you, the money still clutched in your hand. “You know what I get out of this? The prettiest girl on the island in my clothes. The prettiest girl on the island spending my money.”

The bills start to crinkle in your grip. “I’m a Pogue. You don’t date Pogue’s.”

He stands, pushing back his chair in a much more controlled manner than you were expecting, given the look on his face. “Have you ever considered that you’re the exception?”

“No, because I’m not. The only part of me that’s an exception is the challenge. That’s all you want.”

Something flashes in his eyes. His gaze is dark where it scans your features, something calculating in his eyes.

“Some guy fucked you over, huh?”

Your near full body flinch is a dead giveaway. “Fuck you, Rafe. You’re an asshole.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. But I’m gonna keep showing you what this,”

He gestures to the both of you. “Could be like. I’m not that kind of asshole. Not to girls who look like you.”

He stands, taking all the change out of your hand except the $100 bill.

“Hold onto that for me,” He says, voice husky as it brushes your ear.

His hand comes up for one second, two, and then he lowers it. Like he’d had to restrain himself ok touching you.

An involuntary shiver runs down your spine. He smirks at the reaction.

And then, he’s gone. Now you’re just some waiter standing at a table with a $100 clutched in your hand.

You shake yourself out of your stupor, getting busy bussing the table. You notice something fluttering under his plate.

An old receipt with a number scribbled on it.

And a $20 bill.

“Son of a—“

—

You’re having a really bad day. One of those thirty-million-minor-inconveniences-in-a-row days. With one last fuck you from the universe on top.

You couldn’t get your hair right no matter how many times you tried, your makeup is rushed and bad because you spent too much time on your hair, once again one of your neighbors pulled out of their driveway without looking and almost killed you, a guy tried feel you up during your shift and your manager told you it was your fault for wearing revealing clothing (you were literally wearing your uniform) and then top it all off, your car won’t start. It won’t even try.

You slam your head against the steering wheel. Your boss made you stay late because of the incident so it’s getting dark now. You’re not walking all the way back to The Cut. But you don’t know how you’re getting home. It’s not like you can just call a mechanic. None of your pogue friends have cars and only person who does you’d… rather not call right now.

So that just leaves one option.

A really, really, terrible option.

A horrific one.

You curse as you rifle through your purse, pulling out the old receipt. Your phone’s almost dead, so you have to make this count.

You dial the number, pulling your knees to your chest and sinking low in your seat.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rafe.”

“I was wondering when you’d call me.”

“I’m sure you were,” You say flatly. “Listen I… I need a favor.”

“Spill.”

“I’m at work. My car won’t start. I just—“ You break off, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. “Can you please come pick me up?”

“I’m on my way. Sit tight.”

He hangs up the phone and you sigh, scrubbing your face and willing the tears to just go away. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, probably smearing your makeup past the point of return, but you can’t find it with in yourself to care.

You sit there for what feels like minutes, hands pressed to your face trying desperately to stop the tears that keep flowing when you hear a car pull up next to you.

You sit up, hands lowered, eyeing the sleek Range Rover that just pulled up next to you.

You manage to climb out of your car, hugging your waist in an act of self-soothing and a sad attempt at getting warm. It gets cold in Kildare at night.

Rafe rounds the front of his car, expression pinched.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, really, just…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely to your car. You sniff hard, rubbing the back of your hand across your face. “It’s just been a long day.”

He looks over your shoulder, assessing your car before looking back to you. “Get whatever you need from your car.”

You rush to gather the items from your car, piling them in the backseat at Rafe’s direction. You turn, facing him when something is thrown at your face.

It’s disturbing that you recognize it by deja vu alone.

“Rafe—“ You say, taking the jacket in your hands.

“You’re cold. Put it on.”

“But—“

“Listen, princess, I’m perfectly satisfied waiting here all night until you put that on.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the car.

You squeeze the jacket in your hand. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That.”

“Mmm,” He hums. “That’s a tough one. Probably cause you look pathetic when you shiver.”

“I do not.”

“You totally do. You get all hunched. Like an old lady.”

“Is this your idea of flirting?”

He smiles. “Put the jacket on.”

You do. It’s just as warm as last time.

He nods his head towards the car and you climb into the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt.

He climbs in after you, putting his seatbelt on and pulling the car out of the parking lot. After a moment, he reaches across the console, turning on your seat warmer and cranking the heat up.

“Thank you,” You say after a moment.

“I told you I’d show you what life would be like if you were mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” He says, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Mine.”

“So you’d have me, what? Caged? Chained to you.”

“Spoiled, is the word I’d used.”

“I’m not an object, Rafe. I’m not going to be some kind of kept woman.”

He snorts. “Who said anything about that?”

“That’s what you want, is it not? Want me to have no personality, no nothing. You want me to hang off your arm and laugh at everything you say—“

“Fuck no,” He says so vehemently you pause. “You’re so fucking mouthy. And stubborn. If I wanted some brainless fangirl, I’d go find one. I wouldn’t pick her up from her job and drive her home. Probably wouldn’t give her my fucking jacket.”

You look up at him. “You wouldn’t?”

He shrugs. “None of those girls tell me to fuck off.”

“So it is the challenge. That’s all.”

“That’s not all. You’re making shit up.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Come on. No guy has ever given you his jacket? You seriously want me to believe you look like that no one’s ever spoiled you?”

“No,” You say curtly, “You want me to believe that every guy just enjoys spending a bunch of money on a girl?”

“Not a girl. Their girl. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Cause it’s not your job to get it. It’s your job to be spoiled. Now where the hell am I going?”

You give him a vague address— just the street name and how to get there. You’re not stupid enough to give him your house address.

You don’t talk for the duration of the drive, you begin to shrug out of his jacket when a hand on your thigh stops you.

“Keep it. You can give it back to me the next time you see me.”

“There’ll be a next time?”

“If I have anything to say about it.”

You slowly put the jacket back on, then hastily climb out of his car, barely remembering to grab your stuff from the back.

You pause by the window. He rolls it down.

“Um. Thank you. Again.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t mention it.”

—

You don’t see him for a full two weeks after that.

After the first week, you figure he’s busy.

After the second week, you assume you scared him off.

You’re out on your old, busted kayak on the water, enjoying the early evening sun.

“Afternoon, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,”

You look over, eyeing Rafe and Sarah on one of the Cameron’s smaller boats. Sarah waves at you kindly. She’s always been fairly kind to you—

“Princesses have to stick together.” She’d said to you once, an easy smile on her lips, her face bathed in an orange glow in front of the bonfire.

A similar smile is on her face today. But the one on Rafe’s is nothing but mischief.

“Why don’t you come over here?” He calls.

You flip him a certain finger.

“Come on!” Sarah yells. “We’ve got beer!”

Well. Who are you to say no to free alcohol?

—

You should’ve said no to the free alcohol.

“You know what Rafe?” the words tumble out of your mouth, clumsy. “You’re really hot. It’s not fair. How am I supposed to hate you when you look so hot?”

You’re sitting on one of the benches on the boat, half leaning on the back of it and half leaning on Rafe.

You might have forgotten to take into account the fact that you’re a lightweight.

He raises an eyebrow. “How many beers did you have?”

“Don’t worry about that,” You slur, attempting to shush him but failing halfway through, your hand falling harmlessly into his lap. “I like beer. I like drinking. How come I don’t drink often?”

You pause, squinting at him. “How come you’re so hot?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, “You’re drunk.”

“Who cares? I like being drunk. Drunk me is fun. Like that one song. Release your in-hi-bitions— feel the rain on your skin!”

He gives you a pained look. “Please don’t try to start dancing. You don’t have the coordination for it, and I’m not going into the water when you tip overboard.”

“Pshhh, yeah you would. You like taking care of me. Cause you’re weird.”

You turn to face the other side of the boat, where Sarah is watching you with an amused expression. “Sarah! Did I tell you that he drove aaaaaaaallllllllll the way to my job to pick me up cause my car wouldn’t start?”

She tilts her head, looking at Rafe. “You told Dad you were going to go pick up Topper and Kelce from a party so they didn’t drunk drive.”

You make a so-so motion with your hand. “That’s like. Basically the same thing.”

“It is not. You really are a lightweight, huh?”

You squint at Sarah. “Did John B. tell you that?”

She splutters. “No, I—“

You cross your arms, frowning. Then you turn to look up at Rafe again. “I should’ve called John B. to pick me up, cause he’s the only Pogue I know who’s got a car. But I didn’t. I called you.”

“Mm,” Rafe says, his jaw tensing and un-tensing. “And why is that.”

“Cause he’s being a dick. He’s all upset ‘cause I’m hanging out with you, keeps telling me I’m gonna get hurt again and blah blah blah, but then, it turns out he’s been dating Sarah for weeks and he didn’t tell me! It’s the same thing! And we’re not even dating.”

Rafe looks at Sarah. “You’re dating him? That’s who you broke up with Topper for?”

She glares right back at him. “There is literally a Pogue in this boat right now who is only here because you want to date her. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

“She’s different.”

“How?”

You and Sarah ask the same question at the same time. Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“She’s not just some random Pogue I picked up off the street.”

“I could have been.”

“You’re not helping.”

You frown, staring at your feet.

He gazes at you for a moment. “She’s just… different.”

You blink up at him through your lashes. “You should kiss me.”

“No.”

“Why not?” You whine.

“Because when sober-you remembers all of this, she’s already going to kill me.”

“Not to mention I would.” Sarah grumbles, taking a sip of her own beer. “Come on, Rafe. You should bring her home. It’s getting late anyway.”

“Mm,” He hums, glancing at you up and down. “You wanna go home?”

“No. There’s no beer and Rafe there. S’ boring.”

“I’m pretty sure sober-you likes it that way.”

“Then she’s boring,” You poke the muscle of his bicep. “Do you work out?”

“Yes.”

“Are you buff?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Could you carry me?”

“Probably.”

“Hmm,” You sink lower on the bench, kicking your feet. “Okay. We should go home before sober-me figures out what’s going on.”

Sarah brings the boat back to their little dock while Rafe makes various attempts to keep you awake during the journey.

You whine, batting his hands away as he pokes your face.

“We’re here, so you’re gonna have to get up.”

You groan. “You’re a big strong man. Carry me.”

You hear a huff, a sigh, and then arms come around your middle and you let out a half-aborted scream as you’re hefted into the air, stomach landing on a muscled shoulder.

“I was joking,” You mumble, your arms dangling. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“I swear to fucking— here.”

He slides you off his shoulder and you wobble as you land, vision swimming.

“I think I’m a lightweight.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

“Why are you so mean?”

“I was told by a certain princess that it was my brand.”

“I wanna go home.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to walk then? Towards my car? So you can go home?”

You turn (slowly) and squint at his car in the distance. “That seems really far away.”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t wanna walk that far.”

The muscles in his jaw jump. “Just this once, because I need to get you home, and you are drunk, I am going to offer you a piggy-back ride. Got it?”

“Hmm. Okay.”

He stoops a little so you can hop on, then hooks his arms under your legs with only a mild grunt, your arms crossing —not too tight— around his neck.

He makes his way across the deck and up the path, silently, your cheek pillowed on the side of his neck.

When he makes it to the car he opens the passenger side door and slides you into it, clicking your seat belt on when your fingers fumble with it.

He’s silent the entire drive, jaw clenched and hands white knuckled on the steering wheel.

The silence practically thrums with anger, the charged air prickling your skin.

“Are you mad at me?”

He works his jaw. “No.”

“It seems like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then how come you’re upset?”

He sighs out through his nose. He doesn’t respond right away. Waits until he pulls over at the front of your street, sets the car in park. His hands don’t leave the steering wheel.

“You’re… squishier than I thought.”

“You think I’m fat?”

“No- fuck. I’m saying you’ve got a convincing stone-cold-bitch act. Then you go and get drunk and turn into this. Makes me feel like a piece of shit.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t like it. Me.”

He finally looks over at you, his eyes hooded. “I never said that. It’s one thing for us to have this back and forth assholery, as you put it. But now I know this is also who I’m being a dick to.”

You look down at your lap. “You know, I wasn’t always a stone-cold bitch.”

He cuts you a look. “Stop talk—“

“No, you shut up, I’m not that drunk anymore,”

You’re totally lying, which he knows, but he lets you talk.

“There was… this guy. I really liked him. He really liked me. Well, I thought he did. He was a Kook, too. Everyone warned me against getting with him, but I thought what we had was real,” You clench your hands on your thighs. “It wasn’t. Turns out his friends had dared him to sleep with ‘the prettiest Pogue he could stomach.’ That’s all I was. The only Pogue he could stand to fake it with. He told me the morning after. We broke up.”

“Who—“

“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you this so you understand that I am a frigid bitch, but I’m also… this. So you better not fuck this up.”

He chuckles. “What do you want me to do, then?”

You shrug. “Prove me wrong. And I’m not made of glass. You just gotta… take it.”

Rafe raises a single eyebrow. “Take it?”

“Look, I already told you I think you’re hot. You’ve got a brain. Put the pieces together.”

He rubs a hand across his jaw. “And if I go too far?”

“I’m not that fragile.”

He crosses his arms, biceps flexing. “You sure about this?”

“Right now? Yes.”

He hums. “I should say no. You’re drunk. You’re not in the right mind to make these kinds of decisions.”

“But?”

“I’d rather test this and see,” He leans down, across the middle console, eyes hooded and hungry as he stares down at you. “You’re on, pretty girl."

—

When you wake (in your own bed, shockingly) it’s to the sound of a chainsaw right next to your ear.

Oh. It’s actually just your phone buzzing.

You hit the accept button and roll over onto it instead of doing all the effort of lifting it onto your face.

“H’llo?”

“Morning, princess.”

You groan. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“You don’t remember last night?”

“You’re on, pretty girl.”

You groan again, this one long and drawn out. “Why did you let me drink? You should’ve thrown me off the side of the boat after the first beer.”

You’re utterly mortified at how you acted. There’s a reason you don’t really get drunk anymore.

“And get rid of my free show like that? Please.”

You huff, head pounding at the effort of remembering the night before and speaking. “Why’re you calling me?”

“Had to make sure all that drinking didn’t kill you. We’ve got plans tonight.”

You sit up a little in bed. “No we don’t. I have work tonight.”

“That’s your only dispute?”

“I figured I didn’t have to state the obvious ones.”

“Come on. It’s just a little party—“

“I don’t do parties, Rafe.”

“I recall seeing you at the boneyard more than a couple times.”

“Bonfires on the beach don’t count as parties.”

“So you’d come if it was on the beach?”

“No, I—“ You tap the speaker button, dropping the phone into your lap. “What’s the point of this party, exactly? You want to be seen in public with me? Want everyone to know I’m off limits?”

“Yes,” He says it so easily, though his voice a little rough, a little gravelly, “But you also need to lighten up. I’ll pick you up from work. Bring clothes to change into.”

You open your mouth to respond but the hang up tone beeps steadily in your ear.

Of course you had to go blab your tragic backstory to Rafe fucking Cameron.

—

Work is long as usual, and you’ve contemplated quitting several times by the time you’re changing into your ‘party’ clothes in the bathroom, ignoring the fact that Rafe has definitely been parked and waiting for half an hour.

Your boss kept you late. Again.

You rush out to his car, cursing. He’s leaned up against the passenger side door, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone. He looks up when you approach, the corners of his lips twitching.

He pushes off the car, opening the passenger side door and nodding towards it.

“You look good.”

You pause, shouldering your work bag. “That’s it? I keep you waiting for thirty minutes and that’s all you say?”

“Did you want me to get upset?”

“Well, no, but—“

He shrugs. “Don’t care. Get in the car.”

He closes the door after you then climbs in himself, cranking up the heat and driving towards the boneyard.

You notice his eyes flicking down to your thighs every now and then. When picking an outfit for the party/bonfire/whatever, you’d decided to go simple. Having Rafe follow you around would be attention enough.

Still, the jeans you’re wearing are tight. A bit more form-fitting than your usual attire.

He seems to notice.

You shift in your seat, a little self conscious under the heat of his gaze crossing your legs and angling them towards the car door.

He sighs. “Mm-mm. None of that.”

He reached a hand across the console, deft, strong fingers effortlessly hooking and curling over your knee and dragging your legs back over and closer to him. Once he resituates you, his hand travels a little higher, squeezing and rolling the plush flesh there in his hand.

Your breath hitches. “What are you doing?”

“Taking.”

You swallow heavily, nearly choking on the lump in your throat. “You better not act like this at the boneyard.”

“And what if I do?“

“I’ll leave.”

He snorts. “I’m your ride. You gonna walk home? In the cold?”

“It’s not cold out.”

“It is to you. You’re always shivering. You better have brought the jacket.”

He doesn’t have to say which jacket for you to know which one he’s referring to.

You cross your arms, firmly ignoring the hand still intermittently squeezing your thigh. “I did. But i’m serious, Rafe. You have to back off when we get there.”

“Mm,” He hums. “Then at least let me have a little now.”

There’s something in the way he says it. The timber of his voice, the low, almost croon to his tone. He says it like you’re in control. Like you have power over him.

Even just the idea of it is exhilarating.

You push your thigh up into his hand, just a little bit.

“Only cause you’ll be insufferable if I don’t.”

He curls his hand under your thigh, palm pressed to the side and fingers pressing into the muscle through your tight jeans.

“Thanks, baby.”

“I’m not your baby.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You pull up to the beach, party already well under way.

People cheer as Rafe climbs out of the car, but he ignores them in favor of walking over to your side of the car and offering you a hand, which you swat away.

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re really hard to be polite to?”

“You’re just—“

“For the love of god, don’t start with that shit. Get over here.”

He snakes an arm around your waist, tugging you to his side. He starts towards the beach and you squirm, not wanting to be seen tucked under his arm.

This is the exact scenario you’d wanted to avoid with this whole thing. Showing up with Rafe Cameron —literally climbing out of his car— and having his arm around you is the perfect way to be ostracized by almost ninety percent of your circle.

“Will you chill the fuck out?” Rafe says, slowing to a stop a little ways away from the party, turning you to face him. “We’re just going to a party.”

You attempt to shrug his arm off your shoulder, but it holds fast. “You don’t get it. You have money, so you don’t need a community to fall back on. We’re poor. All we have is each other. So if I walk over there with you, i’ll lose it. I’ll be a traitor.”

His expression twists. “You’re blowing this so far out of proportion it’s not even funny.”

Anger begins stirring in your chest. “Rafe—“

“Who cares? No seriously, who the fuck cares? Everyone on this island is a piece of shit in their own ways. No one gives a shit if I got you under my arm. No one’s watching you. You’re not a fucking celebrity. You’ve got a reputation for turning down guys, you’re not fuckin’ Taylor Swift.”

The anger fades and your skin prickles in its absence. “I don’t think that I’m famous or anything.”

Rafe’s features smooth into something a little calmer. “I know, I know. Is this cause John B’s being a dick?”

“He has a point—“

“No he doesn’t,” Rafe snorts, “He’s dating my sister. He doesn’t get to say anything.”

You sigh. “They’re just worried about me making the same mistakes again.”

His arm leaves your side and you resist the shiver that threatens to overtake you at the sudden loss of the warmth and stability you hadn’t realized you’d been reliant on during the length of the conversation.

Rafe slides a gold ring off his pointer finger— the gold ring. The Cameron signet ring. The ring he never takes off.

He takes your hand, turning it palm side up, and drops the ring in it.

“There. My dad would probably murder me if anything happened to that ring. If I become a real and serious dick to you, chuck it in the fucking ocean.”

You stare down at it. “This is real gold. It’s a family heirloom. You can’t just give it to me.”

“I’m not,” He says easily, “This is a loan. When you decide that I’m not gonna fuck you over, you can give it back.”

You close your fingers around the ring, still warm from his finger. You tilt your back, looking up at him through your lashes. A small smile starts to spread across your face.

“I’ve really got you wrapped around my finger, huh?”

He huffs a laugh, tucking you under his arm again and walking you towards the party. “Took you long enough.”

The party honestly is fun after that. You drink (not much, Rafe carefully watches your alcohol intake and makes sure you toe the line of tipsy, but don’t fall over into drunk territory. He spends the night nursing one beer, claiming designated driver whenever someone gives him shit for it.

“Never stopped you in the past.”

“Didn’t have precious cargo before.”

He stays true to your earlier agreement and remains fairly hands off, but follows you around the party like some sort of guard dog, lingering just over your shoulder and successfully scaring off every guy who even looks in your direction.

Some of the pogues do give you the occasional glare or judgmental look or two, but Rafe was right. No one cares.

It’s… nice. For once you’re not hoping no guy approaches you or praying a Kook doesn’t start some shit with you. With Rafe trailing behind you, one hand in his pocket and jaw set, you truly are free to just enjoy the party, for the first time in your life. No one’s trying to hit on you, no one’s trying to making a spectacle of trying to convince you to date them, no one is making snide comments.

It’s weird, because you’re accustomed to a certain kind and amount of anxiety that comes with going to a mixed party, but everytime you start wondering how things are going to go wrong, Rafe is there with an arm around your waist or some stupid comment or other about somebody at the party whispered in your ear.

You manage quite a bit more socializing at the party than you usually do. Unfortunately, between this and the alcohol, you tire pretty quick.

You trip over your third stick when Rafe settles a hand on your hip with an “Think it’s time you went to bed.”

You groan. “But I’m actually having a good time for once.”

He steers you in the direction of the car. “Well, you’re in luck, cause if you think you’re going to parties alone from now on, you got another thing coming.”

Rafe at your side —a seemingly permanent arrangement now— you stumble your way towards the car.

“Isn’t that boring for you?”

“If it was, I’d say something. Besides. There’ll be different parties. Stop worrying so much about shit.”

His words seem harsh, but his tone is nothing other than low and fond.

“I’m cold.”

“I told you to grab the jacket—“

“I did bring it—“

“Then why aren’t you wearing it?”

“It didn’t match the outfit!”

“Are you being serious right now?”

"Is it a crime to want to look good at a party--"

He chuckles, fingers flexing on your hip as he tugs you closer to him. "You're so stupid."

"Rude."

"Not rude if it's true."

You elbow his side, but he just laughs louder.

Unsurprisingly, he warms the car for you when you get in.

—

Storms are a common thing in Outerbanks. Everyone's used to them. Monsoons, thunder storms, even the occasional hurricane. So you're not surprised to get the warning, not surprised when it hits.

You are a little surprised to wake up pelted with rain, a tree branch in your room, and part of the roof missing.

"Shit," You gasp, pushing the fallen debris off your body and rolling out of your bed to assess the damage.

It's bad. The branch is big and long, probably from that stupid tree your neighbors refused to cut down that you said was going to be a storm hazard. They'd refused, and now there's a huge tree branch that's caved in your roof and part of the wall that separates your bedroom from the living room.

No one is home but you. No one ever is, but right now it causes tears to rise to your eyes, because there's a branch in your room, and the roof is in pieces, and now that you've stopped moving, your legs and arms and torso actually hurt quite a bit, and something warm and wet is running down your temple and when you touch your fingers to it, they come away wet and scarlet.

You're out of your depth and you're scared. You can't stay here, obviously, but you don't know what to do. No one else is home. You don't even know who to call. JJ is out, because who knows if his dad is home and he doesn't even have a phone right now, Kie's out too because her parents didn't like that you were a Pogue with a reputation, you and Pope aren't that close, and John B is... John B. He has a car, at least, and you grew up together, so he'd probably overlook everything between the both of you if you're in danger.

You snatch you waterlogged phone off your dresser, shaky fingers scrolling through your contacts, thumb hovering over John B's.

You should call him. You've been neglecting your friendship with the group recently, working around the clock and Rafe whisking you away. Everyone's busy in their own way, what with the treasure and everything, so this could be a moment to reunite, bond over how shitty the storms make life on the Cut.

There's one other person you could call.

You shouldn't. Should stick to the friends you know, call John B.

But if you called Rafe, he'd come. He'd come get you, and probably take you back to his house and you wouldn't have to worry about anything, because for some reason, he's serious about doing that.

You could call him. He probably wants you to.

You press call before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Do you know what time it is--"

"A tree branch fell on my roof and now I don't have part of my roof and I'm really cold and wet and please come get me."

"Jesus— okay, yeah, yeah I'm coming. Shit, okay. Are you hurt?"

"My head is bleeding and I'm battered all over, but I don't think I need to go to he hospital."

"You're bleeding from your head and you don't think you need to go to the hospital?"

You can hear the sound of a car door slamming and an engine turning over.

"I don't want to go because then I'll be stuck in these clothes and they'll poke and prod at me and it'll take ages and—"

"Alright, alright. Calm down. How bad is the damage to the house. Look around for me."

"Um," You turn in place, scrutinizing the disaster and chaos around you. "I think most of the roof is intact, just the portion that covers my bedroom and some of the living room are uncovered. The branch took out most of the wall that seperates my room from the living room."

"Fuck. Okay, what about the rest of the house?"

"Um, I don't think I can get to it. The tree branch and other house... pieces are blocking my door."

"Can you get out? At all?"

"Yeah, I think through my window."

"Don't move. Take what you need from your room. I'll be there soon."

“Please don’t hang up.”

The line goes silent and you think he has hung up, that you didn’t say it fast enough or he just didn’t care, but then he speaks.

“Would you rather I sneak you in my house or walk in through the front door?”

“…What are the pros and cons?”

“Well, getting in the front door is easiest, but then you risk seeing my parents and my Dad won’t have questions, but Rose will, and I never want to answer her questions anyway.”

“She can’t be that bad.”

“She is. Sneaking you in is harder, but then we avoid conversations, but if we get caught, conversations will probably be worse. Might become a whole lecture.”

“They’d lecture you for taking in a girl who needs help?”

“Rose would.”

He keeps talking the entire way to your house, his voice speaking in low tones as you gather up the things you need to spend an indefinite amount of time away from home.

He eventually does hang up when he arrives, so you turn your attention to prying your window open and climbing out of it.

You can barely get it wedged open enough to fit through, so you toss your bag through first and shout a quick “over here!” before beginning to crawl through.

You hear footsteps slow to a stop in front of you. “You know, usually when this scenario happens, you’re facing the other way around.”

You swat at his leg. “You’re disgusting. And I’m not stuck. You just arrived at an in-opportune moment.”

He curls a hand under the window and pulls up, making the gap wider. At the sudden release of tension you yelp, tumbling out of the window.

“You’re such a mess.”

“You didn’t warn me!”

He helps you to your feet and leads you to his car, the hand on your waist keeping you distracted from the wreckage behind you.

—

You do decide in the end to just walk in the front door, because you’re cold and wet and tired.

Ward does wake up and meets you at the staircase (you’re pretending not to notice the sheer opulence of the house) looking rumpled and confused.

“Who’s this?” The man asks, gesturing your rather pathetic looking form.

“My girlfriend,” Rafe says smoothly, “Branch fell on her roof. Place is a mess.”

You wave hello. “Sorry for waking you, Mr. Cameron.”

His gaze flicks to you for a second, then back to Rafe.

“Girlfriend?” His tone sounds… off. “How long has this been a thing?”

Rafe shifts, squaring his shoulders and stepping a little more in front of you. “A little while.”

Ward hums again, eyes flitting to you, taking in your appearance.

“Make sure you get the first aid kit. That head wounds looks nasty.”

Rafe nods. “We got it. Thanks, Dad.”

Ward just dips his head once, then steps back into the bedroom.

You let out a long sigh, pressing a hand to your chest.

“I thought he was going to throw me out.”

“He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him, anyway.”

You snort. “Yes, yes, you’re a big strong man. Can we attend to my wounds now? And get some dry clothes?”

Cleaning your wound doesn’t take long, mostly because your head is the only one that really needs cleaning. The rest is taken care of in the shower. The most luxurious and amazing shower of your life. Seriously. You didn’t even know showers could be this relaxing.

The warm water soothes your aching muscles, and Rafe has weirdly good taste in bodywash.

He’d left you a change of clothes and a spare towel even though you said you brought your own.

You change into his anyway.

They’re more comfortable. Better quality than your ratty pajamas.

Your underwear is a different matter. Your dresser is old and broken —as most things in your house are— and the drawer you picked to store your underwear in doesn’t close all the way. This normally isn’t an issue, but when your roof is suddenly no longer attached, it means the a good portion of your underwear got soaked and muddy.

Except the ones at the bottom of the drawer. So the only underwear you had to bring to Rafe’s that was clean and dry is the tiny, lacy stuff you bought from Victoria’s secret and only wear when you’ve taken an everything shower and need a little pick-me-up. When you want to feel like a hot piece of ass. Girl things.

So you look at yourself in the mirror, clad in your own tank top (it’s actually warm enough in his house to wear a tank top to bed) and a pair of his pajama pants, the draw-string pulled tight, the fabric sagging low on your hips, showing off a thin little strip of lace.

Your face flushes. You look like his girlfriend. Dressed in his clothes, lacy underwear peaking through, skin freshly washed and smelling of his body wash.

When you step out of his bathroom, old clothes clutched in your hand, he stills.

He sits back on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his elbows as you slowly saunter over, steps quiet.

His eyes flick down to the lace, pauses on the sight, then back up to your face.

The air is charged, thick with tension.

You pull away from it, tossing your clothes in your backpack and ignoring the heat of his gaze on your back.

“Come over here.”

You straighten, hands behind your back as you walk to him.

“Closer.”

You step forward, now standing between his legs.

His hands come up to the back of your thighs, tightening, before moving to your hips. His thumbs ghost over the edge of the lace, and he rumbles something deep in the back of his throat.

“I like these.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm.”

He presses his face forward, pushing your tank top up with his nose pressing his lips to the now exposed skin of your stomach.

You gasp, then feel him smile against you. He tugs you closer, face pressed to you and hands gripping your sides, just above the edge of your ribcage.

Tentatively, you reach a hand down, sliding from the top his head, down the side of his face, then slowing to a stop at his jaw, pushing your palm up. His head lifts, his eyes a little glassy, chin resting on your stomach.

“You introduced me as your girlfriend.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“I am?”

You stroke a thumb over his face, sweeping over his cheekbone and under his eye. He leans into the touch, pliant.

“You think I let just any girl in here? You think I give any girl my clothes?”

“Yes?”

“Come on, baby. We’ve been over this.”

He presses another kiss to your stomach, mouth hot and lips firm.

He lifts his head up again. “You can make me yours anytime you want. Just say the word.”

“I’m scared,” you whisper, words barely even a breath.

“Mm,” He hums, hands running up and down your sides. “You think too much.”

You pause for a few moments, taking everything in.

You grab his hand, leave it palm side up in front of you, then reach into your pocket and drop something into it.

The ring. His ring.

He stares at it for a beat, then closes his hand around it, slipping it back onto his finger.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He grins.

Your drop your hands around his neck and he moves his hands to the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you onto his lap, wrapping your legs around his middle.

He doesn’t waste any time kissing you. It’s hot and full at first, a roaring flame licking in both your chests, like he’s been holding himself back all this time and finally let it all out. He pushes up into you, and the kiss deepens before it mellows out, slowing down to a few cracking embers.

He pulls back, your noses brushing. “Been wanting to do that since the fucking bookstore.”

“That long?”

“Mhm. You were wearing those cute little pants and you couldn’t reach the top shelf. Wanted to have you right there.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Mm. Only when it comes to you.”

You fall into each other again, and again, and again.

“Baby.”

“Hm?”

“I really like you in lace.”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

3K notes · View notes

fable-x4 · 9 months ago

Text

Doing this because it makes me happy •Ꮂ•. Im making it difficult on all of you though.

1 note- I'll go drink water

10 notes - I'll set alarms to actually care for myself

50 notes - set up a daily productivity system so I stop wasting my time doing nothing.

100 notes - ask my friends to help me buy a skirt

500 notes - get a bra & a whole bunch of other affirming clothing !!!

1k - tell my dad that my gf is also trans

2.5k - ask my dad to address me by my prefferred name & pronouns 1k went pretty poorly, so I dont feel super comfortable making an attempt on this.

5k - try to get therapy/psychologist

10k - girl mode at all times (start actively wearing makeup/clothing/doing voice training around people at all times)

50k - try for HRT (0% chance) (also no guarantee on this one)

Asfgg. It feels surprisingly good to have a bunch of strangers who want me to be happy

I have now set up alarms for eating, waking up, and hygene related stuff. I seriously doubt we get to 500, but this has made me significantly happier •Ꮂ•

Doing some math... 25 notes in 4 hours. 6.25 notes per hour. 8000 hours or 333 days until this hits 50k. Hrt in a year ig.

Um. Wow. Its been a day, and we're almost at 300. Everything 500 & below was supposed to be things I'd do with minimal intervention. But now, we're getting to the scarier stuff. I am very intimidated, but also excited

My gf really badly wanted to be here when I buy some of the clothing, so the skirt will be this week, the rest of the clothing will be when she comes back from vacation

Saying that you're force femming me is so not allowed. This is unfair. You have no right to make me feel the ways Im feelingggg. Stop making me happy.

Welp. I told him about my girlfriend. And things went about as poorly as expected. He said that Im parroting what other people think. Slowly taking little parts of them, and applying them to myself. Specifically, being trans. He didnt even leave it to maybes. He said with certainty that I was copying everyone else. I know 9 trans people total. Only 2 of them are my close friends. Everyone else, Im barely aquaintences with. I should have told him that regardless of whatever theories he has, this has boosted my confidence massively. Slightly less excited for 2.5k notes. At least everything after that is very positive. And at least this lets me talk about my girlfriend for ages. I dont have to say her deadname through gritted teeth. Oh context. He already knows Im trans but was ignoring it.

I GOT A SKIRT!!!!!

Thank all of you so much. At first when I got the skirt, I was pretty intimidated by the idea of showing my legs. I thought everyone will just see me as a man. But there's a degree of confidence you all have given me. Yeah. Im pretty. Yeah, Im beautiful even. Yeah. Its a friggin fantastic skirt. And anyone who thinks otherwise is dumb. Im happy, and thats what matters.

#notes game #notes goal #transfem #transgender #trans #trans woman #genderqueer #idk how to tag this

6K notes · View notes

punkshort · 2 months ago

Text

Don't Give Up On Me

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader (materialists)

Summary: Should you give up on the man you love when he disappoints you, or do you give him another chance?

Warnings: language, tons of angst, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, hurt/comfort, making men beg and cry

WC: idk I wrote it on my phone - maybe 2K?

A/N: sorry if this is premature. I can't help it. If we got his name wrong I'll just go back and fix it later okay byeeee

Tears that have been burning the backs of your eyes for the last two hours finally threaten to spill down your cheeks now that you're in the privacy of his town car.

Harry sits next to you, still talking on his phone like he has been all night while his driver takes you back to his penthouse. It's nestled in the heart of the city with a breathtaking view, but it's the very last place you want to be right now because you know what you'll have to do once you get there.

You're going to end things, once and for all.

It's been on your mind for a while, but you always talk yourself out of it. You make excuses for him, cover for him, and lie to him when you say it doesn't matter, but it does. It really fucking does.

You know he's a busy man. You've always known this. But foolishly, some part of you believed he would change. That after countless fights, he would eventually understand what's important to you, and it wasn't his money or his things — it was him.

All you ever want is for him to just be there when it counts, and he almost always lets you down. But tonight? Tonight was special. He knew it, too. You told him for weeks how excited you were to receive this award for all the hard work at your firm.

When it came time to accept it and give your speech in front of three hundred people, you excitedly climbed to the stage to take your prize. Your eyes swept around the room, searching for the only person you wanted to see, and your heart sunk when you realized he had stepped out of the room to take a work call.

Again.

It was in that moment you decided you wouldn't put up with it again.

The car stops in the usual spot outside his building. The driver opens your door and you slip out with a tight smile. Harry's right behind you, wrapping up his call, but you ignore him. You charge into the lobby and stab at the call button for the elevator. If he notices your anger, he doesn't let on. He laughs to whoever is on the other end while you adjust the strap of your dress with a huff.

Once the elevator arrives, he finally hangs up. You step inside and he presses in the code for the penthouse on the keypad, then the car smoothly lifts. You stare at the screen above the door while Harry scrolls on his phone, still completely unaware when he asks, "What's your boss's name again?"

You clench your jaw and fight back tears before you answer him. He grunts.

"Thought so. Went to Yale with him. Never liked the guy."

Your award feels so much heavier in your hand now. Like it's trying to pull you back down to the lobby and stop you from doing what you need to do. But you adjust it and lift your chin a little higher — you need to do this.

The doors slide open to Harry's massive, extravagant living room. You step out and walk right past it all — past the ornate kitchen, the priceless art, the expensive marble — through the long, perfectly decorated hallway to his bedroom.

You go right to the closet and grab an empty gym bag, tossing your award inside. You hear him somewhere in the room removing his watch, cufflinks and ring while you stuff your bag with whatever clothes you can think of. It's only when you exit the closet and storm into the bathroom that he notices something is wrong.

"What are you doing?"

You sniffle and sweep your toiletries off the counter, tossing them directly into your bag.

"I'm leaving."

Your voice is a little shaky but it sounds better than you expect. He watches you from the doorway as you move erratically around the room collecting your belongings.

"Wh— why?" he finally asks. You're grabbing your things from the shower when you hear it. He sounds sad, and maybe if it were any other day, you would have felt bad. But that day? That day, it just pisses you off.

You whirl back around and drop your bag on the floor to pin him with a glare. He's in the doorway still wearing the clothes from tonight: pressed black pants and a crisp white shirt, although now the collar is undone and his tie is abandoned somewhere in his bedroom.

"Why?" you repeat. Your tone is so icy, you hardly recognize it. "You — weren't — fucking — there!"

On the last word, you step forward and shove him. He stumbles backwards a bit, but only from shock.

"Baby—"

You shake your head and lean down grab your bag.

"Don't," is all you say when you brush past him. You throw the bag on your bed, half the contents spilling out, but you don't care. You're shaking like a leaf when you round the bed to your side and begin to grab your things from the nightstand.

"I'm sorry," he says softly from the other side of the room. You ignore him and keep working. "It was important. I told you—"

"And this was important to me!"

You snap your head up to yell at him with tears streaming down your face. His expression falls and he reaches out, but you take a step back.

"You're right. I'm — I'm sorry. I'll do better, I prom—"

"No! I'm done! I'm tired of having the same fights with you. I was so fucking stupid to think you'd ever choose me over... over all this."

You gesture broadly around his room but you mean his penthouse in general. He gets it. It's not the first time you've fought over this.

He watches you quietly while you continue to pack with shaky hands. When you're nearly done, he speaks again.

"I do want you," he says, "more than all this. I just — I want to make sure we're comfortable. I want to make sure we have enough so you never have to work again—"

"But I like working! I love what I do! I've never wanted to quit, I've never wanted anything from you... not your money or your cars or your clothes. I just..."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I only ever wanted you," you mumble.

You bury your face in your hands as he crosses the room. You feel him standing in front of you and you know deep down, you're done for.

But still, you try.

"You have me," he says. His hands gently slide up and down your arms, but you keep your face hidden in your palms. "It won't always be like this. It's the busy season, that's all. It's... it's temporary. And then we can do whatever you want. We can go to Paris or Italy or Bora Bora... anywhere. It's up to you."

He takes another step closer and carefully plants a kiss to the top of your head. And you fucking let him.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he breathes. Your hands drop to your sides. "I should've been there, you're absolutely right. I'll never do something like that again, you have my word."

You sigh and finally tip your chin up to look him in the eye. It's kind of not fair how handsome he is on top of everything else: a thick head of wavy dark hair, gorgeous brown eyes, a greying beard he's self-conscious about but you find absolutely endearing. If there was one man on the planet who had it all, it's Harry Castillo.

He gives you a small smile and pinches your chin between his fingers when he sees your resolve crumbling.

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks.

You take a deep breath and try to scrape together what dignity you have left.

"No," you reply. His smile falters but otherwise he doesn't move. You take a step back but it's not far enough.

"I told you. I'm done."

Right when you go to turn and pick up your bag, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist.

"Please," he begs, gazing up at you from the floor. Your eyes widen with shock at this man who is quite literally worth billions falling to his knees, pleading with you to stay. "Don't go. I'll do anything. Please, I-I can't — I won't be —"

"Harry—"

"Please," he says again, urgently. You see his throat bob and his eyes fill with tears. "I'll do whatever you want. I-I just— I don't think I can do this—"

He swallows and presses his face against your stomach. His eyes slide closed and he breathes in deep while you're still struggling to catch up.

"I'll do anything," he whispers, but this time, his hands tighten around your waist. His jaw falls open and he mouths at your middle while a tear sneaks down his cheek.

It shouldn't affect you. You should push him away, take your bag, and go. Instead, you find yourself leaning forward into his hold.

"Harry..."

Your voice holds no conviction. His hands begin to move. They slide down your legs and push up the hem of your dress. He leaves feverish open mouthed kisses across your clothed stomach and over your hips. Your eyes fall shut and you gasp when his palms slide up your bare legs, pushing up the fabric of your dress until his fingers grab hold of your ass and he gives you a rough squeeze.

"Please," he's murmuring, over and over. Your jaw is slack and you give in. You just fucking give in when he pulls down on your panties until they drop to the floor. With shaky legs, you step out of them and crack open an eye when he tosses the lace over his shoulder.

You're weak. You know that. But you really thought this time was the last straw. Instead, he somehow has you underneath him once again. Your dress is in a sad little pile on the floor, along with his pants. His tongue is dancing hungrily with yours as you push his shirt over his shoulders.

You know you should have stood your ground, but you also know he's hurt. He's so broken and you want to fix him. You want to be the one who shows him what it's like — what it could be like. You want to prove that love can heal old wounds and can be beautiful, if you let it.

He groans when he first enters you. It's low and deep and it makes you gasp. His teeth graze your jaw and he whispers everything you want to hear: that he loves you, that he would do anything for you, that he's sorry. You let those words fill you up and mend the wounds he caused, just like all the other times before.

"Never again, okay?"

You nod and wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders. You say his name with a breathy moan and his hips flex faster, deeper.

"I can be good for you. I— I — fuck—"

He pushes your knees to your chest and you cry out. The angle is so much more intense. It has you clawing at the sheets and mumbling unintelligible curses under your breath as he splits you open, reminding you just how good it can be.

"I won't hurt you ever again," he babbles. Your chest aches. Your eyes water. He keeps fucking you so deep that it has you making noises you never heard yourself make before.

"I don't think — don't think I can d-do this without — you," he groans into your neck. Your nails scrape down his back. You throw your head backwards into the sheets and let him do what he does best: make you feel good and forget all the pain.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheek, and finally your lips. You moan and his tongue slips inside, licking past your teeth. He's so close. Your bodies practically melt together as one with each steady rock of his hips.

"Feels good, right?" he groans into your mouth. You nod and gasp when the muscles in your stomach begin to pull.

"Yes," you whine, all earlier anger forgotten.

"Yeah, I know," he coos. His hips snap faster, cock plunging deeper until the room is filled with your helpless moans and the sounds of your soaked pussy gushing all around him. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat when you clench tightly around his thick cock.

"Gonna come for me?" he asks. You whimper, cheeks blazing hot and body slick with sweat. He chuckles breathlessly and continues to drive himself into you, over and over. "Yeah, c'mon, it's alright. I wanna feel it — I need to feel it. C'mon, baby, just—"

Before he can finish his sentence, your muscles spasm and you scream out his name. A litany of curses falls from your lips as you pulse around his painfully hard length. He grinds his teeth and keeps fucking you through it until your body goes limp and you melt into the silk sheets.

His arms circle around you and he really begins to fuck you — hard. Each thrust is paired with a deep grunt until his cock swells and he comes inside you with a loud, strangled groan.

He collapses on top of you in relief. He occasionally jolts forward, giving you more of his release with each weak roll of his hips until he's spent. His head falls to your chest and he closes his eyes to catch his breath. Your fingers come up to gently rake through his hair and you lay just like that, silent and panting for air while his cock softens inside of you.

"I mean it," he rasps. You peel your eyes open and stare at the ceiling. He presses a soft kiss in the spot between your breasts when he says, "I'll be better. I won't fuck up again. Please, just — just don't give up on me."

Your arms coil around his neck and you hold him close as tears fill your eyes, now for an entirely different reason. You know he's been hurt before. Know what he went through and how badly she broke his heart.

But to his credit, he didn't give up. He kept searching for love, despite it all.

Nobody's perfect. You're far from it. But you know Harry has a good heart. He just needs a little extra care to heal it.

"Okay," you whisper.

You feel his grateful, hot tears pool silently against your chest and you hold him a little tighter.

Everyone makes mistakes, you think. Even the ones who love you the most.

It'll take time. It might hurt. But you'll keep trying. Because what happened wasn't his fault, and you both deserve to have a happy ending.

Some people just have to work a little harder for it.

#materialists #materialists fanfic #materialists fanfiction #Harry Castillo #Harry Castillo x reader #Harry Castillo x you #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom

2K notes · View notes

herjuhodivine · 5 months ago

Text

ㅤ ㅤ ⠀ꕀ⠀𝆹⠀⠀ׄ⠀⠀ִ⠀ worthless talking ⠀ּ ּ ✧

Arguments with various characters

S1! jinx , S2! vi , S2! caitlyn , and ekko x fem! reader

arguing , mention of having a crush ( vi ) , hurt/no comfort , cursing , mentions of marriage ( caitlyn ) , drinking ( vi ) , mention of reader working in the brothel ( not prostitute ( vi ) ) , suspected cheating ( caitlyn ) , injured reader ( ekko )

not proofread or requested

masterlist ૮ ྀི ◞ ◟ ა navigation

love is my curse ( part 2 )

JINX

arguments with her are usually light and can easily be dismissed or solved quickly but this is very different. silco has been pressuring her as of late about her weapon for the hex gemstone; which has been stressing her out and getting more irritated by everything little thing. “jinx baby?” you spoke softly, trying to not make her anymore irritated. “yes toots?” she frantically looking back and forth at her parts and blueprints for her fishbones, “are you doing okay? do you eat?”

she shrugged her shoulders, continuing to screw the screws in. you silently gulped and walked closer to her. “listen baby…can you take a break or something? i don’t remember the last time you slept or even eat and—” “shut up.” you immediately looked her way like you misheard her. “i-im sorry what..?” she kissed her teeth, “ i said shut up! all you ever do is nag and nag around me! do ever shut up? i’m trying to work so i can hurry up and finish this project, but no you just can’t seem to leave me alone while you’re—” she stops mid sentence, looking to see where you were last standing, “y/n?” she asked to absolutely nothing. she rolled her eyes, not bothering to think about you anymore, too focused on the hexgem project.

walking through the streets of Zaun, tears blurring your vision as you do your best to wipe them away but if anything you made your mind clear as day in Piltover; she doesn’t need you there anymore. continuing to walk through the lanes until you reached your home.

pitfights. you hate no—loath them. so imagine your reaction to hearing that your crush becamea pitfighter after that massive fall out with the stupid top side girl. you watched as a friend of hers drag her up the stairs then she starts pushing him off and telling him to fuck off. you watch as the friend just walked away; already tired of her bullshit.

you breathe, mentally preparing yourself and your lecture of what you want to say as you head up the stairs slowly until you reached the door. out of curiosity, you reached for the doorknob, and its unlocked. ‘of course this idiot wouldn’t lock the door.’ you thought, twisting it and slowly pushing the door, seeing vi collapsed on the bed but still awake. you clear your throat loudly, catching her attention as you stand close to the now closed door. “vi.” your voice cautious but fed up. watching her destroy herself over a top side is so pathetic, even jinx powder would laugh in her face. vi groaned tiredly, “can’t seem to catch a fucking break anymore.”

“fuck a break! what do you think you’re doing?!” you wave your hand around, as you often talk with your hands. “what the hell are you talking about…!?” vi retorted back. “look around you vi, and your hair! your outfit! you’re a damn pitfighter.” you pointed at everything you mentioned, “why?! is it because of that fall out you had with that stupid top side girl..?!” vi abruptly gets up and stands in front of you. the smell of strong beer and whiskey clog your nose, in her breath, her clothes, everywhere, “don’t you dare bring her up.” you scoffed, “why not? she treats you like shit but now you’re a floor licking puppy for her..?” you stare at her, raised eyebrow, “at least she was better than you in many ways than one.” “excuse me?” “get the fuck out y/n. go back to being a fucking prostitute or something.” “i’m not a prosti—” she punched the wall next to your head, you flinch, hard. “out.” her voice threatening. your hands and feet quickly move as you open the door and fumble out of the apartment was vi was was.

CAITLYN

a lot has happened in a short amount of time, well, caitlyn proposed to you, then jinx blew up the council and killed her mother, then your fiancée became a damn Dictator and has been worked and training nonstop with Ambessa, and you’re starting to worry. she has been looking burned out a lot more and tired to even notice you sitting next to her on her desk as she stresses over paperwork.

“dear?” you twirled your finger around her loose hair. she jumps a bit, snapping out her thoughts and looking up to see her fiancée, you, “sorry darling, do you need something?” she fidgets with her pen and fingers, you smile at her weakly, “your dinner is cold.” you point to the cold dinner plate, nothing eaten on the side table next to her. caitlyn sighs heavily. “right, i apologize my dear, ill…make sure to eat.” “this is the fourth time dear. you can’t be a commander with zero energy.” you cross your arms over your chest, “i know know i’m just” “i’m starting to think ambessa was a bad idea again. i worried about all this pressure and process. like especially after your mother died, this isn’t good..” caitlyn’s fist banged against the desk, stopping you mid sentence.

“i don’t need your pity or concerns right now.” you stare at her, confused. “what are you talking about right now dear?” “i’m saying you talk too damn much.” she stood up, the chair scratches against the floor and walks away from the desk, “where are you going?” you asked while sliding off the desk, “out. i need some fresh air.” you tilt your head to the side and keep your arms crossed, “fresh air? or maddie?” the blued hair commander stopped dead in her tracks, “what…what did you just say?” you scoffed, as you walked past her, bumping her shoulder. you open the door, revealing maddie with paper works in her hands, “i’ll take my leave.”

EKKO

patrolling the area around the safe area, but your mind consumed with the thoughts of your boyfriend, he’s starting to overworking again. and that’s pissing you off. months of you guys dating and he still doesn’t get the memo. you sat on top of the tunnel entrance towards the hideout. staring up at the stars, wishing ekko was here with you.

suddenly, you feel a long cold metal jabbed into your side. you immediately clutch it to stop it from entering further until the culprit kicked you in the back, causing you to roll off the top and your body thudding against the cold concrete then you saw black. you wake up, the knife removed and you’re wrapped in bandages around your stomach and your arm is in a cast. your eyes adjust to the light shining down upon you, you wince as a headache rises and you hear muffled sounds of someone screaming your name. once your mind finally adjusts to everything, you hear ekko,

“hey hey hey! firebug! what happened?” his hands placing everywhere patting you down. you wince again, “ekko…that hurts..” you fully open your eyes. “what happened? why did someone find you outside of the base, bleeding out?” he raised his voice, not scary but scared. “i…i was patrolling around the entrance and—” “patrolling? didn’t i say you’re not allowed to patrol unless i’m there?” his voice switch to low. “i can take care of myself ekko.” he gritted his teeth, “well clearly you can not! look at you now! you don’t ever listen huh?” he started pacing back and forth, “it’s like you’re deaf or something, i said no! and you do the entire fucking opposite!” he grabs his mask and hoverboard, stops to say something but rejected that idea and just left.

ekko was so hard to do ngl cause what has he done for to cause an argument🧍‍♀️and you notice how short-ish jinx is? yea cause i can never actually be mad at jinx.

2K notes · View notes

seren1tyhaze · 6 months ago

Text

Unconditional

PAIRING: jaehyun x afab reader

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

SUMMARY: dating a hot actor is great and all, until you find some texts on his phone that make you wonder if he's really the man of your dreams

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back after another unplanned hiatus. Even when I'm not posting here, I'm always thinking about writing things and wanting to share more. I have written a couple things for Ao3 so those will be up there soon. As usual, Mr. Jeong Jaehyun himself has ruined me again with his new song and video to the point where I sat down and wrote this in one sitting and never looked back. More from me soon, I promise xx

WARNINGS: established relationship, domestic fluff, explicit smut, swearing

PLAYLIST: Unconditional by Jaehyun, Smoke by Jaehyun, Birthday by Ten, Honey by John Legend

“I just don’t believe you Jae! Do you think I’m stupid?”

Your cheeks are burning red and you know your chest is splotchy as your temperature rises, heart pounding. Ever since you were a kid, your skin would turn bright red the moment you started to get agitated, making you a terrible poker player and never one to even try to lie to anyone. It was one of things that endeared you to Jaehyun immediately, his bright red ears the moment someone teased him or he felt embarrassed.

“Baby, baby,” he starts, groggily reaching a large hand to you from the mountain of pillows and plush white sheets. His hair is still pushed back in that stupid plastic headband he fell asleep wearing the night before, making it hard to take him seriously in the heat of the moment.

You wipe a single tear from your eye before it can slip down your cheek and turn away from him, throwing his phone onto the covers with more strength than you thought you had in the moment.

Dating a famous actor who spends most of his time at premieres in Seoul and on movie sets around the world wasn’t easy. You had turned Jaehyun down the first few times he slid up on your Instagram stories, a mutual stylist friend having introduced you at a small birthday dinner you both were invited to.

Grabbing his phone off the nightstand instead of yours this morning had sent you into a spiral, shaking him awake in the bed to ask for an explanation about why he’s messaging someone about a “gorgeous girl named Honey” and how he “can’t wait to spoil her the way she deserves.”

“We’ve been together for a year and now you’re going to start cheating on me? Really original, Jeong.”

Your eyes roll back into your sockets and you scoop all your long, curly hair onto the top of your head, pulling running shorts and socks from the dresser near the window as you continue to grill him.

Jaehyun sits up fully, the comforter slipping off his shoulders and exposing his bare, chiselled chest. He’s still pale from having spent the whole winter filming in Canada, not having had enough trips to the nearby beach to have his adorable freckles reappear on his cheeks. His hair is bright white, platinum, and long in the back, soft in the morning light streaming in the floor to ceiling windows.

“You know I went out with Mingyu last week to that Dior party and he said if I ever wanted it to be a real date, just say the word and he would drop everything and everyone.”

“Dior? You wound me,” Jaehyun replies, mockingly rubbing his pec as he rolls his eyes. You know how much the statement had to hurt him, he always had been worried about your closeness to his friend Mingyu (and Mingyu’s long wavy hair, sparkly eyes, and massive biceps), even if he lets that go unsaid now.

“I’m going for a run and when I get back, I really hope you’ve managed to get up, shower, and figure out how you’re going to tell your PR team about this, unless they are all in on it too,” you finish, wobbling near the foot of the bed as you try to put your socks on while standing.

A firm hand is on your wrist, instantly balancing you. You look up to meet Jaehyun’s eyes, soft and glittering and sending you back to the first time you ever met.

“Who needs the candy, you look sweet enough to eat,” he had practically purred in your ear, pressing a hand between your thighs, under the silky material of your Vivienne Westwood skirt in a private booth in the back a dark room, surrounded by tall crystal jars of sweets.

Your marketing executive job had your team planning events for high end clients on a regular basis but this event had been extra special as your best friend had finally launched her own luxury cosmetics brand. The event was a mix of rich pops of red, velvety cushions and extravagant accessories, diamond necklaces draped across necks of models with artistic and bold eye looks. You had spared no expense for your friend and your assistant had the mountains of receipts to prove it.

The guest list was no exception, you had made sure every A-list name had received an invite and hundreds of attractive and trendy faces from fashion and entertainment filled the event space. That included Seoul’s hottest star, known for his striking and stoic look and deep, rich voice.

“You are not using that as an opening line on me,” you had sighed, trying to push down the moan bubbling up in your throat as long fingers toyed with lace dangerously close to slipping out of place.

“Technically, I asked you if the brownies had tree nuts because my body guard is allergic,” he quipped back, thumb brushing over you with intention.

You had bit your lip in frustration and swatted his hand away, grabbing his phone from his coat pocket and giving him your number, insisting that he had to reach out first because you were busy with a “real job”. He had laughed, sucking his now wet thumb into his mouth and letting it slide out with a loud popping noise and a simple “Yes, ma’am”.

That same phone was now in his hand a little under a year later, his fingers moving quickly against the glass screen.

“You don’t have anything to say?” you ask in shock and before you can say another word, your doorbell is chiming and he’s up from the bed and down your hallway, wearing nothing but his stupid boxers with lemons on them.

You roll your eyes and move to your large kitchen for a glass for water, almost letting it slip from your hands as he places a large Prada shopping bag on the marble island.

“A bag? A fucking purse is supposed to make me forgive you? How did you even get that this fast?”

“Baby, just look inside and it will explain everything,” he speaks calmly, sliding the bag carefully closer to you.

You untie the ribbon holding it loosely closed and you think you’re losing your mind when you see the bag move on its own. As soon as the thick paper opens, a tiny brown and curly head of fur appears. Neatly groomed ears are shaking and a tiny black Prada collar is clasped around the neck of the puppy.

“A dog?!” you exclaim in disbelief. The puppy lets out a small but high pitched bark, demanding to be let out of the bag with a fluffy paw nudging your hand.

“A chocolate French poodle puppy,” Jaehyun corrects, moving behind you and wrapping his arms around you, pressing his bare chest into your back. He lifts the puppy from the bag and places her into your waiting arms, the puppy taking no time at all to snuggle into your neck.

“Her name is Honey,” he tells you and you can practically feel his smile from the way he speaks.

“Honey…” you repeat. The dog’s eyes are wide in curiosity, head tilting to the side as she appears to recognize her name.

“Yeah, baby?” he jokes back, pressing warm lips to the short hairs at your hairline. You can tell he thinks he’s funny for that joke and you don’t need to turn to see what kind of look is in his eye. He trails his mouth to your ear, nudging the metal hoops along the shell and kissing the “14” ink at the skin behind your ear.

Your mouth is suddenly so dry that you can’t speak so you simply turn in his arms, letting Honey drop to the floor and bound excitedly on your slippery floors.

“How long had you been planning this surprise for me to just ruin it with my paranoia?” you murmur against his forehead, pressing a tender kiss to smooth skin.

“A couple months, I was just trying to find the perfect puppy for us,” he replies, fingers drawing circles on the bare skin exposed between your sports bra and shorts.

“I’m so sorry,” you reply, feeling embarrassment heat up your cheeks and sweat start to prick at your hairline.

“Don’t be,” he smiles back with his million watt smile that landed him his first commercial at eight years old, plucked from his class trip to a theme park by a talent scout.

“You know how I feel about you, nothing is going to change that. Not even if you go on 127 million dates with Kim Mingyu,” he finishes, sealing his lips over yours.

You open your lips and greedily press your tongue behind his annoyingly perfect teeth, lifting your fingers up to tug at the hair almost touching his shoulders.

“God,” Jaehyun growls in between kisses, grabbing at your ass to hoist you up on the counter, tugging roughly at your shorts to push them down to your ankles and ripping your legs open.

You’re panting, resting back on your wrists as he holds your knees open and presses wet kisses to your inner thighs. His energy is wild and chaotic, exactly as you’ve always expected from him and your mind is starting to go to that numb place it always goes when gets his tongue on you.

You arch your back in pleasure, letting moans tumble from your lips freely, trying desperately to ignore the adorable face now perched on your couch, eyes curious but also dozing off from exerting energy after running the full length of your penthouse.

You let your eyes fall to the rolling waves out the window, morning sun blinding you and forcing you to look down at the bobbing head of the blonde man between your legs. He meets your gaze with sparkling eyes and drops a kiss to his self proclaimed favorite tattoo of yours, a small rose on your hip bone. You smile softly at him before shrieking and almost crushing his head with your thighs when he takes sharp canines to the spot, almost drawing blood.

He jumps up and starts running towards your bedroom, scooping a startled Honey off the back of the couch and holding her in front of him he runs backwards.

“Jaehyun, you cannot use our child as a shield!” you yell, almost slipping in your socks as you bound after him.

When you round the corner, you slam into his bare chest, standing at the foot of the bed. Honey is curled up on the same pillow Jaehyun had tucked under his arm as he slept, already dozing again.

“Our child? I like the sound of that,” he says seriously, his voice velvety and tempting. His hands are at your waist again and you are having a hard time thinking straight.

“Calm down there, mister,” you chuckle, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed and dropping to your knees in between his open legs.

“Let’s see how you do with this dog first,” you mutter, hands pushing down his boxers easily to take his hardened length between experienced fingers.

He smiles with his whole face at your words, eyes crinkling up in the corners and shoulders shaking a bit as you move your mouth over smooth skin, letting his soft moans fill the room and calm your racing heart.

#nct smut #nct x reader #nct fanfic #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun #jaehyun smut #jaehyun x y/n #jaehyun au

1K notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 2 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part iv)

MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE—The smallest form of belief, enough to go on.

summary: It's a day out on the town, and Jackson has much more to offer than just a home and traded goods. Perspective, comfort, and a nice helping of lovesickness—all of which catch Joel's eye.

a/n: did you know you can only mention fifty people in a post? that's just plain boring. and no more than five people in a comment? RUDE. and did anyone else see that SNL episode with Pedro and his hip thrusts, and just fucking die? yeah, me too. also - i had so much FUN writing this chapter, the feels, the angst, the yearning, the loooove. thank you all so much, and I hope you like this long ass chapter!

Joel didn’t like looking in the mirror for too long.

It wasn’t vanity—never had been—but it showed too much. Told the truth in ways he didn’t much care for. The deep lines, the greying scruff, the years stacked on top of each other like weathered wood, each one heftier than the last. He preferred the delusion, the easy forgetfulness that came with living day to day, not thinking too hard about the good ol' days or how much he wished time hadn't gotten his hands on him. But today?

Well, today he damn near felt good in his own skin.

The clothes, that Leela generously offered, helped. Goddamn, they smelled amazing. Fresh. Worn but not ragged. The denim was sturdy but soft, the fleece underlayer warm and snug. The shearling jacket fit like something out of another life—one where he had more time, where he cared about how he looked. Even his boots, though a little tight, made him feel like he was standing taller. He couldn't even pronounce the brand of the damn thing—French apostrophes, all that fancy bullshit—but whatever it was, it smelled nice, felt nice.

Oh, for sure: Ellie was bound to give him shit. Tommy even more so.

But really... he couldn't give a flying fuck. Today he felt like he was Joel from Texas again. Like he wasn’t some worn-down relic with a bad knee and a worse past.

On the note of Leela, the big, white house across the street was officially back in order. Finally functional after hours of wrestling with the complex fucking wiring, one of the few cons of such a massive home. Not that it had been much of a fight after the resident brainiac showed up—Leela had already pinpointed the problem in minutes and quietly rattled it off like it was second nature. All he had to do was be her muscle, follow along and weld it. It was more attractive than any love or sex this world had to offer.

Catching his reflection again in the front mirror of Leela's home, Joel ruffled the front of his hair, combing down the longer strands at the back, brushing at his jaw, at the scruff that had grown heavier these days, adjusting the collar, smoothing out the sleeve.

He hadn’t meant to get this caught up in it, hadn’t meant to feel this—what, good? Yeah, good. Christ, what a joke.

He’d just turned to grab Maya's baby blanket off the couch, the breathy voice from the stairs made him stiffen.

“Jesus, Joel.”

He looked up.

Leela was halfway down the staircase, cradling Maya against her chest. She wasn’t wearing the usual loose nightgowns or sweats she’d holed herself up in for months. No, this time, she was in clean, fitted jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt in that same soft blue he liked on her. Her hair was brushed smooth down her back, tucked behind her ears, not tangled and loose like usual.

For the first time, he really saw her. Not just the soft, exhausted mother. Not just the lonely woman who never let anyone too close. Her. Tall and breathtaking. Arch calves, thighs, the swell of her hips, the softness at her love handles that hadn’t quite gone away after childbirth.

And because life had a twisted sense of humour, because the moment was already damn near suffocating from seeing her, she had to go and hit him with—

“I thought you were my dad from the back.”

Joel took that one like a sucker punch straight to the gut. He had to fight the instinct to wince, to let it show. At least she didn’t say granddad, he reasoned, trying to patch up what little was left of his dignity. Small mercies.

He exhaled, fixing his fist into the coat pockets, forcing himself to smirk. “Yeah? He must’ve been one hell of a good-lookin’ guy.”

Leela huffed out a laugh, resting the baby’s cheek against her shoulder. “He loved suede. A huge show-off.”

“Well,” he drawled, tugging at the sleeve, “that's where we disagree. At least the man had taste.”

“He also loved polka-dots,” she pointed out.

He clicked his tongue. “I take the fifth, thanks.”

That earned him another laugh, light and easy, like he’d actually said something funny. He didn’t think too hard about how that was probably all he was to her—just some seasoned guy lending a hand. A reliable acquaintance. Nothing more, nothing less.

But then, feeling excluded, Maya let out a breathless little giggle—one of those soft, airy sounds she always seemed to save just for him—and he feared for whatever was left of his soul, crushing.

Maya was grinning up at him, tiny fists wriggling in her mittens, legs kicking against Leela’s side, looking like a baby worth a thousand pictures in a camera. Bundled up in a white cotton onesie, all warm and snug, her beanie perched on her head with those stupid little ears sticking up like a baby bear. Everything was a size too big like she was still growing into the world.

Joel clutched at his chest, mock-staggering back. “You’re breakin’ my goddamned heart, doll,” he murmured, unable to resist a toothy grin, as he held out his arms for her. “Look at you. C’mere, beautiful girl. G'morning.”

Maya squirmed excitedly, tiny mitten-clad hands grasping the air, and as Joel habitually pressed a warm kiss into her cheek, tempted to steal four more, he caught a glimpse of the gold ‘L’ embroidered on the chest of the onesie. Leela’s old hand-me-down that had survived the test of time.

“Lost an eardrum trying to get her into that,” Leela admitted.

She shook her head but passed Maya over, cracking her knuckles absently as she stretched out her arms, unease becoming her. He adjusted Maya against his side, settling her little weight against him. That was her seat for the rest of the day today.

Then, as if debating something, she asked, “Do you really think it’s fine? Bringing her outside? I'm worried she'll fall sick or...”

Joel arched a brow. “I told you. You’re not goin’ there without me, and Maya’s not goin’ anywhere without either of us.”

Leela chewed on that, still unsure.

Maria had been insistent about her showing up, about giving her insight into the lightning harvester with workers—the innovation she’d designed, the one they were planning to station right outside the dam. The whole quadrant was already in progress, groundwork was being laid, and people getting involved. The biggest project Jackson had taken on in a long while.

Even after Joel had warned Maria that Leela was banged up and still on the mend, she'd cherry-picked the argument and cornered him by labelling him an 'overbearing son of a bitch who was getting on her last nerve'. He'd essentially shut up after that since Maria still scared him witless.

"Look, I've got the kid. You do your thing," Joel said, adjusting Maya as she wriggled against him. "I'll just hang back at the square with Tommy and the rest, stay close by. I'll check up on you after."

Leela pressed her lips together, clearly thinking it over.

Joel tried his hand at persuasion. “Y'know, you've been holed up here for three months.”

Leela blinked. Like she was only just realizing it. Her brows furrowed, fingers lifting as she counted—one, two, three. Each number dropped a new rock in Joel’s stomach.

“More, actually.” Her voice was distant like she was doing the math in real time. “I delivered Maya at home. Nearly... eight months now.”

Eight months. Eight months since she’d stepped beyond these walls, since she’d breathed fresh air, and been around people.

He hadn’t let himself think about it before—hadn’t wanted to—but now the image was there, unshakable. Leela, alone. Covered in sweat, spasming in pain. Bloody, weak, feeling like she was dying, like the walls were closing in, like no one in the world could help her. The raw struggle of it.

His stomach turned. No—Maria would’ve made sure she had someone. She had to have. Someone must've heard her.

Joel was aware of what that kind of loneliness did to a person. How it made you shrink, made you start believing that was all there was—that the world outside didn’t need you anymore. And she’d stayed in here. For eight goddamn months. That wasn’t living.

He cleared his throat, forcing the thought away. No use stewing in it.

“Well,” he muttered, his hand reaching for the door handle, “’nuff said. Let’s get this show on the road.”

People in Jackson knew Joel Miller.

Same as Maria. Same as Tommy. They knew him for his angry brow, the way his mouth rarely broke from that grim, set line. They knew the sharpness in his eyes, the way he cut through a room without saying a word. They knew he was a hardass bastard. He didn’t make small talk. Didn’t go out of his way to be liked. He knew he scared off plenty of folks just by standing there, arms crossed, expression set like granite. And that suited him just fine. People left him be.

So seeing him now—walking through town cradling a baby instead of a rifle, with a woman most thought was a ghost at his side—that was gonna be the topic of the damn day.

He could feel the looks, hear the murmurs, the way conversations stuttered as he passed. And he did not give a shit. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em wonder.

It wasn’t like he was breaking news—his neighbours saw him come and go from her big white house as he pleased. Enough times that people could put two and two together. But this? Out in broad daylight, baby in tow? Now what the hell was going on?

Joel wasn’t the kind of man people expected to be carrying a baby. Much less one that looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And yet, here was Maya, snug against his chest, her tiny fingers curled into his fleece collar, drooling on his coat like it belonged to her.

And Leela—well. She was another matter entirely. She wasn’t just quiet. She was tense. She kept close, but not close enough to touch. Her shoulders were drawn up, her hands flexing and unflexing like she was trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.

And it wasn’t hard to guess why.

People hadn’t seen her in months. Half of Jackson had probably forgotten she even existed. The other half had started whispering about why. Joel had heard it in passing, plenty of rumours. Theories. That she was still sick. That she was holed up with her baby because she was too ashamed to be seen alone. That she was broken, not quite right in the head.

He knew better. He knew she was just trying to get by. Trying to put herself together while holding onto a child that didn’t feel quite like hers yet. And this? Being out here? This was the most out of her comfort zone she’d been in a long time.

Joel kept a steady pace, letting Leela take in what she hadn’t seen in months. He pointed things out as they walked—the grocery store with the fresh carrots now, thanks to the greenhouse. The bar with the good music. The repair shop he visited often. The little barbecue place that always smelled so mouthwatering it was damn near criminal.

He did it all for her. To keep her focused on something else—something that wasn’t the way people watched her. Wasn’t the way she was already winding herself up, bracing for something bad that wasn’t coming.

Joel kept a close eye on her, shifting Maya in his arms, pretending not to notice the way her breathing went uneven. The way she stiffened every time someone got too close. The way she gripped Joel’s elbow a little tighter like she had to remind herself he was still there.

Then, like it was nothing, like this was any other day, he muttered, “Y’ever had barbecue before?”

Leela blinked, like the question startled her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah?” He echoed with a smirk, shifting Maya higher in his arms who was listening to his voice drum in his chest. “That didn’t sound real confident.”

She let out a breath, still gripping his jacket tight. “I have, just… not in a very long time.”

“Well,” he drawled, eyes on the path ahead like this was already settled, “when you’re done with work, I’m takin’ you out. Get you a nice smoked brisket. A big slice of pecan pie with cream. How 'bout it?”

Leela glanced at him, agape. “I don’t... you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in. “I want to.”

She didn’t say anything. A moment later, he felt her hand slip lower, brushing against his wrist. Just a light touch, nothing much. But Joel knew what it meant. The world around her was too much, too fast, too loud. Drowning in the noise of it all.

So, soft and low, he asked, “D’you wanna head inside for a bit?”

Leela barely hesitated. Just nodded once, fast, reaching for Maya like she needed something to anchor herself.

But Maya wasn't having it at all. She whined a stubborn noise, little hands grasping at Joel’s coat, face burrowing into the material, refusing to be handed off when she had just gotten cosy.

And maybe Joel imagined it—but he thought he saw something in Leela’s eyes splinter, that little rejection cutting deeper than it should’ve. A flicker in her dark eyes she buried quick. It looked a hell of a lot like hurt.

But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just let her hands fall, face blank and turned for the closest door.

Joel followed without a word, close enough, an arm outstretched around her, never touching, his presence simply a buffer between her and the rest of the world.

Inside, it was quiet. The clothing store, he quickly realized. The shelves were full but mismatched, stocked with whatever could be traded, salvaged, or repurposed. Nothing had price tags—Jackson ran on barter. Jackets, boots, canned food, and old records. Everything was up for negotiation. You talked it out with the shopkeep and settled on a fair deal.

Leela didn’t say a word. Just let out a slow, shuddering breath, stepping into a corner aisle, hidden away, and pressing her slick palms against the wooden shelf.

Joel watched her quietly, stroking Maya's back. Eight months locked up in that house, barely speaking to a soul. Now, she is back in the thick of it, remembering how to breathe in open air. No wonder, she looked like she was trying to find her footing. It made sense; people forgot how to be around people.

It was something he'd seen before. The way a person stepped out of the dark after too long, how the world suddenly felt like it could swallow them whole. Some folks got jumpy. Some shut down. Leela was somewhere in between—standing still, silent, stiff as a board, like she was trying to keep herself from bolting.

He’d seen that before, too.

Her fingers curled into the edge of the shelf at her back, grip tightening, knuckles white. She shut her eyes, breathing slow, deliberate—like she was trying to disappear inside herself. Trying to access some space within herself where the world wasn’t pressing in on her.

Yeah. He knew that look all too well now. She was trying not to cry.

Joel shifted his weight, glancing down at Maya, who was blissfully unaware, busy gumming the edge of a scarf she’d pulled off the shelf.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Leela flinched—not much, just a little twitch of her shoulders—but it was enough to tell him that, for a second, she’d forgotten where she was. She blinked, pulling back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and looked at him.

Joel didn’t do the whole let's-address-this-nonsense, so he reached for the first thing that might pull her back. He grabbed an old record from the shelf and held it up. “Wanna put that fancy record player to use?”

Her expression softened instantly. She reached for the record, fingers tracing the edges like she was handling something precious. He eventually noticed the label—The Beach Boys, Wild Honey. What was with him, her and the sixties music?

“I have this one,” she mumbled.

An unsurprising turn of events. “’Course you do.” Joel sighed, sliding it back onto the shelf. "Hard to spoil a rich girl.”

She huffed out a laugh, tired, but at least it was real. She picked up a cloudy snow globe next, giving it a shake, eyes tracking the upending snow inside. “Don’t care for money anymore.”

Joel watched her, watched the way her fingers moved over the glass, trying to wipe away the dust. The way her shoulders had started to relax, just a little. He figured now was a good time for a distraction.

He tipped his chin at her. “You’re sittin’ on a gold mine, darlin'. You got salt. Basil or whatever.”

Her head tilted. "Seasoning makes me rich?"

"You ever eaten twenty years’ worth of QZ ration packs?" He scoffed, thumbing through the record covers. "Tryin’ to remember what real food tastes like while chewing expired crap they call 'dehydrated bolognese'?"

She actually laughed at that—not a breathy little huff, but a real laugh, short and amused. Then her eyes picked up that spark, a sharpness brightening her. “I make my own salt, actually. It’s a chemical reaction. It's fascinating, the sedimentation from caustic soda and—”

Joel lifted a hand to interrupt her, making a 'whoosh' motion over his head. “Alright, you lost me at ‘chemical.’ But if you got some to spare, I'd love to start saltin' my eggs in the morning.”

Her grin widened, but before she could respond, the door clattered open.

Maria swept in like a windstorm, hardly stepping inside, just enough to hold the door open. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the shelves, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, already onto whatever task she had next.

When she finally spotted Leela, she barely paused. “C’mon, kid, people are waiting for you. Let’s go.”

Leela stiffened, a shallow breath catching in her throat.

Joel caught the way her fingers tightened around the snow globe. The way her gaze flickered toward the door, then away just as fast—like she couldn’t look at it too long like it was something too bright, too overwhelming. She had just started breathing again.

He was about to say something—tell Maria to give her a damn minute, at least—but Leela nodded at her before he could get a word out. “I’ll be right there.”

But he saw the way her throat worked, how her hands wouldn’t quite let go of the shelf behind her. Then, she glanced back at him. A flicker. Hesitation. Like she was searching for something—a push, a reason to stall.

Joel had no goddamn clue what to do with that. Flash her a thumbs-up? Offer some dopey, generic shit like, “You got this”? None of it seemed right.

Maya—still happily oblivious, still gnawing on that damp, probably filthy scarf—grinned up at her mother with a gurgle, all gums and trouble. Her small hand finally reached out to her mama like her own little vote of confidence.

Leela’s expression softened, melting at that. She pressed a kiss to Maya's mitten, cupped her cheeks, and pressed another kiss to her head, lingering for a moment, breathing her in. “Don’t miss me too much, baby girl.”

And Joel—who was just holding the kid, who had nothing to do with that kiss—felt it all the way to his goddamn toes, until he curled them tight.

His throat closed when Leela straightened, and before he could react, she reached out, squeezing his shoulder. A quick thing, warm, shocking and grounding, there and gone.

“Take care of her, Joel,” she murmured.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t hesitate this time. Just turned and walked toward the door, already steeling herself for whatever was waiting outside. Maria scarcely gave Joel a second glance as she hooked an arm around Leela’s shoulder, guiding her down the street, toward the dam.

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose, shifting Maya in his arms. Take care of her. Like that was even a question.

So, this was it. Joel hadn’t done something like this in a long time.

Running errands. Moving through town without it being about work, about survival, about making sure no one was about to freeze or starve. Just walking, going slow, letting himself ease into the rhythm of a day.

It was stupid how much he liked it. Maybe it was Maya in her room that was his arms, the warmth of her little body tucked up against him, the soft sighs and quiet sounds she made as she drifted in and out of sleep on his chest. Maybe it was the feeling of just being—going from place to place with no rush, no urgency, no reason to keep his hand near a weapon. It had been a while since he felt this liberated.

And yet, for all that, it was also the most uncomfortable he’d ever been. Because everywhere he went, people noticed him.

Or more specifically, they noticed her.

Maya was the newest baby in town, and in a place like Jackson—where everyone kept track of every fucking thing—that meant she was an instant celebrity.

It started at the main square. Joel had barely stepped inside before an older woman behind the counter lit up, clasping her hands together. “Oh, well, would you look at that.” She leaned forward, peering at Maya like she was a new puppy. “Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing?”

Joel braced. He was never good at shit like this—casual conversation, polite interactions. But he was prepared to nod, maybe mutter something noncommittal. Didn’t get the chance.

Before he could step away, the woman moved in.

“Can I see her?” She was already reaching like she might touch her, and instinct had Joel stepping back, moving Maya’s weight against his chest, his free hand flexing at his side.

The handsy woman noticed, laughing lightly. “Don’t worry, hon, I won’t take her from you.” But then she looked up, past Maya and her face dropped like a corpse wearing boots. “Oh. Joel.”

Yeah. Exactly. People never approached him. They let him pass, they let him do what he needed to do, and they didn’t ask for more than what was necessary. But now? Now he had her snug to his chest, and people suddenly thought they could get in his space, that they could smile at him like he was one of them.

“Right,” Joel muttered, clearing his throat. He took a step back, putting more space between them. “Gotta—uh. Got things to do.”

And he left before she could say anything else.

But it kept happening. Like having a baby made you instantly likeable. Erased everything that people deemed you unlikeable for.

A pair of young women on the street whispered to each other behind their hands. The Miller baby. Even some guy he didn’t know—a carpenter or a repairman or something—told over his shoulder to his friend while passing him, “Is that the little Miller baby?”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t. But he hated how the words stuck to his skin, how they lingered. Feeding him false truths.

Maya, for her part, handled the attention in the same way she handled everything. She stared, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before burying her face in his chest, hiding against him.

Which—fair. Joel had the same damn instinct.

After a while, he just stopped slowing down, stopped making eye contact, and stopped acknowledging the people trying to grab his attention. By the time he hit the shop that traded in home goods, his patience was running thin.

He bartered for his coffee first. Priorities. He was low on supply, and he didn’t feel right starting a morning without it. Then, a stop at the shelf where he found some candles. The kind that a hifalutin name, like lavender or some other flower he couldn’t name. He wasn’t proud of what he’d had to trade to get them, but if they helped Leela sleep, he figured it was worth it.

Then, while shifting the baby bag on his shoulder, he saw it—some worn-down, wooden playthings on one of the shelves, a sad little collection of toys no one had much use for.

The kid had nothing. Leela didn’t seem to know enough to engage her in play. Honestly, Maya’s biggest laughs came from him, from just seeing him come in through the door and the way he bounced her when no one was looking. She didn’t have a stuffed animal to chew on, a rattle to shake, nothing. That sat wrong with him.

He reached out, fingers brushing over a carved horse with rounded edges. But before he could test it in his palms, Maya twisted in his arms, a tiny frown forming on her face.

The warning signs.

Joel sighed. “Ah, shit. Really, sweetheart?”

The fussing started slow—grunts, little unhappy noises, fidgeting with her mittens. It was hunger, he knew that much, and he hadn’t exactly planned on stopping somewhere good for it.

He glanced around, eyes landing on the worst place he could think of to feed a baby. He looked up to the sky instead, hoping for some cosmic assistance. Test him, test him, and test him again.

The fucking bar.

Well, then. It should be empty at this time of day. He'll take what is given.

Joel stepped in, scanning the dimly lit space for judgmental stares, the door swinging shut behind him. No one. It smelled like old wood and stale beer, the kind of place that felt settled into itself, like it had been standing for a hundred years and would stand for a hundred more. Even Tommy was behind the counter, rummaging through shelves, looking for something that clearly wasn’t there.

Joel exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Caught you at the right time.”

Tommy barely glanced up. “Look who it is. Papa Joel.” Then he did look, properly this time, and his smirk widened. “And look at you. Hell, you wearin’ cologne?”

Joel grunted, shifting Maya higher in his arms. “Shut up.”

“Not my fault you look—” Tommy gestured vaguely at all of him, “—like you popped outta Sears catalogue.”

Joel scowled. The swanky clothes. Right. But leave it to Tommy to make a damn thing of it.

Instead of answering, he settled onto a stool, already halfway to getting Maya’s bottle ready. She'd gone quiet, watching him move, which was never a good sign. Not for long, anyway.

Joel gently adjusted her in the crook of his arm, tucking the bottle against her lips, and that was it. The instant it was him feeding her, the second she got comfortable, her hands started roaming. She did this thing every single time. Feeling. Grabbing. Claiming.

And today, like always, they landed on the scar on his wrist. That big, pale line that ran jagged up his wrist into his forearm, from a blade that had nearly done more than nick him. A raider that he'd shivved in less than two seconds once the bleeding started.

In cruel irony, Maya was obsessed with it. She smoothed her tiny mitten over it, again and again, like she was trying to figure it out, her hand bare speck against the scar. Then she started digging her little hand into it, gripping it like she could peel it off him like it was something separate from his skin.

If Joel took his arm away when she got her claws in, her hands floated after it, waiting. A small whine, and she even gave up on the bottle.

“What?” he asked her, a single brow arched. “Aren't you hungry?”

She moved her head when he tried to push the sipper against her lips. Little smartass. A small, give-it-back-coo, brows furrowed, fists still waiting within her mittens. He missed seeing those little fingers already.

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby girl,” he sighed, letting her have his hand again. His voice was barely above a rasp, more to himself than anything. Not like she could understand, anyway. But talking to her—talking at her—had become something natural. Like breathing.

Immediately, she latched onto it again, tiny fingers curling around the scar like it belonged to her. Just let it happen. Couldn’t do a damn thing with her around. She had all his attention.

The silence between them stretched, like something Joel could settle into. Maya kept her hold on him, even as she finished eating, even as her round eyelids drooped with sleep.

His free hand, the one that had been absently nursing the cold whiskey glass, came up to trace down her nose. That tiny little twitching nose. She scrunched it at the sensation, gave the smallest little sigh—then she was out. Just like that.

Ahead, Tommy took a sip of his drink, still watching. Not saying anything. Not yet.

Then, after a beat, he sighed. “So, you’re really gonna do this?”

Joel blinked, caught mid-motion, his fingers coming up against the cool glass of his drink. He knew what Tommy's 'this' implied, he didn't even have to point it out. Joel hadn’t thought about it, not in words. Not in the way Tommy was asking. But the question hung there between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

His first instinct was to scoff. Shake his head. Deflect. Like he always did.

But instead, he just sat there.

Maya was still curled against him, warm and impossibly small. Her fingers had loosened in sleep, no longer gripping his wrist so fiercely, but every now and then, she’d twitch, like she was reaching for him even in dreams. Like she knew exactly where she belonged, in the arms that were always ready to catch her.

Joel swallowed, jaw working, eyes fixed on the grain of the counter. He could feel Tommy watching him, waiting.

Then came the shrug. That half-assed, useless shrug. A non-answer, because he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Tommy snorted, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Ain’t that simple. You know how it is with her mom.” The words came out rougher than Joel intended like he was trying to shove them between himself and whatever his shitty brother was about to say next.

Tommy, of course, wasn’t buying it. He leaned against the bar, arms folded, giving Joel that look—the one that said he was already ten steps ahead, already seeing straight through the seven layers of crap. Joel hated that damn look.

“It’s already simple,” Tommy said, voice even. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

Joel scowled, shifting Maya higher in his arms, adjusting her like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t the thing anchoring him in place.

“The hell does that mean?”

Tommy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Then he just gestured—a lazy flick of his fingers toward Maya, toward the way she was curled into Joel’s chest, tiny and warm and completely at home.

It made Joel pause. The way Tommy was looking at him. The way he didn’t say what he meant, just let the silence speak for itself.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening.

“It means you already decided,” Tommy finally said. “You’re just waitin’ on someone else to say it first, you pussy.”

Joel’s fingers curled tighter around his drink. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Because Tommy wasn’t wrong. He fucking hated that Tommy wasn’t wrong.

This was what he did. This was how it always went. With Ellie. With Sarah. He didn’t decide—he just let it happen. Let them carve out their space in his life, let them claim him before he ever had the guts to admit it. Because once you said it—really said it—that was it. No taking it back. No pretending you could walk away.

And Maya… she was already there. Already in. And fuck. Tommy must’ve caught the shift in his expression, because his posture eased, his voice dropping into something quieter, something real.

“Y’know,” he said, softer this time. “I’ve missed seein’ you like this.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Like what?”

Tommy tilted his head, studying him. “Like you still give a damn.”

Joel scoffed. “That’s real cute, Tommy.”

“I’m serious.”

And Joel knew he was. Could hear it in the way Tommy’s voice had lost its usual sharpness, in the way he wasn’t teasing anymore.

Tommy wasn’t just looking at him now—he was seeing him.

The way Joel had melted into this. How he hadn’t put her down, hadn’t even tried. How his hand, scarred and mangled, still rested against the small of Maya’s back, gently rubbing circles as if he needed to make sure she was still there.

Joel looked away. Something crawled up his spine, sharp and unnameable. He didn’t like being seen. Not like this. Not even by Tommy. So he went for the easiest thing—the simplest way to cut the tension.

A half-hearted mutter. A low, unconvincing, “Yeah, well.”

Tommy’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Poetic,” he drawled.

Joel shook his head, finally taking a drink. “You talk too damn much.”

Tommy chuckled, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Yeah, well,” he mimicked before his voice softened again. “You don’t gotta say it, Joel.” He gestured toward Maya, still curled against his chest, safe, home. “You’re already doin’ it. Even if you got fuckin’ old.”

“Guess I had to, didn’t I?” he muttered, adjusting Maya against his chest, making sure her head rested easy against his chest.

Tommy didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. They both knew the truth of it.

Joel had aged in ways Tommy never would, in ways no one who hadn’t lived what he lived could understand. His life had been gunpowder, dirt and blood. But still—there was something about this, about sitting here, not rushing anywhere, not killing anything, not surviving, just existing.

Something about her. She had her little hands on his shirt, curled tight in sleep, and he knew without a doubt that when she woke up, she'd reach for him again.

Yeah, this was what getting old was.

It wasn’t so abnormal anymore, Joel thought, being here like this. A weekend evening, in nice clothes, at a restaurant, beer in hand, sitting around a table with family. Nothing left to rock the boat.

For a long time, this kind of thing had felt impossible. Something for other people. Other lives. Even in Jackson, even after all these years, he still sometimes caught himself expecting the old rhythm—always waiting for something to go wrong.

But here he was. Sitting in a booth at the barbecue joint, letting the warmth of the moment settle in. Maria was talking a mile a minute, Tommy was stretched out beside her, looking half in disbelief, and across from him—Leela cradling Maya, quiet as ever.

Joel took a slow sip of his beer, tearing his eyes off her, half-listening as Maria went off, excitement lighting up her face.

“—seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she was saying, gesturing so wildly she nearly knocked over Tommy’s drink. “Fixed the whole irrigation backup in minutes, Joel! Got the system running smoother than it ever has, and on top of that—this little Einstein somehow managed to work out a whole fucking ration adjustment in the same damn hour.”

Leela’s face went warm. She waved a hand, dismissing it. “It wasn’t that complicated. The whole system just needed a pressure bypass to reduce cavitation in the main feed lines. And the rationing—honestly, it was just a matter of optimizing caloric allotments based on intake efficiency per household.”

A stunned hush.

Tommy blinked. Joel just stared in amazement. Maria narrowed her eyes like she was trying to do the math in her head.

“Right,” Tommy finally muttered, dragging his drink closer to safety. “I totally knew what all that meant.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. And a little proud of her. “Christ.”

Leela frowned, looking between them. “It's all just calibration.”

Maria snorted, nudging Tommy. “I think that just proved her point.”

She was surpassing expectations with Maria fuckin' Miller. That had got to count for something. It was rare, too, to watch her this spirited, this excited. Even rarer that Tommy wasn’t the loudest one at the table.

"Well," Tommy said, smirking as he raised his glass. "Guess it's good to have a genius in your corner sometimes."

Joel smirked too, but his gaze flickered sideways again, back to Leela. He couldn't help himself to another look, and another, and another. Total headcase conduct.

But she wasn’t looking at any of them. She sat beside him, holding Maya close, not engaging much, just keeping her eyes down, drifting between the door and Maya in her bouncing lap. Every now and then, she’d offer a thin, polite smile—one of those distant ones, not real, not reaching her eyes. Present, but not fully there.

Joel noticed it all. The way she sat just a little too stiff, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly against Maya’s back. The way her shoulders didn’t fully relax, even though she was surrounded by people she trusted. She was clearly still agitated with something. Maybe the attention? The restaurant? The smell of the food? Perhaps Maya? Or was it himself?

Joel sipped his beer and let his eyes linger on her for a second longer, about to change the subject, before Tommy—that big-mouthed bastard—broke the moment.

“Leela’s birthday’s comin’ up in a few days, right?” he said, nodding toward Joel like he expected him to confirm. “You two got plans?”

Joel damn near choked. He shot Tommy a glare so sharp it could’ve gutted a man. Wanted to kick him square in the balls. What was this little shit implying? And her birthday? He didn’t even know. Then again, he wasn't big on celebrations anyway.

Leela, to his relief, didn’t seem to care much. She just shook her head. “No plans.”

Maria, of course, had other ideas. Plans. To put that unused, exquisite dining room in her home to good use.

“Dinner, then,” she announced, already scheming, her face bright with it. “Your place. You don't have to lift a finger, the menu’s on me.”

Leela hesitated. “Um...”

Joel was ready to witness Maria take a licking for the first time ever. He could see the wheels turning in Leela's head, the way her fingers curled into Maya’s blanket. She looked down at the baby, who was happily slapping her little hands against the table, amusing herself, laughing that hiccuping laugh, at the sound.

Joel couldn’t help but smile. He reached out, brushing his knuckles over Maya’s chin, and she let out a delighted squeal, and tried to catch his hand before he returned it to his glass.

Leela exhaled, barely a smile on her lips, blindsiding him with: "I think that'd be nice. I could make something, too. With seasoning." And she flashed a knowing grin at Joel.

He bit his smile into the rim of his beer glass, meeting her eye. "Amen."

“Sweet,” Tommy grinned. “I’ll let Ellie know.”

When the food arrived in a leering waitress's arms, Joel didn’t touch his plate right away. He was too busy looking at Tommy’s. A full rack of ribs, juicy, glistening with sauce, looking like the best damn thing on the table. Regret burned in his gut.

Tommy, the smug shithead, was already smirking, rolling back his sleeves. “Something wrong, big brother?”

Joel grunted, reaching for his beer instead of dignifying that with an answer. His brother had no one to impress, Maria was well-versed in Tommy-isms. Joel had played it safe. Ribs were messy. Hands-on. Fucking delicious. If he were alone, or if it was just Tommy, he’d be going to town on them.

But with Maya switching from his lap to Leela's lap half the time? With Leela, this smart, stunning girl, sitting beside him, barely eating, her shoulder brushing his every now and then? He’d gone for the safe, decent option. A nice slab of brisket. Neater. Quieter. Civil. Less of a goddamn spectacle.

Across from him, Maria was already chatting about something—town expansion, hydroponics for the greenhouse, that kind of thing. Leela was listening, but not really. Not engaging entirely. Her gaze stayed down, distracted.

And then there was Maya. For all her adorableness, she was being an absolute menace. Squirming. Reaching. Grabbing. Her big eyes were all stubborn, yet curious. Joel felt her shifting in Leela’s lap, wiggling against her arm, determined to smack her little hands onto her mother's plate.

“Maya, please,” Leela whispered, exasperated, nudging her hands away. Even positioning her farther on her lap.

Of course, it didn’t work. Maya let out a loud, insistent whine—real dramatic-like. Another scream of objection, fists squeezed like she was throwing a fit, and smacking for the plate again.

Maria chuckled. “Kid’s got some lungs on her.”

Leela huffed a small, tired laugh, but Joel could see her struggle even if it was hilarious. Trying to keep handsy Maya at bay while attempting to cut her steak one-handed. She wasn’t doing a great job of it. Fork in one hand, knife awkwardly angled in the other, barely making progress.

Joel didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to.

He just reached over and swapped their plates. Simple. Quiet. Didn’t make a thing of it. Just slid his brisket—already cut—toward her, nudging it a little farther from Maya’s reach.

Leela stilled. And glanced up at him, astonished.

Joel kept his eyes on his own plate, reaching for his knife. Shrugged, like it was nothing. “Go on,” he urged. “The best thing you'll put in your mouth.”

Tommy cleared his throat, catching onto the innuendo. Joel imagined sticking his knife into his eye.

Leela hesitated. Then, after a beat, he heard the soft clink of her fork against the plate as she speared a piece. A grateful smile came alive on her face while she chewed, a genuine one. He'd learned to tell the difference now.

“Thank you, Joel,” she nodded.

Joel nodded back, a tight smile stretching on his lips. Took a bite from his plate. There was nothing else to be said. The message was clear: I've got you.

Oh, Joel didn’t miss the looks either. Maria’s subtle smirk behind her glass. Tommy’s full-blown, shit-eating grin. The two of them watched like they were studying a goddamn exhibit every time Joel so much as glanced at Leela or reached out for Maya.

Fuck them. He ignored it all, chewing through another bite of steak, keeping his focus where it needed to be. Maya was calm now. Full belly, busy little hands—playing with his own hand now, like it was her favourite toy in the world. Leela, finally eating without interruption, though still too quiet.

Joel didn’t say a damn word about any of it. Even when Maria started up again.

“What I'm saying is, that the town’s growing,” she said, wiping her mouth. “More people settling in every month. It’s getting to the point where we’re running low on homes.”

That got Joel’s attention. His chewing slowed, a sliver of suspicion creeping in. Tommy wasn’t looking at him. That was the first red flag that he'd learned from one of the more recent dinners in the Miller household.

“Couple of new families coming in next week,” Maria continued. “One’s got three kids. You believe that? Haven’t had that many young ones in Jackson in a long time.”

Joel grunted. More people. More mouths to feed. Meant the town was growing, sure—but also meant more risk. Running this place with a tight ship was already starting to show. And Maria wasn’t done.

“Thing is, if we keep expanding at this rate, we’ll have to start repurposing old homes.”

There it was. Joel was halfway through his beer when he heard more of this.

“You know, Joel,” Tommy started his tone too goddamn casual to be anything but questionable. “If push comes to shove, we could always put your place up for new tenants.”

Joel’s grip tightened on his glass. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at Tommy right away. Just kept chewing slow, steady, like he hadn’t heard a thing.

Because he knew what this was. He knew Tommy and that arrogant little edge in his voice, the way Maria was staying too quiet, swirling her drink like she wasn’t waiting for impact.

It was a set-up. Fishing. Looking for a reaction. Confirming some inside hunches. And Maria took the shot before he could load his own.

“We’d put you up at ours, sure enough,” she said, breezy, easy.

“No kidding. You're family, can't just chuck you on the street as much as I want to,” Tommy added, mockingly, grinning like a jackass.

Joel set his drink down with a little too much pressure, the sound a noisy thud. Finally, finally, he levelled a look at Tommy. He didn't need to say a damn thing. Because whatever was on his face? It was enough.

Tommy coughed, glancing away as if he felt the heat of it. He knew what would follow if he spoke another word. Maria, to her credit, held his stare, only raising an eyebrow.

Joel’s jaw flexed, real slow. The urge to tell them both to go straight to hell was right there, burning at the back of his throat. And he would have. Would’ve shut the whole damn thing down, hard. But before he could, Leela beat him to it with—

“I have spare rooms in my place,” she said, casually. Like she was discussing the weather. “If that happens, Joel could take one. Stay as long as he wants.” She used Maya's arm to motion a wave. “Maya would love that, too.”

More silence. She was just full of surprises today, wasn't she?

Tommy, who had been bracing for impact, looked like he’d tripped over his own damn feet. Maria, mid-drink, paused. Chewed on her cheeks. Like she was recalibrating the entire situation.

And Joel? He didn't even know what to do with that. For a second, all he could do was stare at Leela, completely gobsmacked. What she'd suggested was to take it to the next level, in the most casual way. Yeah, just stay with me and my kid, forever, I guess. Doesn't matter.

Leela didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice what she’d said. She just kept wiping at Maya's mouth and hands who'd started to entertain herself by blowing raspberries, and bouncing her gently like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joel exhaled through his nose. A slow, heavy thing. “It's all a big 'if',” he muttered, edged with finality.

Maria recovered first. Pulled a face that said she was perfectly fine with it. “Yep.”

Tommy, still catching up, pressed his lips together. “Just wanted to make sure of something,” he muttered. “Pretty sure now.”

Joel didn’t ask what. Just picked up his beer again, and took a slow, measured sip. His glare at Tommy, though? Firmly in place.

They left the restaurant together, in cackles of laughter that was at the expense of Joel's face, making their way up the same street where their homes resided, boots crunching against the frozen dirt road. The air was sharp, biting, but Joel barely felt it.

Maya had run herself ragged. After all her theatrics inside—her constant wriggling, the battle for the damn steak, the way she’d made herself known to the entire damn restaurant—she’d finally given in.

“You feelin' cold, baby?” he murmured.

She was in his arms now, bundled up and warm, her bunny-ear beanie snug over her head. Her tiny nose was red from the cold, her cheek pressed against the fabric of his jacket, picking at a loose lint on his sweater. He tucked closer, safer, pressing a warming kiss into her sleepy head.

Joel caught up with Maria before she could reach Tommy and Leela ahead. His breath came out in slow, even puffs, but inside, he felt a little less steady. Hadn’t planned on asking. Hadn’t even realized it was sitting there, coiled tight in his chest, until the words were already forming.

"Hey," he said lowly, his voice carrying that weighted kind of hesitation. "Can we talk?"

Maria arched a brow before smirking. "If you’re about to chew me out, it was Tommy’s idea. You know we haven’t had new people settle in for months."

Joel barely registered it. Just shook his head. Not about that.

His gaze flicked toward Leela’s back—small, quiet steps beside Tommy’s like she wasn’t all the way there. His jaw tightened before he spoke. Carefully.

"At the dam today." He paused, feeling the words thick on his tongue. "Did she seem… alright to you? Seem a little off?"

That smirk faded. Maria exhaled, her face shifting into something more careful. "Wouldn’t stay in the room with all the workers," she admitted. "Spooked her out. After that, I just let her stick by my side in the office."

Joel frowned.

"Must’ve been a trigger," Maria added, quieter now.

He only nodded. He didn't need to say what they both already knew.

He watched Leela a little longer, the way her hands stayed tucked inside her coat sleeves, the way she wasn’t engaging much with Tommy’s easy conversation. There was something… too still about her.

"She’s been quiet all night," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Maria nudged him lightly. "She’ll be fine, Joel. Baby steps."

Joel pressed his lips together. He wasn't a believer in the process of baby steps. Either you healed or you rotted in the filth of guilt or devastation for the rest of your life.

Maria gave him a sideways glance, one of those knowing looks. "You look good together."

Joel let out a breath. Not quite a scoff. Not quite anything. "Thought lawyers didn’t bullshit," he muttered.

Maria shrugged easily. "I don't. Sure, you’re," she cleared her throat, shooting him a look. "Let’s say ‘well into your prime’—and she’s… not. But I can tell she trusts you absolutely."

Joel said nothing. Only bit down the small grin that broke through his lips, staring at his boots. Coming from Maria, point-blank like that, it meant a lot.

Up ahead, Tommy was acting like he hadn’t just pulled that shit back in the restaurant, talking easy, hands in his pockets, like he was the picture of innocence.

Joel narrowed his eyes. Yeah, alright. That jagoff needed to be put in his place.

He picked up his pace, stepping just ahead of Tommy, and without breaking stride, swept his leg out.

Tommy didn’t even get a chance to balance before he was airborne—arms flailing, momentum carrying him forward—a sad, "What the fuck!"—then crashing face-first into the snow with a solid thud.

Maria burst out laughing. Full-on, bent-over, hands-on-her-knees laughing. Leela, though—she gasped, her eyes going wide, clearly more horrified than she needed to be.

Joel just kept walking, adjusting Maya, who let out a startled little giggle like she understood the exact kind of justice that had just been served.

"Fuckin' deserved it," he grumbled.

Maya was bawling at the big white house’s door, tiny fists clutching his shirt like letting go might break her little heart. And maybe it would—maybe that’s why Joel hesitated, his hands hovering at her back, torn between unwinding her grip and holding her tighter. Damn it, he didn’t want to go, either.

If he peeled her off him and stepped away, she’d do the sweetest thing that always got him—cover her eyes with her hands like she’d seen her mother do, weeping like his leaving was the greatest tragedy of her small world.

“He’ll come back tomorrow, Maya,” Leela tried, rubbing absently at her belly. “He has to sleep, too.”

Maya wasn’t convinced. She wriggled in her mother’s hold, stretching her arms out toward Joel, demanding, no—pleading—to be held. Then she wailed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of cry that could bring a whole street to a standstill.

Joel exhaled, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. God, this girl was breaking his heart.

Leela shifted Maya against her chest and patted her back. “Do you want to stay a while?” Her voice was softer now. “Until she falls asleep?”

Joel didn’t even pretend to hesitate. His arms were already reaching for Maya, lifting her effortlessly out of Leela’s hold. The moment she settled against his chest, her tiny hands fisting into his shirt, her cries turned to hiccups, then sniffles.

“Gonna be a handful when she gets older,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek.

Leela rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, stifling a yawn. “Gosh, please don’t remind me.” She nodded toward the stairs. “I’m gonna get changed. Help yourself to anything.”

Joel watched her retreat up the steps, back hunched with exhaustion. At the landing, she disappeared into the hallway, and he found himself standing there a moment longer than necessary, listening to the creak of the floorboards as she moved through the house. He liked that about her—the way she kept reminding him to make himself at home like she knew he hadn’t quite figured out how to.

Maya was still sniffling, the last remnants of her earlier tears damp against Joel’s shirt. She stirred against him, adjusting in his arms like she was making herself right at home. Safe. Where she belonged.

Joel smoothed his palm over her back and felt the way she breaths puffed against his collar, her little chest rising and falling in a slower rhythm now. She was alright. He did that.

"You missed me already?" he murmured, rubbing a thumb under her damp eye.

She didn’t answer, just breathed out a soft, shuddering coo.

Yeah. That was about what he thought.

He bounced her gently as he moved through the living room, shifting his weight as he glanced around, looking for something to keep her mind off whatever had gotten her so worked up in the first place. His eyes caught on something up on the shelf, half-forgotten.

That record player he'd been gawking at for weeks. Not just any old thing, either. Glass case. Dark mahogany. Expensive. Fancy, like the rest of Leela’s place.

There was already a record inside. Percy Sledge. Gold, fucking gold. The glossy cover sat neatly on the side like someone had meant to come back to it and never did.

Joel exhaled, dusting off the lid before flipping it open. “Haven’t heard this in a long time,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, glancing down at Maya, "You wanna hear some music, baby girl?"

Maya blinked up at him, her earlier tears forgotten, and let out that breathless little panting laugh she did when she was excited. Her small hands clapped together in that uncoordinated, barbed motion that made her look like she was still figuring out how her own fingers worked.

Joel grinned. “Yeah, me too.”

He brushed away the dust, set the needle down, and let the music cut through the quiet.

The room filled with the low, honeyed croon of Percy Sledge, velvet-smooth, drifting through the air like something out of a different time.

Joel felt her still in his arms, eyes going wide as she stared at the record player, completely awestruck. Like she was trying to make sense of where the sound was coming from.

He poked a finger into her squishy thigh. “Never heard real music before? You like it?”

Maya was so curious, watching the record spin, producing music, head tilting in that goddamned adorable way of hers, like she was putting all her baby brainpower into figuring it out.

Joel’s chest ached. It was a deep, familiar thing, the kind of ache that came from having too much and knowing it was, perhaps now, all his to keep.

He shifted Maya in his arms, kissing the top of her bunny-eared beanie. She smelled like warm blankets, like home, even though he’d never had a home quite like this before.

"You wanna dance with me, darlin’?"

She gasped, her whole body jerking in excitement, arms flailing like she couldn’t believe her luck. Then came that breathless, hitching laugh—the one that made her whole face crinkle, her tiny chest heaving like she could barely keep up with herself.

He’d never heard her laugh like this before. Was that the first?

So he lifted her high into the air, listening to the way she squealed, legs kicking like she was soaring. That same laugh again—bright, bubbling over, pure sunshine—rang through the room as he pulled her back into his chest, then did it again. Twice. Thrice. Oh, his back was going to pay the piper, but for that laugh, it was fucking worth it.

She was weightless, and for a moment, so was he. The world didn’t feel so heavy when he had her in his arms like this.

His eyes caught on something in the doorway.

Leela. She was watching.

She had changed into that same white nightdress, the one with the pearl buttons he liked more than he should. Loose fabric brushing just above her ankles, a sleeve slipping off her shoulders. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, fingers touching her lips like she was trying to trap the smile already there.

Joel didn’t stop moving, just slowed a little, swaying Maya in his arms, pretending like his chest didn’t feel too goddamn tight at the look on Leela’s face. If he stopped, the moment might end, and he wasn’t ready for that.

Leela wasn’t looking at him, not exactly. Her eyes were on Maya, wondering, at the way she was still laughing, still catching her breath, little fingers clinging to the fabric of Joel’s shirt like her whole world was nothing but him and the feeling of flying.

He'd never had anything like this. Something whole, real, his. Could this moment get any more perfect? And then he had the thought—

He wanted to dance with Leela.

It settled deep in his chest, curling between the cracks. Maybe he’d wanted that for a while now. Maybe that was why his hands always hoped to reach for her when it was without Maya, why his pulse kicked up when she got too close, why he always noticed when she was around—soft, careful, like someone who didn’t want to take up too much space.

He huffed, dipping his head down to whisper against Maya’s temple, his voice all low and warm—"Gotta give your mama a turn, huh?"

He lowered Maya onto the couch, kissing her nose, making sure she was snug, and safe between the sunken cushions. She was already grabbing for her baby blanket, nibbling on the edge of it, still watching him with that shining little grin. That was enough confidence to power him up.

Joel knew better than to ask Leela. Knew better than to want. She’d probably turn him down. Politely. And somehow, that would hurt worse. Brushing him off like a stranger.

But he asked anyway.

He turned around and didn’t say a word—just held out his hands, just a little. Not a grand gesture, nothing obvious, just enough. Just enough that she’d see it, that she’d know. He wants her close.

Leela’s gaze flickered, something changing. Her lips parted, just barely, and for a moment—a long, slow, aching moment—he thought she might step forward, might meet him where he stood. A silly pipedream.

Joel was too goddamn old for his heart to be pounding like this. Like some stupid kid, all restless hands and reckless hope, hoping the girl he liked would share that feeling with him. It had been a long time since someone made him feel like this. Hell, he wasn’t sure he ever had—not like this. Not with something this soft, this easy, this whole.

He blamed that when she looked away, the moment unravelling.

Blamed the gap, the years that stretched between them, the life he’d already lived, the losses already burned into his bones. The grey in his hair, the angry brow, the lines on his face. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not for him. Not anymore. But then—why did he still want? Why, after all these years, after everything, did he still feel this?

The way his chest clenched when she hesitated. The way his palms itched, waiting, wanting. The way he caught himself hoping—hoping—like some love-struck fool that she might actually step forward.

He exhaled slowly, telling himself it was fine. Telling himself he was being ridiculous. She didn’t owe him anything. He should’ve known better, should’ve kept his hands where they belonged... anyways, what else could he offer her?

And then she did. She moved a little. Leaned off the doorway. A few slow, quiet steps forward. Hands knotted behind her back, shoulders tense, reluctant to give in.

His breath caught in his throat.

She wasn’t looking at him—not at first. Her eyes dipped downward to the boots on his feet, flickering uncertainly, almost like she was working up the nerve to do something.

And then she glimpsed his hands. The callouses. The mangled skin. The years of work, of war, of violence. Of a life that had been anything but easy. The way his fingers curled just slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering them in the first place.

For a moment, she hesitated. And he thought, yeah, that’s about right.

And then—slowly, so slowly—she slipped her hands into his. Her fingers were slender against his, swallowed within his own, cool and soft where his were rough, ruined. It had been so long since anyone had reached for him first.

He didn’t move right away. Just felt it. The way she fit there, the shape of her hands in his, like it wasn’t a mistake. Like she wasn’t regretting it.

All those lifetimes, chipping away parts of him, making space for her hands to be there. And fuck, if that didn’t scare him more than anything.

The scratchy record spun on, Percy Sledge’s voice melting into the room, velvet-smooth. What am I living for, he sang on, if not for you?

Joel swallowed thickly.

Slowly, he guided her hand to his bicep, barely pressing down. She was tense, wound tight like she’d bolt if he moved too fast. So he didn’t.

"You good?" he checked in.

She nodded, glancing up, baring a gentle smile.

His own hand skimmed her hip—ginger, careful—before settling there. He let her other hand hang from his grasp, mid-air, not forcing it, not demanding more than she was willing to give. Leela was stiff against him, like this was too much for her. Like it had been too long for her, too. Like she was afraid of him. Of this. My god, it burned.

So he eased. Dipped his head, rested his nose against her hairline, and just swayed. Joel couldn't cut a rug or shake his hips to save his damn life, but he could feel. And shit, he felt so good.

She was right there. Right where he wanted her, but not as close as he wanted, although he completely dwarfed her. He could feel the tension in her frame, that deep-rooted hesitance like she wasn’t sure she was allowed this.

Joel knew that feeling all too well. So he let her lead without leading. Let her find the pace. Even if it was fucking killing him.

Even though his body ached to pull her closer. Even though his fingers twitched where they rested against her hip, wanting to dig in, to hold, to keep. He wanted her warmth pressed tight to him, her weight resting against his chest. Wanted to feel her relax, not just in body but in heart.

He’d spent years running on instinct, on gut, making quick decisions with deadly precision. But he’d never been this meticulous about anything before.

And then—he felt it. The shift. It wasn’t big, not something he would've noticed a while ago. Now he did. The way her breath came just a little easier. The way her grip steadied, not quite clinging but not pulling away either. She was letting herself be here.

And for the first time in some time—Joel wanted to feel, too.

So he let himself move with her. Not well, not smooth, not anything he’d want anyone else to see. But with her.

She laughed like he'd cracked something open in her, when he pulled her in, twirling her under his arm, snaring her against his chest before she could stumble. She laughed again when he spun her out, her head tipping back, black hair spilling like a dark halo.

"Never been spun around, my ass," he muttered against her hair as he spun her back into him, arms curling around her waist, anchoring her to him. "You're a natural."

Leela laughed, breathless, cheeks flushed. "Practice. Mom and I used to spin around for hours when it got lonely."

Joel stilled for just a second. He could picture it then—little Leela, small hands clutching at her mother’s as she twirled, all giggles and untamed joy. A warm, glowing memory, but edged with something else. The kind of happiness you cling to when there’s nothing else.

He hummed low in his throat, muffling a smile. Leela’s fingers curled against his back.

"Joel?"

"Mhm?"

She hesitated, just a beat. "I think you look really handsome today."

He stopped moving altogether. A strange, sharp thing twisted behind his ribs—surprise, confusion, something too damn soft to name. Handsome. Not tired, not rude, not old. Joel was handsome to her. The prickling memory from that morning, her mistaking him for her father went up in smoke.

For a second, he considered brushing it off, making some dry remark, giving himself an out. He wasn’t careful about much. Wasn’t the kind of man who tiptoed around what he wanted. Life had burned that out of him long ago. But right now? Right now, he was careful.

So, Joel did what he could; he held her tighter. Not much. Just enough. Just enough that she’d know he’d heard her.

And when he finally spoke, it was quiet, low, a little rough around the edges. "Thank you, darlin'."

Leela smiled up at him. And Joel—God help him. He let himself smile back.

As Percy crooned about his love growing stronger and his lover becoming a habit, they actually danced. However slow it was, there was a wildness to the way she moved, arms outstretched, the hem of her nightdress catching air, cheeks catching the low lamplight. The sharp pivot of her foot against the floorboards, the way her body dipped and twisted, loose and natural. She looked so young, so different from the woman he’d met all those weeks ago, that quiet, anxious thing who always kept herself tucked away.

This was the Leela he was falling for.

And he was so fucked. But for the first time in a long time—he was glad he was.

Joel barely had time to react before she was in his arms, knocking the wind out of his chest. Not swaying anymore, not laughing—just holding.

Her arms locked tight around his waist, cheek pressed firm against his chest like she was bracing herself. Like something in her had finally tipped over, finally let go, and she needed something to catch her.

And Joel—goddamn it, Joel wasn’t sure what to do. How to process this. She didn’t do things like this. Not the Leela he’d come to know. She was careful, always. Kept her distance. Kept everything measured. Even when she let people in, it was guarded. Always one foot out the door, always ready to pull away.

But now?

Now, she was holding on. Holding onto him.

Joel hesitated, feeling all of her against all of him, the heat, the muscle, the softness, the realness.

Then, slow and steady, he let himself move. One arm curled around her waist, the other settled at the back of her head. His fingers slid into her hair, pressing her close—not just to comfort her, but to reassure himself. She was here. He was here. They were here.

She wasn’t trembling, but she was tense. Her grip on him was firm, almost desperate. Holding onto something bigger than just this moment, nails digging into his sweater, something that must’ve been clawing at her for God knows how long.

"I needed this a lot," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper, muffled against his chest.

Joel swallowed. Shifted just enough to angle his chin over the crown of her head. "Anytime."

That was all he could say. Because what else was there?

He didn’t know how to tell her that she could stay like this for as long as she wanted. All night, all day, That whatever had been weighing her down before—whatever had kept her small, kept her afraid—it wasn’t going to touch her here. Not while he was holding her.

Although he wished the song could last forever, reality came a-knocking, and they answered. There was nothing awkward left to pick up, just a dreaming baby girl on the couch cushions.

After placing Maya in her crib and squeezing three deep goodnight kisses into her head, Joel left to cross the street. He turned around to see Leela by the big oak door, watching him go, a meaningful smile alive on her face. She waved him goodnight.

The heat in his cabin hit him first as he entered, sighing. Thick and suffocating. The fire in the hearth had burned too hot again, filling the place with a sticky kind of warmth that made his skin prickle.

Joel shrugged off that expensive shearling jacket, tossed it somewhere, and rubbed a hand down his face. It was too damn quiet. No soft breaths ghosted across his skin. No little palms clung to the fabric of his shirt.

Just the crackle of fire. Empty arms. The twisted sheets on his bed. And himself.

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, forearms braced against his knees, head in his hands. A million hazy thoughts swirled, smouldering, yet all he could look upon clearly was wanting to close the gap and kiss that girl in her living room.

Was this what he wanted? Would he really go through with it? If it all went to shit—if he fucked it up, if they got hurt, if she regretted letting him in—there’d be no one else to blame, but him. He would have done this to himself, some sort of screwed-up self-sabotage he thought he earned. Someday, when he kicks the bucket, all he is going to leave to that family is grief. Or not even that? Was he worth the suffering? Would they spare him a thought?

His fingers unconsciously drifted down, brushing against the cracked leather of his watch strap. That old, broken dial. The last thing Sarah had ever given him, the last vestige of her memory, hanging off his defeated body.

The hands were still stuck in place—frozen, unmoving. Just like he’d been for all those years. Until now.

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, dragging a hand down his face. He was already in too deep.

And maybe—maybe he didn’t want to climb back out.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @brklynln -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

643 notes · View notes

ittybittyfanblog · 4 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about) A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves.

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit.

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events.

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes.

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry.

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.”

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table.

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you.

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus.

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh.

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back.

You take the tiniest nibble.

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory.

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first.

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?”

A long pause.

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness.

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage.

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this.

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull of letting yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender.

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is.

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color.

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic.

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time.

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!”

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.”

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well.

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle.

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…”

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he?

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast.

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are.

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment.

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak.

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers in the air, amidst the silence.

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…”

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring.

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to.

You love him.

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest.

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke.

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud.

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew.

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time.

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control.

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same.

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you?

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that lead to nowhere?

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid.

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month.

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence.

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again.

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive.

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city.

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people.

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back.

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again.

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air.

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest.

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this?

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills.

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you.

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.”

You know what’s coming.

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course.

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables.

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly.

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

1K notes · View notes

starrvsn · 11 days ago

Text

🫐 ˎˊ˗　fruit for thought ⠆your child not recognizing lando because he shaved his mustache (single-parent!reader, relationship!au)

lando had been away on a work trip for almost a month, the longest he’s been away from you and madeline and it would be an understatement to say that madeline missed him. lando has embraced the role of being a parental figure to your daughter and it came so naturally to him, to care for madeline– so it was safe to say his relationship with her was a special one. when he was away, she’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night begging for him to snuggle with her, and it broke your heart to tell her— that he won’t be coming home for a while. it was hard not having him there to comfort her but lando made an effort to call you whenever he had the time mostly talking to your two year old daughter than you but you found it massively endearing. sometimes he’d hand the phone over to george or alex who were madeline best friends when they weren’t racing around the world. so when you told madeline he was coming home today she was practically bouncing off the walls in excitement.

you both wait quite a while for lando to arrive home, it was around madeline bed time when he had texted you that he landed and you had just finished getting madeline ready for bed. you initially were just going to have her go to bed and have lando surprise her in the morning, you tucked her in and everything kissing her good night when she suddenly asks why lando isn't home yet, you try to tell her that he isn't coming until much later, when she's asleep and she insists she stays awake until he's home. you knew what if you tried to resist her wishes of staying up then you would have an earful of whining and crying the whole night. so here you are lying on the couch with your daughter waiting for your boyfriend to come home. you wait for about an hour and you could tell madeline was going in and out of sleep, trying her hardest to stay awake and just about when you think you daughter succumbs to sleep. the door begins to rattle signaling landos arrival. madeline head lifts from your chest at the sudden noise, doe eyes looking at you with excitement. a smile spreading on your lips at her reaction. she stumbles off your chest to where your husband is, you hadn't got the energy to get up so you lie contently until he makes his way to the den to greet you.

"lan lan!" madeline shouts as she runs towards the front door, little feet padding to your boyfriend. "mads! i missed you!" lando exclaims, thick accent lacing his words. you can practically hear the beaming smile in his voice. he shoves his backpack off his shoulders to kneel down to your daughters height with open arms. just as she gets closer to embrace him she stops dead in her tracks, uncertainty washing over her little features. it’s quiet for a few moments, curious you pull yourself up from the couch and see lando by the door with a pout. madeline a mere foot away from him, her hands held tightly to her tummy and chin tucked into her chest.

"what's wrong honey?" you stand behind your little girl, patting her head softly. bending down to her height you see fat globs of tears at the corner of her eyes, her solemn expression pulls at your heart, asking her softly why she's upset. lando joins too, now kneeling in front of her but she backs away to hide behind your legs. you look at him confused as he looks up at you with wide eyes, unsure why she's reacting this away. you assure her that it's just lando, the same man she's been missing while he was away. "it's just me sweetheart." cooing at madeline, lando voices softly as he treads carefully inching closer to the little girl but instead she presses tighter into your leg. her face tucked into the juncture of your knee.

"someone took lan lan's mustache!" she whimpers, pointing at lando. her face still hidden. you now notice his clean shaven face, he must've shaved it when it grew to long to maintain. his gaze softens as he looks up at you, now entertained upon hearing the reason why madeline became so upset. his fingers ghost his upper lip where his mustache once was.

lando stifles a laugh, pressing his lips together, eyes wide and warm as he realizes just how much that tiny patch of facial hair meant to your two-year-old.

“oh no,” he whispers dramatically, glancing up at you with a glint of amusement. “i didn’t know the mustache had such a fan club.”

you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing, crouched beside your daughter. “It’s okay, honey,” you murmur gently, brushing her curls back. “lando’s still lando. be just… shaved his mustache, remember? like when we trim your bangs?”

madeline peeks up at you, then at him—very suspicious, like she’s solving a crime. “but he looks like someone else…” she says with a shaky voice, bottom lip wobbling.

lando’s heart pretty much melts on the spot.

he sits back on his heels, then does the one thing he knows will get to her—he starts doing her favorite silly voice, the one he always uses during storytime.

“look at me! it’s lan lan,” he says in an exaggerated tone, puffing out his cheeks, making a goofy face. “i just had to make the mustache go on holiday for a bit. he was getting kinda itchy, you know?”

a little giggle escapes her. just the tiniest one. your heart aches at the sight.

“can i get a hug now?” lando asks softly, holding out his arms. “even without the mustache?”

she hesitates for a second, and then she runs—chubby arms flinging around his neck as he catches her with ease, hoisting her into his arms and spinning her gently. her little fingers tug at his cheeks and chin, inspecting.

“you’re still soft,” she whispers, as if that confirms his identity.

lando grins, pressing a kiss to her temple. “told you.”

you watch them, warmth blooming in your chest as you lean on the doorway, eyes soft.

“she made me promise to let her stay up just to see you,” you say quietly, walking over and resting a hand on madeline’s back.

“i’m glad she did,” lando murmurs, looking at both of you with a kind of softness reserved just for this little corner of his world.

madeline yawns in his arms, head resting on his shoulder now. “you’ll grow it back, right?” she mumbles.

lando chuckles. “anything for you, sweet pea.”

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate.

#lando norris #formula one #lando norris imagines #lando norris fluff #lando norris x you #lando norris blurb #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #f1 imagines #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader

714 notes · View notes

reidmarieprentiss · 9 months ago

Text

Lost & Found

Summary: You suffer memory loss after an accident, only remembering your sister, Emily, and not your boyfriend, Spencer.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: car accident, depressive thoughts, fighting, crying, memory loss, struggling with memory loss, showering together, suggestive content (16+), use of Y/N

Word count: 19.6k

a/n: this reminds me of the vow lol my bad but i already wrote it sooo

main masterlist

The sun had just begun to rise over Washington, D.C., casting long shadows across the bustling streets. You were driving to work, your thoughts on the day ahead, when the unthinkable happened. Out of nowhere, a semi-truck barreled down the road, its brakes screaming in protest, unable to halt its deadly path. There was no time to react. The world slowed as the massive vehicle collided with the driver’s side of your car, the sound of metal crunching filling the air like a thunderclap.

—

Spencer Reid sat in a sterile conference room, surrounded by maps and case files in a small town in Missouri. He was miles away from home, yet his mind kept drifting back to you. It had been a little over two years since you and Spencer began dating, and in that time, he had come to rely on your comforting presence. Even though he was away, the two of you made it a point to call each other whenever possible, exchanging stories about your days and sharing a few jokes. Today, he hadn’t heard from you yet, and a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind.

The shrill ring of his phone jolted Spencer out of his thoughts. Hotch was in mid-sentence when Spencer abruptly stood up, excusing himself from the meeting as he glanced down at the caller ID and recognized your best friend’s name.

“Hey, Spencer! Sorry for calling so early, I just wanted to ask if you knew what Y/N would like for her birthday dinner!” they chirped, their voice a bit muffled from what sounded like some activity in the background. “She’s so picky, you know! Maybe we could make a surprise for her?”

“I...I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her yet today,” Spencer admitted, his voice nearly shaking. “But she loves Italian food, maybe pasta?”

“Oh, of course! I’ll start with that, then. Thanks, Spencer!” they replied before hanging up, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

The call left Spencer feeling hollow, a growing sense of dread gnawing at him. He sank back into his chair, his mind reeling. Moments later, his phone rang again, and he picked it up without even glancing at the screen. This time, the voice on the other end was urgent and frantic, and Spencer’s heart sank as he listened.

"Hello?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the room was still buzzing around him.

“Spencer Reid?” a calm, authoritative voice inquired on the other end.

“Yes, this is he,” Spencer replied, straightening up slightly as he recognized the tone of someone delivering important information.

“This is St. Agnes Hospital in Washington, D.C.," the voice continued. "I’m calling about Y/N L/N.”

Spencer's heart skipped a beat. The mention of your name brought everything else to a halt, and he felt a wave of apprehension wash over him.

“She has been in an accident,” the voice said, and Spencer could hear the weight behind those words. “You are listed as her emergency contact, how soon can you get here?”

He froze, unable to process the words as they echoed in his mind. “An accident?” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happened?"

“There was a collision with a semi-truck,” the hospital staffer explained, their voice professional yet tinged with compassion. “Y/N was seriously injured. She’s currently in surgery, but it’s critical.”

Spencer's mind raced, each word like a punch to his gut. “Is she—” he started, his voice breaking. “Is she going to be okay?”

“We’re doing everything we can, Dr. Reid,” the worker reassured him gently. “But you should get here as soon as you can.”

He nodded, though the person on the other end couldn't see him, trying to gather his thoughts through the haze of shock. The room around him felt surreal, the voices of his colleagues fading into the background.

“Thank you,” Spencer managed to say, his voice shaky with barely restrained panic. “I’m on my way from Missouri, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

As he ended the call, Spencer abruptly returned, shoes pounding against the floor. His teammates noticed the sudden change in his demeanor, their conversations pausing as they turned to him with concern.

“Spencer?” Emily asked, noticing the ashen look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Y/N,” Spencer said, his voice tight with urgency. “There’s been an accident. I need to get home.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his things, already planning his route to the nearest airport in his head. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency to be by your side, to hold your hand, to be there when you needed him most.

“We’ll cover things here,” Hotch assured him, stepping forward. “Go.”

“Thanks,” Spencer replied, his voice holding gratitude and desperation. He turned to leave, his thoughts solely focused on getting back to you, hoping with every fiber of his being that he wouldn’t be too late.

—

Spencer couldn’t remember the flight home. The moments blurred together as his mind replayed the words over and over: life support, coma, severe accident. They echoed in his head, refusing to let him think of anything else. His team had rallied around him, offering words of support and handling the details to get him back as quickly as possible.

As the plane touched down in Washington, Spencer felt the full weight of the situation crashing down on him. His legs trembled as he stood, a numbness spreading through his body as he made his way through the terminal.

The hospital was a short drive away, and yet it felt like an eternity. He barely registered the buildings and streets flashing by as he sat in the back seat of a cab, his heart pounding with each passing moment.

Finally, he arrived at the hospital, a large, imposing building that now seemed more like a fortress. Spencer rushed through the doors, barely acknowledging the bustling activity around him as he focused solely on reaching you. He navigated the maze of hallways with a determination that surprised even him, eventually finding his way to the ICU.

Your room was sterile and filled with the rhythmic beeping of machines, each sound a stark reminder of your fragile condition. Spencer stopped short at the sight of you lying in the hospital bed, tubes and wires snaking across your body. His heart wrenched at the sight, a profound ache settling in his chest as he slowly approached.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

He took a shaky breath, feeling the enormity of the situation press down on him. He felt helpless, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest with the assistance of the ventilator, knowing there was nothing he could do to change what had happened.

Spencer reached out, his hand trembling as he gently took yours. The warmth of your skin was a small comfort, a reminder that you were still there, still fighting.

“I’m here,” he said softly, his voice breaking as he spoke. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please, Y/N... please come back to me.”

The room was silent except for the steady hum of the machines, and Spencer felt a tear slide down his cheek. He brushed it away, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

—

The hours that followed were a blur. Spencer sat by your side, his hand never leaving yours as he kept a silent vigil. The nurses and doctors came and went, their words and actions a distant murmur as Spencer focused solely on you. He remembered snippets of conversations, assurances that you were receiving the best care possible, and updates on your condition that offered little comfort.

In those moments, Spencer clung to hope. He recalled all the times you had smiled at him, the way your eyes lit up when you were excited or passionate about something. He remembered the quiet moments you shared, the laughter and love that had blossomed between you over the past years.

—

Three Days Later

Spencer hadn’t left the hospital since he arrived. The team had been by his side, offering support and keeping him company, but he barely registered their presence. All that mattered was you, and the hope that you would wake up and return to him.

On the third day, the doctor came in with a more hopeful expression than before. He checked the monitors, made some notes, and then turned to Spencer with a small smile.

“There’s been some improvement,” he said gently. “It’s a good sign. We’re going to try reducing the sedation and see how she responds.”

Spencer felt a flicker of hope at the words, his heart clenching with a mix of anticipation and fear. He nodded, unable to trust his voice as he watched the doctor adjust the IV line. They assured him they would keep him informed as soon as your surgery was complete and directed him to the waiting area, where he could collect himself while waiting for more information.

Spencer made his way to the waiting room, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. Memories of you together flooded his mind: the quiet evenings spent curled up on the couch, the laughter shared over inside jokes, and the whispered promises of a future together. He sat down, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him, wondering what the next few hours would bring.

—

The hours stretched on interminably, each tick of the clock echoing loudly in Spencer's ears as he waited in the sterile waiting room. He couldn't bring himself to focus on anything other than the thought of you, lying in surgery, fighting for your life. The antiseptic smell of the hospital, the murmur of other patients and visitors, all faded into the background as he replayed every memory he had of you in his mind, trying to cling to the hope that you would pull through.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a doctor approached Spencer with a solemn expression. "Dr. Reid?" the doctor asked, and Spencer quickly stood, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Yes, that's me," Spencer replied, his voice fullof hope and anxiety.

"The surgery was successful," the doctor said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "We were able to stabilize her, and she's currently in the ICU under observation."

Spencer felt a rush of relief wash over him, though the gravity of the situation was still heavy on his shoulders. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his voice trembling with emotion. "Thank you so much."

The doctor nodded, understanding the depth of Spencer's gratitude. "She's not out of the woods yet," the doctor continued, "but she's made it through the worst part. However, I need to prepare you for the possibility that there may be complications. We won't know the full extent until she regains consciousness."

Spencer nodded, taking in the doctor's words with a mix of relief and apprehension. He felt his breath catch in his throat, knowing that there was still a long road ahead, but grateful for the chance to be by your side as you began to recover.

—

You pulled through, but it wasn't without its challenges. When you finally awoke, the room was filled with the soft beeping of monitors and the faint hum of medical equipment. Everything felt disorienting as you blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to make sense of where you were and what had happened.

Spencer was at your side, his eyes filled with relief and worry as he watched you stir. He reached out to take your hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance. "Y/N," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "You're awake."

You turned your head slightly, trying to focus on the man before you. He looked somewhat familiar, yet your mind struggled to place him. The last thing you remembered was being 18, living with your sister Emily, and yet here you were, in a hospital bed, with a stranger by your side.

"Who are you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

Spencer felt his heart drop at your words, a painful realization settling in. He had hoped that when you woke up, everything would be back to normal, that you would go back to the life you had built together. But the look of confusion and fear in your eyes told him everything he needed to know.

"I'm Spencer," he said gently, trying to keep his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I'm your boyfriend. We've been together for over two years. You live with me."

You shook your head slowly, trying to wrap your mind around his words. It felt like a dream, a reality you couldn't quite grasp. "No," you said, your voice breaking with frustration and fear. "I live with my sister, Emily. I don't know you."

Spencer felt a wave of sadness wash over him, but he forced himself to stay strong for you. He knew this was a possibility, that the trauma of the accident could have affected your memory, but hearing it from you was a different reality altogether. He took a deep breath, his heart aching with every word he prepared to say.

“Um, no. I—I don’t know how to tell you this, but, uh…” Spencer tried to speak through the tears coming on, his voice trembling. “You are 25 years old, Emily is 38, and you work as a liaison for the Sex Crimes Unit in the FBI. Emily and I work together in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We met through Emily, and now you live with me. You were in a severe car accident three days ago, and you may be suffering from amnesia.”

His words hung in the air like a cloud, heavy and dense, as you struggled to process what he was telling you. The hospital room felt colder, the sterile smell more pronounced, as your mind tried to catch up with the information being presented to you. Everything he said felt distant and unfamiliar, like a story someone else was telling, not your own life.

“Amnesia?” you repeated, the word foreign on your tongue. You could feel panic beginning to rise in your chest, the fear of the unknown pressing down on you. “How is this possible? I—I don’t remember any of this.”

Spencer’s heart broke at the fear in your eyes, and he longed to reach out and comfort you. But he knew that, to you, he was a stranger, someone who claimed to know you but didn’t feel real. He had to tread carefully, to give you space to process the situation at your own pace.

“It’s okay,” Spencer said softly, his eyes filled with compassion. “I know this is a lot to take in. You’ve been through so much, and I’m here for you. We can take this one step at a time. Whatever you need, I’m here to help.”

You looked at him, studying his face for any sign of deception or recognition, but all you saw was sincerity. It was both comforting and unsettling. Here was a man who seemed to care deeply for you, yet you couldn’t find a single memory to support his claims. It was like standing at the edge of a vast, unknown ocean, unsure whether to step forward or retreat.

“I just... I don’t understand how I got here,” you said, your voice small and uncertain, the edges of panic sharpening your words. Your eyes filled with tears as you grappled with the enormity of your situation. “Where’s Emily? I want to see Emily,” you added, the tears now spilling over, and you could feel your chest tighten with fear and helplessness.

Spencer felt a painful twist in his heart as he watched you cry, the sight of your distress cutting through him like a knife. He knew how much you relied on Emily before, but he had been your rock these past years. To not be able to comfort you in your time of need tore him apart. Despite the situation, he felt a glimmer of relief that you still remembered your sister, a familiar anchor in a sea of unfamiliar faces and places.

“She’s at home sleeping. I’ll give her a call,” Spencer assured you, reaching for his phone with a steady hand, though inside he felt anything but calm. He wanted to be the one to comfort you, to hold you and tell you that everything would be okay, but he understood that right now, Emily was the person you needed most.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. You wiped at your tears, feeling both grateful and overwhelmed by the kindness of this man who seemed so determined to help you, even though you couldn’t remember him.

Spencer stepped out into the hallway to make the call, wanting to give you a moment of privacy. The hospital corridor was quiet, save for the distant murmur of medical staff and the occasional beep of machinery. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before dialing Emily’s number.

“Spencer?” Emily’s voice was groggy but instantly alert as she answered the call, concern evident in her tone. “Is everything okay? How’s Y/N?”

Spencer swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “Emily, she’s awake,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “But she doesn’t remember anything from the past seven years. She thinks she’s still living with you.”

“Oh my God,” Emily breathed, the shock clear in her voice. “Is she okay? What did the doctors say?”

“They think it’s retrograde amnesia caused by the trauma of the accident,” Spencer explained, running a hand through his hair as he spoke. “She’s asking for you, Emily. She’s really scared.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Emily promised, already moving to get dressed. “Tell her I’m on my way, okay? And Spencer... thank you for being there with her. I know this must be incredibly hard for you.”

Spencer nodded, even though Emily couldn’t see him. “I’ll tell her. Drive safely.”

After ending the call, Spencer returned to your room, his heart heavy with the knowledge of how disorienting this must be for you. He found you sitting up slightly, your eyes still red from crying but showing a flicker of hope at the mention of your sister.

“Emily’s on her way,” Spencer said gently, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “She should be here soon.”

You nodded, the knowledge that Emily was coming bringing you a semblance of comfort. But still, questions swirled in your mind, the uncertainty of your situation looming large.

"Thank you, um, what was your name again?" you asked softly, your voice hesitant and tinged with the confusion that clouded your mind.

Spencer’s heart ached at the question, a painful reminder of the gap that now existed between you. But he managed a gentle smile, determined to be patient and understanding.

“Spencer,” he said quietly, meeting your gaze with a steady warmth. “My name is Spencer.”

You nodded slowly, trying to commit his name to memory, even though it felt like grasping at straws. There was something comforting about the way he looked at you, a sense of safety that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you repeated, hoping that saying his name would help anchor you in this unfamiliar reality. Despite the overwhelming uncertainty, you felt a small sense of reassurance knowing he was there, a steady presence in the storm of your fractured memories.

—

Emily arrived at the hospital within the hour, her eyes filled with concern and determination as she made her way to your room. When she saw you, relief flooded her features, and she rushed to your side, wrapping her arms around you in a warm, reassuring embrace.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Emily murmured, holding you tightly as she stroked your hair. “I’m here, Y/N. We’ll figure this out together.”

You clung to her, the familiar comfort of her presence grounding you in the midst of the chaos. For the first time since waking up, you felt a sense of safety, a reminder of the life you remembered.

Spencer watched the reunion, his heart aching with a mixture of emotions. He was grateful that Emily was there for you, knowing how much you needed her support right now. But there was also a longing, a deep-seated hope that one day, you would remember the life you had built with him, the love that had grown between you.

As you leaned into Emily's embrace, you whispered, “Can you stay with me, please?” Your voice was soft, almost childlike in its vulnerability, and Spencer’s heart clenched at the sound of it.

Emily smiled gently, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face as she nodded. “Of course, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” she said, guilt tinging her words. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“It’s okay,” you replied, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “Peter is really nice.”

The misstep in Spencer's name hit him like a physical blow, and yet he understood. You were trying your best to piece things together, to make sense of the world around you, and that meant trying to fit him into a picture that didn’t quite match the reality you remembered.

Emily glanced at Spencer, a flicker of understanding in her eyes as she gave him a supportive nod. She knew how hard this must be for him, watching you struggle to recall the love and life you shared.

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to return Emily’s nod with a small, grateful smile. He knew that rebuilding the bridge to your past wouldn’t be easy, but he was willing to do whatever it took to help you find your way back.

He remained quiet, a gentle presence in the background as Emily continued to comfort you, knowing that while he might not be the one you remembered now, he would do everything in his power to be the one you’d remember in the future.

—

Spencer eventually went home, the weight of the last few days pressing heavily on his shoulders. The hospital had become a second home in the wake of the accident, but now, as he drove through the familiar streets of Quantico, he felt the exhaustion finally catch up with him.

The apartment was quiet when he arrived, the silence amplifying the absence of your presence. He dropped his bag by the door and stood in the entryway for a moment, looking around the space that had been your shared sanctuary. Everything about it—the framed photos, the little touches that marked your shared life—felt like an echo of the past he was desperate to help you remember.

He made his way to the bathroom, shedding his clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water cascaded over him, washing away the grime and fatigue, but doing little to ease the turmoil inside. As the steam filled the room, Spencer closed his eyes, allowing the water to drown out the noise in his head for just a moment.

He thought about you, lying in that hospital bed, trying to piece together a life you couldn’t remember. The thought of your struggle weighed heavily on him, and he wished more than anything that he could simply take away the burden of your amnesia. But he knew that wasn’t possible, and it frustrated him deeply.

Stepping out of the shower, Spencer wrapped a towel around his waist and caught his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at him was etched with worry and sleepless nights. He knew he needed to rest, to recharge so he could be strong for you, but his mind was already racing with possibilities, with ways to help you find your way back to the life you had known.

Reluctantly, he made his way to the bedroom and sank into the mattress, pulling the covers over himself.

—

When Spencer awoke, the morning light was filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. He stretched, feeling the knots in his muscles protest at the movement, but he pushed through, determined to make the most of the day ahead.

His mind immediately returned to you and the questions that had haunted him since the accident. He needed answers, a plan, something tangible he could use to help you. Rising from the bed, he quickly dressed and made his way to the library, his thoughts already churning with possibilities.

The library was quiet, a haven of knowledge waiting to be tapped into. Spencer made his way through the aisles, pulling books from the shelves with practiced ease. He found volumes on neurology, psychology, and memory restoration, stacking them on the table as he prepared to dive deep into his research.

Sitting down, Spencer opened the first book, his fingers flipping through the pages with the kind of fervor only a man on a mission possessed. He absorbed every word, every study and theory on amnesia and retrograde amnesia, searching for anything that might provide a glimmer of hope.

He read about the mechanisms of memory, the ways trauma could affect the brain's ability to store and retrieve information. He learned about the potential for memory recovery, the techniques that could aid in jogging the mind back to the present, and the importance of emotional connections in bridging the gaps.

As the hours passed, Spencer lost himself in the sea of information, each new piece of knowledge building upon the last. He scribbled notes in the margins, cross-referencing studies and compiling a mental list of strategies he could employ to help you.

It was a daunting task, but Spencer felt a sense of purpose in the research, a way to channel his love for you into something tangible. He was determined to do everything he could to help you regain your memory, to guide you back to the life you had shared together.

For Spencer, this was more than just a quest for answers—it was a testament to the bond that had grown between you, a bond he was unwilling to let go of. He was ready to fight for your future, to be there for you in whatever capacity you needed, until the day your eyes lit up with recognition and the memories flooded back.

With renewed resolve, Spencer closed the book he was reading, his mind buzzing with ideas and possibilities. He gathered his notes, feeling a sense of determination settle over him. He would be there for you, no matter how long it took, until you found your way back to him.

—

Spencer called Emily, feeling a slight tremor in his fingers as he punched in her number. He knew how delicate your situation was, and he didn’t want to risk upsetting you with his presence if it would cause more harm than good. As the phone rang, he took a deep breath, hoping that Emily would have some insight into how you were doing and whether it would be okay for him to visit.

“Hello?” Emily’s voice came through the line, sounding calm but tinged with exhaustion.

“Emily, it’s Spencer,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nervousness fluttering in his chest. “I wanted to check in and see how Y/N is doing... and if it would be alright for me to come back to the hospital. I don’t want to overwhelm her, but I think I might have found some helpful information on memory restoration tactics.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and Spencer could hear the soft murmur of the hospital in the background, the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed conversations of medical staff. Emily sighed softly, and he could picture her leaning against the wall outside your room, her hand running through her hair as she considered his request.

“Spencer, she’s been asking about you,” Emily finally said, her voice gentle and reassuring. “I think she wants to start trying to piece things together a little, and having you here might actually help.”

The fragments of your past felt like pieces of a puzzle scattered across the table, and you were trying to fit them together. The memory of just having graduated college and moving in with Emily in Europe while she worked for Interpol was clear in your mind, yet the reality you were living in contradicted that memory in every way. You obviously went to college, got an important job, met someone, and fell in love. That would be nice to remember.

The thought of your life now—a life filled with achievements, meaningful relationships, and moments of joy—was enticing. You felt a sense of longing to reconnect with those parts of yourself, to remember the paths that led you to where you were today. The idea of having accomplished so much, of having people in your life who cared deeply for you, filled you with both curiosity and determination.

You sat in the hospital bed, the beeping of the monitors a constant reminder of the present, and tried to reconcile the gap between what you knew and what was real. There was a sense of urgency within you, a desire to reclaim the life that had slipped through your fingers due to the accident.

As you contemplated this, Spencer arrived, a reassuring presence amidst the confusion. He had a folder in hand, filled with information he’d painstakingly gathered to aid in your recovery. His expression was one of quiet resolve, a testament to his commitment to helping you find your way back.

“Hey, Y/N,” Spencer greeted softly, taking a seat beside your bed. His eyes were warm and encouraging, and you couldn’t help but feel comforted by his presence. “I know this is a lot to take in, but I’ve found some information that might help you remember.”

You nodded, eager to hear what he had discovered. The prospect of understanding more about your life, your achievements, and the connection you shared with Spencer filled you with hope.

Spencer opened the folder, revealing a collection of notes, articles, and studies on memory restoration and retrograde amnesia. “I’ve been looking into different techniques and therapies that could aid in restoring your memories,” he explained, his voice steady and full of purpose.

He began to outline the various strategies he had found, discussing everything from cognitive therapy and memory exercises to more experimental approaches. As he spoke, you listened intently, absorbing the possibilities and feeling a flicker of determination ignite within you.

“I believe that with the right approach and support, we can hopefully help you piece together your memories,” Spencer said, his gaze meeting yours with unwavering sincerity. “I’m here to support you in whatever way you need. We can do this together, one step at a time.”

His words resonated with you, and you found yourself nodding along, feeling a renewed sense of hope. The idea of reclaiming your memories, of rediscovering the life you had built, felt like a light at the end of a long tunnel.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice filled with gratitude. “I want to remember.”

—

The hospital released you into Emily’s care. While the medical staff had done everything they could, the journey to regaining your memory would continue outside the hospital walls.

The decision to stay with Emily instead of Spencer hurt him, but it felt like the right choice for now. As much as Spencer wanted to be there for you, he understood the need for you to be in an environment that felt familiar and safe. The last thing he wanted was to push you further away by overwhelming you with too much, too soon.

“It’s okay,” Spencer assured you as you prepared to leave the hospital. His voice was steady, but the flicker of pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “I understand. Emily will take good care of you, and I’m just a phone call away if you need anything.”

You nodded, appreciating his understanding. A part of you felt guilty for not choosing to stay with him, especially considering how kind and supportive he had been. But the gaps in your memory left you feeling adrift, and being with Emily was like holding onto a piece of your past that still made sense. Besides, he was still technically a stranger.

—

The drive to yours and Spencer’s apartment was quiet, Emily navigating the streets with the ease of someone who knew them well. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city pass by, anticipation and apprehension swirling within you. This was a chance to see the life you had built, to find clues that might help bridge the chasm between the past you remembered and the present you couldn’t grasp.

Arriving at the apartment building, you felt a sense of déjà vu, as if you had been here countless times before, but it was all shrouded in fog. Emily led you up to the front door, her presence reassuring and calm as she unlocked it and gestured for you to step inside.

The apartment was warm and inviting, filled with little touches that spoke of a life shared between two people. You took a tentative step inside, your eyes scanning the space as you tried to grasp any spark of recognition. The furniture, the décor, the scent of your favorite candle burning on the coffee table—everything felt just out of reach.

But it was the photographs that caught your attention, lining the walls and filling the shelves with captured moments of happiness and love. You walked over to a series of framed photos, your heart aching at the sight of the images. There you were, smiling and laughing with Spencer, your faces filled with joy.

There was a picture of the two of you on a hiking trip, arms around each other as you gazed at the camera, the sun setting behind you. Another of you dancing together at what appeared to be a wedding, Spencer’s hand on the small of your back, your face lit with laughter.

And then there was the one that brought tears to your eyes—an image of you and Spencer sharing a tender kiss, your arms wrapped around his neck, his hand gently holding your waist while the other stretched out to hold the camera. The love captured in that single moment was undeniable, and yet it was a memory you couldn’t access, a chapter of your life that felt painfully distant.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of what you had lost settled over you. You turned away from the photos, covering your face with your hands as sobs wracked your body. The sadness was overwhelming, a deep, unbearable grief for the beautiful life you couldn’t remember.

Emily was at your side in an instant, her arm wrapping around you as she whispered soothing words, trying to calm the storm of emotions that had taken hold.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking with the depth of your sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Spencer. I wish I could remember. I wish I could—”

Spencer’s expression was filled with compassion and understanding, though his heart ached at the sight of your distress. He longed to reach out and hold you, to reassure you that it was okay, that you would find your way back to him in time. But he knew that the memories were something you had to reclaim on your own.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Spencer said gently, his voice soft and comforting. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Despite his reassuring words, the pain of not being able to remember was too much to bear. You were inconsolable, and Emily could see that you needed space to process everything, away from the emotional overload of the apartment.

“Let’s go home, Y/N,” Emily suggested softly, guiding you toward the door with a gentle touch. “We can come back another time when you’re ready.”

You nodded, allowing her to lead you away, the tears still streaming down your face. Spencer watched as Emily escorted you out, his heart heavy with sadness.

—

The following Monday, the next step in your recovery journey was to visit your workplace, a place where you had spent countless hours building a career you could no longer remember. The decision to bring you back into the office was made with the hope that it might jog some of your lost memories, and while it felt daunting, you were determined to face it head-on.

Emily drove you to the FBI headquarters, the massive building both imposing and familiar as you approached. You had been nervous about this visit, unsure of how it would make you feel or what it might stir within you. Your unit chief had been extremely understanding about your situation, assuring you that you had all the time you needed to recover and that your job would be waiting for you if and when you were ready to return. The possibility of never coming back loomed large, but today was about exploring what felt right.

As you walked through the corridors, passing colleagues who greeted you with warm smiles and words of encouragement, you felt a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. The familiarity of the surroundings tugged at the edges of your mind, teasing you with whispers of recognition that were just out of reach.

When you finally reached your desk, something shifted within you. A small sense of familiarity washed over you, grounding you in a way that you hadn't expected. The space was uniquely yours, decorated with personal touches that reflected your personality and interests. The colorful keyboard and mouse pad, the photos adorning your workspace, all felt like pieces of yourself that you were slowly rediscovering.

Emily stood beside you, watching as you took it all in. Her presence was reassuring, a steady hand on your shoulder as you navigated the myriad of emotions swirling within you.

"This is your desk," Emily said gently, gesturing to the array of decorations and mementos that made it uniquely yours.

You ran your fingers over the keyboard, tracing the familiar keys, and then turned your attention to the photos. There were images of you and Emily from your first apartment together in D.C., snapshots of a time when life felt full of possibility and adventure. Your eyes lingered on the photos of you and Spencer, capturing moments of joy and love that you desperately wished to remember.

One photo, in particular, caught your eye. It was of you and another person, both of you with wide smiles, arms wrapped tightly around each other, faces pressed together in a display of friendship and affection. The bond between you was evident, even in a still image, and you felt a pang of longing to recall the memories associated with it.

“Who are all of these people?” you asked, your voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of sadness.

Emily leaned in, pointing to the photo of you and the person who seemed to be a close friend. “That is your best friend, Noah,” she explained. Her smile was warm, the fondness for your friendship evident in her tone. “You two have been inseparable for years. They’ve been by your side through thick and thin.”

You studied the photo, trying to summon any fragment of memory, but the connection eluded you. Still, it was comforting to know that you had someone like Noah in your life, a constant presence of support and friendship.

Emily then pointed to another photo, this one featuring a large group of people gathered in a spacious kitchen that looked to be part of a grand mansion. The scene was lively and filled with laughter, the closeness between everyone palpable even in a photograph.

“And that,” Emily said, gesturing to the group photo, “is my team. The Behavioral Analysis Unit, at David Rossi’s house for pasta and wine. It’s a tradition of ours to get together and unwind after a long week. You’ve become a part of that tradition too.”

The photo brought a sense of warmth and belonging that tugged at your heartstrings. Though you couldn’t remember the specifics of the event, the image conveyed a sense of community and acceptance, a reminder that you were surrounded by people who cared for you deeply.

You nodded, feeling a mix of emotions—gratefulness for the connections you had forged, sadness for the memories that remained out of reach, and determination to piece it all together. As overwhelming as it was, the visit to your workplace had sparked something within you, a desire to reclaim the life you had lost and reconnect with the people who meant so much to you.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Emily,” you said softly, turning to your sister with gratitude in your eyes.

Emily smiled, her hand squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. “You’re doing great, Y/N.”

—

After spending some time familiarizing yourself with your desk and the environment, you felt a little more grounded. Emily suggested taking a break, and the two of you made your way to the break room for some coffee. The small talk and casual atmosphere provided a sense of normalcy, and you found yourself relaxing into the environment, even if it still felt like you were seeing it all for the first time.

As you sipped your coffee, Emily shared stories about the team, painting vivid pictures of the friendships that had developed over the years. Her words were filled with warmth, and you could sense the deep bond that connected everyone in the unit.

“–and then you and Penelope performed as much of the Rent musical as you could while Spencer took you home from girls' night.”

You laughed, a joyous feeling after all the sadness and confusion you’d been wearing like a cloud. It felt good to feel lighthearted again, if only for a moment, and the image of yourself belting out show tunes with Penelope at the top of your lungs was both hilarious and comforting.

“Was he mad?” you asked, picturing the scene in your mind.

“Quite the opposite,” Emily said, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the memory. “He asked you out the next week at work.”

“That’s so sweet,” you said, a warm glow spreading through you at the thought of Spencer’s patience and kindness.

“He really loves you,” Emily added, her voice gentle and full of sincerity.

You looked down at your coffee cup, a mix of emotions swirling within you. “I just can’t believe I’m loved so much by someone I don’t remember,” you said softly, your words carrying the weight of your current reality.

Spencer hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but as he was walking to the break room, your voice reached his ears, and he froze just outside the door. The sound of your laughter was like music to him, a familiar melody he had sorely missed since the accident. It felt normal to hear you in the building, like it had been before, a sense of déjà vu that was both comforting and bittersweet.

But hearing that last snippet of conversation—that you couldn’t believe you were loved by someone you didn’t remember—was like a punch to the gut. It was a reminder of how much had been lost, how fragile the threads of your connection had become in the wake of your amnesia.

Spencer’s heart clenched with longing and sadness. He wanted to be there with you, to share in the laughter and help rebuild the life you had once shared. Yet, he also knew that the path to healing was not a straight line and that you needed time to find your footing.

With a heavy heart, Spencer decided against going into the break room. He felt it would be too much to face you right then, knowing that he was part of the gap in your memory. He turned on his heel, heading back to his desk with a resolve to give you the space you needed while still being there for you in whatever way he could.

Back in his office, Spencer tried to focus on his work, but his mind kept drifting back to you and the conversation he had overheard. He wished he could do more, be more, to help you remember. The thought of the love you had shared, a love you now couldn’t recall, weighed heavily on him.

—

Over the next few weeks, life became a series of ups and downs, filled with moments of both clarity and confusion. Living with Emily had its comforting moments—her presence a soothing balm to the chaos in your mind. You cherished the time you spent with her, grateful for the bond that had been rekindled. You missed Emily deeply during high school, and living with her felt like a second chance to reconnect and make up for lost time.

But the reason for your reunion weighed heavily on you. You were so happy to be living with Emily again, until you remembered why. Some nights, the memories—or lack thereof—were overwhelming, and you’d find yourself crying silently into your pillow, grieving for the life you learned about but couldn’t recall. You mourned for the person you once were, the experiences you’d lost, and the love you had built with Spencer, a man who was now a stranger in your life.

In those darker moments, a part of you wondered if a second accident could somehow reverse the damage, though you knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. The thought was fleeting, a desperate whisper in your mind, quickly silenced by the knowledge that the path to healing lay elsewhere.

You wanted to love Spencer, you really did. Everything you’d learned about him painted a picture of a man who was kind, intelligent, and deeply devoted to you. But every time you looked at him, all you felt was a sense of apathy and resentment. It was an unfair burden, one you didn’t want to carry but couldn’t seem to shake. He knew you, but you didn’t know him. He had gotten to know the you that you couldn’t remember, had built a life with a version of yourself that no longer existed.

Safe to say, you hadn’t spoken to anyone but Emily since that day at Spencer’s apartment. Despite Emily’s best efforts to coax you out of your shell, to encourage you to re-engage with the world, you found solace only in her presence. She would suggest small outings, opportunities to reintroduce you to the life you’d lived—a coffee date with Penelope, a lunch with Noah, a casual dinner with the BAU team—but you declined each invitation with a sense of dread.

—

Emily understood your reluctance, though she worried about the isolation you were imposing on yourself. She was patient, never pushing too hard, but she tried her best to gently encourage you to take those first steps toward reconnecting with your life.

"Y/N," she said one afternoon as you both sat in the living room, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "I know it’s hard, but you have so many people who care about you. They’re all here, ready to support you whenever you’re ready."

You nodded, your eyes fixed on the floor. “I know,” you replied softly, your voice tinged with frustration and sadness. “I just... I don’t know how to face them, Emily. It’s like they’re expecting me to be someone I’m not.”

Emily reached over, taking your hand in hers, her grip reassuring. “They’re not expecting anything,” she said gently. “They just want to be there for you, to help you find your way back. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be with you.”

Despite her words, the idea of facing Spencer or any of your friends felt daunting. It wasn’t just about remembering; it was about rebuilding a sense of self that had been shattered by the accident. You felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, unsure of how to fit back into the picture of your own life.

—

One night, as you lay in bed, the weight of it all pressed heavily on your chest. You stared at the ceiling, the darkness a mirror to the emptiness you felt inside. The person you were before the accident seemed like a ghost, haunting the edges of your consciousness, taunting you with glimpses of a life you couldn’t quite grasp.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you grieved for the life you’d lost, for the love that was now a distant memory. It felt like an insurmountable chasm between the past and present, a gap you couldn’t bridge no matter how hard you tried.

You curled up under the covers, wishing for relief from the emotional storm, longing for a sense of belonging that remained elusive. But as much as you yearned for the past, you knew the journey to healing had to start from where you were now—from this moment, with its uncertainties and challenges.

Emily found you the next morning, the traces of tears still visible on your face. She didn’t say anything, simply pulled you into a hug, offering her silent support. You leaned into her embrace, grateful for the unconditional love and understanding she provided.

“I’m here, Y/N,” Emily murmured, her voice steady and reassuring. “Whenever you’re ready to take that next step, I’m here.”

—

On a random Tuesday morning, you regained a glimpse of yourself. It was an ordinary day, the sun barely peeking over the horizon as you padded into the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. Emily was already there, pouring herself a cup and offering you a warm smile as you entered.

"Good morning," she said, her voice carrying the comforting tone you had come to rely on over the past few weeks.

“Did I bring any files home?” you asked, the question slipping out naturally as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I want to review the Cooper case.”

Emily whipped around so fast she thought she might get whiplash, her eyes wide with shock and a glimmer of hope. “What did you just say?” she asked, her voice almost trembling with anticipation.

“The Cooper case?” you repeated, frowning slightly as you tried to grasp the memory that felt just within reach. “Oh, I wanted to review the evidence for the upcoming trial. I want to make sure that son of a bitch gets locked away.”

Emily’s face lit up with astonishment and disbelief, a slow grin spreading across her features. “Y/N… how do you remember that?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe.

“What?” you blinked, the realization dawning on you like a gentle wave, the fog lifting ever so slightly. “Oh…” you murmured, the pieces clicking into place.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I remember!” you exclaimed, your heart pounding with excitement and relief.

“Do you remember anything else?” Emily asked eagerly, stepping closer as if to catch every word.

“My, um, my unit chief… her name is, uh, Sarah Freeman!” you said, a smile breaking across your face as more fragments of memory bubbled to the surface. It was like pulling on a thread and watching a tapestry unfold before your eyes.

“That’s amazing! You’re amazing!” Emily cheered, her eyes shining with pride and joy. She grabbed your hands, squeezing them tightly as if to anchor this precious moment in reality. “I’m going to call your doctor! Keep thinking!”

You nodded, your mind racing with possibilities. There was a thrill in the air, a sense of rediscovery that felt like sunlight streaming into a darkened room.

—

As the days and weeks passed, your world gradually came into sharper focus. You began to remember more and more, and your doctors believed that your brain was finally healing from the trauma of the accident, allowing you to access information that had been temporarily locked away. It was as if the fog that had settled over your mind was beginning to lift, and the memories of your life were emerging from the shadows.

With each passing day, you started seeing people more. The familiarity of their faces and the warmth of their presence became less overwhelming and more comforting. You remembered small bits of Noah, moving in with Emily, a few girls’ nights, and coffee dates with Penelope. Each memory was like a small gift, a piece of the puzzle that was slowly coming together.

Whenever you shared a memory with someone, it was met with tears of joy and hugs of relief. They were all so patient and understanding, celebrating every little moment of rediscovery with you. It was a testament to the love and support that surrounded you, a constant reminder that you were not alone on this journey.

—

With your birthday approaching, the excitement in the air was palpable. Everyone was thrilled that they would at least get to celebrate with you, even if the memories of past birthdays were still hazy. The anticipation of the party, the chance to be surrounded by the people who meant so much to you, filled you with a sense of hope and gratitude.

The only person you couldn’t seem to remember, however, was Spencer. Despite the progress you were making with others, there was an inexplicable block when it came to him. It was as if the memories you shared were trapped behind a door that refused to open, no matter how hard you tried.

Spencer felt the weight of this exclusion acutely. While everyone else reveled in your regained memories, he remained on the outside, watching as you reconnected with the life you’d once shared. At first, he tried to be patient, understanding that recovery was a complex and unpredictable process. But as time went on and the memories continued to elude you, Spencer began to feel a growing frustration, a simmering resentment that he struggled to contain.

—

The night of your birthday party arrived, and Emily had invited everyone important to you: the BAU team, Noah, your unit chief, and colleagues. The apartment was filled with laughter and music, the air buzzing with the joy of celebration. You moved through the crowd, receiving hugs and well-wishes, feeling more like yourself than you had in months.

The party was a joyful affair, filled with the warmth of friends and loved ones, each of them eager to share in the celebration of your continued recovery. You spent time with everyone, enjoying the opportunity to catch up and reconnect.

You found yourself talking to Derek Morgan, recounting a small memory that had surfaced earlier in the day—a humorous moment from a case your units had worked on together. Derek’s laughter echoed through the room, a rich, joyful sound that drew the attention of others nearby.

Spencer overheard your conversation with Derek and felt the frustration within him build past his boiling point. It was like a dam breaking, all the emotions he had tried to keep in check spilling over into an overwhelming wave. The exclusion, the constant reminder that you remembered everyone but him, finally pushed him to the edge.

Unable to contain his feelings any longer, Spencer stormed past you, his shoulder bumping into yours as he made his way toward the front door. The suddenness of his actions caught you off guard, the usually sweet and gentle Spencer now a storm of emotions.

“Spencer?” you called after him, confused by the abruptness of his departure. You quickly excused yourself from Derek and followed Spencer, determined to understand what had upset him.

You found Spencer in the hallway of the building, his back turned to you as he tried to compose himself. But when he turned around, you saw the angry tears in his eyes, the hurt etched across his features. It was a side of Spencer you hadn’t seen before, and it unsettled you.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” you asked, your voice gentle but firm, wanting to understand the source of his pain.

He took a deep breath, his emotions churning within him. The question felt like a catalyst, igniting the frustration and hurt he had been holding onto for so long. And then, finally, he exploded, the words tumbling out in a torrent of anger and anguish.

“Why, Y/N?” Spencer’s voice was raw, filled with desperation and resentment. “Why do you remember everyone but me? Do you secretly remember me but don’t know how to break it off, so you keep pretending you don’t know me?”

His accusation hung in the air, sharp and cutting. It was a blow that took your breath away, the depth of his pain evident in every word. Spencer’s eyes bore into yours, searching for answers, for some explanation that could make sense of the exclusion he felt so deeply.

“I’m not pretending, Spencer,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, the shock of his words settling over you like a heavy fog. “I wish I could remember. I want to remember you more than anything.”

Spencer’s expression shifted, hurt and frustration warring within him. He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. “It just feels like... like I’m the only one left out,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I watch you remember all these moments, all these people, and I keep hoping that one day you’ll look at me and just... know.”

His words hung in the air, each syllable a reminder of the distance that had grown between you—a distance neither of you wanted, but couldn’t seem to bridge. It was like standing on opposite sides of a vast chasm, reaching for one another but never quite able to touch.

“You think this is easy for me?” you shot back, your voice rising with each word. “Do you think I wanted to get hit by a semi and lose my memories? No! I want it all back, I want my life back.” You took a step closer, the intensity of your emotions propelling you forward. “Do you know how much it kills me that you know a version of me that I don’t? You want her back, and so do I, but Jesus Christ, Spencer! I’m not her, I can’t just be her, I’m fucking trying, okay?”

The hallway seemed to close in around you as you stood there, the weight of your words hanging heavy between you. Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise at the raw honesty in your voice, the depth of your struggle laid bare before him.

“I know you’re trying,” Spencer said, his voice softening even as his frustration simmered beneath the surface. “But it’s so hard to watch you remember everyone else and not me. It feels like I’m losing you all over again, every single day.”

"I’m losing myself too!” you replied, your voice breaking with emotion. “Every time I remember something, it’s like I’m meeting a stranger who’s supposed to be me. It’s terrifying, and I don’t know how to make it better. And it doesn’t help when I’m constantly reminded that you’re disappointed in me too.”

Spencer ran a hand over his face, his own anger and hurt warring with the compassion he still felt for you. He wanted to say the right thing, but his emotions were tangled, pulling him in different directions. The frustration that had built up over the weeks finally met the compassion he still felt for you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the fight leaving his voice as he took a step back, trying to regain control. His eyes softened as he looked at you, the anger giving way to vulnerability. “I know it’s not fair to put this on you. God, I’m not disappointed in you, I’m just... I’m scared, Y/N. I’m scared that I’ll never get you back.”

The vulnerability in his words pierced through your own defenses, the rawness of his confession echoing the fears that had plagued you both. It was as if the anger that had fueled the argument had stripped away the layers, leaving only the truth of your shared fears and insecurities.

You sighed, your own anger giving way to a wave of exhaustion and sadness. The argument had drained you both, leaving behind a hollow ache that you couldn’t ignore. “I’m scared too,” you admitted, your voice trembling as you spoke. “I’m scared that I’ll never be able to remember the love we had, that I’ll never be able to be the person you fell in love with.”

Spencer's eyes met yours, and you could see the struggle within him—the longing to reach out and bridge the gap between you, the desire to hold onto the love that had once been so strong and certain. “You’re still the person I fell in love with,” he said softly, his voice tinged with desperation. “I know it’s hard to see right now, but you are. And I don’t want to lose you, even if it means starting over.”

His words hung in the air, a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had opened between you. You took a deep breath, the weight of his words.

“Can I ask you something?” Spencer spoke up, his voice laced with vulnerability. His eyes held yours, searching for an answer he seemed afraid to hear but needed to know nonetheless.

“Of course,” you replied, curious about what was weighing so heavily on him. You wanted to reassure him, to offer some comfort amid the storm of emotions that had engulfed you both.

“Do you find me attractive?” Spencer’s question was simple, yet it held a complexity of emotions—self-doubt, insecurity, a desire for reassurance.

“Spencer… what?” you asked, taken aback by the suddenness of his inquiry. You hadn’t expected that question, and yet, as you looked at him, you realized how important your answer would be.

He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to yours, the raw honesty in his expression clear as day. “Do you think that I am attractive? Even now, that you don’t remember me?”

You considered his question carefully. Spencer was undeniably an attractive person—his features were striking, with a gentle kindness in his eyes and a quiet strength in his posture. There was an undeniable allure to him, a magnetic pull that you felt even in your current state of confusion.

You imagined seeing him in a bar or a crowded room, where his presence would stand out, where you would undoubtedly look twice. His intelligence, the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, and the kindness in his eyes were all qualities that would draw you in.

“Yes,” you replied honestly, your voice steady and sincere. “Yes, Spencer, I find you attractive.”

Spencer let out a small breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he absorbed your answer. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes, a subtle shift that spoke volumes about how much your opinion mattered to him.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice a blend of gratitude and something deeper, something that felt like hope.

You took a step closer, wanting to close the distance between you. “Spencer, it’s not just about looks,” you added, wanting to make him understand. “I may not remember everything, but I can see the person you are. The way you care, the way you’ve been so patient with me… that’s what makes you truly attractive.”

His lips curved into a tentative smile, the tension in his features easing as your words reached him. It was a smile that held the promise of new beginnings, a shared understanding that even in the absence of memory, there was a foundation upon which you could rebuild.

Spencer nodded, a small chuckle escaping him as he rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture you found endearing. “I guess I just needed to hear it,” he admitted, his vulnerability laid bare in that moment.

You nodded, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “We’ll figure it out,” you said, your voice filled with determination.

Spencer's fingers intertwined with yours, his touch gentle yet reassuring. The simple act of holding hands felt like a small victory, a step toward rebuilding the connection that had been so abruptly severed.

“You couldn’t possibly remember this,” Spencer said with a wry smile, “but I don’t usually touch people’s hands. It’s actually safer to kiss; fewer germs are spread that way.”

You let out a laugh, the tension between you dissolving into a moment of lightness. It was the first genuine laugh you'd shared since the accident, and it felt like a breath of fresh air.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” you replied, raising an eyebrow with a teasing grin. “But if that’s a line, it’s not working.”

Spencer chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s not a line, I promise,” he said, a hint of mischief in his tone. “Just one of those strange facts about me you’ll probably hear more about as you get to know me again.”

“Good to know,” you said, your smile softening into something more sincere. “But for now, hand-holding is just fine.”

—

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and joy, a celebration not just of your birthday but of the progress you had made and the hope that lay ahead. Surrounded by friends and loved ones, you felt a sense of belonging, a reminder that even in the midst of adversity, there was a community that held you close.

As the night drew to a close, you and Spencer stood together on the balcony, the city lights twinkling in the distance like stars. It was a moment of quiet reflection, a chance to breathe and appreciate the small victories that had brought you to this point.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” Spencer said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that resonated deep within you.

You turned to him, your heart full of gratitude and the promise of what was to come. “Thank you, Spencer,” you replied, your words laced with sincerity.

—

“Y/N! Spencer is here for you!” Emily called out from the living room, her voice carrying through the apartment with an excited lilt that made you smile.

You were in your bedroom, putting the finishing touches on your outfit, excitement and nervousness fluttering in your stomach. Today marked your fifth date with Spencer, a milestone that felt both exhilarating and significant as the two of you continued to rebuild your relationship from the ground up.

The past few weeks had been a journey of rediscovery. You and Spencer had taken it slow, giving each other the space and time needed to navigate the complexities of your situation. Each date had been a new beginning, a chance to learn about each other all over again, and it had been going well—better than you had dared to hope.

You’d spent hours talking about everything and nothing, sharing stories and memories that both filled in the gaps and created new ones. There were still moments of hesitation and uncertainty, but they were gradually being replaced by laughter and warmth, a growing sense of familiarity that felt like home.

Taking one last look in the mirror, you adjusted your necklace and took a deep breath, feeling a thrill of anticipation for the evening ahead. You made your way to the living room, where Emily was chatting with Spencer, her eyes lighting up with the kind of mischief only a big sister could muster.

“Hey, Spencer,” you greeted him with a smile, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that had become a welcome sensation. “Ready to go?”

Spencer turned toward you, his face breaking into a warm smile that made your heart skip a beat. He looked dapper in a casual blazer and slacks, an outfit that struck the perfect balance between relaxed and stylish.

“Wow, you look amazing,” he said, his eyes filled with admiration as he took in your appearance. "If I had known you were going to look this stunning, I would have worn my best suit."

You laughed, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. "Oh, please, you look great," you replied, meeting his gaze with a teasing grin. “Besides, I think we match perfectly. You know, two fashion icons taking on the city."

Emily watched the exchange with a satisfied smile, clearly pleased to see the chemistry between you and Spencer reigniting. She gave you a playful nudge, her eyes sparkling with encouragement. “Have fun, you two,” she said, ushering you toward the door. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes at Emily’s antics, before turning back to Spencer. “Shall we?” you asked, extending your hand toward him.

Spencer took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that sent a reassuring pulse of connection between you. “We shall,” he replied with a grin, leading you out the door and into the evening that awaited.

—

The drive was filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed naturally and effortlessly between you. You chatted about everything from work to your favorite TV shows, reveling in the comfort of each other’s company.

“So, where are we going tonight?” you asked, curious about the plans Spencer had made for your date.

“It’s a surprise,” he said cryptically, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “But I think you’re going to love it.”

“Really?” you said, raising an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “Are you sure it’s not just another one of your ploys to impress me?”

Spencer chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Would it be working if it was?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” you teased, giving him a flirtatious glance as the car continued through the city.

Eventually, you arrived at a charming little restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It was the kind of place that exuded warmth and intimacy, the cozy ambiance inviting you in as soon as you stepped through the door.

“Wow, this place is lovely,” you said, taking in the dim lighting, the soft music playing in the background, and the delicious aroma of Italian cuisine wafting through the air.

Spencer smiled, clearly pleased with your reaction. “I thought it might be a nice spot for us to relax and enjoy some good food,” he said, leading you to a table by the window that offered a view of the city lights twinkling in the distance.

“So, any more memories come back recently?” Spencer asked gently, his tone curious yet considerate, as if he knew the subject was still delicate.

You nodded, feeling a flicker of excitement as you recounted some of the fragments that had returned. “I remembered a trip I took with Emily last year to the beach. We ended up getting caught in a rainstorm and had to take cover in this little café, where we spent the afternoon playing board games. It was such a fun day.”

Spencer listened intently, a smile tugging at his lips as you spoke. “That sounds amazing,” he said, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. “You know, we had a similar rainy day adventure once. It involved an umbrella, a very wet cat, and an impromptu rendition of Singin’ in the Rain in a park.”

“Did we now?” you replied, a playful twinkle in your eyes. “Are you sure you weren’t just trying to get me to fall for your charming rendition of a classic?”

“Guilty as charged,” Spencer admitted with a laugh, his gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart flutter.

“Tell me, though, did we kiss in the rain?” you asked, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

Spencer blushed, a charming pink spreading across his cheeks. “We might have…”

“How scandalous!” you replied, feigning shock, but the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

“You were the one who initiated it!” Spencer shot back, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Oh yeah, am I just supposed to believe you?” you teased, leaning back in your chair with a smirk. “You could be making it all up just to impress me.”

“Well,” Spencer said, a hint of mischief in his voice, “it is supposed to rain later. We could test out the theory.”

“Spencer Reid, you dog!” you exclaimed, laughing at the thought of dancing in the rain with him.

You shared a laugh, the sound mingling with the gentle hum of the restaurant around you. It felt like the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of happiness.

—

After dinner, you and Spencer strolled through a scenic path in the park, hand in hand. The night was pleasantly cool, and the stars dotted the sky like scattered jewels. The conversation between you flowed effortlessly, a blend of teasing and genuine connection that made the evening feel special.

“I thought it was supposed to rain?” you mused aloud, glancing up at the sky.

“Are you disappointed it’s not?” Spencer asked, a playful edge in his voice as he followed your gaze.

“Are you going to kiss me anyway?” you replied with a teasing smile, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

Spencer froze up for a moment, caught off guard by the boldness of your question. A myriad of thoughts raced through his mind, each one tangling with the next.

He had been nervous to make any moves on you ever since you’d started dating again. What if you didn’t like how he kissed anymore? Or his scent, or taste? What if you two didn't have rhythm anymore? The fear of these possibilities had kept him in check, cautious and tentative.

“What’s going on in that big brain?” you asked, your voice gentle and full of curiosity. You squeezed his hand, bringing him back to the present. Your touch was reassuring, a reminder that the connection between you was as strong as ever.

Spencer shook his head slightly, chuckling at himself. “Just... overthinking, as usual,” he admitted, meeting your eyes with a sheepish grin. “I’ve just been worried that maybe things aren’t the same between us.”

You tilted your head, regarding him with a soft smile. “Spencer, nothing about you could ever disappoint me. We might be rebuilding things, but I think that’s what makes it exciting. We get to discover everything all over again.”

He nodded, his apprehension slowly melting away as your words resonated with him. The sincerity in your voice was like a balm, soothing the insecurities that had plagued him.

“And besides,” you added with a playful twinkle in your eye, “I think we both know we’ve still got that spark.”

Spencer laughed, his tension finally breaking as he took a step closer. The warmth of your presence enveloped him, and he realized how much he had missed these moments with you—the teasing, the laughter, and the unspoken bond that seemed to transcend the gap of memory.

“You’re right,” Spencer said, his voice softening as he gazed into your eyes. “I’d be more than happy to kiss you, rain or no rain.”

You smiled up at him, your heart fluttering with anticipation. As he leaned in, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you beneath the starlit sky.

When Spencer’s lips met yours, it was like coming home. The kiss was gentle at first, a tentative exploration of the familiar territory that quickly blossomed into something deeper. His lips were soft and warm, and the familiar scent of his skin surrounded you like a comforting embrace.

All the previous worries melted away as you found your rhythm together, the familiarity and connection more than you could have hoped for. Spencer’s kiss was tender but charged with an intensity that made your heart race, a reminder of the passion and warmth that had always been at the core of your relationship.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles beneath your fingertips. Spencer responded in kind, his hands finding their place on your face, drawing you into him as if he was afraid to let go.

The kiss deepened, and it was as if time had stopped, the world around you fading away until only the two of you remained. Lips slotted together perfectly, tongues gliding in a slow, sensual dance that sent shivers down your spine.

You felt Spencer’s teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip, a playful gesture that made you gasp softly against his mouth. The small sound seemed to spur him on, and you could feel the gentle pressure of his hands pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you.

In that moment, everything felt right—the way his lips moved against yours, the warmth of his touch, and the gentle thrum of your heartbeat syncing with his. It was a moment of pure connection, a dance of lips and breath and emotion that left you both feeling dizzy and alive.

You could feel the tension and uncertainty of the past few weeks melting away, replaced by a deep sense of belonging and peace. As you finally pulled back, you looked into Spencer’s eyes, seeing your own emotions reflected back at you—the warmth, the longing, the hope that you both shared.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless but smiling, the shared moment leaving a lingering warmth that seemed to wrap around you both.

“Wow,” you murmured, gazing up at Spencer with a soft, genuine smile. “That was... perfect.”

Spencer chuckled, relief and joy evident in his eyes. “I’d say it was pretty amazing,” he agreed, still holding you close.

You both lingered there for a while, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment, the cool breeze whispering through the trees, the world feeling just a little bit brighter.

—

As you continued your stroll through the park, the clouds did open up, and the rain did come, soaking both you and Spencer. The unexpected shower was a sudden thrill, droplets of water cascading down your hair and cheeks, drenching your clothes in moments. The rain brought a fresh, invigorating scent to the air, wrapping around you like a cool embrace as you and Spencer burst into laughter.

“You said you wanted rain,” Spencer quipped, looking at you with a playful glint in his eye, water droplets clinging to his hair and eyelashes.

“I did, didn’t I?” you giggled, brushing a lock of wet hair out of your face. You both sprinted toward his car, shoes splashing through puddles, the sound of your laughter mingling with the rhythm of the rain.

You reached the car, breathless and exhilarated, climbing inside and closing the door behind you. The heated air enveloped you both in a welcome warmth, and you shivered slightly, feeling the chill of your soaked clothes.

Spencer turned on the car’s heater, and soon the air filled with warmth, contrasting the rain still pelting the car roof outside. You shared a look of amusement, the shared adventure bringing a delightful sense of connection.

“I don’t want to go home, but I’m uncomfortable,” you admitted, glancing down at your soaked clothes with a bemused smile.

“We could… go back to our—my apartment and change. Maybe watch a movie?” Spencer suggested, his voice soft and inviting, a hint of hesitation in his words as if worried you might say no.

You met his eyes, the warmth in them offering reassurance. “I’d love that,” you replied, your heart fluttering with the anticipation of spending more time with him.

—

Spencer drove you both back to the apartment, the windshield wipers swishing rhythmically as the rain continued its steady drumming against the car. It was your first time returning to the apartment since the night you’d cried there, overwhelmed by the weight of memories you couldn’t quite grasp. But now, the thought of revisiting felt different, less daunting and more like a step forward.

As you entered the apartment, you paused to take it all in again—the familiar scent, the little touches that made the space feel like home. Spencer watched you with a gentle smile, allowing you to explore at your own pace, offering silent support as you reacquainted yourself with the surroundings.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Spencer asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “All of your stuff is still in there.”

“Um, sure. Thank you,” you replied, grateful for the chance to shake off the chill of the rain.

You made your way to the bathroom, feeling a sense of nostalgia as you stepped inside and closed the door behind you. The shower was just as you remembered it, a familiar haven of warmth and comfort.

The water was soothing as it cascaded over you, washing away the rain and the lingering remnants of the day’s adventure. You felt a sense of relaxation settling in, a quiet moment of peace as you let the warmth envelop you.

But then, as you turned too quickly, your foot slipped, and you fell onto your tailbone with a startled yelp.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, wincing at the sudden jolt of pain.

“Y/N?? Are you okay?” Spencer’s voice called out from the other side of the door, filled with concern.

“Yeah! I just fell,” you called back, trying to keep your tone light despite the embarrassment.

“I’m coming in,” Spencer announced, the worry evident in his voice.

“Wait, Spencer, no—” you began, but he was already in the bathroom, eyes wide as he took in the scene.

He saw your naked form on the ground of the tub through the clear glass, his expression filled with worry and, perhaps, just a touch of awkwardness.

“Spencer!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment and amusement.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” he asked, his concern overriding any sense of propriety.

“I’m fine, I’m naked!” you replied, laughing at the absurdity of the situation even as you tried to cover yourself.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Spencer said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I forget. I’ve seen you naked many times.”

“That is so weird,” you teased, rolling your eyes playfully.

Spencer laughed lightly, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “I don’t think so,” he said, his voice softening into something more tender.

“Can I see you then? Even it out?” you asked, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

“What?” Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, his cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink.

“I’ve seen you naked before, right?” you continued, your playful tone belying the genuine affection in your gaze.

“Well, yes, but it’s different,” Spencer stammered, trying to maintain his composure.

“So it’s okay for you to see me, but not for me to see you?” you challenged, a teasing lilt in your voice. “Come get in the shower and help me up.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then his expression softened into a smile, affection and delight playing across his features. “Alright,” he said, his voice filled with laughter. “Just this once.”

He quickly shed his clothes and joined you in the shower, his presence a comforting warmth amid the steam and water. With a gentle touch, he helped you up, his hands steady and reassuring as he held you close.

“Thank you,” you said softly, meeting his eyes with a smile.

Spencer’s gaze was warm and tender, his hands lingering on your waist as he smiled back at you. “Anytime,” he replied, his voice a gentle promise.

Your eyes couldn’t help themselves as they wandered downward, taking in the sight of him. The realization that you were both standing there, unashamedly bare, brought a new kind of awareness that was both amusing and endearing.

“Y/N!” Spencer laughed. “Eyes up here.”

“I'm sorry,” you said with a playful smirk, your eyes darting back up to meet his. “It’s human nature, after all.”

“I know,” Spencer replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. “But at least pretend to be subtle.”

“You’re quite large,” you teased, unable to resist the opportunity to keep the mood light. “Are you a grower still? Or always a shower?”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deep red, his hands instinctively moving to cover himself as he groaned, “Oh my godddd.”

“Answer the question, and I’ll shut up,” you promised, a sweet smile playing on your lips as you looked at him with mock innocence.

With a sigh of resignation, Spencer removed his hands, his expression a mix of bashfulness and humor. “Still a grower,” he admitted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“Lucky me!” you exclaimed, your tone full of playful triumph.

Spencer shook his head, his laughter infectious as he declared, “Not anymore, this was great. Goodbye!” He made a half-hearted attempt to step out of the shower, clearly feigning an exaggerated exit.

“Not so fast!” you interjected, grabbing his arm and pulling him back gently, your own laughter bubbling up as you did so.

His eyes met yours again, and the playful banter settled into something softer, a mutual understanding that transcended words. The silliness of the moment gave way to a quiet intimacy, the kind that came from truly seeing one another and finding joy in simply being together.

As the water continued to rain down, you and Spencer stood there, wrapped in each other’s presence, feeling a sense of comfort and safety that went beyond the physical.

You both eventually turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, towels wrapped snugly around you. The steam-filled bathroom felt like a private world where the rest of the day’s worries faded away.

—

Once dried and dressed in cozy clothes, you settled into the living room, the aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting through the air as you curled up on the couch together. The rain had stopped outside, leaving a soft patter of droplets against the windows, the perfect backdrop for a cozy movie night.

Spencer draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “So, what’s our viewing pleasure tonight?” he asked, his voice filled with a relaxed contentment.

“I was thinking something classic,” you suggested, snuggling into his side. “Maybe a bit of Casablanca?”

“Casablanca, it is,” Spencer agreed, reaching for the remote with a smile.

As the movie played, you found yourself not only immersed in the storyline but also in the warmth of Spencer’s presence beside you. The shared laughter, the gentle teasing, the comfortable silence—it all felt like home.

—

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, you find yourself nestled in the bed, no longer on the couch. The room is softly lit with the early morning sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over everything. Spencer is still sound asleep next to you, his arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace. His breathing is steady and calm, and you watch him for a moment, feeling a rush of affection for this man who has been so patient and kind through everything.

Wanting to do something kind for him, you slowly and carefully extricate yourself from his embrace, trying not to wake him. You slip out of bed, pulling on his robe as you head to the kitchen to make some coffee, a small gesture of appreciation for the many times he’s been there for you.

As you move about the kitchen, the familiar routine of making coffee brings a sense of comfort. You smile to yourself as you measure out the coffee grounds and water, the rich aroma filling the air. It feels good to be doing something for him, even if it’s just a small gesture.

When Spencer finally wakes up, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lures him from the cocoon of blankets. In his sleep-delirious haze, he doesn’t realize anything has changed, and he instinctively walks into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Morning, Spence,” you say softly, feeling the warmth of his embrace as you continue to stir the coffee.

“Mmm, good morning, baby,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice thick with sleep.

“I made your coffee, just how you like it,” you say with a smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the little surprise you’ve prepared for him.

“Black, seven teaspoons of sugar?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of playful suspicion.

“Precisely,” you reply, leaning back to kiss his head where it’s nestled against your neck. You love the way his hair feels soft and slightly tousled from sleep, the familiarity of the moment wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

Spencer hums contentedly, the combination of your affection and the promise of coffee stirring him more fully awake. You hand him a steaming mug, and he takes a grateful sip, savoring the sweet warmth.

“Thought we could call Diana today, check in on her progress,” you suggest casually, remembering the conversations you’ve had about keeping in touch with his mom.

Spencer’s mind is still catching up to the morning, the mention of his mother registering slowly. “Okay, that’s a good id–wait… what?” His eyes widen as he pulls back slightly, looking at you with surprise and hope.

“Diana, babe? Your mom? I haven’t talked to her in a while, and I wanted to see how she was doing,” you say, turning to face him, your own excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

“Y/N, are you messing with me?” Spencer asks, his voice a blend of disbelief and anticipation, as if he’s afraid to hope too much.

“No… Are you okay, Spence?” you ask gently, reaching up to touch his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.

“Spence? My coffee preference? My mom?” Spencer’s eyes search yours, an array of emotions flickering across his face. “What are you not telling me?”

You smile, unable to contain your excitement any longer. “Oh, I woke up this morning with a few memories of our time together.”

Spencer’s eyes widen, his expression shifting from confusion to pure joy. “You remember?” he asks, voice filled with a hopeful wonder that sends a warm thrill through you.

“Bits and pieces,” you admit, nodding as you set your own coffee down on the counter. “It’s like little snapshots coming back, but they’re there. And you were in them.”

His face lights up with a brilliant smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and sends warmth flooding through you. “That’s amazing, Y/N,” he says, pulling you into a tight embrace, his arms enveloping you completely.

You melt into his hug, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. It’s a moment of connection and triumph, a small victory in the long journey of reclaiming the life you once shared.

“I’m so happy,” Spencer murmurs, his voice muffled by your hair but no less filled with emotion. “I’ve missed you—every version of you.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a smile that mirrors his own. “I’ve missed you too, Spence. I can’t wait to see what else comes back.”

Spencer leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His touch was a gentle reassurance that you were exactly where you were meant to be, a soothing balm to the uncertainty that had lingered since the accident. The warmth of his lips against your skin sent a wave of comfort through you, a reminder that love was a constant, waiting patiently to be remembered.

“I love you,” Spencer murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with sincerity and a gentle vulnerability. “Can I say that now? Is that okay?”

His eyes searched yours, seeking not just permission but a confirmation that the love you once shared was finding its way back, stronger and more resilient than before.

“Only if it’s okay for me to say I love you too,” you replied, your voice soft but filled with the depth of emotion that had grown in your heart.

The words were a quiet declaration, an acknowledgment of the bond that had endured through the haze of forgotten memories and the challenges of the past. It was a promise of the future you were eager to explore together, a future built on the foundation of love and understanding.

Spencer’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling with a joy that mirrored your own. “Then it’s more than okay,” he said, his voice warm and full of affection.

You both stood there for a moment, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the morning, the aroma of coffee mingling with the soft light filtering through the kitchen. It was a simple moment, yet it held the weight of everything you had been through together, a testament to the resilience of love and the power of memory.

“Come here,” Spencer said, pulling you into another embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting reminder of the life you were rediscovering together. In that embrace, you found not just comfort but a sense of belonging that had been waiting for you to come home to.

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

tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite

2K notes · View notes

vincentbriggs · 8 months ago

Note

so i am newly in a wheelchair which has been a Massive gain in my ability to go out and about. but i realized that i have aprox 0 clothes that look Good while seated. its a completely different silhouette and i am at a loss as to what to do for it. do you have any suggestions for what could look good seated? preferably no skirts or dresses.

Edit: Check the notes for more people's input, including actual wheelchair users who know much more about what works than I could!

Congrats on chair acquisition!!

Since you're sending this to me specifically I am working under the assumption that you mean to do some amount of sewing.

A high waisted silhouette definitely works best for sitting. I make all my pants with the waistband at my natural waist, and a bit of pleating or gathering at the back just like they did on 18th century breeches, and I've never noticed any particular discomfort from sitting in them. (I think high waisted pants are more comfortable in general, and that low rise jeans are evil.)

It's something I've never really thought about before, but sitting is a very legs-forward position, so perhaps a colourful or fancy stripe down the side would work well.

(I made this pair 10 years ago and they didn't fit well and are long gone, but I should do a better version someday...)

Or some other form of side seam decoration, like these fabulous button tabs.

(I don't know what the source for this mid 19th century fashion plate is.)

Cropped jackets would also be good. The first thing that comes to mind for me is the Carmagnole, which was a style worn by French revolutionaries. It's got a pretty similar cut to a regular 1790's coat, just shorter.

(Source)

And there are other styles of short jacket, like this one from a few decades later.

I think it might be possible to get a similar effect from cutting down a thrifted corduroy jacket, depending on the pocket placement? It's not something I've done myself though.

A fancy little bolero could be a lot of fun too! I quite like these ones made by Marlowe Lune. Super easy to sew, and could be patterned by cutting down a bigger pattern that fits the torso.

They'd be a good thing to try if you have a smallish piece of fancy fabric, or a small bit trim to use, or want to try a small amount of embroidery.

There are lots of historical styles with sleeves too, and all sorts of decorations.

(Dunno the source for this one either, unfortunately, but the pin says 1880s reception dress. I think a little jacket like that would look good with a puffy shirt and pants.)

Short capes might be practical too, and the late 19th and early 20th century have tons of fancy capelets for inspiration, like this one.

Or this one.

I hope this is somehow helpful! I don't know if you're looking to sew things from scratch or to buy and alter stuff or what, and I have no personal experience using a wheelchair, but these are the best things I can think of for a suitable silhouette. Dramatic sleeve/shoulder puffs would also be shown off to great effect, if that's something you'd like to wear.

#ask #clothing #wheelchairs

1K notes · View notes

art · 1 year ago

Text

Creator Spotlight: @themetalhiro

Hi, I’m Metal! I’m a freelance artist from good ol’ New Jersey. My favorite things to work with are a lot of bright colors, exaggerated poses, and candid scenarios. I try to farm sensible chuckles whenever I can, so I’m also big into comics. I love making them about my life, and the media I’m into, and one day I’d like to publish my own series! Thank you to everyone who has gotten me this far!!

Check out Metal's interview below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I guess so! It’s funny, I don’t remember a single time in my life that I wasn’t drawing as a hobby… somewhere in middle school (a little late, I know.) I put the pieces together that animated movies were made by artists, and that it wasn’t just for fun, they were paid to do it. The moment I discovered people could be paid to make art, I decided I would do that, too. Now I’m here!

How has your style developed over the years?

I think the best way to answer this would be with an example! Over the last few years, I have made more of an effort to draw more intentionally, which sounds silly. Now, I put more thought into my poses and step out of my comfort zone with shape language and composition. I had a phase where I drew everyone with a huge, perfectly circular head and no nose. That definitely did not lend much variety...

Which 3 famous artists (dead or alive) would you invite to your dinner party?

Ack! I’m so terrible at history! I’d love to give a well-thought-out answer about fine artists of old, but I don't think we’d have much in common… Most artists I admire and who have driven me forward creatively are the people behind comics I’ve read. Andrew Hussie, Bryan Lee O’Malley, Eiichiro Oda... these guys have inspired me greatly and had a heavy influence in developing my art style and sense of humor. I’d love to ask them questions about their processes and upcoming projects. I think it would make for an entertaining night!

Over the years as an artist, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?

Outside of pure aesthetics like searing bright colors, layered clothing, and loud noises…. the best and most inspiring moments in my life were those surrounded by friends and loved ones! I cherish the hell out of memories of hanging around in fun locations, trying weird food together, and impromptu midnight walks... so I try my best to capture that atmosphere and my own memories in my work when I can, even if I’m imposing fictional characters on top of them. That’s always the core of it.

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

I would never permanently refuse a medium, but every time I pick up clay, I’m like a baby using its hands for the first time. Absolutely dreadful. If one day I could make and paint a figurine like the ones I admire in videos, that would be awesome... But for now, I’m not counting on it.

How do you want to evolve as a creator?

I’ve had an absolute blast drawing fanart over the years, and it’s certainly played a massive role in my growth as an artist. But my dream has always been to publish my own stories for y'all to enjoy! I have lots of worlds I want to introduce to you before I’m old and gray. I want to get faster, work harder, and get better at drawing interesting settings so I can get the wheels turning as soon as possible. I also want to stop avoiding the color blue like a coward.

What do you wish you knew when you first started out creating art that you know now?

Pay your taxes quarterly. Tablets will break at the exact moment you need them most, so have a spare. Wear your blue light glasses. You’re going to need to wear a brace on every joint on the right side of your body. It can be lonely sitting at your desk all day. The car on the side of the road that costs $1000 cash….. don’t trust it!!!

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

@cranity—They use absolutely beautiful colors and weighty line work. Everything looks so sharp and clean! I wanna put it all up on my wall!

@vewn—Their ability to crank out quality short films and illustrations packed with detail is incredible. The off-kilter perspective they use really sells disorientation and catches your attention like nothing else.

@nelnal—They have absolutely banger character designs again and again, I can’t believe one person’s mind can come up with so many creative ideas!

@jinx88kc—They have a beautiful and recognizable style, and the way they incorporate animation into their illustrations sometimes is SO cool!

Thanks for stopping by, Metal! For more of Metal’s work, follow their Tumblr, @themetalhiro! If you haven't seen their Meet the Artist piece, be sure to check it out here!

#creator spotlight #artists on tumblr #themetalhiro

3K notes · View notes

mytherapyisreading14 · 3 months ago

Note

Hii! Could make a smutt fic with post prison Spencer fic where the reader and Spencer are like best friends/roommates and she has a massive crush on him and he’s in her room looking for something and finds her diary with all of the dreams she’s had about him and they are like extremely kinky like spitting in her mouth and using his handcuffs on her and while he’s reading the diary she walks in on him and she gets like really embarrassed and he’s being the biggest tease to her and then they fuck. Also could you include the spit kink in the smutt part? If you’re not comfortable with that then it’s fine :). Ps I sent this request to another writer like a week ago but they said that they couldn’t do it because they were only doing blurbs.

A Dream Come True

Summary: When Spencer comes over for one of your weekly movie nights, he accidentally finds your diary and discovers your secret.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Category: Smut, some Fluff (18+ MDNI)

Warnings: kissing, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby etc.), praise kink, spit kink, choking, fingering, use of handcuffs, oral sex (f), unprotected sex (stay safe y’all), multiple orgasms, dom!spencer (If I missed any warnings, please tell me)

Word Count: 3,3k

Author’s Note: I got my wisdom teeth out yesterday and finished writing this to distract me from the pain (didn’t work though) 😩 Anyway, I hope you like it! :)

You're standing in the kitchen, the smell of freshly baked cookies hits your nose. You decided to bake some cookies before Spencer is coming over for your weekly movie night. Baking also distracts you from the thoughts that have been consuming you more and more in the last few weeks.

You've always liked Spencer, but in the last few weeks, after he got out of prison, you've been spending even more time together. He needed a distraction and when he finally was ready for it, he also talked to you about what had happened to him.

It broke your heart when he told you what he had to go through. You're glad the team managed to get him out of there. You don't even want to think about how bad it would have been if he had to stay any longer.

You take a look at the clock, Spencer will be here soon. You can't wait, the nervousness tingles in your stomach like usual when you think about him. With a light sigh you put away the last ingredients, while your eyes keep wandering to the calendar on the wall.

You can't say exactly when they started. These... dreams. At first they were just fleeting thoughts that distracted you from the stressful everyday life, but now they are much more than that.

They are firmly imprinted in your mind, as if they are another reality taking up more and more space in your life. You shake your head, trying to compose yourself, but it doesn't work. The desire for these dreams to finally become reality gets stronger everyday, especially when you spend time with him.

You go to your room and open the diary that is still lying on your bed after your last entry this morning. A shiver runs down your spine as you read the words and the memories of your last dream come flooding back.

But the familiar ringing of the door bell snaps you out of your thoughts. Spencer is here. You quickly close the diary and shove it back under your small cupboard in your room where no one can find it.

You open the door and your heart immediately beats faster when you see him. With his messy curls falling over his face and that cute smile he never fails to blow you away. Your breath hitches for a moment as he looks at you.

“Hey, how are you?” he asks as he takes a step towards you and holds out a small bag of gummy bears. “I brought you your favorite gummy bears. They were almost sold out, but I still managed to get a package.” You can’t help but fall into his arms.

“Thank you,” you say, holding him for a moment longer than necessary. It feels so good to feel him close, to breathe in that familiar scent of him. Your heart is pounding loudly in your chest. But then he breaks the moment.

“Did you bake something? I think I can smell cookies,” Spencer says and your eyes widen in shock. "Oh no! My cookies!” you shout, practically jumping out of his arms and storming into the kitchen.

You turn off the oven, take the cookies out and carefully place them on the tray to let them cool off. Spencer follows you, still grinning as he watches you. “Just in time,” you say as you run your hand through your hair. “A moment longer and they would have burned.”

“It's good that I'm not only a genius, but also have a good nose,” he jokes. “Or you’re just hungry,” you answer with a grin as you put the cookies aside. “That too. And you know they are my favorite cookies. I can't just let them burn,” he says and you laugh.

“But they have to cool down before you can eat them. If you want we can already start to watch a movie now,” you say and go over to the living room with him, grabbing a few pillows and blankets to make it even more comfortable on the couch.

"So," Spencer says as he sits down next to you and adjusts the pillows, "what movie are we watching first?" You think about it for a while, deciding whether you want to watch something romantic, funny or classic. Finally, your choice falls on Back to the Future. A movie that you both love.

When you want to turn on the television, you suddenly notice that the remote control is no longer working. “Oh no, the batteries are dead,” you mumble and take them out. “Where do you keep the new ones?” Spencer asks, leaning back and watching you. “I can go and get them while you get us something to drink.”

You nod. “They are in the bottom drawer in the small cupboard across my bed,” you tell him. “All right,” Spencer says, getting up and going to your room to get them. While he's in your bedroom, you take a moment to gather your thoughts. If only you knew what he really thinks about you...

Spencer goes into your room to get the batteries. But when he tries to open the bottom drawer like you told him, it gets stuck, which surprises him. He leans down to look what’s causing it, maybe he can fix it for you. But then he notices that there is a book lying under the cupboard.

Curious, he pulls it out and examines it for a moment. He flips through the pages, slowly, as if he can't help himself. His eyes widen when he realizes it's full of entries - entries about the two of you together specifically. It’s your diary. Full of your thoughts about him.

And not just your thoughts. You also wrote down the dreams you had about him, the wishes and desires you couldn't keep to yourself anymore. Your feelings that you never expressed. Spencer continues reading, and with each word it seems as if the world stops.

You, on the other hand, are now wondering where he is. Why doesn't he come back? You go to your room and open the door. “Spence, did you find them or should I help -” You pause, your eyes immediately falling on the book in his hand and your heart beats faster. You blush as you realize what he just discovered.

He looks at you and a grin spreads across his face. “I found a really interesting book under your cupboard. Why did you hide it from me? I would’ve love to read it sooner,” he says as he takes a step towards you. You feel like the ground is threatening to fall away from under your feet. Your pulse is pounding in your ears and you try to stay calm. “Spence…” you whisper, but you can’t say anything more. You're way too nervous.

He looks at you for another second, as if he's getting lost in your reaction, before holding the diary out to you, grinning ever wider. “You probably not only dream about me every night, but also write everything down so you can think about it again and again, right?”

You feel the blood rush to your head and you almost feel dizzy with embarrassment. "I... uh..." you stammer, "It's not what you think..." Spencer laughs. “No?” he asks as he flips the diary over to the page on which you wrote down your last dream about him.

“Well, I think it's kind of cute that you're so lost in your dreams. But you know what?” You look at him uncertainly as he slowly takes a step closer, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Now that I know about them, I can make them all come true,” he says quietly. For a moment his eyes are so intense you feel like you could sink into them.

Your mind is racing and you can't believe what he just said. Then he suddenly pushes you against the wall and kisses you. The kiss is not gentle, it’s full of desire and hunger. His tongue pushes between your lips, tasting you. You can feel the heat rushing through your body, pressing your thighs together.

He pulls away, leaving you breathless and craving more. “I’m going to leave you now. When I come back, I want to see you laying on the bed naked, with your legs spread apart. You’re not allowed to touch yourself. Do you understand?” he asks, his voice firm and eyes full of lust.

You nod and a shiver runs down your spine. “Yes, I… I understand,” you breathe out. He smirks before he grabs your diary and turns around to leave the room. You heart is pounding in your chest and you're shivering in excitement. You do as your told and take off your clothes to lay down on the bed, waiting for him to come back.

Spencer however sits down on the couch to read through all of your diary entries. He feels his pants getting uncomfortably tighter the more he reads and one entry particularly draws his attention. You had this dream 2 days ago.

He used his handcuffs to tie you to the bed, kissed down your body before going over to tease you by squeezing your breasts and biting down on your nipples. You begged him to touch you and when he decided that he teased you enough, he went over to eating you out and fucking you with his fingers. And then, after you came, he leaned forward and spit into your mouth.

Spencer never expected you to dream of things like this, but he is more than happy to make them come true. His cock is getting harder and he decides you waited long enough. Luckily, yesterday after you got off work, you got some take out and drove to your place to eat dinner together. He left his vest and jacket, in which he also packed his handcuffs, hanging in your apartment because he knew he would be back today anyway.

He stands up and goes over to get his handcuffs. He straps them to the back of his pants so you don’t see them right away. Then he goes into your room and opens the door. You lay on the bed, with your legs spread apart, just like he told you. He smirks and comes closer, his eyes wander over your body.

You feel extremely exposed and have to resist the urge to put your arms in front of your body to cover yourself. But then you see Spencer's tongue licking his bottom lip and his eyes darken. “You look so beautiful, baby. I can’t wait to finally touch you,” he says and gets onto the bed. He leans down to kiss you again and you run your fingers through his hair.

He kisses your neck before leaning closer to your ear again. “Do you trust me, baby?” he asks and you nod. He shakes his head. “I need words,” he says and you answer him immediately. “Yes, Spencer. I trust you.” He looks pleased. “Good. Can you close your eyes for me?”

You close your eyes and feel him shift, excited to find out what he planned to do to you. You can feel his hands reaching for yours, then you hear the clatter of metal and feel something cold close around your wrist. You know exactly what comes next and a shiver runs down your spine.

He lifts your hands over your head and ties you to the headboard. You can’t help but smile and he notices. “I see, you’re already enjoying this. You can open your eyes now. I want you to look at me when I touch you,” he says. You open your eyes and look up to Spencer above you.

“I have to admit, your dream from two nights ago surprised me. I really liked reading it. I decided to make this one come true first,” he says before he starts to slowly kiss down your neck. He goes further down around your breasts and then your stomach before he spreads your legs apart and leaves kisses between your inner thighs. When he bits down on the soft skin to leave a hickey there you can’t help but moan.

“Please, I - I need you,” you say and try to reach down to press him against you. But you forget that you’re held back by the handcuffs. Spencer chuckles when he sees you like this, helpless and desperate for more. “Be a good girl and I’ll give you what you want,” he says and his hands wander upwards to your breasts again.

He starts to squeeze the right one and leans down to lick over your left nipple before taking it in his mouth. He bites down gently first and then he starts to suck. All the man you had before never really paid that much attention to your breasts and your surprised how good it feels with him.

When he pulls away and blows cold air on your nipple you shiver again. He turns his attention to the other one and you can’t help but moan. “More…please. I need you to fuck me,” you beg him but he just ignores you and continues his actions.

You press your legs together to relief the ache between your legs but he notices and pushes them apart again with his knee. He grabs your chin with his hand and holds you firm, looking into your eyes. “You have to be patient, baby. I want to take my time with you,” he says.

You nod but a silent cry escapes your lips. The way he’s touching your body leaves you craving him even more and after all these weeks of dreaming about this, you don't want to wait any longer. But you know it won't do any good to keep begging. Instead you focus entirely on his lips, his hands and how he touches your body.

When Spencer finally decides that he teased you enough he slowly leans down, hands running up your thighs before spreading your legs even further to get in between them. You look down and in that moment you wish you’d had an eidetic memory too because you never want to forget the way he looks at you now.

“I always wanted to know what you taste like, baby,” he says and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy. Then he finally leans in and starts to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue. The touch is light, teasing again and all you want is to pull him closer and run your fingers through his soft, brown curls. His eyes never leave yours when he starts to devour you.

You can’t help but grind against him and this time, he gives you what you want. One hand moves up to your hip, the other one under your ass and he pulls you closer to him while his tongue continues to move in and out of you. He applies more pressure and adds two fingers, making you moan his name over and over again.

“I’m close,” you manage to breath out and Spencer flicks his tongue over your clit. “Come for me baby, come on my mouth,” he says and you let go. Your back arches off the bed when your orgasm hits you but that doesn’t stop Spencer. He just continues what he’s doing, taking everything in.

Your orgasm slowly ebbs away and Spencer comes up from between your legs, his eyes full of lust. He gently runs a finger over your lip and smirks. “Open up for me, baby,” he says and then you realize what he’s about to do. You shiver in excitement and open your mouth.

Then he leans forward and spits into your mouth. “Swallow.” You obey and keep eye contact with him the whole time. “Good girl,” he praises you and gently kisses you, holding you close to him. He gives you a minute to recover, which you gladly take before he starts to undress himself.

Your eyes widen, he’s definitely bigger than you expected. He goes back in between your legs and slowly runs his tip through your folds. “Just… just fuck me already. Please,” you beg him. “You’re so needy, baby. You want to take it all at once? Fine, then have it.” He thrusts inside of you.

You feel the pleasure rushing through your body, expanding every time he hits your g-spot while he fucks you in a restless pace. “You look so pretty like this. Tied to the bed and fucked out for me. You’re all mine now. Gonna make all your dreams come true,” he says and grabs your hips to hold you firm.

He continues to fuck you until you’re crying out his name. He comes closer and wraps a hand around your throat, before kissing your neck again, leaving more hickeys. When he starts to circle your clit again you feel like you’re going to explode from the intense pleasure.

“Spence, need to… please, please…” you whine, unable to form a complete sentence. He chuckles, clearly amused to see you so desperate for him. “Baby, I don’t understand you. You have to tell me what you want,” he teases, squeezing your throat more and slowing down for a moment.

“I - I want -“ you begin but get cut off again by a moan when he thrusts harder into you again. “Look at that, you’re a complete mess. You clearly don’t know what you want, do you? I’m afraid I have to stop then” he teases. “No!” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs around him to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want then, otherwise I can’t help you. Come on, I know you can do it,” he says. “I want to… I want to come. Please,” you finally manage to say before your eyes roll back again. “That’s it, such a good girl,” he says and releases the hand around your throat to speed up his thrusts again.

Your legs begin to shake uncontrollably when your orgasms hits you and Spencer fucks you through it, finishing inside you a moment later. You can feel his cum deep inside of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply and giving both of you a moment to calm down.

Then he sits up, leaning forward to untie you. You immediately cuddle up to him, holding him as close as possible. “Are you okay? Do you need anything baby? Water maybe?” he asks and gives you a tender kiss on your forehead. “No, please just hold me in your arms now,” you say and he pulls you even closer against him.

He runs his hands through your hair and you can feel his heartbeat beneath your hand. After a while you look up to him, with a smile on your face. “That was even better than in my dreams,” you mumble, still exhausted. He laughs and pushes a strand of hair out of your face. “I’m glad to hear that.”

For a moment everything is quiet, you just enjoy lying in bed together and holding each other in your arms. Then Spencer shifts closer. “You know, tonight it wasn't just your dreams that came true. I wanted this - you - for a long time now too,” he admits and your heart skips a beat.

“Well then I'm happy you found my diary today. Who knows how long it would have taken us before one of us made a move,” you say and laugh. Spencer grins. “Oh definitely way too long,” he says before he leans forward to kiss you again. “I love you,” he says and you smile against his lips. “I love you too.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #post prison reid

603 notes · View notes