#still love this old man after 2 decades

[anna-hawk]

Seeing all the Wolverine content popping up left and right since Deadpool and Wolverine aired makes me so nostalgic. If 17 yo me had had Tumblr 20 years ago, she'd have gone absolutely crazy over this.

[sonicfan3]

I feel it says something that I genuinely wish Richard's cheating ass had lived instead of Shea

[forhappysake]

Late-Night Talking

Author's note: This can be read as part 2 of "Never Forget a Face," or it can be read as a stand-alone. 5k words, not proofread xoxo.

Summary: After you get to know Spencer, the team starts believing you may be more than friends. Despite pushing back against their jokes, you and Spencer quickly realize they may not be wrong.

Warnings: fem!reader, spoilers for season 12/13, mentions of typical BAU-level violence, age gap mentioned, one bed trope that i LOVE, no smut just some heavy fluff/making out at the end

“Checkmate,” Spencer said. 

You groaned. 

The soft glow of an antique lamp illuminated your surroundings. You sat cross-legged on an old leather armchair, resting your head in your hands. Spencer, across from you, looked a little too amused. The pair of you had been at this for roughly two hours. 

“I’m not sure why you decided to make that last move. If you want, I can show you some additional strategies and what I would have done in your place,” Spencer rambled. If it were any other man, you likely would have rolled your eyes and told them to shut up. Something about the way he spoke was entirely genuine, and he knew he had your best interest at heart. 

“No thanks, Spence. I think I’ve met my match for the day,” you said, rising from your seat. You stretched your arms above your head. “I could go for some coffee, though.”

He smiled as you turned to walk toward his kitchen. In the three weeks since the two of you had spent the evening talking, the two of you had only become closer. This was the third night this week that you had found yourself enjoying his company. 

“Do you want a cup?” you called behind the counter. 

It was quiet for a second, and you could imagine his eyes narrowing in thought as he weighed his options. “Sure,” he said. “Could you make it with-”

“Lots of sugar and a little bit of coffee,” you finished for him, appearing from behind the island with two cups in hand. “Here.”

Spencer thanked you, taking a small sip before setting the steaming cup on the side table. “Perfect,” he acknowledged. 

“Oh really? Maybe I should pursue a career as a barista,” you joked, whirling the mixture around in your mug with a small red stirrer. 

Spencer let out a small laugh before he grew quiet for a moment. He looked at you thoughtfully. “Not that I think you wouldn’t be good at it, but I think I - or uh - we prefer to have you on our team.”

As you opened your mouth to respond, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You set your coffee on the side table next to Spencer’s and pulled it out, unveiling Penelope’s name and face buzzing across your screen. 

“It’s Penelope,” you said. Spencer shot you a knowing look. 

You raised the phone and answered her video message request. Her face filled the screen. 

“Hello, my lovely,” she said to you in her usual bubbly manner. The bright pink bows in her hair and the way they matched what you could see of her dress made you smile. 

“Hey, Pen,” you greeted. “What’s up?”

“That’s the less lovely part,” she said, her smiling turning to a frown. “I need you in the office in an hour or less. We have a case.” 

You sighed as you shot a glance at Spencer who was staring at you from across the chess table. “Right, I’ll be there. Thanks.”

You were about to hang up when she spoke again. “Oh, wait! Y/N!”

“Yes?” you asked her, a bit confused by her sudden urgency. 

“Have you talked to Spencer? You’re the last one on my call list and I haven’t been able to get ahold of him for twenty minutes.” 

Rather than respond, you flipped the camera around to unveil Spencer sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Yeah, I think I can get ahold of him for you,” you quipped. 

Penelope gasped. “My two favorite BAU babies spending time together? Be still my speckled heart.”

Spencer groaned, looking directly at the camera. “Penelope, we’ve been over this. I’m 36. I’ve been with the team for over a decade. I’ve done time in a maximum security prison. I haven’t been a BAU ‘baby,’” he made air quotes with his hands, “for ten years.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, causing you to giggle and causing Spencer to furrow his brow. “Oh, Dr. Reid, your wit is charming but I fear you’ll always be a BAU baby in my mind.” 

Spencer huffed. 

“Regardless, it’s nice to see my babies together,” she said, her cheery disposition fading as she began clacking on her keyboard. “Anyway, I’ll see you lovebirds in an hour. Peace!”

You and Spencer had both frozen at her final statement as her face faded from the screen. Lovebirds?

In an attempt to diffuse the awkward silence that had fallen over the room, you cleared your throat. “I have to run home and grab my go-bag.” You rose and made for the door. Spencer remained seated, a perplexed look on his face. 

“I’ll see you in an hour?” you half-asked. 

Spencer snapped out of his thoughts, finally noticing that you were standing with your hand on his doorknob, ready to leave. 

“Y-yeah. Of course. See you there,” he said, offering a small yet sincere small. 

You drove home and grabbed your things, Penelope’s statement still ringing in your ears. Lovebirds. 

Sure, you enjoyed spending time with Spencer. In the month since you’d met him, you’d gotten to know him quite well. You knew how he took his coffee, what books he was working through at the moment, and how his therapy was going. However, you didn’t think that qualified you as lovebirds. 

You shook your head as you pulled into your parking spot at work. You were overthinking it. Penelope called people questionable names all the time. Just last week, the HR department was forced to give a seminar on workplace conduct after some of Penelope’s most famous lines were brought to the attention of the department. 

Spencer had leaned over to you during the presentation, nudging you with his elbow. “Last time they gave one of these, Penelope got in trouble for calling our friend ‘dark chocolate thunder,’” he whispered. You had widened your eyes at him and looked appalled as he offered a small, mischievous smile, turning back to the front.  

You paused for a moment before entering the building and thought about how that interaction had made you feel. The butterflies in your stomach took flight when he nudged your arm, the tingling sensation running through your veins as he whispered in your ear. Maybe Penelope wasn’t as far off as you thought. 

Regardless, you had a job to do. So did Spencer, for that matter. Based on the worried glances your coworkers gave you when you walked into the roundtable room, you could tell it was going to be a doozy. 

Emily and Spencer walked in moments later, taking their seats around the table. He offered you a small smile, which you kindly returned before focusing on Penelope’s presentation at the front of the room. 

Another serial killer, another flight that was going to take you across the country. 

For three days after touchdown in California, the team worked around the clock. On the third day, the team went out in pairs to keep watch over the local parks in town, from which women were being kidnapped and subsequently murdered. Emily had asked you and Spencer to stay behind at the police station in case any new developments came about.

By the time night fell, you weren’t sure when the last time you’d slept or eaten was. You were sitting on a couch in the meeting room assigned to the BAU for your time in California. You’d zoned out at the images of the victim’s bloody bodies before you on the coffee table, your eyes glazed over and bloodshot from the lack of sleep. 

When someone placed a hand on your shoulder, you jumped in surprise. 

“Just me,” Spencer said, putting one hand up in surrender. He’d walked in through the open door, you hadn’t even noticed his entrance.

You rubbed your eyes. “Sorry. What’s up? Any news?”

Spencer shook his head, sitting down next to you. He cleared his throat. “You could sleep, you know? I can always wake you if something changes.” 

You yawned. “I appreciate the offer, but don’t you think that’s unfair? You haven’t slept either.” 

He shrugged, glancing sideways at you. “I didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time for three months of my life. This is nothing.” 

You looked at him in that moment. Truly looked at him. The small scar on the side of his neck where a few stray curls ended. The stubble on his cheek, getting longer each day you worked this case. Finally, your eyes met his. 

“Alright,” you relented. “Just promise you’ll wake me up if something changes.” 

Spencer nodded. “I’ll be right here next to the phone. Rest for a little bit.” 

Without another word, you sunk further down on the couch and laid your head back, falling into a dreamless sleep. 

SPENCER’S POV

I developed this habit of staring at clocks while I was away. Some might think that makes the time pass slower, but on the contrary, I found that the minutes flew by faster if I could zone out at something for long enough. 

I found myself practicing this same habit as the night passed. The only thing that pulled me from my daze was Y/N’s body shifting on the couch next to me. 

I turned to look at her. She rested her head on the back of the couch. Her hair had fallen haphazardly over one side of her face. The black top she wore was dangerously close to slipping off her shoulder. I leaned forward to strip off my suit jacket and gently lay it over her, the thick fabric wrinkling. As if on cue, she subconsciously pulled the jacked around her figure, burying her face in the material. 

I felt my heart warm at the sight and bit back a smile. She was still too innocent for the job. Probably too innocent for this world, frankly. But the pleasure of getting to know her had made Emily’s decision to place her on the team a no-brainer. She was, by all intents and purposes, a ray of sunshine. 

“You two look cozy,” Luke spoke from the doorway. 

My eyes shot up to face him. I tried to act casual like I wasn’t just oogling over my coworker.  “Oh. Yeah, she is.” 

Luke rolled his eyes. “Jig’s up, Reid,” he started, leaning against the doorway. “You’ve been looking at her like that for weeks. Why don’t you just ask her on a date?” 

I cringed. “Why does everyone keep insinuating that we’re somehow romantically involved?”

“Well let’s see,” Luke held up his fingers to count as he spoke. “You guys talk to each other like, all the time.” One. “You didn’t tell her to move when she accidentally sat in your seat at the conference table.” Two. “I know for a fact that she’s been out with you at least three nights a week, hence why she didn’t come out with Garcia and me last weekend.” Three. “You actually laugh when she tells you a joke.” Four. “You keep staring at her-”

“Alright, I get it,” I interrupted, holding up a hand to quiet him. I sighed. “You’ve forgotten some pretty important details in your explanation.” 

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” 

It was my turn to do the counting. “She’s roughly eight years younger than I am. I haven’t the faintest clue if she’s seeing anyone. She’s only known me for a month and she happens to know about… my history.” Luke glanced up at me, a touch of sympathy in his gaze. “Prison time is not exactly a turn-on to most women,” I admitted. 

Luke took a deep breath. “Well, I hope it works out however you want it to, Reid. I can say this for sure, I haven’t seen you this happy in a year.” 

I watched him begin to walk away before he turned to look back over his shoulder. “By the way, we caught the guy. Wheels-up in thirty.” 

With that utterance, he was gone. 

READER’S POV

The next thing you remembered was Spencer gently shaking your shoulder. “Y/N,” he said your name quietly. 

You rolled over, groggy as you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. “Yeah, what’s up, Spence?” 

“The case is closed. We’re going to get ready to go home.” 

Your eyes shot open. “Really? I can’t believe we missed it,” you said, sounding somewhat disappointed. 

Spencer shrugged. “I think I would prefer the comfort of this place than being out there.” He pointed out the window where a steady rain had begun falling over the parking lot.

You groaned, peeling the blanket off your body. It was just then that you realized it wasn’t a blanket, but Spencer’s jacket. 

“Oh. Uh. Here you go,” you offered it back to him. 

Spencer took it from you, immediately beginning to overexplain himself. “Sorry, I just thought you looked kind of cold and your shirt was hanging off your shoulder so I thought it would be better if I-”

“Spencer,” you cut him off. “I was just going to say thank you.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing. Let’s just get out of here and back home.” You offered him a warm smile, reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped your boundaries. 

You found it quite endearing, actually- him having covered you up. When he smiled back, your stomach did a backflip. God, you were screwed. 

The two of you hurriedly packed up the files strewn about the precinct and drove back to the hotel. The flight home was relatively uneventful. You did, however, notice Luke giving you one of his mischievous smiles. Halfway through the flight, you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Luke, what is your deal?” you asked quietly not to wake JJ, seated next to you. Spencer, who sat across from the table on the jet’s couch, sneaked a glance up from his book, slyly listening in to the conversation you’d started. 

“Did you have a nice nap earlier this evening, Y/N?” Luke asked jokingly. 

You rolled your eyes. “As a matter of fact, I did. Why are you asking?” 

Luke glanced over at Spencer. “I saw loverboy went out of his way to keep you warm.”

It was your turn to glance at Spencer, whose cheeks were turning pink as his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked back down at his book, acting as though he wasn’t listening. 

You leaned forward across the table. “Look, Luke. I’m not sure what delusions Penelope is feeding you, but Spencer and I are just friends. Just like me and you. Just like me and everyone on this team.”

“Uh huh,” Luke said, unconvinced. He popped a piece of candy into his mouth. “When’s the last time you spent three evenings at my apartment?” 

“Maybe I would spent three evenings at your apartment if you were intelligent and mature enough to keep up an adult conversation,” you shot back. 

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Touched a nerve there, did I?” he joked. 

“It isn’t funny, Luke,” you scolded. “And for that matter, I happen to be seeing someone.” 

That caught everyone’s attention. You saw Spencer twitch out of the corner of your eye, his brow furrowing has his grip on the book in his hands became firmer. Luke laughed. 

“You have been going out with someone?” he asked, somewhat incredulously. 

You took offense to his reaction. “Why is that so hard to believe?” 

Luke shrugged. “I don’t know. I just hadn’t heard about this before.”

“Well, I don’t exactly go out of my way to talk about my personal life. Now if you’ll excuse me,” you tapped the empty coffee cup in your hands. “I need to replenish my supply.” 

You made your way to the back of the jet. Seeing the coffee pot empty, you began the task of brewing more. 

“Was that true?” Spencer asked from behind you. 

“Jesus,” you said, trying not to jump out of your skin, “You’ve really got to quit sneaking up on me like that.” 

“Sorry.” He stood awkwardly in the doorway, blocking your view of the rest of the jet. “But was it true?”

“Which part?” you challenged, watching the dark liquid fill the pot.

“The part about you seeing someone.” 

Your cheeks reddened. “No. It wasn’t true. I just wanted to get Luke off my back,” you admitted. 

Spencer sighed what almost sounded like a sigh of relief. “Was the rest of it true?” he continued. 

“What do you mean?” You looked at him, genuinely confused as to what he was referencing.

Spencer took a step closer to you, and you could feel the heat coming off his body as he looked down at you. He lowered his voice to a near whisper, “The part about us just being friends.” 

Oh. 

“Well, I- you know we haven’t really ever discussed if we would even… I- I don’t know,” you stuttered. 

Spencer nodded and the serious expression on his face faded to his normal friendly facade. “Right. I just wanted to check,” he said casually before making his way back to his seat. 

You were in shock regarding the conversation that had just occurred and remained that way for the rest of the flight. You found yourself glancing at Spencer often and occasionally, you’d catch him looking at you too.

You put your headphones in, in an attempt to take your mind off of it. The reprieve of the music in your ears was short-lived as JJ nudged your shoulder. “Did you hear Emily?” she asked. 

“What? No, what did I miss?” you looked around, confused, before Emily appeared beside you. 

“Sorry, I should’ve checked to make sure everyone could hear me,” she apologized. “Change of plans. We’re stopping in Tennessee. I just got a call from an old colleague. They need some help.”

You tried to hide your disappointment. All you wanted to do was get home to go to bed. Not to mention, you needed time to think over this whole Spencer thing. However, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. 

Two hours later, you were on the ground in Nashville. 

The team stumbled into a hotel lobby. It was 2 a.m. You could tell you all looked terrible, and you weren’t sure you all smelled much better.

“Alright,” Emily said, coming back from the check-in counter. “Here’s the deal. Since I booked last minute, I could only get four rooms. We’re going to have to double up.” 

You watched as pairs were quickly formed. JJ and Emily stepped to one side. Tara and Luke to another. Rossi and Matt even joined up. You and Spencer stood awkwardly next to each other. 

“Right, well, here are your keys,” she handed you the room keys for yourself and Spencer. You sighed and took off for the elevator, Spencer in tow. 

The elevator ride and walk to the room passed without a word. When you stepped into the hotel room, you immediately flopped your bags on the ground and dropped to the floor. 

For the first time in two hours, Spencer spoke. “What are you doing?” 

You didn’t get up, still lying prone on the floor. “Relaxing.”

“Do you know how many germs are on the floor of a hotel room? If I had to estimate, based on research-”

“Spence, please,” you cut him off, “I’m getting up, I’m getting up.” You rolled over and sat up, looking up at him. 

It was also the first real glimpse you’d caught of the room since arriving, and you felt your stomach drop when you grasped one key detail. 

There was only one bed. 

Oh. Oh. 

Spencer followed your eyes to the single bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said sincerely. 

You scoffed. “Spencer, that’s ridiculous. You’ve told me time and time again how your back bothers you because of these terrible hotel beds. I can’t imagine what state sleeping on the floor would leave you in. I’ll do it.” 

He shook his head. “I would never expect you to do that.”

“I know." you weighed your words carefully. “We can share the bed, you know? It won’t be a big deal. As long as you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

Spencer looked between you and the bed for a moment. “Okay,” he said simply, throwing his bag on the ground. “Do you prefer a certain side?” 

You hummed, standing up from the floor. “Do I want the slide closer to the AC or the side closer to the window?”

Spencer smiled, raising his eyebrows. “These are some tough decisions.”

You nodded. “I’ll take the window. You can have the vent.” 

“How thoughtful,” he quipped. 

You bent over and began going through your bag. “You can go ahead and shower first, Spence.”

He nodded. “Alright, I’ll be quick.” 

Grabbing his bag, he disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. You heard the click of the lock and sighed in a mix of relief and disappointment. He hadn’t brought up your previous conversation. Maybe he hadn’t meant it or maybe he meant it differently than you interpreted.

Pulling your pajamas from your bag, you resigned yourself to sit on the edge of the bed and wait. Minutes later, Spencer reappeared. His hair, slightly damp, hung down over his eyes. He wore a pair of plaid pajama pants and a loose t-shirt that clung nicely to his biceps. 

He looked good. Really good. 

You were lucky you didn’t start drooling right there. Spencer caught your gaze. “Is there something on my shirt?” he asked seriously. 

You shook your head, averting your eyes. “No! I mean - no. Not at all. I’m just tired.” You stood up from the bed and without another word, shut yourself in the bathroom in an attempt to get yourself under control. 

SPENCER’S POV

It had been five minutes and seventeen seconds since Y/N went to take a shower. I laid back on the bed, head propped up by some pillows, and thought as the time passed. 

It had been five minutes and forty-five seconds of me thinking about how to approach this conversation with her. 

I knew after our exchange on the plane that I’d have to come to terms with my feelings eventually. Even if I’d only known her for a month, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards her. I loved her smile, the way she laughed at my jokes, and how she genuinely listened when I talked. 

Most of all, I was starting to think I loved her. 

When I heard the bathroom door open, I tried to be nonchalant. I reached for my book on the side table and quickly began reading through it, flipping pages as I finished them. I felt a dip in the bed and saw her sit on the edge out of my periphery. 

She was slipping her socks on, facing away from me, her damp her hanging loosely in front of her face. I wanted to do nothing more than tuck it behind her ear and kiss her right then and there. 

I had to be logical, I told myself. I shook the thoughts away and tried to focus on the book in my hands. 

READER’S POV

Spencer didn’t speak to you when you came out from the shower, offering only a glance and a small smile as he skimmed through the book in his hands. After slipping on your socks, you tucked yourself under the covers next to him, turning off the light next to your side of the bed. 

It was silent for a moment before you heard his book thud down on the side table. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, flipping the lamp off.

“Night, Spence,” you said back. You rolled to your side so your back was to him, trying to minimize the amount of space you took up in the bed. 

The two of you stayed that way for twenty minutes. You breathed slowly, trying not to think about the man in the bed next to you. Just when you thought you may have relaxed enough to drift off to sleep, the lamp next to Spencer’s side of the bed flipped on.

You kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep as you felt him shift in the bed. You wondered if he was just restless, struggling to wind down after working so many cases back to back. Seconds later, he spoke.

“I know you’re awake. I think we should talk,” he said quietly. 

Your eyes shot open. You rolled over to face him, trying to remain calm. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s play a game,” he suggested. Your eyebrows shot up. You did enjoy a good competition. “I’ll ask you a question, you ask me a question. How does that sound?” Spencer asked. 

You searched his eyes for any hint of mischief but found none. Who were you to say no? You sat up in the bed, crisscrossing your legs as you faced him. 

“Shoot,” you challenged him. 

“Does it bother you when the team suggests we’re romantically involved?” 

You hadn’t quite expected that one. You looked around the room, taking a deep breath as you pondered. “Not as much as it probably should. Does it bother you?” you countered. 

Spencer shook his head. “Only when I thought it made you uncomfortable. Now that I know it doesn’t, no.” He paused for a second, narrowing his eyes at you as he tried to pick out his next question. 

During this lull, you reached for your water bottle on the side table and took a quick drink. “Do you find me attractive?” he asked. 

You nearly spit out your water. 

You sat up a bit straighter, trying not to let him see just how attractive you thought he was. “Well… that’s quite a direct question. But, yeah. Yeah, I think you’re attractive.” 

Spencer nodded, satisfied, though he didn’t look smug. Just content. 

“Do you think I’m attractive?” you asked. 

Spencer glanced up at you, his hands folding and unfolding in his lap as he tapped the tips of his fingers against his thigh. “Very,” he admitted. 

The two of you were quiet once more, not sure what to do with this newfound information. 

Spencer cleared his throat and you could hear the doubt and concern seeping into his voice when he spoke again. “Does it bother you that I’m older than you are?” 

You figured that was coming. “No. You’ve never made me feel younger or dumber for it. I often forget we aren’t the same age.” You shrugged before continuing. “Does it bother you that I’m younger?”

Spencer thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I was just afraid you’d think I was strange for finding you attractive since you are younger than I am.” 

You laughed. “Spencer, I find you strange for many reasons, but our age difference is not one of them.” 

Spencer smiled shyly at you. He seemed to appreciate the endearing way you used the word “strange” to describe him.

“Can-” he stuttered for a moment, you could tell he was nervous about his next question. He took a breath, building confidence. “Can I kiss you?” 

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widening immediately. He turned a bright shade of crimson, his confidence seemingly wavering. “You can say no, of course. I’m sorry if I made this weird, I just thought-”

“You can kiss me,” you interjected. He looked at you, his crimson blush fading away but his eyes still uncertain. “I’d like for you to, actually,” you reassured. 

Spencer sat up straighter on the bed, his earlier expression gone serious as he moved closer to you. He gently placed one hand on your cheek, holding you in place as his lips met yours. 

His lips were soft. In fact, everything he was doing was soft. The way he gently cupped your face, the way his other hand had come up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way his mouth moved against yours. His tongue probed your mouth open, a small moan eliciting from him when you allowed him access. 

The tenderness disappeared quickly as he kissed you with more urgency. The two of you fell back on the bed like teenagers. 

His hands moved from your face to your waist, holding you firmly against him. You tested the waters by moving your hands up his back and into his hair, earning a sigh of approval on his part. 

You slipped a hand under the front of his shirt, trailing your fingers across his chest. He pulled away from you, gently grabbing your hand.

“Too far?” you asked in a small panic, quickly withdrawing your hand from under the fabric of his shirt.

“Not at all,” he shook his head sincerely. “I just don’t want to get carried away.” 

Spencer sat up, his hand on your waist bringing you up with him. You both leaned back against the bed, your head resting on his chest. 

“I want to do everything with you,” he said lowly. You could feel his voice rumble through his chest as he spoke. “I want to do all of this and more. However, I do believe you deserve more than some random hotel with the guy who has only known you for a month.” 

“You're not a random guy," you corrected. You were a bit disappointed, but you understood and appreciated his sentiment. It was silent for a moment. "So where do we go from here?” you asked, genuinely curious. 

Spencer smiled, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist. “I think I should start by asking you on a date. How do you feel about Vietnamese food?” 

You raised an eyebrow, looking up at him. “You know I am very passionate about pho,” you joked. 

“Yeah,” he rested his chin on the top of your head, “How about when we get back, we go out on a real date, in a real restaurant that isn’t my apartment, and we make this something real?”

You lifted your head up to meet his gaze at eye level. “I’d love to,” you said with a smile. “On one condition,” you added. 

It was his turn to act surprised. “What’s that?” 

“That you don’t refrain from kissing me until then. I do enjoy being close to you,” you answered. 

Spencer grinned at you. His arm around your waist pulled you in for a soft kiss on the lips. After a moment, he pulled away. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered.

You laid your head back on his chest as he flicked off the side table lamp, the two of you quickly falling asleep wrapped in each others' arms.

[cryptidghostgirl]

hii i read your fic with the humanalastor! x reader where they become like partners in crime (i loved it sm)

and got an idea based off of it

what if Alastor dies first and a few years later Alastor and the reader reunite after she goes to the hotel? thought it would be kinda cute :)

A/N ngl I was thinking of doing something like this so I am very happy it is desired by the people as well. Also, we're gonna pretend that the timeline I created wouldn't make her like over a hundred years old when she died, okay? Okay.

Cover Up Pt. 2 (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of murder and blood, nothing graphic. Alastor being a depressed little bitch. Also a lot of dead bird metaphors for lost hope. Please let me know if I forgot anything.

Word Count: 1,971

Part One: Cover Up (Human!Alastor x Human!Reader)

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

When Alastor had died, Y/n had shattered. Their years of holding one another's bloodstained hands had finally drawn to a close. They had a good run, nearly a decade before anyone caught on. His death also came with the added downside of throwing suspicion on Y/n. To say the event changed her life would be an understatement.

When Alastor had first woken up in Hell, he had mourned his loss as if she was the one who had died and not him. The allowance of such a foolish thing was short lived. He quickly realized there was no way Y/n wouldn't end up in Hell as well eventually, with her track record. He refocused his pain, his anguish into making sure he had the perfect world to serve up to her on a platter as soon as she arrived.

As the years ticked on, the little bird fluttering away in his ribcage became more and more despondent. He tried to distract himself by continuing his work, continuing his plans for her. Always for her. It worked to a certain extent but, soon it had been sixty years and she still hadn't made her arrival. It didn't matter how many overlords he killed, how many worthless souls he tortured. There was nothing that could take his mind off that.

Alastor wondered what sort of life Y/n had made for herself after his death. He wondered if she had found love again, held out hope that she hadn't. It was a selfish wish, he knew it. Alastor had always been selfish. It wasn't that he wished for her to be unhappy, just that he knew she was the only person, living or dead, out there for him. There was no hope for Alastor that wasn't Y/n and he wanted her to feel the same way about him. He didn't want to lose, to have been an idiot, to have been the one that loved more. At the same time, he didn't want her to feel that way either. It was complicated and confusing, the twists of his own logic.

Another decade and he began wondering if somehow his beloved wife had gotten into Heaven instead. He knew it was a long shot, after everything she had done but, she had also never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Maybe there was some exception for women who killed their pursuers, when the pursuers were coming on too intensely or had ulterior motives. He wondered if she'd remarried, if she had kids. If she was still on earth, there would have to be something that was keeping her there and that was the only thing that made sense.

Eighty years, as it turned out, had been all he could take. The bird had died and its corpse had rotted, festering into anger. Not anger at Y/n no, never anger at Y/n but anger at the world, at the system of the afterlife. He became bolder, brasher, more foolish. He got caught in a bad deal.

Coming to the hotel had been a command, yes, but it had also ended up being something of a salvation for the man. In the seven years of his disappearance from the rings of Hell, there had been little to distract him from the growing hole of Y/n's absence. It was a hungry thing, a deep seated want, a controlling desire. The hotel served to fill it. Not completely, but a little. It was better than nothing. Besides, for all her violence, Y/n had always had a way of seeing the best in others, in the world around her. He was certain she would have liked Charlie if she ever got to meet her, certain the hotel would shine in his wife's eyes.

Husk and Nifty were the only two who knew. They had both met him when Alastor's focus had been the creation of a world for Y/n, it was impossible for them not to. They had both noticed how as the years had passed, he had said her name less, how he had become crueler. Not even Charlie had in inkling of an idea that Alastor might be missing something, might be unshakable heartbroken. He hid it well.

Even now as he entered the lobby intent on finding Charlie in order to discuss some of the decor on the upper floors, he made sure his smile was firmly fixed in place. A smile was the strongest weapon a person or demon could have, the strongest disguise. He made sure he was never without one.

"So you just arrived today?" he heard Charlie saying as he began to make his way down the stairs.

He could see her by the door, talking to a demon whom her position obscured from his vision. A new guest. Internally, Alastor sighed. This was throwing a wrench into his plans for the day.

"Yeah I... it's all so confusing here. Wonderful in a way, don't get me wrong but... when I heard about your hotel, it seemed safe."

The unknown demon's voice was soft, it pulled at his heart strings. The corpse of the bird was a puppet at its familiarity. It was a sickening feeling, the dead body of his hope being pulled up and twitched around for another's unknowing amusement. Alastor nearly faltered, hesitating on the last step.

"So are you actually interested in redemption?" Charlie asked, sounding downcast.

"Well, I'm not really sure yet. Is that okay? I mean, I just got here today and... either way, I love the idea of your hotel and I want to help. I could work as a maid? Or I'm a pretty good cook? My husband always said so anyways. I'm sort of trying to find someone too so... What I'm trying to say is that I could work until I've figured it out, if that is alright with you?"

Charlie hummed in thought as Alastor began to cross the room, heading straight for the pair.

"It's a bit unorthodox but, I suppose. We could always use another helping hand."

"Really!?" the stranger exclaimed, "Oh thank you!"

Alastor was over Charlie's shoulder practically now. She shifted on her feet, allowing Alastor to at last see the person she was talking to.

"So, what's your name?"

The demon opened her mouth to speak but, before a word could leave her lips, she was interrupted by a static filled voice. It brought back memories, hurt her heart to hear.

"Y/n."

There was no doubt about it. Even in her new demon form, Alastor knew. It was the curl of her hair, it was the brightness of her eyes, the way she held herself. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"When did you get here?" Charlie asked in confusion as she turned to the side, turning the pair into a group of three all facing one another, "Also, you know her? Oh my gosh, wait. Are you okay? I don't think I've ever seen you not smiling before."

Neither payed the princess any mind, each absorbed in one another's eyes. Y/n took a sutering half step forwards, her mouth slightly open.

"Alastor?"

It was barley more than a whisper. She took another step towards him, then yet another. Lifting her hand, she gently cupped it around his cheek. Instinctively, the Radio Demon leaned into the touch.

"It really is you... isn't it."

Alastor pulled Y/n into his arms, wrapping her in his frame and resting his chin on the top of her head. Y/n was frozen in shock for a moment before she returned the gesture, balling her fists in to the back of his coat.

"Wow. You guys really know each other." Charlie mumbled to herself, eyes wide.

The pair pulled apart, Alastor still holding Y/n's waist as Y/n held his coat. She looked up at him, disbelief etched into her features, her sentiments reflected back to her in Alastor's own face.

"I thought..." he mumbled, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Y/n laughed tearfully.

"Me too."

"Where have you been? What happened? What... what took you so long?"

"If I had known I was coming to you, I would have died way sooner. I lived, Al. That's what happened. I only just got here today."

"I know, I heard, but what... what kept you?"

Y/n heard the tremor in his voice, the fear. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Are you jealous?"

Alastor's eyes flicked to the side momentarily. One of his ears twitched. It might have been nearly ninety years since they had last seen one another, they might've looked completely different and had whole lives the other wasn't in, but it felt like they had just seen one another yesterday.

"Oh, you so are!" Y/n teased brightly.

"Y/n."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just dumb is all, especially now I know you've been here all along."

"So tell me."

Y/n had always loved his insistence. It was what kept Alastor to his code, kept him to her, kept him him. She smiled once again.

"Soooo..." Charlie stepped in, her hands behind her back, "Either of you want to explain?"

Both Alastor and Y/n at last turned to look at her. He was smiling again, Charlie noticed. Not the normal ear to ear grin, teeth bared, she was used to. Something smaller, something softer. They released one another, only for Alastor to immediately drape an arm over Y/n's shoulders. It almost seemed like each feared the other would vanish into thin air if they weren't physically touching. She reached a hand up, gently holding his hand where it hung off her shoulder, keeping him to her.

"Charlie, this is my darling, lovely wife."

Y/n shoved him playfully and he smiled down at her.

"You're married!?"

"Yes." Y/n nodded, "We are. Have been for what, like one hundred years now?"

"So what kept you?" Alastor asked again and Y/n sighed.

"You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"

He shook his head. Y/n slipped out from under Alastor's arm, taking both his hands in hers. Her fingers traced his knuckles, the lines of his bones beneath the surface of his skin. Her eyes watched their hands, she sighed.

"After... well, Al, you died burying a body. It was hard for people not to know. I..."

"You got caught? You went to jail?" Alastor interrupted, his smile having fallen once again.

Y/n laughed slightly under her breath.

"No, heart. I stopped my own work but, the whole world knew of yours. I thought that... it was so dumb! I thought that... if I was alive, then so was the real version of you in some way. Not the true crime, vandalized version, but the person I knew."

Alastor lifted her face to his, his hand lingering under her chin.

"You were always secretly quite the romantic, weren't you."

"Oh hush you."

"Make me."

Y/n cheeks suddenly flushed bright red.

"Okay!" Charlie interrupted, laughing nervously, "Okay, well, I'm happy for... this, um, Alastor! Why don't you show Y/n around?"

"With pleasure."

Alastor leaned down, kissing Y/n gently. Her hand was half raised to burry itself in his hair when he pulled away, smirking in response to Y/n's irritated glare. Linking arms with her, he began leading Y/n to the staircase.

"I must say, I rather like this new look of yours." he hummed placidly.

"You're not half bad yourself deer boy, if a little cocky."

"I was always cocky. That's what you liked about me."

"Wrong. It's only one of the things I love about you."

----

Next Part -> Cover Up pt. 3

[littlebatgames]

How to make a powerful, hot vampire you still want to hug

Hi tumblr! I'm Cyrus Nemati, creative director at Little Bat Games, and a voice actor you might know from games likes Hades (I did the really secure guy and the really insecure guy).

We're closing in on the release of our debut title, Vampire Therapist, and based on tumblr's response in the past, I think you might be interested in seeing our creative process.

Andromachos is our 3000-year-old vampire mentor you'll meet early in Vampire Therapist. He's a complicated character: he was an assassin and warrior for most of his 3000 years, but a personal crisis put him on a voyage of self-discovery in the 1800s. Therapy never existed in his time, but as it developed, so did he. We needed a character who expressed wisdom and strength, but also gentleness and compassion. And of course, he's a vampire in a sexy vampire game. He needed to look like a Mediterranean dream.

This was our initial sketch of Andromachos by art director Ruth Bosch (https://x.com/rthbosch). As you can see, he's already oozing confident vampire energy, and he clearly has the wisdom of 3000 years. This is someone you want as your therapist. Vampire Therapist is a game with specific needs, and a certain lightheartedness is one of them. This Andromachos is very much grounded in reality, and just might be *too* realistically sexy.

This was @nomnomroko's first test render for Andromachos before joining the team. Right away, she understood the *figure* of Andromachos and poise of a man who has lived for 3000 years, but this was a more villainous (albeit super hot character). We toned him down shortly after, and brought back in some of the more grounded humanity from Ruth's initial sketch. You can make fan art of this version, though, we won't mind. This version might come back if we ever do a prequel!

Here's his toned down version, already much closer to the Andromachos we see in the final game. He's lost none of his power, but is already the welcoming presence we needed to have in Vampire Therapist.

Body language is also a key aspect of our game. In a game about therapy, we are mostly sitting, so the ways we can express emotion and intention are more subtle. You can already see the strength of Andromachos's character here.

Which takes us to our final rendering!

I love Andromachos. Or Andy, as more familiar folk call him. And I think you will, too. To me, he's a perfect synthesis between Ruth's initial rendering and Sybille's test that fits the comedic, warm, and very human tone of our game.

You can check out our game on Steam and GOG, and your wishlists will make algorithms happy. As you know, everything is algorithms! Help us make Vampire Therapist 2?

Steam:

And GOG:

[v6quewrlds]

LOVE DROUGHT II, JOE BURROW.

pairing⠀⁎⠀joe burrow x oc [chelsea brooks]. word count⠀⁎⠀19.3k.

summary⠀⁎⠀after coming clean about their affair, chelsea and joe are looking forward to their new lives together. there's a few things they have to address first.

author's note⠀⁎⠀chelsea needs to take a deep breath & chill, happy ending :) warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, slut shaming, smut, oral (m. & f. receiving), overstimulation

There was an old saying about perfectionism being the enemy of progress, an elusive ideal that stifled compassion and growth. Chelsea remembered being a teenager, hearing her father scoff at the television when the saying fell off the lips of a political candidate. He grumbled about the world going soft, "Good enough ain't good enough," he insisted, his Georgia drawl thick with disdain, lips curled around a cigar. She didn't think too hard about it then, simply internalizing his words, making them a mantra, a shield to ward off failure.

For the first 30 years of her life, Chelsea had lived by that mantra. She'd become a successful entertainment lawyer, a trophy wife to a neurosurgeon, and the proud owner of a sprawling estate in an affluent neighborhood. But in the quiet moments, when she allowed herself to breathe, it all felt hollow. It was as if the very foundation of her life was a meticulously crafted lie, painted in shades of 'should' instead of 'want'.

For decades she attempted to reconcile her ambition with the expectations placed upon her. She'd studied hard, dressed the part, spoke when spoken to, diminished her desires, all to live up to the expectations of everyone but herself. At 34-years-old she was faced with the realization that her perfection still wasn't perfect enough. Her marriage fell apart and she resented every knee-length dress, every perfectly placed smile, and every decision made with her family's legacy in mind.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Chelsea as she found herself in a perfectly pristine hotel room. The walls were a stark white, unblemished by the fingerprints of time. She took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the space, feeling the weight of their shared secrets dissipate into the stale hotel air.

The chilling realization that her father was utterly wrong settled into Chelsea's bones. Perfectionism was the enemy of progress; an ugly, anxious enemy that whispered doubt in the quiet moments of the night. Her heart raced as she thought about the future she had just bought herself, the one filled with whispers and side-eyes at parties, the one where she had to explain why she left a perfectly good man for the thrill of something new. But as she lay in Joe's arms, she felt something she hadn't in a long time: imperfect.

Joe snored in his sleep, a soft noise barely audible until Chelsea pressed her ear to his chest. His heart was a steady drum, a comforting rhythm that had become a lullaby to her own tumultuous thoughts. She pushed herself up and out of bed, her feet landing softly on the plush carpet. The hotel room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. She grabbed her phone, the screen illuminating her face with a harsh blue light. The time read 2 AM, but sleep felt like a distant memory.

Their hotel room was dressed in black, distant lights from the city outside painting shadows on the walls. Chelsea stood in front of the window, her silhouette dark with the reflection of the streetlights, her mind racing with the evening's potential for drama.

"You okay?" Joe asked, his voice rumbly with sleep as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

Chelsea nodded, but didn't turn around. "Just thinking."

"About what?" He hummed, low and lazy, his breath ghosting over her bare shoulder.

"Everything," she replied, her voice thick with anticipation. "How my colleagues will look at me, what they'll say about me behind my back. I took my ring off," she held up her bare hand, the absence of her wedding band leaving a noticeable difference in color. "But that doesn't change who I was. Who I am."

Joe's grip tightened, pulling her closer so she could feel the warmth of his chest against her back. "You're you," he said firmly. "And I'm proud of you, no matter what anyone else thinks."

With a deep breath, Chelsea turned to face him, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. She nodded, a frown still tugging at her lips. "I know. I'm just..." she sighed, shoulders slumping. "My father hasn't spoken to me since I told him I was leaving Terrence. He thinks I'm throwing away everything we've worked for."

Joe's eyes searched hers, filled with understanding. "Your dad's old school," he said gently. "He'll come around. When he sees how much happier you are, he'll get it."

"That's sweet of you to hope so," she mused bitterly. "The last time I disappointed him, he skipped out on my graduation to golf with his buddies."

Joe's eyebrows furrowed, and he pulled Chelsea closer. "You never told me that," he said, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"It's not a secret or anything," she replied with a shrug, trying to brush off the pain of that memory. "It's just one of those things that I don't like to think about. He blamed me for it, still does. If you ask him, I'm the one who took that experience away from him. I don't even remember what I did. But that feeling... it's stuck with me."

Joe kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. "I'm sorry." His voice was a gentle rumble. "I wish I could take all that pain away."

"You do, Joe," she whispered. "Just by being here, I swear you do. But I have to learn how to stand on my own two feet, stop looking for approval from people who don't understand me." She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "You should go back to bed, it's 2 in the morning."

Joe nodded, his eyes filled with understanding, and kissed her forehead before heading back to the bedroom. Chelsea took one last look at the quiet streets outside before closing the curtains.

Every Wednesday, Joe made the two-hour, or so, drive down to see his parents. It was a ritual that had been ingrained in him since he was in college at Ohio State, a way to maintain a connection to his roots, to the people who had raised him, and to the simpler times of his past. With his brothers engrossed in their own lives, thousands of miles away, Joe had become the de facto caretaker of their aging parents. And despite his own life being in upheaval, the routine remained unchanged.

For the last eleven years of his life, those afternoon trips included brief check-ins with Gianna's parents as well. She didn't typically accompany him on his weekly visits, a fact Joe knew deeply affected them, though they'd never admit it out loud. By all accounts, he was a perfect son-in-law—respectful, successful, and dedicated to his family—it was a comfortable role to play, one that didn't require much deviation from his own nature. But now, as he pulled into the driveway of his parents' modest suburban home, he felt a new kind of anxiety.

It had been a week since he and Gianna called it quits—quite amicably, to his surprise. If he was being honest, it struck him as odd how quickly she settled into a chilling acceptance after hearing him admit to his infidelity. She'd been stoic, almost cold, as she calmly requested he leave, her brown eyes cold and distant. It spoke to a level of detachment that Joe hadn't begun to understand. He knew he'd hurt her, but the absence of tears, the lack of shouting, left him feeling as though he hadn't hurt her at all. Maybe it was shock, or maybe their marriage had been over for a long time, and they'd both been too comfortable to admit it.

He shut off the engine to his Land Rover, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had been building during the drive. The house was quiet as he let himself in, the scent of his mother's famous lasagna wafting from the kitchen.

"Ma, I'm home," Joe called out, his voice echoing through the hallways.

"In the kitchen, sweetheart," his mother's voice sang out.

Joe stepped in, his stomach rumbling at the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and tomato sauce. Robin bustled around the kitchen, her pristine blonde hair tied back in a neat bun. She looked up from her work, a smile breaking out on her round face as she spotted him. "Oh, Joey," she greeted, arms opening wide for a hug.

He embraced her, feeling the warmth of her love wrap around him like a blanket. "How are you, Ma?"

"Better now that you're here," she said, her eyes scanning him with concern. "You look tired. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Joe forced a smile. "Some. Thanks for worrying." He leaned against the counter, watching her stir the pot with a practiced hand. "Is Dad home? I've been meaning to talk to you both."

"He's in the attic. We finally took the Halloween stuff down," his mother said, her eyes not leaving the bubbling sauce. "But he'll be down in a bit."

Joe nodded, his stomach twisting with nerves. This was going to be the first time he'd break the news to them, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He knew they'd be disappointed, maybe even a little ashamed. But he owed it to them to be honest.

The door to the attic creaked open, and Joe's dad descended the stairs, a dusty box in his hands. Jimmy was rosy-cheeked, a soft-spoken man from Mississippi with a gentle smile. "I found some of your old baseball trophies," he said, setting the box down. "Thought you might want 'em."

Joe took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his impending confession. "Thanks, Dad," he said, "but I actually need to talk to you guys." He took a seat at the kitchen table, his mother's eyes flicking to his, a hint of worry creasing her brow.

"What's going on, Joe?" his dad asked, setting down the box and taking a seat across from him. His eyes took note of the tan line adorning his son's left ring finger, and his gaze grew solemn, having anticipated this moment for years.

"It's about Gianna and I," Joe began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "We've decided to get a divorce."

The kitchen, once filled with the comforting aroma of his mother's cooking, grew tense, the air thick with the weight of his words. His parents exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them, before his mother spoke, her voice gentle. "Oh, Joe, we're so sorry to hear that." Her hand reached out to cover his, the warmth and love in her touch a stark contrast to the cold reality of his situation.

His father, usually a stoic man, cleared his throat. "Would you like to talk about it?" His eyes searched Joe's, looking for a hint of what was really going on beneath the surface.

Joe took a deep breath. "It's complicated," he admitted. "I was unfaithful." He watched as his mother's eyes filled with shock and sadness, while his father's jaw tightened. "I know it's not an excuse, but we've been growing apart for a long time. And then I met Chelsea..."

His father's expression grew stern. "Is she the reason for all of this?"

Joe shook his head, feeling the burden of his actions pressing down on him. "No, she's not 'the reason'. This was my choice, my mistake. I just... there's a lot of pain here, Dad, and I'm trying to figure out how to live with it." His father's expression softened slightly, but the disapproval remained. "I know you're disappointed in me, and I don't blame you. But I need you two to understand that I've filed for divorce, and that's it."

His mother's grip on his hand tightened. "What about... Chelsea, is that her name?" she asked, her voice tentative. "Is she going to be a part of your life now?"

Joe nodded, his throat tightening. "Yeah, she is." He took a deep breath. "We're going to see where it goes."

His father leaned back in his chair, his eyes reflecting a mix of emotions. "Well, Joe," he said, his voice gruff, "you know we're here for you. But you've got a mess to clean up, son. Don't go rushing into anything without thinking it through."

Joe nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I know, Dad. I'm not planning to." He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "But I do love her. And I wanted to have this conversation with you guys first before... before it goes public."

His mother reached out and touched his cheek gently. "We just want you to be happy, Joe," she said, her eyes misting over. "But you need to consider the consequences, not just for yourself, but for Chelsea and Gianna too. They're both going to be scrutinized, publicly and privately, because of your actions."

Joe nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain and desires that he had not fully considered the ripple effect of their choices. "I know," he murmured, "and I'll do whatever it takes to protect both of them."

His father sighed, leaning forward. "Is it too soon to meet her? Your mother's right, we don't want to jump into anything. But if you're serious, we need to know what we're getting into."

Joe felt a wave of relief. It wasn't the outright rejection he had feared. "We're taking it slow," he assured them. "But I do want you to meet her. Soon. I'll ask her to come for dinner once things are a bit more settled."

"Sounds like a plan," his mother said with a gentle smile. "I can't say I'm surprised that you two are going your separate ways." Jimmy nodded solemnly, "I knew something was off when you didn't bring her to the last family gathering."

Joe's heart sank a bit at the realization that his family had noticed the strain in his marriage before he had been willing to admit it to himself. "I'm sorry," he said, looking down at his hands.

His mother reached across the table, her hand warm on his arm. "Don't apologize," she said firmly. "You're human, Joe. You make mistakes. What's important is that you learn from them and own up to them."

Joe nodded, his eyes brimming with gratitude. "I know," he said, his voice thick. "But it's hard not to feel like a complete fuck-up. I gave up everything for my marriage and yet, here I am. Divorced at 36."

"You're not a failure," his father said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You're a man who realized he wasn't happy and had the courage to change his life. That takes guts."

Joe looked up, surprised at the support from his usually stoic father. It was a side of him he hadn't seen often, and it made him feel a bit more hopeful about the future. "Thanks, Dad," he murmured, feeling a lump form in his throat.

"But Joe," his father continued, "You have to be ready for the whispers, the judgments. You're not just any man, you're Joseph Burrow, you're our son, an executive, Gianna's ex-husband. Your choices will have consequences."

Joe nodded, understanding the gravity of his decision. "I know, Dad. But I've never felt like this before. With Chelsea, it's... different."

"Love is a powerful force, son," his mother said softly, taking his hand. "But it's not just about feelings. It's about actions, and the ripples they create. We're here for you, but you must be prepared for what's to come."

Joe nodded solemnly, knowing that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. Despite the comfort of his family's understanding, the thought of facing the judgment of their social circles was daunting.

The first instance of judgment came sooner than expected. A week later, Joe found himself at a high-profile gala with Chelsea on his arm, her emerald-green dress hugging her curves and her eyes sparkling with excitement. She had insisted on taking him, eager to finally have a date she could proudly introduce to her colleagues. As they mingled among the glitz and glamour, whispers and side-long glances followed them like shadows. It was clear that news had spread.

In the year since Chelsea had joined the firm's roster of junior partners, Terrence had never once accompanied her to any work events. The glitz and glamour of her job was something he'd always found tedious, preferring the sterile halls of the hospital to the fake smiles and forced conversations at galas. The casual insult of "day drinking with celebrities" always came to mind when she stood lonely at the bar, nursing a Manhattan on her own just to show her face. Her colleagues were aware she was married, her sparkling diamond ring serving as a constant reminder that she was off-limits. But tonight, as she stood in a stunning emerald dress next to Joe, matching bare ring fingers, the puzzled faces of her colleagues spoke volumes.

To their credit, most of them hid it well. Between polite greetings and questions about Joe's athletic past, the whispers grew quieter as the evening progressed. Chelsea felt like a spectacle, her heart racing with every sideways glance. The weight of their secret hung in the air, a heavy burden that grew heavier with each passing minute. She knew that Joe was feeling it too; she could see the tension in the way he held his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. But he played the part of the charming dinner date flawlessly, making small talk and laughing at the right moments, all while keeping a protective arm around her waist.

She knew she was being paranoid, but every whispered word seemed to be about them. She could almost hear the murmurs of "neurosurgeon" and "divorce" as they circulated through the room. The atmosphere grew stifling, and she could feel herself retreating into the cocoon of insecurity that seemed to be an undesirable, familiar companion. She took a sip of her wine, trying to keep a smile plastered on her face while they mingled, charms working overtime.

"You okay?" Joe whispered into her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

She could only allow a tight-lipped nod, eyes scanning the room for a friendly face. "I'm fine," she murmured, shifting uncomfortably in her dress. The evening was a sea of judgmental glances and knowing nods from the older partners, each one feeling like a knife twisting in her gut.

Joe squeezed her hand gently. "You're doing great, babe."

Chelsea didn't respond, her eyes lingering on a group of her colleagues who had just exchanged a look in her direction. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, their gazes dissecting her every move. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she took another gulp of wine, hoping it would dull the ache.

Suddenly, the music grew louder, and the conversations around them swelled into a cacophony. Chelsea could feel herself shrinking by the minute, her pulse racing, the walls closing in on her. "I think we should go," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I can't—"

Joe nodded, his eyes full of understanding. "Okay, we can go," he said, cutting off her sentence. His hand on her waist guided her through the crowd, the murmurs and glances of their colleagues following them like a shadow. The cool night air hit Chelsea's face like a slap, bringing her back to reality as they stepped out of the grand hotel.

She was fidgety, uncharacteristically so, as they waited for the valet to bring Joe's car around. He could feel the tension radiating off her, her body stiff against his. "Chelsea, it's okay. They're just people, they'll get over it," Joe tried to comfort her, his voice low and steady.

She didn't respond. Lips tightly pressed together, Chelsea stared into the distance, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. The valet pulled up, and Joe opened the door for her, his hand lingering on the small of her back as she slid into the seat. He knew her well enough to recognize the signs of an impending breakdown.

The drive back to her temporary apartment was filled with tension. Chelsea's silence was deafening, and Joe felt his heart racing, wondering if he had made a mistake by accompanying her tonight. They had both known it would be tough, but he had hoped the excitement of their new life together would outweigh the judgmental stares, outweigh the whispers.

When they finally arrived, Chelsea bolted from the car before Joe could even turn off the engine. He followed her through the lobby, her heels clacking against the marble as she rushed inside. The elevator opened for them, and she stepped in, her eyes avoiding his. The ride up to their floor was uncomfortably silent, the air thick with unspoken accusations and hurt feelings.

Once inside her apartment, she let out a frustrated sigh and kicked off her shoes, her eyes brimming with tears. "I can't do this," she said, her voice shaking. "I can't be the other woman, Joe. It's not who I am. I've worked too hard to build this career, to have people look at me like that."

Joe stepped closer, his own emotions a tempestuous sea. "You're not the other woman, Chelsea," he said, his voice firm. "You're the woman I love. And I'm not asking you to hide or be someone you're not. But we can't change who we are or what's happened. All we can do is move forward together."

If she heard him, she didn't process his words. She stormed off to the bathroom, the undecorated walls echoing her pain. Joe knew better than to follow her immediately. He took a deep breath, loosening his tie, and leaned against the wall. His jacket of his suit felt like it was suffocating him, a symbol of the expectations he had failed to meet.

The bathroom door remained closed, but Chelsea's sobs echoed through the barrier. The sound pierced through the walls, resonating with Joe's own guilt. He had promised her a life without the shackles of their past, but here they were, entangled in the mess of their choices. He knew their relationship would be scrutinized, but he didn't anticipate the impact it would have on her self-worth.

He took off his shoes and wandered into the living room, his eyes scanning the boxes that still littered the floor. Their whirlwind romance had led to a hasty move-in, Chelsea surrendering the territory of her home to Terrence, choosing to start fresh in a studio downtown, just a few minutes from her firm. It was smaller than she had grown used to since college, having already been married to Terrence by the time she entered law school a decade ago. Joe had no intention of moving in anytime soon. Instead, he was quietly searching for the perfect place for them to start over whenever they were ready.

The sound of her sobs coming to a slow stop brought him back to reality. He took a deep breath and approached the bathroom door, gently knocking. "Chelsea?" he called out, his voice low and soothing. "You okay?"

There was a moment of silence before she opened the door, silent tears still glistening on her cheeks. She stepped into his embrace, allowing him to hold her close as she cried. "I'm sorry," she murmured against his chest, "I just... can you help me out of my dress, I can't reach the zipper."

Joe nodded, his heart heavy with the burden of her pain. He unzipped her dress and helped her step out of it, his gentle touch a stark contrast to the harsh reality they were now facing. "Let's get you into something more comfortable," he murmured, guiding her to the bed.

Chelsea slipped into a pair of soft pajamas, her body still trembling from the evening's events. She sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. "I'm sorry, I look like a mess," she sighed, wiping at the stray mascara that had smeared under her eyes.

Joe sat beside her, his own emotions a tangled web of love, guilt, and fear. "You don't have to apologize for being upset," he said, taking her hand in his. "What happened tonight isn't on you. We knew this would be tough."

Chelsea nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I just can't shake the feeling that I've ruined everything I've worked so hard for," she whispered. "My colleagues, my reputation..."

Joe squeezed her hand. "You haven't ruined anything, Chelsea. You've made a choice to be happy. That's not a crime." He paused, pulling her face to rest against his shoulder. "But I understand how you feel. We'll get through this together, I promise."

They sat in silence for a while, the quiet of the night wrapping around them like a blanket. Chelsea felt the weight of Joe's words, and gradually, the tears subsided. "I need you to do something for me, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way," she said finally.

"Anything," Joe responded, his voice a gentle rumble against her ear.

Chelsea took a deep breath. "I need to be alone tonight. Just for a little while. To think, to process everything."

He could feel his heart sink as she pulled away from him, the warmth of her body leaving a cold emptiness in its place. "Okay," Joe said, his voice tight. "If that's what you need." His eyes searched hers, looking for a hint of doubt, but all he saw was determination. He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he stood up and began to dress.

As he walked to the door, Chelsea's voice stopped him. "Thank you," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

Joe turned, his eyes full of unspoken words. "You don't have to apologize," he replied, untrusting of his own words to say much more. With one last look, he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

The click of the lock was like a gunshot in the quiet, and Chelsea felt the finality of their conversation resonate through her. She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with thoughts of her new life with Joe, her career, and the inevitable whispers that would follow their every move. The walls of her apartment felt like they were closing in, and she realized she had never felt so exposed and alone in such a crowded city.

That sad insistence that she had worked too hard to be reduced to a stereotype, to be seen as just another woman who couldn't keep her husband, haunted her. It was a narrative that she had always feared, and now, it was knocking at the door of her newfound happiness with Joe. Her career was her sanctuary, the one place where she felt in control, but now, she wondered if it would ever be the same. Would her colleagues look at her with pity or contempt? Would they whisper behind her back about the scandalous affair that had ended her marriage?

She figured it was symbolic of her new freedom that she was now requesting Joe to stay away, after fighting so hard to break free from Terrence's embrace. But she needed the solitude to sort through the chaos in her head. She needed to come to terms with the fact that their love story was no fairy tale; it was messy, filled with infidelity and heartbreak.

As much as she tried to ignore it, they had hurt people. Terrence's heart was shattered, and even though Joe had promised her that Gianna knew about his infidelity and had accepted it, Chelsea couldn't shake the guilt that clung to her like a second skin. She knew that their relationship would be under a microscope, scrutinized by everyone they knew, and possibly even by strangers who knew more about them than Chelsea would like. But this feeling, this  one she had when Joe held her, the way he looked at her, it was like nothing she had ever felt with Terrence. It was raw, it was real, and it was terrifying.

The next morning, the sun peeked through the blinds of her apartment, casting a warm glow on the cold reality of the day ahead. Chelsea checked her phone, expecting a message from Joe, but there was nothing. She told herself that he was probably just giving her space, but the doubt began to creep in. Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe he realized that he couldn't handle the drama that came with her. She took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the tasks at hand.

After a quick breakfast, she headed to work with a determination to keep her personal life from affecting her professional one. She knew the whispers would start eventually, but she was ready to face them with her head held high. As she walked through the gleaming lobby of her law firm, she couldn't help but feel like an imposter. Her heart raced, anticipating the judgmental glances and hushed conversations that would surely follow. But to her surprise, the day went by without incident. Her colleagues were either too polite or too busy to cast her in the role she feared most.

By the time she found the strength to send Joe a text, the sun had set and the city lights twinkled like distant stars.

Missed you today.

She typed. Her thumb hesitates over the send button. She took a deep breath and sent the text, startling when he responded almost immediately.

Couldn't stop thinking about you.

How are you feeling?

Her heart fluttered at his words.

Better.

She replied, deciding to keep the day's events to herself for now.

How about you?

Decent.

Joe responded.

Just dealing with the usual.

Miss you too.

She bit her lip nervously, thumbs hovering over the screen.

Do you want to come over tonight?

She finally asked, craving his comfort.

Dinner? We can talk.

Joe's response was swift.

I'd love to.

Give me an hour to wrap up here, and I'll be on my way.

Relief flooded Chelsea.

Perfect.

She replied with a smile.

I'll make something special.

We'll make something special.

He corrected her words. She could practically hear the smile in his voice, the slow drawl of that Midwestern ease dripping like honey from his pink lips.

I'll grab some wine on the way?

Sounds perfect.

She responded, her shoulders relaxing at the thought of a cozy evening in.

As she waited for Joe, Chelsea bustled around her apartment, setting the table with her best dishes and lighting candles to cast a warm glow over the space. She felt nervous, like a teenager before her first date, unsure of what the future held. Clammy hands smoothed down her matching loungewear set, a simple gray number that whispered sophistication and comfort. She had spent hours agonizing over the menu, finally settling on a roast chicken with herb-crusted potatoes and a side of greens—simple but delicious.

The door buzzer rang, and she took a deep breath before striding over to let Joe in. He looked as handsome as ever in his work slacks and a white button-down shirt, his arms laden with a bouquet of roses and a bottle of wine. The sight of him made her stomach flip-flop with excitement and anticipation. "You didn't have to," she said, taking the wine and setting it on the counter.

"I know," he replied, kissing her cheek. "But it's not every day I get to have a cozy night-in with my girlfriend."

The word 'girlfriend' hung in the air, a sweet promise of normalcy amidst the chaos of their situation. Chelsea took a moment to savor it, attempting to suppress the shy smile that tugged at her lips. Strong, capable hands found hers, pulling her into his chest as he whispered, "I was worried about you last night."

Her heart melted into his embrace, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. "I just needed some time to think," she murmured. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Don't be," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "I know this isn't easy for either of us." He brushed a lock of hair from her face, his eyes searching hers. "But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. When I said I was gonna be here for you, I meant that shit. You won't be able to get rid of me now, even if you tried."

They both laughed, the tension easing slightly. Chelsea felt the warmth of Joe's affection seep into her, filling the cracks that had formed in her heart. She took a step back, taking in the sight of him in her kitchen. "So?" she asked, changing the subject. "Girlfriend, huh? That's a big step for a man who's still technically married."

Joe's smile grew more earnest. "Yeah, it is," he agreed, placing the wine on the counter. "But I'm not letting you go, not now." He took her hands in his again, squeezing them gently. "And I'm going to make sure everyone knows it." He pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, those ocean blue eyes of his engulfing her in a sea of warmth.

"Well, let's not rush into any grand announcements just yet," Chelsea said, trying to keep her voice light, though her heart raced at his words. "I want to enjoy this, us, without thinking about what's next."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. He knew she needed time to process everything, to feel secure in their newfound love before they faced the outside world. He kissed her forehead gently. "Okay, baby. We'll take it slow. But remember, I'm not going anywhere. You need comfort, I'm there. You need to talk, I'll listen."

Chelsea nodded as she swallowed back tears��happy tears this time. Warmth spread through her chest, simmering soft and slow, bubbling over with a decadence she hadn't felt in a long time. She leaned into Joe, feeling the solidity of him, the rhythm of his heart beating a steady drum against her. For a moment, everything was perfect.

Warmth spread to her face as he nudged her chin up to meet his eyes. Then he was leaning down, kissing her, and the whole world fell away. The taste of him was familiar yet new, a heady mix of comfort and excitement. His hands were everywhere—cupping her face, tracing her spine, pulling her by the waist.

He pulled away first, laughing softly as she followed his lips with a pout. "I'm starving," he murmured in that soft, gruff voice of his that never failed to make her insides melt. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I've got a chicken in the oven, do you mind starting on the potatoes? I'll get the greens going," Chelsea suggested, ignoring the flutter of her heart from the mundane domesticity of the evening.

Joe nodded, a small smile playing on his lips as he set the roses down onto the counter, turning to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. "Hand me a knife," he said, rolling up his sleeves. Chelsea handed it to him, watching as he effortlessly peeled and chopped the potatoes with a confidence she had never seen him have in the kitchen before. It was a strange sight, seeing this powerful, in-control man in her space, doing something so ordinary.

"You're staring, babe," Joe said, catching her gaze with a teasing smile.

"Sorry," Chelsea said, meeting his gaze before paling away. "It's just... you look so at home."

Joe paused in his task, looking up at her with a knowing smile. "Does it make you feel warm and fuzzy? Seeing me all domesticated?"

Chelsea couldn't help but laugh at his teasing tone. "It's just... I'm not used to seeing you like this. It's kind of hot, actually," she admitted, watching his muscles flex as he worked, white button-up rolled to his elbows.

"You should see me fold laundry," Joe said with a wink, making her laugh harder.

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur of laughter, the smell of roasting chicken and simmering greens filling the air. Chelsea felt a sense of peace she hadn't experienced in a long time as they worked together in the kitchen. The conversation was light, but the connection was deep. They sat down to eat at her small dining table, the candles she lit flickering across their faces, casting a warm glow on their makeshift dinner for two.

As Joe told a story about sneaking out to his first high school party, Chelsea couldn't help but remember her first impression of him when they first met over a year ago: Old Hollywood handsome.

Crystal blue eyes, a strong jaw, and a charming smile had been the first things she noticed. Followed by the way he carried himself—so confident and self-assured, unflappable despite the difficult decisions he had been forced to make. Now, as she watched him laugh at his own antics, she realized she had fallen in love with the man behind the mask. His vulnerability was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the stoic exterior he was most comfortable presenting to the world.

They finished their meal, and Chelsea cleared the plates, placing them in the sink with a gentle clank. She turned to find Joe's eyes on her, a softness that she hadn't seen before. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "For giving me this... this normalcy."

Chelsea felt her cheeks warm. "It's nothing," she said, shrugging off the praise. "We're just having dinner, like everyone else."

Joe stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. "But not everyone has you," he murmured, his breath tickling her neck. "I'm really lucky." Gentle hands moved her hair to the side, his face dipping down to kiss her neck.

Chelsea's heart fluttered, and she leaned into his embrace, feeling his warmth and love surround her. She closed her eyes, letting the comfort of his arms wash over her. "I know it's not going to be easy," she whispered, "but I want this. I want us."

Joe's hands tightened around her waist. "I know, baby," he said, his voice low and earnest. "We'll figure it out. I promise."

She turned in his arms, her eyes searching his. "I love you," she said, soft and assured. The words felt right, like a puzzle piece that had finally clicked into place. He didn't respond right away, smiling slightly as he studied her.

"I love you too," Joe finally said, his voice thick with emotion. It was a declaration that seemed to hang in the air, weighty and real. He leaned in and kissed her, and she melted into him, feeling the warmth of his love wrap around her all over again. Their kiss grew deeper, more passionate, as the intensity of their confession grew.

Breaking apart, Joe kissed her nose, both of her cheeks, her chin, the corner of her mouth, before settling on her lips once more. They stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, basking in the glow of their confession. Chelsea felt the warmth spread, humming with satisfaction as he lifted her up, carrying her to her bedroom.

Chelsea fell back against the bedsheets with a sigh, feeling the heat of Joe's body pressed against hers. Her legs spread willingly as his hand trailed up her thigh, teasing the edge of her panties. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as she arched her back, urging him closer. The sound of his zipper echoed through the room, and she felt him push inside her, filling the emptiness that had plagued her for so long.

Whimpers and moans pressed through their lips, the headboard beginning to thump rhythmically against the wall. The world outside faded away, leaving only Joe and Chelsea, lost in the sanctity of their love.

Her head tilted back, allowing him access to her neck as he attached his lips to her burning skin. His hands roamed her body, re-exploring every curve and line, as if trying to commit her to memory. The feeling of his skin against hers was electric, setting her nerves alight with each caress. Chelsea's breath hitched as Joe's hand slipped down to her clit, whimpering almost helplessly as he coaxed her on in that drawl of his.

"Jesus, Chelsea," Joe groaned, his movements becoming more urgent. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Chelsea's eyes fluttered shut as she felt Joe's hand tighten on her hip, his other hand still playing with her clit, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. She could feel her orgasm approaching, a wave of pleasure that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. She grabbed his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she held on tightly.

"I'm gonna come," she panted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Joe groaned, his eyes never leaving hers as he picked up the pace. "Come for me, baby," he murmured, his own climax building.

The wave broke, and Chelsea whimpered out, her body convulsing as the orgasm washed over her. She felt Joe's grip tighten even more, his own release following closely behind. They collapsed onto the bed, both panting and sweaty, their hearts racing in sync.

After a few moments, Joe pulled out and rolled onto his back, taking Chelsea with him. She laid her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. He wrapped an arm around her, his fingers soothing small circles into her skin as he sighed contentedly. Chelsea laid a peck to his collarbone before rising out of bed to clean herself up. He followed after her, taking silent turns in the bathroom, the easy domesticity from earlier bleeding into this moment of post-coital bliss. His hand brushing past her waist, her back leaning against his chest, it all felt so natural.

"Are you staying the night?" fell from her lips as his arms wrapped around her. Chelsea allowed her shoulders to relax, exhaling with a deep sigh.

He nodded in the mirror, his reflection showing a gentle smile. "If that's what you want, of course," he said, kissing the bit of skin that peeked out from underneath the collar of the t-shirt she threw on during her stumble to the bathroom.

"It's what I want," she whispered, turning to face him. She searched his eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation, but found only love and reassurance. Joe pulled her closer, his warmth seeping into her as they stood in the bathroom's soft glow. "Stay," she whispered, eyes fluttering closed as he kissed her again.

They curled up in bed, the cool sheets wrapping around their sweat-slicked bodies. Chelsea felt the tension of the day melt away with each of Joe's gentle strokes on her back. As the night grew deeper, their whispers grew softer, until all that remained was the steady rhythm of their breathing.

Dissolution. That was what Joe and Gianna had agreed to: a mutual decision, a signed separation agreement, and a dissolution petition. It was supposed to be simple, they both thought. But as the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into months, it became clear that nothing about their unraveling marriage was straightforward.

Joe glanced at his watch, his leg anxiously bouncing up and down as he waited for Gianna to walk through the door. They had arranged to meet with their respective lawyers today to finalize the details of their divorce. It had been five months since Joe last saw Gianna. The celebrity chef had thrown herself into work, bouncing from show to show, flying around the world to add to her culinary repertoire. To the untrained eye, it seemed benign, but to Joe and the murmurs of worry his parents echoed from their brief conversations with Gianna's parents, it was clear she was running from something. But Joe couldn't blame her.

"We've been waiting for 10 minutes," his lawyer, Audrey, said with a sigh, checking her own watch. "Any indication she'll show up?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, she'll be here. She's just... it's Gianna. She'll be here."

Dalton, a gruff redheaded man with a perpetual five o'clock shadow, stepped back into the room, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "I can't reach her. Maybe she's stuck in traffic?"

Joe's stomach knotted. It wasn't like Gianna to be this unprofessional. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional cough from Audrey. Just as he resolved to attempt to call her, she came stumbling in. All of a sudden, Joe was reliving every moment of their relationship. The way she looked when she was stressed, the way her eyes searched the room for something to anchor her when she was overwhelmed. But today, there was something else, the realization that eleven years of marriage were coming to an end in this cold conference room.

There were three things most people immediately understood about Gianna. The first was her magnetism, a vibrant energy that drew people in and spun them around, leaving them dizzy with elation in her wake. The second was her easy collectedness. Joe couldn't remember ever seeing her frazzled, she was always punctual, easygoing with a bright smile. The third was her beauty, a beauty that was both effortless and deliberate. So when she stumbled into the conference room, her cheeks flushed and her hair a wild mess, Joe knew something was seriously wrong.

"Sorry! Sorry, I overslept," Gianna gushed, her breathing ragged as she took her seat across the table from Joe. She looked flustered, her full, dark curls disheveled in a way that made Joe's heart ache. The sight of her, so obviously distressed, brought a rush of memories and emotions that he had been trying so hard to keep at bay.

Her lawyer, Dalton, cleared his throat, looking equally surprised by her demeanor. "Well, let's get started, shall we?" He shuffled his papers, glancing between Joe and Gianna with a practiced neutrality.

Joe's heart was racing, his mind trying to piece together the puzzle of her sudden erratic behavior. "You okay?" he whispered, leaning in slightly.

Gianna took a deep breath, her eyes flicking to him briefly before focusing on her clasped hands in her lap. "Yeah, I'm fine," she murmured, a hint of irritation in her voice. "Just flew in late."

The meeting began, the lawyers exchanging pleasantries before diving into the nitty-gritty of their assets and the terms of their separation. The split was easy enough: Joe would get the winery, and Gianna would keep the restaurant. Joe would remain an investor in her merchandising line, ensuring she had financial support without them being entangled in each other's finances. But as the discussion grew more intense, Gianna's agitation grew palpable. She fidgeted in her chair, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the lawyers concluded their initial points. "If there's nothing else," Dalton began, but was quickly interrupted by Gianna. "Wait, there's something I need to say." She took a deep breath, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests.

Joe leaned forward, his stomach twisting into a knot. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Joe," Gianna started, her voice shaky, "I need to tell you something. Can we speak outside for a moment?"

Joe nodded, his curiosity and concern piqued. They stepped into the hallway, the silence stretching like a tightrope between them. She took a deep breath, her eyes avoiding his gaze. "I've been writing a memoir," she blurted out, the words hanging in the air like shrapnel. "My agent says it's going to be big. It's about... everything. Our marriage, my career, being in the public eye."

Joe felt the blood drain from his face. "Does it include...us?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

Gianna looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't write about my life without including you. But Joe, I want you to know, I haven't been totally honest with you. There's things I talk about in the book... things I've done that you don't know about."

The confession hung heavy in the air, and Gianna looked away. Joe's expression remained stoic, a wall she couldn't penetrate. "What things?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"I was unfaithful too," she admitted, her voice trembling. "It was before...before everything with you and Chelsea. But it's in there. It's part of my story."

Joe felt the world tilt on its axis. "What?" he asked, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

Gianna nodded, her eyes pleading for understanding. "I know it's a lot to take in," she said, her voice shaking. "But I had to tell you before it all comes out. Before it's too late and you're blindsided. I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

Joe felt the blood drain from his face, his mind racing. "When? How long?" he managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Up until a week before you came clean," Gianna replied, her voice heavy with regret. "It was with a producer from the network. We met on my trip to Patras. I thought it was a one-time thing but it kept happening, and I couldn't stop seeing him."

Joe felt his stomach churn, the room spinning around him. He would be lying if he said he wasn't expecting something like this, but the actuality of it was like a sledgehammer to his chest. That trip to Patras, Greece took place nearly three years ago, right when he had started to feel the cracks in their marriage. For years he had held onto the idea that their issues were solely his fault, that he had been the one to pull away. He forced himself to believe that if he had just been a better husband, their marriage could have been saved. Now, as he sat across from the woman he had shared his life with, the truth was laid bare—they were both guilty of the same sins.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath. "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was tight, a mix of disbelief and betrayal.

"Because I was scared," she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Scared of losing you, scared of losing everything we had built together. And when I found out about you and Chelsea, I thought maybe it was the writing on the wall. It felt like a get out of jail free card, a way to atone for my mistakes."

Joe stared at her, his expression a tumult of emotions. "You lied to me. You fucked around and didn't even have the guts to tell me?" The anger in his voice was palpable, the room seemingly closing in around them. "Is that why you were acting so weird when I told you?"

Gianna's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I knew that it would be hypocritical, but I didn't know how to tell you. I thought if you found out, it would be easier if it was part of a larger story, one that showed us both as imperfect."

Joe began to pace before her. "So you're going to air all of our dirty laundry in this book? For what? Closure?" His voice grew louder, the anger bubbling over. "When was the last time you saw your parents? Did you think about what this will do to them?"

Gianna looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. "I'm sorry, Joe," she said, her voice breaking. "But I had to tell the truth. I owe it to myself, to us, to everyone who's ever believed in us."

Joe's eyes searched hers, trying to find some semblance of the woman he had once loved. "What about your career?" he asked, his voice softer now. "I can take the fallout, but your restaurant... your show... this could ruin everything you've worked for."

Gianna sniffled, looking up at him with a glimmer of hope. "Maybe it's time for a new chapter," she said, her voice shaky. "Maybe this is the push I need to finally be honest with everyone, including myself."

Joe nodded, his throat tight with emotion. "If that's what you truly want, I'll support you," he managed to say, his voice cracking. "We should head back." He didn't wait for her to acknowledge him, simply turning around and walking back to the conference room, shoulders stiff, jaw set. The lawyers looked at them with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity.

As they signed papers, Joe felt as if he was trudging through fog. The words on the documents blurred together, his mind racing with the revelations of the day. The weight of their shared secrets had shifted the foundation of their marriage, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

Their lawyers' voices grew distant as Joe and Gianna exchanged glances, both lost in their own world of regret and recrimination. The room was cold, the silence punctuated only by the scratch of pens and the occasional clearing of a throat.

And then it was done. The lawyers exchanged polite nods and the papers were filed away. Joe felt a strange mix of relief and dread as he walked out of the office. The reality of their divorce was now etched in legal ink, a stark reminder of the life they had built together, now being dismantled. The penthouse he kept in the city felt empty as he rode the elevator up to it, the echoes of their past laughter and arguments haunting the walls.

Gianna had been surprisingly calm, her eyes never quite meeting his as she signed her name, line by line, sealing the fate of their marriage. Her secret had been the catalyst for their unraveling, but Joe couldn't help but wonder if it had been festering beneath the surface all along. They had been two people playing roles, living in a house of cards that had finally collapsed under the weight of their own truths.

He closed the door behind him, jaw clenched tight as he took in the stray boxes and half-empty rooms. The penthouse had become a reflection of his own life: cold and empty. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, his hand trembling slightly as he twisted off the cap. The cool liquid washed down his throat, but did little to ease the turmoil in his chest.

He missed when life was simpler. When the biggest challenge was deciding what to watch on Netflix rather than navigating the treacherous waters of a failed marriage being presented to him in a new light. He missed being the diligent husband, the provider, the man who had it all figured out. But as he took a long swig of his beer, he knew that wasn't who he was anymore. He was a man in love with another woman, a man who had chosen to break free from a stagnant life that had slipped away from him without his knowledge.

He figured the most upsetting part was that he couldn't even bring himself to be angry. He was just tired. Tired of the lies, the deceit, the feeling that he had been living a lie. The penthouse that had once been a symbol of his success now felt like a prison cell, each room holding a memory that had been tainted by their infidelities.

He needed to get out of there, to clear his head. Without bothering to change, Joe grabbed his keys and headed for the elevator. The night air was crisp, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the penthouse. He got into his car and drove aimlessly, letting the streets of Cincinnati guide him. The lights seemed to blend together until he found himself turning into Chelsea's complex.

She wasn't home yet, the time on his dashboard read 5:15 PM. He knew she would be back soon, probably from some meeting or dinner with her colleagues. His chilled beer dripped condensation into the cupholder as he leaned back in his seat. The silence outside was pierced only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of a bird.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed before Chelsea was knocking on his window, concern etched on her beautiful face. He rolled it down, the smell of her perfume wafting into the car. She looked tired, but the sight of her washed peace over him like a gentle wave. She slid into the passenger seat, her eyes searching his for answers.

"How did it go?" she asked, her voice tentative. He leaned over, his lips lingering against hers as he took in the warmth of her presence. Her featherlight touch brushed through the hairs at the nape of his neck, gentle eyes holding his gaze.

Joe took a deep breath, his heart racing as he spoke. "It's done," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Gianna and I are...we're officially divorced."

Chelsea's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of pain or doubt. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice gentle and soothing.

Joe took another deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. "She told me something today," he began, his voice still heavy with the weight of their conversation. "Something that I didn't know." He paused, looking at Chelsea with a mix of confusion and regret. "Gianna had an affair too."

The silence in the car grew thick, Chelsea's eyes widening in shock. "What?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you serious?"

Joe nodded, his expression a storm of emotions. "Yeah," he said, his voice ragged. "She's writing a memoir. It's all in there—her affair, our divorce, the whole mess. She's going to tell the world." He took a long pull from his beer, his hand trembling slightly. "It's like we're characters in some tragic ass love story."

Chelsea reached over to squeeze his hand. "Oh, baby," she said, her voice soothing, "I'm sorry. Did she give you details?"

Joe's grip tightened around the bottle. "Yeah," he said, his jaw clenched. "It lasted almost three years. Some producer guy she met on one of her shows. She claims it ended a week before she found out about us."

Chelsea felt the weight of his words. "Three years? And you didn't know?"

Joe shrugged, his eyes on the road ahead. "Guess I didn't want to see it," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "But it's over now. Just gotta wait for your divorce to finalize, and then we can start fresh."

"Is there anything I can do?" Chelsea offered, her voice filled with genuine concern. "Booze, a rage room..." she trailed off, biting her lip before whispering, "a blowjob?" suggestively.

Joe chuckled darkly. "That’s sweet, but I'm not sure anything can fix this shit right now." He took a deep breath and glanced at her. "I do have a few things to ask you, though."

Chelsea leaned in, her eyes searching his. "You know I'd do anything for you," she whispered, her hand still playing with his hair. A soft dusking of pink spread across the bridge of his nose as the effects of the alcohol and her touch soothed his nerves.

"I know," Joe murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You're so good to me." His voice dropped, eyes flicking down to her lips before he pressed a series of gentle kisses along her neck. "Thank you for sticking by me through all of this. Being so sweet and understanding. I’m so lucky I get to love you."

"Focus," she laughed, gently pushing him away. "What did you want to ask me?"

Joe took a deep breath, his gaze lingering on her lips before meeting her eyes. "Three things. I want us to go on a real date. You know, not one of those 'we're just friends who happen to be at the same place at the same time' dates. A real, honest-to-god date where we can be together without hiding."

Chelsea felt a thrill run through her. It had been so long since she'd felt that giddy excitement of early romance. "I'd love that," she said, smiling up at him. "Where do you want to take me?"

"Somewhere simple," Joe said, his eyes lighting up at the thought. "Somewhere we can just be ourselves without worrying about running into someone we know." He took her hand, his thumb tracing circles against her palm. "Secondly, I want you to meet my parents."

Chelsea's heart skipped a beat. "Your parents?"

"Yeah," Joe said, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. "I know your parents are still processing everything, so if it's too painful or weird for you, we can wait. But they want to meet you, and I think it's important we start building a life together."

Earnest blue eyes searched hers for any sign of hesitation. Chelsea took a deep breath, her heart racing with excitement and a hint of trepidation. "Okay, let's do it," she said, smiling up at him. "I'll work on my parents, see if they'll be open to meeting you."

"Great," Joe said, his eyes lighting up with relief. "And the third thing is... I know it's a little soon, but I'm looking for a place. A smaller place, something that feels like it could be ours. Away from the city, maybe? What do you think?"

Chelsea's heart fluttered at the thought. A home together, free of the shadows of their past lives. "That sounds amazing," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "I'm tired of these high rises, anyway. Somewhere cozy, with a yard, maybe?"

Joe nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. Somewhere we can build memories. Maybe even get a cat," he teased.

Chelsea laughed, the tension in the room dissipating. "A cat, huh? I thought you'd be a dog person," she said, her smile wide and playful.

"Nah," Joe said, his grin growing, "I've always had a soft spot for cats. They're low maintenance, like me."

Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Sure, if that's what you call leaving your socks everywhere and forgetting to take out the trash," she teased, her voice light and teasing.

Joe chuckled. "Hey, I'm not that bad." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "But seriously, I want to find a place where we can start fresh." His voice grew softer. "A place where we can be ourselves without worrying about what anyone else thinks."

Chelsea's heart fluttered at the thought. "That sounds perfect," she said, her voice filled with longing. "Something new, just for us."

"We can start looking whenever you're ready," Joe said, bringing her knuckles up to his lips and kissing them gently. "But for now, you should probably get out of here. I know you had a long day, I just wanted to see you."

She leaned in to give him a quick kiss, but Joe pulled her closer, deepening it. When they parted, she was left feeling both breathless and slightly dizzy. "Come upstairs," she whispered, her voice filled with want. "At the very least, you're buzzed from the beer, right?"

Joe grinned, his eyes darkening with lust. "I'm definitely buzzed," he said, pulling her in for another kiss. "But I also don't want to keep you up all night."

Chelsea laughed, the tension of the day dissipating. "All night? That's a bold claim." She responded, the two of them exiting his car before her hand was in his, leading him to the elevator. "I only had a blowjob in mind."

Joe raised an eyebrow, his smile growing wicked. "Is that all?" He playfully nudged her into the elevator and pressed the button to her floor. The doors slid shut with a gentle 'ping', and they were left alone in the intimate space. Chelsea's heart raced as Joe stepped closer, their kisses growing more urgent as the elevator ascended.

When they reached her floor, they stumbled out into the hallway, barely breaking apart. Chelsea fumbled with her keys, eager to get him inside. As she unlocked the door, she felt Joe's hands on her hips, his breath hot against her neck. "I want to feel you," he murmured, his voice low and needy.

Chelsea couldn't tell up from down as she straddled Joe in her sparsely furnished living room. She felt herself melt into his arms, kisses feverish and needy. Her hands roamed his broad chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his shoulders. His scent filled her, a heady mix of cologne and something uniquely him that made her stomach flip.

She moaned under his touch, her hips grinding down into his, guided by a need for desperate, passionate that had been simmering for weeks. Their clothes fell away, a tangle of fabric on the floor, leaving them bare and vulnerable in the soft light of the evening. Joe's teeth nipped at her neck, sending shivers down her spine, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Blowjob," she reminded him between kisses, her voice breathless and playful. Joe chuckled, his hands sliding down to her waist, "Is that really what you want right now?"

Her eyes locked onto his, a spark of challenge in their depths. "Just relax," she whispered, her voice thick with desire. He grinned, leaning back to give her space. Chelsea slid down his body, her mouth watering at the sight of him already hard and ready. She slipped his boxers off, taking his length into her warm, wet mouth. Joe's head fell back, a groan escaping his lips as she began to suck and tease him. Her tongue swirled around the tip, her hands gripping the base of his shaft. His hips began to thrust slightly, urging her on as she took him deeper.

Her lashes fluttered as her eyes lifted to meet his gaze, a teasing laugh erupting from her as she pulled back to kitten lick his tip. "Don't look at me like that," he groaned, his hands finding their way to her hair, guiding her movements. Chelsea took him back in, her eyes never leaving his, indulging in the way his chest heaved with every intake of breath. His thighs tensed and his breath hitched as she picked up the pace, her hand stroking in time with her mouth.

She licked a slow stripe up his shaft, smiling when she felt the vein pulse under her tongue. His hands tightened in her hair as she took him in again, deeper this time, her cheeks hollowing with effort. Chelsea savored the moan that vibrated through him as he hit the back of her throat, feeling his thighs quiver with restraint.

"Fuck, Chels, just like that," Joe groaned, his eyes half-closed as he watched her work her magic. The sight of her mouth wrapped around him was more than he could handle. He could feel his orgasm building, the pressure mounting with every stroke of her tongue.

Chelsea looked up at him, a glint in her eye, and took him out of her mouth with a wet pop. "You like that?" she teased, stroking him gently with her hand.

"Fuck, yes," Joe managed, his voice strained. "Don't stop."

With a wicked grin, Chelsea took him back into her mouth, her hand working in tandem with her lips, her tongue swirling around the tip of his cock. She could feel him getting closer, his hips starting to thrust in a rhythm she knew so well. She took him deeper, her eyes watering slightly as she fought her gag reflex. Joe's groans grew louder, more desperate, until finally, with a strangled whine, he came. She swallowed, her eyes stuck on his, watching the pleasure wash over his face.

He collapsed back onto the couch, panting. "Fuck, Chelsea," he breathed, his voice hoarse.

"Feel better?" she asked, her thumb gently wiping at the corner of her mouth.

"Mm," Joe nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "So much better." He reached for her, pulling her into his lap. "Let me return the favor, make you feel good," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire.

"As much as I'd love that," she began, hands holding Joe's jaw steady as he groaned with anticipation, "I have some work to finish up. We picked up a new client at the firm."

Joe leaned back into the couch, his expression a mix of understanding and disappointment. "I can be quick," he offered with a mischievous grin, his hands sliding up her thighs, fingers slipping under the hem of her panties.

"As tempting as that is," Chelsea said, placing her hand over his before shifting them to a more appropriate spot, "I have to get this done. But I promise I'll make it up to you." She kissed him lightly before she slid off his lap, walking away with a sway that made Joe's eyes follow her movements as she collected her clothes.

Joe couldn't help the smirk that played on his lips. He watched her pull on her skirt and blouse, her professional armor back in place, smiling when she handed him his discarded boxers. "I could order in," he offered, standing to dress himself.

"Sounds perfect," Chelsea said, her eyes lighting up at the idea of not having to cook. She grabbed her laptop and settled at the dining table, a warm buzz of arousal still lingering. As she worked, she could feel Joe's eyes on her, his desire not entirely sated. She focused on the screen, trying to push her thoughts back to the legal documents in front of her.

The aroma of Szechuan takeout filled the air as the delivery arrived, and they sat together, their legs intertwined under the table. The candles cast a soft glow over their dinner, creating an intimate atmosphere despite the chaos of the day. They talked about their plans for the weekend—a hike in the nearby mountains, a movie marathon, and maybe even looking at some small houses in the area.

Chelsea felt a sense of contentment she hadn't experienced in a long time. Despite the turmoil that had led them to this point, she knew that Joe was the right choice for her. He understood her, accepted her flaws, and was willing to fight for their love. By the time she curled into him, his bare skin warm and comforting against hers, eyes struggling to stay open, she could feel the earlier tension in his body dissipating.

For as long as Chelsea could remember, she feared her parents. Lee and Shayla Washington had high expectations for their only child. They had groomed her to marry a man of equal social standing, one who could provide a life of luxury and prestige. Terrence Brooks had been their dream son-in-law—handsome, successful, and an MD at that. Joe wasn't far off from their vision—a very successful CFO, but the stigma of his previous marriage to a celebrity, chef or otherwise, was something she wasn't sure they would be able to shake.

The ringtone of the outgoing call to her mother filled Chelsea with dread. She knew the conversation that was about to unfold would not be an easy one. She had rehearsed her words over and over, trying to find the right balance between honesty and respect. Her heels clicked against the floor as she paced back and forth, waiting for the line to connect. Instead of using her hour lunch break to grab something to eat, she found herself hiding in her office, the door locked firmly behind her.

"Hello?" her mother's voice was sharp, almost as if she knew what was coming.

"Hey, Momma," Chelsea began, her voice a little shaky. "How are y'all doing?"

"We're fine, honey." Her mother's tone was measured, hinting at the unspoken question of why she was calling during the workday.

Chelsea took a deep breath, her heart hammering against her chest. "I know we haven't spoken much since I told you and Daddy about Terrence and I," she said carefully, trying to keep her voice steady. "But I'd like for us to sit down and talk about it."

Her mother's sigh was heavy with disappointment. "Chelsea, darling, I'm not the one who needs convincing. I saw the way you and Joe looked at each other. I knew you and Terrence were going through something, so I wasn't surprised when you told us."

The words hit Chelsea like a ton of bricks. She had hoped to ease her mother into the conversation, but it seemed the woman was already a step ahead. "What do you mean, 'the way we looked at each other'?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of accusation.

Her mother's tone was gentle, almost pitying. "You can't hide love, Chelsea."

The revelation stung, but Chelsea pushed ahead, "Well, I want you and Dad to formally meet Joe. He's important to me, and I want all of us to have an honest conversation."

Her mother was silent for a moment before she spoke, her voice measured as she repeated herself, "Chelsea, I'm not the one you need to convince." She paused, the line crackling with unspoken words. "You need to speak to your father. He's the one who's having a hard time with this. He loved Terrence like a son."

Chelsea felt a twinge of anxiety. Her father had always been the strict one, the one who had high expectations for his only child. She knew that his disapproval would cut deeper than her mother's gentle disappointment. "Okay, I'll call him," she said, swiping at a tear that had escaped her eye.

"Your daddy loves you, baby," her mother assured her, "and he'll come around. Just talk to him. He misses you."

Her mother's words hung in the air, a faint echo of hope in the face of an impending storm. Chelsea nodded, trying to believe her. After they said their goodbyes, she sat at her desk, staring at the phone. The conversation with her father had been inevitable, but she had been avoiding it. She took a deep breath, her hand trembling as she dialed his number.

"Hey, Dad," she began, her voice small and tentative. Her heart was racing as the line connected, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between them.

"Chelsea," he greeted, gruffly. "Been a while. Nice to hear from you."

Her stomach flipped. She didn't know how to start, so she took the plunge. "Dad, I know you're upset, and I understand that. But, I had to make a decision for my own happiness. Terrence and I are getting a divorce. End of story." She paused, waiting for his reaction.

The silence was deafening. Chelsea could hear his breathing, slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. "Chelsea, you are my only child. But, I love you too much to allow you to believe your happiness is more important than your legacy," her father finally said, his voice tight with emotion.

Her chest constricted. "Dad, I love you too. And I've never wanted to disappoint you. But I can't live my life trying to make you proud if it means being miserable."

"You think cheating on your husband and moving in with another man is going to make you happy?" His words were like knives, slicing through the phone line and into her heart. "After everything we've built, you're going to throw it away for this... this infatuation?"

Chelsea took a deep breath, her grip tightening on the phone. "This is much deeper than Terrence and Joe, Dad. Every single second of my life has been about your dreams, living up to what you and Mom have told me I should be. And for 34 years of my life, I have been perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect wife. Yet, all it's gotten me is a hollow marriage and a reflection that I don't recognize."

Her father's voice grew softer. "I never meant for you to feel trapped. We just wanted you to have the best life, to marry someone who could provide for you."

"Dad," Chelsea said, her voice trembling. "I need more than just material security. I need to be with someone who values me for more than my pedigree or the status of my last name. I know you love Terrence but he wasn't the right fit for me. Not if I'm being honest with myself."

Her father's silence on the other end was deafening. She could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, trying to process the information she had just laid out for him. "It's that neighbor we met in August, isn't it?" he finally asked.

"It's him," Chelsea replied, her voice firm. "I want you to officially meet him, Dad. His name is Joe. He's a business executive for a tech company, he's kind, he's smart, and he makes me happy. I know it's not what you pictured, but I think you'll like him."

Her father's sigh was heavy and long. "I don't know what to say, Chelsea. This is all so... unexpected."

"If you're worried he's not good enough for me, let me figure that out on my own," Chelsea said, her voice gaining strength. "But if you care about my happiness, then give him a chance."

"Alright," he finally conceded. "Your mother seems to like him. I'll hold off on judging until I get to know him better. But Chelsea, promise me you're doing this for the right reasons."

Chelsea felt a weight lift off her chest. "I am, Dad. I promise. I just want to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted."

Her father's voice softened. "Okay. I know I raised you to be strong. I just want the best for you, you know that."

"Thank you, Dad," Chelsea said, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension. She knew the conversation was far from over, but at least she had planted the seed of acceptance. After they hung up, she released a deep breath and flopped down onto her chair, the tension draining from her body. She stared at the wall, contemplating her next move.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts, and she glanced at her watch, realizing she had lost track of time. Her lunch break was over, and the pile of paperwork on her desk beckoned. With a sigh, she rose to her feet and straightened her skirt before opening the door.

It was one of the more experienced senior partners, an older woman from Columbus named Jaclynn, with a cup of coffee and a concerned expression. "You okay?" she asked, handing her the cup. "You've had the door closed for ages."

"Yeah," Chelsea said, taking the coffee gratefully. "Just had a long call with my dad."

Jaclynn's eyebrows furrowed. "Is everything all right? You've been a bit preoccupied since you rushed out of the gala early."

Chelsea nodded, taking a sip of the hot liquid. "It's a very long story, unfortunately. But I appreciate you checking in on me." Jaclynn's eyes searched hers, and Chelsea knew she wasn't ready to let it go.

"Would you like to talk about it?" she offered, her voice gentle. "I've been through a divorce myself. It's not easy, especially with the work we do, and the personality you need to do it. It's hard feeling like you've failed at something."

Chelsea hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of confiding in a colleague. But something in Jaclynn's eyes made her feel safe, and she found herself spilling the details of her tumultuous year and a half—the move-in, her failed marriage, Joe, and the gala fiasco. Jaclynn listened intently, her expression shifting from surprise to empathy.

"Wow, Chelsea," Jaclynn said, her eyes wide with astonishment once Chelsea had finished her story. "I had no idea you've been going through all that." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "But honestly, all I can tell you is to do what makes you happy. Fuck what everyone else thinks. You've been an amazing addition to the firm, and I've seen firsthand how hard you work. Don't let anyone's judgy stares bring you down."

The genuine support from an unexpected corner of the office was like a warm embrace, and Chelsea felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She laughed, a real laugh, for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "Thanks, Jaclynn. I needed to hear that."

Jaclynn offered a knowing smile. "And just remember, everyone's got their own shit to deal with. They're probably more concerned with keeping their own secrets than judging yours."

Chelsea nodded, feeling a sense of camaraderie she hadn't experienced in the office before. "You're right. Thank you, really."

Jaclynn stood, collecting her things. "Listen, I know it's tough, but you've got this. And if you ever need anything, I'm here." She gave Chelsea's arm a squeeze before heading back to her office.

The squeaky wheels of the metal shopping part echoed down the aisle, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on Joe's stoic face as he navigated the supermarket. Chelsea, a few aisles over, was engrossed in reading the labels on various organic snacks. Taking advantage of a rare, mutual day off, they decided to go grocery shopping together. Embracing the mundane breathed casual intimacy into their relationship, the stress of their jobs momentarily forgotten in search of the perfect avocado.

As Joe rounded the corner with a cart of protein bars and almond milk, in search of Chelsea, his eyes widened. There, in the produce section, was Terrence Brooks, a pair of glasses on the strong bridge of his nose. His own cart carried a reasonable representation of the food pyramid, all organic choices, just like Chelsea. Joe paused, considering his options—turn around, avoid the confrontation, or face the man whose life he had irrevocably changed. But as the universe had a way of doing, Terrence looked up and noticed him, his eyebrows shot up.

For a brief moment, the air grew thick with tension, as if the very molecules of the supermarket were straining under the weight of the unspoken words. Then, with a heavy exhale, Terrence pushed his cart forward, a grim determination etched in his features. Chelsea, blissfully unaware of the impending collision, turned the corner and her eyes widened, freezing her in place. She had hoped to avoid this moment for a while longer, but it seemed fate had other plans.

"Terrence," Chelsea called out, her voice a mix of surprise and resignation. Terrence stopped, his grip on the cart tightening. The three of them faced each other, Joe and Chelsea on one side, Terrence on the other, a frozen tableau of a life that once was.

Terrence took a step forward, his eyes still locked on Joe's. "Chelsea," he said, his voice tight. Chelsea swallowed hard, glancing at Joe, whose eyes never left Terrence's. "What are you doing here?" Terrence demanded, his jaw clenched.

Joe suppressed a scoff, his hands rising in a placating gesture. "Just grocery shopping," he said evenly. "Didn't expect to run into you, man."

"Clearly," Terrence spat, his eyes flitting to the groceries in Joe's cart. "Couldn't leave that to your assistant?"

Joe felt a flare of anger but kept his voice calm. "I can handle my own shopping, thanks."

Terrence's gaze flicked to Chelsea, his expression a toxic mix of pain and anger. "So, this is it then," he said, his voice low. "You're just going to flaunt this in my face?"

Chelsea took a step towards Terrence, her voice firm. "Terrence, this isn't the place for this."

Terrence's eyes narrowed, his grip on the shopping cart tightening. "You're damn right it's not," he spat. "I can't believe you have the audacity to show your face around here with him."

Joe stepped in, his voice calm but firm. "Terrence, we're all just trying to move on. No need to make this more difficult than it already is."

Terrence's gaze remained on Chelsea. "You think you can just replace me?" he hissed, the words cutting through the air like a knife. "Eight years, Chelsea. Eight years of marriage and this is what you do to me?"

Chelsea took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. "I am just grocery shopping, Terrence. You're the one making a scene." She glanced around, noticing the curious stares of other shoppers.

Terrence's eyes searched hers, desperation and anger battling for dominance. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're pathetic," he murmured, low and bitter.

Chelsea felt a sting of hurt, but she knew better than to engage. She stepped closer to Joe, her hand finding its way into his. "Let's go," she whispered, tugging him gently. "It's not worth it."

But Joe didn't budge. He stared at Terrence, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and resolve. "Terrence," he said calmly, "you're hurt, and I get it. But that's not my problem anymore. Chelsea's happy with me, and if you really cared about her, you'd accept that."

"You want me to accept this? I lost my wife because of your mid-life crisis, and you want me to accept that?" Terrence's voice grew harsher, the aisle around them growing quieter as other shoppers pretended not to listen. Chelsea cringed, feeling the eyes on them. "We were perfectly fine until you came along with your happiness bullshit."

"Terrence, that's enough," Chelsea said firmly, her grip on Joe's hand tightening. "You're embarrassing yourself. Just turn around and walk away."

"You want to lecture me about embarrassing yourself?" Terrence laughed. "Chelsea, you couldn't keep your legs closed, and now you expect me to just move on? To accept that this... this man is fucking my wife?" He spat the words out, the corner of his lip pulling into a snarl.

Joe's eyes flashed with anger, and he took a step forward. "Watch your mouth, Terrence."

Terrence stepped closer, their carts almost touching. "Or what?" he challenged. "You'll tell me how you did it? How you took her from me? Give me tips so I can go out and steal someone else's wife too?"

Chelsea's face grew hot, a mix of humiliation and anger simmering within her. She didn't need this, not here, not now. The eyes of the other shoppers burned into her skin like hot embers, and she wished the floor would just open up and swallow them whole. She hated that Terrence had the power to do this to her, to make her feel small and dirty. She hated that Terrence could bring this side out of Joe, that he should be the one to protect her "dignity" as if she was the only one who had been imperfect in their marriages.

Joe's hand shot out, grabbing Terrence's shoulder. "I said watch your mouth," he warned, his voice low and menacing. "You don't get to talk about her like that."

Terrence shrugged off Joe's grip, his eyes flashing with rage. "Or what, you'll hit me in front of all these people? Tryna son me in the produce aisle, huh?"

"Joe," Chelsea snapped, her voice like ice. "Let's go. Now." With a final glare in Terrence's direction, she turned to leave, choosing to walk away from the confrontation. Her hand slipped away from Joe's, reaching for the cart handle instead and stalking off towards the check-out.

Joe watched her retreat, his jaw clenched, before turning back to Terrence. "If I ever hear you speak to her like that again, we're gonna have a problem." He took a step back, collecting himself with a purse of his lips. "Take care of yourself, man. I hate to see you so angry."

He nodded stiffly, unable to form words. Joe took the cue and followed Chelsea's path, leaving Terrence in the wake of their tension. As he approached the checkout, he took in the sight of Chelsea's shoulders stiff with anger, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Joe felt his own anger dissipate into a heavy sadness as he squeezed her shoulder. "You okay?"

Chelsea shrugged Joe's hand off her shoulder, the tremble in her voice giving away the turmoil within. "Fine," she said, her tone betraying the practiced smile gracing her features. She didn't dare look at him, afraid that if she did, she would shatter into a million pieces right there in the supermarket. Before Joe could press further, she turned to greet the cashier and began to unload their groceries onto the conveyor belt.

The cashier's eyes flicked between them, the tension palpable enough to cut through the plastic bags. The silence grew heavier with every item scanned, and Joe felt a knot forming in his stomach. He nervously gnawed at his lower lip, trying to find the right words to say, but they remained elusive. The confrontation with Terrence had left a bitter taste in the air, one that not even the sweet scent of their fresh strawberries could mask.

Chelsea paid, tapping her card against the reader with more force than necessary. The cashier handed her the receipt, and she stuffed it into her purse without looking at it. They walked in silence to the parking lot, the cool air doing little to ease the heat of her embarrassment. Joe opened the trunk and started loading the bags, his movements careful and deliberate as Chelsea made her away around to the passenger seat.

The drive to Chelsea's apartment was tense, the silence between them thick and oppressive. She stared out the window, watching the blur of the cityscape pass by as Joe gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white with restraint. She knew he was waiting for her to say something, anything to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. But she was at a loss for words, her mind racing with the echoes of Terrence's venomous words. Joe's posturing didn't help to ease her humiliation; it only served to highlight the mess she had made of her life.

When they pulled into the parking garage, Joe turned off the engine but made no move to get out. Chelsea kept her eyes focused on her lap, playing with the hem of her shirt, avoiding his gaze. "Chelsea," he started, his voice tentative, "I'm sorry about what happened back there."

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I don't need you to protect me," Chelsea said, her voice low. "I fucked up, Joe. I know that. But I don't need you fighting my battles."

Joe's expression softened as he reached out to take her hand. "I know you're strong," he said, "but I can't just stand there and let someone talk to you like that."

Chelsea sighed, finally meeting his gaze. "I didn't ask you to defend me, Joe. I can handle Terrence." She pulled her hand away, her fingers massaging the bridge of her nose. "Am I upset that he spoke to me like that? Of course. But I know what we did was wrong, and I can't blame him for feeling betrayed."

Joe nodded, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. "But he's got no right to drag you through the mud like that," he insisted, his voice a low growl. "You didn't deserve that."

"What if I do? I did something wrong," Chelsea murmured, her eyes focused on the dark dashboard. "I don't think I stopped to consider how he might feel when we started..." she trailed off, taking in a short breath before she continued. "I was so caught up in us, in this fantasy that we built together."

Joe's mind blanked, his hands flexing and curling into a tense ball. He knew Chelsea had been wrestling with her guilt, but hearing her doubt their relationship was like a punch to the gut. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "Chelsea, you're not to blame for someone else's choices. Terrence's anger is his own burden to bear, not yours."

Chelsea remained silent, lost in her thoughts. The weight of the situation pressed down on them as Joe's eyes grazed over her side profile. His chest felt heavy with the burden of her guilt. He knew that their love had come at a cost, but he never wanted her to feel like she was the villain.

"Look," she started, "I know you're right. It's just complicated, you know? I had a life with Terrence, a life that people expected us to have. And now..." Her voice trailed off, the words caught in the back of her throat. "I bear a lot of responsibility for how he feels. I mean, I cheated on him, Joe. For six months I lied to him. That's not love. That's not fair."

Joe couldn't help the flash of frustration that crossed his face. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "Chelsea, carrying all this guilt isn't going to change anything. You made a mistake, yes, but you're not the only one who made 'bad' choices. Terrence isn't blameless here either." He paused, searching for the right words. "If today's encounter with him showed you anything, it should be that he's not innocent. The way he spoke to you, the lack of regard for your autonomy even during your marriage... that's not the behavior of a saint. You left him for a reason. That's all that should matter now."

Her gaze remained fixed out the car window, the setting sun casting a warm glow on her profile. "I know," she murmured. "But that's what's so irritating about it. I know that he didn't love me the way I needed, that I deserve to be happy, but... it's just hard to shake off the power that he had over me for so long."

Joe reached over and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm not going to pretend like this should be easy for you. But if you're having second-thoughts, regrets, or whatever, you can tell me. I'm here."

Chelsea took a deep breath, her eyes swimming with her pooling tears. "No regrets, I promise. I want this with you. His words just stung, I guess. I can't believe he would say that about me in public."

Joe nodded, his jaw tightening. "You're worth so much more than what he thinks of you," he said, his voice steady. "He's in pain, and he's lashing out. It's not about you; it's about his pride which has always been more important to him than you."

Chelsea turned to look at him, her eyes revealing all her vulnerability. "I wish I wasn't so stuck in my head. This is supposed to be a fresh start, but all I can think about is what everyone else is saying."

Joe brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "We're going to get through this. Together." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "I want to know every thought, every fear, every doubt. No more secrets, no more guilt."

Her chest tightened at his words, and she nodded. "Okay." Joe broke the silence that settled over them with a gentle smile. "Did I tell you about the house I've been eyeing?" he asked, changing the subject to something more uplifting.

Chelsea's eyes lit up, eager to escape the shadow of the confrontation. "No, you haven't," she said, sitting up a bit.

"Let's get the groceries inside, and I'll show you the pictures," Joe said, reaching for the handle of his door.

Chelsea couldn't remember the last time she was this nervous. So nervous she could feel the sweat beads forming at the base of her spine. She had cycled through four or five outfits, anxiously adjusting and readjusting the pale yellow dress that currently clung to her body. The fabric was soft and cottony, an appropriate length and neckline she hoped would be welcoming yet respectful. It was her mother's favorite color, and she hoped it would give Joe's parents the right image of her. She took one last look in the mirror, her heart racing like it was the first day of law school all over again, and took a deep breath.

"You look stunning," Joe said, his eyes sweeping over her as she stepped into the bathroom. He was already dressed in a well-tailored suit, his tie perfectly knotted. Chelsea felt a warmth spread through her, his compliment soothing her nerves a bit.

She looked up to find a black velvet box in Joe's hand, her eyes widening in shock. "What's this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hammering of her heart in her ears.

"Babe," he laughed heartily, stepping closer to her. "It's not what you think. Just a little something to make you feel special tonight." He opened the box to reveal a gorgeous drop diamond necklace that glittered under the soft glow of the room's lights. "You mentioned you liked this shape at the gala. I thought meeting my folks might be a little less nerve-wracking with something to boost your confidence."

Her eyes lit up like the diamond, a mix of surprise and gratitude. "Joe, it's beautiful," she said, taking the necklace and feeling the coolness of the metal against her fingertips. She turned, allowing him space to fasten it around her neck. The weight of the jewel rested comfortably on her collarbone, a symbol of his care and affection. "Thank you," she murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

"Just be yourself, babe," Joe whispered as they pulled away, his hand gently squeezing her waist. "They're going to love you."

"I wish I could reassure you my parents are going to love you," she sighed, wrapping her arms around him, "but I really don't know what to expect."

Joe held her tight in return. "I know," he whispered. "But they're going to see how much I care for you, and hopefully, that'll be enough."

"I love you," she whispered. "I don't say it enough, but I do. Whatever happens tonight, I want you to know that."

Joe kissed her forehead, his eyes full of love. "I know," he said. "And I love you too."

They chose a restaurant that was a blend of their worlds—upscale yet relaxed, a place where their parents could meet on neutral ground. As they waited for the others to arrive, Chelsea's palms grew damp with nerves, her heart hammering in her chest like a drum. She looked up at Joe, his hand resting reassuringly on her thigh beneath the table, and took a deep breath.

His parents, Robin and Jimmy arrived first, wide-eyed as if still out of place within their son's affluence. Robin was kind enough, blue eyes that matched Joe's sparkling with curiosity as she took in every detail of Chelsea's appearance. Jimmy, however, had a stern look that could cut through steel, his handshake firm and his greeting brusque. They sat down, the tension thick as a winter fog, and Chelsea found her mouth suddenly dry.

She tried to remember what Joe had told her about them. That they were salt of the earth, hardworking folks who had raised their son with strong morals. She could only hope they would see beyond the scandalous nature of their relationship to the genuine love that existed between them.

Her parents arrived just as Robin and Jimmy found their seats, her mother's designer handbag clutched tightly to her side, her father's face unreadable. Chelsea's heart skipped a beat as she watched Joe stand up, a smile plastered on his face, extending his hand to her father first.

"Sir," Joe said, his voice steady, "It's a pleasure to have you."

Her father took Joe's hand, his grip firm, his eyes assessing. "Joe," he replied curtly, nodding towards Chelsea.

Chelsea's mother, ever the socialite, offered her cheek for Joe to kiss, which he did with grace, his eyes warm but guarded. Chelsea watched her mother's expression, looking for any sign of disapproval, but all she saw was the tiniest hint of pride. Her father embraced her, his hug tight and sincere. "You okay?" he whispered in her ear. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears she hadn't realized were there.

The dinner was a delicate dance of small talk and probing questions, Joe's charm weaving in and out of the conversation like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Her parents were impressed, she could tell, but the undercurrent of tension remained. They talked about their careers, their shared love of charity, and their plans for the future, which seemed to ease the tension slightly.

"So, I guess we should talk about the elephant in the room?" Robin laughed awkwardly, reaching forward to take a sip of her white wine.

Chelsea's heart raced. This was it—the moment she had been dreading. She took a deep breath, looking at Joe who gave her a reassuring nod. "I know this is a tough situation," she began, her voice quivering slightly. "And I'm sure finding out about our divorces was shocking, but we have every intention of making this work."

Joe's parents exchanged a look that she couldn't quite read. Jimmy spoke up first, "How long were you with your ex-husband?" His tone was pointed, but Chelsea sensed a hint of curiosity behind the question.

"Thirteen years," she exhaled, meeting her mother's soft gaze across the table. "We met my sophomore year of college, got married after my first year in law school."

Robin leaned in, her eyes shrewd. "And what changed? What made you decide to leave him?"

Chelsea took a sip of her water, buying time to collect her thoughts. She could feel Joe gently squeeze her thigh, a silent promise of support. "Well, we weren't right for each other to put it nicely," she said finally. "I realized I wasn't living my life for me. I was living it for everyone else—for Terrence, for our families, for the image we had built. Even if Joe hadn't been in the picture, I don't think we would've been married much longer."

Her mother's eyes darted between them, noting the proximity between the two of them. "And Joe?" she asked softly. "What about your marriage to your ex?"

Joe took a moment before responding, his hand still on Chelsea's thigh, a silent declaration. "We had been together since high school, married for eleven years," he hesitated, casting a glance towards his parents who both sat quietly observing; heads cocked in interest. "I gave up a lot of myself to stay in our marriage. And I reached a point where I had to face the truth, that I wasn't truly happy. I'm not trying to justify my actions, but I couldn't keep pretending."

"And how did Chelsea fit into that?" Her father spoke up gruffly, his arms crossed over his chest.

Joe swallowed hard, his thumb stroking the smoothness of Chelsea's skin. "I think we found each other when we both needed a change. When we were at our lowest, we saw something in each other that we hadn't seen in anyone else before. And we fell in love." He looked into Chelsea's eyes, the honesty in his words resonating through the room. "I know that doesn't make what we did right, but it's the truth. And I'll never apologize for finding happiness, especially not when it's with Chelsea. I want to give her the world, and I know she feels the same about me."

Chelsea could feel her heart melt at Joe's earnest words. Under his gaze, the busy hum of the restaurant faded away. She reached up to touch his face, her hand lingering on the freshly shaved skin of his jaw. "Thank you," she whispered, finding his lips in a kiss filled with hope and promise.

As she pulled away she could recognize a glimmer of softness in her father's eyes, something she hadn't seen in a long time. Her mother, on the other hand, boldly smiled. "Well, Joe," she said, placing her napkin on her plate, "you've got a way with words. I can see why my Chelsea is so smitten."

Joe felt his cheeks warm, but he returned the smile with confidence. "Thank you. Sometimes the heart just knows what it needs." He reached for his wine glass, taking a sip to ease the nerves that were still simmering beneath the surface.

"Speaking of hearts," Jimmy leaned in, his voice even, "have you two talked about your future? Remarriage, maybe? Neither one of you have children, right?"

Joe's grip on his wine glass tightened. "Well, we're taking things one step at a time," he said, glancing at Chelsea, who nodded in agreement. "If getting married is in the cards, we'll make sure it's for the right reasons at the right time."

"The last thing either of us want to do is jump into another marriage without being sure," Chelsea said, her voice steady. She took Joe's hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "But Joe's been incredible. You've raised an amazing man, and I'm lucky to share a piece of him."

Robin's gaze softened, and she leaned back in her chair. "Well, I can see you both love each other," she said with a small smile. "That's what matters in the end." Chelsea's father nodded quietly, his expression unreadable.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of small talk and forced laughter, the undercurrent of tension never fully dissipating. Chelsea was pleasantly surprised when her mother suggested a toast to "new beginnings," raising her glass with a knowing look that seemed to envelop the entire table. They clinked glasses, a solemn reminder of the hurdles ahead. As the evening drew to a close, they found themselves waiting on the curb for valet to bring their cars around.

Out of the corner of Chelsea's eye, she could see Joe pull their fathers to the side, their heads bent in a hushed conversation. She hoped Joe could find the right words to win her father over, to show that he was serious about her and their future together. Meanwhile, her mother and Robin chatted amicably, a small victory in itself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the valet pulling up in their parents' cars. She watched Joe and her father part ways with a firm handshake and a nod. Was that a good sign? She couldn't be sure, but she felt a glimmer of hope. They said their goodbyes, Joe's hand lingering on her waist, guiding her to the passenger seat of his sleek sedan.

As they pulled away from the restaurant, the silence grew heavier. The smaller the restaurant shrunk in the rearview mirror, the easier she could breathe. "How do you feel? Talk to me." She opened the conversation, needing to break the tension. Her hand reached for his, grasping it tightly.

Joe's grip was firm and reassuring. "I feel... pretty good about it," he said after a moment. "They're just trying to wrap their heads around it. Your dad's tough, but he loves you. We had a good conversation. Your mom seems to like me, though."

"Yeah, she called my bullshit when they came down to visit last year," Chelsea said with a small laugh, recalling her mother's intuition. "She's always been the one to read me like a book."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights twinkling outside the car windows like distant stars. When they reached the penthouse, Chelsea could feel her nerves start to tingle, a soft smile gracing her lips as she thought about the future.

"My parents loved you," Joe murmured softly once they reached the bedroom, his arms finding their way around her waist. His lips found her exposed shoulder, left hand moving to shift the strap of her dress aside.

"You said they would," she hummed back, eyes glued to their reflection in the mirror. He didn't respond right away, focusing his attention on the soft skin of her neck as his kisses grew more urgent. She shivered slightly under his touch, the weight of the evening's events seeming to dissipate as he pressed himself against her.

"I meant what I said earlier." His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. One hand squeezed at her hip, the other trailing up the length of her torso to cup her clothed breast. "I want to give you the world..." his teeth nipped at the column of her neck, "make you the center of my universe..." she sighed under his touch, "get on my knees and thank whatever gods are listening that you chose me." She moaned, bracing herself against the bathroom counter as Joe's hips ground against hers.

"Joe," she breathed, her body responding to his every touch. The fabric of her dress fell away as his hands unzipped and slid it down her body, leaving her in just her black lace lingerie. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, and she shivered with desire.

The bathroom light cast a warm glow, reflecting off the marble fixtures and gleaming surfaces. Joe's eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of her, his own passion mirrored in hers. He reached around to unclasp her bra, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud. She turned to face him, her lips finding his in a desperate, hungry kiss as his hands roamed over her bare skin. Chelsea's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, her urgency building with every touch.

They stumbled into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and fabric. The floorboards creaked beneath their weight as Joe laid her down, his mouth moving down her body, kissing and licking a trail of fire. Chelsea arched her back, her breath hitching in anticipation. He paused, looking up at her with a question in his eyes, and she nodded, needing him as much as he needed her.

Joe slid her panties off with a gentle tug, revealing her wetness. He took a moment to admire her, his eyes lingering on her most intimate parts before he leaned down, his tongue teasing her clit. She gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily. His mouth worked her slowly, savoring every taste and sound she made until she was panting with need. Chelsea's hands found his hair, her nails digging in as she tried to control the sensations overtaking her.

Her thighs settled over his broad shoulders as he buried his face between them, his breath tickling her skin. The room was filled with the sounds of her heavy breaths and the occasional groan from Joe as he pleasured her. Chelsea's eyes rolled back, and she whispered his name over and over again, her body shaking as she approached climax. The sensation grew until it was all she could focus on, the world around them fading away into a sea of pleasure.

When she finally came, it was like a wave crashing over her, leaving her breathless and trembling. Joe didn't stop, his mouth moving lower, his tongue sliding into her. She gripped the bedsheets tightly, her body writhing under his touch. Each stroke brought a new wave of sensation, and she felt herself losing control.

"God - Joe, fuck," Chelsea panted, her legs trembling around his neck. He chuckled against her, his hands gripping her hips to hold her steady. She felt a warmth spread through her body, her eyes fluttering as they rolled back in her head. Her chest heaved as she squirmed against him, unable to think or breathe or do anything but feel.

Joe pulled back, his fingers finding her folds and gently sliding into her. She gasped, her body tightening around him. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. Chelsea couldn't find the words to respond, her brain too overwhelmed with sensation. He began to move, his strokes slow and deliberate, and she watched him, his eyes locked on hers, as if he were trying to read every thought, every feeling that passed through her.

"Gimme another one," Joe whispered, his voice husky with need. Chelsea's body responded instinctively, arching up to meet his touch. Her orgasm had barely subsided, but she was already on the edge again. He slid in a second finger, curving them to hit just the right spot, and she moaned, her eyes closing. The room was a blur of shadows and soft light, her gasps and whimpers echoing off the walls.

He watched her face, the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes rolled back. It was like watching a masterpiece come to life under his fingertips. He leaned in, his thumb brushing against her clit, and she let out a sigh, her hips stuttering under his touch. He felt the tightening of her muscles around his hand, the clench of her inner walls. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, this woman, his woman, lost in pleasure because of him.

"So beautiful, baby. Just breathe," Joe murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. Chelsea took a deep breath, trying to focus as the sensations grew more intense. His thumb circled her clit, and she felt her body tighten even further. With a final, desperate moan, she came again, her back arching off the bed.

Joe watched her, his own arousal evident in his eyes. He kissed her stomach, her breasts, her neck, before finally claiming her mouth again. His hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve and angle, memorizing her. He slid into her, the sensation of their bodies joined making them both gasp.

She was sensitive, so Joe went slow, letting her body adjust to the new sensation of him inside her. They moved together, finding a rhythm that felt like home. The world outside melted away, and all that mattered was the heat between their bodies and the need to devour each other whole. They kissed, their breaths mingling, as their hips danced.

His tongue traced a line up the center of her throat, pressing kisses to her jaw and cheekbones. Chelsea felt a renewed surge of energy, her body responding to the tenderness in his touch. Their movements grew more urgent, the passion between them igniting like a wildfire. The room was filled with the sound of their muffled moans and the slap of their bodies coming together. The bed rocked beneath them, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady rhythm.

"Love this, the way we fit," he murmured, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that had her gripping the sheets. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, needing him to fill her completely. His eyes never left hers as he reached the peak of their shared passion, his breathing heavy and erratic.

With a final, deep thrust, Joe groaned her name, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Chelsea felt her own orgasm crest, her body spasming around him as she cried out. They held onto each other tightly, their hearts beating in unison, the room spinning around them. She couldn't distinguish up from down, her thoughts an unyielding swirl of pleasure and love.

Afterward, they lay entwined, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Chelsea's heart was still racing, her body feeling both exhausted and alive. Joe's chest was warm and solid beneath her cheek, his heart thumping a steady, comforting beat. She had never felt so connected to someone before, so herself, so perfect.

[carlos-in-glasses]

Rhythms

124k, 17 chapters, E, complete and on Ao3.

TK swoons when he discovers a sentimental scrapbook full of notes he and Carlos have left for each other – but he also unearths a book of poems that closeted teen-Carlos wrote about his struggles, including a few dedicated to his high school crush. An adorably mortified Carlos recalls the stir he caused when he was published anonymously in the high school paper, and everything he went through to write his wedding vows for TK years later. With TK as a hype-man, maybe Carlos can embrace his creative side again.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 1 - Love Heart: The day after TK and Carlos’ first wedding anniversary, TK is sent home from work sick. Back at the loft unexpectedly, he makes a surprising discovery about Carlos.

Chapter 2 - Club Can't Handle Me: In 2011, sixteen-year-old Carlos is both in the closet and in his high school’s wrestling team – and it’s all a bit too much. Perhaps against his better judgment, he turns to poetry and makes a decision that will change his life.

Chapter 3 - Crossroads: Daydreaming about his wedding vows mid-drive, Carlos gets pulled over for a traffic violation – and Gabriel isn’t happy. Reunited with TK, Carlos might be lost for words, but he finds another way to express his love and desire.

Chapter 4 - The Wrestler: Carlos’ poems are published – and he quickly learns there’s no putting the genie back into the bottle.

Chapter 5 - A Gay Fantasia: In the aftermath of being abducted by a serial killer, Carlos reflects on recent events and resumes work on his wedding vows.

Chapter 6 - La Tormenta: Carlos is devastated when Scott gets a girlfriend, and he finds himself in another snowballing situation.

Chapter 7 - Soulmates: When TK has a Huntington’s disease scare, Carlos finds he knows exactly what to say. But will it help him with his writer’s block when it comes to his wedding vows?

Chapter 8 - Man of Mystery: It’s the day of the Lake View High School Talent Show – and will the real Shadow Poet please stand up?

Chapter 9 - Crush: In 2011, it’s make or break for sixteen year old Carlos at the talent show. In 2024, TK becomes the hype man Carlos had needed over a decade ago.

Chapter 10 - From Behind: A couple of weeks before the wedding, Carlos is still working on his vows when a deeper rift develops between him and his dad. In 2012, seventeen year-old Carlos is spiraling after coming out to his parents.

Chapter 11 - The Other Wrestler: TK decides to lift Carlos’ spirits by learning how to wrestle.

Chapter 12 - Carlos Reyes Will Be Okay: At Gabriel’s funeral, Carlos regrets saying no to reading a poem in tribute – but during the wake, he finds himself under a whole new pressure. Later that night, he realizes the vows he’s worked so hard on for TK cannot be spoken yet.

Chapter 13 - The Closet: Despite some good news, Carlos ends up in the doghouse with his mom and with TK.

Chapter 14 - Once in a Blue Moon: Reeling from his confrontation with Andrea, Carlos seeks advice and admits a secret.

Chapter 15 - Raining on Prom Night: In May 2012, chaos erupts at Carlos’ senior prom.

Chapter 16 - Tyler Kennedy Strand: The wedding day arrives, and Carlos finally gets to recite his vows to TK.

Chapter 17 - Shadow Poet: Carlos attends his poetry reading with TK by his side and some important people in the audience – but will he actually perform this time?

“I was just remembering–” Carlos says, “The first time you stayed for a while after one of our hookups. It was, like, the third time we hooked up, I think. I asked if you wanted tea and cookies and you looked at me like I’d said the weirdest thing ever.”

TK’s exhausted, puffy face breaks into a dazzling grin. “You were being such a Boy Scout.”

“But then you said yes and you ate half the cookie jar.”

“You called me the Cookie Monster.”

“That was the first time I really made you laugh.”

“Tea came out my nose.”

“It was beautiful,” Carlos says, pausing then to qualify: “Your laugh.”

TK gazes up at him, his clear green eyes large and shining. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“The first time you made me laugh was when we were dancing at the honky-tonk.”

“Hey!” TK swats his arm. “I was trying my best!”

“You were so goofy,” Carlos chides. “I just loved it. I loved you.”

Read on Ao3

[fandom-lover2]

Sacrifices - Pt 2

Word Count - 2146

Part One

Part Three

Optimus was grateful for his battle mask, now more than ever. Only his optics could show his panic.

And, knowing Megatron as well as he did, Optimus knew Megatron could see it, and smirk across the warlord’s faceplates telling Optimus Megatron was getting the exact reaction he wanted.

4 Decepticons, 4 glass canisters, 4 vulnerable humans, 4 keys.

Optimus was surprised it had taken Megatron this long to locate the humans. While he had done everything in his power to ensure they would remain safe and undetected by the Decepticon intelligence, Soundwave’s methods were far superior then any of them could ever imagine.

Starscream stepped forward, wordlessly handing over the case that held you to his master.

Optimus lost the battle of not looking down at you, and when your eyes met his optics, his servo clenched around the Star Sabers hilt.

For someone so close to death, you seemed unnervingly calm. But your eyes, your eyes showed the truth.

Acceptance. You had accepted you were going to die.

Optimus almost stumbled back as his words repeated in his processor, over and over again.

“You speak as though your life means anything to me.”

You had accepted you were going to die, because Optimus had told you as such. He had declared loud and clear for you to hear that his own desires would always be put above your life. Had announced that your life, your future and your dreams, were nothing to him in the grand scheme of his existence.

He was going to let Megatron kill you, open your cage and let Cybertron’s atmosphere kill you slowly, painfully. He would watch on without so much as a flinch, perhaps even turning his back and begin the process of rebuilding his home.

Home? Was Cybertron still his home?

After all he had done to his planet, all the loves lost in his war, was this metal shell still his home? Would it still welcome him back? Or was it you, and your vibrant planet that now held his spark.

Things were happening around him, but Optimus could not look away from you.

Starscream taunted the Autobots, clawing at Jack’s prison. The young man, how much he’d grown since their first encounter, stated clearly for all that he was willing to die for Cybertron and the Autobot cause. His brave, little companions agreed with his statement. And, Optimus knew you felt the same.

Even after all he’d said to you, done to you. Even after the pain he had caused, you were still right there, willing to give everything up. For the team.

The team he had told you you were not a part of.

Behind him, Optimus could feel his fellow bots moments from losing control. Weapons aimed, battle stances ready.

Would they stand down if he told them to? Would they continue with the mission if he decided that 4 human lives were not worth the restoration of Cybertron?

“Perhaps we should oblige them?” Megatron taunted

How fleeting human lives were. What was considered a decently long human life span was nothing but a blink of the optic for a Cybertronian. If the humans did not die today, they would die eventually. The humans would die long before the Cybertronians had aged a year and they would be left to mourn their friends. Since arriving on Earth, Agent Fowler was their third human liaison. The first died decades ago, the second grew too old to work. Fowler was nearing that age now, when he would step away and a new human would fill his shoes.

And yet, these four little humans had had more impact on his soldier’s lives then any other human had.

“Optimus.”

The prime was pulled back to the present, called back by your voice. He looked at you, into your steady gaze.

“Don’t.”

How silly you were, thinking you could change his mind.

It wasn’t a question, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Your life was not worth Cybertron, Cybertron was not worth your life.

He felt sick, horrified at himself that you had thought he wouldn’t fight with everything he had to save you. He hated himself that he’d allowed you to even have a moment of hesitation about what your life meant to him.

From the moment the space bridge portal had opened and he’d seen you and your fellow humans, he knew what his decision would be.

Nothing, not Cybertron, not his life, not The Matrix, nothing would mean more to him than you.

“If my decision dooms the future of the Autobot cause on Cybertron, so be it. But I will never forsake our human allies.”

Optimus speared the Star Saber into Cybertron’s surface with more force than was needed and began to step back, rejoining his fellow Autobots. Without so much more than a glance, they began to disarm themselves.

So, they were all in agreement then.

One by one, a key for a human child, until all that remained was one. Smokescreen held the final key, and Megatron had you. Wordlessly, Optimus held out his hand, a signal for the newest member of the team to hand over their final hope.

Each step towards his enemy, he felt heavier and heavier. This was it. The last hope for Autobot life on Cybertron, and he was giving it away for a human. Giving away the hopes of his people and his planet for one single human.

Optimus was before Megatron, the only space between them your cage. Optimus kept his eyes locked on Megatron, his battle mask up. He couldn’t look down at you, wouldn’t. He didn’t want to see the confusion, the concern, the uncertainty. 

It should have been relief, it should have been a sigh of relief. It should have been, but it wasn’t because he had made you believe you would die on his planet and now you could not comprehend why he was saving you.

He had failed. Failed you. And now he was failing his mentor, his people, his fellow Primes.

But, he was saving you.

He held out his key in one servo, and extended the other in expectation. Megatron extended his servos in turn, holding you out in one and wrapping his digits around the key with the other.

For a moment, neither one released either, but then Optimus’ grip on the key lessened just a smidge and Megatron opened his servo.

Not expecting the sudden weight, you fell to the hard metal surface of the dead planet. Optimus lunged to grab you, your canister bouncing once before he managed to grab you.

Luckily, the glass did not shatter, but within you winced.

Optimus barely had the chance to look you over before a second ground bridge opened and Decepticons rushed through.

One Autobot with an occupied servo could not take them all. Spinning, Optimus sprinted to the safety of his team, disposing you with the rest of the trapped humans.

The Decepticons surrounded the Autobots, blasters raised and keeping them in place as Megatron, Starscream, Knockout and Soundwave activated the Omega Lock with the Keys.

Everyone watched, transfixed as the mechanism powered up.

A keypad appeared, and Megatron selected something. With a shake and a shudder, the circle shot out a bream of blue light, the energy streaking across the expanse of the barren landscape and encompassing the ruins of the Iacon Records Halls.

Optimus watched in amazement as the building began to rebuild itself, within a few seconds transforming from the blackened ruins to the once sparkling tower Optimus once knew.

It worked. The Keys worked. Cybertron could be restored, would be restored. His home would be restored again.

Bumblebee said something, the humans making various noises of amazement, you remained silent. Briefly, Optimus flicked his optics down to you.

You were seated in your cage, hand raised to press against your forehead. Red stained your fingers, blood leaking from a cut.

Megatron must have caused more damage than he realized.

He needed to you get and your fellow humans off this planet. Who knew how much oxygen you had in those canisters, and what would happen once Megatron used the Keys to begin widescale restoration.

“This conflict is between Autobots and Decepticons.” he started. If he wanted to get Megatron to listen, he’d need to tread carefully. “Allow me to return the humans to Earth.”

“Oh I wouldn’t recommend it.” Megatron started, turning to address the Autobot leader. “They’ll be far safer here.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you spoke up.

“Is the Space Bridge locked on target?”

“Per your instructions, Lord Megatron.” Starscream bowed.

“Excellent.” Megatron purred, turning back to Optimus and locking optics with him. “Why rule one world, when I can rule two…”

Megatron was a sadistic, megalomaniac, power hunger monster, but he could not be this insane? Could he?

Far above, a ground bridge opened up. Megatron turned back to the consol and hit the activation button. Once again the Omega Lock powered up, and shot a beam of raw energy through the swirling green vortex.

“No.” Optimus could not find any others words.

“What’s he doing?” you asked, struggling to stand. When your guardian did not answer, you changed it to a demand. “Optimus, what is he doing?”

“If the Omega Lock can restore Cybertron, then it will do the same to Earth, right?” Miko asked before Optimus had a chance to speak.

“No. It will cyber-form your planet in favor of its new matrix. And destroy all indigenous life in the process.”

There was no reason to sugar coat it, not after all you children had been through. You deserved the truth.

“Such raw power.” Megatron began to ramble. “What should I call my new domain, New Koan? How about Gilded Earth?”

Optimus knew Megatron was taunting him, and it was working. He’d given up the chance as restoring his planet and you were still in danger. In fact, now you and every human on your planet were at risk.

Optimus looked to you human companions, held by their guardians. They fought against their glass prisons, spewing threats at the warlord, like it would make him change his mind.

Megatron laughed at their attempts, his followers joining his as they watched the scanners display how much of Earth was being lost.

Optimus looked down at you, and found you already looking up at him, fear marring your face.

It was a lot easier to face your own death than to stand by when facing the deaths of all those you love and care for.

Optimus’ processor was bombarded of all the times he’d heard of the humans mention their families in passing, every meadow and lake and mountain he’d stopped to admire for just a moment on his patrols. He saw the hill you and he had spent a late night sitting on, looking up at the clear night sky as he retold stories from Cybertron before the fall.

All of that would be lost. And, once the oxygen ran out, you would die too.

Optimus took a moment to plot his course, and then he charged. Slamming away a Decepticon, he raced towards the Star Saber.

Ripping it from the ground, he arched it through the air to disable two more Cons before racing to meet a roaring Megatron. Their swords collided, bouncing off one another. Megatron had size and strength one his side, but Optimus had something to fight for.

With a clean slice, Optimus literally disarmed Megatron, but he didn’t have a moment to waste. Every second the battle drew on, more of Earth was lost.

Optimus moved faster than he’d done in many cycles, deflecting blaster shots and leaning right so Starscream’s missile sailed past him.

Using the treacherous seeker, Optimus used his body to vault himself into the air, gaining the momentum needed to swing down, embedding the Star Saber deep into the Omega Lock.

He had not the explosion to be so big. It blasted him back, sending out a wave of fire all around. It was as he was airborne that he prayed someone had managed to grab ahold of you before the force sent you flying.

Hitting the ground in a roll, Optimus righted himself instantly and looked around. The rusted structure was now blackened by the flames, small fires dotting the charred circle. He did a quick headcount, finding all his Autobots and humans accounted for.

Ratchet spoke to him over the comm link, sounding desperate. Optimus was just as urgent in his request for a way back to Earth. If Ratchet was still able to contact them, that meant the base was still intact. Who knew how much else of Earth was still organic.

Securing his sword to his back, Optimus followed his team through the Space Bridge. He needed to make sure you received medical attention.

[08melancholie]

Lessen your Stress. — Dutch Van der Linde/Micah Bell/Reader

tags: Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Smut, Shameless Smut, Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Sex, Spoilers, dont read if you havent finished chapter 6, theres spoilers to it that youll regret, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Mildly Dubious Consent, Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Spit as Lube, Lube, Come as Lube, precum still counts i hope, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like micah bell

summary: What's one way to relieve the stress of losing your family, friends and entire gang you spent decades building? Dutch assumes it's getting his best friend to fuck his other still-devoted follower with him. It's another power trip of his you will never refuse.

a/n: initially the idea was reader and micah both trying to fight over dutch but then i was like why do we have to fightttt just let them both ruin users guts..... so here we are now. disclaimer: ive literally never written a threesome, i dont know what im doing honestly.... thank you to that one user on here who inspired this.

this is my longest fic up to date... yeah okay lets go touch grass.

words: 5,043 | AO3 LINK

A heap of shouting, spilling of secrets and killing later, the three of you regroup, all alone. Death is haunting you; you almost feel their blood on your hands, for some reason. You can't pinpoint why, but you feel guilty. Might be the fact you're still following Dutch, after he got them all killed.

Dutch might have officially lost his mind, right? You sometimes really wonder how he's made it this far, with such a good gang. Well, until now anyways. It's not until now that you notice a small flip in his head; a switch turning on for the first time. He's sat across from you, only a small fire between yourselves that lights up a small fraction of the area around you; up on a mountain, a small indent into the rocks it's built of serving as a cave of sorts. You're on the other side of the fire, laying down and watching Dutch really think for the first time, in a while. Your head is supported with the satchel you carry around your torso, visibly more uncomfortable than the plush pillows inside your old tent, now left behind. Sat behind you both is none other than Micah; staying forever loyal to the black-haired man lost in his own thoughts, his own pondering whilst his eyes illuminate the fire between your bodies. Micah is quiet; in fact, everyone is. Nobody dares say a word—not you, not Micah, especially not Dutch. Dutch doesn't feel grief, oh no; that isn't what this can be. You'd think that leaving two of your sons to die even after having the choice to save them both would make a man go crazy, but Dutch is clearly too far gone for that.

The fire crackles again, and you can't stand the silence any longer, opening your mouth to speak up. "We'll be fine, Dutch. Don't stress so much."

His head perks up from the fire, the flame-ridden irises of his catch your own. "Fine?" He repeats after your reassurance—not sounding all that reassured. You swallow and nod, always feeling so small under that dark gaze of his. "I would love to have even an ounce of your optimism." He barks, and you sink even lower. Well, it was a good try, if nothing.

He and Micah share a look, and it all goes quiet again. Fire crackles; animals howl in the distance; shrubbery whistles under the small wind blowing through the area. And all is quiet.

It seems as you'll be spending the rest of the night in here, so you decide to rest your exhausted body for today. You toss over and get as comfortably as one can, making an attempt at sleeping off the sour mood and thick tension in the air.

Your slumber only lasts you a few mere hours, both the very early morning sun picking at your eyes and gloved hands on your bare skin breaking you away from the little sleep you managed yourself. You grumble, turning to lay on your back. "Get'cho ass up," Micah, standing over you, takes a step back and moves his hands off you, the leather material slipping away from your waist. You sit up and rub your knuckles into your eyes, taking your satchel from underneath where your head was and standing up. "hoping you enjoyed Colter, darlin'." Oh, Colter; if hell was an icy, snowy blizzard, you'd assume they were talking about that part of West Grizzlies.

"Don't tell me we're going back." You hold off on groaning—only briefly as Micah nods and you can't help yourself, not at all fond of going back there again. "Why West Grizzlies, anyways?" You ask, watching him kick at the burnt-out campfire from last night.

Micah stomps out the ashy, black logs, turning back over to you with a shrug. "Dutch says so." Of course he does.

You hold back on rolling your eyes. "He at least in a better mood than yesterday?" You ask, very much still remembering his bite back to your simple attempt at making the situation you three were currently in a little more bearable. Micah starts walking off while talking to you, and you follow close behind, leaving the makeshift cave.

"Wouldn't put ma' money on it," He responds, voice getting quieter the closer he leads you towards Dutch—smoking a cigar, per the usual—and your three horses. "don't test yer luck, hm?" He gives a low chuckle, and you just sigh. Snow; low temperatures; blizzards; all things you wanted to leave and forget in Colter. But, here you were.

Dutch gives an acknowledging nod to both of you, which you swiftly return. "We ready to go, then?" Micah gives him another nod, and walks up to Baylock. You follow to your own horse, petting it briefly before getting up onto the saddle, mounting up as the two of them soon do the same.

The three of you start the long journey back up towards the mountains; almost feeling that familiar deja-vu-feeling kicking in.

The ride is long and definitely not friendly; the moment your horses get you to the snow, the wind picks up and so does the snow, plowing down on all six of you. It's almost unbearably annoying, having to ride with one hand on your reins and one covering the top of your eyebrows to block out the snow from your vision. It's only a long while later that the three of you get up on the snow-covered mountain of your liking, finding an abandoned area with a cabin, definitely big enough for the three of you, for now.

The three of you hitch your horses safely into a small stable-like area, making sure they wouldn't be cold in their spots. Afterwards, one after another, you enter the cabin and inspect it; it's a medium-sized hut-type room, a few cots still stable enough to sleep in and a kitchen on the other side, most cabinets left open and empty. Mere minutes of searching left you with a few cans of fruit and vegetables, but between you three, hunting will definitely be a must for nourishment. At least theres a run-down fireplace you can use to warm up your shivering bodies. Dutch sends Micah to get firewood, instructing you to work with him and make the place look a bit less messy. And, three of you get to work.

It isn't exactly homey, but it'll do. Can't be picky now, can you? You had a home, and it was Dutch's own fault everything at 'home' went to shit.

It's been about a week since, and you've gotten used to the spot you three settled into, you could even start calling it home. Well, no—nothing will ever replace the home that the gang provided, but that's something you'll have to simply cope with. You're still following Dutch, so really, do you miss them that much? Your trail of thought is broken up by the sound of the creaky cabin door opening, raising the volume of the small blizzard going on outside briefly.

Dutch and Micah enter after another, closing the door of the small cabin and blocking out the sound of wind outside. Your head perks up from the small book you were examining at the sound, and you nod in greeting. "Hey," Your gaze goes back to the book until Dutch clicks his tongue at you.

"Eyes up here."

You don't take even a second to comply, meeting his eyes but occasionally drifting them to Micah. You're slightly confused, they're acting odd. "You need something, Dutch?"

"Stand up."

Every command sends a small shiver to your spine, that much is sure. You place the book down and rise from your seat on the creaky cot, taking a step towards them to stand before the two men. Your compliance and submissiveness always sends one side of Dutch's mouth up slightly. "Got a.. proposition for you. Well... Not exactly, anyways." Micah matches Dutch's dark chuckle after the leader speaks up again, both looking down at you. "Listen now, it's been pretty cold, hasn't it, my dear?" As Dutch speaks to you, your eyes stay glued on him; but you can see Micah taking slow steps away from the leader, and around you. You focus on Dutch again, nodding. "That's what we thought. You see," He then takes a step closer to you, gloved hands clasping together in front of you. "we can keep ourselves warm without wasting so much firewood." At Dutch's words, you can definitely feel Micah so much closer to you, from behind your back. You're starting to feel something bubble in your abdomen; was it nervousness, anxiety? Lust, arousal? You couldn't exactly tell.

"Tell me, my dear," Another two steps; one in front of you, one behind you. You feel like you're being circled by sharks in an ocean, hunters on prey, making you feel small again. "you're a smart girl; you do know what I mean, don't you?" Oh, you do. You know it all too well as you've imagined it one too many times—late at night in your tent, your hands on yourself underneath the blanket, muffling the moans of their names into your palm—so it's not an unfamiliar feeling. Your words seem to only fail you further the more he speaks, so you just nod again. His moustache follows the curve of his lips when that devilish smirk arises again. "Thought so. Now..."

His gloves glide over your shoulders, leather on leather as he stands right in front of you now. "And surely, you wouldn't mind trying this new warm-up with us, would you?"

Like a cat playing with a mouse it's caught, toying with it until it breaks. Except, it's two big cats and one meek little mouse. A hot breath glides down to you, right over your shoulder when Micah draws himself closer, and you feel stuck in your spot between them—even more so when Micah places his gloved hands down to your sides, almost kneading at your waist. Now, how could you ever say no? It's Dutch Van der Linde and Micah Bell. For one, you've been imagining this scenario in the comfort of your tent, late into the many nights that turned very hot, very quickly. But also, do you really have a choice? Your boss; your leader, asking such a vulgar and intimate thing of you? What would he say if you refused? Would he let you refuse? Is this all another power-trip he'll hold over your head?

No time for questions when Micah squeezes your waist to bring you back to reality. "He asked 'ya a question, doll." He purrs—its low and sultry, right next to your ear, accompanied by another knead to your body. You feel almost lightheaded by your current situation. Your hands have been unconsciously balled-up, digging into your trousers in an attempt to ground yourself. "C'mon, answer the man." And all you can manage is a nod, again. A moan would probably leave your mouth if you opened it, which.. would also be an answer. Your nod was really all it took, a silent consent more than enough for Micah's hands to travel to your hips and for Dutch's to find the sides of your neck.

"Good girl, always listening to me like this. I know you wouldn't disobey."

The feeling is indescribable, really—Micah touches you with urgency and carelessness, almost selfishly and greedily; his hands map out the contour of your body, almost as if trying to mould your curves to his liking. Dutch, however, takes it hellishly slow; thumbs brush over the front of your neck while the tips of his other fingers dig into the sides, almost as if trying to coax you to relax into whatever they have planned for you. "Oh, she's good, boss." Whenever Micah speaks, it ends up right next to your ear, and you feel that familiar shiver down your spine. An agreeing chuckle leaves Dutch's mouth, which is very close to your face; your own lips. You're clueless as to what you have to do—should you stay stiff? Touch one of them? Say anything at all to their comments and wandering touches?

Dutch's slow pace slips up when he can't hold himself back from giving himself a taste of yourself, dipping his head down to latch onto your lips. It's nice and quick, and your hands find themselves creeping up his coat and resting on his shoulders, whereas his move under your jacket and place themselves on your ribs and under your chest. Micah is pressed right up to your back now, one hand leaves your hip to move your hair away from your neck, sliding your jacket collar down as he starts to pepper the side of your neck in kisses, occasionally sucking on the skin while pressing his hips to your backside—you can already feel him through both of your clothes. Dutch takes a moment to lick your lip, coaxing you to open your mouth up for him. You comply and your lips part an opening for Dutch's tongue, hands squeezing at his shoulders.

His tongue explores around your mouth with profound efficiency; with experience. It makes the feeling in your abdomen all the more prominent, and you slowly feel a heat rushing to it. Micah isn't any worse either, the mixture of his gentle kisses, rough sucks and sometimes licks up your neck all make you more worked up than you'd ever want to imagine. He's still pressed up to your rear, hands at the very top of your outer thighs, roughly handling you like previously. Then, Dutch starts unbuttoning your jacket. Slowly, each one gets undone, and your jackets pools between yours and Micah's boots, who carefully kicks it aside, just to continue marking up your neck. His stubble and beard occasionally brushes against your sensitive neck, making you let out little sounds into Dutch's mouth. Oh, how they're enjoying this.

Dutch momentarily breaks away from you, leaving you to finally breathe in. "You know, I always liked how you followed me so blindly," Dutch's hands move up and brush over your chest, then cup both of the muscles. "it was so damn hard to not take you right then and there, in camp." You gasp and sigh when his hands start massaging and fondling you. This much foreplay has never gotten you so worked up in your life, and you can definitely feel the dampness between your legs growing with each moment. Then, Micah's hands move. They're getting impatient, seen so by the man behind you who starts groping your rear, breathing oh-so-sweetly down your neck. "I'mma have my fun with'chu, sweet thin'." His hums have goosebumps running up your body. His hands squeeze your ass a final time before moving, sliding down onto your inner thighs. You almost think that he can tell how wet you are, from the low laugh he lets out into your neck.

Impatience really overtakes both of them when they break away and start stripping. Coats, vests, undershirts, trousers; all the many layers you need to survive the coldness of West Grizzlies. Once they're almost bare, left in their underpants, they walk to one of the cots and coax you to follow, taking a seat next to each other and gesturing for you to stand in front of them. "Your turn, my dear." Dutch commands, leaning back slightly.

"Make sure to give us a good show, darlin'." Micah adds, following Dutch and also leaning back. And a good show, they shall receive. You start with your undershirt, slowly and almost teasingly unbuttoning it, exposing yourself inch by inch, moment by moment. "Oh, she's good." Micah purrs to Dutch, looking at you intently and never breaking his eyes away from your body. Dutch gives an agreeing hum, nodding to the other mans' words as you move to your jeans, shrugging your undershirt off while undoing the restraints of your jeans. You slip them off and toss both clothing articles to your jacket, standing in only your garments, now only covering your chest and mound. Their eyes are still so predatory, it's almost killing you. Then, finally, Dutch gestures with his hand for you to move closer, and you step up right in front of them. They part slightly to the side, and Micah pats the space between them on the bed. You understand instantly and comply just as quickly, sitting between them now. "Attagirl... how'd 'ya train 'er to listen so well, boss?"

Neither of them say more, as Micah leans in to get his lips onto yours himself now, kissing you with speed and want; need. Dutch's hands go to your back, fiddling with your bra to get it off of you. Oh, but the best part is Micah's hands; one reaches down between your legs instantly, swiping across your slit over your undergarments. "Oh shit, 'yer this damn wet already?" Both men laugh in sync, dark and low chuckles filling the cabin. His fingers find your clit under the fabric and start rubbing, coaxing you to moan into his mouth which you do. He loves how your meek little gasps and whimpers echo down his throat, and he rubs faster. The other hand of his tangles itself in your hair, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Dutch finally undoes your bra clasps, working it off of you without disturbing Micah and his workings on you. Your bra is tossed elsewhere, and one of Dutch's hands instantly finds your chest, fondling one while latching his mouth onto the other. Your hands grip one shoulder of theirs each, nails digging into the skin as your moans vibrate into Micahs mouth, hips already twitching into his two fingers working your bundle of nerves perfectly. Micah only breaks himself off your lips for a brief moment, "Can't wait to see this pretty cunt stretch around me." his mouth is back on yours, and the sentence alone has you grinding into his two fingers. Where's your dignity now?

Dutch's lips kiss around your nipple, teeth graze and pull oh-so-perfectly, and you already feel like you're close. They handle you with very different paces and things in mind; Micah is clearly trying to humiliate, get you to cum for him as quick as he can to give his ego a boost. Dutch however, he's now teasing; torturously slow pace on both of your tits, yet it works you up just as well as Micah's finger and mouth. And both are equally as blissful.

"Think she's ready for us?" Micah slows his fingers down and moves away from your lips to Dutch's question.

"Oh, surely, see how she's try'na fuck herself on my fingers? Poor, little thing. Bet she wants more."

"Well," Dutch leans away from your chest, standing to get his undergarments off. It's not long before Micah follows, and you can barely look at them; nude as the days they were born, with two almost equally as big cocks twitching for you, some precum at both their tips. It's a sight. "reckon she knows what she has to do—" He turns from Micah to yourself. "—doesn't she?" You swallow. Call it practice for what's to come, literally.

You shuffle off of the bed, and your knees meet the wood floors. Their grins down at you leave your panties practically leaking your own arousal. Looking between them, unsure where to start, you choose the leader—obviously. You get on-level with his hips, placing your hands on his thighs. "Oh, now don't leave my partner out, my dear." Dutch takes one of your hands by the wrist, guiding it to Micah's lower abdomen. "Show us both some love, baby." You can barely breathe at this point, and your hands might even be trembling slightly. Now, you've given maybe one blowjob/handjob in your life; but both, at the same time? This is overwhelming. Nonetheless, can't disappoint your boss, now can you? You push your thoughts down and slide your hand around Micah's shaft, running your thumb over his precum-covered tip to slicken it slightly, while simultaneously licking a stripe up the underside of Dutch's cock, collecting the leaky substance for a taste. Their faces are full of arousal and pure bliss, they almost make you feel proud. Dutch raises a hand to run through your hair, tugging on it. "We're old, impatient men, my darlin'. Get to it."

You take half of Dutch in your mouth, and start pumping your hand up and down Micah, earning a few praising groans and another tug to your hair, trying to draw you closer. You take Dutch until he hits the back of your mouth, and you barely suppress gagging on him. Don't need to inflate his ego that much. You move and bob your head, saliva slickening Dutch's dick up and painting your lips, some gathering at the corners of your mouth. Your hand works Micah in a slightly faster pace, seeing as it's easier to pump your hand over his shaft than take one in your mouth—especially one Dutch's size. You're used to average men, so this might as well even be nice. Not so much when he'll be stretching you open, but we'll get to that problem later. You continue your demonstrations, getting both of them to groan and even chuckle sometimes, looking down at you. They always looked down at you, you knew so much—but only ever figuratively. Never literally.

It's not long before Dutch grabs your head and just fucks himself into your mouth at his pace, which makes it easier to focus on your hand that's working Micah. You increase the pace of your hand, occasionally teasing the tip to see it twitch before continuing. "Wouldn't be surprised if you was a whore before 'ya joined us, so good at this." Micah's comment should make you mad, but you're definitely more turned on than anything. "Keep working dem pretty fingers around me, 'm close." And you absolutely will.

Dutch, however, doesn't give you a warning like Micah; he suddenly cums down your throat with a groan, and you have to focus on not gagging all over his dick as it empties itself out into your mouth, and you swallow every drop like if it were holy water. Unfortunately, you're not given a breather when he withdraws his hips from your mouth, as Micah pulls your hand away from his cock and brings your closer to it, grasping your jaw and squeezing so that your lips part. "Open." You don't feel like being painted all over with his cum, so you comply instantly, and he jerks himself a few times before spilling into your mouth like Dutch, your hands finding his thighs to brace yourself.

"Damn, she's good." Dutch seats himself back on the cot with a small creak, palming himself—somehow still semi-hard. Micah lets go of your jaw after he's spent, and you can't stop yourself from coughing as you swallow practically every drop, only a few around your mouth still. Micah chuckles down at you before grabbing you by the sides, his hands grasping your waist as he brings you back to your feet. "Come on then, you ain't done yet, or are 'ya, babydoll?" You're guided over to Dutch, turned to face him as both men help position you over him to straddle the leader. Micah's hands are replaced by Dutch's ones, who immediately moves your panties off and guides your folds around his shaft to slicken himself up again. "Still practically dripping. Oh, you poor thing. We won't be selfish no longer, my dear, you shall get your own, too." His tip slides to your entrance, and you have to grasp his shoulders to keep yourself steady, your lips slightly parted in pleasure. Slowly, Dutch's tip presses into you, and you squeak out a moan as you feel that small stretch you were dreading. "I'll go slow, don't wanna split our new toy in half, do we darling?" Well, that's exactly how you're feeling, oddly enough.

You're gasping and moaning as every inch of his disappears into your slick walls, the lewd noises mixing with Dutch's small praise and breathy exhales as you sink down on his cock, feeling it twitch inside you a few times. "Good girl, taking all of me like that." He gives you a moment to adjust before lifting your hips up and slamming right back down, earning a strained moan out of you, nail indents marking his shoulders up as they dig into the flesh, which just makes him laugh. "Love how tight you are, like it's sucking me right in. Your cunt loves me stretching you out, huh." His hips slowly begin to slap against you, filling the cabin with the suggestive noises of skin-on-skin and moans.

As you finally get used to his size, you feel hands on your waist from behind. You almost forgot Micah was there, seeing how quiet he was being. Then, one hand trails down to your rear, and a thumb circles your anus. "Can't leave me out again, can 'ya?" His thumb slowly draws itself into you, and you have to bite down on Dutch's shoulder. Jesus, you did not expect them to try and fuck you at the exact same time, even less from behind. He briefly extracts his thumb to spit at your entrance, circle it and then stick it right back in, trying to loosen your muscles up for his—much fucking bigger, may you add—member. They find a similar pace, Dutch is rutting you down onto his dick while Micah's thumb stretches your other hole out, readying it for his cock which is already leaking in anticipation. You brace yourself when he moves his thumb out and spits again, this time on his own cock to moisten it up again, mixing the saliva with his precum. Then, his tip slaps against your ass a few times, before it slides to your opening. Dutch has slowed his thrusts down to let Micah get in as well, and you haven't stopped biting at his shoulder since you started, almost drooling around it. Even if it's only the tip, as soon as Micah eases it in, you shudder and gasp into Dutch's flesh, biting down harder as your asshole feels every little stretch it's getting from Micah's thick cock. Thankfully, it's sliding in somewhat-easily after a few moments, Dutch's hands squeezing your hips as he shushes you to relax you, and Micah's caressing your backside as he slowly sinks into you.

The first thrust is the worst, obviously. You almost immediately shiver when Micah slowly slips out of you, to the tip, before drawing his hips right against your ass again. Dutch coos into your ear to keep you collected as Micah gets you used to his size, kissing your slightly sweaty spine briefly. "Come on, 'ya can take me, girlie." He sinks his whole length into you, almost as breathless as you. Then, they slowly find a synced pace and fuck into you from both holes as you gasp against Dutch's shoulder and shudder into him. "We'll let'cha cum too, don't worry doll." Micah slides a hand over to your abdomen, and his thumb circles your clit once more. You're on cloud nine—hell, you've never been high, but it's probably similar to this feeling. Your holes are tight around their cocks, all three now audibly gasping and moaning in sync. It's possibly the lewdest trio you've ever heard. With how they're thrusting into you, you're reduced to a goddamn mess; gasping, moaning their names, your cunt and anus tightening and squeezing, your mouth open and tongue slightly sticking out—you look like a dog, almost. Their bitch, that's for sure. From now on, anyways. You don't see how this could ever be a one-time-thing.

You can feel your orgasm building again, and you've honestly been doing pretty well, all things considered. "Can't cum in that pretty cunt, but I can back here." Micah's comment runs goosebumps over your body, and you already dread the feeling of that. His breath brushes over your skin as he kisses up your back again, reaching the nape of your neck and grazing his teeth over it, all while his hips slam into your ass. Dutch is stroking your sides, his cock twitching even more inside you. He's close—Micah's close—you're close—you might all just come at the same time.

That's exactly how it goes down. You're first to hit your orgasm, one that causes you to squeeze around their cocks once more, which is enough for both of them to hit their peaks with you, Micah staying buried deep in your guts while Dutch pulls out and jerks himself dry over your mound and his stomach, gasping for air in sync with you. Micah draws his spent member out of your asshole slowly, some of his cum leaking out and down your thigh. He takes a breather on your back and hugs around your waist, heaving into your spine. Your body relaxes over Dutch's, who can barely hold all three of you up. It takes all three of you a moment of no movement to calm down from your highs, before Micah is first to move off your back and help you off Dutch, slowly seating you next to him. "Well, goddamn, princess. Dutch was right; 'ya didn't disappoint for even a moment." He hums, getting to the nightstand and tossing a rag over your stomach. He shuts the drawer and sits down next to you, cleaning Dutch's spent off of your stomach while you gather your thoughts, before wiping his shaft and tossing it over to Dutch.

"I'm sure you know we aren't leaving you be after that performance, my dear." Dutch adds as he wipes him self clean, and you just wordlessly nod, laying back slightly. "I guessed so." He chuckles, and Micah chimes in with his own breathy laugh, standing to walk over and grab everyone's clothes, giving them out to you and Dutch before starting to get dressed himself.

And you're damn sure you won't want to stop anytime soon either.

Kudos on AO3 appreciated, as always! This fic killed me omg its my longest one up to date and its got me in a chokehold. fuck i wanna be between them so bad.

[psychologeek]

12.08.2023 prompt - Love Among the Shelves

Barbara was at the children's section's front desk when he approached.

It was her day shift, but every instinct she developed during her over-a-decade time as a vigilant, screamed inside of her that this man was DANGEROUS.

"Excuse me, sir!" She called him, as she took a quick look at the population.

(fifteen children, ten mothers, and a teen- probably a babysitter, or an older sister).

"How can I help you?" She asked as he stood in front of her, almost 2 ft over her. She quietly unlocked her wheels, and reach for the emergency taser.

"I want to get a library card." He says.

"This is the children section, mr...?"

"Dan. Just Dan. And that not for me, that's for the hellion". He gesture to his left, only seem to notice no one's there.

"ELLIE!"

"Sheesh, Old Mold." A kid show up. "No leed to yell. MY ears are still new and working."

"You can't just disappear without telling anyone!"

"What, am I in prison now? Oh, wait, I'm not the one who's been locked up!"

"You little hazard. What did we say about telling OUTSIDERS private information?"

"Do it for fun and profit?-"

And the man just grab by the back of her hoodie, and pick her up in one hand.

"That's the Hellion. She needs a library card."

The kid move a little, trying to escape, before giving up and just looking at Barbara.

"Hi! I'm Ellie - WOW ARE YOU JAZZ'S CLONE?".

-OR-

After learning that Danielle just travel around the world on her own, Dan's core re-develope his old obsession.

(protect her)

They travel across the world as Dan& Ellie - father and daughter.

Ellie wants to go to Gotham, (They have WEIRD THINGS) and they try getting a life there.

On an attempt to get something like normal (halfa?) life, Dan take Ellie to get her first library card.

Enter Barbara Gordon, a librarian extraordinary by day, and a vigilant named "Oracle" by night.

Somehow, she keep meeting that single dad (ex-prisoner) and his daughter.

(she CAN'T be introduced to Damian. The world may not survive it).

Or: I started thinking Dan/Barbara and now I can't unsee it.

Tag some I think would like this:

@stealingyourbones @im-only-here-for-the-fandom @hdgnj

[dulacdat]

the finale reunion is very complicated and quite simple at the same time. it is about two parents finally allowing themselves to grieve, which neatly reflects the real life of the author of the books, too. louis learning the truth after almost a human life time of doubt, uncertainty and abuse is extremely important moment for him.

there are 2 factions on the opposite ends that view this scene differently. one sees this as purely romantic and about 2 old lovers coming back, and the other has a hard time accepting the scene as it is because they, on a meta level, can't reconcile with lestat being framed as a victim of grief. now, I can't ever point fingers at the latter because lestat is abusive. he was the catalyst to a lot of tragic events surrounding his family. but it is entirely dismissive of louis' arc to simply frame this as an "unearned apology."

louis doesn't apologise to lestat- not for leaving him, "killing" him or being mean here and there.

he thanks him for the dark gift because it brought him claudia, it brought him lestat who is the symbol of freedom and acceptance to him. louis is a repressed gay black man who would have died sooner or later with so much of his true self oppressed by society. it still oppressed/oppresses him, but the dark gift gave him a rare opportunity to live through many eras into a better time in society. that is what he is thanking lestat for. he bought him an endless time to accept and reconcile.

then there is claudia, his everything. she was their daughter - a chance at happiness, family, and normalcy. what they did by her is another story, but she really was his daughter.

louis going back to the shack and embracing lestat is not him absolving everything. that'd be the case if he continued to stay and start a relationship with him. louis went with a purpose because he knew he had to see him and talk about claudia. because he knew lestat was the only person in the entire world who knew her, as much as he did, who remembered her and who loved her. everything is about claudia.

nothing lestat did is forgotten. there are few people in your life who can be toxic and your safe place at the same time. I can't stand my parents at times, but when the world is punching down on me, they're my safe haven even if they can get toxic. I'm not saying families are like that to everyone. but to louis, lestat is that. the coven, entire vampire population, and society are all constantly punching down on him. his guilt, trauma, and the abuse he endured are all weighing down on him when he gets the sudden clarity.

the person whose comfort he has been craving for 7 decades and feeling guilty for craving it because he is the reason their daughter is dead is not only not the reason for her death but is also the who saved him?

louis needed to see him immediately. that is who he is. and yes, if I project, I would want him to have a healthier option. but louis is not me or the audience. he is who he is. he loves lestat. the season left with immense hope for louis, and the s3 teaser gave me confidence that he will be self-sufficient for a while.

louis had to go to that shack because it was to alleviate all the sorrow bottled up in his system. it was all he endured, and he knew one person who could share it with. his 77 years with armand were abusive and manipulative and with the clear lack of claudia around them. It's obvious in the way louis immediately hung up her dress in the final shot in his apartment. that is immense relief. louis went to claudia's other dad. they sobbed and finally talked about her, and he went right back home.

he is on the right track. and even if he fuck up a little again, he will get back on it and learn. its okay, give the man some grace and empathy.

came back to this draft after sam said he wanted to add a "sorry" from lestat, and rolin said, "Not yet." i understand him. lestat has shown or done nothing yet for us to feel like his apology is either sincere or earned. it would feel like lip service, at least to me. again, a reminder that louis never utters the words "im sorry" in this scene. he has nothing to apologise for with lestat, and he doesn't. I think people get it confused.

family and love are really the central themes for 'interview with the vampire' to me. so i think it is a disservice to say the finale was pandering or romantic entirely. it was cathartic and fully starting louis' arc of self-acceptance.

[flaminandgooo]

Direct continuation of this post

Sam, who loves wine and makes it a duty towards himself to treat himself to a trip to a wine yard every once in a while to buy a nice bottle.

And Bucky, who can only stare in awe as Sam's whole face lights up like a New Year's firework when he starts asking questions that first time he decides to tag along. ("You sure you want to know or you're just asking because you're bored?" "It was only ever beer back then, pretty much the only thing I could afford. And then, during the war... Let’s say most of the stuff Dum-Dum found us tasted like gasoline so yes, Sam. I'd like to know. Beer is getting old, I can't get drunk on hard liquor anymore, might as well expand my horizons now that I can." "Look at you, opening yourself to the world." "Fuck you, Wilson." "Don't threaten me with a good time, Barnes.")

Bucky, who scoffs and shoves Sam a little to hide the furious blush creeping up his neck at the cheeky comeback but still thinks it's worth it just to hear that full-of-himself, exaggerated short cackle Sam let's out everytime he manages to get a reaction out of Bucky.

Bucky, who frowns the first time he notices Sam losing steam and glancing minutely at him, as if worried Bucky didn’t mean it when he said he wanted to know more.

Bucky, who wracks his head for a question, even a stupid one, just to keep Sam talking, to keep him sharing parts of himself with Bucky because that's all he ever wanted, to be trusted with parts of Sam's being, however big, however small.

Bucky, who jealously basks in the warmth of Sam's sunny smile when he takes into the seriousness and focus on Bucky's face and starts speaking passionately again, about vintages and types of wines, about which ones to let sit and age and which ones are better young otherwise they grow sour and taste like vinegar.

Buck, who drinks it all in like the finest beverage, directly from Sam's mouth, dropping from his tongue like nectar from those precious grapes Sam is talking about and filling Bucky's ears with the soothing sound of his voice.

Bucky, who takes mental notes of everything Sam tells him about wines with every trip he accompanies him on and buys a new bottle every time they eat together, making sure to ask Sam what he'll be cooking when they're having dinner at his so he can choose the wine accordingly and earn himself a proud grin from Sam and a 'nice pick, Buck'.

Bucky, whose heart grows too big for his chest to contain when Sam gets two invites for a fancy wine tasting event and says 'who else? you're the one I want with me there' when Bucky asks if he's sure he wants to take him instead of someone else.

Bucky, who tries to school his scowl when Sam admits one time that it's nice to finally have someone who listens to him without either getting bored or calling him a snob.

Bucky, who's searched for literal months and finally gets his hands on a 1978 White Gigondas 2 days before Sam's birthday, because he wanted it to be special and thoughtful after all that time spent listening and learning from Sam, and what's better than the man's favorite wine, from the vintage of his birth year?

Bucky, who watches with batted breath as Sam runs a reverent thumb along the edges of the decades old label for what seems like years, almost worryingly silent.

Bucky, who stands frozen as a warm hand closes around his upper arm and squeezes. As soft lips brush, featherlight, against his cheek. As the words 'it's perfect' and 'thank you' glide across his heated skin and inside his ear, only to coil and bury themselves deep within the curve of his spine, soft and bright like a spring sun thawing out the last of winter's snow.

Bucky who watches Sam pull away just enough to pin him with those deep soulful eyes, earthy brown turning into liquid honey in the soft yellow light of Sam's living room.

Bucky, who answers the silent question within those eyes with a soft sigh and a gentle touch of his forehead against the other man's.

And then Bucky.

Who can now say what it's like, to be kissed with so much love, it feels like being born again.

[sevsbestfriend]

I usually write fics here but I just wanna rant rn.

Sometimes I got to old posts and stuff, either to get new ideas or just see what the fuck is going on with the other side of the fandom.

The people coming to James defense or crazy, like on one hand they are like 'oh he was only human, he grew as a person otherwise how would lily love him?'

We literally have cannon confirmation that the fucking prat didn't stop hexing people, he just learned to hide it better. Sirius and Remus confirmed this when they called Severus a 'special case'. I don't give a shit about them saying he attacked first, you better believe I am attacking first if I come across a guy who has stripped me naked in public when I didn't do shit to him. (Or the other guy who tried to get me killed by bloody werewolf) Like wtf are you even talking about at that point???

Also, Harry comes across a detention report of them hexing another student in their 7th year. So uhm...yeah.

Then they are like 'oh Severus hates him so his memories are biased'

Did you morons even read the books?? Pensive memories are unbiased, any manipulation is extremely apparent as we saw in Slughorns case. So NO they aren't biased that extremely uncomfortable read of SWM? it's fucking canon in its truest sense.

Also, how in the ever living hippogryph does a guy who strips people naked for fun change so much that he becomes head boy??

It's pretty simple, he doesn't. He learns to hide it better and given the fact that this person has always been given the benefit of the doubt, it is very easy for them to their nature.

Dude had a map that showed him everyone's real time location and an invisibility cloak, he could damn well harass anyone in isolated corners of the castle if he wished. Which is exactly what he did.

Also, these people love to claim how 'lily only approved of him cause he changed.'

To that I say, Who the fuck is Lily?? Mother Teresa??

How is she the ultimate decider of what is good and bad and at the same time, completely right in dating someone who stripped another student makes after a year (or 2) of the event??

Don't get me wrong, she doesn't owe Severus anything, really, but seriously this is just ridiculous. Like if I was a woman, I would be genuinely terrified of someone like that, especially when they got away with no real consequences what so ever.

James was a prick with a very good PR team for friends and teachers. That's really it, it is often said that good looking people can get away with a lot of things and James is just a prime example of that.

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Also...BRAVE?? Dude had 2 cheat items and the advantage of a Pureblood upbringing and was still too PUSSY to face Severus alone. Yeah..what a real Gryphindor that one. Scrams bravery to you doesn't it? He did this all the way till 17, so yeah he definitely was super important in the order right??

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Dumbledore invested quite a bit in the Marauders with his blatant favoritism and letting a werewolf in the school risking his own position as a headmaster.

And...they all turned to be bloody useless. With only James being useful because of his participation in the birth of Harry Potter.

Sirius in his madness derailed a murder investigation for a fucking decade.

Remus, I genuinely can't remember anything substantial Remus did, except for letting someone he believed was a murderer into Hogwarts and never telling Dumbledore that they were Animagus to begin with.

---_---_--_---_

Seriously, the most useful person in the war had to literally beg on his knees for the man to use him. Even fate was like, for fucks sake, just give this guy a chance already.

[peterspinkrobe]

Communion | AU Priest Miguel O’Hara x female Reader

A/N: I commissioned the above Priest Miguel. Ever since the artist sent the sketch, (@ ejpuki on twitter plz go show love!) this story has been a brewin’ in my cranium. I am not a newbie when it comes to fanfic, but a virgin to writing Miguel. Please accept this offering to the mania that is fandom. Feedback is appreciated. I know the tenses are probably all over the place. Part 2 is live!!. Let me know if you’re interested ~~

Warnings: Religious content, parents, dirty-minded reader, no mention of Y/N

As you sat in the middle pew, aisle seats, you fiddled with the dress your mother guilted you into wearing. The hem of the skirt had a little fraying and you couldn’t help but pick at it.

The meddling was met with a small smack on your wrist from your mother.

“Stop! You’re going to make it worse! I know it’s an old dress but it will only look that way if you pick at it.” The sharpness in tone and the lacy lilac dress from high school brought you back to all of the Sunday mornings you’d been ripped from the comfort of your bed to attend church.

Church. Your head was already starting to hurt from the early morning light pouring through the stained glasses windows, but your tried to remain neutral to spare mom.

Your relationship with the Almighty soured not long after your father passed. Faith was hard to come by and the struggles you’d faced recently only strained that even further.

“Sorry, mama.” You say quietly, acting like you’re still twelve and not in your mid twenties.

Ever since you moved back in you’ve had to live under “her rules”. Sunday service is one of those rules. Considering the headache you’ve caused her recently, you ignore your own and do as she asks. It’s only fair.

But church? Last week was your first time back inside a church since leaving for college five years ago. It was the same one you’d been dragged to in your younger years. The same stained pews, same old books of Psalms, same feeling of estrangement despite being surrounded by the same old folks.

Your mom had turned her attention to the lady that lived on our street and you turned your own attention to your fingernails, scraping underneath them for dirt that wasn’t there. You think about how you had dropped the habit until moving back in, but was interrupted by microphone static.

You pulled your gaze to the front of the church and saw Father Steen tapping the microphone. Despite only being five years since you last saw him, the man seemed to have aged decades. His frail frame balanced on the podium as he spoke. You realized why the microphone was needed when he started speaking - amplifying the hushed tone of the elder addressing his congregation.

“Good morning and many blessings to you all this Sunday morning,” he began and you couldn’t help but lower your gaze back to the frayed bit of your dress. His monotone voice was… kinda boring. You hated thinking that way because Father Steen was such a good man and he cared for your mother greatly when dad passed. He was mentioning an upcoming surgery and you were back to picking at your fingernails. His voice eked on through the speakers, “so we will be having a transitional deacon come in to take over my position until I recover. This fine young man has graciously accepted this position as he is working to become a priest himself. Please welcome Mr. O’Hara as he leads us in prayer to begin communion for this month.”

There is respectful applause and your eyes are still on your hands until your mom elbows you gently. You start to apologize again for not paying attention but notice she and her pew neighbor are giggling as they clap. You start to clap your own hands as you look up at what they were giggling like schoolgirls about when your hands freeze in their clapped position - almost like you’re praying.

The deacon that Father Steen introduced was… gorgeous, and he was looking at you. You blushed, embarrassingly, under the gaze of the dark eyes. Could he tell you hadn’t been paying attention?

Well, you most certainly were now.

You pulled your eyes away from him to look at your mother who was wiggling her eyebrows at you, causing you to blush even deeper and turn back to the front.

The first thing you notice about the man standing at the front of the church was his height. He towered over the podium he placed a hand on. Father Steen came up to only just above his elbows with his hunched body.

The eyes that were watching you now surveyed the room and the light from the windows shown dark, warm pools of irises. His face…

Sharp symmetry made up his countenance. Distinct cheekbones bobbing as the smooth bronze skin stretched upwards into a smile. The strong jawline accentuated with the muscles of his lips pulling back, revealing a dazzling toothy smile.

When he spoke for the first time, you understood why your mom cried during Psalms at times. His voice was gospel.

“Thank you, all, for welcoming me into your parish. I know that you have received excellent spiritual guidance from Father Steen. I can only hope to at least partially fill his shoes in his absence.” His voice boomed throughout the church with no need for a microphone. “Before we begin the sacred ritual that is communion, let us bow our heads in prayer.”

The church around you dutifully lowered their heads, and you did the same. Hating closing your eyes to the alluring man in front of the church. At least his voice still filled your ears with song.

“Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today, in your house, in the name of your Son to receive the Body and Blood of Christ…” you decide it won’t be such a terrible sin to sneak a peek during prayer. You lift your head up to catch another glimpse at the ethereal creature leading prayer while he wasn’t looking.

But he was looking. Right at you as he continued to recite, “We are all sinners, and we are all in need of your grace and forgiveness.” You start to think about how much you needed his grace, when you pinch yourself for the blasphemy.

You’re still staring at each other as he finishes, “We pray that You will bless this communion and that it will deepen our relationships with You.” You instantly feel heat in your gut when you wonder just how deep it can go..

You think you see him grin slightly, but he pulls his eyes away from yours and you quickly put your head back down.

“In Your Blessed Name, Amen.” He ends. “Amen”, the church responds in unison and you squeak it out as well.

The first pew stands and approaches the front of the church, choir boys retrieving the communion goods. You notice that there is a split in the line as one is given the small wafer and grape juice shot by Father Steen and the other line the new deacon.

You can’t keep your eyes off him as he offers the sacrament to each person in line. He is taking longer than Father Steen, seeming to ask questions before presenting the body and blood of a savior.

As it came to be your pew’s turn, you stood. With only a few people in front of you, you studied Miguel’s figure in short glances.

Along with being a towering figure, he was a wide one as well. Muscles filled in the long-sleeved black button down shirt. His large upper body tapered off into a slim waist, tucked neatly into dark pants. A belt accentuated the fit waist even further. Your eyes trailed quickly across the thick neck that was accessorized by the all too familiar white collar of priesthood. When you were just behind one more person, your eyes fell to the floor.

Part of you wished you would be on Father Steen’s side as you feel as though you’re about to burst from this proximity of the giant man. He was bent over speaking to an elder of the church, giving her a soft smile as she blessed him for coming to ‘our little church.’

The man in line in front of you stood to Father Steen and the woman was letting Mr. O’Hara go from a sweet embrace.

Thank God, you guessed, for the years of attending communion as your muscle memory tore your legs from their form rooted position at the altar.

You approached the tall figure and your eyes are locked on the lips of the man in front of you. You see them move, hearing nothing but the beating of your heart in your eardrums.

“I-I’m sorry. What?” You sputter the words and heat creeps into your chest and face.

A soft chuckle escapes his full lips and he smiles as he repeats, “What is your name?”

You give it to him. And he says it. The way your name sounds in his music makes you smile up at him. He holds your gaze for a moment before speaking again.

“The Body of Christ.” He extends his hand in an upward position, the white wafer between his index finger and thumb.

You bow your head slightly in reverence of the offering. As you start to pull your head up again, his pinky and ring finger catch under your chin, lifting your face the rest of the way.

You breathe out a small gasp and open your mouth. He seems to mirror the action slightly as his own mouth drops slightly open. You extend your tongue a little as he places the thin wafer onto it.

His gaze is heavy as he watches you take the offering into your mouth. Your breath hitches when he runs his thumb across your pouted bottom lip, catching some saliva with it.

“Amen.” You respond and it’s not until he pulls his hand from your face when you turn to grab a small glass of grape juice. “The Precious Blood.” You hear him say behind you as you bring the glass to your lips, relishing the sweet refreshment.

Your face is red hot as you turn to walk back to your pew, ignoring your mother’s glances as she had already been back to her seat.

The burning in your cheeks is even more fiery as it dawns on you that the whole church saw the exchange. You hope, you pray, that it was perceived as a normal moment between a new Shepard and a member of his flock.

Communion wraps up and Father Steen takes a seat behind the the new head of church as he begins his sermon. The slight pressure of his thumb on your bottom lip created a pool of heat in your belly that wouldn’t go away.

You try to pay attention to the Good Word, you really do, but your mind is other places. Definitely not holy places.

Maybe coming to church won’t be too bad after all…

[riamaple]

Life on Your Line (Ch. 2)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 4.3k

CHAPTER 2: March 1944 - March 1945

March 15, 1944. 6:23 PM

Minnie passed away a few nights ago. That old hag finally did it. She’s with Lewis now, resting while the rest of us are left to wonder if this war will ever end.

We had the funeral two days ago. It was small and quiet, just like how she would’ve wanted it. Everyone was crying, myself included. My best friend is gone and I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her.

I didn’t write about any of this until now because I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. I was sad, but mostly angry. I’m so happy for Minnie, but I can’t help but feel jealous of her. We were both supposed to grow old together, but now she’s in the ground while I’m still stuck out here. Every day, I check to see if I have a strand of gray hair and of course, I don’t.

I did get a pleasant surprise. Becca stopped by with a whole box of pastries that her mother had made for me and Laura. It was very sweet of them to do that. They even made me some eclairs, my absolute favorite. Laura hasn't been working this week — she’s grieving over Minnie while wondering if her son will survive the war — so I promised Becca I’d bring some of the sweets to her.

This young lady has become an avid reader and she’s always asking me for book recommendations. It was slow at first, with her coming back a few months after she got her first book. She didn’t say, but I think it took a while because she was still upset about her brother leaving for Europe. But since she’s come back, she’s stopped by once a month. I don’t do it for anyone else, but I also started to let her borrow the books. As long as she brings them back in perfect condition, she doesn’t have to pay for them. Who am I to stop a young lady from reading?

I finally did ask Becca about her brother. Turns out his name is James, though everyone — even the papers — calls him Bucky. Becca calls him Jimmy, which I think is sweet. She said it’s been a bit since they’ve heard from him, but he’s now a part of the Howling Commandos with Captain America, fighting proudly for our freedom.

I was also shocked to find out that Captain America was the blonde boy with the balloon from all those years ago. That skinny, tiny kid is now America’s hero and the boy I saved is part of his unit. Funny how the world works.

You stopped writing for a moment.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I think about James more than I want to. I’ve been living with this curse for many decades, yet he’s the only person whom I’ve saved who recognized me. I’ve done a pretty decent job of avoiding people from my past, but the very few I’ve met never seemed to recognize me. They’ve all looked at me strangely, of course, but never said anything about it in the end. Why would they? They all believed I had died.

But James… He’s the only one who saw me for me. Who looked at my face and knew that I was the one who saved him. He still is the only one.

It pained me to lie to him.

I barely know him, but…maybe, if I’m brave enough one day, I could tell him the truth. I’d love to sit down with him and chat over a cup of coffee. Give him the decency and say that, yes, I did save you all those years ago. You were right. It was me.

The bell jiggled, taking your attention away from your journal to the front door. You smiled at a woman who walked in, somewhere in her forties with brown hair, looking around the cozy interior of Riverside Bookshop.

You smiled at her warmly. “Hello. Welcome to Riverside. My name is Doris,” you said, motioning toward the shelves behind you. “We’re about to close soon, but let me know if you need anything.”

The woman smiled back, her eyes scanning the shelves as she wandered through the aisles. It wasn’t unusual for customers to stop by just before closing, searching for one last book to take home. You had done the same when you were younger—well, younger.

After a few moments, the woman pulled a book from one of the lower shelves. It was an old one, but also the kind that had been loved and read over the years. Its edges frayed and the cover was fading, but the woman still carried it to the front desk with a soft smile.

“That’s a lovely choice,” you commented. “One of my personal favorites. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

She chuckled, and you could tell by her eyes that she was excited to dive into it. She paid for the book, thanking you again as you handed her the change.

“Have a good evening,” you called after her, stepping back behind the counter to finish closing up for the night.

It was too late to go to Henry’s and store your journal there. For just this night, you allowed yourself to believe the store wouldn’t somehow catch on fire and burn your writing, so you tucked your journal into one of the drawers. You dimmed the lights, turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed,’ adjusted your bag and exited.

You locked the front door just as a sharp scream echoed through the night air, pulling your attention to the empty streets.

Something tugged at your heart.

You ran as fast as you could down the street until you reached a dark alley, where you saw her—the woman who just bought a book—struggling against a man who had her by the throat.

He had a knife in the other hand.

Decades ago, you would’ve hesitated—run away even—but now you were already right next to them, swinging your bag at the man. Too distracted by the woman, he stumbled back as you hit him on the head. He faltered briefly, but then lunged at you with his knife. You quickly moved to your right, letting him fall against the wall while you grabbed the woman’s hand and bolted back into the street.

Once you were further down the street, you slowed down while the woman gasped for air. You looked behind to see if the man was following, and sighed deeply when you saw that he wasn’t.

“My goodness,” the woman said, rubbing at her throat as she looked at you. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

You forced out a smile, making sure to keep your left side hidden from her view. “You’re welcome. You should head home now—before it gets too dark,” you said quietly, stepping back.

She nodded, still breathing heavily, and quickly stepped away. But the moment she began to leave, you immediately pressed your hand against your side and walked the other way. The ground beneath you seemed to sway, but you kept moving, one step at a time. The pain in your side grew unbearable, but you pushed forward.

You found a quiet alley quickly, away from the streetlights, and collapsed against the wall. Gasping, you hid behind a couple of crates as you raised your hand, examining the blood staining your fingers. You closed your eyes, letting the cool night air wash over you. The sounds of the city faded, and the sharp pain in your side became all-consuming.

You let yourself release one last breath, wondering if you needed to find a new name.

<><><>

You opened your eyes to the biting cold, immediately feeling a familiar ache in your side. You blinked awake, grimacing at the uneven, almost rocky surface you were lying on. You murmured a curse at the world underneath your breath; it wasn’t the first time you woke up in an uncomfortable place. But as you slowly took in the sky and leaves looming over you, the faint scent of pine trees mixed with the damp earth invaded your nose, and you gulped.

You immediately sat up, breathing raggedly while looking around to see that the rugged peaks of unfamiliar mountains surrounded you. This wasn’t your home. This wasn’t Brooklyn. Where the hell were you—

A deafening explosion shattered the silence, causing you to scream and scramble to your feet. You spun around to find cover, choosing to duck behind a large boulder while your breaths came in frantically. There were a few more explosions, followed by gunshots and yelling, and you couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

You had died nearly a hundred times—letting yourself get stabbed, shot, trampled for the sake of others, only to wake up a month later in your home. You were no longer afraid of death, but this was different. You had never woken up anywhere else but your home, where the familiar smell of old wood and novels greeted you. But here, only the freezing wind and echoes of explosions seemed to shake the ground under your feet.

You trembled as the gunshots came closer—you had no idea what you were supposed to do. There was no place to hide, no familiar faces, no quiet corner to retreat to. You peered cautiously over the edge of the boulder, trying to make sense of your surroundings. But then, your breath caught in your throat as you spotted a young man running in the distance.

Your heart jumped at the sight of James, his face streaked with dirt and his uniform torn in places. He heaved with a pained expression as he dove behind another boulder.

Why was he here? 

No. Why were you there with him?

James’s hands trembled as he reloaded his rifle, his eyes scanning the distance through the scope. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold, and every muscle in his body screamed at him to rest, though he didn’t have a second to spare. He tried to keep his breath even, but his lungs burned as he tried to spot the enemy.

He had been hiding before, silently taking down any HYDRA soldier who got too close to Steve or the rest of the Howling Commandos. He tried to be careful, but then one of the soldiers caught a glint of metal from his rifle and threw a grenade at him. James barely managed to brace himself behind cover before the explosion went off, and he was forced to run. He had no idea where his combat unit was—it was just him and a bunch of HYDRA operatives in the mountains. And as much as he was a skilled sharpshooter who had killed most of them by this point, he was getting close to his limits.

James squinted, peering through the scope once more. A soldier emerged from behind a pile of rocks and he didn’t hesitate. The shot rang out and the HYDRA soldier dropped to the ground. Quickly reloading his rifle, he tried to spot the last two soldiers before they could catch him off guard.

When he couldn’t see them, he quickly ducked low behind another boulder as he felt that his position was getting vulnerable. But then, before he could settle into his new spot, an explosive hit too close to him. The shockwave threw him off his feet and he tumbled, yelping as he rolled down the slope. 

Pain shot through his side when he landed against a tree, and he let out an anguished cry. With his teeth clenched and hands rolled into fists, he hissed while trying to regain control over his body, scrambling to grab his rifle. He saw a blur of movement in the corner of his eye and, without stopping, James spun onto his back and shot at the HYDRA soldier in the distance. He rag-dolled instantly, falling onto the rocky terrain.

Another wave of pain traveled through James’s body, making him groan while he forced himself to stand up. He staggered to the side, his vision blurring for a brief moment, and he slumped back behind another boulder with heavy breaths. He was so exhausted and every fiber of his being begged him to stop, but he couldn’t. There was one last soldier left—the one who kept on shooting explosives in his direction. HYDRA���s weapons were getting more advanced and dangerous as weeks went by, making the rifle in his hands feel a bit fragile.

But he gripped his weapon close before peering out from behind the boulder, scanning the landscape again. He cursed under his breath, because just where the hell was the last—

Another explosion went off. This time, it was too close to him and the heat of the blast threatened to sear his skin, making him recoil. He scrambled backward to avoid getting burned, but then his eyes widened in horror. He stood out in the open, staring at the soldier who was charging his giant, bomb-launching weapon directly at him. This was his plan—get James out of hiding and kill him in plain sight. He was completely exposed and couldn’t avoid this.

He was going to die.

Sorry, Steve.

With a choked breath, James braced himself, waiting for the end when a rush of movement suddenly caught his eye. He turned just in time to see the blur tackle him, wrapping their arms around his body just as the explosion went off. It didn’t directly hit him, but it was close enough to send him tumbling down the slope again. 

James yelped as he rolled over a ledge, falling briefly before landing in a large, murky puddle. The freezing water shocked him into focus and he gasped. He gritted his teeth and struggled to sit up, fighting against the exhaustion in his bones, and tried to look for his weapon.

He located his rifle and—

James widened his eyes, staring at your body in another murky puddle. Your body was twisted and you hissed in pain, eyes squeezed shut and limbs shaking as you tried to gather yourself. You had taken the full brunt of the explosion, protecting James from the burns you sustained on your back and sides. The smell of scorched fabric mixed with the damp grass, and blood trickled from the numerous burns and cuts around your body. And your breath—your breath was immensely shallow.

The young man continued to stare, horrified as he tried to process what exactly he was seeing. How could a woman who looked like she was about to go out for a stroll be in the middle of a warzone? James shook his head, leaning close to inspect the stranger.

But as you opened your eyes and he took in your face, he realized that you weren’t a stranger at all. His heart dropped.

“You…” he breathed, his voice quivering. It was you, but…it couldn’t be. No, it wasn't possible. He was in Poland—you were in Brooklyn. How could you— 

A couple of pebbles tumbled over the ledge. 

James lunged for his weapon, pointing it upwards just as the last soldier emerged. Before the operative could even raise his weapon at him, James pulled the trigger, the crack of his rifle echoing through the land. The soldier dropped over the ledge, falling face down into the wet ground. Panting, James stood up and pointed his gun at the soldier, gazing at him as if he was going to jump up and tackle him. But when the soldier didn’t move, he let out a heavy breath and dropped to his knees. He finally won his battle against the enemy—he survived.

After taking a long, well-deserved breath, his eyes darted back over your body. He grimaced, quickly crawling over to you to assess your wounds. Your skin was covered with raw, red patches, blood gushing from all over to mix with the murky water. Your breathing was quiet, but too slow.

But you continued to stare at him, your eyes barely open but still holding on.

James’s heart was pounding so hard that it felt like it was going to leap out of his chest. He couldn’t understand what was happening— how it was happening. How could you —the same person from the bookstore—be with him right now? Despite the confusion, he shook his head. 

“We have to go,” he said urgently. “We can’t stay here.”

With trembling hands, he tried to lift your body, but a horrible noise ripped from your throat the second he did. It wasn’t a quiet yelp or a soft whimper—it was a violent cry that made his heart shatter. He froze—there was no way you could recover. He wouldn't be able to get you help in time.

But that was cruel, because if it wasn’t for you, he would’ve been dead. All of the injuries you were suffering through would’ve been his instead. He let out a shaky breath, his body trembling as he carefully adjusted his hold on you. Tears welled in his eyes—if he couldn’t get help, he could at least let you pass comfortably in his arms, right?

James cradled you in his lap as all he could do was hold you, his hands slick with blood as he felt your chest slowly lose momentum. But as his eyes searched your face, examining the blood that trailed over your cheeks and soaked your hair, he found himself reliving a memory he had wanted to erase from his mind. He bit his lips, struggling to say the right things to you.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “From Brooklyn… From…from when that car…”

He waited for a response, but you did nothing other than blink, the pain etched in your eyes too morbid for him to handle. He reached up, his hand shaking as he cradled your face, trying to offer some kind of comfort in your last moments.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his lips quivering. “I’m so sorry…”

You only blinked back in response and he briefly looked away from you, a wet breath getting caught in his throat. But then something caught his eye—a pendant hanging loosely on a thin chain around your neck, revealed by the rips in your dress. 

It was a locket.

He slowly reached for it and you watched him gently cradle it in his palm, almost admiring it before he opened it. Inside, there was a delicate flower etched into the metal and a tiny inscription beside it that made him pause.

“Rose?” he read softly.

And with that, as James whispered the name that was so dear to your heart, you released one final breath and went still in his arms.

His grip on your body tightened. He let go of the locket, reaching for your face again. When he felt how cold your skin was, he broke. A choked sob tore from his throat, his whole body curling over yours as he hugged you closer.

He didn’t know who you were. He didn’t know why you saved him or how you even found him, but you were real. You had been real. 

But now you were gone.

It was really you in that bookstore, from when he decided to give Becca a little bit of joy before he left home. When you looked up at him, his whole world halted from seeing the woman who had shoved him out of the way, taking the full brunt of the car. He was just walking back to his home with Steve, laughing as they carried sandwiches from what they believed to be the best deli in Brooklyn. Then he was on his knees next to your body, begging you to stay awake until help arrived, but you didn’t make it.

And yet, eight years later, he had found you again. In a bookstore that he had planned to stop by for so long, but couldn’t until the last second.

But then, when you said he had mistaken you for someone else, he wanted to believe it. He had to believe it, because how could it have been you?

You had died for him.

But…here, you were in his arms.

And you had died for him again.

James let out a wrecked cry, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips parted, but the words he wanted to say died in his throat. He continued to hold you as if it would bring you back.

“Bucky!”

James lifted his head, hearing his name in the distance. His breath hitched before he looked back at you. He didn’t want to leave you, but…he had to. He had to go.

Carefully, he lowered you to the ground, his hand lingering on your arm before he pushed himself up. He lost his footing briefly, the exhaustion trying to drag him back down, but he steadied himself. He looked at you one more time before staggering to the ledge.

Steve suddenly popped up, looking down and immediately letting out a heavy sigh of relief when spotting his best friend.

“Jesus, Buck.” He jumped down and crushed him in a hug. “Thank God. Are you alright?”

James inhaled sharply, nodding as he tried to reply. “I—” His voice cracked, but he exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I’m alright. I just—”

He looked back at you, but his heart stopped.

Because there was nothing to look back to.

The puddle where you had been lying was empty. No blood, no fabric, no sign of your presence whatsoever.

James stumbled backward, his breath coming in short gasps as his eyes darted around, searching for you. Longing for you.

“Bucky?” Steve frowned, stepping closer carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” He looked down at his hands, smudged with mud and ash.

But there was not a single speck of your blood staining his skin.

<><><>

May 14, 1944. 5:10 AM

I try to write about every person I save, but I can barely remember what happened in that alley with the woman. All I can think about is James.

I saved James for the 2nd time on April 14 and I woke up with the worst pain I’ve ever had all over my skin.

For so many decades, I’ve been giving people second chances — dying for them so that they can go on living. But I have never given someone a third chance, or been sent across the world for them, or had to save two of them back to back. I was gone for 2 months and I feel terrible. Laura was angry and sad and happy when I came back. She cried so much as she believed I died for good even though that can never happen.

I don’t know how I ended up with James. I want to say it shouldn’t be possible, but I don't even know the full extent of my curse. Only the world does.

So tell me, world… Why James? I understand he was going to die, but why him? Henry was in the Great War, scared and tired and no one saved him. Why wasn’t I sent to him? Maybe this is the world’s way of making it up to me. If I wasn’t able to protect Henry, maybe I was given James to protect instead. I don’t mind that.

Because for the first time since I’ve been cursed, I don’t feel like a ghost. When James looked at me — recognized me — I felt real. Even though I had lied to him before, he still made me feel as if I had a proper place in this world. And when he whispered Rose to me, even though that isn’t my name, I felt…wanted.

And he’s the first person who has ever comforted me as I died.

So…maybe he could be the first person I saved to know the truth.

When he comes back to Brooklyn, I will tell him. He deserves to know.

<><><>

March 5, 1945. 4:31 AM

We live in hell.

I found out yesterday that James had died. Becca came in crying and told me the news before I could even ask if she was alright. They got the letter — killed in action — fallen into a ravine. They can’t even bring back his body for a proper funeral.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

I was brought to him a year ago to save him. But why would the world you let me save him twice if you were still going to take him away? Rip him away from his sisters and mother and father? I would say that I can’t imagine how his parents are feeling, but I can. When my baby was taken from me, I wanted to die too.

But this isn’t just about them. James was supposed to be the one stranger I could allow myself to be honest with. But you took him away.

Why would you give me that false sense of hope? Make me believe he would survive? I had to watch Becca fall to the floor crying and I couldn’t even help her. She lost her big brother, but I couldn’t even tell her that I understood her pain without revealing this damn curse you placed on me.

You brought me to him. You WANTED me to save him so much that you sent me out there. Of all people, him. You didn’t even take me to Henry when he needed me. You could have had this whole time and you didn’t. You took me to James instead so that I could give him the chance to go home to his family.

But then you killed him. 

If I had known he was going to die, I would’ve at least told him my real name.

Damn you.

Damn you.

Go to hell.

Damn you Fuck you

NEXT CHAPTER >

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass

Thanks for reading :)

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 103 (Lavender is Adorable & Malcolm Follows a Lead)

Finally back home after the end of Winterfest break, Conrad caught Heather looking at her ring with a grin while she cleaned up the kitchen. "Did you think you want to set a date yet?" he asked.

She grinned, practically giddy against his charming smile. "Still no."

He laughed, heading into the living room to play with Lavender, where she sucked her slippered toe and chewed her toys. She'd sat up on her own on Boxing Day morning, but she was still more comfortable getting a bird's eye view of the world. Conrad and Heather didn't want to push her; she'd pull herself up with regularity when she had places she wanted to get to.

Heather got dressed and returned from the bedroom to find Conrad chatting with Lavender on the sofa. "It's so much fun to crawl around, sweet girl. You're gonna want to try it soon. I know it."

Heather smiled. "I thought instead of breastfeeding, I could help Lavender explore foods this morning."

Conrad set her up in the high chair as Heather opened a jar of crushed carrots. But Lavender was totally uninterested, batting away the spoon and sticking out her tongue, ejecting the orange mush from her mouth with a grimace.

Heather sighed. "I think we have a picky eater on our hands."

As it turned out, Lavender hated the texture, and sometimes the taste, of most baby foods, so Heather kept breastfeeding. "When she's ready for finger foods, maybe she'll be less picky," suggested Conrad with a hopeful smile.

Lavender's three infant quirks: Loves Wake Up Time, Picky Eater, and the lesser-noted Frequently Hiccups (because it's been mostly inconsequential since Lavender's such a happy baby).

Soon enough, Lavender was upright all the time, and Heather and Conrad chalked it up to her wanting to be tall enough to hang with Gord. The beloved Bernese loved Lavender, often moving in for pets from Lavender's tiny palms. He offered nose rubs in return while the infant giggled wildly.

Conrad, meanwhile, had chased too many leads for Rafa to precisely nowhere, and Ximena had stayed undetected throughout the holidays. As far as Rafa was concerned, he was beginning to fear he was looking for another dead body, but he couldn't let himself rest until he knew for sure.

Trying to relax in the living room with his family, he took a call from Zion Spangler. "George and his wife extended their time in Sulani," reported the young detective. "He won't be coming home for questioning any time soon." Conrad hung up and rubbed his temples in frustration.

Heather frowned in their crowded living room. Ash was practicing a speech for class in the mirror and Lavender was playing with Gord, so she couldn't talk to Conrad about the case. He hadn't shared much, but the police detail lingered outside their home and the clinic, so she knew Ximena was still at large.

She wanted him to be able to find Rafa. She knew how much it meant to him, and how it tore at him not to be any closer to learning what happened. They were both ready to put all of this past them.

In San Myshuno, Malcolm had done some digging into the murder at the docks from his penthouse. Law enforcement wouldn't speak to him about the confidential file, but he'd managed to uncover George Brindleton's shady investment in the company's crooked books, and tracked down the man himself at his tropical villa in Sulani.

"Thank you for talking to me today, Mr. Brindleton. I gather with your secrecy, you don't talk to many reporters."

"This is off the record," grunted George. "I want to get to know you before I tell you anything about my work. You are a Landgraab, after all."

He frowned. "Malcolm's fine."

"I told the detectives I don't know a single damn thing about a murder at the docks. I'm a good businessman and I know where to trim the fat from my investments. Demand. Supply. It's not my fault that for the first time in decades, someone died of anything other than old age or rabies in Brindleton Bay."

"Do they think it was someone from your company?"

"No, they've asked what we know about some cartel called Los Tigres. Hey! Hey Rafael, bring me another soda with extra lime!" He turned his attention back to Malcolm over their video connection with a sneer. "The wait staff at this villa is horrible, but the booze is strong and the sun is hot!"

Malcolm curled his lip at flagrant George Brindleton, taking note of the name of the cartel. "I'm sure the wait staff would be better at a more expensive villa, Mr. Brindleton."

George sneered. "You're a punk reporter, I see. Think you're better than me just because you've got that Landgraab elitism running through your veins?"

Malcolm shrugged. He'd always been a snob, and most people were right when they called him an ass, but he'd found reasons to smile after becoming a father and marrying his wife. He didn't want to spend his night arguing with an angry old man. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Brindleton. I think I have everything I needed from you, but if you have more to say, by all means, call the news station anytime."

"What does some big city national reporter want with a story about a body in Brindleton Bay, anyway?"

"The story is important, but my son lives in Brindleton Bay. On a personal level, I care that he's safe, and if your company isn't doing their job, I think my mother would love to know there's an open business opportunity at the docks. Demand and supply, and all that."

"You have a son in Brindleton Bay?"

"I do. The local vet is his mother."

George froze as the waiter named Rafael approached with his drink.

"Your son is Heather Nesbitt's son?" He stammered. "Listen, there's no need to start a competing security company in Brindleton Bay...as a matter of fact, I'm gonna tell my guy to go back to the old schedule, effective immediately, so don't even bother."

George ended the video call with a click. The names of Heather's kids had been redacted in the restraining order, but the order had covered the school and the daycare, as well as the house. It's not like he really needed to be able to single them out from any of the other squealing brats in his town - despite his threats outside the courthouse, he preferred to stay away from all of them.

George was more focused on the bigger picture than scaring kids - asserting his importance to the safety of Brindleton Bay served him far better. He'd expected a rise in hooliganism, not a murder, when he pulled his guys from the docks, but the sequence of events had played right into his hands while he sipped cocktails in the sunshine.

He had no reverence for most of the Brindleton Bay Police Force. They'd been in his pocket for decades and they needed him now more than ever. But the Landgraabs were a bigger fish than any he pulled from the Simlandia Sea in his fishing days.

He smiled, taking the drink from Rafael. "Thank you, amigo. Here's a tip to keep 'em coming."

June stood and pleaded with her husband. "Don't drink all morning, George!"

"Don't tell me what to do, June."

Rafa smiled. "Yes, sir. I'll bring round number two before you fall asleep in the lounge chair again for your afternoon nap."

With the Sulani sun beating down on his forehead, George Brindleton considered what he'd learned from Malcolm Landgraab. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Some may recall my side project to flip Malcolm's evil trait to good. That hasn't happened yet but he has added cheerful as a bonus trait - Snob, Evil, Music Lover, and Cheerful is who Malcolm is right now. Good-hearted Miko helping change him is maybe sorta slowly working! He did finish with George and did the evil cackle animation because George was mad and he reveled in it, however...

WCIF Serving Poses: @tenyrasims' Serving With a Smile Posepack and @someone-elsa's cocktails tray accessory (also available at the link). Seriously fantastic, thank you so much for creating and sharing this! it's exactly what I was looking for when I needed to shoot this scene.