#their was one more seat to the back of the bus

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere sugar daddy made me giggle with him buying me a car 🚗 Cuz I can’t drive…This then led me to think how fucked I am in a relationship with any of your yanderes cuz I’m practically a sitting duck 🦆 What am I going to do if I wanna get away from them? Wait on the side of the road to take a public transport bus? 🚌 Or do I gotta bike my way to freedom? 🚲 😭

Speaking of vehicles though…for the yanderes that this question is appreciable…what���re the cars they drive vs. the dream car or car that you think fits their aesthetic? 🚗

Also who’s ok with me being their cute lil passenger princess? 👑

girl, it's so embarrassing but I can't drive either 😭

Atp, I think we'll need to Uber our way to freedom. Tip the drive 100% in case of damages caused by deranged exes.

Yandere boys and their cars

Yandere! Boyfriend definitely drives a Jeep wrangler. He's a big guy and he needs the extra space. I also see him as the more outdoorsy type, so a Jeep is perfect for all his hiking and climbing gear. He loves his car for the sole reason that you like sitting shotgun in summer, the roof down and your hair blowing in the wind. It makes for a damn pretty sight.

Yandere! State Trooper is assigned one of those State Police Dodge Challengers. All American muscle that thrums up through the seats. If there's ever a car chase or an evading suspect, he's first on the scene. On quiet nights, he'll head to the highway and gun it. V8 engine roaring even louder than the sirens. He's not supposed to, but he likes taking you for a drive now and then. He likes the way you cling to the dash and shake when he blows through the speed limit.

Yandere! Cop is a certified Ford pickup kind of guy. It's got space, it's got power but most importantly, it doesn't stand out. This is Middle America baby, they're everywhere. When he follows you, he knows for a fact you won't notice him. His only customization is the extremely tinted windows. Can't have you seeing his face when he takes all those pictures of you, now can he?

Yandere! Academic Rival has trustfund money to spend and his daddy's whole garage to choose from. For everyday, I can see him driving a BMW or Audi roadster. Sleek, sporty and modern. But on the weekends, when he's driving up the coast to his country house, he's definitely taking something vintage. He has a whole collection of luxury old money convertibles - every single one of them something you expect to see at St. Moritz.

Yandere! Mobster drives a Cadillac Town Sedan. It's got a powerful engine to outrun the pigs and plenty of trunk space to stash smuggled alcohol. He absolutely adores taking you on long drives. Windows open to catch the fresh air, picnic basket on the back seat, your head resting on his shoulder on the way home... What's not to love?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy is new money. And a tech nerd. So I see him mostly driving electric cars, maybe a Porsche Taycan for 'everyday use' (who the hell drives a Porsche like a regular commuter car? Your Croesus rich boyfriend, that's who). And something extra luxurious for weekends and date nights - probably something like the Yangwang U9. He loves messing around with the extra features and plugging the cars into his computer diagnostic system. Surprisingly, he's not that fond of actually driving. He much prefers you do it and let him enjoy the scenery.

Yandere! Werewolf drives a vintage cherry red Mustang. He bought it cheap off an older guy who hated the repairs, and spent all summer working on it. By extension, that meant you spent all summer sprawled across the backseat, thumbing through fashion magazines and listening to golden oldies on the radio. It's got plenty of space and if he was the kinda guy to make a move on a girl at the drive in, this would be the car to do it in.

[the-lazyyy-artist]

Pairing: Yukimiya Kenyu x GN!Reader Synopsis: playing along might lead to something, right? Especially when everyone in your family knows where this leads to. Themes: fluff!! Best friends to lovers, fake dating (kinda??), Yukimiya is a joy to write, cliche situations, rom-com coded Author's Note: Denisse had a dream (legit). When I woke up yesterday, all I could remember was Yukki being there. Wth???

"He's really everything we wanted for you," your auntie's high-pitched voice said, irritating your ear and causing you to scrunch your nose as you plastered on a fake smile you've been wearing since the celebration started. "Yeah, I know, Auntie!"

You can see him laughing and playing with the little kids from afar. They love him. Who wouldn't anyway? He's gentle, mindful, kind-hearted... Exactly what your auntie said. He's everything you wanted. 

Yukimiya chased after the kids, his voice faintly heard from the garden as the children screamed in excitement. He caught one of your little cousins and lifted him, flipping him upside down. You smiled softly at the view of seeing him being goofy, and he met your gaze. His orange eyes softened as he stared at you for a moment and then back at your cousin who was starting to wiggle off his grasp. Oh, how you wish...

Where did it even begin?

University wasn't as kind as people say. You had difficulty catching up with classes since it seemed so different from when you were in middle school. You'd rush to your classes, sometimes just in time, sometimes just a few minutes late, but there was one particular class you took where you bothered to arrive early. It was one you had with him.

Yukimiya with his pretty hair, always styled most perfectly. Yukimiya with his soft voice, floats in the air every time he participates in class or delivers a report. Yukimiya was fairly popular as a model and one of the best players on the university's soccer team. Yukimiya, who you wondered why he bothered to be friends with you.

He always made you wonder why he chose you to be his seatmate that day, how his little snarky comments about your professor made you giggle silently, how he would help you out everytime you were in a sticky situation in your class, how he became a frequent visitor in your little dorm, be it hanging out or studying together. 

It's been 3 good years of having him as your closest friend, the one who knew you more than anyone in your family.

Yukimiya felt the same way. He was intrigued by your presence when he saw you on your seat, eyes meeting the moment he entered. He thought it was normal to look at the person who just entered the class, but a part of him thought otherwise. That's why he sat beside you that day, and the days afterward. He was comfortable being silly with you, letting his personality shine with you. He feels like he can act normally outside his modeling and soccer spheres. 

A week before winter break, you've received calls from your mother and aunties, reminding you to come home for a big family gathering before Christmas. It has been like that since you were a baby. The family always made sure that everyone would be there, with no excuses or exceptions.

"When will you come home? Hmm? Do you have enough money for the trip? Remember not to bring too many clothes, okay? You still have enough here."

Your mother's voice fills your empty dorm room as you flip through the pages of your reviewer, trying to at least study once more before your exam later that day. You heard the door click open, revealing a bundled-up Yukimiya entering your dorm.

"Yes, Mom," you sighed as you watched Yukki slip off his shoes and wear his slippers, "I'll be home next Wednesday after I finish everything I need to do in school. I still have exams this week."

"Okay. That's good. Make sure to take the early morning bus. Your aunties and uncles will be here on Saturday to prepare for the gathering," your mom replied, the busy chatter of the kitchen blending with her voice. Yukki already sat beside you at the little study table you had at your dorm, listening and keeping his mouth shut. "Oh, and honey," your mom chimed again, "please, at least, this time bring someone home?"

You groaned and said a flat "I'll try" before rushing to end the call with the excuse of studying (though it was true. It was embarrassing for Yukki to hear that). After so many kisses, goodbyes, and okays, the call ended, and you leaned back in your seat. "So, you had to hear that," you said, chuckling. Yukki offered a small smile as he leaned on his seat, shaking his head. "I understand. My mother keeps asking to bring someone too, so I understand the frustration." 

"Oh, yeah, I bet," you replied, rolling your eyes at him. Yukki laughed and started to poke your shoulders. "What? You don't believe me?"

"No? You're too good-looking to be single, Ken. Come on. You might be having a relationship behind my back by now!" You replied, scoffing. 

"I don't. I would've told you by now if I had one."

"One??" you exclaimed as you leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "So you could probably bag two then?"

"That's... not what I'm saying," Yukki laughed. "What's going on in your brain? Getting all jumbled up with exams?"

You sighed in response. Yukki knew that you were getting overloaded with worries and expectations for you to bring a guest, so he decided to elevate your worries a little...

"Hey," he spoke softly, "how about I help you with your studies? And you can bring me to your family celebration as your guest, you can tell them I'm your best friend though," he added, teasing you. Your eyes widen at him at the suggestion, making your heart beat a little faster. "You know they'll assume anyway," you replied, stating that families are just like that. "Yeah, but if they assume stuff, we can just clarify it every time. Won't hurt anyone, right?" 

And so, that Wednesday, you were in the morning bus sitting beside Yukki, waiting for it to leave. Your mother was overjoyed to hear that you're bringing Yukki, already mistakenly calling him your boyfriend and you had to correct her twice in the call. The trip was smooth, you two enjoyed the view of the countryside from the window as you two shared earbuds, listening to his playlist (in your opinion, he has a better taste in music). "Won't your family wonder why you're not home for the break?" You asked him, your head resting on his shoulder. You felt him shrug then watched him open his text messages to his mom, something he was really comfortable doing with you (though in your opinion, again, you find it weird and uncomfortable that he just shows you his texts with his mom out of nowhere). "I told her about your family event and that I'll go home afterward. She's fine with it, and she knows you."

Your childhood home has always been the hub of all celebrations, mostly family reunions, given how spacious it was inside with a bigger garden in front and a backyard for the kids to run around. The moment you opened the gate of your home, your mother was already by the door, waiting for your arrival. "Oh! My sweet baby has come home! Finally!" She squealed as she came running towards you, showering your face with kisses. Yukki relished what was happening, smiling to himself. "Oh! And you must be Yukimiya," your mother said, turning her attention to your best friend. Yukki, with his best manners, bowed to greet your mother, flashing her his kindest smile. His soft eyes have captured your mother's affection, blushing slightly. "Oh dear, you never told me your boyfriend was a charmer!"

"Mom, best friend," you corrected her. She only tsked and moved away from the both of you, as if she was eyeing how you two looked beside each other. "Your father and I were best friends before we got together. You two are on the right path, you just don't know it yet. Now, come along and I'll show you to your room."

As embarrassing as it was, you two were assigned to sleep in your childhood room, with all the plushies and little toy collectibles still on your shelves, untouched. "We cleaned as much as we could since you'll be sharing your room with your boyfriend," your mom said, drawing the curtains open. "I hope you don't mind my sweet baby's collection, Yukimiya. They had too many hobbies growing up!" 

"It's alright. I can say it's the same for me, though it's just soccer-related," Yukki replied, examining your toy collections. "Oh? An athlete? Sweetheart, you never told me your boyfriend was the sporty type! We're gonna have the athlete gene in our family!"

"Mom, please stop," you groaned, pushing her out of your room, "and again, best friend."

Your mom just laughed as she walked out. "I'll give you two some time alone now," she teased as she closed the door behind her. You sighed and plopped on your bed. You two couldn't even fit on this bed, and you don't have anything for him to lie down on if he pushes sleeping on the floor (which will not be happening, not on your watch.)

"Your mom sounds fun," Yukki commented, pulling your chair from your desk to the bed. He sat down on it as he watched you think about something. "We can't fit," he added, guessing your worries. "And you're not sleeping on the floor," you replied,

"We'll figure it out."

Your mom scolded you that night for planning to sleep on the couch, pulling you back to your room and practically pushing you toward Yukki. He was enjoying all of this as your mom told you to stay in your room and you being a huffing mess. Your mom left you both alone in your room, and you turned to punch his arm. "I can hear you laughing the whole time, asshole," you groaned. Yukki's laughter filled the room as he tried to catch your punches. "Hey, I just love seeing you in this situation."

"Whatever. I'll be by the wall."

You climbed on the bed, claiming your spot. He laid beside you. In the dark. It was awkward given this was the first time you were this close and vulnerable. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah. You?"

"Yep. Don't roll on my spot in the morning and cuddle me."

You laughed, turning to give him one more punch.

"In your dreams, Ken."

"Yeah, in my dreams."

You'd like to think that it was a comedy skit, the way you two just started to play along with your aunties and uncles after getting tired of correcting them everytime they assume that you two are an actual couple. The aunties fell in love instantly when they laid eyes on Yukki, working his charm with every smile and response. They complimented you for choosing such a handsome and kind man, and you'd fake laugh and respond, "Yeah". Your uncles loved him the most because he'd engage in their conversation about soccer, easily getting into their good graces. It was too good to be true.

Now the kids love him too.

"In your dreams?" you asked him after the party had died. You led him to the garden where you sat on the coffee table. "Hmm?"

"What did you mean by that?" You asked again.

"Did you know you rolled on my spot?" Yukki asked instead with a smile on his face, "You look cute in your sleep," You scowled at him, a blush of embarrassment slowly appearing on your cheeks. "You're making things up, Kenyu,"

"I took a picture as proof," he said, fishing his phone from his pocket. "No! No, don't show me! God, Yukki!" You stood up from your seat to playfully pull on his sweater, which Yukki found so silly. "Careful! This is expensive!" He joked as he held your wrists to stop you from pulling him, "I will pay for it as long as you delete that photo!" 

The laughter died down and you finally let go of him, sitting back on your chair. There was a brief silence between the two of you, only the soft chatter of the ladies inside can be heard. Yukki sighed, looking up at the lavender skies. "I realized something," he said softly, "I realize I can no longer hide this from you. This might be the worst timing, given that we already had given up correcting everyone in your family, but I need you to know this."

"Eh? What are you talking about? Are sick from all the-"

"I like you."

Yukimiya kept staring at the sky as you looked at him in shock. Is your best friend of 3 years liking you back? He doesn't know but hearing that made you think that the gods and your ancestors actually answered your prayers for the longest time. "It started when we became such close friends. Your family mistakenly calling me your boyfriend kinda made me wanna come clean with how I feel for you. I wanna confront this feeling that I've been pushing back and ignoring for the sake of our friendship. We've played along with everyone here today and it made me believe we could be something, and I have a good feeling that you feel the same...

Do you?"

"Do I...?"

Yukimiya chuckled and brushed your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. "Like me?"

"... I love you."

"Really?" Yukki asked, his smile widening. Now, this was something so new to you. You have seen him smile, mostly grin and smirk, but never a full smile. This one was the first. His joy was contagious as you caught yourself smiling along with him. You shook your head, confirming that yes, you really love him. Yes, you knew for the longest time. Yes, you don't mind having him as your boyfriend.

Yes, the bed was a little warmer that night...

And yes, your mother was the happiest one when she found out months later that you and Yukki are officially a couple, reminding you again of how she and your father met and got together for the hundredth time in your lifetime, though she's more excited about the fact that you guys finally have an athlete in the family. 

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Possession: a Jey Uso x Rhea Ripley x Jimmy Uso fanfic.

Chapter 14: Ride by Somo..

Rhea stormed back to Roman’s tour bus, her boots thudding heavily against the concrete. The adrenaline from her backstage outburst hadn’t worn off, and her mood was still smoldering. She swung open the door to the tour bus and found Jimmy and Roman sitting inside, both leaning back as if they’d been waiting for her.

Jimmy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So? What’d they say?”

Rhea dropped into one of the seats, letting out a frustrated sigh. “They told me to cool it with the vulgar language.” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. “Like that’s the problem.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Well, it kinda is. You can’t just go around threatening half the roster and cussing on live TV.”

Rhea shot him a glare. “Don’t start, Joe. Tiffany’s the one who took it too far. Did you hear what she said to me? That’s not scripted heat—that’s personal.”

Jimmy crossed his arms. “Yeah, we heard. The crowd was eating it up, though. It’s messy as hell, but it’s working.”

“That’s not the point!” Rhea snapped, sitting up straighter. “I’m not just some pawn they can use to air out my personal life for ratings. They’ve already turned my life into a soap opera, and now I’ve got to work with her.”

Roman’s expression softened slightly. “I get it. But this is the business, Rhea. You know that better than anyone. Sometimes you’ve got to take the punches and roll with it.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, easy for you to say. No one’s dragging your name through the mud or making a joke out of your relationships.”

Jimmy shrugged. “True, but you’re the one out there proving you can handle it. You’re stealing the show. Hell, tonight’s segment is already trending.”

Rhea’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care about trends. I care about respect. And Tiffany? She doesn’t respect me. She thinks she can just say whatever she wants and get away with it.”

Roman leaned back, his arms crossed. “Then make her respect you. But do it smart, Rhea. You’ve got all the momentum right now. Don’t let her get under your skin and make you lose focus.”

Rhea leaned her head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. She hated to admit it, but Roman had a point. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll try to keep it together. But if she steps out of line again—”

Jimmy smirked. “We’ll be ready.”

Roman stood up and clapped her on the shoulder. “Good. Now take a minute and cool off. We’ve got the rest of the night to deal with.”

Rhea nodded, closing her eyes as they let her be. She might have agreed to play by the rules, but deep down, she knew the next time she and Tiffany crossed paths, all bets would be off.

Little did she know.. all bets had already been off…

—

SNME: San Antonio, TX January 25, 2025

Rhea tightened the laces on her boots, her movements methodical, her mind razor-sharp. Jimmy’s steady hands adjusted the collar of her leather jacket, ensuring everything was in place. Roman stood nearby, his arms folded, his eyes scanning them both with quiet intensity.

The past month had been a whirlwind, both on-screen and off. The rivalry between Rhea and Tiffany had become the must-see storyline, eclipsing everything else in WWE. The explosive segments, backstage brawls, and unpredictable encounters had cemented Rhea as a bona fide megastar. Her relentless pursuit of Tiffany, Ms. Money in the Bank, across RAW and SmackDown kept fans buzzing, and her star had risen to unprecedented heights, even rivaling Roman himself.

All the while, the feud between the Elevated Bloodline—Roman, Jimmy, and Rhea—and the remnants of the old Bloodline had grown more personal and vicious. Lines had been drawn, sides taken. Tiffany had thrown her lot in with Solo, Jacob, Tonga and Tama, becoming their smug, untouchable prize. It was clear they’d do anything to protect her.

Now, at Saturday Night’s Main Event, the tension had reached its peak. The long-awaited 3-on-5 handicap match was about to unfold.

Rhea stood and rolled her shoulders, her jacket shifting with the motion. Jimmy took a step back, giving her a once-over. “You good?”

She glanced at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Always.”

Roman’s voice cut through the tension, calm and commanding. “Tonight isn’t just another match. It’s a statement. We’re not just here to win; we’re here to end this.”

Rhea met his gaze, the fire in her eyes matching his intensity. “They started this. We finish it.”

The door opened, and a stagehand peeked in. “Five minutes.”

Roman nodded, then turned to Jimmy and Rhea. “Let’s go. Time to remind everyone why we run this.”

The three of them made their way toward the entrance curtain, their steps in sync, their presence magnetic. The energy of the crowd was palpable, their anticipation like a living thing.

Rhea didn’t need to look back; she could feel the weight of everything that had led to this moment—the betrayal, the anger, the fights, and the losses.

Jey hadn’t contacted her, and she hadn’t reached out either. The silence between them was deafening, but it didn’t matter anymore. There was no going back, no mending what had been shattered.

This was about personal grievances. It was also about dominance, about proving who truly controlled the narrative in WWE.

The familiar beat of Roman’s music hit, and the crowd erupted, their deafening roar echoing through the arena.

Tonight wasn’t just about settling scores.

It was about making history.

—

Michael Cole: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is it—the highly anticipated 3-on-5 handicap match between the Elevated Bloodline and the Old Bloodline! The stakes couldn’t be higher!”

Pat McAfee: “This is gonna be a straight-up war, Cole. You’ve got the biggest egos, the most dangerous forces, and a whole lot of bad blood!”

Michael Cole: “Speaking of the Elevated Bloodline, here comes the Tribal Chief’s music!”

Roman Reigns’ iconic theme hits, and the crowd roars. The camera pans to the stage as Jimmy Uso and Rhea Ripley step out first. Rhea, dressed in her black leather jacket and her Mixed Tag Team Championship belt around her waist, looks intense as ever. Jimmy walks beside her, his expression focused, his belt on his waist as well.

Pat McAfee: “Cole, look at them—walking like they own the entire damn arena!”

Michael Cole: “This is the most unified we’ve ever seen Rhea, Jimmy, and Roman. They’ve had enough of the Old Bloodline, and tonight they’re here to put an end to it!”

Jimmy and Rhea pause at the top of the ramp, turning back toward the entrance. The crowd’s volume spikes as Roman steps out, his stoic face radiating dominance. The trio stands together, soaking in the energy before beginning their slow, deliberate walk to the ring.

Pat McAfee: “This is a sight to behold, Cole. You’ve got Jimmy Uso, the technical high flyer, Rhea Ripley, the Eradicator, and Roman Reigns, the Original Tribal Chief himself. What a power trio!”

In the ring, Tiffany Stratton paces back and forth, grinning with malicious excitement. Solo Sikoa, Jacob Fatu, Tama Tonga, and Tonga Loa stand behind the ropes, their eyes locked on the Elevated Bloodline.

Michael Cole: “Tiffany Stratton is chomping at the bit to finally get her hands on Rhea Ripley, but let’s not forget the Old Bloodline standing behind her. This is as stacked as it gets!”

The Elevated Bloodline reaches ringside. Jimmy climbs onto the apron and holds the ropes open for Rhea. She steps into the ring, her eyes never leaving Tiffany. Roman finally enters, taking his time as the crowd showers them with a mix of cheers and boos. The energy is electric.

Lilian Garcia stands in the center, microphone in hand, ready to announce the competitors. But just as she begins, the crowd buzzes with confusion as a familiar voice cuts through the arena.

Paul Heyman: “Ladies and gentlemen!”

Michael Cole: “Wait a minute! That’s Paul Heyman! Roman Reigns’ Wiseman!”

Pat McAfee: “What the hell is Paul doing out here? This just got even more interesting!”

The camera pans to the stage where Paul Heyman walks out, holding a microphone and wearing his signature smug grin.

Paul Heyman: “Lilian, sweetheart, I’m sorry to interrupt your wonderful introductions, but this match—3-on-5? Now that doesn’t seem very fair, does it?”

The crowd erupts in cheers, sensing something big is about to happen.

Paul Heyman: “Rhea, darling, you thought you didn’t have any more friends? You thought you were alone in this fight? Oh no, my dear… you still have allies. Gentlemen, would you do the honors?”

The arena goes dark for a moment before the familiar beat of Damian Priest’s music hits. The crowd explodes as Damian Priest, Dominik Mysterio, and the Women’s World Champion Liv Morgan step onto the stage.

Michael Cole: “What?! Are you kidding me?! Damian Priest, Dominik Mysterio, and Liv Morgan are here!”

Pat McAfee: “Cole, this is HUGE! Is this a reunion? An alliance? What’s going on?!”

Damian Priest strides down the ramp, shaking Paul Heyman’s hand as Dominik and Liv follow close behind. The Judgment Day trio enters the ring, tension thick in the air as they approach the Elevated Bloodline.

Damian steps forward, locking eyes with Roman Reigns. For a moment, the arena slightly becomes silent as the two leaders stare each other down. Then, Damian extends his hand. Roman looks at it, then slowly shakes it. The crowd goes wild.

Michael Cole: “An alliance has been formed! The Judgment Day and the Elevated Bloodline—this changes EVERYTHING!”

Dominik shakes hands with Jimmy, and Liv nods at Rhea with a smirk before sliding out of the ring. Damian and Dominik then turn to Rhea. For a split second, there’s hesitation, but then they step forward and hug her tightly.

Pat McAfee: “Cole, this is unreal! Rhea Ripley has reunited with the Judgment Day, and now they’re standing united with the Elevated Bloodline!”

The camera captures the image of Rhea, Jimmy, Roman, Damian, and Dominik standing tall in the ring, their alliance signaling a seismic shift in WWE. The Old Bloodline watches from across the ring, their confidence visibly shaken.

Michael Cole: “What was supposed to be a 3-on-5 mismatch has just become a battle of titans! The Elevated Bloodline and the Judgment Day are united, and this war just got a whole lot more interesting!”

Pat McAfee: “Cole, I’ve got goosebumps! Saturday Night’s Main Event just became a night no one will EVER forget!”

The tension in the air is palpable as the Saturday Night’s Main Event reaches its boiling point. The audience is on the edge of their seats, knowing that the conclusion of this match will shift the landscape of WWE forever. The match is a chaotic frenzy, with the Elevated Bloodline and the Old Bloodline locked in a brutal battle, and everything is on the line.

Michael Cole: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are nearing the end of what has been an all-out war! Bodies have been broken, and all competitors are giving everything they have left. Who will come out on top in this epic contest?”

Pat McAfee: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this, Cole. Every member of these factions is exhausted—this is madness!”

The match is at its breaking point. All competitors are either knocked out or desperately fighting with each other, trying to gain any shred of advantage. The action is relentless as each faction attempts to assert their dominance.

First, Dominik is taken out by Tama, leaving the Judgment Day stunned. Then, Tama falls after a brutal exchange with Roman. Jacob Fatu soon follows, knocked out cold by a superkick from Jimmy. The Elevated Bloodline’s numbers continue to dwindle as Roman succumbs to a devastating spear from Solo, leaving him out of the equation.

Next, Damian Priest is knocked out by a chairshot from Tonga Loa. Finally, Solo and Tonga are taken out by a combination of double super kicks from Rhea and Jimmy, but not with Jimmy getting pulled from Jacob and getting thrown into floor. Jacob brutally strikes Jimmy, leaving just Rhea and Tiffany standing in the ring.

Michael Cole: “This is it! It’s down to Tiffany and Rhea—these two women are about to decide the fate of their respective factions!”

Pat McAfee: “They’ve been through hell tonight, Cole! And they are still standing!”

The crowd roars as Rhea Ripley and Tiffany Stratton exchange fierce blows, each one desperate for the win. The intensity is unbearable as the two women battle it out in the center of the ring. Suddenly, in the heat of the scuffle, the referee is inadvertently knocked out, collapsing to the mat.

Michael Cole: “The referee is down! This could be disastrous for both women!”

Rhea unaware that ref has been knocked out, gets her second wind. She hits Tiffany with the Riptide, delivering the crushing blow that could end the match. The crowd erupts in excitement, anticipating a clean pinfall victory.

But as Rhea moves to pin Tiffany, the crowd gasps—another referee runs down the ramp, ready to take over. The new official slides into the ring, and the count begins. One… two… and then, suddenly, the referee halts the count at the two-count.

Michael Cole: “What in the world? The count stopped! Why did the referee stop the count?”

The crowd falls silent, the tension thick in the air. The unknown referee pulls down their mask, revealing a familiar face—Jey. The shock waves ripple through the arena as Rhea’s eyes widen in disbelief.

Pat McAfee: “Jey Uso?! What is he doing here?!”

Rhea, frozen in shock, stares at Jey, trying to process what just happened. Jey, without a single emotion on his face, signals the end of the match, declaring it a disqualification. Rhea’s heart sinks as she watches him get out of the ring and begin walking up the ramp, leaving her standing in the ring in complete shock.

Michael Cole: “Jey Uso just called for a disqualification! What is going on here? This match has been completely thrown into chaos!”

Pat McAfee: “This is madness, Cole! Jey’s actions have left us all questioning everything!”

Jimmy rushes to Rhea’s side, concern written all over his face. He looks on at his brother as he walks up the ramp, Jey sports this unusual stoic expression. Rhea stands in the center of the ring, visibly shaken, tears streaming down her face. She can’t fathom what just happened.

As Rhea is left stunned, Dominik, Damian, Roman, and Liv all make their way to the ring, having been recovered from each devastatingly blow, except for Liv of course, joining Rhea in a show of unity. The Judgment Day and Elevated Bloodline stand together, still unsure of what to make of Jey’s involvement.

Michael Cole: “Jey Uso’s actions have left everyone here in a state of confusion. What does this mean for Rhea, for Jimmy, for Roman, for the factions?”

Pat McAfee: “There are more questions than answers, Cole. But what we do know is that this match is over, and nothing was resolved.”

Michael Cole: “And now, Tiffany Stratton, still reeling from the Riptide, is being pulled away by the Old Bloodline. And look at this—there’s a tense stare down between the Old Bloodline, the Elevated Bloodline, and the Judgment Day! These factions are on the verge of an all-out war!”

Pat McAfee: “The tensions couldn’t be higher, Cole! The future of WWE could be shaped by what happens here tonight, and I don’t think anyone knows how this is going to play out!”

With the Old Bloodline escorting Tiffany Stratton up the ramp, they lock eyes with the Elevated Bloodline and Judgment Day. The stare down is cold and intense, signaling that the animosity between these factions is far from over.

Michael Cole: “The match may be over, but this war is far from finished. I have no idea where things go from here, Pat.”

As the camera lingers on Rhea’s broken, emotional face, it’s clear that the battle is not over. The unresolved tension and the uncertainty surrounding Jey’s actions are only the beginning of a much larger storm that’s about to unfold.

Pat McAfee: “You said it, Cole. We are just getting started, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next!”

The scene fades to black, the uncertainty hanging in the air, leaving the audience eagerly awaiting what comes next in this explosive rivalry.

—

Rhea stormed into the locker room, her emotions barely in check. Jimmy and Roman followed close behind, their own frustration evident. But the sight of Hunter sitting calmly in the middle of the room ignited something in Rhea.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the silence, her breathing was uneven, her fists clenched and she looked like she about died of anger.

Hunter leaned back slightly, his expression calm but measured. “Rhea, I know you’re upset—”

“Upset?” she interrupted, her voice sharp and filled with venom. “He’s supposed to be on leave for another two months, Hunter! Two months! He had a shoulder injury!”

Hunter sighed, running a hand over his face. “Which he got cleared for by the doctors.”

“So, you just allowed him to come back?” Rhea snapped, her anger intensifying. “Without telling any of us? Without warning me?!”

“Rhea,” Hunter said firmly, “I’ve always said this was your storyline.”

She laughed bitterly, a hollow, mocking sound. “Really? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it! What it feels like is that you let my ex-boyfriend, who publicly humiliated me, come back just to fuck up everything we’ve built!”

Hunter opened his mouth to respond, but Rhea pressed on, her voice rising. “I’ve been fucking up Tiffany left and right for a whole month—building this feud, getting people invested—and tonight? Tonight was supposed to be the payoff! You said we were going to win!”

“I know what I said,” Hunter replied, his voice growing firmer, but Rhea wasn’t backing down.

“No, you don’t!” she shot back, her voice cracking slightly from the sheer intensity of her emotions. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have killed my momentum, or Jimmy’s, or Roman’s! You just handed everything over to Jey like it was some big fucking plot twist. Well, congrats, Hunter—you’ve turned my life into a goddamn soap opera!”

“You have to trust me on this,” Hunter said, his tone resolute, but his eyes betrayed a hint of guilt.

Roman, who had been silent up to this point, finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “My character arc will not participate in this whole real-life drama, Hunter. I’m telling you that right now. You told me it was only going to be temporary and that’s it.”

Hunter looked at Roman, his expression hardening. “All of you are involved now. There’s no turning back.”

Rhea’s breathing quickened, her emotions spiraling as tears welled up in her eyes. She turned away, trying to compose herself, but the words spilled out anyway. “This is my life, Hunter,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jey cheated on me with Tiffany our whole relationship, and she—she gets pregnant and then has an abortion just so she can keep wrestling. And now you want me to continue to work with her? To work with him? Hunter, this is my fucking life.”

Hunter’s face softened for a moment, but his response was cold and detached. “Rhea… this really is just business.”

That was the breaking point. Rhea grabbed her bag without another word and stormed out of the locker room, slamming the door behind her.

Jimmy immediately moved to follow, his protective instincts kicking in. Roman stopped him briefly. “Make sure she gets to the tour bus,” he said quietly, his tone firm.

Jimmy nodded, grabbing his own bag before quickly heading after Rhea.

Once they were alone, Roman turned back to Hunter, his imposing presence filling the room. He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he fixed Hunter with an icy stare. “Let’s talk,” Roman said, his voice low and dangerous. “Businessman to businessman.”

Hunter swallowed hard, sitting up straighter. He knew Roman wasn’t the type to mince words. Whatever was coming next would be a reckoning.

—

Rhea’s pace was frantic as she stormed toward the tour bus, her wrestling boots hitting the pavement with sharp, angry thuds. Jimmy followed closely behind, struggling to keep up with her long strides and the emotional whirlwind trailing in her wake.

She reached the bus, yanked the door open, and climbed in without hesitation, leaving the door open behind her. Jimmy arrived a few seconds later, slightly out of breath. He climbed in but froze in his tracks at the sight before him.

Rhea was on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. She didn’t even look up as he stepped inside.

“Rhea…” Jimmy said softly, his voice laced with concern. He closed the door gently behind him, shutting out the rest of the world.

Rhea’s voice was raw and broken when she finally spoke. “Why did he have to cheat on me?” she asked, her words tumbling out between sobs. “Why couldn’t he have just left me alone?”

Jimmy knelt down beside her, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. He reached out to hold her, but she pushed him away, her hand shoving at his chest with surprising force.

“I’m disgusted,” she spat, tears streaming down her face. “Disgusted that I even kissed you in the first place.”

Jimmy flinched at her words but kept his expression neutral, knowing she was lashing out in her pain. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

Rhea looked at him, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “You all knew Jey cheated on me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of heartbreak and anger.

Jimmy stayed silent, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know how to respond, and the truth hung heavy between them.

Rhea broke down again, her cries filling the bus as she buried her face in her hands. Jimmy hesitated for a moment before trying again to reach out to her. This time, she didn’t push him away.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, holding her against his chest as she cried. She didn’t resist, her sobs muffled against him. Jimmy rested his chin on the top of her head, his own eyes stinging with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “For everything.”

Rhea didn’t respond, but she clung to him, her tears soaking his shirt as her pain poured out in waves. Jimmy held her like that for what felt like an eternity, silently vowing to be there for her no matter how messy things got.

Jimmy carefully lifted Rhea off the floor, her weight light in his arms despite the emotional heaviness that seemed to cling to her. She didn't resist, letting herself be cradled as if the fight had drained completely out of her. He adjusted his grip and gently nudged the door to his room open with his foot, the faint creak barely audible over the low hum of the bus.

With Roman now accommodating three instead of two, the tour bus had been once again upgraded to something far more spacious, complete with three private rooms. Jimmy maneuvered through the slightly cramped hallway and stepped into his room, the soft lighting casting a warm glow over the neatly made bed.

He kicked the door shut behind him, the click of the latch grounding him in the moment. Gently, he laid her down on the bed, her body sinking into the plush comforter. He pulled back, intending to give her some space, but her hands shot up, grabbing him by the neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

It wasn't soft or tentative-it was desperate, raw, and filled with emotions she couldn't put into words. Jimmy melted into the kiss, the taste of her salty tears blending with the heat of her lips.

His hands cupped her face instinctively, thumbs brushing away the damp trails on her cheeks as the kiss deepened. He broke the kiss to speak but she spoke..

“Just make love to me..”

"Okay," he murmured, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

She pulled him closer, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as if she was afraid he'd change his mind. Jimmy didn't. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to her lips, this one slower and more deliberate, an unspoken promise that he would give her whatever she needed tonight.

He let himself fall into the moment, the world outside fading away as they found solace in each other, the shared pain and complicated feelings making the connection between them even more intense.

—

Roman approached the door to his tour bus, his thoughts still tangled from his tense conversation with Hunter. The weight of Hunter’s insistence on keeping this storyline alive lingered in his mind, a storm of conflicting emotions brewing beneath his composed exterior. Just as he reached for the handle, he heard a voice call out from behind him.

“Hey, Roman! Wait up!”

Roman turned to see Damian approaching, his long strides carrying him quickly across the lot. Roman sighed, glancing back at the bus, but turned to meet Damian halfway. “What’s up, man?” he asked, his tone neutral but laced with an edge of impatience.

Inside the bus, the sound of Damian yelling Roman’s name echoed faintly, causing Rhea and Jimmy to freeze mid-moment. They had been caught up in the heat of the moment, their earlier vulnerability boiling over into something neither had fully anticipated. Now, they scrambled to compose themselves, panic settling in.

“Shit,” Rhea muttered under her breath as she frantically pulled her shirt back on. “You’ve got my lipstick on your face!”

Jimmy, who was hastily pulling on his sweats, wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “Do you have one of those makeup things? A wipe or something?”

“No,” Rhea said, grabbing her jacket and glancing at him with a mixture of frustration and panic. “Just go shower or something!”

Jimmy nodded, his movements hurried but not frantic as he slipped out of the room and headed for the bathroom. The sound of the shower starting up soon followed, masking any further noise.

Rhea adjusted her shirt, gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror, and then slipped out of the room, heading for her own. She moved quietly but quickly, her heart racing as she prayed Roman wouldn’t step in and sense something was off.

Back outside, Roman was still talking to Damian, his broad frame leaning slightly against the side of the bus as Damian explained some issue or another. He nodded along, his eyes flicking back to the door, his gut telling him something was amiss even as he tried to focus on the conversation at hand.

“So, you see,” Damian continue his voice steady but with a hint of concern, “Hunter did say we were working together next week, and we were just wondering if we could stay with you guys this week?”

Roman raised an eyebrow, considering the request. The whole situation had been chaotic, but Damian wasn’t asking for much, and Roman knew how important this downtime was before the craziness of the upcoming week.

“That’s cool,” Roman said, nodding. “My new bus has two bunks in the front, plus the couches if you’re cool with that.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Damian said, his tone relieved.

Roman paused before continuing, his eyes scanning the lot as if he could sense something before speaking. “I’m sure Rhea would love to have you two back. I don’t know how she feels about Liv, though.”

Damian’s expression faltered for a moment. He had expected this. He wasn’t sure how Liv would go over, especially given Rhea’s recent turmoil.

“Would you want me to have Liv talk to Rhea before we get on board?” Damian offered cautiously. “We want to respect your tour bus.”

Roman gave a slight shrug. “That’s fine. Let me get her, and you can bring Liv to talk it over with Rhea.”

Damian nodded in understanding. Roman gave him a brief nod before heading toward the bus, his mind already working through the conversation that was about to happen.

Inside, Roman approached Rhea’s room, the soft knock on the door seeming louder in the quiet of the bus. She opened the door quickly, her face betraying a hint of nervousness.

“You okay?” Roman asked, his voice soft but direct.

Rhea, standing in the doorway, gave him a quick, almost anxious glance. “Yeah, why?” she asked, her words laced with tension.

Roman stepped in a little, wanting to keep things casual but making sure to check in on her. “Well, I said it’s okay for Dominik and Damian to board with us for the week,” he began, his eyes watching her carefully, “but I wanted to make sure you were okay with the other person.”

Rhea’s gaze shifted past him toward the windows, where she saw Liv standing with Damian and Dominik. The sight of her triggered a flurry of emotions inside Rhea, but she tried to stay composed. She thought for a moment, then responded, “Just tell her to come and give us some privacy.”

Roman gave a reassuring nod. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

With that, Roman stepped back outside to tell Damian and Liv what Rhea had decided. He knew things had been difficult for Rhea lately, and this week wasn’t going to be any easier, but he hoped this would give her the space she needed to sort through everything.

As he went outside, he caught Damian’s eye and gestured for Liv to follow him. Damian nodded, understanding the need for a brief talk. Liv gave a tight smile but followed without argument, knowing this was about Rhea’s comfort.

As Rhea and Liv sat together on the couch, the weight of the tension between them seemed to lessen with each passing second. Liv’s voice was soft but sincere as she began.

“I just want to say… I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch,” Liv confessed, glancing over at Rhea with a hint of regret.

Rhea smiled faintly, her eyes tired but appreciative. “Water under the bridge,” she replied, the words carrying a quiet finality to them.

Liv took a deep breath, clearly wanting to say more. “No… for real…” she started, her eyes lowering for a moment before looking back at Rhea. “I really admired you in The Judgment Day. I didn’t want to take your place.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow, surprised by the admission. “Liv, seriously… water under the bridge,” she assured her, though there was a trace of humor in her voice, as if she’d heard enough of this kind of apology for a lifetime.

Liv smiled softly, but a mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Is it true?”

Rhea looked at her in confusion. “Is what true?” she asked, her gaze shifting to Liv, sensing the question was something deeper.

Liv hesitated for a moment before leaning in further. “That Jey really did cheat on you the whole time?”

Rhea paused. The room seemed to grow quieter as the question lingered between them. She let out a breath, nodding slowly, her voice tinged with exhaustion. “Yes,” she said simply, her eyes avoiding Liv’s as she said the words, the weight of the truth still a heavy burden.

The two women sat there in silence, absorbing the weight of the revelation. It was as though the room had suddenly become still, each lost in their own thoughts.

Then, as if to break the tension, Rhea spoke up again, her voice quieter now. “I kissed Jimmy,” she admitted, not realizing that Jimmy was now out of the shower and listening in.

Liv’s eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows raised. “As a girlfriend, how was it?” she asked, her tone playful, despite the heaviness of the topic.

Rhea let out a small laugh, clearly caught off guard by the question. “To be honest, Liv… I think I made a mistake when I got with Jey.”

Liv gave her a teasing grin. “So does he have a big—” She made a popping sound with her lips, her attempt at humor cutting through the tension.

Rhea burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the room. It had been so long since she’d laughed like that, and she needed it more than she realized. “We haven’t done anything yet,” she said between laughs, shaking her head at the absurdity of the conversation.

Liv’s grin only grew wider. “Really?” she asked, as if incredulous.

Rhea shrugged, her eyes twinkling with a playful spark. “Well, he does know how to eat…” she said, her words trailing off with a sly smile.

Liv let out a dramatic gasp, her hands going to her chest. “Rhea, you sly dog!” she teased, and both of them erupted into giggles.

Jimmy couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the conversation itself that made him grin, but the sound of Rhea laughing. The tension had lifted from her shoulders, even if just for a moment. She had always seemed so closed off, so guarded, especially around Jey. He knew Jey had a way of sheltering Rhea, keeping her from opening up to others. Maybe, just maybe, she needed more friends than she realized.

The laughter continued for a few more moments before both women calmed down, still sharing a knowing smile. Rhea wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, grateful for the lighthearted moment amidst all the chaos.

—

As the bus rumbled down the highway toward Phoenix, Arizona, the lights inside dimmed, and the soft hum of the engine mixed with the rhythmic sounds of sleeping bodies. Roman had already passed out blankets and pillows, ensuring everyone was comfortable for the journey ahead. One by one, the members of the group succumbed to sleep, the bus growing quieter with each passing moment.

But Rhea, restless and unable to sleep, glanced at the time. 2:13 AM blinked back at her, a reminder that the night was still young, and her mind wouldn’t quiet. She had freshly showered earlier, the lingering scent of shampoo still in her hair, and the cool air from the vent made her shiver slightly. She sighed, staring at the ceiling for a moment, before deciding she needed a moment away from the stillness.

She slipped out of the bed as quietly as possible, her feet padding softly against the floor. She glanced toward the living room and heard the faint snores of the Judgement Day—everyone lost in their own dreams. Rhea’s heart pounded just a little faster as she approached Jimmy’s room. She opened the door cautiously, trying not to disturb him. The dim light from the hallway illuminated his peaceful form, his breathing steady as he slept.

Rhea stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The room smelled faintly of the shared cologne that lingered in the air, and she felt herself drawn to the warmth of the bed. She climbed in quietly, careful not to wake him, but as she shifted, Jimmy stirred. He turned to her, his eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from the sleep he was pulled from.

“Hey,” Rhea replied, her tone soft but filled with an undercurrent of exhaustion. She could feel the weight of the day still on her shoulders, the emotions from earlier in the evening threatening to resurface.

Before she could say anything else, Jimmy wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his warmth. She melted into his embrace, the comfort of his closeness soothing the tension in her chest. Their lips met in a kiss, gentle at first, as if testing the waters. It was a kiss that held the weight of everything unspoken between them—the turmoil, the laughter, the exhaustion, and the unexpected connection that had formed between them.

As they pulled away slightly, Jimmy’s eyes met hers, still tired but filled with understanding. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice low and concerned.

Rhea nodded, resting her forehead against his. “Yeah,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as she allowed herself to sink deeper into his embrace. “Just needed this.”

Jimmy nodded, holding her tighter. The world outside the tour bus faded away, and for a moment, it was just the two of them—away from the chaos, away from everything that had been weighing on her.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his voice soft, and soon after, she felt herself drifting into a deep, peaceful sleep, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling her into the comfort of his arms.

But she didn’t want to go to sleep..

“Make love to me,” she whispered as she leaned in to kiss him once more. Jimmy kissed her back, his lips soft against hers as his tongue snuck out to taste her lips. Rhea sighed, her hands traveling down to his chest as he pulled her by her hips so she can straddle his hips.

Her soft breath against his lips, her hand running through his hair-it made something possessive inside him stir, an overwhelming need to claim her as his and his alone. She'd been through so much, and no one had protected her the way he could. He wouldn't let anyone get close enough to hurt her again.

Rhea couldn’t keep quiet for long, not when Jimmy was touching her like this. She started to moan softly as he kissed her neck, her hands clenching in his hair as he sucked on her skin. Rhea had to cover her mouth to keep quiet, her body shaking as Jimmy’s hands slid up her sides.

“Demi..” Jon moaned as he felt Rhea’s heat from her most delicate area.

He felt her need for comfort, her hurt, and every ounce of it tightened something deep in him. She wasn't just a woman who had been betrayed-she was his woman, and anyone who even thought about crossing that line would have to go through him first. Jimmy wasn't about to share her with anyone-not Jey, not anyone in her past. She wasn't just some rebound, some distraction-she was his.

Jimmy tugged Rhea’s shirt up over her head, exposing her bare breasts in the dark. He sucked on her nipples, his hands traveling down to her shorts as he tugged them down her legs. Rhea kicked them off before she climbed back onto Jimmy’s lap, her hips grinding against his as she felt his dick harden beneath her.

As their lips met once more, he sure as hell didn't pull away. He deepened the kiss, claiming it, claiming her. The way her body responded, the way she let him in, it sent something dark and possessive through him. She wasn't running anymore; she wasn't hiding.

Rhea moaned into his mouth as she felt his hands sliding up her sides, his fingers brushing against her breasts as she leaned into his touch.

She was letting him in, and that meant everything.

She needed him, and that made her his responsibility-his to protect, his to comfort, his to own.

He let his mind run wild with the thought of how easy it would be to keep her right here, to never let her go. She was the only one who could make him feel this way-like everything in his life could be shut out, just to keep her safe, just to make her his in every sense of the word. And he'd do whatever it took to make sure she stayed that way.

Jimmy broke the kiss as he leaned down to suck on Rhea’s neck, his hands sliding down to her hips. Rhea moaned softly as she felt his fingers brushing against her pussy, her body trembling as he slid a finger inside of her.

Jimmy had never been one for subtlety when it came to what he wanted. He wanted Rhea. And not just in the way that others might. He wanted to be the only one who knew her deepest parts, the only one who could make her smile like that, the only one who could pull her out of her darkness and give her a reason to stay. She was his. And anyone who thought otherwise would have to answer to him.

Rhea had to keep quiet as Jimmy started to finger her, her body shaking as she felt his fingers sliding in and out of her. She leaned down to kiss him, her hands sliding into his hair as she whispered in his ear.

“Please…”

What if he's just like Jey? The thought hit Rhea harder than she expected. Jey had shattered her trust in ways she never thought possible. He had made her feel like she wasn't enough, like she was disposable, all while lying to her face. She'd given him everything-her love, her loyalty, her time-and he'd repaid her by sneaking behind her back, with Tiffany of all people. The betrayal still stung, even now. The idea of going through that kind of heartbreak again made her chest tighten.

Jimmy noticed her shift, he slowly pulled his fingers out of her and reached over to turn on the small light by the bed. “You okay?” He asked, concern in his voice.

She put her head down in his chest and he used both hands to lift up her head.

“Talk to me..”

Rhea’s gaze softened as she searched Jimmy’s face for any hint of deception, any trace of the lies she had endured with Jey. Her voice trembled as she repeated, “I don’t want you to be like him.”

Jimmy sat up slightly, his hands adjusting and his arms wrapping and tightening around her as if to ground her in the moment. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed his vulnerability. “I’m nothing like him,” he said, his words carrying weight.

Rhea tilted her head, her fingers lightly reaching to touch the tattoo on his left pec, her doubt still gnawing at her. “You say that now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “But Jey said all the right—“

“Demi… let me do what you needed me to do..” He pleaded. He kissed her once more but Rhea’s doubts never left.

What if I'm just repeating my mistakes? Jimmy was Jey's brother, after all. Bloodline or not, could she trust that he wouldn't do the same? That he wouldn't take advantage of her vulnerability? She hated feeling this way, doubting someone who had been nothing but kind and patient with her. But the scars Jey left were deep, and every time she started to feel herself letting her guard down, those old fears came rushing back.

Her thoughts were broken away as she felt his fingers back inside of her, she moaned softly as they went in and out. The pleasure Rhea was experience was something she hadn’t felt in such a long time, the pleasure of feeling wanted.

“Fu… fuck.. Jon..” Her head fell into the crevice of his neck.

“Fuck me, Jon,” she begged as she felt his fingers sliding out of her. Jimmy kissed her as he flipped her onto her back, his body covering hers as he slid inside of her, very quickly.

Rhea moaned softly as she felt Jimmy filling her up, her legs wrapping around his hips as she held him close. Jimmy started to thrust into her, his hips slamming into hers as she gasped for breath.

“Demi..fuck..”

“Don’t ever stop please..”

“You are fucking tight..”

He's different, a small voice in her head argued.

And maybe he was. Jimmy had shown her a side of himself that felt real, raw, and unfiltered. He didn't shelter her the way Jey had, didn't try to control her. Instead, he encouraged her to be herself, to let herself feel. He didn't demand anything from her-he just gave. But wasn't that how it always started? Sweet words, tender touches, and promises that eventually fell apart?

She knew she wasn't easy to love. She came with baggage-her temper, her insecurities, the walls she'd built so high to keep herself from getting hurt again. Jimmy didn't deserve to carry that weight, did he? Maybe this was unfair to him.

Maybe she was pushing him into a role he didn't even want.

But as Rhea had to cover her mouth to keep quiet as Jimmy thrusted into her, her body shaking as he hit that spot inside of her that made her see stars and see clarity. Jimmy wanted this role. She couldn’t keep quiet for long, not when Jimmy was thrusting into her like this. He removed her hand from her mouth and said, “Need to hear you..” Rhea nodded and she started to moan softly as he thrusted into her even more harder, her hips meeting his as she felt herself getting closer and closer to the edge

She thought about the way he looked at her in the most delicate way, his eyes filled with something she could only describe as devotion. The way he didn't just listen to her, but actually heard her. He didn't treat her like a trophy or a conquest. He treated her like a person—flaws, fears, and all.

She could feel her orgasm building, her breath now coming in soft pants. Jimmy thrusted into her as hard as he could now, his hips moving against Rhea's, the bed now slightly squeaking to only where Jimmy and Rhea could hear.

He made her feel like more than just "Rhea Ripley," the tough-as-nails wrestler who didn't take shit from anyone. He made her feel like Demi-vulnerable, messy, but somehow still enough.

“Fuck I’m almost..”

“You gonna cum for me?”

“I can’t…. I can’t… fuck..”

“Cum for daddy..”

Rhea’s moan came out in a choke, her pussy clenching around his cock as she felt her orgasm reaching its climax. Jimmy’s right hand moved to her clit, teasing it with his index finger as he continued to thrust into her. Rhea’s moans were silenced by Jimmy’s left hand, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave, tears welled up in her eyes as she experienced the ultimate high.

“Demi..”

Jimmy came with a low groan, his seed filling Rhea’s pussy as she finished her orgasm. He collapsed on top of her, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. Rhea wrapped her arms around him, her fingers tracing patterns on his back as they caught their breath.

The gentle hum of the bus moving through the night became the only sound that filled the quiet space between them. Jimmy slowly pulled away from Rhea, his chest rising and falling with the weight of their shared intimacy. He shifted slightly, making sure to pull her close as he settled beside her again. Rhea, still trying to catch her breath, felt a calmness she hadn’t expected, yet the knot in her stomach remained. She couldn’t push the doubt aside completely, but she didn’t want to think about it now—not when she was here, with Jimmy, in this moment.

She turned her head to look at him, his warm, steady presence offering a sense of peace she had longed for, but hadn’t fully allowed herself to feel. He was quiet, letting the silence stretch, before he finally spoke, answering Rhea’s question.

“Does this change anything?” Rhea asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the uncertainty heavy in her words. She wasn’t sure why she asked, but the question felt like it needed to be said—like the air between them had suddenly thickened and she needed reassurance.

Jimmy paused for a moment, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His hand reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Just be in the moment,” he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. “Here with me. That’s all that matters.”

Rhea nodded, the weight of his words sinking into her. She felt her body relax against him as he pulled her in closer, her head resting on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was soothing, almost rhythmic, and for the first time in a long while, Rhea allowed herself to simply breathe.

She closed her eyes, her mind racing but trying to quiet the noise. The warmth of Jimmy’s body, the strength of his arms wrapped around her—it felt real, grounding, in contrast to the chaos she’d felt earlier. But still, those lingering doubts clung to her thoughts, like shadows she couldn’t shake.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she whispered to herself, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it.

Jimmy didn’t respond immediately, but she could feel the steadiness in him, his calmness washing over her like a tide. He wasn’t asking for anything—just this moment, just her. And that, in itself, was something Rhea wasn’t used to.

Before she knew it, the exhaustion from the day’s emotions caught up to her, and her body relaxed, her eyelids growing heavy. Her thoughts began to drift, but the last thing she felt before succumbing to sleep was the warmth of Jimmy’s hand gently resting on her back.

As she let herself slip into slumber, the doubts still lingered at the edge of her mind, but they felt distant for now. Maybe tomorrow would bring clarity, or maybe it would only bring more questions. But for tonight, Rhea allowed herself to rest, to be in the moment with Jimmy, just as he had asked.

& with this chapter I am currently on my break. I will return in the new year 😭🩷

[thatsuncleharrytoyouyoungman]

saw smth i did not agree with an injustice being done n at first i was silent for way too long but it cldnt n wldnt leave ne alone so eventually i spoke up n it was scary n im having post anxiety n i feel like i did smth wrong n the other ppl hate me n will judge me negatively but what they did was not nice n not correct so yh who cares if i cry now nothing gets done without a bit of discomfort ahaha

[puppyeared]

i feel like. theres designing a character with certain themes and motifs in mind, and then theres making a gijinka for the water bottle on my nightstand

[rescuefield-arch1]

lowkey always thinking about how claire is painted ( in universe ) as this saint / mother theresa type of woman and it's carried on to the point that times and times again she was willing to be a martyr for the cause - especially if it ensured the end of all suffering that has turned inside out not only her life but also the whole world's for better or worse. ID is the most prominent instance because she's aware her head would blow up before she even manages to go anywhere with the chip... but it's worth a try and it's really all that matters to her. the silence about it that she's kept all the years afterwards only highlight how in spite of her reputation, she's a little stained too.

[the-acid-pear]

A good chunk of my dream today was spent on a bus traveling with my dad where after a very long while of being annoyed by an old woman an old classmate whose face and voice i remember but his name i don't encouraged me to tell her, and tell her i did. At first i started speaking formally but by the end I snapped and i was straight up screaming about how she's annoying and i hate to see her face every time i get on this goddamn bus and it was time someone told her these things. There wasn't a reaction from anyone because i was waking up tho so the dream fell apart before my own eyes.

[rosemarysealavender]

community!! care!!!! it's already here!!

[trainsinanime]

I wonder: Do Americans know about american school buses? Not their existence in general, but how they're seen overseas.

Over here, they're one of the symbols of America, on par with the Statue of Liberty, the flag, the Eagle, and well ahead of any chain restaurant you can name. People won't know any US states, but they will know these vehicles.

The thing is, here in Germany, we don't have dedicated school buses. The general idea is that kids go to school on their own. When that's not practical, they're expected to use (and given free tickets for) public transit. Public transit is designed around this requirement; there are many places where there is a bus, and anyone can get on it, but the route and timetable really only makes sense for school children. In case a dedicated school bus is really needed, that's generally subcontracted out, and the lines either use something like a Sprinter Van for smaller routes, or a normal city or interurban bus (often a used one that's a bit older). School trips are normal public transit, or a rented bus, typically a coach or regional bus.

It's not a perfect system, in the past couple of years there's been an epidemic of people bringing their kids to school in their cars instead of letting them walk, which is less than ideal. It is what it is. But building a dedicated network of public transit lines only for students, and building dedicated vehicles only for that, has never occurred to anyone here.

Of course we know about these buses, from movies and such, but they're as foreign here as cacti or pick-up trucks (actually we're seeing more and more of these here) or yellow cabs (all europeans will assume all cabs in the US are yellow until they actually visit).

You do see these buses here at times, because people still generally like the idea of the US, even if they have a lot of issues with a lot of details, and so folks bring them over, along with stretch limos and stuff (also not really a thing here). And of course, if someone goes to all that trouble, they don't do it to haul school kids, they rent it out for city tours or as a party bus or whatever.

So you see these yellow things as a symbol of faraway places, scenic vistas, some vague undefined idea of freedom that doesn't necessarily hold up to any contact with reality, and it's just a huge part of the whole US aesthetic.

And then you go to a student exchange with the US, and you finally get the chance: You yourself get to ride in one of these iconic chrome yellow buses! It looks just like in the movies! You get in, you drive in them a little…

…and you realise they're shit. Just the worst buses in the western world. Terrible suspension. Uncomfortable seats with weirdly high backs (so they don't have to put seatbelts in, they just restrict how far kids can fly in an accident). Everything made out of the cheapest materials. Turns out the reason why the US uses school buses like that instead of normal modern city buses, which the US has, is to save money and because they just hate kids.

And then it hits you why US Americans say "as American as apple pie", a dish that is made and enjoyed literally anywhere in the world, instead of "as American as yellow school buses". Of course the Americans already knew all this. They got tortured by these things forever. It would never occur to them to see this as a symbol of America, it's just a normal part of life for them. It's a symbol of school and school life and sometimes normalcy, and tells us that these actors getting out of it are supposed to be teenagers, nothing more.

But most people in Europe have, of course, never ridden on these buses. So when they see them in movies and TV, that's a giant big yellow signifier that we're not in Hessen or Wallonia or wherever anymore. A symbol of a different world, one that may be at most a once-in-a-lifetime-experience for most people, just like a picture of a tropical beach, Mayan Pyramids, the Great Wall of China, or Hildesheim (there's no reason to go there twice). And I think Americans don't know that, and that's fascinating.

[inkedells]

pairing: old!logan x f!reader

Logan is sick and tired of you treating him like he's fragile. He'll ignore his relentless pain to show you what it's like to be taken apart, rough and slow, then fast and agonizing.

wc: 3.5k of pure smut

warnings: heavy smut, lap sitting, fingering, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), dirty talk, facials, p in v, ruined orgasms, snowballing, kind of angsty, the claws come out, logan is angry with you, kinda toxic, definitely mean, but still kind of sweet, pwp basically, blood, but it's not bloodplay, it's just logan not caring if he's hurt, if i missed any let me know.

Logan comes home and throws himself back on that torn-up leather sofa, thumb flicking his lighter while the other holds a cigar. It’s less of a distraction from the ache in his bones, and more of a device to push you away. Because if you think he’s tired or angry or hurting, you won’t ask him to fuck you.

It’s not like he doesn’t want you. Of course he does. It’s the sympathy in your eyes when he gets tired from just a couple of minutes of thrusting that he hates. The whispered, “It’s okay. baby, I can ride you.” The gentle touches across his body and his neck and his face and his beard. It all reeks of pity. And if you were to sit him down one day and ask him why he hates being taken care of, he wouldn’t have an answer. He would push the voice in his head down into the void that all the strength he had left fell in, the voice shrinking until it’s nothing as it screams, because I’ve never been taken care of, and I would’ve loved it back when being taken care of wasn’t my only choice.

But it’s fine. You wouldn’t ever ask him that question because he knows for a fact that you don’t know. If you did, you wouldn’t be climbing onto his lap quietly, hands rubbing his sides as you press kisses to his neck.

“I missed you, Logan,” You whisper. Your hips aren’t moving; He knows he sat here like this to avoid fucking you, but he almost wishes you were seeking exactly that. Sex, as embarrassing as it would be for him, is better than your sick love. He doesn’t think you love in the way lovers do. It’s the kind of love meant for sick puppies, or the lonely old woman sitting on the bus with all her belongings in plastic bags.

He turns his head to take a drag of his cigar. Silence.

You hold his face, forcing him to look at you as you kiss him. Slow, chaste, no tongue. He feels scrutinized by your touches, and something nervous seats itself deep in his belly.

“How was your day?” You ask, your gaze snapping between his eyes.

Logan closes them. “I’m tired,” He says flatly.

“I know. It’s okay.”

There it is again. Pity.

He scoffs. It’s quiet. Barely there. He didn’t mean to. He watches your face fall the smallest bit. A year ago, he wouldn’t have noticed, and if he would’ve, he would blurt out an apology. Now, he does notice, but he secretly wants to watch it fall even further if it means you’ll realize how much you’ve been hurting him.

You swallow, your thumb rubbing his cheekbone. “I found an American poetry anthology in the basement today. 20th Century. My favorite poem was in it.”

He mumbles, “In a Station of the Metro. T.S. Elliot.” Remembering the poem you told him about months ago sounds too much like sorry. He wishes he’d pretended to forget.

“Ezra Pound,” You correct. Your smile tells him he’s forgiven for an apology he never offered. “If you can recite it I’ll be impressed.”

“I’m not reciting a goddamn poem.” He sounds sarcastic, and it relieves you, but then you kiss him and he’s wound tight again.

You sigh as you pull back. “What’s bothering you, baby?”

“Nothing’s bothering—”

“What’s bothering you?” You interject.

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw. He makes the decision to sacrifice his dignity for the sake of stopping this conversation. You never could resist an orgasm, especially one caused by him. “Enough of that.”

“What?”

But he’s putting out his cigar and lifting you off his lap with a suppressed grunt, then pushing you down on the couch.

“Logan,” You protest.

He continues undoing the drawstring of your pajamas, with a kind of slippery urgency that tells you he's trying to shut you up more than he's trying to satiate his own desire.

You sit up straight, swatting his hand away. “Stop.”

He withdraws immediately, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at the floor. He was wrong, before, about you not knowing. You definitely know, because you don’t place a loving hand on his thigh and you don’t kiss his shoulder. He’s grateful.

Instead, you observe his profile, then the quiet tremor in his hand. The impossible stillness of the rest of him. He tends to do that when his nerves are on fire. Thinks being a statue is what people who aren’t in chronic pain do.

“Don’t do that,” He mumbles, feeling your eyes on him. “I don’t need you feeling sorry, or whatever—whatever the fuck else goes through your head when you’re around me.”

You say nothing. That’s the most he’s said about his feelings in a while. He knows it, so he forces himself to say nothing, too. It doesn’t last long.

“I’m not dying.” His voice cracks a little at the end and he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

“I know.” The words come out in a tumble, as if you’re rushing to participate in his lie.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m dying.”

“Okay.” Tears prickle your eyes but you blink them away.

“Okay,” He repeats.

You take a deep breath. “But it’s okay to be cared for, Logan.”

He laughs incredulously, and suddenly his volume is rising and his voice is firm. “Would you just—Would you just quit being my fuckin’ mommy? Would you?”

He only lets your silence marinate for a second before he rushes in to kiss you, ignoring the cramps in his muscles as he tugs your neck forward roughly. You squeak against his mouth, fighting his impossible grip on you, but you give up with a shaky exhale through your nose when your efforts prove useless.

“I can take care of you, too,” He grits out. It would sound sweet if it weren’t for the frustration in his tone. He pushes you onto the couch the same way he did moments before as he opens your legs by your knees and settles between them. He sucks a dark mark onto your neck, his fingers digging bruises in your ribs.

“I know you can,” You reassure him. You can see where this is going. “And I love when you do.” You gasp when he pulls your shirt up over the curve of your breasts.

“No. You don’t.” He pinches one of your nipples and sucks the other into his mouth for a brief second. “It’s okay. I’ll show you so you don’t forget again. You won’t want to get ruined any other way.”

“Logan,” You sigh.

He hums against the soft skin just underneath your breast as his hands ravage your body. He begins to unsheathe the adamantium claws in one of his hands so he can rip your top open. It’s slow and excruciating, so he closes his eyes, but the pain is over too soon and his suspicions are confirmed when he opens his eyes to see them stuck halfway.

You don’t expect him to lean back and individually tug each blade free. There’s blood, and now it’s dripping onto your belly, and he mumbles something that sounds like an apology as he wipes the dots of red away with his thumb.

But the hazel in his eyes is alive again. You hope it’s you that did that. Hope it’s not the pain or the sight of his own blood. You want to ask him, just to make sure. You don’t like hurting, right? You just really like me—

He slices through your shirt, careful not to graze your skin, and you try to ignore the fact that he’s never that cautious with himself, but you can’t.

“Logan, you’re bleeding.” Your voice is unstable.

“It’ll heal,” He says quickly, passively. He wipes his burning palm on his wifebeater.

“But that takes a long time now.”

He meets your eyes, his movements frozen. He’s angry and you’re not stupid. You’re pitying him again. He needs you to stop fucking pitying him. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rough and slow, and you would be scared if he wasn’t your Logan. “Are you done?”

You don’t know what to say, so you just close your eyes and nod. You hear his claws retract faster than when they came out, and almost simultaneously, he’s shoving that same hand under your waistband as two of his calloused fingers push themselves into your cunt.

You arch toward him involuntarily, a ragged moan falling from your lips as he tugs your pajamas off your legs and spits on your pussy to ease the slide of his fingers.

Each groan he pulls from your throat is a step toward dispelling the doubt from your body. Doubt of his capabilities, of his strength, of his devotion to you.

“Beg me to fuck you,” He demands, fingering you roughly.

Your mind is cloudy at this point, from sadness or arousal or both, but you give him what he wants. “Fuck me,” You whisper, your eyelids about to flutter shut as you shed a tear.

But then you catch Logan smiling.

He grabs your jaw with his free hand, and you look at him immediately. “You’re gonna let me use it, right? Get myself off?” You lazily trace his features with your gaze—His nose, his wrinkles, his beard—because you know if it were your fingers instead he’d mistake it for tenderness and get mad again.

You nod, but it’s weak with how hazy everything is.

“Good girl.” 

“Please,” You sigh, “I need you inside of me. I need to—I need it.”

“I know. I know what you’re feeling before you feel it.” He lets the pad of his thumb draw quick circles on your clit. “What? Thought I couldn’t hear you playing with yourself in the shower? If I can hear your heartbeat when I walk through the door, what makes you think I wouldn’t have heard you whining my name?”

“Logan,” You sigh, your hips lifting off the couch, coaxing his fingers deeper for as long as possible before he’s shoving you back down with the heel of his palm.

“I’m gonna play with you now. I’ll fuck you after, don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“What do you mean, play with me?” You breathe, fighting to keep your eyes open as he finds your g-spot.

He grins dirtily, in a way that makes your head spin and your thighs clench around his hand. You’re barely processing his words as he bends down to mumble in your ear, “Right when you’re about to make a mess on my fingers, I’m gonna stop. Then I’m gonna go down on you. And I’m gonna lick your pretty pussy, maybe even fuck you with my tongue if you’re good. And guess what? Guess what I’m gonna do when you’re this close?”

“You’re gonna stop,” You whine.

“I’m gonna stop,” He nods, and it’s mocking, but it’s gentle, and he’s fucking killing you with the way he’s talking right now. “But I’m not mean. I’ll give you a break. You can calm down when my dick is in your mouth, okay?”

“Okay,” You breathe, your hips unabashedly grinding on his fingers. But you want to reassure him he is mean, and you especially want to tell him how much you love it. “Logan, I’m gonna—”

He withdraws his fingers from you so fast it almost burns. You clench around nothing, your lower half spasming as your orgasm barely approaches before falling away again. Only a hint of pleasure is able to make it through the cracks, and you cling onto it, hoping if you focus hard enough, the wave will come back. It doesn’t. You should regret warning Logan that you were about to finish, but all you feel is comfort now that he’s finally proud of you again.

Another tear streams down the side of your face, landing in your hair. Logan’s watching you as he pets your thigh, his lips parted when he leans down over you. He kisses your wet cheek softly, his beard rough on your skin. It’s unlike him to offer you affection this gracefully during sex. It’s always shaky limbs and suppressed groans and dirty kisses. Both of you know it. 

He moves down your body, until his face is hovering over your cunt. He doesn’t have his reading glasses on, so he has to pull his head back and squint as he spreads your folds with his thumbs, studying what you look like. He licks a stripe over you. A second, longer one, before he zeroes in on your clit. You can do nothing except lay there and take it as your hips twitch from overstimulation under his firm hands.

“Oh my god,” You whisper, your fingers twisting in his hair. ���F-Fuck.”

He moans at that, pressed right up against you, the sound deep and delicious and vibrating. “Feel good?” He asks teasingly with a nip to your inner thigh.

“What do—What the fuck do you think?”

He breathes a laugh. It’s short and airy, not frustrated like before, and a warmth ignites itself in the back of your mind. It’s overpowering even the feeling of his mouth licking and sucking your most sensitive area; It’s the relief that he’s still hiding the Logan you fell in love with somewhere in there.

You wind your fingers in his hair and scratch his scalp. You try to do it lovingly, although it comes across as sexual and Logan’s breath hitches in pleasure against your pussy instead. So as you suppress a gasp from the pure skill of his tongue, you show your affection differently—you hold the wounded hand he has resting face-up beside your hip. The cuts embedded there are easy to avoid as your thumb rubs the lines of his palm, because even though you can’t see his hand, the puffiness surrounding each slash on his skin are your cues.

He doesn’t move his hand away, but his tongue falters for a fraction of a second before slowing down.

The kind of love you’re pressing into Logan’s skin with each gentle stroke is unrecognizable to him. It’s not the pitiful love he’s so used to. He thinks it might be the opposite. Admiration. Reverence.

“I’m so empty,” You whisper, bringing your hands to grope Logan’s biceps. They’re sweaty and hard and flexing under your touch, and you wonder if he would let you ride them one day.

When your climax starts to creep up on you, it’s thanks to the image of Logan forcing you to lick your arousal clean off his bicep. Indulgently swirling your tongue along his pronounced veins, savoring the taste of his sweat mixed with yourself. He’d probably say somthing like, fuckin’ filthy. Getting yourself off on my arm. Who does that? Are you that obsessed with me?

Logan feels you squeezing his tongue, harder than all the other times before, so he withdraws at the last moment, ruining your orgasm once again.

 You convulse silently, your breath coming out stuttered with your twitching jaw. As if he can read your mind, he unbuckles his belt and removes his pants and boxers. But he doesn’t strip himself of his wifebeater, stained with blood.

It’s the hottest thing in the world.

You blink, and suddenly Logan is hovering above you with his cock over your face. He rubs his leaking tip on your cheeks first, then your lips, and when you open your mouth to take him, he moves his cock away and nudges your jaw shut with his free hand, shaking his head.

“Not yet.”

A whine lodges itself in your throat as Logan spreads his pre-come over the plush of your lips. It escapes only when he lets go of his cock in favor of massaging his wetness across your lips and on your tongue with his thumb. His hard cock is bobbing above you, almost tantalizingly, the occasional drip of arousal landing itself somewhere near your eyes, then your hair, then your mouth, and you watch Logan’s brow furrow as you try to lick whatever you can.

His resolve snaps. A calloused hand squeezes at your cheeks until your jaw falls open. His cock is in your mouth before you can process it, thick and heavy and wet. So. Incredibly. Wet. You start to wonder how it’s even possible that he’s this hard at his age, but you know he wouldn’t want you to be wondering that, so you happily push the thought away.

You suck your cheeks in, swirling your tongue around his tip as you bob your head to meet the subtle, almost imperceivable thrust of his hips. You’re taking it well, you know you are. So you keep taking it, until Logan can no longer successfully suppress his moans and his hips are jerking out of rhythm.

He moves back until his cock slips out of your mouth. “I don’t wanna come like this. Wanna fuck you.”

“Yeah, yes. Fuck me. Please.”

He stands up and turns you on your front, your knees pressing into the soft couch cushions with your ass in the air.

“Logan,” You plead as you feel his tip pressing at your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” He says quietly, pushing in until half of his cock is comfortably squeezed by your cunt. Both your breathing is loud and labored, and there’s a specific kind of intimacy in knowing you’re both feeling this identical need. Overwhelming and hot and unquenchable by anything other than each other.

His first thrust is shallow, but it ruins you all the same. With how thick he is, it should feel like an intrusion, and it does. But all you can think about is how perfectly he fits inside of you, filling you extraordinarily with only a few inches.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes. “Look at that.” He traces around your entrance with his thumb. “Stretching so wide to take me.”

You moan, pressing your cheek against the sofa as you rock with his thrusts. He still hasn’t pressed all the way in yet, and you’re growing impatient. “Come on,” You urge, pushing yourself back to force more of his cock into you.

You expect him to chastise you for being so greedy, but he listens to you instead with a slow, full thrust. His tip nudges your cervix with how deep he is, and a ragged moan escapes you. “Yes,” You whine, “Oh god, yes.”

Logan’s breaths are coming out heavy through his nose, quick and occasionally intertwined with a grunt. His thrusts are getting quicker, and it’s starting to burn, but you welcome every sensation he has to offer you. He pulls out, spits on his cock, then shoves himself back inside, and this time you’re both unabashedly moaning the minute you’re joined again. 

His fingers dig in the plush of your ass as he observes himself disappearing into you. It hurts, but you love it. He knows you do, so he spanks you quickly before gripping you and rutting against you again.

“I love when you fuck me,” You whisper, feeling ashamed as soon as the confession leave you. “When you properly fuck me.”

He slows for a moment so he can watch his cock glisten with how wet you are. “I know.” He picks back up his punishing pace.

Your eyes begin to water, from pain or pleasure, you can’t tell. “I love you.”

“I know,” He repeats, this time breathier. His hips stutter. You can tell he’s close.

“I want it on my face,” You tell him quickly, his impending orgasm giving you no time to worry about being too forward.

He pulls out again, letting you turn onto your back as he shifts up your body. He jerks himself furiously, but you swat his hand away and take it upon yourself to stroke him.

“Come for me,” You tell him honestly, softly. His eyes squeeze shut and his lips part around a trembling exhale.

He groans as his release coats your face in long stripes. Some of it even lands in your hair, but you don’t care. Your own fingers work your clit as you stick your tongue out and taste him. Logan bends down to kiss you, chest heaving and hands shaky, and you rub yourself faster as you swap his release between the two of you with a hum. He pulls back to let you swallow, then he kisses your cheeks with his rough beard, uncaring about the mess on your face.

You don’t know you’re coming until it’s over and you’re breathless, and it’s almost excruciating with how much he’s ruined you, but you’re so exhausted you can’t find it in yourself to dwell on it a second longer.

You wrap your arms around his neck and tug him down for another kiss because you can hardly remember the one he just gave you.

“I’m sorry I had been treating you all wrong,” You say carefully.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” His voice is rough.

You nod, your lips brushing his as you smooth sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead. These touches are hard for him. Any variation of your chaste affection is a reminder that he’s not really Logan anymore.

But the shame in it is gone. Replaced by the reassurance that he can still surround you with safety and firm hands and blatant desire;

And for a moment, he’s his old self again.

A/N: it's been so long since i've written anything, but logan has been consuming my brain for weeks so i had to get this out. i hope it's true to his character. <3 also, my asks are open, so feel free to request anything you want to read about.

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

The idea of being fucked by ghosts ngh

Imagine you just moved into a new house. The AC is busted which sucks when it's hot as fuck out but hey who are you to complain when it was so suspiciously cheap?

Because of aforementioned heat, the only way you can comfortably fall asleep is naked. As you lay down for bed that night, you get an odd feeling. Too exhausted from the big move, you chalk it up to the anxiety of sleeping in a new home and go to sleep.

You're having a wonderful dream about your favorite fantasy when suddenly you're awoken by the most intense orgasm you've ever experienced. You have no time to acclimate to what's going on- you're immediately made aware of how your body is being violently bounced- no, fucked against the headboard of your bed.

Your legs are being held up by god knows what- something you try to discern when your gaze snaps to between your legs only to see nothing there except your embarrassingly wet cunt. The mirror at the foot of the bed, which you never got around to moving, confirms what you're trying to wrap your mind around in a mix of both fear and arousal: you're being fucked by something invisible.

A few more thrusts of the massive force inside of you has you crying out, the pleasure overwhelming- but your moans are cut short by another invisible presence forcing itself into your open mouth.

Drool and tears stream down your face as you gag and get pounded between two beings you can't see. You're quickly brought to the edge of another orgasm when suddenly both invisible masses rip free of you, leaving you coughing and gaped.

You're about to whine until you're manhandled into a new position. Your ghostly assailants waste no time, stuffing you full once more- except this time there's a third in your ass now, too. Your new otherworldly friends use you over and over all night, until you reach an orgasm so good that you pass out.

When you wake up in the morning, there's no evidence that the events of last night were anything more than the most erotic dream you've ever dreamt- though it is quite embarrassing to have squirted in your sleep..

Later that day, you're just out and about running a few necessary errands when you feel something prodding at your clothed cunt. You freeze, looking around only to find you're seated in the back of the bus alone. You brush it off as just your body being weird and readjust how you're sitting.

A few minutes go by, and the prodding is back- albeit more insistent. You're just about to get up and check under you to see if you're sitting on anything when you feel something slam into your defenseless cunt.

Involuntarily, you let out a moan. Your gratitude for the bus being empty doesnt last long, however- as it reaches the next stop and a dozen or so people flood in. All the while, your ghost is still fucking up into you with the force of a freight train.

It's a Herculean task to pretend as if your pussy isn't being ruthlessly pounded into oblivion. You're biting your lip so hard you've made it bleed- and you're gripping the seat besides you so tightly that your knuckles have turned white.

At one point, you try pressing all your weight down in order to stop yourself from bouncing on the massive cock inside of you, but the phantom grip on your hips just tightens and begins using you as a fleshlight.

The ghosts don't care if you're embarrassed, or overstimulated. They're going to fuck you wherever they want, whenever they want, for as long as it takes to satisfy them. You'll accept the job of being their free use slut, eventually. You know you love it.

.

[doberbutts]

Anyway I'll never forget that 22 hour bus ride to Alabama to help my friend get married and one of the legs of the journey I was on the bus with my (clearly labelled, well behaved) service dog at my side and people were throwing a huge stink about the fact that I had my dog and then this ancient dude in a wheelchair, double amputee both legs, pipes up and tells them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone because Creed was obviously trained and then once everyone quieted down and I was able to take a seat, asked me quietly if I was okay.

He also could have been a cartoon character because I could have sworn there were little winged hearts floating above his head as he told me he'd always liked dogs but of course now he's old and can't walk so he can't get one anymore but he could tell how much Creed loved me and I him etc etc

He never asked me once what my disability was. He spoke up for me when he didn't have to. A truly old white man in Georgia saw a young black person with a "dangerous dog" breed and spoke up in my defense.

If you want to claim to be a disability advocate, that means you kind of have to. Advocate for each other. For the next 4 or so hours, this man and I had each other's backs. Two disabled people on a Greyhound filled with ableist passengers who were not happy we couldn't exist somewhere they didn't havr to accomodate. It didn't matter what our pasts or our diagnoses were. We were stronger together, so that's what we stayed. Together.

Two people banded together and the rest of the bus shut their mouths. Imagine what we could do with more of us.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - prologue

(Rafe Cameron x Reader, series, 3k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

Your mom called you a late bloomer, and even though you always hated the way she said it, so full of pity and condescension, you couldn’t argue that she was wrong. You were a late bloomer, physically and socially. Your whole childhood and into your teen years, you were painfully insecure, so you tended to hide and shy away from situations that would stretch your comfort zone. You had a good childhood growing up on the ritzy side of the island. But nothing ever felt…complete. You always had this nagging feeling that something was missing, or rather, that you were missing something.

Your older sister, Carter, was the exact opposite of you. She knew who she was from the day she could walk. She developed physically years before you did, even though she was only 18-months your senior. In school, Carter was one grade ahead of you. Everyone knew her, and everyone loved her. She played sports, won class president four years in a row, and was the obsession of every boy in every grade. She was the best known girl on the island, and you were best known as Carter’s sister.

All of these things should’ve been reasons for you to resent her, for the two of you to compete and grow a bitter rivalry, but you were best friends from the start. Carter never made you feel left out or left behind, folding you into her friend group from the time you were kids.

Your mom didn’t have to force Carter to invite you to hang out with her friends, it was always Carter’s idea, dragging you to parties and begging you to keep her company, even though you knew she didn’t need it. She would encourage you to put yourself out there, to leave your books at home and jump in on the fun, assuring you that everyone wanted you around just as much as she did. Carter always saw something in you that you didn’t see in yourself.

From middle school on, Carter casually dated just about every guy in your friend group - Topper, Kelce, several others. She never committed, and they were all fine with having her for just a little bit. There was only one boy she never gave the time of day. The one that she knew was off limits, without you ever really having to tell her, it was just understood.

You had been in love with Rafe Cameron since the moment you first saw him. He was a year above you, in Carter’s grade, and his family lived down the road from yours. You met him on the school bus your first day of kindergarten. 

You were so nervous, your mouth going dry as all the kids on the bus looked at you with judging eyes, but Carter just grabbed your hand and pulled you along with her, plopping you into a vinyl seat a few rows from the back. As soon as you sat down, a pair of blue eyes covered by floppy blond bangs popped up over the seat in front of you.

You noticed him right away, eyes wide as his sudden presence startled you, and your cheeks burned bright red for reasons that you didn’t understand yet. The boy didn’t notice your blushing, his attention fully focused on Carter as he reached his hand over the seat and pulled at her braid.

“Quit it, Rafe!” Carter swatted his hand away. 

The boy, Rafe, smiled, a small dimple creasing his cheek. You weren’t sure why, but you wished more than anything that he was smiling at you instead. After bugging Carter a little longer, his gaze finally shifted over to you and your eyes shot down nervously to your lap.

“Who is that?” Rafe blurted out, talking about but not to you.

You looked at Carter in panic, tongue-tied as you tried to stammer out your name, which you were struggling to remember. Carter noticed your look of desperation, you were so shy and she had gotten used to speaking for you.

“That’s my sister,” Carter said with pride. “She goes to school with us now.”

“Oh, hi,” Rafe said, polite but unimpressed.

“H-hi,” you managed to squeak out, tucking your hair behind your ears, which were burning red.

Rafe disappeared back into his seat. Carter looked at you, noticing how you were nervously biting your lip, your go to tick when you were nervous. She folded her hand protectively in yours and didn’t let go until she dropped you off at your kindergarten classroom.

This is how your interactions with Rafe would go for the rest of elementary school, and middle school, too. He’d ignore you most of the time, tossing you a word or a look here or there, and you’d melt into an absolute puddle everytime. Your tendency to blush at everything he did never went away, meaning everyone knew you loved him.

Your crush was common knowledge among your sister’s friends, hell among the whole school, but no one dared mention it or tease you about it, lest they tempt Carter’s wrath. But they knew, and you knew they knew, and you knew he knew. 

As a freshman, you quickly became first in your class, taking sophomore math and science courses. You ended up in the same first and last period as Rafe, who always struggled in school. After a few weeks of chatting during labs and lending Rafe your notes, you actually started to feel like he had become your friend. He played every sport, and you were right there in the bleachers for every game. Sometimes, when he’d make a great play, he’d look at you in the stands and wink, making your whole body blush, feeling like the most special girl in the world. But then, on his next play, he’d wink at another girl or playfully bow to the cheer squad and it’d make you want to die, suddenly invisible again.

“He’s such a douche,” Carter would nudge you with her elbow, trying to downplay the moment because she knew you were crushed.

You dreaded the day Carter would graduate and leave you at this school alone. You weren’t friends with anyone in your own grade, it seemed the year you were born produced more mean girls and fuck boys than the one before it. Carter would tell you the girls in your grade were just jealous that you got to hang out with her class, but you always thought it was more that they didn’t understand you, and people tend to attack what they don’t understand.

Cassie Bryant was the worst of them. She was the Kook princess of your year, as pretty and popular as anyone could be. From early on, she mastered the art of being mean to you in a way that crushed your spirit but looked totally friendly to everyone else. She’d make backhanded comments like “the way you dress is so…interesting” or “you’re lucky you have so much free time to study, I’m way too busy.” 

She was even worse when Rafe was around. It was like Cassie had a radar for when he was finally giving you some attention, and the second you felt comfortable, she’d be there playfully stealing his baseball hat or pouting at him and saying “Rafey, do you have a J?” Then as she pulled him away, she’d laugh at you and say “it’s okay, we know you’re too cool to smoke with us.” No one saw the smug look she’d shoot you as she hung on his arm. You’d try to explain to Rafe why her words hurt you, but he never understood. He’d just shrug and say “that’s just Cassie, she has no filter.” 

At least Carter believed you. 

“Pick-me bitch,” she’d spit as she watched you watch Cassie steal Rafe away yet again.

You and Rafe saw each other every day. You’d tutor him for tests and help with his homework, you were in advanced classes and he had to retake most of his credits. He’d call you “Einstein” and “smarty pants,” always finding a way to address you without actually using your name. You never thought much of it, convincing yourself that his nicknames were coming from a place of affection. When he wasn’t copying your homework or convincing you to stay up after all of your work was done to help him with his, you found other ways to feel needed. You’d bring him lunch from his favorite spot when he got in-school suspension, bake him brownies before his big games, and give him rides to all his practices since his dad took away his truck so often. 

Every afternoon at 4:45, you’d stop by the gas station across from your school and get a Redbull and protein bar for him, and a bag of your favorite candy for yourself. You’d park by the field house, waiting in your car with his snacks for sometimes a half-an-hour before he decided to stop messing around with his friends and head out. When you’d give him his snack, he’d kiss your cheek and say, “thanks, kid.” Even though it wasn’t really meant to be romantic, you lived for those moments when you could pretend you were his girlfriend, smiling at the way the cheerleaders eyed your car judgmentally when you pulled out of the lot with the Rafe Cameron in your passenger seat.

“He’s just using you,” Carter would say when you got home.

“No he’s not,” you’d shrug, “we’re friends.”

“Sure,” she rolled her eyes. 

Even if Rafe broke your heart everyday, you were fine with it as long as he put it back together the next with some small gesture that made you hope…maybe someday.

Then, in the spring semester of your junior year, his senior year, you were parked outside the field house like usual after one of his baseball practices. You saw his figure emerge from the brick building, his hair wet and clinging to his forehead. You smiled wildly, your heart fluttering every time you saw him, even after all these years. You got his snacks out and set them on the seat for him, ready for your daily thank you.

But he didn’t head for your car like usual, instead he veered toward the group of cheerleaders gathered on the other side of the lot. You frowned, eyes furrowed as you watched him approach the gaggle of girls. When he reached them, he grabbed one of their hands and pulled her out of the huddle. Your heart sank when you realized who it was.

Cassie giggled as Rafe pulled her toward him, the other girls in the circle laughing and catcalling toward them. Clearly everyone in this parking lot knew something you didn’t.

And then he kissed her. 

Rafe pulled away from the kiss, hands still on Cassie’s waist, and watched with confusion as your car peeled out of the parking lot without him.

You didn’t speak to him the whole next week, but he was completely oblivious to your heartbreak, still texting you as if nothing ever happened. 

Thursday, March 23rd

Hey kid, u coming to my game tomorrow? u know I need my good luck charm Read 11:03 pm

Sunday, March 26th

Babyyyyy in drvnk at top’s pick me upppp? :(  Read 2:17 am

 

Tuesday, March 28th

yo dude u got the hw packet done for precal? I’m screwed for tomorrow Read 9:56 pm

You’d stare at the messages for a long time before shoving your phone in your desk drawer or turning it off all together, but always made sure to open the message so he’d know you read it. 

Then you’d cry yourself to sleep. 

Carter would sit in your bed each night, rubbing your back comfortingly, pissed that she couldn’t do more to save you from this hurt, muttering under her breath about how she was gonna kick his ass.

After only a week of unreturned texts and trying to get your attention at school with no luck, Rafe went silent. You thought you’d make him sweat for a few weeks before forgiving him, enough time to show you he cared that you weren’t speaking, but then he did the exact opposite.

“It’s for the best,” Carter tried to convince you. 

Maybe she was right. After you no longer had Rafe in your life, you threw yourself into your schoolwork. You had always been smart, but now that you were more focused on yourself and not him, you were acing every class, top of the honor roll. 

The gang all went their separate ways after graduation. Rafe to UNC Chapel Hill, Carter to Duke, Topper and Kelce to U of Florida. With your sister and her friends gone, you spent senior year alone, but opened acceptance letter after acceptance letter. Rafe faded slowly from your mind as you dreamt out your future. 

Eventually you got the letter you were waiting for, your dream school. The day before you left the island, you promised yourself you wouldn’t miss out on the college experience the way you missed out in high school. 

Then, hundreds of miles away from home, something miraculous happened. Far from the memories of your lonely childhood and Rafe Cameron, you bloomed. You made friends early on, feeling like you may have finally found your people in academia. You picked up intramural sports, now you were the one scoring goals and spiking balls and waving smugly to all your friends in the stands. You dated, and you dated. Never settling on one guy too long, having too much fun to tie yourself down.

Things just clicked so much easier, no longer living in your sister’s shadow, far enough away from all the shy girl stereotypes to explore and figure out who you were on your own terms. And slowly, all thoughts of Rafe Cameron faded from your mind. You only thought of him when he made cameos in your dreams, the high school nightmare variety - late to class, showing up naked on accident, a test you forgot to study for, and Rafe in the parking lot kissing Cassie Bryant. You’d wake up cursing your subconscious and feel off for about half a day, before your fast paced routine in your new city erased his face from your mind again.

You changed physically, too. Though you didn’t really feel any different, Carter would make comments every time you came home for a holiday or event.

“Damn, bitch,” she’d say, looking you up and down and wolf-whistling. 

“Shut up,” you’d roll your eyes, feigning annoyance when it really made your confidence soar. 

She’s just being a supportive sister, you’d tell yourself, clinging to the same insecurity you’d had your whole life. But she wasn’t the only one, boys noticed you now a way they never used to. You hooked up with enough guys to start to feel comfortable with the attention, but whenever you’d draw eyes at college parties or lecture halls, your cheeks would still go bright red, never quite figuring out how to turn off that particular mannerism.

You were almost done with your third year, a plane ticket to head back to North Carolina for Carter’s graduation already purchased. One night, as she showed you options for her graduation outfit on Facetime, she casually threw out, “some of us from Kildare are going to Miami to celebrate graduation.”

“Oh?” You said, not really listening, going over a term paper with a red pen for the fifth time.

“You should come…” she was nervous, trying to say it casually enough that maybe you might not overthink it and just say yes.

“Wait sorry, come where?” You put down your pen and actually looked at the screen, knowing she hated when you were listening without really listening like this.

“Miami,” she repeated. “A few of us are getting an Airbnb on the beach for a week after finals.”

“Who’s us?” You asked. 

“Oh y’know,” she started listing names of her old friends, a lot more people than you expected, your throat tightening with a social anxiety you hadn’t felt in years at thought of being in a room with that many people from high school. “...Jack, Maddie, Sabrina. Topper and Kelce obviously,” she continued, at least ten names deep, going quiet for a moment before adding “...and Rafe.”

“No.” you said simply, propping the phone back up and returning to your paper.

“Oh, come onnnn,” she whined, not at all surprised by your response. “It’s been four years, and you’re thriving now! You can just pretend he’s not there.”

“Yes, exactly,” you snarked at her. “Just as I’m finally thriving, you want me to spend a week stuck in a house with Rafe Cameron. That makes sense.”

“You and I will hang out on the beach the whole time, we don’t even have to talk to him,” she reasoned. “And he can just sit in the corner and look at your hot body and feel like shit for being such a dick to you in high school.”

You laughed a little despite yourself. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a part of you that wished he could see you now. Even though you stayed away from Kildare as much as possible and barely went out when you were home, terrified of running into him, you also dreamt of a time you would see him again. New look, new confidence, new you. 

“Hah! You’re thinking about it aren’t you?” Carter said smugly, interrupting your thoughts.

“Maybe,” you said, turning back to your schoolwork.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” she cheered victoriously.

“Or you can take it as a maybe, which is what it is,” you corrected her.

“Pleaseeee?” She begged. “It’s my graduation trip! And I don’t want to be there without you.”

You sighed deeply, weighing all of the pros and cons as you bit your lip. Carter had always been there for you, and if it was so important to her that you make this trip, it was really the least you could do. Plus, she was going abroad for grad school in just a few weeks, and you knew it would be your last chance to spend time with her for a while.

“Fine…I’ll come,” you finally conceded. 

“Yay!” Carter yelped. “Best trip ever!”

“Uh-huh,” you said skeptically. “Best trip ever.”

(Chapter 1)

a/n: hi, i'm nat and i've struggled with body image and anxiety my whole life and I have been the victim of countless unrequited loves, particularly in my teen years, though the sting never really goes away. writing this series has been really personal to me so far, and i'm having a great time. I hope you like it. ♡

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[parfaitblogs]

as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament. 

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day. 

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened. 

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder. 

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed. 

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot. 

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it. 

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?" 

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole. 

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall. 

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room. 

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted. 

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you. 

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing. Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him. 

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap. 

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not. 

Your heart decides to go with the former. 

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you. 

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back. 

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter. 

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand. 

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate. 

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head. 

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in. 

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished. 

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress. 

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm. 

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you. 

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy. 

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips. 

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to. 

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of. 

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you. 

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities. 

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel. 

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest. 

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his. 

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one. 

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums. 

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him. 

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further." 

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it. 

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon. 

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces. 

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again. 

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants. 

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear. 

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly. 

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to. 

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him. 

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again. 

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name. 

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might. 

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you. 

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly. 

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you. 

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off. 

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from. 

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply. 

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well? 

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own. 

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice. 

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work. 

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud. 

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position. 

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you. 

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you. 

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect. 

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp. 

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts. 

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?" 

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning. 

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise. 

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own. 

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering. 

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower. 

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead. 

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume. 

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him. 

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching. 

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest. 

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully. 

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor. 

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily. 

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose. 

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" 

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him. 

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head. 

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly. 

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement. 

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too. 

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment. 

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen. 

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply. 

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?" 

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides. 

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait. 

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you. 

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question. 

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look. 

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table. 

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face. 

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities. 

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need. 

Stay quiet, don't react, detach. 

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now. 

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours. 

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly. 

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why. 

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him. 

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door. 

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression. 

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him. 

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end. 

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you. 

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get. 

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing. 

Maybe he would. 

"So you are alive," he says. 

"Last I checked, yes," you reply. 

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in. 

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows. 

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you. 

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster. 

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper. 

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble. 

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding. 

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower. 

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch. 

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that? 

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly. 

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee. 

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago. 

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not. 

Not today, it seemed. 

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence. 

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful. 

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart. 

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later. 

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah." 

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast. 

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home. 

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be. 

At three in the morning. 

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far. 

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night. 

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently. 

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up. 

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were. 

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features. 

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom. 

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around. 

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists. 

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child. 

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it. 

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?" 

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet. 

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar. 

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go. 

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more. 

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate. 

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight. 

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline. 

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more. 

And yet; fuck you universe. 

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways). 

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so. 

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him. 

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe. 

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body. 

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs. 

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you. 

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer. 

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it. 

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly. 

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold. 

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience. 

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day. 

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath. 

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything. 

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye. 

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far. 

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more. 

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[togrowoldinv]

The Retreat

Milf!Wanda Maximoff x Reader

When you go on a church retreat, you have a very interesting conversation with Wanda

Note: I have missed writing for this Wanda! Can’t get her out of my head lately. Y’all enjoy this one!

Warnings: Smut! 18+ please! Kissing, cursing, sad Wanda, oral and fingering (W receiving), age gap

Milf Wanda Masterlist, Main Masterlist

When you were asked to go on a women’s retreat, you immediately wanted to say no. The only reason you even go to church is to appease your parents. But it’s the final retreat of the year and you are expected to attend at least one.  

So, you find yourself now waiting by the church bus to load up. You watch as mothers say goodbye to their children and wives kiss their husbands. One family in particular catches your eye.  

The Maximoffs. Wanda, the matriarch, is a good friend of your mothers. They just moved to town a few years ago, but have made quite an impression in the town. Her husband travels for work, so Wanda is often found alone at the church service while her twin boys are in class for the children.  

You wonder how a man could ever leave a woman like that alone. She is definitely the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Some part of you has been attracted to her since you first laid eyes on her.  

Wanda gets on the bus and sits a few seats from you. She gives you a small wave. You put in your headphones to try and drown out the world. The drive only lasts a few hours and soon you’re at the retreat.  

You check in and get your room key. It doesn’t take long to figure out that you will have a roommate when you open the door and see there are two beds. You're praying it’s not one of the older ladies or someone in your peer group who you can’t stand.  

The prayer is answered when the door latch opens and none other than the one and only Wanda Maximoff walks in.  

“Well, hi y/n!” She says. “I didn’t know we were roommates.”  

“Hey Mrs. Maximoff. I didn’t either.”  

“Oh please call me Wanda. This weekend we are peers, sweetheart,” she says.  

She puts her bags on the bed next to the window. Sitting on the bed, she looks around the room. Wanda spots an itinerary on the bedside table.  

“Looks like a busy weekend,” she analyzes. “We should get going to the first session.”  

“Oh, I was thinking I would just rest tonight,” you reply.  

“Nonsense, y/n,” Wanda says. “You came all this way. You might as well try and enjoy it. I know you aren’t feeling the spirit these days, but let me try and do something about that, okay?”  

Your pulse quickens. How can she see right through you? Maybe she’s just being nice. Or maybe it’s worse and your mother asked her to look out for you this weekend.  

She stands and waits for you to join her. You sigh and follow Wanda out the door.  

The first session goes better than you thought it would. At least the food was good and the middling company was made a little better by Wanda’s presence.  

When you get back to the room, it is freezing cold in there. You notice Wanda shivering even in her sweatshirt and sweatpants she has on for bed. Still, you both try to go to sleep for the night.  

At some point though, you get a feeling someone is watching you while you sleep. Or more accurately, as you try to sleep in the arctic environment. Your eyes flutter open to see Wanda sitting up in her bed.  

“What time is it?” You ask her.  

“Early,” Wanda replies. Her voice is gravely, and if you think about it too much you might even be turned on by it.  

“Are you cold?”  

She nods. “The heat isn’t working. I tried, but can’t fix it.”  

You roll out of bed and walk to the thermostat on the wall. Wanda follows you and stands close behind you. You can hear her breathing as you investigate the issue.  

“Can you fix it?” She asks.  

“Unfortunately, I cannot,” you reply. Wanda sighs.  

You turn around and Wanda is still very close to you.  

“We have one option here,” she begins. “To sleep together.”  

“Oh,” you mumble. “We- um-”  

“We could snuggle and then our body heat will keep us warmer,” Wanda further explains. “What do you say?”  

“Okay.”  

“Okay,” Wanda says.  

She leads the way to your bed hoping since it’s the one away from the window it’ll be a little bit warmer. Wanda crawls into the bed and pulls the covers down. She waits for you to join her. You get into the bed cautiously, keeping a little distance between you two.  

“Come on closer, baby. I don’t bite,” Wanda says. She grins at herself.  

You get closer to her and she wraps an arm around your waist. You drape one of your arms across the pillow and she positions herself with her head between your neck and shoulder. Admittedly, it is warmer with the two of you snuggling together.  

Eventually, you both fall into a deep sleep and the snuggling becomes more relaxed. It feels natural when the two of you wake up in the morning still intertwined.  

“Good morning,” you say softly, trying not to get lost in her green eyes.  

“Good morning,” Wanda says. Her face is close to yours. You can practically see every detail of her perfect face. “We should get ready for the day.”  

“Right,” you say, breaking out of your trance. “Of course.”  

You two break apart and you miss her warmth already. When you two show up at breakfast, several people are already in the room.  

“Wanda! Y/n! Join our table!” The leader of the women’s group calls you both over. “How did you two sleep?”  

“Quite well,” Wanda replies. “It was cold, but we made do.”  

“Oh, we can have someone look at your heat,” the leader replies.  

“Thanks that would be-” you start, but are interrupted.  

“That’s alright,” Wanda says, placing a hand on your forearm. “We are okay.”  

It's a strange response, but you try not to read into it. She probably just doesn’t want to cause any trouble. The breakfast lecturer starts soon and your attention shifts.  

At the end of the day, you and Wanda find yourselves sitting in your room once again. Dinner isn’t for another hour, so you are just waiting around.  

“Should we work on our exercises?” Wanda asks, breaking the silence.  

“What?”  

“The vulnerability exercises we talked about today in the final session,” Wanda explains.  

“Oh, sure.”  

Wanda smiles. She sits on the edge of her bed and pats the spot next to her.  

“I’ll go first,” she says. 

“Remind me of the rules,” you ask.  

“We reveal something to each other that no one else knows. So that we can release it and let the weight go.”  

You nod. You have no idea what Wanda might say. Her life seems perfect.  

“Vision left me,” Wanda blurts out quickly.  

“What?” You ask in shock. “Wanda, I- what happened?”  

You hadn’t seen them interact much, but you never assumed that he wasn’t still in the picture. Just that he had been traveling.  

Wanda looks down, playing with the ring on her finger. You can tell she’s holding back tears.  

“Wanda, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I'm really sorry.”  

“No, it might help if I do,” Wanda says. “Things just got bad. They went from okay, to maybe not so good, to fuck we’re over.”  

Your eyes go wide. Never have you ever heard Wanda curse like that.  

“How long ago was it over?”  

“A few months,” Wanda says.  

“And you haven’t told anyone?”  

She shakes her head. “I just keep saying he’s away on business. The truth is he hasn’t touched me in almost a year.”  

“So, that snuggling we did last night was?” 

“The first time I’ve remotely been that close to someone in a year.”  

“Jesus,” you mumble. She doesn’t even scold you for using the Lord’s name in vain. “Can I hug you?”  

You figure she needs human connection now more than ever. She nods and you take Wanda in your arms. She melts against you. Tears fall down her face and soak into your shirt.  

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly to her. “You’re okay, Wanda.”  

“I’m not,” she says through sobs.  

“You will be,” you reply. “I’m here for you. My parents are here for you. All of these stupid, annoying women here are on your side too, okay? We won’t let you fall.”  

Wanda pulls away some and looks at you. You run your hand through her hair and brush your thumb against her cheek gently. She leans in just enough for you to know what’s about to happen.  

“Wanda,” you say. She keeps moving forward. “Mrs. Maximoff.”  

That makes her stop. She looks at you with confusion in her eyes.  

“I just want you. Do you not want me, baby?” Wanda asks.  

“Oh, of course I want you. I just haven’t done the exercise yet.”  

“Oh?”  

You take your other hand and pull her closer by her hip. Your lips are almost touching.  

“My secret is that I really, really want to kiss you right now and fuck you until you forget about your loser ex-husband who never deserved you in the first place,” you say.  

Wanda closes the gap between the two of you. Her lips move fervently against yours. You can tell she’s desperate.  

“When’s the last time he kissed you like this?” You ask between kisses.  

“Never,” she replies.  

You smile into her mouth and move to push her back onto the bed. Her legs wrap around your waist as you pin her arms above her head.  

“Fuck, Wanda, you are the most beautiful woman alive,” you tell her.  

“We shouldn’t do this,” she says. It's her final effort at not letting herself feel as good as he deserves to feel. You move your hands off of her just briefly.  

“We should do this, but I'll stop if you really don’t want this,” you tell her.  

“No, I- we just can’t tell anyone, okay?”  

“Yes ma’am.”  

You put your hands back on her. This time, you go straight for the buttons of her jeans. You kiss down her chest and around her belly. Deftly, you pull down her pants and panties in one fell swoop.  

Wanda shivers beneath the feeling of your wet lips against her hips and as you brush your nose lightly against her core.  

“Oh, god, y/n,” she whimpers.  

“So wet for me, Wanda,” you say. You dive into her core with your tongue. Her folds are intoxicating as you bring her more pleasure than she’s ever felt in her life.  

“I need you,” Wanda says. “Please, baby. Please!”  

You take Wanda’s clit in your mouth and move your fingers into her in tandem. She is writhing beneath your touch.  

“Come for me, Mrs. Maximoff,” you say as you feel her reaching her climax.  

“Fuck!” Wanda comes hard against you.  

You lick her as she comes down and move up her body slowly. You lie next to her and kiss her cheek softly. The juxtaposition of that soft kiss and what you were just doing between her legs makes her heart flutter.  

“Are you okay?” You ask her. She is staring at the ceiling.  

“Yes,” she replies. “Thank you for everything.”  

“Anytime Wanda,” you say. You ignore the ache between your legs, knowing Wanda needs time to process this. “Should we go to dinner?”  

“Oh, I guess so,” she says.  

You sit up, but Wanda grabs your arm before you can stand.  

“I want to fuck you later, okay?” Wanda says. “I just-”  

“Need a minute,” you finish for her.  

“Yeah. Thanks for understanding, sweetheart. It’ll be worth the wait I promise.”  

Wanda kisses you deeply before she gets off the bed to get cleaned up. You watch as she walks with a new bounce in her step that she didn’t have before.  

Maybe this retreat will be interesting after all.  

[puppyeared]

fuck it. plaguesona