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yandere-daydreams · 2 months ago

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Title: The Flight Response.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment/Isolation, Mentions of Stalking, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, And Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

You could hear them through the walls.

Jason’s voice was clear – crystal, even. You doubted you’d ever be able to forget the sound of it, the way it dipped at the edges as he moved between his family’s authoritarian barking and the last remaining traces of his downtown Gotham drawl, how it reverberated against your throat as he muttered some fractured version of your name. Dick took a little longer. You tried not to think of him when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it would’ve been hard not to recognize that confidence, that carelessness, that charm layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he wasn’t choking on it. If you hadn’t already felt so sick, you might’ve gagged.

“It’s bad. Barbara’s keeping him occupied with surveillance footage, but that’ll only buy us another hour or so.” They were talking about the manor. Bruce must’ve gotten home, by now. “Where is she?”

“Things aren’t going so fucking great here either, man.” They were getting closer. “She’s in the bedroom. It felt the safest – fewest ways out.”

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

“You’re part of the family, love.”

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amatariki · 2 months ago

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YOU'RE MY ANGEL 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ you're too good to be true

in lieu: pet names i think enha would have for their s/o

the muse: bf!enhypen x gn!reader wc: 565 warnings: gn!reader most of the time but fem!reader for heeseung :/, not proofread, kissing, skinship, flirting, fluff, cringe alert, i suck at warnings

whispers: motivation really hits the hardest when i have exams. i have two more drafts in my drafts. i tried. go listen to strawberry crush by supast4r.

reblog and i'll kiss you <3

(이희승) ⋆.˚ ★— LEE HEESEUNG

"Princess." Heeseung's the prince charming from every girl's dream. Of course, every prince needs his princess. Luckily for you, you're the only girl he has on his mind. That also means that you're never going to be lifting a finger when he's around. Heeseung will take care of everything.

"Do you like that dress, princess?" he asks, already pulling out his card to pay for it before you say 'yes'. Heeseung doesn't need you to. He can see how happy you are twirling around in it.

—rest under the cut!!

(박종성) ⋆.˚ ★— PARK JEONGSEONG

"Darling." Jay gives off a more refined gentleman vibe. He's elegant and sophisticated. Jay's nickname for you is going to be as delicate as the rest of him, giving you that old money feeling.

"Good morning, darling," Jay drawls, wrapping his arms around you as you sleepily blink up at him, trying to adjust to the light filtering in through the curtains. "You're so beautiful."

(심재윤) ⋆.˚ ★— SIM JAEYUN

"Angel." Everyone knows that Jake is head over heels for you. He sees you like an angel sent to him from heaven and he makes sure that you know it every second. He abuses that nickname, using it in his every sentence to the point where the others make fun of him for it.

"You're so gorgeous, angel," Jake sighs, seeing you drowning in his hoodie. "First my heart, now my hoodies. What are you gonna steal next, angel? My last name?"

(박성훈) ⋆.˚ ★— PARK SUNGHOON

"Snowflake." Sunghoon's first love was the ice. It made him happy to be on it. But you made him happier. So what better nickname for his amazing partner other than something related to the one thing that made him almost as happy as you made him.

"Careful, snowflake," he laughs, watching you struggle to keep your balance on the ice. Sunghoon holds you firmly by the waist from behind. "Don't worry, I've got you."

(김선우) ⋆.˚ ★— KIM SUNOO

"Sunshine." Sunoo adores you more than he adores anything in the world. To him you're essential and necessary for survival. Just like how the Sun is to all life. He can't help it, you're just as bright and cheerful as the Sun, sometimes he thinks you're the Sun born as a human on Earth.

"That's not how you do it, sunshine," Sunoo says, the two of you giggling. He leans over to fix the face mask you've been trying to put on for two minutes but can't because you keep bouncing around like a ball of energy. "Stay still, sunshine."

(양정원) ⋆.˚ ★— YANG JUNGWON

"Sweetheart." There's really no other nickname he can use to describe how amazing you are: kind, gentle, understanding. You felt like home. Jungwon knows you're the kind of love grandparents tell stories about. So what if it's old school? It's not like either of you cared.

Jungwon is caught off guard when you practically leap into his arms. He twirls you around with a lovestruck look in his eyes and a laugh on his face. "I missed you too, sweetheart."

(西村力) ⋆.˚ ★— NISHIMURA RIKI

"Baby." Riki's just nonchalant like that so he won't really use overly sweet nicknames, he prefers to just use 'baby'. Riki likes to show his love through subtle or quiet ways like getting you that plush you wanted and holding your hand quietly when you guys are outside.

"Baby, c'mere," Riki says, tugging you onto the couch so he can lie down on your lap. "You smell so good, baby," he whispers, wrapping his arm around your waist.

taglist: @chrrific @lezleeferguson-120

------ᝰ‧₊ written by ©amatariki 2025

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ithinkthiswasabadidea · 5 months ago

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I'm not anywhere really near or into Kingdom Come: Deliverance, but since the second game released recently, I've seen a lot of new attention on my social medias, particularly around Henry and Hans' relationship

And I, very obviously, love queer characters and relationships, and even moreso the canon ones, so I watched the IGN video explaining how one might romance Hans in the second game

Man. I was blown away.

By now I've played a handful of rpg's and romanced a handful of npc's, but not ONCE has the dialogue and action of a confession scene ever felt quite so real and as beautifully acted

I have almost zero other context about the games or characters, yet I haven't stopped thinking about that romance scene in days

That you build up the affection and genuine care for Hans through dialogue choices feels completely non-forced, and you can tell that Hans enjoys your presence and respects you immensely. Henry gently encouraging and helping Hans when he's uncomfortable, always concerned about his wellbeing. There's such a solid foundation of mutual trust that even I, as an outside viewer, can tell that both men truly would put their lives in the others hands

And then the confession scene itself? Henry coming to say goodbye, and because of the work that has been put in to convey Henry's feelings of care and devotion for Hans, it's Hans himself who starts the conversation. He tells a story that he 'doesn't have his own words for', displaying that he's uncertain about how this might go, but knowing that it needs to be said before Henry leaves. He's both deflecting and projecting, using this story as a way to cushion the segue into his own feelings, or the blow of rejection should it come. And as Hans imagines something terrible happening to Henry, he immediately gets emotional, voice shaking, knowing he'd be unable to help

There's a small moment as Henry reassures that he'll be alright, when he places a hand on top of Hans' and this small, delightfully hopeful smile appears on Hans' face. I take this to be the moment where Hans believes that Henry has understood his story, and his way of confessing his feelings, and that Henry feels the same way about him. Then Henry stands, moving to leave and Hans' smile drops. Perhaps Henry's confidence falters here, and before he can reciprocate his true feelings and kiss him, Hans is running on adrenaline and courage and pulls Henry into the kiss instead, before he can second-guess himself

It's awkward, uncertain. Hans has this almost crushing grip on Henry like he's barely sure what he's just done, just that he couldn't let him walk away without doing something . And when Henry turns his head and steps back, noises of shock and breathlessness, Hans jumps back like he's been burned and spurned. He's stammering and stuttering out an apology, quiet and upset, unlike his usual self

Hans' body language as he turns away, making himself smaller, making more space between them than is necessary, it displays how he thinks his actions have just been perceived - that Henry doesn't feel the same way, he just ruined a perfectly good friendship, he's made himself look weak. He rubs at his mouth like he wishes he could remove the feel of Henry's lips against his own, tries apologising again, gasping for air, screws up his face in anxiety or anger for his recklessness......

Then Henry makes his own decision and speeds back over to him, pulling him into an even more crushing embrace and kiss, before they make their way over to the bed

The acting direction here in this scene is just so delectablely real . It looks and feels like I'm a fly on the wall of a real life confession, where both men are less than certain about their futures, and even less certain about how their relationship is perceived in the others eyes. Hans is visibly scared of rejection when Henry turns his back, Henry is visibly coming to terms with what he wants in this moment

The reactions are the most natural thing in the world, especially in a game that strives for realism. There was clearly a great deal of care that went into writing and directing this relationship, and with how naturally it progressed to this climax

And I think that's where the divide is for me, when I think about the romance options in BG3 or other rpgs, because there is something more flowery and shiny about those romances that I've experienced. Like they're too perfect, too polished and rehearsed, no room to have any fuck ups or moments of imperfection. But it's the awkwardness and show of non-positive emotions and reactions, rather than immediate lust and experience, that really pins the Henry and Hans scene above the rest

There's probably more I could say, and I'm sure there's more that others who know these characters and the games could say, but I just wanted to get my thoughts into some words and hope that it strikes true with someone else

I don't think I've ever seen a romance scene in a video game, that has felt so genuine as this. A thousand kudos to the actors for Hans and Henry, and the writers and directors for this marvellously curated scene ❤️

#kingdom come deliverance #kingdom come deliverance 2 #kcd #kcd2 #hans capon #henry of skalitz #hansry #kcd2 spoilers #kcd henry #kcd hans #kcd meta #kingdom come: deliverance 2 #kingdom come: deliverance #kcd blogging

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goldfades · 5 months ago

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crazy cat people───joe burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had always been cat people—dogs were just too high maintenance, too needy. but you were never in a hurry to get cats until one night, joe finds a cat on a roadie and decides to bring her home.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | literally nothing but cat dad joe, and dog slander (JK!! not really, but we all know joe likes cats better). inspired by this clip.

The thing about Joe is that he’s always been a cat person.

You figured it out on your second date when the conversation somehow derailed into a passionate debate about why people automatically assume dogs are superior. It started off as a joke—some exaggerated takes for the sake of banter—but then Joe hit you with a well-structured argument about the independent nature of cats, their low-maintenance lifestyle, and the way they choose their people rather than blindly loving everyone.

“You ever seen a cat follow some random stranger home just ‘cause they waved at it? No. That’s some dog behavior.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “No self-respect.”

That was the moment you knew he was the one.

Well, not actually, but it definitely solidified your interest. Three years later, the two of you were still going strong, bound together by an undeniable connection, a deep understanding of each other’s quirks, and a shared stance that dogs—while undeniably adorable—were just a little too much. Too excitable. Too dependent. Too… needy.

“We’d be cat people,” you had declared one night while curled up on the couch together, his arm draped lazily around you. “Like, if we were to get a pet.”

Joe hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, but I feel like we’d be picky about it. Can’t just have any cat. Gotta be one with personality.”

“A little bit of an asshole,” you added.

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

Despite countless conversations about what you’d name your hypothetical future cat (the list had ranged from elegant, sophisticated names like Theodora to complete chaos like Little Shit), you never actually got one. Between Joe’s insane schedule and your own busy life, it never felt like the right time. You weren’t the type to impulsively adopt an animal just because it seemed like a cute idea—you took responsibility seriously. Joe was the same way.

But that didn’t stop you from sending him TikToks of cats daily. And it definitely didn’t stop him from pausing the TV anytime a cat appeared in a commercial, just to point and go, “That one’s kinda cool.”

It was just one of those things. A little inside joke, a shared fantasy, a part of your relationship that existed in theory but had yet to materialize.

Until Joe came back from a road trip with something unexpected.

Something small. And furry. And wrapped in the hoodie he had worn on the plane.

A cat.

He met your wide-eyed stare with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, funny story…”

It was one of those quiet, in-between days where everything felt a little dull without Joe around. You were used to it by now—his road trips, the stretches of time where you had to keep yourself entertained—but no matter how well you adjusted, the house always felt bigger when he wasn’t in it.

You filled the day the best way you knew how. Running errands, grabbing coffee from the spot down the street, making small talk with the barista who always remembered your order. You spent an unreasonable amount of time in Target, browsing the aisles aimlessly, tossing things into your cart that you definitely didn’t need but convinced yourself were essentials.

A candle? Necessary. A new throw blanket even though you already had five? An investment. A little ceramic dish shaped like a cat’s face? Joe would think it was funny.

By the time you got home, the sun was beginning to set, casting the living room in soft golden light. You went through your usual routine—changing into something comfier, throwing your hair up, and scrolling through your phone while curled up on the couch.

Joe had texted you earlier to say his flight landed on time, but you weren’t sure when he’d actually walk through the door. Traveling always took it out of him, and sometimes he lingered at the facility longer than necessary, just to settle back into the routine of being home.

So when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, you perked up, setting your phone down.

Joe was home.

You stood, stretching a little before padding over to greet him—only to immediately freeze in place.

Because Joe Burrow, your extremely predictable, routine-driven boyfriend, was standing in the doorway holding a cat.

Not a cat carrier. Not a box from the pet store with a new cat inside. No, he was physically holding a cat in his arms, cradling it like some kind of newborn wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had worn on the plane.

“Uh…” You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Joe?”

Joe, looking far too casual for someone who had just walked into your shared home with a whole animal, shot you a sheepish grin.

“So, funny story…” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the tiny creature, who—shockingly—seemed completely unbothered.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Joe cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I found him at a gas station. In, like… the middle of nowhere.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Yeah. Just… chilling. No collar, no tags, nothing.” He looked down at the cat, then back at you, as if that explanation was supposed to justify the fact that he had apparently just kidnapped an animal. “He walked right up to me. Super chill. Thought, you know, maybe he needed a home.”

“You—” You ran a hand down your face, processing. “So you just… took him?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “No one stopped me.”

You stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him.

The cat—a small, scrappy-looking thing with fluffy black fur and bright green eyes—gave the smallest little stretch before curling back up into the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, as if this was the most natural situation in the world.

A sigh left your lips, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You stole a cat.”

Joe scoffed. “I didn’t steal him. I rescued him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you check to see if he belonged to anyone?”

Joe paused. “I mean… he was alone.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, no one else was around,” Joe defended. “It was late. Freezing cold. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “So your solution was to bring him home?”

Joe, completely unrepentant, grinned. “Yeah. He’s cool, right?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temples before shaking your head.

This man.

This six-foot-four NFL quarterback who spent three years claiming you guys would be extremely selective about what kind of cat you got, had apparently abandoned all standards the second a gas station stray blinked at him.

And worse? You were already kind of attached.

Because the damn cat was still curled up in his hoodie, looking completely at peace, like he had already decided he belonged here.

You sighed, waving them both inside. “I can’t believe you.”

Joe grinned, stepping past you and into the house, clearly taking that as a win.

“Should we name him?” he asked, already making himself comfortable on the couch, cat still in tow.

You groaned.

“Oh my God.”

The first night with Miss Honey felt strangely natural, like she had always belonged here. Apparently, you guys had been misgendering her the whole time.

After the initial shock of Joe casually waltzing into your home with a stray cat, the two of you got to work making sure she was okay. A quick check revealed she was mostly healthy—just a little underweight and carrying a few ticks, which you carefully removed while Joe held her still, murmuring soft reassurances. Despite being a random cat from a gas station, she was surprisingly chill about it, blinking up at you with those big green eyes like she already trusted you.

“This is insane,” you had muttered, brushing your fingers through her soft fur.

Joe, stretched out on the couch beside you, smirked. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You rolled your eyes because, of course, he was right.

That night, the three of you curled up on the couch and put on Matilda, your mutual comfort movie. Joe made popcorn, you pulled out the throw blanket you had impulse-bought earlier that day, and Miss Honey—named after the warm, soft-spoken teacher you both adored—made herself right at home between you, paws tucked neatly beneath her little body.

“She’s purring,” Joe whispered at one point, as if he was afraid saying it too loud would make her stop.

You had just smiled, gently scratching behind her ears. “Yeah. I think she likes us.”

It took less than twenty-four hours for Miss Honey to fully take over the house.

By the next morning, she had already established herself as a permanent fixture, weaving between your legs as you made coffee, hopping onto the couch like she owned the place, and—much to Joe’s delight—curling up on his chest while he lounged around watching film.

“She’s got good taste,” he mused, running a slow hand down her back.

You, sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through your Target bags from yesterday, shot him a look. “You mean ‘cause she likes you?”

Joe grinned, glancing down at the cat who was currently making biscuits against his hoodie. “I mean, can you blame her?”

You snorted. “Unreal.”

Still, you had to admit—Miss Honey really did love Joe.

At first, you thought it was just convenience. He ran warm, he was still for long periods of time, and his heartbeat was steady enough to lull anyone to sleep. But over the next few days, it became clear that her attachment went deeper than that.

She followed him from room to room, her tiny paws padding against the hardwood whenever he moved. If Joe was at the kitchen counter making breakfast, Miss Honey was right there beside him, tail flicking lazily. If he was tying his shoes by the door, she sat next to him, watching intently like she had somewhere to be, too.

It was ridiculous.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you pointed out one night, arms crossed as you watched her bat playfully at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Joe grinned, scratching under her chin. “Yeah, but don’t be jealous.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, truthfully, you loved it.

You loved that she trusted him. Loved that this cat—who had spent who-knows-how-long fending for herself—had chosen you both, nestled herself into the space between you like she had been there forever.

It didn’t take long for Miss Honey to establish a routine.

Every morning, without fail, she woke Joe up first. Not you—Joe.

You learned this the hard way when you woke up one morning to a quiet, disgruntled “Jesus,” followed by the sound of Joe shifting beside you. Blinking blearily, you turned over, only to find Miss Honey perched delicately on his chest, staring down at him like she was assessing whether or not it was time for him to get up.

“Babe,” Joe whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “Your cat is harassing me.”

You stifled a laugh, rubbing your eyes. “She’s your cat too.”

“Yeah, well, tell her to chill.”

Miss Honey, completely ignoring his complaints, took that exact moment to lean down and press her tiny nose against his, like a little wake-up kiss.

You melted on the spot.

Joe groaned, but even half-asleep, he couldn’t hide his smile.

From then on, it became a thing. Every morning, she woke Joe up first, then trotted to the kitchen like a little queen expecting breakfast. She had a schedule, and she stuck to it.

By the end of the second week, she had also taken over bedtime.

One night, you were finishing up in the bathroom when Joe called out from the bedroom, amusement lacing his voice.

“You’re getting replaced.”

You stepped into the room, brows furrowed. “What?”

Joe tilted his head toward the bed, where Miss Honey was curled up on his pillow, perfectly nestled into the space where your head usually went.

You crossed your arms. “Unreal.”

Joe smirked, patting the mattress beside him. “Sorry, babe. She called dibs.”

You shook your head, sliding into bed anyway, and—because Miss Honey was the most spoiled creature on the planet—you let her stay.

She purred contently between you, tucked snugly between your bodies, and Joe reached out, running a slow hand down her back before catching your gaze.

“I think she was meant to be ours,” he murmured, voice soft in the dark.

Your heart swelled.

Because he was right.

At first, Miss Honey had been a little more drawn to Joe. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked you just fine—but there was something about him that had her stuck to him like glue. Maybe it was his warmth, or the steady way he carried himself, or the fact that he had been the one to scoop her up from the cold and bring her home.

But after a couple of weeks, things started shifting.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no grand moment of realization where she decided, Actually, I love you too. It was slower than that—small moments that gradually built into something solid, something certain.

It was the way she started lingering in the kitchen while you made breakfast, winding around your ankles, soft fur brushing against your bare legs as she meowed up at you like she was part of the conversation.

It was how she started climbing onto your lap while you were reading, kneading her tiny paws into your stomach before curling up and purring herself to sleep, like you were something safe.

It was how she started following you into the bathroom whenever you did your skincare at night, sitting neatly by the sink and watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she was deeply invested in your routine.

She was still Joe’s shadow, but you had become hers.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“She likes you now,” Joe teased one night, watching as Miss Honey happily stretched out on your chest, perfectly content.

You smirked, scratching under her chin. “She always liked me.”

“Nah,” he mused, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “She tolerated you. Big difference.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Hey, it’s a compliment. You won her over.”

And you had.

Miss Honey wasn’t just a cat anymore. She was your cat. An irreplaceable little presence in the house.

Joe, naturally, leaned into it full force.

It started with the essentials.

A bed. A few toys. Some high-quality cat food that Joe meticulously researched before purchasing. He wasn’t about to give her just anything—he wanted the best, reading reviews like he was about to draft a new teammate.

You had laughed the first time you caught him looking up “best cat food brands for digestion” on his phone.

“Joe, she was literally eating bugs two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and now she’s got standards,” he shot back, tapping on a link. “This one’s got good ingredients.”

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Joe was going all out—buying her the best litter (something natural and odor-free, because only the best for our girl), a selection of premium treats (“That Temptations crap is all filler,” he had said, with so much conviction you almost cried laughing), and multiple collars in different colors and patterns.

One morning, you caught him kneeling by the front door, carefully adjusting the tiny blue velvet collar around Miss Honey’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, leaning against the doorway, watching as he straightened the little golden name tag.

Joe glanced up, grinning. “She looks good though, right?”

You had to admit—she did.

But the real turning point? The sweaters.

That was unexpected.

It had started as a joke—one lazy evening, the two of you scrolling through Etsy, looking at cat accessories for fun.

“Wouldn’t she look cute in this?” you had said, showing Joe a tiny, knitted sweater in a soft cream color.

Joe snorted. “No way she’d wear that.”

Turns out, she would. And she’d like it.

The first time you slipped a tiny sweater over her head, Miss Honey barely reacted—just gave a big stretch, turned in a circle, and promptly plopped down on Joe’s lap like nothing was different.

Joe, stunned, just blinked.

“You’re telling me she’s okay with this?”

“She’s thriving,” you corrected, grinning.

And from that moment on, Joe took it as a personal mission to build her wardrobe.

Over the next week, more sweaters arrived in the mail—different colors, different materials, even a tiny hoodie with ears.

“This is getting out of hand,” you commented as Joe unboxed yet another package.

He held up a tiny lavender sweater, inspecting the material. “It’s for layering.”

You stared at him. “Joe, she’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked. “A stylish one.”

Miss Honey, stretched out on the couch, gave a slow blink, completely unbothered by the chaos she had brought into your lives.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Three months in, and neither of you could remember what life was like before Miss Honey.

It wasn’t just that she had settled into your home—she had settled into you, woven herself into the rhythm of your days so seamlessly that the idea of waking up without her little body curled between you or coming home to a silent house felt… wrong.

Mornings were different now.

Gone were the days of lazy, drawn-out wake-ups—Miss Honey made sure of that. If Joe’s alarm didn’t get him up, her tiny little paws kneading into his chest certainly did. And if he dared try to roll over and ignore her? She’d take matters into her own hands.

Or, more accurately, her own whiskers.

One morning, you caught her using her best tactic yet—pressing her nose right against Joe’s, whiskers tickling his face until he groaned and finally peeled one eye open.

“You are the most spoiled creature on the planet,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Miss Honey responded by immediately rubbing her face against his chin, purring like a little engine.

Joe exhaled a laugh, eyes still heavy as he let his fingers trail through her fur. “Unreal.”

Meanwhile, your mornings had changed in a different way.

You used to make coffee alone, sipping it in peaceful solitude before starting your day. Now? You had company.

Miss Honey had claimed her spot on the counter—perched delicately by the coffee machine, watching your every move like an executive overseeing production.

“Supervising?” you’d ask her, sprinkling cinnamon into your cup.

She’d blink, tail flicking lazily.

Joe, walking into the kitchen at just the right moment, would snort. “She’s your little manager.”

And it was true—Miss Honey was involved in everything.

She had a routine. A life. A set of unspoken rules that ran the house.

If one of you was on the couch? She was there too, curled up in the crook of your leg or sprawled across Joe’s chest. If you were cooking? She was on the floor, watching you with silent judgment, like a tiny food critic.

If Joe was watching game film, she’d climb onto his lap and stare at the screen, like she had some real thoughts about the Bengals' offense.

She had her little preferences, too. She didn’t care for loud noises but loved when Joe played music on his speakers. She always sat with you while you read, always meowed when she wanted attention, and—for some reason—seemed particularly obsessed with Joe’s socks.

“She’s weird,” Joe said one night, watching as she enthusiastically dragged one of his socks across the living room like it was her prized possession.

“You brought home a gas station cat,” you reminded him. “What did you expect?”

Joe exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached down to scratch behind her ears. “She’s perfect.”

And she was.

She had changed things in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

The house didn’t feel empty when Joe was away anymore—not when you had her little paws padding around, her soft purrs filling the silence. Even on the loneliest days, she made it better, curling into you like she just knew.

And Joe—he had changed, too.

If he had been a cat person before, he was fully in his Cat Dad era now.

It had started subtly. The good food, the high-quality litter, the little sweaters he kept ordering. But at some point, it escalated.

Joe started carrying her around the house, tucking her into his hoodie when he was watching film, talking to her like she was an actual human being.

“Alright, Miss Honey,” he said one afternoon, kneeling in front of her as she lounged lazily on her little cat bed. “We got options. You wanna wear the blue sweater or the gray one today?”

You, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, stared at him. “Joe.”

He looked up, completely unashamed. “She likes choices.”

“She’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked, holding up the tiny sweaters. “A stylish one.”

And then there was the Ja’Marr conversation.

One night, after practice, Ja’Marr had made a casual joke—something about how “one cat turns into five real quick,” laughing at the idea of Joe slowly becoming that guy.

You had laughed too, shaking your head. “No way. We’re a one-cat household.”

Joe had nodded in agreement, completely confident. “Yeah, no shot.”

But then… a week later, he changed his tune.

You were curled up together on the couch, Miss Honey stretched between you, when Joe sighed, absentmindedly running his fingers down her back.

“She’s kinda lonely,” he mused.

You blinked. “What?”

Joe glanced over, tilting his head toward Miss Honey, who was currently kneading her little paws into his thigh. “I mean, she’s got us, but, like… I bet she’d like a friend.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Joe.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone easy, like he wasn’t suggesting something huge. “She’s got so much energy. I think she’d like a buddy.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Joe grinned. “Just think about it.”

And just like that, the conversation had started. And you had been so firm about it. Absolutely not. No second cat.

Miss Honey was thriving—happy, healthy, and fully attached to both of you. The idea of bringing another cat into the house felt risky. What if she didn’t like it? What if she got territorial? What if she felt betrayed?

Joe, of course, had started planting the idea like a damn politician.

“I just think she gets bored sometimes,” he would say casually while Miss Honey chased her own tail in the living room.

“She’s got a lot of love to give,” he mused one night, watching her rub up against every single one of your ankles like she was making the rounds.

“She needs a little sidekick,” he argued as she sprawled out dramatically on the kitchen floor, meowing at nothing in particular.

You shot him down every time.

Until, of course, fate decided to step in.

It was a random Saturday, and you and Joe were out running errands—nothing special, just a casual grocery run. You had been debating what kind of bread to get (Joe insisted the multigrain one tasted just as good as white bread, which was a blatant lie), when something caught his eye.

“Babe,” Joe said, suddenly abandoning the cart and heading toward the entrance. “Look.”

You turned, frowning as you followed his gaze.

Right outside the store, under a big white tent, was a cat rescue group—volunteers standing beside crates filled with tiny, curious faces.

A pet adoption event.

Joe immediately turned to you, eyes lighting up. “This is a sign.”

“No, it’s not,” you argued, grabbing the cart. “It’s just Saturday.”

“It’s a sign.”

You groaned as he practically dragged you toward the tent, already grinning like he had just won the lottery.

And then you saw them.

The kittens.

Tiny, wiggly little things with big eyes and oversized paws, rolling around in their blankets or climbing the sides of their enclosures with impressive determination.

You told yourself you were just looking.

Joe was crouched down almost immediately, eyes scanning the different crates as the volunteers smiled at him.

“You guys looking to adopt?” one of them asked.

Joe grinned. “Maybe.”

You shot him a glare. “We are not looking to—”

And then you saw her.

A tiny gray tabby, tucked in the corner of her crate, nibbling sleepily at her own paw. Big round eyes, the softest little face, and an expression that screamed, Yeah, I know I’m cute.

You inhaled sharply.

“Oh no,” Joe murmured, catching the look on your face.

You glanced at him, then back at the kitten.

“… I wanna hold her.”

Joe grinned. “Knew it.”

The second the volunteer placed the kitten in your hands, you were done for. She was so small, her little body barely bigger than your palm. She meowed—tiny and sweet—before immediately nuzzling into the crook of your neck, purring like she had just found home.

Joe, watching intently, exhaled a laugh. “Oh yeah. We’re done for.”

That night, you walked into your house as a two-cat household.

Miss Honey was not immediately sold.

The introduction process was slow—gentle, cautious. You followed all the steps, kept them separated at first, let them get used to each other’s scent. But, much to your surprise, Miss Honey didn’t react with any real aggression.

Mostly? She just seemed deeply confused.

The first time she saw the kitten, she just stared, tail flicking, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Joe, crouched beside her, grinned. “You got a little sister, Honey.”

Miss Honey turned her head, fixing him with a look.

You laughed. “I don’t think she asked for one.”

Still, within a few days, things started shifting.

The kitten—who you decided to name Fig—was relentless in her pursuit of Miss Honey’s love.

She followed her everywhere, mimicked her every move, and—on more than one occasion—attempted to curl up against her, only to be met with a single, unimpressed flick of the tail.

But then, one morning, you woke up to find them curled up together on the couch—Miss Honey’s paw resting protectively over Fig’s tiny little body.

Joe, standing beside you, smirked. “Told you she needed a buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full.

And that’s how you and Joe became crazy cat people.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #bengals #jb9 #joe shiesty #cincinnati football #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

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keehomania · 6 months ago

Text

homesick — rcm (18+)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ smut, fluff, minors dni, pining, childhood romance, soft!asshole!rafe, very conflicting lol mb, rafe is an asshole with a soft spot for you, could’ve just said it like that sry, sex is slightly sweeter than what i’m used to writing, i know you don’t need me right now, to you it’s just a late night out

longing for something was the most painful thing you could go through. it was the gray area between loving something and obtaining it, more often than not leaning toward loving rather than obtaining. everybody longed for something, at least once in their lives. you knew you did. you longed for everything you once had, everything that slipped through the cracks of your fingers like grains of sand. sand.

you longed for the feeling of sand beneath your bare feet, the scent of saltwater colliding with a freshly opened bottle of sunscreen, for the feeling of the wind in your hair just one more time. today, you would stop longing for it. you would reach the end of the spectrum after twelve long years and pray it would feel the way it did when things were easier.

the car door creaked open, and you stepped out, blinking as the sun met your face. the morning light was blinding, casting a golden glow over the familiar yet unfamiliar streets. your legs ached from the long drive, but it was the dull throb in your chest that you couldn’t shake. something was brewing in the pit of your stomach, poisoning your soul and making your heart clench. nostalgia.

it coursed through your veins, a bittersweet sensation that left you teetering between comfort and pain. everything felt the same, but nothing didn’t look the same. the sun was just as bright, but maybe there were more people now than you’d anticipated. there were more shops lining the streets, more boats anchored at the docks. more had a knack for being better than less, but the difference didn’t sit well with you.

you locked your car, the sharp click echoing louder than you expected in the stillness of the early morning. you promised yourself you’d return for your things later. for now, you needed to jog your memory. the air smelled of salt and sunblock, a scent so ingrained in your childhood that it almost made you choke up. your feet carried you instinctively, down streets you didn’t have to think twice about, past houses that seemed to carry fragments of your past.

you loved your father, because he was so much more than your father. he was your hero, your role model, the man who checked for monsters under your bed and whispered bedtime stories when you couldn’t sleep. he had a quiet strength about him, the kind that made you feel safe no matter how chaotic the world around you became. he was patient, endlessly so, and always seemed to know exactly what to say, even when there were no words to mend the situation.

he had spent his entire life taking care of you, alongside your mother. together, they had built a world where you never felt the weight of their struggles, only the warmth of their love. your mother was the heart of that world, as much a protector as your father was. she had a laugh that could brighten even the darkest days, and a way of knowing what you needed before you ever said a word. you loved them equally, because there was no father who could do it without a mother there, and no mother who could do it without a father by her side.

but you also loved the outer banks. you loved the place you grew up in, the salty air that clung to your skin, the way the waves crashed against the shore in a rhythm that felt like home. you loved the endless summers, the laughter that echoed through the streets of figure 8, and the friendships that felt as unshakable as the tides. yet, when it came down to leaving it, you did what was necessary.

it was three weeks after your mother had gone on a business trip, one in charlotte, just a few hours away. three weeks. that was all it took for everything to unravel. your father had gotten the call two days before he told you, and you could see the heaviness in his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the weight of a decision he didn’t want to make. but he knew—he knew you couldn’t spare another second there. it was time to leave.

and when the time came, it was done quickly, like ripping off a bandage. nobody could hear of it. even if they did, there was nothing they could do about it. lord knows they tried. ward and rose were the first to reach out, their voices frantic, pleading for answers. you remembered the way your father’s jaw tightened as he ended the call, refusing to explain, to argue, to justify. you had been too young to understand, but old enough to sense the finality of it all.

the last you heard, their family had become somewhat of a mess. the perfect veneer of the camerons had cracked, exposing something raw and broken underneath. you tried not to think about it too much, but it seemed impossible. every street, every house, every crashing wave brought memories rushing back, unbidden and unstoppable. but you pushed them down, telling yourself there was no use in dredging up the past—not yet, anyway.

the houses you passed were a symphony of elegance and familiarity, each one a beacon of the wealth that had defined figure 8 for generations. they stood tall and proud, their façades polished to perfection. you could see the care etched into every detail—the manicured lawns with grass so green it seemed unreal, the trimmed hedges sculpted into geometric shapes, and the vibrant flowers lining cobblestone pathways.

the porches were wide and welcoming, adorned with rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets swaying gently in the breeze. some houses boasted wraparound balconies, their railings painted crisp white, while others had large bay windows that gleamed under the sun, curtains drawn just enough to reveal a hint of the lavish interiors within.

you noticed the details, the things you’d forgotten until now: the way the golden plaques glinted with family names, the faint sound of wind chimes echoing from porches, the occasional bark of a dog from behind wrought-iron gates. it was all so familiar, yet so distant, like a photograph you had stared at for so long that it felt unreal.

as you walked, memories followed, clinging to you like the humid air. they weren’t all of this place—most of them were of him. you had no issue remembering him. the problem was forgetting him, something you could never bring yourself to do no matter how hard you tried.

the memory struck you like a wave. You were six years old, standing in this very neighborhood. your parents had just moved in, and the camerons had wasted no time in welcoming you. you could still see it vividly: rafe, two years older than you, standing with his arms crossed, his nose slightly upturned like he was better than everyone else in the room.

you remembered the way you’d clung to your father’s leg, peeking out only to find his piercing blue eyes staring back at you with a mischievous glint. he was mean, even then. spoiled. his first words to you were, “your hair looks funny.”

your cheeks burned at the memory, the sting of his words fresh even after all these years. you could still hear your mother laughing softly, your father gently patting your shoulder, and ward scolding his son. but then there was sarah. sweet, sunny sarah, who had marched right up to her older brother and smacked him on the arm. “stop being mean, rafe!” she had said with all the conviction her five-year-old self could muster.

and then she turned to you, her eyes wide and sparkling with sincerity. “i like your hair,” she had said, her voice gentle, her small hand reaching out to yours.

“i like yours, too,” you had replied, the tears in your eyes disappearing in an instant.

“wanna be friends?” she asked, tilting her head.

“sure,” you had said, a grin breaking through your tears.

rafe had rolled his eyes then, muttering something under his breath as if he couldn’t believe the exchange happening right in front of him. now, as you walked, you couldn’t help but smile at the thought. it was so vivid, so alive, as if it had happened just yesterday. but you wondered—was he the same? had he changed at all, or was he even meaner now?

the shops along the way were a kaleidoscope of charm and nostalgia. their exteriors were bright and inviting, painted in pastel shades of pink, blue, and yellow, with hand-painted signs swaying gently in the breeze. glass display windows showcased trinkets and souvenirs—everything from handwoven baskets to seashell jewelry and t-shirts with “outer banks” scrawled across them in bold, faded lettering. the aroma of fresh pastries wafted from a bakery, mingling with the salty air and drawing a smile to your face.

you paused at a familiar ice cream parlor, its striped awning unchanged after all these years. the sight of children clamoring for cones, their faces smeared with chocolate and strawberry, made your chest ache. it reminded you of summers spent running through these streets, rafe and sarah in tow, chasing the melting sweetness before it dripped down your arms.

the path narrowed as you moved closer to the beach, the buildings giving way to sand dunes and patches of seagrass. the sound of waves crashing against the shore grew louder, accompanied by the cries of seagulls circling above. the salty air thickened, wrapping around you like an old friend. and then, as the beach came into view, the memory struck.

you had just turned seven, the world still a canvas of endless possibility. you were on the beach with sarah, the two of you crouched in the sand, determined to build the most magnificent sandcastle the outer banks had ever seen.

“we get to be the princesses, right?” you asked, your small hands gripping a bright red bucket as you filled it with wet sand.

“yeah! rafe can be the guard,” sarah replied, her tone decisive as she smoothed out the castle walls.

just a few feet away, rafe sat with his legs crossed, focused on his fishing gear. he had been trying to teach himself to fish, his brow furrowed in concentration as he prepared the bait. ward had given him some of his more expensive gear that morning, clearly hoping his son would find purpose in the sport.

you couldn’t help but frown, suddenly dissatisfied with the childish simplicity of your sandcastle compared to the serious task rafe was undertaking. “i wanna try that, too,” you declared, abandoning your bucket and scrambling toward him.

he barely spared you a glance, scoffing as he tied a knot. “as if. you don’t know how to fish.”

you planted your hands on your hips, standing beside him with a determined pout. “why can’t you teach me?” you challenged, tilting your head. then, with a sly grin, you added, “you don’t know either.”

that got his attention. he turned to you with a dramatic sigh, his face a mixture of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “i know how to fish,” he insisted, standing up and brushing the sand from his shorts. “fine, i’ll teach you. but don’t cry when you mess it up.”

he reached for your hands, his grip surprisingly gentle as he guided you toward the rod. his blue eyes softened, though his voice remained gruff. “first, you hold it like this,” he explained, positioning your hands on the handle. “not too tight, or you’ll mess up the cast. got it?”

you nodded eagerly, your small hands dwarfed by the rod as you mimicked his movements.

“now, watch carefully,” he said, stepping behind you to adjust your stance. his hands covered yours, steady and sure, as he helped you draw the rod back. “when i say ‘go,’ you flick it forward. like this—”

“go!”

the line soared into the water, the bait landing with a soft plop. your face lit up with excitement, and you turned to him, beaming. “i did it!”

he rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a small smile. “barely. don’t get cocky.”

you laughed, unbothered by his tone. “thanks, rafey.”

“whatever,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of pride in his expression as he returned to his spot.

even then, he was a contradiction—tough on the outside, but with glimpses of something softer beneath the surface. as you stood on the shore now, the memory faded, replaced by the crashing waves and the unanswered question: had he changed? or had time only sharpened his edges?

the beach stretched out before you, golden and endless, shimmering beneath the late morning sun. the air was thick with the scent of salt and sunscreen, the sound of waves mingling with the occasional bark of a dog or the laughter of children playing nearby. seagulls circled above, their cries sharp but oddly soothing, a familiar soundtrack to a place you once called home.

you slipped off your shoes and stepped onto the sand, warm and soft, a sensation you hadn’t felt in years. the grains clung to your skin, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. it was as if the beach itself were welcoming you back, whispering that some things never changed, no matter how much time passed.

a crowd had gathered in the middle of the shoreline, their figures blending together in the bright sunlight. you couldn’t make out any faces, but the hum of their voices and the sight of carefree movement filled the air with life. despite the busyness of the scene, the beach itself remained a sanctuary—a timeless, comforting space. the wind tousled your hair, and for a moment, you closed your eyes, letting the nostalgia wash over you. it brought you back to a day much like this one, years ago, when the beach had been alive.

your parents had joined ward and rose for a picnic, the two families spreading out a blanket beneath the shade of an umbrella. everyone had been vibrant, so alive. the adults laughed and chatted over glasses of chilled wine, while you and sarah shared slices of watermelon, sticky juice dripping down your chins. she had her head resting on your shoulder, her blonde hair tickling your cheek as you both giggled over nothing in particular.

“it’s really sweet,” you’d said, savoring another bite.

ward had turned to you with a smile, always proud of his ability to impress. “imported from south america,” he’d explained. “you like it?”

you and sarah had nodded enthusiastically, neither of you having a clue in the world what a south america was. the sweetness of the fruit a perfect match for the sunlit day. but as you turned your gaze toward the water, you noticed rafe sitting alone by the shore. he was quiet, his toes buried in the gentle surf, drawing patterns in the wet sand with a stick. there was a tension to him, a nervous energy that seemed out of place amidst the carefree atmosphere.

you set down your half-eaten slice and rose to your feet, brushing sand from your legs. “i’m gonna go check on rafe,” you told sarah, who only shrugged and returned to her watermelon.

as you approached, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, scoffing lightly. “you’re all sticky,” he muttered, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

you grinned, unbothered. “are you hungry?” you asked, crouching beside him.

he shook his head, the stick in his hand still tracing lines in the sand. you frowned, leaning closer. “what’s wrong?”

for a moment, he didn’t answer, his usual bravado replaced by something softer. finally, he turned to you, his blue eyes filled with a quiet uncertainty. “i have to tell you something,” he said, his voice low.

“what’s wrong, rafey?” you pressed, your concern genuine.

he fidgeted, the stick falling forgotten into the sand as he reached into his pocket. When he turned back to you, his hand was outstretched, holding a small metal ring. it was simple, almost too small, as though it had once belonged to a charm bracelet—or maybe it was something he’d found in rose’s jewelry box or bought with the few dollars he had.

“what’s that?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your face.

“i got it for you,” he said, his tone serious, almost awkward.

“why?”

his gaze dropped to the sand, his cheeks reddening. “because i’m gonna marry you when we grow up.”

you gasped, your excitement bubbling over. “really?”

“yeah,” he mumbled, looking at you with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “so, here.”

without hesitation, you threw your arms around him, sticky hands and all. “thank you, rafey!”

“stop, you’re still sticky,” he protested, his voice muffled against your shoulder, but he didn’t pull away.

instead, you took his hand, tugging him to his feet. “come on!” you exclaimed, dragging him back toward the picnic.

as you reached the blanket, you held up the ring proudly. “rafe and i are gonna get married!” you announced, your voice loud enough to draw the attention of everyone there.

rafe’s face turned scarlet, his hands stuffed into his pockets as laughter erupted around you. even rose, who was usually so composed, chuckled warmly at the sight of her son’s flustered expression.

sarah ran to you, throwing her arms around your neck. “yes! you’ll get to be my real sister!” she cheered, her enthusiasm matching your own.

the memory made your chest tighten as you stood on the beach now, watching the waves roll in and out. how simple things had been then, how full of joy and possibility. the weight of the years since that day pressed down on you, and you couldn’t help but wonder: had rafe ever thought about it? had he ever remembered that promise?

the sound of the crowd jolted you from your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. laughter, cheers, and the unmistakable hum of engines filled the air, growing louder with every passing second. Intrigued, you turned toward the commotion, your curiosity outweighing the tranquility the beach had offered moments before.

you wove your way through the crowd, dodging elbows and shifting bodies as you tried to get a better look. the closer you got, the more the scene came into view. dirt bikes, sleek and muddied, were scattered along the sand, their riders gathered near the starting line. the crowd pressed in around them, forming a makeshift arena.

at the center of it all were three men who stood apart from the rest, their presence commanding attention. two of them were on one side, seemingly strategizing. one had curly hair that bounced with every movement, his wiry frame radiating energy. the other was blond and lean, his sharp jawline illuminated by the sunlight. a few feet away stood the third man, tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair buzzed short. even from a distance, there was a quiet intensity to him that made him stand out.

you tapped the shoulder of the girl beside you, who was cheering loudly. “what’s all this?” you asked, your voice just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

she turned to you, her eyebrows furrowed as if surprised you didn’t already know. “you’re not from here, huh?” she asked.

you hesitated before replying, “not recently.”

“it’s the kildare enduro,” she explained, a hint of excitement in her voice. “biggest race of the summer. you’re in for a show.”

the name didn’t ring any bells, and you realized this must have been something new, something that had started after you’d left. still, the anticipation in the air was contagious, and you found yourself eager to see what all the fuss was about.

engines revved, the sound sharp and exhilarating as the riders mounted their bikes. the crowd roared as the signal was given, and within seconds, the racers were off, their tires kicking up sand as they sped down the makeshift track.

the racers weaved skillfully around obstacles, their movements a blur of precision and daring. the man with frosted tips was quick, taking sharp turns with practiced ease, his bike seeming to glide over the sand. the lean blond wasn’t far behind, his focus evident in the way he leaned into every curve, his bike roaring as he pushed it to its limits.

but it was the third man who drew your attention most. he was fast, incredibly so, his broad shoulders steady as he maneuvered through the course with calculated aggression. every movement was controlled, deliberate, as though he knew exactly how far he could push the bike without losing control.

the race was a spectacle, a blend of more speed, less skill, and pure adrenaline. the crowd erupted into cheers as the racers hit the halfway mark, neck and neck. it wasn’t until the blond man attempted a daring jump over a dune that things took a turn. his landing was rough, causing his bike to wobble dangerously before he recovered. he seized the opportunity, pulling ahead with a burst of speed, but the tall blond wasn’t far behind. they pushed their bikes to the brink, sand flying in every direction as they closed in on the finish line.

just as it seemed the tall blond had the race in the bag, the one with frosted tips made his move, attempting to overtake him on the final stretch. their bikes collided briefly, sending both riders skidding across the sand. gasps rippled through the crowd as the tall blond man capitalized on the chaos, speeding past the lean one to take second place.

the race was over before it even started, but the energy in the air was electric. you found yourself pushing closer, eager to see the aftermath. the tall blond, covered in sand and visibly frustrated, rose to his feet. he glanced toward the lean blond, who was still brushing himself off, their exchange charged with tension. and then he turned.

for a moment, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours. there was something achingly familiar about him—the shape of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. it was as though you’d seen him before, in another life perhaps, but the memory was just out of reach. your heart raced as he continued to stare, his expression unreadable.

you hesitated as the scene unfolded before you, your gaze fixed on the lean blond. a group of people ran toward him, their laughter and shouts mingling with the lingering roar of the crowd. one of them threw their arms around him, but the others had snapped like a twig, shoving him, yelling at him. you couldn’t help but stare, curiosity hitting you.

the realization hit you—you stuck out like a sore thumb, gawking as if you didn’t belong, and you probably didn’t. you started to shift back into the crowd when a gentle touch on your shoulder jolted you. you spun around, your heart leaping into your throat, and froze.

she didn’t need a single word of introduction. the familiar honey-blonde hair, the sharp yet kind eyes, the bright smile etched into your childhood memories—it was unmistakably her.

“sarah?” the name tumbled from your lips before you could stop it.

her eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth as if to stop herself from crying out. shock rippled across her face, her features softening and trembling all at once. she didn’t say a word, not at first. she just stood there, eyes scanning your face like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

then, suddenly, her arms were around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. “oh my god,” she breathed, her voice quivering with disbelief. her grip was strong, desperate, as though letting go would make you vanish again.

the eyes of her friends were on you, you could feel their curious stares, but you didn’t care. at least now, you knew it was really her.

“sarah,” you repeated, your voice cracking. the name felt strange on your tongue after so many years, but it was real. she was real.

“it can’t be you,” she whispered, her breath hitching. “it can’t be.” she pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands gripping your shoulders as tears pooled in her eyes. her gaze darted across your features, her trembling lips curving into a smile of disbelief. “it’s you,” she said again, shaking her head, her voice catching in her throat. “it’s really you.”

tears blurred your vision, your chest tightening as you threw your arms around her this time. you held on tightly, suppressing the sobs clawing at your throat. “sarah,” you said again, her name a lifeline tethering you to the moment.

“are you—are you back?” she asked breathlessly, pulling back just enough to search your face. her voice was thick with emotion, her words tumbling out in a rush. “are you back for good?”

“i am,” you managed, your voice shaky but sure. “i’m back, sarah. for good this time.”

she laughed through her tears, pressing a hand to her chest like she couldn’t believe it. “you have no idea,” she began, her voice breaking, “how much i’ve missed you. how much we’ve missed you.”

she turned then, gesturing toward her group of friends who had been watching the reunion unfold. “guys, this is,” She paused, the words catching in her throat as she turned back to you, her eyes still wide with disbelief. “this is my best friend growing up. this is—”

you gave them a nervous smile as sarah continued, her excitement bubbling over. she rattled off introductions, naming each of them—jj, the boy with the shaggy blonde hair who had lost the race; john b, whose gaze lingered on you with a kind curiosity; and a few others who smiled warmly despite the obvious confusion etched on their faces. they greeted you with nods and hesitant smiles, but you barely registered it. your heart was pounding, your focus still tethered to sarah.

then, almost without thinking, you asked the question. “is rafe here?”

sarah’s face shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her features. you noticed jj and john b exchange a quick glance, something unspoken passing between them.

“he was just here,” sarah finally said, her voice quieter now, almost cautious. “racing.”

the realization hit you like a wave, the memory of the second racer—the tall blond with the piercing blue eyes—crashing over you. your breath caught in your throat as the pieces fell into place. the familiarity you’d felt, the tension in his gaze—it had been him.

you blinked, the realization sinking in deeper than you wanted it to. that had been rafe. older, rougher around the edges, but still undeniably him. you barely heard sarah when she grabbed your hand and said, “come on, let’s head back to john b’s. we can talk there.” her friends nodded, beginning to walk, and you followed them automatically, your feet moving on instinct as your mind raced. sarah walked beside you, her hand gripping yours like she was afraid you’d disappear again.

the walk to john b’s house stretched longer than you anticipated, the weight of sarah’s questions and the unfamiliar tension in her friends' eyes making the air feel thicker than it should have. the sound of your footsteps crunched against the gravel path, each step sinking deeper into the realization that you were walking into a life that no longer felt like your own. the salty breeze carried the faint scent of bonfires and ocean spray, and yet it did little to settle the nerves curling in your stomach.

sarah had stayed close, her hand brushing yours occasionally as if afraid you might disappear again if she didn’t tether you somehow. you glanced sideways at her, taking in the subtle changes in her features—she was still sarah, but her edges had softened, her face more weathered by years of joy and hardship than the carefree girl you’d once known.

when the small house came into view, you nearly stopped in your tracks. it wasn’t the grand estate where you used to sit on the veranda sipping iced tea or sneaking snacks with sarah when ward wasn’t looking. it was modest, its weathered exterior standing in defiant contrast to the glossy life sarah had grown up in. surfboards leaned against the porch, the peeling paint whispered of simpler days, and the scent of fried food wafted from an open window.

“this is where you live now?” you asked softly, unable to mask the disbelief in your tone.

sarah hesitated, then nodded. “yeah,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of pride and resignation. “it’s home.”

you didn’t say anything else, but you couldn’t help wondering what had happened to bring her here. what had pulled her away from the life you once knew?

inside, the house was alive with chatter and movement, the kind of casual chaos you could only find among close friends. jj had thrown himself onto the couch, beer in hand, while kiara rummaged through a drawer for something. john b stood by the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his eyes flicking between you and sarah as if trying to read the situation.

but sarah didn’t let you linger in the room’s atmosphere for long. she tugged you toward the porch, where the sound of the waves was clearer, the salty breeze brushing against your skin. you sank onto the steps beside her, the wood warm beneath you from the day’s sun. for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“how could you?” she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the stillness like a clap of thunder.

you turned to her, startled. “what?”

her gaze was locked on the horizon, her hands gripping the edge of the step. “how could you just leave? how could you stay quiet for twelve years?” her voice trembled, her pain spilling out in waves.

you swallowed hard, the knot in your throat tightening. “sarah, i—”

“you didn’t even say goodbye,” she interrupted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “you just disappeared. do you have any idea what that did to me? to all of us?”

your breath hitched, and you looked down at your hands, unable to meet her gaze. “i didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly.

her head snapped toward you, her expression a mix of confusion and anger. “what does that even mean?”

“something happened,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “something horrible. and i couldn’t stay. i had to face it.”

her anger melted away, replaced by a sorrow so deep it made your chest ache. “what happened?” she asked softly, her hand reaching for yours.

you shook your head, biting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “i can’t talk about it. not yet.”

she nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around yours. “okay,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “but promise me you’ll tell me one day.”

“i promise,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of the moment. the silence returned, heavier this time, until you found the courage to break it. “what about rafe?”

her breath caught, and she pulled her hand back, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “what about him?”

“i need to see him,” you said, your heart pounding.

kiara’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp and unflinching. “you don’t want to do that.”

you turned to her, frowning. “why not?”

“because nobody here is friends with rafe,” she said, her tone laced with bitterness.

you turned back to sarah, your stomach sinking. “what does she mean? what happened to him?”

sarah’s expression darkened, and she looked away, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood. “he’s not the same,” she said finally. “he’s gotten into some bad things. drugs. crime. hurting people. he’s not the rafe you remember.”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, the air rushing from your lungs. “no,” you whispered, shaking your head. “that can’t be true.”

“he tried to kill me,” sarah said, her voice trembling. “he’s different now.”

you stared at her, your mind racing, memories of the boy you once knew flashing before your eyes. without thinking, you stood, your chest tight and your breathing uneven. “i need a minute,” you muttered, stepping off the porch.

“wait,” sarah said, her gaze dropping to your hand. her brow furrowed as she leaned closer. “you still have that?”

you followed her gaze to the small metal ring on your pinky, its once shiny surface now dull and worn. “i haven’t taken it off,” you said quietly. “not once these twelve years.”

her breath hitched, and tears filled her eyes. “he gave you that,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

you nodded, your throat tightening. “he did.”

she reached out, her fingers brushing against the ring. “even after everything?”

you swallowed hard, the weight of the ring heavier than ever. “especially after everything.”

her tears spilled over, and she pulled you into a hug, her breath shaky against your shoulder. “we’ll find him,” she said softly. “we’ll fix this. somehow.” but as you pulled away, the doubt lingered in her eyes—and in yours.

your walk was slow, your feet dragging against the dusty path as your mind swirled with thoughts of what sarah had told you. the crisp evening air nipped at your skin, and the faint hum of crickets filled the silence. your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the ring on your pinky, twisting it around absentmindedly as you tried to piece together how everything could have gone so wrong.

the roadside bar loomed ahead, a place frozen in time. its weathered wooden sign creaked faintly in the breeze, illuminated by a flickering neon light that buzzed softly. this was a place your father and ward used to frequent, their laughter and hushed conversations floating in your memory like ghosts. you hesitated for a moment, gripping the ring tighter before pushing open the heavy door.

the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hit you first, the dim light casting shadows that danced across the scuffed wooden floor. the low murmur of voices and the crack of pool balls filled the room, but the moment you stepped inside, it felt like every pair of eyes turned to you. men leaned against the bar, their gazes lingering a little too long, and a few heads turned in the corner where a card game was underway. your pulse quickened, and you adjusted your stance, trying not to show the nerves that prickled beneath your skin.

you found an empty stool near the bar and slid onto it, the worn leather cool against your legs. the bartender, a woman with kind eyes and a bright smile, approached. she leaned slightly over the counter, her voice warm. “hi, sugar, what can i get you?”

her friendliness put you at ease, and you adjusted yourself on the stool, thinking back to the times you had sat on your father’s lap here as a child, the smell of whiskey and tobacco clinging to his clothes. you tried to remember what he would order, something simple, something that wouldn’t make you stand out.

“just a beer, thanks,” you answered, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your chest.

she nodded and moved to grab a bottle, setting it down in front of you with a napkin. you paid, sliding the money across the counter, and took a sip, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment.

as you sat there, you let your thoughts wander. you thought about sarah’s words, about how rafe had spiraled into a person you could barely recognize. you thought about the ring on your finger, its weight heavier now than ever, and how you’d kept it on all these years as a symbol of a bond you once thought unbreakable. the sound of the door opening barely registered until you heard the voice.

“gin straight.”

it was deep, rough, and unmistakable. your stomach churned, your breath caught in your throat, and before you could stop yourself, you turned.

there he was, standing a few feet away at the bar, his profile sharp against the dim light. his buzzed hair was shorter than you remembered, his jaw more defined, but it was the same face that had haunted your memories for over a decade. he turned slowly, almost as if he could feel your gaze on him, and when his eyes locked onto yours, the world seemed to tilt off its axis.

it all stopped. the noise, the movement, the air in your lungs. everything came to a grinding halt as his piercing blue eyes met yours.

“rafe,” you exhaled, so quietly you weren’t sure if the word even escaped your lips, but it did.

his gaze stayed on you, unblinking, unreadable. for a moment, he didn’t move, as if frozen in place. then, hesitantly, he stepped closer. you held your breath as he reached out, his hand brushing yours as he lifted it to inspect the ring on your pinky.

he turned your hand slightly, his thumb grazing the metal as his jaw tensed. the silence between you was deafening, his face a mixture of disbelief and something you couldn’t place. but then, as quickly as he had reached for you, he let go, your hand falling limply to your side.

“rafe, please,” you said, your voice louder this time, tinged with desperation.

“no,” his response was barely audible, but the weight of it crushed you. he shook his head, stepping back. “no, you don’t get to do this.”

you blinked, your heart breaking at the quiet finality in his tone. “do what?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“you don’t get to come back after twelve years and act like everything’s the same,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “you don’t get to look at me like that.”

he grabbed his jacket from the stool beside him, abandoning the drink he’d ordered. you reached for him, stepping closer, but he moved away, his movements hurried, as if he couldn’t get out fast enough.

“rafe, wait!” you called after him, but he didn’t stop.

the door swung shut behind him, and you were left standing there, your heart in pieces on the scuffed wooden floor. you sat back down slowly, your hands trembling as you picked up your beer, the cool glass doing little to steady your nerves. tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to break down in front of the strangers still watching you. the ring on your finger seemed heavier now, its meaning twisted and warped by the person rafe had become.

the world seemed to turn on you as you staggered along the dirt path, the alcohol buzzing in your veins far more than you'd intended. you cursed under your breath—why did you even drink in the first place? the bar was supposed to be a brief stop, a distraction. now, here you were, stumbling through the outskirts of town, hopelessly lost.

the cool night air pricked your skin, and you wrapped your arms around yourself for warmth. trees loomed overhead, their branches tangling into an almost suffocating canopy as you ventured deeper into unfamiliar woods. your steps were uneven, crunching against the dry leaves and snapping twigs underfoot. the stillness was eerie, broken only by the distant sound of crickets and the occasional rustle of something unseen.

you didn’t realize you had stopped until you heard faint voices carried on the breeze. they were low, hurried, almost conspiratorial. your muddled brain told you to turn around and leave, but something else—a mixture of curiosity and recklessness—drew you forward.

as you approached, the silhouettes of two figures came into view, faintly illuminated by the pale moonlight breaking through the trees. one was shorter, stocky, with buzzed, dark hair, a mustache, and a chain glinting around his neck. he was gesturing animatedly, his hands moving with the urgency of someone trying to make a quick deal. the other man stood taller, his broad shoulders stiff, his body language more guarded. it wasn’t until your unfocused gaze settled on his profile that your breath hitched in your throat.

even through the haze of alcohol, you could recognize him. the strong jawline, the tense set of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his short blond hair—it was unmistakable. but this rafe was different. the sight of him clutching a small, crumpled bag of powder made your stomach churn.

your eyes darted between the two men, trying to piece together the scene in front of you. money exchanged hands, crisp bills slipping from rafe’s grasp to the other man’s. the bag of powder followed, its stark white contents nearly glowing in the faint light. your chest tightened as the reality of what you were seeing hit you. a twig snapped beneath your foot.

both heads snapped in your direction instantly, their movements sharp and alert. rafe’s eyes widened, his entire body tensing as he registered your presence.

you took a step forward, anger and disbelief swirling together in a volatile mix. “really, rafe?” the words came out harsher than you intended, but you couldn’t stop them. “this is what you’ve been up to?”

the shorter man frowned, his expression shifting into one of irritation. “excuse me,” he said with a mocking edge, “this is a private transaction.”

you ignored him, your focus locked on rafe. he sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to summon patience. fully turning to you, his jaw clenched tight, he spoke with a tone that brooked no argument. “this doesn’t concern you.”

“who's this, country club?” the dark-haired man asked with an amused smirk. “got yourself a girlfriend?”

rafe didn’t answer, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. it wasn’t just anger—it was frustration, shame, and something deeper, something raw.

your own emotions bubbled over. “you know what? fine.” you reached into your pocket, fumbling for your wallet. “i’ll join the fun. i want some too.”

rafe’s reaction was immediate. he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, his eyes boring into yours with a mixture of disbelief and fury. “what the hell are you doing?”

“what?” you shrugged, yanking your arm free as you pulled out a few bills. “you can have fun, and i can’t?”

he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a furious hiss. “you think this is fun?” his eyes darted to the other man, who was now watching with an amused grin, clearly entertained by the unfolding drama. rafe’s attention snapped back to you, his expression dark. “i’m dealing with shit, okay? now, i know you’ve been gone for a while, but this—” he gestured around him, his tone bitter—“this is the way things are now.”

you let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “dealing with shit? this is your solution?”

rafe clenched his jaw, his hands flexing at his sides. for a moment, it seemed like he might say something, but instead, he abruptly slammed the small bag of powder onto the ground, startling both you and his associate. without another word, he grabbed your arm, yanking you away from the scene with a force that left no room for argument. the shorter man called after him, his voice dripping with annoyance, but rafe didn’t even glance back.

you wrenched your arm free from rafe’s grasp, the momentum staggering you backward a step. his grip had been strong, almost desperate, and as you finally stood still, you took him in.

the years hadn’t been kind, and yet, they had. he was sharper somehow, more defined. his jawline was stronger, his shoulders broader, but his eyes—god, his eyes. the bright blue you remembered so vividly had dimmed, clouded over with something you couldn’t quite name. he looked good, and yet, he looked like a man you barely recognized.

“what the hell is your problem?” the words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice sharp and cutting.

rafe was already pacing, his hands on his hips, his head tilting back as he let out a bitter laugh. he dragged his palms down his face, his movements frantic, unstable. “what’s my problem?” he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. “let’s see, what’s my problem?” he turned to face you, his expression twisted with something you couldn’t quite name—anger, hurt, disbelief, maybe all of it at once. “maybe it has to do with you, showing up after twelve years.”

his words hit like a slap, but he wasn’t done. “i mean, what’d you think? that we’d hug, hold hands, shed a few tears? that it’d be like old times?” his voice rose as he took a step closer. “after you left? after you left?”

the weight of his words made your chest tighten, guilt curling in your stomach like a living thing. you opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off, his voice growing louder, more unstable. “you thought we’d just pick things up where we left off? are you that delusional?”

he leaned in close, his face inches from yours, and jabbed his fingers against his temple as if trying to make sense of it all. his words spilled out in a rushed, angry torrent, each one hitting you like a blow. “you left, and you stayed gone. you didn’t call, didn’t write. hell, you didn’t even think to check if i was still breathing.”

“she died, rafe,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of your words.

the sentence stopped him mid-rant. his pacing halted, his brow furrowing as he turned to look at you, truly look at you, for the first time. “what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less intense. “who died?”

your chest tightened, and it took everything in you to speak the words aloud. “my mom, rafe,” you said, the pain evident in every syllable. “she died, and we had to go back. we didn’t have a choice. and when we did, we couldn’t face coming back here. it was too much—it’s still too much.”

rafe’s face crumbled, the anger draining from his expression as sorrow took its place. he ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the ground as he processed your words. your mom. the woman who had always cared for him in ways his own mother never had. the woman who had bandaged his scraped knees and made him dinner when rose was too busy entertaining guests. she was gone.

the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. finally, rafe spoke, his voice softer than before. “why are you back?”

you swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. “i came back for you,” you answered, your voice steady despite the tears welling in your eyes.

for a brief moment, something in his face softened—something familiar, something achingly rafe. but then he shook his head, his gaze hardening once more. “don’t,” he murmured, almost a plea. “i’m not the same person anymore, and i haven’t been for a long time.”

“i don’t care, rafe,” you shot back, your voice rising with desperation. “nothing could ever change the way i see you. please—”

“stop.”

“no,” you interrupted, your heart breaking with every word. “i know you, rafe. i know who you are underneath all of this. you’re still the same boy i grew up with, the same boy who—”

“stop!” his voice cracked, loud and raw, silencing you. he took a step back, his chest heaving as he struggled to keep himself together. “you don’t know me anymore. you don’t know what i’ve done, what i’ve become. you don’t want this, trust me.”

“i do,” you insisted, tears streaming down your face. “i want you. i came back for you because i never stopped caring. please, rafe, just—”

“i can’t,” he said, his voice breaking as he turned away. he grabbed his jacket from the ground, his movements hurried and clumsy. “i can’t do this.”

“rafe, please!” you called after him, your voice echoing through the trees. but he didn’t turn around. he walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows, leaving you standing there, shattered and alone.

your knees gave out, and you collapsed to the ground, sobs wracking your body. the ache in your chest was unbearable, like someone had reached in and ripped your heart out. you buried your face in your hands, the cold dirt beneath you offering little comfort. your head throbbed, the pain sharp and unrelenting. the world around you spun, the trees and stars blending together into a dizzying blur. and then, everything went black.

rafe clutched the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white as he sped down the dark, empty streets. the tears that streaked his cheeks blurred his vision, but he didn’t care. he couldn’t stop the flood now. this was his only safe place to fall apart—behind the wheel, alone in the cocoon of his car, where no one could see, no one could judge. his chest heaved as sob after sob broke free, and the memories he had buried for so long clawed their way back to the surface. he could still see it, clear as day. the moment everything changed.

he had been eleven years old, standing on your porch, knocking on your door. it had been like any other day—he’d woken up with a plan to drag you outside and teach you something new. maybe you’d climb trees together, or he’d show you how to skip rocks at the creek. you always lit up when he taught you something; it made him feel like a hero.

but when no one answered the door that day, his excitement faded to confusion. he tried again, banging harder, calling your name. still, nothing. the house was eerily quiet, no muffled footsteps, no voices, no sound of the television in the background. he glanced around, noticing for the first time that your father’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. his heart sank. something felt wrong.

he pushed the door open—it was never locked back then—and stepped inside. the air was still, heavy, as though the house itself had lost its heartbeat. “hello?” he called, his voice echoing faintly. othing. no one. rafe felt panic prick at the edges of his chest as he backed out of the house and ran down the street to his own. when he slipped through the side door, he heard voices. quiet, tense, the kind of voices that told him he wasn’t supposed to be listening.

he crept toward the living room, where his mother and father were standing close, their voices low and hurried. rose’s arms were crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line as ward leaned in closer to her, his face drawn with worry. sarah sat on the couch, her small shoulders shaking as she cried into her hands. rafe froze in the doorway, staring at them.

ward was the first to notice him. his father’s eyes softened, the corners of his mouth pulling into an expression rafe rarely saw from him—sympathy. “dad,” rafe said quietly, stepping further into the room. “she wasn’t home, so i came back.”

he glanced at sarah, confused and a little scared. “why’s she crying?”

rose and ward exchanged a look, a wordless conversation passing between them. finally, ward sighed, walking over to his son. he crouched down, his large hands resting on rafe’s small shoulders. “she’s not going to be home for a very, very long time,” ward said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

rafe frowned, trying to understand. “why not? where’d she go?”

ward didn’t answer. instead, for the first time in as long as rafe could remember, his father pulled him into a hug. a real hug, not the kind meant to placate or perform, but one that felt like comfort. one that made Rafe’s chest ache because he didn’t realize how much he needed it.

“i know it’s hard, son,” ward murmured against his ear. “but she’s gone now.”

rafe let his father hold him that day, clinging to the one solid thing he had as his mind raced to comprehend what “gone” meant. the realization hit later, slowly and painfully, when day after day, week after week, he knocked on your door and was met with silence. for a whole year, he went back, hoping, praying that one day you’d answer. but you never did.

and now, twelve years later, you were here again. like a ghost, like a dream he’d stopped believing in. rafe wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, pulling himself out of the memory as he glanced to the side. his heart clenched when he saw you slumped in the passenger seat, unconscious. your face was pale, your body limp, and the sight made him grip the steering wheel harder.

he took a shaky breath, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. you looked so small, so vulnerable, like the girl he used to know and the stranger you had become all at once. “i'm sorry,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat as he turned his gaze back to the road.

the world was hazy when you opened your eyes, the faint, warm glow of a lamp on the bedside table guiding you back to consciousness. your head throbbed, the dull ache intensifying with each second, and for a moment, you weren’t sure where you were. slowly, you blinked, your vision sharpening. the room around you felt familiar.

a large bed cradled you in its softness, the smooth fabric cool against your skin. the lamp’s golden light cast gentle shadows on the walls, illuminating a painting hanging across from the bed—a serene coastal landscape you swore you’d seen before. beneath the painting sat a neat stack of white drawers. the faint sound of cicadas chirping outside suggested it was night, but how long had you been out? an hour? two? you brought a shaky hand to your temple, pressing lightly against the pounding pain in your head as you tried to piece together how you got here. then you saw him.

rafe was sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his hands clasped together as if he were trying to hold himself together. his eyes, red and puffy, were fixed on you, his expression a mixture of relief, guilt, and something deeper—something unspoken. your lips parted, your voice faint as you murmured, “rafe.” the sound of his name felt foreign on your tongue, yet familiar, like a forgotten melody.

he didn’t respond immediately, just continued to watch you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

“rafey,” you whispered, your voice cracking as your senses fully returned. the nickname slipped out before you could stop it, dragging you both back to a time when things were simpler, softer. a time when you’d tug on his sleeve and call him that, and he’d groan in mock annoyance, but secretly love it.

to your surprise, he smiled—small, fragile, but real. “you haven’t called me that in a long time,” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges but warm in a way that made your chest tighten.

you shifted, straightening your back and sitting up to get a better look at him. the movement made you grimace as your headache flared, but you ignored it. you couldn’t think about yourself right now—not when he was here, not when he was looking at you like that. you must be a mess, you thought. your hair was probably tangled, your makeup smeared, and your clothes wrinkled from sleep. but if rafe thought so, he didn’t show it. his gaze remained steady, unwavering, as though you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“i’m sorry,” you blurted, the words escaping like they had a mind of their own. your throat tightened, and the floodgates opened before you could stop them. “i’m so sorry, rafe.”

your voice cracked as the first tear fell, and then another, until they were streaming freely down your cheeks. the weight of years of guilt and regret crushed you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

“please, don’t cry,” rafe murmured, his voice soft and pleading. he climbed into the bed beside you, reaching out to gently wipe your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. his touch was tender, careful, like he was afraid you might shatter. he had never enjoyed seeing you cry. not when you were kids, and certainly not now.

“i couldn’t have stopped it, could i?” you choked out, your voice trembling. “i could’ve helped you, but i wasn’t there. i left you, rafe. i left you, and look what happened.”

his hands cupped your face, tilting it upward so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his blue eyes, raw and filled with emotion, bore into yours. “of course you could’ve,” he whispered, his tone tinged with something like sorrow. “nobody could’ve stopped me, but you.” your heart clenched at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any blade.

“but,” he added, his thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that streaked your face, “it’s not your fault you weren’t here. you couldn’t have known.” he leaned in slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “you’re here now,” he whispered, his voice steady, reassuring.

you nodded, the lump in your throat too big to speak around. his warmth seeped into you, his presence grounding you in a way nothing else could. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close until you were cradled in his lap. your head rested against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat calming the storm inside you. for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. it was just you and rafe, tangled together, trying to piece each other back together.

he shifted slightly, his hand brushing against yours, and his gaze dropped. his fingers stilled when they grazed the small, tarnished ring on your hand. “i can’t believe you’ve kept it all these years,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

you looked down, following his gaze to the ring he’d given you all those years ago. it was simple, unassuming, but it had meant everything to you.

“it’s all i had left of you,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

rafe’s fingers closed around yours, lifting your hand to his lips. he pressed a soft kiss against the cool metal of the ring, then another against your knuckles. the tenderness of the gesture sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks.

“you’ve got me now,” he said, his voice low and certain. he placed your hand against his chest, directly over his heart. your breath hitched as his gaze locked onto yours. his eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up, searching for permission. you gave it with a barely perceptible nod, and in the next heartbeat, he leaned in.

the kiss was soft, hesitant at first, as though he were afraid of breaking the fragile moment. but as your lips moved against his, the hesitation melted away, replaced by something deeper, something more desperate. his hands cupped your face again, tilting it just right as he kissed you like he’d been waiting twelve years to do it. and maybe he had.

your hands found their way to his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had shifted beneath your feet. his lips were warm and soft, moving with a purpose that made your heart race. time seemed to stretch, the rest of the world fading into nothing as you lost yourself in him. it wasn’t rushed or hurried; it was slow, deliberate, filled with all the emotions you hadn’t been able to say out loud.

the moment lingered, your foreheads pressed together as your breaths mingled in the quiet intimacy of the room. rafe’s hands stayed on your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks as if he were memorizing every inch of you. his blue eyes burned into yours, filled with an intensity that made your heart race and your stomach flutter.

his lips brushed yours again—tentative, almost like a question. when you didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss, the motion slow and deliberate. his lips moved against yours with a softness that contradicted the desperation in the way his hands held you, like you might disappear if he loosened his grip.

your fingers slid up from his shoulders, tangling in his hair as you tilted your head, giving him better access. he took the invitation greedily, his kisses growing bolder, more insistent. his hands left your face, one settling at the base of your neck while the other pressed gently against the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

when he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless, your lips tingling from the way he’d kissed you like he was afraid it might be his last chance. but he didn’t go far. his lips found your jaw, pressing soft, lingering kisses down its curve. “rafey,” you murmured, your voice barely audible as your head tilted instinctively, giving him more room.

the sound of his nickname, the one only you were allowed to use, on your lips seemed to spur him on. his kisses trailed lower, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, where his lips lingered, warm and soft against your skin. a shiver ran through you, and you felt his smile against your neck, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. but there was no hesitation in his voice, no real expectation that you would.

“don’t stop,” you replied, your fingers tightening in his hair.

he groaned softly, the sound low and rumbling, sending a wave of heat through you. his lips continued their journey, trailing down the column of your neck, his kisses deliberate and unhurried. he paused at the base of your throat, pressing a kiss there that was more reverent than anything else, like he was worshipping you.

your breath hitched as his lips moved lower, brushing against your collarbone. his hands shifted, one sliding to your waist, the other splayed against your back, keeping you anchored to him. his lips lingered on your collarbone, the warmth of his mouth contrasting with the cool air of the room.

“rafe, please,” you whispered again, your voice trembling.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite name. his thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch gentle despite the fire in his gaze.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice raw and earnest.

a tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe you were here, in his arms, letting him hold you like this.

“you don’t have to cry anymore,” he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the opposite side. “i’ve got you now. you’re not going anywhere.” his words settled in your chest, a balm to the ache that had been there for years. you believed him. you felt it in the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world.

his lips found yours again, this time softer, slower—like he was savoring you, trying to memorize the feel of you against him. his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair as his other hand rested at your waist, keeping you steady.

you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders as his warmth enveloped you. he kissed you like he was afraid to rush, as though he wanted to take his time and show you everything he couldn’t put into words.

when he pulled back, his lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. his thumb brushed your cheek, his touch impossibly tender.

“i’ve thought about this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “about you. about us. for years, i thought i’d lost you for good.” his blue eyes searched yours, his vulnerability shining through.

“i’m here now,” you replied softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

he let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours as if grounding himself in your presence. “i don’t deserve you,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “not after everything i’ve done, after the person i’ve become.”

your heart ached at his words, at the pain you could hear in his voice. you cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “rafe,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you. “you deserve love, just like anyone else. and i’ve always believed in you. always.”

a tear slipped down his cheek, and you caught it with your thumb, your heart breaking and mending all at once. he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if he was letting your words sink in.

“i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “if you’ll let me.”

you didn’t answer with words. instead, you closed the distance between you, kissing him with a softness that spoke volumes. he responded immediately, his hands sliding down to your hips as he pulled you closer. the kiss deepened naturally, his lips moving against yours with a newfound urgency, but still gentle—always gentle with you. his hands remained steady on your waist, grounding you as his lips traveled once more, pressing kisses along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

you tilted your head, giving him more access as his lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. a soft sigh escaped you, and you felt his smile against your skin. “you’re incredible,” he whispered against your neck, his voice low and filled with awe. “every piece of you. i don’t know how i got so lucky.”

your fingers found their way into his shirt, tugging gently as his kisses trailed lower, to the hollow of your throat. his lips pressed there for a moment, lingering as if the feel of your heartbeat beneath his lips anchored him. when he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were darker now, filled with a mix of emotions—adoration, desire, and something deeper, something that made your stomach flutter.

“you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to cradle your face again. “to have you here, to hold you, to kiss you. i thought i’d never get this chance.”

“you have me now,” you said softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the moment. “i’m yours, rafe. always.”

the words seemed to shatter something in him. he leaned in, capturing your lips in another kiss—this one more heated, more desperate, as if he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every unshed tear into the connection. his hands wandered to your back, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you deeper, his lips leaving no part of yours unexplored. when he finally broke away, his lips trailed along your jaw, to the sensitive spot below your ear, down your neck, and finally to your collarbone.

you shivered under his touch, your breath hitching as his hands skimmed your sides, his fingers brushing against your waist with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “you’re everything,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with reverence. “everything i’ve ever wanted.”

his touch seemed to grow bolder, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse. you helped him, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours. the fabric parted with a harsh tug, revealing the simple, lacy bra that had been hidden beneath. his eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his breathing growing ragged.

“so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. his fingers traced the edge of the lace, his eyes never leaving yours. the anticipation was almost unbearable, your heart racing as you waited for his next move.

when he finally did, it was with a gentle touch that belied the intensity in his gaze. he cupped one of your tits, his thumb brushing against the nipple until it tightened into a peak. you gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch. his praises grew more fervent as he played with your sensitive flesh, his voice a soft, muffled whisper that seemed to wrap around you as he pressed the surface of his tongue alongside the valley of your boobs, making you feel desired in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

his other hand found the zipper of your skirt, pulling it down with a slow deliberateness that had you squirming in anticipation. the fabric fell away, pooling around your ankles, leaving you in just your panties and bra. the look in his eyes was one of pure hunger, but it was tempered with a love so fierce it stole your breath away.

he leaned in, his mouth capturing one of your nipples through the lace, his tongue teasing it into a hardened point. you moaned, your hands fisting in his shirt. you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the wetness of his mouth, the roughness of the fabric against your sensitized flesh.

his hand slid down, hooking into the waistband of your panties. you lifted your hips slightly, allowing him to pull them down your legs. the coolness of the air against your bare cunt was an incredible contrast to the heat of his touch. you allowed him to pull your panties down, feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet safe in his arms.

his eyes traveled over your body, taking in every inch of you as if he were worshipping a goddess. his gaze made you feel powerful, beautiful, and utterly wanted. his hands found your hips, his thumbs digging in slightly as he tugged you closer to him. the fabric of his own clothes were rough against your skin, a reminder that this was real, that he was really here, touching you with a love that seemed to consume him.

his mouth moved down, kissing a path from your neck to your chest, pausing to worship each tit in turn. his teeth grazed the flesh gently, making you gasp as he sucked and nibbled. it was erotic, the way he took his time, savoring every moment as if it might be his last. you felt the ache between your legs, the wetness growing slicker with every kiss, every caress.

his hand slid down, his fingers slipping into your wetness, exploring your folds with a gentle yet firm touch. your eyes fluttered closed, your head falling back as he found your clit, stroking it with a precision that made your legs tremble. “fuck, rafe,” you moaned, your voice a breathless whisper.

he kissed you deeply, his hand never leaving your pussy as he began to rub circles around your clit, increasing the pressure with every pass. you could feel yourself getting closer, the tension building like the crescendo of a symphony. his thumb circled your clit as his forefinger slid into your wetness, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your body.

his mouth moved to your ear, his breath hot and heavy. “i love you,” he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine. “i’ve loved you for so long. i wanna make you feel so good, to show you just how much you mean to me. can i?”

you nodded, unable to form words as the orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering with the force of it. he didn’t stop, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing harder until you were panting and trembling in his arms. when you finally stilled, he kissed you again, a gentle press of his lips to yours, his tongue sliding in to taste you.

his hands slid away, and you felt the loss acutely, but only for a moment. he stepped back, his own shirt and pants joining the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. his cock stood erect, showing you what you did to him in every sense of the word. you couldn’t help but stare, taking in the sight of him—his chiseled abs, the muscles in his arms, the way his chest rose and fell with every ragged breath.

“you’re so beautiful, rafe,” you whispered, your voice filled with awe.

his eyes never left yours as he stepped closer, his hands coming up to cradle your face again. “says you,” he murmured, the words a declaration that sent a thrill through your body.

his cock brushed against your stomach, hot and hard, and you reached for it, wrapping your hand around it. he groaned, his hips jerking slightly at the contact. you began to stroke him, your hand moving up and down in a slow, steady rhythm that had his eyes fluttering shut.

his hand slid down to your pussy again, his fingers finding your entrance. he slid one inside you, the sensation making you moan. he watched your face as he began to move it in and out, his thumb circling your clit. your breath grew shallow as the pleasure built again, your legs threatening to give out.

his eyes snapped open, a fierce love shining in their depths. “don’t think i’ll be able to stop myself,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “are you sure you can handle it?” you nodded, unable to form words. your heart was racing, your body more than ready for him. he kissed you once more, his hand guiding his cock to your entrance.

the first push was slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust to his size. he groaned, his eyes never leaving yours as he inched inside you. it felt like coming home, like the missing piece of a puzzle sliding into place. the feeling was so intense that you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out. once fully seated, he paused, his chest heaving against yours. “are you okay?” he whispered, his voice strained with restraint.

you nodded again, feeling a mix of pleasure and pain as he stretched you. you reached up, pulling his head down for a deep, desperate kiss. “i’m okay, fuck. make love to me, rafe,” you urged.

his eyes searched yours for a moment before a fierce smile spread across his face. he began to move, his strokes long and slow, each one driving him deeper. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back. the room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your gasps and moans mingling with the crash of the waves outside.

his hand found your tit again, his thumb teasing your nipple as his hips rocked against yours. he picked up the pace, the friction building a delicious ache deep inside you. “you’re so wet, so tight,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “feel so good, baby.”

the words spurred you on, your hips moving in sync with his. you could feel yourself getting closer again, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. “yes, rafe, yes!” you moaned, your voice echoing in the room. his hand slid down to your clit, his fingers moving in time with his thrusts. the sensation was almost too much for you to handle.

his strokes grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you knew he was close. “gonna cum, baby,” he grunted, his eyes never leaving yours. “gonna fill your pussy up, make you mine forever.”

the raw possessiveness in his voice sent you over the edge. you came hard, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. he followed soon after, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with his warmth.

you held onto him tightly, your breathing matching his, as the world outside the mansion faded away. it was just the two of you, connected in a way you’d never been before. as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded, you felt his weight shift, his body collapsing slightly against yours. it felt like the end to a dream, to something you’ve been chasing after your entire life, but it was only the beginning.

he didn’t pull out, and he wouldnt for a while. instead, he looked up at you, pushing away the sweaty strands of hair that stuck to your forehead. as he did so, his gaze dropped to the ring wrapped around your finger, slick with sweat. “pretty cheap for an engagement ring,” he murmured. “you should throw it out.”

you couldn’t help but frown, “why?”

“so that i can get you a better one.”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

a/n: ok guys yes im aware that canon rafe would NOT be this sweet lovey dovey hopeless romantic but idgaf i have free will and tumblr so grease my feet

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sunshowersanddandelionwine · 8 months ago

Text

au where soap is medically discharged and doesn’t really have a “purpose” anymore. He enlisted so young, and had been in the military for so long that he’s got no fucking idea what to do next. In the end, he moves in with his oldest sister and her kids after his brother-in-law passes away suddenly.

While getting his feet back under him, he takes up drawing again. More seriously this time than just doodles on paperwork and scribbles on briefing notes. But real illustrations. It starts as a way to keep his hands occupied while idle at home, but then it becomes an actual hobby of his. He gets better and better, watching YouTube tutorials to learn things he wouldn’t have picked up otherwise.

It’s his 15 year old niece that gets everything rolling. She (without his knowledge) sets up a social media account to share his art. But a very specific series of art. See, he started illustrating the stories his 5 year old nephew told him. And the art, just like the stories, are mindblowing. Soap didn’t do it for recognition, but his niece insisted on sharing his work with the world.

The account starts to get a following, and when his niece shows it to him he nearly has a breakdown. But then he sees the comments. Parents of kids who feel seen in his art. Young self taught artists feeling seen through him. A whole community of people who connected with his work on such a deeper level than anything he’d expected. So, begrudgingly, he lets her continue to post.

Then comes the storefront. With prints and merch and all sorts of wild ass things he’d never dreamed of. And while the income is modest, it still an income. For a while, a part of him had felt guilty for “mooching” off his sister (despite her protests to the contrary) and now he can really start contributing to the household. Plus, a little bit of each sale gets squirreled away for his niece and nephew. Since without them, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

And then the email comes. It’s innocuous at first, something he’s gotten a number of times. The sender asks him if he’s willing to illustrate for an upcoming project with a children’s book author. They’d seen his work online and thought his style would match perfectly with the book. Initially, soap was going to politely decline the offer. As much as he’d come to accept the minor fame he’d gotten online, he didn’t think he was good enough to actually illustrate something for a traditional publication. But then he sees the sender’s signature.

S. Riley.

Not much was known about Riley as a person. Their personal life, much like their first name, was kept down tight under lock and key. But their books were beloved by so many, including Soap and his family. Riley wrote on topics that not a lot of other children’s book authors dared to touch, and not with the deft and delicate hand necessary to properly tackle them. Things like parental abuse, neglect, trauma, death; there wasn’t a subject Riley was scared of, and there wasn’t a subject that they handled with anything less than the utmost grace. Their book on dealing with grief and loss had gotten Soap’s niblings (and his sister, to be perfectly honest) through those first few months after their father’s death.

So, despite his misgivings and anxieties, soap accepts.

(Across the country, one Simon Riley waits with bated breath to see if his nephew Joseph’s (and his) mysterious favorite artist will say yes. For no other reason than professional curiosity. It definitely has nothing to do with the briefest glimmer of a bright blue eye caught in the corner of a recent post.)

#ghostsoap #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #wayward seeds #I feel like ghost would be a good author #idk why but my brain says so lmao #cod mw2 #cod mwf2

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acosmicbee · 1 month ago

Note

Heyyyyy I have a request...

Can u do a platonic yandere police chief with a child reader who grew up in an abusive household?

Also your stories are the best! I especially loved Teddy Bear that one is probably my fav! 💕 I hope I have an amazing day... Or night 😊

Liar Liar

(Thanks so much for the compliments! I really hope you enjoy my take on your request!)

You had first met Sheriff Hayes when you were five. He was still an officer back then, one of two who had come to your home after you'd told the teacher about how your parents had disappeared all weekend and you'd been left all alone.

He'd then listened as you lied through your teeth about everything because your parents had promised to get you a toy you wanted if you behaved and didn't tell on them. He'd never believed you, always side eyeing you when he saw you around town after that.

It was a small town, the kind with one elementary, middle and high school. You would walk the semi-paved mile to get to the bus stop every morning. One of the other parents there, the mom of your friend Issac, would usually have some sort of snack for you because you almost never ate breakfast at home.

Sometimes you'd see a cop car circle past the bus stop right before the bus came, Hayes at the wheel as he peered at you from behind dark sunglasses. You used to wave but stopped after your parents had told you that cops couldn't be trusted.

It was a nearly identical talk every day. They'd tell you what they'd get you if you kept the dirty home, long periods alone and almost permanently empty pantries to yourself. They'd whisper about how everyone wanted to take you away from them, how they'd put you in a house with a million other kids where no one would know your name.

You didn't think they were right, but after hearing something so many times it started to worm it's way into your thoughts. Officer Hayes never did that for any other kids, you didn't think, only you. He must be watching you because he wants to take you away from your parents.

You began acting out more, little things at first but quickly growing. At home you acted out because it was the only time you could get your parents to actually look at you. Even if they yelled and screamed and threw things, at least they were looking at you for once.

At school you only acted out when you felt it was necessary. You liked most of your classmates and teachers, but often barely did your work. Instead you'd read a book under your desk or talk with your desk mate or doodle something. It was how you coped with everything, how you escaped the wrongness of your life.

Then he got promoted to Sheriff and suddenly you were seeing him around a lot more. When the neighbors called the cops on your parents for yelling at each other and throwing things he was there. When the school called in cops for demonstrations and PSAs he was there.

One thing about being a small town meant there wasn't much crime. He had a lot of free time outside of doing paperwork to just cruise around and watch you. He never approached you, but you knew he was there, watching you.

It all came to a head one day when Sheriff Hayes was waiting for you at the bus stop. You had just gotten off the bus when you saw him, waiting with the other parents, his arms crossed and his face grim. You ignored him, walking past him and starting down the street when you felt a firm hand grip your shoulder.

"Kid, I'm gonna need to bring you to the station. There was an... incident at your home so you're going to need to answer some questions while we wait for a caseworker to get here." He said, his voice deceptively even.

"An incident? Yeah, right. Let me go home." You demanded, pushing his hand off your shoulder as you kept walking. He sighed, stepping out in front of you to block your path.

"Y/N. Listen to me. You need to come to the station with me because legally you cannot go back to that house. It's a crime scene currently under investigation." You froze realizing he was being serious.

"What happened?! What did you do?!" You hissed, hiding your sadness and fear under anger. "You did something! You're always following me around and watching me!"

"Will you let me take you to the station or will I have to restrain you?" He asked, clearly showing you the handcuffs attached to his belt. You reluctantly got into the back of his car, your stomach sinking when you drove past your house, taped off with at least three cop cars outside it.

It was all a bit of a blur and then you were in the police station, sitting across from Sheriff Hayes as he talked with some person from CPS about something. The caseworker had brought some coloring pages for you which you refused to even look at.

They still hadn't told you what happened yet, just that one of your parents had gotten hurt and the other was in custody. Now you were in limbo with no idea where you'd end up. You were about to start taking your frustration and anxiety out on the colored pencils you'd been given when there was a tap on the table, drawing your attention.

"Y/N, Sheriff Hayes is the closest available foster parent we can place you with. It would mean that you wouldn't have to change schools or lose any of your friends. Is that alright with you?" The CPS worker asked, her tone one of practiced kindness when it was clear to you she couldn't care less as long as it was out of her control.

She took your shrug as a yes and within an hour the papers were signed and you were being led back towards the sheriff's car, allowed to sit in the passenger seat this time. "You never told me what happened."

"Thats because it isn't appropriate for child ears." He responded, clicking his seatbelt into place. "You've heard and seen enough as it is with those... people."

"They're my parents. Tell me what happened." You demanded, staring at him as he pulled out of the police station's parking lot. The familiar scenery of the town began to whiz by, but you never took your eyes off of him.

"You really want to know? Fine. We assume there was some sort of argument while high on drugs and it led to your mother shooting your father." He said bluntly. Your eyes narrowed.

"We don't own any guns." You stated. "You're lying."

"Are you really one who should be talking about lying, Y/N? You lied to me about your home life. You lied to your teachers, to your friends and your friends' parents as well." He said, his voice not harsh or cold. He was simply stating a fact.

"You did something. I know you did and one day I'll make sure everyone knows!" You swore, your eyes burning with a fiery hatred.

"I'm sure you will pipsqueak. I'm sure everyone will listen to the kid who starts claiming that the sheriff broke into their home, knowing their parents would be in no state to remember anything or defend themselves. They'll totally believe you when you say that I shot your father and planted the gun on your mother, making sure to leave a backdated receipt paid in cash. Go ahead, Y/N. Tell them." He said, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. "They'll call you a liar, because you are one. If you've lied once, whats stopping you from lying again?"

You fell quiet, fear and disbelief fighting in your head. He... he had just told you exactly how he'd done it... hadn't he? But he seemed so unbothered, his eyes never even leaving the road. Your parents had taught you not to trust the police, but others clearly respected Sheriff Hayes. Would they even listen to you at all?

"You'll learn what it's like to have a full fridge and pantry all the time. You'll learn what it's like having a parent who follows through on what they promise. You'll learn, Y/N, that what I did was right. You can't see it now, you're still a blind little kid, ignorant to the wider world. But one day, you'll wake up and you'll thank me for saving you and stealing you away."

He pulled up in front of a little house. It was a stereotypical suburban house, identical to all the others on the block. He parked the car but didn't unlock the doors, taking a moment to just stare at you.

"Remember Y/N, no one likes a liar, so let's not tell any stories to anyone. Now, are you ready to be a good kid and come inside or do I have to cuff you first?"

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #platonic #yandere ocs #parental yandere

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 5 months ago

Text

wedding. l Joel Miller

Summary: something unusual happened in Jackson

Warnings: mostly fluff, but also a little bit of angst, alcohol; Ellie, Tommy, Maria - appear there; reader feels insecure, mention of pregnancy

A/N: I like writing this series, it's comfortable for me. I think I've mentioned this before. I hope it makes someone smile too.

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

Joel smoothed his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked really decent, although he felt stupid at the same time. There were quiet noises behind the closed bathroom door, after a moment it opened and in the reflection of the mirror he saw you coming out wearing the dress he liked so much. He smiled to himself as your eyes met.

"You look good." You said, walking over to him and adjusting his collar.

"Not as good as you. Do we really have to go there?" You rolled your eyes "We could go somewhere together. You, me and your dress."

You patted his shoulder, amused "It's Shane's wedding. We should be there. Can you help me zip it up?"

You turned around and Joel deftly zipped up your dress, taking the opportunity to kiss the base of your neck. It was a beautiful day, and even if Joel thought the wedding was a stupid idea, he didn't want to ruin anyone's mood. Especially not you.

A few weeks passed. You slowly made your way outside of Jackson, with Joel or Shane. What happened to you was slowly becoming a bad memory, and you never asked Joel what happened that day when the door separated you both, and Maria walked you home.

You didn't have to ask, you knew. Joel had kept you safe in the way he thought was necessary. His family had to be safe, and you were definitely a part of it.

He felt really good as you walked together to the orchard where flowers adorned the trees, and Shane and Ann decided to join in matrimony. The priest, an older man who had been in Jackson for a few years, was preparing for the ceremony as you took your seats somewhere in the back. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Ellie, who sat down on the other side with her friends, waved at you and raised her thumbs up to show that she liked your dress.

The excitement grew with every minute, weddings in Jackson were rare, and every resident knew Shane and wanted to accompany him at such a moment.

"She looks so beautiful..." you sighed as Ann, in a modest but beautiful white dress, stood with Shane in front of the priest. Her blonde hair flowed in waves down her back, and you saw total delight in her eyes.

Joel tilted his head to murmur in your ear "Mhmm, but not like you."

You nudged him lightly in the side. "Have you ever been married, Joel?" you asked without taking your eyes off what was happening in front of you.

He was silent for a moment, but finally spoke up "A long time ago, and for a very short time."

"I'm sorry."

"No need. I practically forgot about it." he replied, and when you looked at him he smiled slightly "These things happen."

"Yeah, you're probably right." You smiled too, although there was a bit of contemplation in it, and after a moment you looked back at Shane and Ann "I hope it won't happen to them. Especially since Ann... Shit."

Now you had Joel's full attention on you. And although you weren't looking at him, you felt that his brown eyes were glued to you with curiosity.

"What do you know?" he asked in a whisper, because you were still surrounded by many Jackson residents.

"Nothing." You answered far too quickly and too nervously.

"You know something. Tell me."

You bit your lip to hide your smile. Finally, however, you looked at him again and came closer to whisper in his ear "Ann's pregnant. Shane told me on the last patrol. They're so excited."

Joel mumbled something, but you didn't pay attention to it anymore. You didn't notice the strange shadow that appeared in his eyes, because the guests started clapping, and Shane and Ann kissed, thus officially becoming a married couple.

The Tipsy Bison looked different than usual. Fresh flowers were on every table, the space seemed brighter and more festive. The buzz of conversation and laughter mixed with the music, and the clinking of cutlery and glasses meant that everyone was having a great time. Joel and Tommy decided to check out the bottle of whiskey that Shane had placed on their table, and you took Maria's son into your arms so she could eat in peace.

"I feel guilty that you're here and not there." The woman mumbled as she put food on her plate. "Tommy should be watching his son. What are they even doing?"

"Leave it, it's not a problem. I love this guy." You kissed the chubby hand of the boy who was sitting on your lap and cooing happily. "This roast chicken is delicious."

"You convinced me!" she put on a chicken leg and took a sip of juice "I'm glad this wedding happened. People need positive moments like this."

"Yeah. I had the impression that the whole of Jackson was living for this wedding." you laughed.

You gossiped for a moment, stopping every now and then to greet someone who came to your table. Maria managed to eat in peace and even reached for a second helping. The baby in your arms played with spoons, and the music drew more and more people to the dance floor.

"Oh!" Maria suddenly straightened up and frowned. "It's her again."

"Who?" you asked, not really paying attention to anything, because Tommy's son had just decided to bite your fingers off.

"Hazel."

You turned around and noticed a slender brunette standing near Joel and Tommy. Her gaze was clearly fixed on the older Miller. Something twisted in your stomach.

Hazel had arrived in Jackson a few months ago along with a few other people. She quickly settled in and started working at a local store. That was probably where she noticed Joel. You had seen her start a conversation with him or approach him around Jackson a few times.

"Tommy said it was weird that so many things were breaking in her house." Maria mumbled. "And she always asks Joel to help her with it."

"Yeah, I know that." you replied, Hazel's hand squeezed Joel's shoulder. "Maybe... Oh my!"

The glass of juice tipped over, Maria's son must have tried to catch it while you were talking, and it spilled on your dress. The woman quickly stood up and took the little one from you, scolding him a little and at the same time trying to apologize to you.

"Don't worry, it's nothing." You replied, trying to wipe it with a napkin. "It's just juice and just a dress."

"But you looked so pretty in it!" Maria groaned. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry, really, it's nothing."

However, it was a lie, not a big one, but still. When you approached Joel a moment later, you felt very insecure. Hazel looked beautiful, and you had a huge stain from the juice on your dress. Maria quickly pulled Tommy away and pushed his babbling son into his arms.

"Hi. Nice dress." Hazel gave you a charming smile.

"Thank you." You mumbled uncertainly, and after a moment you felt Joel's gaze on you.

"Oh, what happened?" he asked "Do you want to go home and change?"

You shook your head. "No, it's just juice. Your nephew was a little careless, it'll dry soon."

The wet fabric stuck to your body unpleasantly, but you didn't want to show it. You realized that if Hazel wasn't standing next to you, you wouldn't even care, but now...

"I was just telling Joel that the washing machine in my house started making some strange noises. He promised to come over and take a look at it." Hazel smiled at you, "It's good to have someone with such talented hands around."

"Yes, indeed." you replied.

Joel's attention was drawn by Shane, who was determined to push another bottle of whiskey into his hands. For a moment, you and Hazel were silent, only exchanging polite smiles.

"How are you feeling in Jackson? I think you've settled in." You finally spoke up, and Hazel nodded.

"Yeah, it's a big change. But people are really friendly here, you know. And what do you do?"

"Patrols. Getting supplies. Stuff like that."

"It's good that you're helping Joel."

You felt awkward, but you plastered a smile on your face. "Right."

When Joel came back to you, Hazel's hand rested on his shoulder again, and a charming smile appeared on her pretty face. "So can I count on you? Will you come over tomorrow and check out the washing machine?"

The man nodded. "Sure, I'll come."

"Great. I'll make your favorite coffee."

This was beyond you and you quickly retreated towards the exit. The evening was warm and many people were spending it outdoors. Mr. Russo greeted you with a smile, and Rory ran around with the other kids.

"Running home already, huh?" Shane's voice almost made you jump.

"I needed some fresh air." You replied. "You look amazing, and your wife... Good luck to you both."

"Thank you." He took a sip from his glass. "You're not worried about this Hazel thing, are you? She's got her eye on Joel, but he's totally into you."

"You think so?"

Shane looked at you carefully. He knew you really well, trusted you, and knew how hard you'd been through, so your insecurity was painful for him.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

You sighed and folded your arms tightly over your chest. "I don't know. I don't remember feeling like this before... Sometimes I think I'm too weak... That maybe I'm not good at anything, at relationships, you know."

"Bullshit!" Shane hissed "I've been watching you and Joel for ages, you're made for each other."

"Please..."

"No, I'm telling you the truth! This guy would burn the world down for you, without hesitation. He'll fight for you, and you'll do anything for him too. Ask anyone you want."

"And Joel told you that?" you scoffed, but Shane just smiled.

"The world's biggest grump? Please! But I have eyes and I can see." He spread his arms "Come here."

You approached and Shane hugged you tightly. "I'm glad you're here with us. We're all happy."

"Thank you, Shane."

Someone cleared their throat behind you and patted Walsh on the back.

"I'd like to remind you that you're married, and she's here with me."

A warm feeling crept into your heart as you saw Joel standing behind you. His brown eyes looked at you with tenderness and attention.

"Everything okay?" he asked, Shane tapped him on the shoulder and disappeared inside "You left so suddenly."

"I'm okay." You smiled slightly "And you? How's Hazel and her washing machine doing."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "Is someone jealous? Honey, her washing machine can boil her clothes, I don't give a damn." His arm wrapped around your shoulders and he pulled you in, kissing your temple. "Ready to go back or do you still want some cake?"

"Let's go back. I'd like to get out of this wet dress." You groaned.

"I'd love to help you with that."

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller x f!reader #short stories from life

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demie90s · 27 days ago

Text

You Asked.

Azzi Fudd x Player!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Your smooth, and unapologetically known for giving unforgettable head—but never catching feelings. Azzi Fudd? She’s the latest obsession.

Genre: Angst, smut (later), obsession in denial

Warnings: Smut 18+, emotional tension, ghosting

Vibe: You shouldn’t have cared. But you do.

Word Count~ 2.5k

I didn’t earn my name in class. I earned it on my knees. Yeah, I said it.

Not because I’m desperate—not even close. But because I like it. I enjoy it. There’s peace in it. Pressure in it. Something about making a girl forget how to breathe just does it for me.

I don’t fuck for their pleasure—I eat for mine. College is hard. Papers due. Tests piling. Professors assigning trauma as homework. So when life’s a mess?

I find relief between thighs. Hot, aching, clenching relief. And yeah, a few girls talk. Like I’m some campus side quest. A little mystery you whisper about in group chats. “She made me black out,” one said. “She was humming,” another added.

I don’t deny it. I don’t confirm it either. I don’t need to. They know my name.

Y/N.

No last name necessary. Tall, tatted, always in an oversized tee and sweats that hang low off my waist. I’m in class when I need to be.

But most of the time? I’m high, posted up in somebody’s dorm, or laid out under a tree like I own the campus.

I don’t chase. I don’t beg. And I never double back.

…Until Azzi. But we’ll get there.

See, the real story starts with this class. “Modern Cultural Rhetoric.” Just a gen-ed filler I picked ‘cause the professor doesn’t take attendance and the papers are optional if your discussion grades are high. I walked in late the first day—hood on, blunt on my breath, iced coffee in my hand. Sat in the back and didn’t say shit. Still left with the highest pre-quiz score in the room.

That’s the thing about me. I talk slick and fuck reckless, but I’m smart. Smart and dangerous. I don’t try. I just do. And people notice.

Even her. Yeah—her. Miss Sunshine. Star Player. Sweetest smile on campus. Azzi Fudd.

We’d crossed paths before. Hallways. Cafeteria. Parties where I was posted up with someone else’s girl while she laughed in corners with her team. But we never spoke.

Until that day.

When Professor H started assigning project partners “based on GPA proximity,” I already knew I was screwed. There’s maybe five people in the class smart enough to challenge me. She was one of ‘em. So when he said, “Fudd and Y/N”? I already felt my jaw clench.

She turned around. Smile like sugar. Hair pulled back. Bright eyes.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” she said, chipper. I didn’t smile back. Just licked my lip, leaned forward and said,

“Guess you’re lucky.”

She laughed. Thought I was joking. I wasn’t. Not even a little.

——————————————————————————————-

Azzi’s POV

The Warning Was Loud. I Just Didn’t Listen.

I didn’t think much of it when Professor H read out the partner list. Group projects were annoying, sure, but I usually got through them just fine. I was already packing up my bag when he said it:

“Fudd and Y/L/N.”

I froze. Blinked once. Then looked up slowly—like maybe I misheard. But no. Everyone else heard it too. There was a pause in the room. One of those weird silences where you feel people staring. Whispering. Like the air just got warmer.

Y/N didn’t even react. She just stretched her legs out, yawned like this was boring, and slouched deeper into her seat like nothing touched her.

I’d heard of her. Of course I had. You’d have to be living under a rock not to know about Y/N.

She didn’t play any sports, didn’t care for clout, didn’t run with a crowd—but she was known. Tall, masc, dressed like every piece in her closet was stolen from a high-end shoot. Pretty in that rude, effortless way.

She didn’t flirt so much as…claim. And the stories? They were legendary. Whispers in dorms, giggles in locker rooms, half-smirks in the library.

Some people said she ruined them. Others said she saved them. Everyone agreed on one thing—once she touched you, you weren’t the same.

Still. I figured the rumors were exaggerated. People talk. I didn’t think she’d actually be anything special.

Then after class, she leaned over, smelled like good weed and cinnamon gum, and said in that low, rich voice, “Guess you’re stuck with me, princess. Lucky you.”

I laughed it off. Played it cool. Went about my day. But it lingered. So later, after practice, I brought it up casually in the locker room.

“I got paired with Y/N for my rhetoric project,” I said while tying my shoe.

KK’s head snapped up. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

I glanced at her. “Yeah. Why?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Caroline groaned, already rolling her eyes.

“Say it like what?”

“Like it’s nothing,” Inês muttered. “That’s something.”

“Y’all are being dramatic,” I laughed.

“She’s dangerous,” Ice said. “In that slow, ‘I won’t even ask your name’ kinda way.”

“She’s smart,” KK added. “Real smart. Real charming. Gets what she wants. And what she wants is usually—”

“Girls,” Ayanna said bluntly.

I raised an eyebrow. “So she’s a flirt. Who cares?”

“No, Azzi,” KK said seriously. “She’s the munch.”

I paused. “I’m sorry—the what?”

“She eats pussy like it’s therapy,” Ice deadpanned. “And not for the girl. For her.”

“She doesn’t even make it romantic,” Inês added. “No cuddling. No feelings. Just that mouth. Then poof.”

“She hooked up with two girls from the rugby team and left both of them giggling and heartbroken,” Ayanna said, shaking her head. “At the same time.”

“Okay but we’re just doing a project,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Everyone turned.

KK tilted her head. “You curious?”

“No!”

“You are.” Caroline smirked. “You smiled just now.”

“I didn’t!”

“God,” Ice muttered. “She’s already done.”

I stood up fast, grabbing my bag like it would protect me from the accusations. “Y’all are dramatic.”

“Sure,” KK said. “But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

And the worst part? They were right. Because two hours later, when my phone lit up with her name—“You free?”—I smiled before I could stop myself. And I think… I knew right then.

——————————————————————————————-

I don’t think she knew what she was walking into. Not really.

She was soft, too soft for her own good. Sitting on that pink blanket like she ain’t just open the door for her own downfall. Cute little shorts. Oversized UConn hoodie swallowing her up like a blanket of innocence. I almost laughed. The kind of girl who doesn’t even know how loud she breathes when she’s nervous.

“Let’s just get this done,” she’d said.

I nodded. “Sure, princess.”

She looked up—eyes narrowing just a little, like she clocked the name. Good. I like when they pay attention.

We worked. Kind of. She tried. Pulled up her little doc and started typing. But I was watching her thighs. The way she sat cross-legged on the bed, little shorts riding up every time she adjusted. I wasn’t trying to be respectful. I wasn’t trying at all.

She caught me staring once. Didn’t say anything. And that was the moment I knew. So I asked, casual as fuck, “You ever been eaten right?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

I smiled. “You heard me.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. So I stood, slow, real slow, and stepped between her knees.

“You wanna know why they talk about me like that?” I asked, voice low, watching her chest rise and fall. She didn’t move.

Didn’t push me away. Didn’t say no. So I dropped to my knees.

No teasing. No warm-up. Just slipped my hands under those soft ass shorts and pulled ‘em down like I owned her. Her thighs tensed, legs still clumsy, but I pushed them open with a quiet little grunt.

And then I dove in.

Tongue flat and slow against her clit, lips tight around it like I was trying to drink from her. She gasped—sharp, unsteady—her hands flying to my shoulders but not pushing, just holding.

“F-Fuck—”

Yeah. That’s more like it.

I didn’t go fast. I didn’t need to. I dragged my tongue in lazy little figure eights, then flattened it again, licking her like a prayer. Like she was something holy. She twitched under me, hips jerking every time I sucked her clit into my mouth.

I hummed into her. Felt her shake. She was soaking. Already. Dripping down my neck. And I hadn’t even really started.

I slid two fingers inside—slow, deep—and curled them up until her back arched off the damn bed. She moaned my name, breathy and broken, and I felt her clench around me like she’d never been touched like this before.

That’s when I smiled against her. Because I had her.

I angled my wrist, found that little spot inside her that made her cry out, and just stayed there. Tongue rolling on her clit, fingers pressing just right, slow and nasty and perfect. Her hands were in my hair now. Not pulling. Just holding on for dear life.

She came so pretty I almost forgot I didn’t care. Almost.

When she went limp, I pulled back, wiped my mouth, and sat up like nothing happened.

She stared at me—face flushed, lips parted, chest rising in short bursts.

And I just said, “You good?”

She nodded slow, still dazed.

I stood, grabbed my phone, and tossed a nod toward the doc. “Send me your half when it’s done.”

And I walked out. Didn’t even kiss her. Because I don’t eat to please. I eat because I like it. And Azzi Fudd? She’s my new favorite flavor.

——————————————————————————————-

It was three days later when she found me. Not texted. Not called. Found me.

Back bleachers. After class. I was laid out, hoodie up, headphones in, face to the sky like I didn’t have a care in the damn world. I felt her before I saw her. That nervous energy she carries—balled up and polite. She was pacing, hesitating.

“Hey,” she finally said.

I popped one headphone out. Didn’t even lift my head. “Fudd.”

Her jaw twitched. “Can we talk?”

I stretched, slow and smug. “We already did. You just couldn’t speak at the time.” She blinked. I watched her try not to react. That was half the fun.

She sat beside me, knees bouncing. “I just…” She sighed. “I think we should talk about what happened.”

“Which part?” I asked, turning to look at her. “The part where you came in under five minutes? Or the part where you ain’t even say thank you?”

That got her. Her lips parted. She looked stunned. I raised my brows, amused. “You always ghost people who make you see God?”

“I didn’t ghost you,” she said, too fast.

I tilted my head. “So you were what, busy recovering?”

Her face flushed, and I smiled. She was trying so hard to be serious. So hard to be in control.

“Look,” she started. “It was… good. I’m not gonna lie.”

“Good?” I repeated. “That ain’t the word you used when your legs were shaking.”

“Okay—it was great,” she snapped, looking away. “The best I’ve ever had. Happy?”

I grinned. “Ecstatic.”

She rolled her eyes. I sat up, elbows on my knees, turning to face her more directly. “So what now? You here to ask for seconds?” She hesitated. Too long.

“That a yes?” I pressed.

“No,” she said—too soft to sound real. “I just… I don’t do stuff like that. It’s not me.”

I leaned in, voice low. “It was you. That was all you. Loud, needy, cumming on my tongue—don’t rewrite it.”

Azzi’s breath caught. I saw the way she clenched her hands in her lap. She was remembering. Feeling it again. That’s how I knew I won.

“I’m not asking for anything,” I said, pulling back, stretching again like none of this meant anything. “We can call it even.”

“Even?”

“Yeah. You got the quickest, hardest nut of your life. And I got a new flavor to think about when I’m bored.” She stared. Stunned.

I popped the other headphone back in and said around a lazy grin, “Good talk, pretty.”

And just like that? I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let her sit there stewing in it. Because I don’t chase. And she’ll never forget how I made her feel.

——————————————————————————————-

Azzi’s dorm. Noon.

She opens the door like she wasn’t just texting me two minutes ago saying “you don’t have to come.” I step inside anyway.

She’s in sweats. No makeup. Hair pinned back like she’s trying not to look soft but can’t help it. Her eyes flick to my mouth immediately.

“Lunch in an hour,” she mumbles. I nod. “Then I’ll be quick.”

I’m lying.

I close the door behind me, set my phone down, and press her gently into the mattress. She tries to sit up, say something, but I shake my head.

“Shh,” I murmur. “I’m not here to talk.”

She gasps the moment I lift her hoodie, soft hands twitching like she doesn’t know whether to pull away or pull me closer. I hook my fingers in her waistband and slide her sweats down slow—so slow she starts to shake before I even touch her.

I drop to my knees and press my face between her thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then I take. My. Time.

I don’t rush it. I don’t showboat. I eat her like I’ve been starving for days and this is the only meal I’ll ever want again.

Slow licks. Deep pressure. Lips wrapping around her clit, drawing every twitch and sigh out of her until her fingers are tangled in the sheets, breath catching with every pass of my tongue.

When she whimpers and tries to close her legs, I grip her thighs and pull them back open, firm and calm. No.

She tries to say something—“I have to meet them soon”—but I lick her slow and deep until she forgets the sentence.

Until her mouth hangs open, body shaking like it can’t take more but refuses to stop me. I keep going. An hour. Easy.

She cums four. Maybe five. I don’t stop long enough to count. I just kiss the inside of her thigh when I’m done, give her a soft peck on the lips, and wipe my mouth with her hoodie sleeve like I’m doing her a favor.

I leave before she can say a word.

⸻

Thirty minutes later. Team lunch.

Azzi walks in late. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie sleeves pulled low like she’s hiding something. She doesn’t speak. Just sits down slow like her knees ain’t stable.

Jana eyes her. “Damn. You okay?”

Azzi blinks. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you had a time.” Everyone ooohs. Azzi’s mouth falls open.

Ayanna sips her drink. “Who had you missing meetings and walking funny?”

Azzi clears her throat. “Nobody.”

“Liar,” Paige says without even looking up. “That’s munch damage.”

KK just whistles. “Y/n did it again.”

Azzi’s quiet. Doesn’t deny it. She’s still feeling it in her spine. And across campus? You’re laid up in your bed, hoodie over your head, earbuds in—grinning. You didn’t just eat Azzi Fudd.

You ruined her lunch.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

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certaimromance · 3 months ago

Text

ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

main masterlist

Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. kissing. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

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