#and GIF FOUR. I HAVE STARED AT THIS FOR HOURS NOW?

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Three

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like almost three years…, talks of pregnancy, reader feeling insecure -- having a hard time getting ready, boyband spencer yummm, Ethan (warning in itself), spencer's migraines, spencer snaps at reader, fights, being distant

Word count: 21.2k

a/n: hi…. this has been sitting in my drafts since april ahahahah 🫣 please don’t throw tomatoes at me i got a new job and it’s been A LOT!! this is not proof read by the way,, LOVE YOU ALL

main masterlist part one part two

Fuck.

That was the only word in your brain. Not even a full thought. Just that single syllable, echoing over and over like a heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You sat frozen on the edge of the bathtub, phone in hand, the screen still glowing from the period tracker app that now mocked you with its sterile little message: 4 days late.

You hadn’t missed a dose. Not one. You’d been on birth control for years, religiously punctual. You and Spencer were so careful—condoms every time, plan B once, after a minor scare. But it never came to anything. You were careful. Smart. Responsible.

So why the hell were you late?

You weren’t someone with irregular cycles. Since you’d started birth control, your period came like clockwork, so predictable you could plan around it down to the hour. And now?

Nothing. Not a cramp. Not a twinge. Just… a silence in your body that was starting to feel deafening.

You buried your face in your hands, dragging your palms down your cheeks before letting your head fall back against the tiled wall behind you.

Spencer.

You hadn’t told him yet. You hadn’t even tested yet.

Because if you told Spencer, it would be real. And you weren’t ready for real. You were barely holding it together through hypothetical.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the rising panic.

You imagined his face—how he’d blink a few too many times, how he’d tell you about the statistical failure rate of your specific birth control pill, how his hands might tremble just a little. But you also imagined how quickly he’d steady himself. How he’d run every possible calculation in his head and then choose you anyway.

Still. None of that changed the fact that you were four days late. That your stomach had felt vaguely wrong for days, that your breasts were sore in a way they hadn’t been before, that your body felt foreign and too aware of itself.

Fuck.

You stared down at your phone again. 

4 days late.

The screen blurred as you blinked too hard.

You were going to have to buy a test. You were going to have to take a test. And maybe you were going to have to tell Spencer something that would change both of your lives.

You exhaled, long and shaky.

Okay.

But you didn’t want to do this alone.

Even though you could have. Could have walked to the pharmacy with your hood up and sunglasses on like you were buying contraband. Could have stared at the tiny pink boxes until your eyes blurred. Could have peed on a stick and stared at the result in solitary silence.

But that wasn’t you. And more importantly—this wasn’t something you wanted to keep from him.

You hated secrets. And Spencer? Spencer was the last person in the world you’d ever want to shut out.

So you called him.

“Hello, darling, what’s up?” he answered in that sweet, soft, distracted tone he always had when he was flipping through files or bent over a book.

“Hi, Spence,” you replied, trying to sound casual. You tried to keep your voice steady like your heart wasn’t in your throat, but he clocked it. Instantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly more alert. “Are you okay? Is it your period? Do you need anything? I can run to the store right now—”

Your heart clenched in your chest at how quickly he switched into action, how tuned in he was to even the slightest variation in your tone. “No, well… not exactly,” you said, voice soft. “But thank you, baby.”

There was a pause. “Okay…” he said cautiously. “What is it then?”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, taking a deep breath. “Can you promise not to freak out?”

“Well, no,” he replied without hesitation. “I can’t promise that.”

“Okay, fair,” you laughed, the sound small but genuine. “Can you promise to keep an open mind until you get to my apartment and we talk?”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Yes. Can you promise you aren’t going to break up with me?”

Your heart squeezed. You sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal,” you teased, hoping to lighten the sudden weight in his voice.

“Y/N,” Spencer said firmly, “I’m being serious.”

And in that moment, you matched him. Matched his seriousness. Matched his heart.

“I would rather climb aboard the Death Star than ever break up with you, Spencer Reid.”

A breath. Then a groan. “God,” he huffed. “That’s hot and romantic.”

You burst out laughing—loud and unrestrained.

“So, Spence…” you said, once your giggles died down.

“Yes?”

“Can you stop at the store, actually?”

There was a pause, curious. “Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“…Spencer?”

Another second. Then: “I’ll be there in thirty.”

And he hung up.

You stared at your phone, heart thudding, lips parted in something between a gasp and a smile.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t ask a thousand questions. He didn’t panic. He was just… coming.

Spencer Reid was on his way. With a pregnancy test.

…

The lock clicked open in that hurried, unmistakable way that told you Spencer wasn’t bothering with social graces today. You barely had time to lift your head before the door creaked open with purpose.

“Y/N?” he called, voice carrying the weight of a man on a mission.

“In here!” you called back, your voice echoing faintly through the hallway as you lay sprawled on your bed, phone held loosely in one hand, eyes glazed over from doom scrolling through every what-if scenario the internet could provide.

A beat passed. Then footsteps—quick, determined, and absolutely not the shuffle of someone easing into a sensitive conversation.

Spencer burst into the doorway like a man with a PowerPoint and a plan. In one hand, he held a crisp brown pharmacy bag. In the other, he held a plastic-wrapped box aloft like a holy artifact.

“I hope you’re hydrated,” he said without preamble, eyes wide and voice tight, “because you need to pee on a stick right now.”

You blinked at him, one brow raised slowly as you lowered your phone. “Well, hello to you, too, Doctor Reid.”

He was already unboxing the test. “Sorry,” he said, breathless. “Hi. Hello. Love you. I panicked. I bought multiple different brands.”

Your lips twitched. “Multiple?”

“Each with varying levels of sensitivity and accuracy across different testing windows,” he muttered, holding out the first one like he was presenting evidence to a jury. “I figured a data set would be more reliable… and I didn’t have time to do proper research.”

You pushed yourself off the bed, taking the box from his hand gently. “Spencer,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you know you can’t cross-compare at-home pregnancy tests like it’s a peer-reviewed study, right?”

He blinked at you. “But I can try.”

You kissed his cheek and whispered, “You're ridiculous,” before making your way toward the bathroom.

And behind you, Spencer followed. Not quietly, not subtly—he trailed you with all the tense energy of a scientist monitoring a volatile experiment.

He wasn’t breathing properly. You could hear it—those tight little inhales and uneven exhales like his brain was juggling statistics and possible outcomes in real time. You opened the bathroom door, turned to shut it, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he absolutely planned on coming in with you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” you asked, somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Spencer blinked at you. “Yeah?” he replied, wide-eyed and completely earnest, like you’d asked him if he planned on inhaling oxygen today.

“Why?” you asked, stepping back just slightly, toothbrush still sitting in its cup on the counter like it was silently judging both of you.

He blinked again, totally baffled by the question. “Because… we’re doing this together?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You crossed your arms. “Spencer, I have to pee.”

“I know,” he said, nodding helpfully. “On the stick.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “The pee stick. The extremely private, slightly undignified part of the pregnancy test process.”

“But I helped select the variables,” he gestured toward the box like this was a lab study and not your actual bladder. “I should be there to observe.”

“Spencer,” you said, struggling not to smile. “This isn’t a longitudinal field study, this is me trying not to pee on my hand.”

He faltered. You could see the flicker of Oh, right, humans have modesty settle in his eyes. Then his shoulders dropped slightly. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.”

You softened immediately, stepping forward to brush your hand down his arm. “Thank you for being here, Spence. Truly.” You kissed his cheek gently. “I just draw the line at having an audience while I hover over a stick.”

“Completely fair,” he nodded, still holding the instruction insert like he was preparing to proctor an exam. “I’ll wait right here. I’ll set a timer.”

“Wait!” you exclaimed, pausing with your hand on the bathroom door.

Spencer jolted, eyes wide, already halfway into what looked like a thousand-yard stare. “What? What happened? Are you cramping? Is your bladder okay? Did the test break—”

“I have an idea,” you cut in quickly, raising a hand to calm his spiraling.

He blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”

“I need a cup.”

Spencer stared at you. “What…?”

You nodded, expression completely serious now. “Can you pretty please go get me one of the disposable cups from the last time we had game night here?”

“The Solo cups?”

“Yes.”

“From under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“For… pee?”

“Yes, Spencer. For pee,” you confirmed with a smirk. “You want repeatable data, right? Control of aim, no user error? Let me pee in the damn cup and dip it like a normal, emotionally stable person.”

He looked utterly stunned. Like you’d just solved a riddle he didn’t know was in play. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “That makes so much sense. Why doesn’t everyone do that?”

You shrugged. “Because not everyone lives with a hyper-rational genius who buys five brands of pregnancy tests and wants to take notes on hormone absorption timing.”

Spencer, already halfway down the hallway, called back, “Six brands actually! I bought a digital one too!”

You laughed, shutting the bathroom door behind you. God, you loved him. Even when you were peeing in a Solo cup.

On the other side of the door, Spencer stood perfectly still—extra Solo cup in hand, timer app open on his phone, a box with its unnecessarily convoluted instructions tucked under his arm—and all he could think about was how ridiculously, profoundly, absurdly in love he was with you.

There were nerves, of course. A thousand little flutters in his chest. A low, persistent hum of what if, what now, what next? But underneath it all, grounding him like bedrock, was you.

You, who asked for a Solo cup like it was part of a science fair project. You, who teased him for his obsession with test variables but still made sure to pee with clean aim for accuracy. You, who could be carrying the most life-altering news either of you had ever received—and were still making him laugh.

He leaned his forehead gently against the cool wall beside the door and exhaled slowly, a quiet little smile spreading across his face.

It should have been terrifying. Statistically, biologically, logistically—it was terrifying.

But it wasn’t. Not really. Not with you.

Because somehow—even now, with urine samples and packaging and potential futures swirling all around him—this was fun. This was you.

And that made it beautiful. Maybe even a little sexy, in that weird, brainy, wildly specific way that only Spencer Reid could feel: That his brilliant, hilarious, grounded, radiant girlfriend was helping him conduct the most emotional, chaotic, messy, real-life experiment of his life.

He adjusted the timer. Straightened the box. And whispered to himself, barely audible—“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“‘Kay, I’m done peeing in a cup,” you called with a laugh, voice echoing off the bathroom tile. “Start the timer!”

Spencer chuckled from the other side of the door, already reaching for his phone. “Three minutes, starting now.” He heard the water running, the soft clink of soap against the sink, and then the squeak of the door hinges as you opened it and peeked out—eyes bright, hands drying on a towel, entirely casual despite the gravity of the moment.

And that’s when it hit him.

Like a slow, warm wave breaking across his chest, flooding every part of him from his ribcage out.

This was it. This was the rest of his life.

You. In the bathroom. Laughing about pee. And somehow still managing to look like the most radiant, grounding thing in the universe.

And no matter what the test said—no matter what came next—Spencer realized he would be over the moon as long as it was with you. He’d known he wanted forever with you for a long time, but this moment… it carved it into his bones. Into his soul.

He was still staring at you when you tilted your head. “What?” you asked with a grin, towel draped over your shoulder as if this were all normal Tuesday.

Spencer blinked, mouth parting slightly. “Um… can I see the tests?”

You arched a brow. “You mean the tests soaking in my urine?”

He flushed instantly, ears pink, hand flapping in half-hearted defense. “Uh, yup. For science.”

You cackled, tossing the towel at him as you turned back toward the bathroom. “You are so weird, Spencer Reid.”

And he just smiled, deeply, hopelessly, because all he could think was: 

God, I hope our kid gets your laugh.

“Wow,” Spencer said, leaning over the sink, peering at the plastic sticks with far too much clinical curiosity.

You stepped in behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow already lifted. “Wow, what?”

He didn’t even look up, still squinting at the control lines. “You’re really hydrated.”

You blinked. “That’s what you’re taking from this moment?”

“Well,” he said, finally glancing at you with the most serious expression imaginable, “the urine is unusually clear. That’s textbook optimal hydration. It’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter, covering your face with both hands. “Spencer, I’m possibly pregnant, and you’re out here praising my pee clarity.”

Spencer smiled sheepishly, reaching out to gently touch your elbow. “I’m nervous,” he confessed.

You dropped your hands and leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest. “Me too.”

“Still,” he murmured into your hair, “ten out of ten for urine quality.”

You groaned into his shirt, and he held you closer, both of you laughing—but holding on just a little tighter.

The timer went off with a sharp, chirping beep!—far too loud, far too real—and you screamed. Just a bit. A quick, startled squeak that echoed off the bathroom walls.

Spencer jumped, nearly smacking his elbow on the counter. “Jesus,” he muttered, clutching his chest with wide eyes. “You scared me!”

You blinked rapidly, heart hammering in your ears, and looked at him with a shaky laugh. “You scared me!”

You both froze, still staring at each other, caught in the moment where possibility was still suspended in the air—just for a few seconds longer.

Spencer reached out and steadied the first test with two fingers. “Together?” he asked, voice low, trying to keep it calm, like his pulse wasn’t racing.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “One… two… three.”

You both leaned in. You tilted the test toward the light. Spencer adjusted his glasses. And—

Negative.

You blinked. “Wait. That’s… one line, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, eyes already scanning for the legend on the box. “One line. Definitely one. That’s negative.”

Your stomach fluttered, a weird combination of panic and relief and disbelief. “Okay—okay, next one.”

And like scientists on the verge of a breakthrough, the two of you tore through every single test—all six of them—analyzing, comparing, lining them up like a chemistry exhibit.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Every last one.

You leaned against the bathroom counter, your knees nearly giving out beneath the sheer wave of relief that rolled through you. Not because you didn’t love Spencer. Not because the idea of a family with him wasn’t beautiful in its own right.

But because you weren’t ready. Not financially. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not yet.

You were relieved because you could still breathe.

Spencer looked over at you, brows furrowed, searching your face like he was trying to interpret a result of his own. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice so gentle it made your throat tighten.

You nodded slowly, a hand pressed over your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”

And then—because it needed to be said—you looked up at him and smiled through the haze of adrenaline.

“I want your kids someday, Spencer,” you whispered. “Just… not today.”

He stepped forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “Not today,” he murmured into your hair, kissing the crown of your head. “But when the day comes… I’ll be ready.”

—

The invitation from Penelope had come a week ago—sparkly, pink, and slightly glittery, even though it had been sent via email. She was pulling out all the stops. A home-cooked, themed dinner for her “favorite humans in the galaxy,” complete with handmade place cards and “mood-boosting cocktails.” The kind of night you knew would be warm, heartfelt, and filled with laughter.

And you wanted to be excited—really. You had been looking forward to it all week, but today? Today was not your day.

You stood in front of the mirror with the fourth outfit of the evening clutched in your hands, your shoulders sagging. Everything you put on felt like a betrayal. Too tight, too loose, too bland, too loud. Your reflection stared back at you with tired eyes, frizzy hair that refused to lay flat no matter how many products you threw at it, and makeup that only seemed to exaggerate every flaw you’d tried to cover.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, tossing the outfit onto the bed like it had offended you.

You sat down at the edge of your mattress, hands in your lap, heart pounding with frustration. 

You (thought you) knew how this looked: dramatic, shallow, selfish. You were already spiraling; now guilt joined the spiral like it paid rent.

Why are you making this about you? Penelope worked so hard. Everyone's going to be in good spirits, and you’re gonna show up like a storm cloud. Maybe don’t go. They’ll understand. You’ll just say you’re sick. Or busy. Or tired. Anything.

But even that idea felt hollow. Because you wanted to be there. You wanted to laugh at Derek’s jokes and listen to JJ’s stories. You wanted to help Penelope in the kitchen and let Spencer go on one of his tangents that no one else would ever interrupt, even if they didn’t fully follow along. You wanted to belong tonight.

You just didn’t feel like you deserved to belong right now.

Your cheeks were flushed, not from blush, but from frustration. You were hot, your eyes glossy with unshed tears, and suddenly everything—your face, your skin, your clothes—felt tight.

You dropped your face into your hands, willing yourself to breathe, to calm down. But your brain wasn’t in logic mode. It wasn’t in anything mode. It was stuck.

You reached for your phone, thumb hovering over Penelope’s name.

Should you cancel?

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, hands gripping the hem of your shirt so tightly that your knuckles have gone white. The soft sound of keys jingling, the gentle creak of the front door, the quiet thud of shoes being taken off—it all hits your ears like warning bells. Spencer is home.

And your heart drops.

You hear him moving around, probably setting down his messenger bag, probably thinking everything is fine. That you’re just down the hall getting ready. That the two of you are going to head to Penelope’s in a few minutes, and everything will go exactly as planned.

But nothing feels okay. You look and feel like a mess. Not in the cute, slightly disheveled way people in rom-coms do, either. No, you feel like some pathetic swamp creature who thought makeup and a curling iron could make her human again and failed spectacularly.

Your stomach churns as you hear him start down the hall, and you backpedal away from the door like he's a ghost, unprepared for a haunting.

"Darling?" his voice is soft, a little curious. "You almost ready?"

You practically shriek the word. “No!”

There’s a pause. Then you hear his footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door. His voice, tentative but calm, filters through. “Is everything okay?”

You want to say yes, pull it together, and say something breezy like, “I just need five more minutes!” But the words won’t come.

So, instead, you crumble.

“No,” you whisper, and suddenly, your knees give way, and you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, covering your face with shaking hands as the dam finally breaks. “I look horrible. I feel horrible. I’ve tried on like ten different things, and none of them work. My face looks weird, my hair’s being stupid, and I don’t know why I even care so much, but I do, and now I feel guilty for making it all about me, and I just—” your voice cracks—“I just hate everything right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this, and I feel like a horrible, mean, ugly human being.”

The door opens slowly, and Spencer steps inside with that sort of quiet care he reserves for only the most delicate moments—like you might shatter if he makes too much noise.

You don’t look up.

But you feel the bed dip beside you.

And then his hand is sliding across your back in a soft, slow arc. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we don’t have to go.”

You jerk back slightly, lifting your tear-streaked face with wide, betrayed eyes. “Oh, so you think I look ugly too?”

Spencer blinks, stunned by your sharpness. “What? No, no, that’s not—”

You stand abruptly, pacing like a cornered animal. “Because that’s what it sounds like. Like you looked at me and thought, ‘Yeah, let’s not bring that thing out in public.’”

“Hey!” Spencer rises, hands out like he’s trying to calm a skittish deer. “That is not what I said. That’s not what I meant. You looked upset like you were hurting, and I just—I wanted to give you an out. Not because you look bad. Because I love you, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to perform for anyone tonight.”

You hesitate, arms crossed tightly over your chest, throat tightening.

His voice softens again, his eyes scanning your face with the kind of reverence that makes it almost unbearable to be seen. “I think you’re beautiful. Right now. Right this second. Even if your hair’s not doing what you want it to. Even if your makeup’s a little smudged. Even if you’re crying and blotchy and pacing like you want to throw me out the window.”

That last line earns him a reluctant sniff-laugh.

He takes a cautious step closer.

“I love you when you’re confident and glowing. I love you when you’re a mess in sweatpants. And I love you now when you’re somewhere in between and spiraling a little.” He reaches for your hand, tentative. “Can I love you like this, too?”

You stare at him, eyes glassy, breath trembling in your chest. And somehow—despite everything—you nod.

He tugs you gently into his chest, holding you tightly, anchoring you.

And then, into your hair, he murmurs, “But if you did want to skip the dinner and stay in and eat cereal on the floor with me, I wouldn’t complain.”

You let out a watery giggle, and just like that… something starts to ease.

You might still feel a little like a swamp monster. But at least now, you're his swamp monster.

Your voice is muffled slightly by the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “I do kind of want to throw you out the window, though.”

Spencer’s chest shakes with laughter, a surprised snort escaping him as he pulls back just enough to look down at you. His mouth curls into that crooked little smile he gets when he’s trying not to laugh too hard, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they always do when he’s genuinely amused.

“Noted,” he says, pretending to be solemn. “Hostile while emotionally compromised. I’ll avoid standing too close to windows.”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just accused me of calling them ugly and compared themselves to a swamp creature.”

You lift your head enough to give him a look. “Still considering the window.”

Spencer leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Joke's on you. I’m pretty sure Penelope has enchanted our windows, so I bounce back like a cartoon.”

You snicker, and this time it feels real. The kind of laugh that shakes something loose in your chest and makes the storm clouds shift a little.

He cups your face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing softly along your jaw as he studies you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been searching for his whole life. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even when you want to commit light domestic homicide.”

Your lips twitch upward as you reach up and tug gently on the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m very aware.”

You sigh, leaning your forehead against his again. “Okay. I’ll get dressed.”

He arches a brow. “You mean re-re-re-dressed?”

“Don’t push it, Reid.”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Never.”

—

Spencer stepped quietly into your apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His bag on the hook in its usual spot, shoes carefully untied and toed off with a bit of weariness in his bones. The case had been long, grueling—the kind that dragged down not just his body but his mind until all he wanted was to slip into the clean silence of your home and wash the world off his skin.

He moved on autopilot, following his usual ritual: drop his satchel, set his badge and keys on the hallway table, roll his shoulders once, twice.

Your office door was closed as he passed it, light leaking from the crack near the floor. No sound filtered out—just the soft glow.

He assumed you were on a Zoom call or deep in focus, so he didn’t knock or call out. Instead, he fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message, thumbs moving with quiet familiarity:

Hello, my love. I just got in—I’m going to shower (& sanitize). I love you.

You didn’t see the message until your meeting ended—your eyes blurry from too many shared screens, your voice tired from too many fake laughs, and professionally polite “mm-hmm”s. But as soon as your gaze landed on your phone and you saw Spencer’s name, everything else faded.

Your heart clenched in the best way. He’s here.

It had been over two weeks since you’d last seen him. Two long weeks of texts, phone calls, voice notes falling asleep to each other, and aching to close the distance. You’d missed him in the quiet ways—like reaching for a second mug without thinking or setting aside the blanket he always stole halfway through the night. The ache had been constant.

And now he was home.

You smiled, heart racing, and quickly wrapped up your last bits of work. You typed your final message, logged off, and pushed away from your desk with a quiet squeal of excitement you didn’t even try to suppress.

You heard the soft click of the shower shutting off from down the hall. You paused for a moment—smiling at the sound—then tiptoed out of your office, not wanting to interrupt.

You knew his process by now. The shower. The sanitizing. The quiet minutes he needed to decompress, to re-enter the world at his own pace after being knee-deep in trauma and adrenaline for days.

So, instead of rushing toward him like you wanted, you turned toward the kitchen, smiling, and began preparing tea—chamomile for him and jasmine for you.

You picked his favorite mug—the one with the periodic table printed in a perfect grid, the lettering slightly faded from years of use—and set it gently on the counter. The kettle purred softly to life beside it, and you stood still for a moment, wrapping your arms around yourself and soaking in the quiet comfort of home.

He was back. Finally, back.

Clean, safe, warm, and about to walk out of the bathroom smelling like cedar and mint and everything that calmed the worst parts of your nervous system.

The second he appeared in the doorway, barefoot and toweling off the ends of his hair, you turned to greet him with a soft smile—

Only for all words to leave your mouth in an offended gasp.

“What the fuck?” you blurted, voice sharp enough to make him pause mid-step.

Spencer froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Uh… nice to see you too, my love,” he said, chuckling nervously.

You stared at him, pointing dramatically. “Spencer, what the fuck!”

“What?” he asked, looking down at himself like he’d maybe forgotten to put on pants.

“Your hair!” you cried as if he’d committed a federal offense.

He blinked, then self-consciously reached up to ruffle the back of it. “Oh… yeah,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I got it cut. Since the case was in Vegas, I saw my old barber. Do you—do you like it?”

“Like it?” you repeated, spitting the word like it had personally insulted you. The audacity of this man.

“Yeah…” he hedged, now officially worried. “I know you loved it long, but it was starting to drive me crazy, getting in my eyes all the time, and—”

“Spencer Walter Reid…” you said in a slow, dangerous tone, beginning to cross the kitchen with purpose.

“Yes, darling?” he asked warily, hands raising slightly as you stalked toward him.

You kept walking until he was pressed against the counter, boxed in by your body, your arms on either side of him. His breath hitched as he looked down at you, searching your face.

“I love it so much,” you said slowly, deliberately, eyes raking up and down his freshly shorn frame, “I physically cannot contain myself any longer.”

And with that—before he could stammer out another syllable—you dropped to your knees in one smooth, reverent motion.

Spencer blinked. “Oh.”

His towel slipped out of his hands.

“Ohhh…”

And the kettle shrieked from the stove, but neither of you moved an inch.

Your hands were on him before he could fully register what was happening—gripping the waistband of his lounge pants, tugging them with a kind of desperation that made Spencer's breath hitch audibly.

“W-wait—wait,” he stammered, voice already shaking as he braced his hands on the edge of the counter, staring down at you with wide eyes. “You’re—you’re really doing this right now?”

“Spencer,” you said, voice low and laser-focused as you looked up at him from your knees, “I have been patient. I have been good. I have waited for you to come home. And then you come waltzing in here with this haircut like I wouldn’t lose my mind? I warned you.”

And then, with no more time to waste, you tugged his pants—and boxers—down in one quick motion, leaving them puddled at his ankles. Spencer made a strangled noise in response, already hard, twitching slightly from the abrupt exposure.

His hands gripped the counter tighter. “Jesus—”

But you didn’t give him time to protest, didn’t give him time to retreat into his brain and second-guess your every move. You leaned in, mouth warm and eager, your tongue dragging a slow, purposeful line up his length, just to watch him tremble.

“Oh my god—” he gasped, his head tipping back against the cabinets as you wrapped your lips around him, taking him in with a hungry sort of reverence. He was already panting, already muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, one of his hands reaching down to tangle shakily in your hair.

“You look—” he choked out, voice wrecked, “so pretty like this, you always—God, you always do—”

You moaned softly around him, and the vibration alone nearly made his knees buckle.

Spencer wasn’t composed anymore. He wasn’t calculating or analyzing or trying to keep up appearances. He was flushed and unraveling, his eyes glazed as he looked down at you with a kind of stunned disbelief, his words barely coherent between gasps.

“I—I was just trying to be practical,” he managed. “I didn’t know—you’d like it that much—”

You pulled off him for half a second, stroking him with one hand as you looked up, breathless and grinning.

“I love it, Spence. And I’m gonna show you exactly how much.”

And then you went back down—no teasing this time, just heat and need and your mouth wrapped around him like he was the only thing that could possibly satisfy you.

As Spencer leaned back against the counter, moaning your name, his head tipped up, exposing his throat and making his curls—what was left of them—fall back just slightly. His mouth was slack, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, and his body trembling from the sensation of your mouth on him.

And that was fine. It was good, actually. Great, even. Except—

You couldn’t see his hair.

The whole reason you’d dropped to your knees like a woman possessed, the reason your tea was going cold and the kettle forgotten—the haircut. And now his head was thrown back, and you couldn’t even enjoy the view.

Frustration bubbled up in your chest—hot, petty, and somehow very on brand.

So, mid-suck, with him seconds from completely unraveling, you pulled back just slightly and gently flicked the inside of his thigh.

“Ah!” Spencer jerked, startled, eyes snapping down with a gasp. “W-what—”

You didn’t let him finish. You just grinned wide and smug, then winked at him from your place on the floor like the devil in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He blinked in dazed confusion—still panting, still overwhelmed—until he saw you deliberately lick a slow, noisy stripe up his length, from base to tip, saliva catching the light and your tongue curling with purpose.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice cracked and desperate.

And then, before he could say anything else, you wrapped your lips around him again—slow and deep—hollowing your cheeks and drawing a choked moan from his throat.

He watched you now, just as you wanted. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, completely at your mercy.

You could feel the tension in his thighs, his stomach, the way his hips subtly shifted toward you like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed you more than oxygen.

“You’re so—so good at this,” he babbled helplessly, eyes locked to yours now like they couldn’t stray for even a second.

And you? You were thrilled. Because you had his full attention. You were in control. And Spencer Reid, freshly shorn and entirely wrecked, was yours to ruin.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

With him trembling above you, chest heaving, hair slightly damp at the edges from the shower—and now sweat—you reached one hand up and rubbed slow, teasing circles across the lower part of his stomach. Right where you knew it made him twitch. Right where the tension was coiling.

Spencer let out a punched-out whimper—high, breathless, and almost painful. The sound sent a jolt of satisfaction through your body. Poor thing, you thought, smiling around the tip of him still resting against your lips.

“Close, baby?” you asked, lips brushing against him with every syllable, the slight motion making him flinch with overstimulation.

“Hngh,” was all he could manage—his whole body shuddering, jaw slack, his hand barely managing to stay braced against the counter.

You pulled off entirely then, stroking him with your hand, watching him try so hard to keep his focus through the haze.

“Do you want to come once or twice?” you asked lightly like it was a casual question about takeout. Your voice was soft but wicked, your touch relentless.

“Huh?” Spencer blinked down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused, like he’d forgotten what language was.

You tilted your head and grinned. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Spencer shook his head, curls bouncing slightly. “N–no, just um—can you elaborate, please?” he asked, voice cracking, and God, he was still trying to be polite. Still trying to keep up, even now.

“So polite, baby,” you purred, pressing a gentle kiss to the space just above his pelvis, your lips soft against the trail of hair leading down. “You’re going to fuck me in front of the mirror.”

Spencer made a soft choking noise.

You smiled. "So, do you want to come now and later?”

You paused, watching his face.

“Or just later?”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—”

You gave him a slow stroke right up the base just to ruin whatever he was about to say.

“Baby,” he whispered, completely undone, “I don’t think I can not come right now.”

“Twice it is,” you grinned, smug and devastating, as you took him back into your mouth like the promise you fully intended to keep.

It only took seconds.

Just a few more hollowed strokes of your cheeks, a well-timed swirl of your tongue, and then Spencer's hands—those long, elegant fingers usually reserved for page corners and coffee mugs—suddenly gripped your hair with urgency. Not rough. Just needy. His hips jerked forward, and his breath hitched like something inside him had finally snapped.

“Oh— God, I—I’m coming,” he gasped, voice hoarse and desperate, words tumbling over themselves as his control gave out entirely.

And then he did.

You moaned around him as the first pulse hit the back of your throat, your hands tightening at his hips, not to hold him back but to keep him close. You loved this part—this version of Spencer. The one who lost his polish, who couldn’t form sentences, who whimpered your name as he spilled into your mouth, utterly undone.

His knees nearly buckled, and his head dropped forward, curls swaying slightly as he looked down at you—looked at you, watching the way you swallowed him, the way your mouth didn’t falter once.

He groaned, something incoherent, his grip loosening as you pulled off him slowly, carefully, licking your lips as if you had all the time in the world.

When you stood, Spencer was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d just run five miles and solved a puzzle at the same time. His hands reached out instinctively, resting on your waist, eyes wide and still dazed.

You leaned in, nose brushing his, and whispered, “One down.”

And with that, you turned toward the bedroom, swaying your hips as you went—leaving him to catch his breath and follow you.

It took Spencer a moment to move—not just because his legs were still wobbly from the most mind-melting orgasm of his life, but because his brain was still trying to reboot. You had left him completely spent in the kitchen, looking like he'd been hit by a truck driven by a succubus.

When he finally managed to walk to the bedroom, half-dazed and barefoot, he paused in the doorway like he’d just walked into another dimension.

You were at the end of the bed, repositioning the mirror—the standing mirror—the one you always joked you only had so he could adjust his ties with mathematical precision. You were angling it with purpose, adjusting the tilt just right, your sweatpants already low on your hips and your shirt riding up as you stretched to fix the frame.

He blinked. “Jesus.”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, eyes dark and amused. “Took you long enough,” you teased, running a hand down your side. “Starting to think you passed out in the hallway.”

Spencer’s throat worked as he swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought, but you were already stepping toward him, your smile just this side of dangerous.

“You gonna help me out of my clothes, handsome?” you asked sweetly, standing in front of him now, your hands hanging loosely at your sides—open, inviting, already daring him to touch.

Spencer looked down at you like you were a gift he hadn’t done enough to deserve. His hands reached out almost reverently, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, eyes flickering up to yours.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough, lips parted, finally catching up. "Yeah, I am."

And then he got to work—slow at first, but certain—because if you were going to give him the privilege of watching you come apart in front of that mirror…

He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

As soon as your clothes hit the floor, Spencer’s breath caught—and something in him shifted.

Whatever had been fogging his mind—the daze, the post-orgasmic haze, the stunned reverence—was gone. Replaced by sharp, focused intent. His eyes raked down your body with a hunger he didn’t even try to mask, and for a second, he just stood there, drinking you in.

Then he tore off his shirt like it was offending him.

And you? You moved like you had choreography in your bones.

You climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the air charged with the promise of what was about to come. You planted your hands firmly at the edge of the mattress, then your knees, shifting until you were arched just right—back curved like a bow, ass up, thighs parted, and your gaze fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You knew what you looked like. You knew what you were doing to him.

You swayed your hips once—just a little—to emphasize the view, a soft smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “Well?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

Spencer blinked like you’d pulled him from a trance. His hands flexed at his sides, and he stepped forward like a man possessed, crawling up behind you onto the mattress, his body humming with tension.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing along your spine as he got into position behind you, “how long I’ve wanted to see this.”

His hands slid over your hips, gripping them just tight enough to ground you both, and when you met your own eyes in the mirror and saw his just behind you—dark, intent, full of heat—you knew: This wasn’t going to be soft. It was going to be glorious.

You whined softly, back arching a little more just to urge him closer. To invite him in.

“Gotta start telling me what you want, baby,” you pouted, your voice breathy but coaxing, playful and honest all at once. “I want to give you everything.”

Spencer leaned forward, his chest warm against your back as he wrapped one arm around your middle, his hand splayed across your soft stomach while the other gripped your hip like it was something sacred.

Then he nuzzled his face right behind your ear, his breath hot and steady, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “You are everything.”

Your breath hitched, the words hitting deeper than anything else he could’ve said.

Not “you’re giving me everything.” Not “you do everything for me.” Not “you’re mine.”

You are everything.

And the way he said it—like it was fact, like it had always been true, like it would be true in any universe, in any lifetime—made your stomach flutter and your heartache all at once.

“Spencer…” you breathed, trembling just a little, caught somewhere between need and love and complete, delicious surrender.

His grip tightened, adjusting you carefully until he had the perfect angle. You could feel the tension radiating from him—he was holding back, barely, his control hanging by a thread.

“Look in the mirror,” he said lowly, lips pressed to your neck. “I want you to see what everything looks like.”

This time, the sound that escaped you wasn’t a tease—it was a whimper, high and needy, trembling on your breath as your eyes locked with his in the mirror.

There he was—your beautiful, brilliant boyfriend, hair freshly cut, eyes blown wide with want, jaw slack with reverence. So much reverence. You watched the way his hands gripped your hips, possessive but gentle, the way he steadied you, angled you just right like you were something delicate and dangerous.

And then—God—he lined himself up with your entrance, his tip nudging against you, the anticipation thick in the space between your bodies.

“This…” you whispered, your voice hitching as your hips rocked back ever so slightly. “This was one of my best ideas.”

Spencer laughed—soft and wrecked and disbelieving—as he brushed his lips along your shoulder. “I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Because from this angle, you could see everything. The way your back arched so prettily for him. The way his stomach tensed as he held himself there, barely keeping it together. The way his face twisted with wonder when he finally—finally—began to push inside.

You gasped, your mouth falling open, your hands gripping the sheets in front of you as your eyes stayed locked with his in the mirror. He watched you feel him—watched your lips part, your lashes flutter, your shoulders twitch.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice shaky like the sensation was pulling the wind out of him. “You look… fuck, baby.”

And then he slid in all the way. Deep. Slow. A brand new angle for both of you.

You both gasped—yours soft and broken, his low and strangled—because it felt like a discovery like something you hadn’t even known was missing.

Your forehead dropped briefly to your arm as your body adjusted, and Spencer stayed perfectly still, just long enough to let you breathe. But his hands never stopped moving—stroking your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice tight. “Look.”

You did. And what you saw nearly undid you. Him—flush against your back, jaw slack, eyes molten. You—open and trembling and shining with love and desire.

It wasn’t just hot. It was intimate. Deep. Raw.

“Spencer—” you cried out, the word torn from your throat like it was the only one you could remember.

You weren’t just overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside you—it was everything. The mirror, the way he held you, the soft sounds he made behind you, the way his eyes never left yours. You could feel the love radiating from him, threaded through every inch of pressure, every breathy curse under his breath, every reverent touch.

And then—then—he began to move.

His hips pulled back, slow and smooth, only to roll forward again with just enough force to send a jolt straight through your core. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Controlled. Like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him with every thrust.

And then it happened.

On his second stroke, maybe third—he found it. That spot.

That maddening, impossible-to-reach place inside you that no one else had ever quite managed to touch. Not like this. Not so directly. Not so perfectly.

Your mouth dropped open. Your body jerked forward slightly on the bed. Your eyes snapped to the mirror.

Your reflection was flushed, lips parted, spine arched, eyes blown wide with disbelief and sudden, undeniable need.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, your voice ragged and high-pitched as your hands clawed at the sheets. “Spence—Spencer, I—”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your brain had short-circuited. There were no words.

Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t just getting close. You weren’t trying to chase pleasure or grind your hips to make it happen.

No.

It was happening to you.

This need—violent, urgent, absolute—rushed through you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook. Your stomach clenched. Your breath came in short, panicked little gasps.

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, voice breaking as you looked at him in the mirror, wide-eyed and stunned. “I’m gonna cum. Right now. Spencer, I—I can’t—”

His eyes darkened instantly. One hand flew to your stomach, holding you still, while the other grabbed your hip tighter, anchoring you as he pressed in again with that same perfect angle.

But instead of saying anything even remotely helpful to the fact that you were about to explode—that your body was drawing taut like a bowstring about to snap—Spencer, in true Spencer fashion, didn’t react with encouragement or praise or even a filthy promise to make you scream.

No. He launched into a monologue.

“You know,” he began, breath still stuttering as he thrust into you again—deeper—like he wanted to make sure you felt every syllable, “the anterior wall of the vaginal canal—what’s colloquially known as the g-spot—is composed of erectile tissue. It swells when aroused. That’s why this angle—this one—stimulates it so consistently.”

You gasped—because of the thrust. Because of him. But also—because of him.

“Spencer,” you moaned, but there was no protest in it. Only need.

“And,” he went on, so casually, as if he wasn’t currently making your whole body shake, “researchers used to debate whether the g-spot even existed, but current studies support its presence as part of the clitourethrovaginal complex—which explains why internal and external stimulation together can cause—”

“Spence!” you cried, a sob of arousal breaking through your voice as your arms gave out and your face dropped to the sheets.

He moaned at the sight, one hand sliding from your hip up to your back, pressing gently but firmly between your shoulder blades to keep you arched just right. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he panted, lips right by your ear now. “Your body’s proving the theory.”

You whimpered something unintelligible.

“Every time I hit it—your legs twitch. Your breathing changes. Your walls get tighter.” He thrust again, deep and devastating. “You want me to tell you what’s happening? What I’m doing to you?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, eyes locked on your own wrecked reflection in the mirror.

“You’re about to experience an involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor muscles due to the intensity of pressure on your internal nerve endings,” he whispered, sweet and filthy and so proud of himself. “That’s what your orgasm is, baby. And it’s happening now.”

And with one final, perfect thrust—

It did. You shattered.

Your scream tore through the room like lightning—raw, high, unapologetic. It was the kind of sound you couldn’t hold back even if you tried, your body going rigid as the orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your mouth stayed open in a soundless cry as waves of pleasure crashed through you again and again.

Behind you, Spencer choked on a gasp.

“Darling—OH!” he blurted, his voice ragged and cracking under the force of it. “Oh my god—shit, that’s so—tight—”

You clenched around him like a vice, the spasms of your climax pulling him deeper, keeping him there, and Spencer—bless his heart—was doing everything in his power to keep his composure. But his hips stuttered, his breath coming in desperate, short bursts, and his hands trembled where they gripped your waist.

“I—I’m really—” he tried, blinking rapidly at the mirror, jaw slack, completely wrecked. “That—oh my god—you feel—fuck, I can’t—”

You whined, your hips twitching back against him instinctively, still in the throes of your own release, oversensitive and overwhelmed and barely capable of forming a single thought.

“Please,” he groaned, almost begging now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re still—Jesus, you’re still clenching—”

You were. You knew you were. Your body was betraying you in the best way, milking him, holding him in place, and you could feel him falling apart.

And still, through the blur of heat and haze, you had the audacity to whisper, “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.”

That was it.

Spencer snapped, burying himself deep with a low, devastated groan as he came hard, his entire body shuddering against you, hands flexing on your hips like he didn’t know where to hold on. He moaned your name into your skin, soft and wrecked, riding out every last wave of it like he had nothing else left to give.

And then you both collapsed—boneless, breathless, completely undone.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—collapsed in a tangle of limbs and overstimulated nerves, your chest pressed to the sheets, and Spencer draped over your back like he’d just been hit by divine intervention.

His breathing was still ragged, warm puffs of air against your shoulder as he let out a small, dazed noise that might’ve been a laugh, a whimper, or possibly both.

“Okay,” he finally managed, voice muffled in your hair. “That was… I don’t even have words.”

You smiled lazily into the pillow. “Do I need to get you a thesaurus?”

Spencer let out a huff of a laugh, collapsing fully to the side and rolling off of you with a very dramatic groan, like his soul was trying to reenter his body.

“Not even that would help,” he muttered, his hand reaching out instinctively to find yours, fingers lacing together on the sheets between you. “I think I need a new language.”

You giggled, turning your face toward him. “You sound wrecked.”

“I am wrecked,” he replied, still blinking up at the ceiling like he was trying to remember how to function. 

You laughed harder, your chest shaking as you dragged your fingers lazily over the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, warm and sparkling even through the haze. “Come here,” he murmured, tugging you gently until you rolled into his arms, your leg draped over his and your face tucked into his shoulder.

For a few minutes, it was just that—quiet breathing, tangled sheets, your bodies cooling down slowly, your hearts still beating a little fast. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then one to your forehead, then another to your temple.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling against his skin.

“You were amazing,” he added, voice low and still just a little shaky. “Terrifying. Powerful. A little possessed, maybe.”

“Good possessed or bad possessed?”

“The sexy kind.”

You laughed again, breathless and content. “Your hair looks so good. I had to do something.”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “If this is how you react to my haircut, I’m gonna start getting it trimmed every three weeks.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers pushing his short, soft curls from his forehead. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His smile softened completely. “I love you too.”

And then, because of course he did, he added, “And I’m going to need to hydrate. Like… medically.”

You snorted, burying your face in his chest. “I’ll get the water. You stay here and recover.”

“Please,” he sighed, eyes closing, “and maybe a protein bar. And an ice pack. And—”

You kissed his chest once, grinning. “Don’t push your luck, Doctor.”

—

The first thing you felt was wet.

Too wet. Too warm. Not sweat, not a dream, not anything your sleepy brain could dismiss. You were still half-asleep when you shifted slightly in Spencer’s bed, but then—that feeling. The unmistakable gush.

Your eyes flew open. Wide. Alert.

Shit.

You moved quickly—automatically, like muscle memory. Years of this kind of panic had taught you not to waste time. You slipped out of bed with practiced stealth, careful not to jostle Spencer, who remained peacefully asleep on his side, facing away, one hand tucked under the pillow. His breathing was steady, unbothered.

Yours was not.

You rushed into the bathroom, closed the door gently behind you, and sat down on the toilet to assess the damage—and wow.

It was bad.

Blood was everywhere. Deep red smeared along the inside of your thighs, soaked through your underwear and sweatpants. You leaned forward slightly to confirm what you already knew—yep. This wasn’t a small spot. This was a full-on massacre.

Which meant—Spencer’s sheets.

With a soft, muffled groan, you let your head fall into your hands. Of course this would happen here, of all places. In his crisp, perfectly tucked bed. At his place, where everything had its place, and even the disorganized things were carefully thought out.

Panic prickled up your spine. But then, almost on cue—the cramps hit.

Sharp, low, mean. The kind that started in your lower abdomen and twisted cruelly down into your thighs, your back, your entire soul.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself just to get it together, but it was too late. The frustration, the pain, the embarrassment, the sudden flood of hormones all collapsed onto you at once, and your eyes began to sting.

And then—quietly, shamefully—you started to cry.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Just silent, salty tears sliding down your cheeks as you sat there on the toilet, pants around your ankles, bleeding, cramping, and absolutely done with the universe.

You didn’t want to wake Spencer. You didn’t want him to see this, to see you like this. Not messy and raw and vulnerable, with blood on his sheets and tears in your eyes. You just needed a second to breathe.

To figure out what the hell to do.

But then—behind the door—you heard it.

A soft, sleepy shuffle. And then, “…Baby?”

Double shit.

“Mhm?” you hummed, trying to keep your voice light, unbothered, totally not on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. You blinked furiously, swiping under your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt to catch the tears before they could betray you further.

Luckily, Spencer—sweet, brilliant Spencer—was not much of a profiler when he was sleep-soft and barely conscious. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice thick with drowsiness, muffled by the pillow.

You forced a laugh, the sound catching awkwardly in your throat. “Yeah, Spence, just… peeing.”

There was a pause, “You never pee in the middle of the night.”

You winced. Of course, he noticed.

“What? Ye,s I do,” you countered weakly. “How would you even know that?”

Another pause. A yawn. Then, with a gentle sort of logic only he could muster at 3 a.m., he said, “We’ve been together for almost three years. I’d know if you got up at night for any reason.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping. Damn him and his intimate knowledge of your bladder. “I drank a lot of water.”

“‘Kay…” he mumbled, his voice already fading as he accepted the excuse—sleep claiming him again like it always did. You could picture him now, curled on his side, arm stretched across your empty pillow, eyes closed again.

But the relief didn’t last long.

Because you knew what came next. Either he’d roll over and see the dark stain on the sheets. Or he’d start to wonder why it was taking you ten minutes to pee. Or worse—he’d hear you opening the wrapper of a pad or tampon in the stillness of his quiet apartment, and then he’d know.

There was no getting out of this unnoticed. No clever exit strategy. No plausible deniability.

You looked down at the wreckage between your legs, at the blood smeared on your thighs, and felt the tears spring up again. Not because you were ashamed—not really. Just… overwhelmed. Hormonal. Humiliated, despite yourself.

And so, with a shaky inhale and a wobble in your voice that gave you away immediately, you called out, “Spence…”

You heard the shift of blankets. The weight of him sitting up. “Yeah?” he called back, more awake now, concern threading through the syllable.

You stared at the door like it might disappear if you wished hard enough, heart pounding, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. You felt small, fragile—not because you were bleeding, not because this had never happened before, but because it had happened here. In his bed. In his perfect little world, and suddenly you were convinced he’d see it as something wrong, something gross, something too much.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to cry again, but your throat was already tight. You just… needed him. Needed his eyes. His voice. The quiet steadiness only he could give.

“Can you…” you paused, your voice already cracking. You blinked away fresh tears and tried again, quieter this time. “Can you come in here, please?”

There was a pause—only a second or two—but it felt like a lifetime.

Then the sound of soft shuffling feet across hardwood.

The door creaked open slowly, the warm light from the hallway spilling in and catching Spencer’s sleepy, confused face. His curls were flattened on one side, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his eyes squinted until they landed on you—sitting on the toilet, legs drawn up, eyes wide and glossy.

Immediately, he softened. “Hey,” he said gently, stepping in and closing the door behind him like he could shield you from the rest of the world. “What’s going on?”

You sniffled once, suddenly unsure how to say it now that he was right there. “I, um…”

His eyes dropped to the clothes bunched around your ankles—bloodstained. His expression didn’t change, not in the way you feared. No grimace. No shock. Just a flicker of realization, and then something warm.

You inhaled sharply, trying to get it out. “I think I got blood on your sheets. I—I didn’t mean to. I woke up, and it just—there was so much, and I didn’t notice right away, and I’m so sorry, Spencer, I didn’t mean to make a mess, and I know how clean you like things, and I just—”

Spencer just nodded at first, still waking up, his mind turning over the facts at a slower pace than usual. You watched him, waiting for something—anything—that looked like reassurance. Like relief. Like love. But all you got was that blank, sleepy processing expression, and your chest constricted with a wave of shame so sharp it made your stomach twist.

He wasn't disgusted. But he wasn't saying anything either. And your brain, already loud and hormonal, filled in every awful blank.

You looked away quickly, blinking back tears that had already started to spill. Your lip quivered, and before you could stop it, the sob came. Soft. Gutted. Mortifying.

You turned your face toward the tile, trying to muffle it with your sleeve, but you couldn’t hide it fast enough.

And then—

“Hey.”

His voice cut through your spiral like a lifeline. It was soft, but firm. Awake now. Clear. Anchoring.

“Look at me,” he said again, and this time, it wasn’t a request.

You turned, hesitating, your vision blurry with tears. Spencer was kneeling in front of you now, close and grounded and fully Spencer again, his eyes wide and so full of you that your chest ached.

His hands reached gently for your thighs, grounding you. “I didn’t say anything right away because I’m still waking up,” he said softly, his brows knit with guilt. “Not because I’m mad. Or weirded out. Or upset. I’m just tired. And slow.”

You tried to breathe through your sobs, but one still escaped as you wiped furiously at your cheeks.

Spencer moved closer, cupping your face with both hands now, his thumbs brushing your wet cheeks. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re okay.”

You sniffled, looking up at him. “I bled on your sheets.”

He nodded solemnly, and then, gently—genuinely—said, “Then we’ll wash them.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, hiding your face in your hands as more tears slipped out—this time not from shame, but from the slow, warm relief that came with being seen and not judged.

“But they’ll be stained, Spence,” you murmured, peeking at him through your fingers.

“Darling,” he said patiently like he was reminding you the sky was still blue, “I know for a fact you know how to get blood out of cloth. You’ve told me about your victory stories—like, detailed accounts. I’m still haunted by that one involving your white skirt and a hotel bathroom sink.”

You sniffed, lips tugging upward. “That was legendary.”

“Exactly. And,” he added with a tiny shrug, “they’re white sheets. You know I have a concerning amount of bleach.”

“But what about your mattress?” you asked, still curled on the toilet like your shame had taken up permanent residence.

Spencer blinked. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have a mattress cover?”

That did it.

You laughed—really laughed. A wet, sniffling, hiccupping sound that bubbled up unexpectedly and made your shoulders shake. And Spencer smiled like the sun had come up in the middle of his bathroom.

“There it is,” he whispered, leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours, his hands cupping your face like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened in this apartment,” he said softly, reverently. “Sheets be damned.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch, forehead pressed to his, and whispered, “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Even though I own three kinds of bleach?”

You grinned. “Especially because you own three kinds of bleach.”

And with that, you melted into him, his arms wrapping around you, warm and solid and home.

His face was open and soft, with nothing but calm concern in those honey-brown eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You bit your lip hard, tears threatening again as you gave a soft, wet laugh. “I feel like a swamp creature.”

He smiled. “You look like my girlfriend, who’s going to stay put while I handle the cleanup.”

You blinked. “Spencer—”

“Nope,” he said, standing and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You take a warm shower, get a clean pair of sweats, a heating pad, and some water. I get to boss you around this time.”

“But—” you started, eyes widening as he stood up with purpose, clearly about to tackle the entire linen situation like it was a crime scene.

“No buts,” Spencer said immediately, already halfway to the door, waving a hand over his shoulder like he was shooing your protest away.

“But Spencer, really—!”

“Nuh-uh,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “Can’t hear you, my darling, beautiful girlfriend who deserves to stand in the warm water and not worry about anything right now.”

You groaned softly, watching him grab the corner of the sheet through the crack in the bathroom door. “Wear gloves, please!”

Without missing a beat, he called back, chipper as anything, “Already on it!”

You laughed because, of course, he was. Of course, Spencer Reid had a drawer specifically for latex gloves, a plan for this exact scenario, and the sheer determination to act like this was no big deal when, to you, it had felt like the end of the world.

But somehow, because of him, it didn’t anymore.

After your shower—hot water, fresh sweatpants, clean skin—you felt human again. Spencer had already changed the sheets by the time you stepped out. Now, the two of you were nestled back in bed, the world calm again.

You were curled on your side, your back pressed to Spencer’s chest, his arms warm and secure around your middle. One of his hands rested gently over your lower stomach, fingers stroking soft, slow circles as you breathed through another cramp.

It was one of those quiet, sleepy moments that made you feel impossibly close—like the tears in the bathroom belonged to someone else entirely.

Until Spencer snorted.

You groaned, eyes still closed. “What?”

“I just realized something,” he said, the grin already in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength. “Hmm?”

“This just confirms that you’re not pregnant.”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him over your shoulder with the most unimpressed expression you could manage.

And then, without a word, you leaned back further… and bit him.

“Ow!” he yelped, laughing through it, more startled than hurt. “Did you just—did you bite me?!”

“Shut up,” you muttered, burying your face in your pillow. “You ruin everything.”

“I do not! That was a scientific observation!”

“That was a death wish.”

He kissed the spot just beneath your ear with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around you tighter and whispering into your hair, “Worth it.”

You grumbled something incomprehensible, but you didn’t pull away.

Because he might ruin the moment—but he always stayed for it.

—

You hadn’t expected this errand to be sexy.

You were wearing sneakers, your hair in a claw clip, armed with a reusable water bottle and a list of budget-friendly desktop specs you’d scribbled down on a grocery list sticky pad. It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the electronics store so you could finally finish putting together your in-home office.

You were not prepared for Spencer to unleash his full brainpower in public like that.

It started innocently enough—just you and Spencer walking through the glossy aisles, checking out all the little info cards taped to the front of the monitors. You were squinting at acronyms and numbers you didn’t fully understand when Spencer stepped in behind you and said:

“This one’s solid, but the CPU’s clock speed might throttle under long-term workload if you’re running multiple programs at once—what do you usually keep open?”

You blinked at him. “Um… a few tabs. Zoom. Spotify. Sometimes Canva.”

He hummed. “Then we’ll need something with more RAM. Come here—this one has better ventilation anyway.”

And then it happened.

The tech guru from the store spotted you browsing and walked over. Before you could say a single word, Spencer launched into a ten-minute conversation that melted your brain.

They weren’t arguing, exactly—it was more of a debate but spoken in a language you had no fluency in. They talked about chipsets, thermal paste, GPU acceleration, and workstation stability. Spencer's hands moved when he talked, animated and passionate, and he kept pushing his hair out of his face like he didn’t realize how gorgeous he looked doing it. His eyes lit up like a storm every time he referenced a comparison model or corrected the tech guy with some obscure benchmark test result from a research article he’d read for fun.

And you?

You stood there, one aisle over, pretending to inspect a wireless mouse with your legs crossed and your entire body fighting not to squirm.

Because Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t just the brain. It was the way he used it.

The way his confidence never once turned arrogant. The way he explained things with precision, not to show off, but because he cared. Because he wanted you to have the right computer, the right setup, the right everything.

And God, it was hot. So, ridiculously hot.

By the time he walked back over to you, satisfied and smiling, you were barely holding it together.

“I got him to knock 10% off,” Spencer beamed, completely unaware of the fire he’d lit in your bloodstream. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat, trying not to stare at his hands, the curve of his neck where his collar dipped, or how he was breathing just slightly heavier from the excitement. “Mhm. Yep. Totally fine.”

“You sure?” he tilted his head, concerned. “You’re red.”

“Just… warm in here,” you lied, nodding quickly as you reached for your water bottle and took the biggest sip of your life.

And Spencer, bless him, just smiled and looped an arm around your waist like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, you were already making plans to thank him properly the second you got home.

And you tried. You really did.

You tried to be patient, to make it home, to let the moment pass. You even rolled the window down a little, hoping the breeze would cool your face, your thoughts, or at least the burning in your stomach that had started the moment Spencer said “liquid cooling system” with that tone.

But then he put the car in reverse.

And when he reached back—long fingers braced on the headrest, torso twisting as he craned his neck to back out of the parking spot—his sweater pulled tight across his chest, exposing just a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and that was it.

Your rational mind just… left the building.

You reached across the console, hand sliding deliberately—dangerously—up his thigh. Not his knee. Not the middle. High up. Just shy of making him stall entirely.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice dropped into a whisper, already laced with alarm and heat. “What are you doing??”

You gave him a wide-eyed, perfectly innocent look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He turned his head to look at you fully now, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening like storm clouds.

“You can’t do that while I’m driving,” he said, sounding like he was trying to be stern but failing miserably. His voice cracked slightly, betraying how badly he was losing the upper hand.

You leaned in, fingers curling a little tighter where they rested. “Then maybe you shouldn’t reverse like a goddamn movie star.”

Spencer groaned—actually groaned—and his hand on the gearshift visibly tightened. “You are going to be the death of me.”

You just smiled, smug and a little breathless, and whispered, “Then maybe you should pull over.”

And for one heart-stopping second, Spencer looked like he was seriously considering it.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said, like the words "Then maybe you should pull over" had knocked loose the last shred of his reason. He gawked at you, scandalized in the most Spencer Reid way possible—mouth parted, voice caught in his throat, one hand still clenched on the gearshift like it was the only tether holding him to the physical realm.

“W-we’re in public,” he stammered, blinking hard like maybe he’d hallucinated the look in your eyes. “In a parking lot. In a daylight-hour parking lot. W-with pedestrians. And children, probably—”

“Then drive,” you said lowly, your voice dipped in honey and need, all but panting as you slid your hand another inch higher on his thigh. “But hurry.”

Spencer practically squeaked. “Y/N—this isn’t rational. You’re—this is a stress response. You’re likely experiencing elevated hormones from the pregnancy scare—your body is reacting, not thinking—”

“I don’t want to think,” you growled, leaning closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “I want to feel. And I want you.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he blindly pulled the car out of the parking spot, jerking a little too hard in reverse before shifting into drive. “I’m not—not saying no,” he breathed quickly, blinking down the road, “I’m just saying—I’m not sure I can survive this drive.”

And then, as he finally got the car moving forward, you did it. Your hand left his thigh and slipped under his sweater.

You slid your palm slowly, deliberately, up the soft skin of his stomach. It was warm, smooth, and just a bit tense from how tightly he was holding himself together. Your fingers traced the curve just above his waistband, dragging lightly up to the center of his abdomen and rubbing in slow, tender circles.

Spencer heaved. Actually, visibly gasped. His breath punched out of him like someone had knocked the wind from his lungs.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, chest rising and falling fast. “You’re so mean.”

You smiled, wicked and wanting, your palm never stopping its soft, devastating rhythm. “I’m just in love,” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “And so fucking turned on.”

Spencer swallowed audibly. And then—his voice wrecked, his eyes laser-focused on the road like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting—he muttered:

“We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

And you just giggled, victorious. Because you had broken Spencer Reid. And he was loving every second of it.

…

You weren’t even pretending to behave anymore.

The desktop—the whole reason you went out in the first place—was long forgotten in the trunk of Spencer’s car, left to fend for itself like some abandoned prop in a scene that had taken a very different turn. Spencer had practically skidded into the parking spot outside his building, the car still humming as he put it in park with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was one heavy breath away from losing it completely.

And now? Now you were following him up the stairs. Teasing him.

Relentlessly.

You stayed one step behind him, close enough to keep your hand on his back as he climbed. Occasionally you'd let your fingers slip just under the hem of his sweater, brushing along the warm, smooth skin of his lower back. The first time you did it, he stumbled. Just slightly. You giggled.

“Are you okay?” you asked sweetly, breathless with amusement.

“No,” he muttered, not even pretending otherwise, gripping the railing like it might protect him from you. “This is… so wildly unsafe for public decency standards.”

“I haven’t even touched anything inappropriate yet,” you whispered near his ear, letting your fingers skate higher this time, grazing the small dip in his spine.

Spencer made a noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper. “Yet.”

By the second flight, he was walking faster—clearly trying to outpace your hand, your mouth, your teasing. But it only made you more determined. You bumped your chest into his back at the landing, pressing close.

“You’re really gonna make me wait until we get inside?” you purred, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Spencer turned his head just enough to glance at you. His face was completely flushed, and curls started to stick to his forehead from the effort of moving quickly and not losing it right there on the stairs.

“I am this close to dragging you back down the stairs and into the passenger seat,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But there are cameras in the parking lot.”

You grinned. “And in the hallway?”

Spencer groaned. “You need to stop talking.”

But the key was already in his hand, and the front door was just ahead.

One more hallway. One more breath. And then you'd both stop pretending to be patient.

By the time you reached his front door, you couldn’t take it anymore.

Whatever self-control you had left—what little scraps remained after his parking lot heroics and that breathless spiral up the stairs—snapped.

As soon as Spencer fumbled with the key, you reached for him. Not gently. Not cautiously. Desperately.

You grabbed the fabric of his sweater, yanked him back against you, and smushed your mouth against his before he could even turn the lock. It was all heat and need, wild and unrestrained. Spencer gasped against you, his hands flailing for a moment before settling on your waist, trying to ground himself.

Your hands cupped his jaw, your fingers curling behind his neck, dragging him down into it as if you couldn’t get close enough. And he gave in completely, the key still awkwardly wedged between his fingers as he let you take the lead.

God, his mouth.

The same lips that could rattle off facts about deep-sea bioluminescence and ancient numeral systems and crash test safety ratings were now parted and panting and helpless beneath yours. The same mouth that had once shyly asked if you liked milk in your tea, that whispered book quotes into your skin, that lectured you on the proper way to hold a scalpel if you ever “theoretically needed to perform battlefield surgery”—was now moaning softly as your tongue brushed his.

You pulled back just a fraction, just enough to breathe against his lips. “Spencer…” you whispered, voice thick and shaking. “God, your mouth—do you even know what it does to me?”

He blinked, dazed, eyes unfocused and lips swollen. “I—uh—statistically I should’ve figured it out by now, but—”

You cut him off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper.

“Inside,” you breathed, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan again.

He fumbled with the key, his hands shaking, his breath wrecked—and the second the door opened, you both stumbled inside, tangled and kissing and already forgetting where the rest of the world ended.

Your hand had just curled around him through his pants—finally, after all that teasing, all that build-up, all that delicious, unbearable tension—and Spencer let out a ragged, unfiltered moan, like the sound had been stuck in his chest for the last twenty minutes and could finally escape.

His knees buckled slightly. His hands gripped your hips like he was drowning. “Oh my God, Y/N—”

And then—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

Not just stillness—statue still. Like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe.

A beat.

Then again.

Knock knock.

Slightly louder this time.

Spencer looked at you, eyes wild, chest heaving, completely wrecked, and not even remotely recovered from your hand on him. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Who the hell knocks like that?”

You blinked, trying to reattach your soul to your body. “I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, fingers still resting where they definitely shouldn’t be when someone was at the door.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I—I can’t answer the door like this.”

“No shit,” you hissed, already stumbling backward, trying to straighten your shirt and wipe your mouth, feeling the flush crawling all the way down your chest.

Spencer scrambled—actually scrambled—across the apartment like a startled deer, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and covering his lap like it was his only hope.

“Act natural,” he whispered frantically.

“You are holding a pillow to your dick, Spencer.”

“I am trying!”

Another knock.

You took a deep breath, moved toward the door, paused just before unlocking it, and turned back to shoot him a look. “If this is Derek or Penelope, I’m actually going to murder someone.”

Spencer just mouthed, “Same.” And from where he stood, behind the couch, breathless and undone, he looked like he meant it.

“Reid, I saw your car. Are you here?” a muffled voice said from the hallway.

Spencer paled instantly, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” he panted, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Oh my God.”

Your stomach clenched, throat tightening. “What? Who is it?” you repeated in a harsh whisper, nerves crawling up your spine. “Spencer?”

He turned toward you slowly, like each step of his thought process was physically painful. He looked pale; lips parted, the pillow now forgotten in his grip. “Um… remember when I told you about Ethan?”

You blinked. “No? Who’s Ethan?”

Spencer let out a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders slumping. “Right. I didn’t. Uh, well, hold on.”

You watched in stunned silence as he set the pillow down like it weighed twenty pounds, the moment having drained every ounce of blood from his body. The flustered, flushed man from just minutes ago was gone—replaced by the serious, awkward, deeply anxious version of Spencer Reid that emerged only in the wake of ghosts.

He walked stiffly to the door, unlocked it, and opened it to reveal a tall man with soft brown curls, tired eyes, and a familiar, cautious kind of warmth.

“…Ethan,” Spencer said, voice small. “Hi.”

Ethan stepped into the apartment like it was a place he used to live like he was returning to something still his. His bag was slung over one shoulder, frayed at the edges. He looked thinner than Spencer remembered—drawn in the face, shoulders sloped as though he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“Got kicked out,” Ethan said quickly, almost like he was reciting a line he’d had to repeat too many times already. “Landlord said I’d broken the lease. Technically true, I guess. And then work… well. You can’t show up drunk and keep a steady gig teaching music theory to kids, apparently.”

Spencer’s face softened, even as his fingers twitched nervously at his sides. “Ethan, I—I wish you’d called.”

Ethan waved that off like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t want to burden you. Just need somewhere to land. Somewhere to get my head on straight.” His eyes scanned the apartment. “I won’t be here long. I just need someone in my corner again.”

Spencer glanced at you, and something unreadable flickered across his face—some combination of guilt and concern. He stepped slightly to the side and motioned toward you, voice gentle. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Ethan’s eyes barely flicked toward you. No handshake, no nod, not even a polite smile. He glanced—glanced—and then looked back to Spencer like the words had been noise, not introduction. “You still got that foldout futon in the guest room?”

You blinked, stunned by the complete lack of acknowledgment. Spencer hesitated, his jaw ticking slightly as he registered it too.

You looked at Spencer, brows raised. “Okay… hi to you too, I guess,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer offered you a helpless look, one that said this is complicated, and please don’t hate me, and I didn’t expect this either, all at once.

And just like that, the warmth of your earlier moments evaporated, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the open door.

Ethan had already dropped his bag by the wall and started toward the hallway like he owned it, like the last five years hadn’t passed, like Spencer hadn’t built a life outside the hazy, fragile world they once shared.

Spencer stepped forward, voice stammering slightly, trying to patch over the growing awkwardness like it was a leaky pipe.

“Uh no, Ethan… this is a one-bedroom,” he said, clearing his throat. “It always has been.”

Ethan paused mid-step, turning with a furrowed brow. “What? No, you had that place with the foldout futon—”

“That was my old apartment,” Spencer interrupted, awkwardness tinged with discomfort now. “In Georgetown. This is… this is a different place. You’ve, um… you’ve never been here.”

Ethan blinked at him like the math wasn’t adding up. Like the timeline of Spencer’s life hadn’t continued after him.

You stood a few feet behind Spencer, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line, watching this strange tension unfold. The air was heavy like a thunderstorm was pressing against the windows, waiting to get in.

Ethan nodded slowly, his gaze trailing away from Spencer again—still not toward you. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

But you didn’t miss it. The way Spencer stepped subtly in front of you. The way Ethan kept talking like you weren’t even here.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, one hand twitching nervously at his side, the other hovering near the seam of his pants like he couldn’t decide whether to fidget or brace for impact. He shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

You heard the lie. Spencer never lied.

But you didn’t jump in to correct him.

Because while the technical truth was that you both had your own apartments, Spencer’s space had slowly become yours too. Your books on the shelves, your fuzzy socks under his bed, your favorite mug drying on the rack beside his. He called it home when you were there. And that had to count for something.

So you let the lie sit. Because it wasn’t really one. Not where it mattered.

Still, Ethan didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance. He just tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said it wouldn’t be for long. I just need a few nights. You used to let me crash for weeks.”

Spencer winced. “That was different. That was… years ago. Things are different now.”

“You mean she’s here now?” Ethan said flatly, voice dipped in something that wasn’t quite bitterness but knew how to get there fast. “That’s what’s different?”

Spencer’s jaw twitched. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to hold his ground. “No. What’s different is I’ve built something stable. Something I want to protect.”

Ethan let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Stable. Right. That’s rich coming from you.”

Spencer flinched at that but said nothing.

Ethan’s eyes finally flicked to you—just for a second—before shifting back to Spencer like the look itself had been an inconvenience. “You told me once that I was the only person who really got you. That no one else could make sense of your head. Remember that?”

Spencer closed his eyes for half a second. “Don’t do this.”

Ethan stepped forward, voice low, pointed. “We were more than friends, Spencer. You don’t get to act like I’m just some old college buddy who needs a couch.”

You felt your chest tighten. Spencer’s shoulders tensed, and you could practically see him swallowing everything he wanted to say—needed to say—and trying to replace it with something gentle, something palatable, something that wouldn’t make Ethan shatter.

But the weight of it was written all over his face. Regret. Guilt. Boundaries.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Spencer said softly. “And you’re not either. And I’m sorry, but I can’t be your safety net this time. Not like that. Not here.”

Ethan scoffed, throwing his words like stones. “You’re not that person anymore? Meaning you found yourself a nice little trophy wife to buy a white picket fence someday?”

“Ethan,” Spencer warned, voice still even, but with an edge that trembled beneath it.

“What?” Ethan shot back, eyes hard. “Are you too scared to be who you really are? So scared you’re hiding behind a beard?”

And that was it.

“That’s enough!”

The words cracked through the apartment like a thunderclap.

Silence slammed down in their wake.

Spencer’s chest was heaving, shoulders locked, his fists clenched at his sides like he was still holding onto the echo of the yell that had just torn out of him. It wasn’t just loud—it was jarring. 

Spencer Reid didn’t yell. He didn’t need to yell.

But this—whatever Ethan had just ripped open—had pushed him too far.

Even Ethan looked stunned like the sharpness in Spencer’s voice had knocked the fight clean out of him.

And you? You just stared, wide-eyed, heart pounding, watching the man you loved stand up not just for you—but for himself.

Ethan stood frozen for a breath, maybe two, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe Spencer had actually raised his voice. His mouth opened—then closed. He looked down at the floor, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.

Then, quietly but sharp enough to cut glass, he muttered, “Second time breaking a heart.”

The words landed heavy—aimed like a dagger but dulled by pity.

Spencer didn’t respond. Not right away. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, but something in his expression fractured. You saw it. The flicker of pain. Of guilt. Of something mournful—but not regret.

Ethan gave a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Guess the first time wasn’t final enough.”

Then he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door without another word. No slamming. No dramatics.

Just a final wound on his way out.

And then it was quiet. So quiet it felt like the air had changed.

Spencer stood still, eyes locked on the door long after it had closed. And you, standing behind him, finally took a step forward, reaching gently for his hand.

He let you take it. 

Gratefully.

Desperately.

…

You hadn’t meant to break the peaceful rhythm of dinner. Spencer had cooked for you tonight—something simple and grounding, pasta tossed with garlic and herbs, the kind of thing he could make with his hands while his mind drifted. He was quiet, sure, but he had smiled once or twice. You thought maybe he was pulling out of the fog of earlier.

But curiosity had been tugging at you since the name slipped from his lips when Ethan appeared like a ghost from a past you hadn’t known existed.

So now, here you were. Asking carefully, gently. Like you might scare the memory back into hiding.

“Spencer?”

He looked up from his plate, blinking slowly as if being pulled from somewhere far away. “Yeah?” he murmured, a little distracted still but present enough to meet your eyes.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, “Who, um… who was Ethan?” A pause. You swallowed. “Who was he to you?”

The question settled between you and Spencer like a feather—and yet, somehow, it hit the table with the weight of stone.

Spencer stilled.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just delicate. He set his fork down slowly, resting his hands in his lap like he needed them to be still while he spoke.

“He was…” Spencer exhaled through his nose, searching for the words. “He was my friend. In college.”

You nodded slightly, waiting.

“We met in a seminar,” he continued, his tone even measured. “He was one of the only people who didn’t look at me like I was a curiosity. He didn’t care that I was a genius or a little weird. He… treated me like a peer. Like a person.”

You could hear the fondness there, buried beneath the ache. But there was more, and you knew it. He saw it in your eyes before you asked.

Spencer offered it willingly, if slowly.

“There was a time I thought maybe it could become more. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Or what he wanted. There was… one kiss. Maybe two. But it didn’t go further than that. Not really.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes falling back to his plate. “We lost touch. He had his demons. And I had mine.”

You reached out, sliding your fingers gently across the table, brushing his knuckles.

“And now?” you asked softly.

Spencer looked up again, eyes tired but sincere. “Now I just feel sad. For him. And for who we both were then. I think I wanted to save him. I think he wanted me to. But we were just kids trying to feel less alone.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For telling me.”

He gave you a small, fragile smile.

“Can I ask you something… really personal?” you said softly, your voice hesitant but honest.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, he looked slightly startled—maybe even nervous—but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Of course.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“Do you ever wish… you’d had more time to figure out your sexuality? To explore it… without so much pressure, or expectation?”

Spencer blinked at you, his fork pausing midair.

It wasn’t that the question offended him—it didn’t. You knew him well enough by now to tread with care. He could see that you weren’t asking to pry. You were asking because you loved him. Because you wanted to know him.

Still, it took him a second. He set his fork down gently, eyes flicking down to the plate before returning to yours.

“I, um…” he started, then stopped, folding his hands together as he leaned forward slightly. “That’s… a very good question.”

You smiled a little, encouraging but quiet, giving him room to think.

Spencer’s brows furrowed, not with discomfort but with the weight of consideration. “I think… yes. In some ways, I do.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward the candlelight dancing on the table. “I didn’t have what most people would call a normal adolescence. I wasn’t allowed the space to explore anything—romance, intimacy, identity—without being either fetishized or ridiculed. I was always the youngest in the room. Always the anomaly.”

You nodded softly, your hand resting atop his on the table.

“I think there are parts of myself I didn’t even let myself question,” he continued, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because it didn’t feel… safe. There were rules I made for myself. Stay small. Stay quiet. Don’t make things harder than they already are.”

His eyes met yours again—braver this time, vulnerable but steady.

“But you’ve made me think about it more. Not in a pressured way. Just… being with you, and how safe I feel. I think maybe I’m still discovering who I am in that way. And I don’t feel late to it. I just feel—grateful. That I get to figure it out now. With you.”

Your throat tightened, tears burning just a little at the edges.

You reached out and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently along the curve of it.

“I’m grateful, too,” you whispered. “For you. All of you. Every part you’re still uncovering.”

Spencer turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

You hesitated, watching him absorb the weight of his own answer, his fingers absently smoothing over the tablecloth like his thoughts were trying to find a soft place to land.

But his honesty had opened a door. And quietly, gently, you stepped through it.

“Can I… ask one more thing?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “And please, please don’t feel like you have to answer. You don’t have to protect my feelings, I just— I want to understand.”

Spencer looked up, eyes meeting yours, already bracing but open.

You took a slow breath. “Do you… want to explore? With men, I mean?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to answer—but because he was thinking, the way only Spencer could: carefully, thoughtfully, measuring not just his words, but the honesty they carried.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, quietly. “Sometimes I wonder. Not because I’m unhappy with you—I’m not, not even a little. Being with you feels… right in a way nothing else ever has.”

You nodded, encouraging him to go on, not flinching.

“But I also never really gave myself the chance to ask. Or try. I was so focused on staying safe, fitting in, surviving academia, and then the BAU… it never felt like there was room.”

He looked at you again, his expression soft and a little scared. “But I don’t want that to come between us. I don’t want to lose us because of something I might never even need to act on.”

You reached for his hand.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said firmly, lacing your fingers through his. “Wanting to understand yourself more doesn’t mean you love me any less.”

He swallowed hard, blinking fast. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I want all of you—even the parts you’re still figuring out.”

Spencer still couldn’t believe it. No matter how deeply he loved you, no matter how safe you already made him feel, you always found new ways to surprise him with your openness, your trust, and your devotion.

“I love you too,” he breathed, voice trembling slightly as he tried to hold your gaze, to make sure you knew how much this meant to him. “But… what are you saying, exactly?”

You sighed, not out of frustration, but from the sheer weight of trying to express something so delicate. You took a moment, collecting your thoughts, your words.

“I think,” you said slowly, carefully, “if you ever met a man—someone you were attracted to, someone you felt curious about—I’d want you to feel comfortable telling me. And then maybe, if we’d talked about it and if we’d set boundaries… maybe you could explore it. If that’s what you needed.”

Spencer blinked at you, stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Isn’t that… cheating?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Not if we talk about it first,” you said gently. “Not if we understand each other and agree on what’s okay. Not if it’s something that helps you grow, and we stay honest with each other through it.”

He stared at you like you were a miracle. Because, to him, you kind of were.

“Thank you,” he said finally, voice rough with sincerity. “I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to express. But I think I’d need to… do some research. I mean—a lot of research. Before I could give a firm answer.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers along his arm. “I understand, baby. Take all the time you need.”

He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a beat, and then—tentative, awkward—he added, “And what if… what if I wanted to just experiment… with you?”

You tilted your head, your voice still soft. “Can you elaborate, my love?”

Spencer chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess I mean… I wouldn’t mind if we tried some… new things.”

Your lips curled into a smirk, affection lighting up your face. “Like what?”

He was bright red now, staring at a spot just past your shoulder like it might save him. “Like… like anal.”

You blinked, curiosity in your tone but no judgment. “You want to have anal sex with me?”

Spencer nodded quickly—shyly, but without looking away. “I do. But… I would, um… be on the bottom.”

Tilting your head with a curious, thoughtful expression, you asked, “Do you want to add strap-ons to your research? I’d want to get the best one in that case. And we’d need to know proper preparation, and materials, and—”

Spencer laughed, interrupting gently but with a real smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “I get it,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll look into it all. Thoroughly.”

You beamed at him, proud and warm and deeply endeared, before reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his.

“Thank you for telling me, baby,” you said sincerely, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

He nodded again, his cheeks still flushed, but there was a glow in him now—something almost giddy beneath the vulnerability. Visibly relieved. And maybe even a little bit excited.

Because at that moment, he understood something unshakeable, something that filled every quiet space between your words:

There was nothing he couldn’t say to you. Nothing too strange. Nothing too personal. Nothing too tender.

He had you—and you made him feel safe enough to explore who he was, and loved enough to never question if that exploration would change how you looked at him.

It wouldn’t. Not even a little.

—

The headaches didn’t just start.

But you didn’t know that.

Not really. Not until Hotch called you himself and said Spencer was being sent home early after nearly collapsing during a case consult. Not fainting exactly—just… swaying, disoriented, like the world was too loud, too bright, too much all at once.

You had dropped everything. Your keys were barely off the hook before you were in the car. And by the time you got him home, your entire body was one humming line of worry.

Now, Spencer was curled on the couch, his head resting in your lap, skin pale and clammy with exhaustion. The only light came from a single shaded lamp across the room. Everything else was silent. Still.

You laid the cool towel across his forehead as gently as you could and stroked your fingers through his hair, watching as he exhaled softly under your touch.

“Baby…” you murmured, keeping your voice low, like even sound might hurt him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave the smallest shrug, his temple shifting against your thigh.

You frowned, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Spencer.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said finally, voice quiet and hoarse. “I figured it would pass.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” you asked, already knowing the answer and hoping you were wrong.

He shifted his head slightly. Just enough for a soft, unmistakable no.

You closed your eyes for a second, steadying yourself. Not to snap. Not to scold. But to keep your worry from rising into panic.

“Spencer,” you said again, softly but firmly this time. “This has been happening for how long?”

Another pause. Then: “A couple weeks.”

You were silent for a moment, pressing your lips into a thin line as your hand slowed through his hair. “You’ve been getting headaches for weeks. And didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

He didn’t move, but his voice went even softer like he was trying to shrink away without actually moving. “They weren’t this bad at first. And I thought maybe it was just stress or dehydration. Or—”

You stopped him with your palm against his cheek, not forcefully, just enough to make him look at you.

“Spencer,” you whispered, “if something hurts you—especially your head—you tell me. I don’t care how small it seems. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing.”

His eyes flickered with guilt and something else: shame, fear, and the quiet helplessness of someone who’s used to powering through because stopping means looking at the thing directly.

You kissed his forehead gently, letting the towel fall to the side for a moment.

“We’re going to the doctor as soon as they can get you in,” you said, no room for argument but full of care. “And tonight, we’re resting. Nothing else. Just this. Just me and you and quiet.”

Spencer nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers moved back into his hair.

He didn’t argue.

Because, for once, it felt good to let someone else take the weight.

…

But the migraines… they didn’t pass.

They didn’t lessen. Didn’t become manageable with water, sleep, and hope.

Instead, they began to chip away at him. Slowly, steadily, like waves against the foundation of a house that had weathered more storms than it ever should have.

Your Spencer—the man you knew and loved in full color—started to fade into a version of himself that felt… hollow.

Still brilliant. Still kind. But dimmed. Distant.

He smiled less. Laughed less. Barely touched the books that once lived in his hands like extensions of his body. He started carrying sunglasses even when it was overcast. Kept earplugs in his coat pocket. You’d come to his apartment to find him sitting on the floor in the dark, palms pressed to his temples, jaw clenched against the sound of his own breath.

And you’d heard of this version before.

You knew him only through fragments—through stories whispered by people who had been there then.

The Spencer who had used.

The one who would do anything, take anything, to quiet the pain.

The man who lived in the aftermath of loss, crawling his way out of the kind of darkness that doesn’t leave easily.

And you knew he was clean. You knew it.

He had told you. The team had told you. He went to meetings. He journaled. He did the work.

But watching him now—watching the way his hands shook when you tried to touch him, the way he flinched when the light from the fridge hit his face, the way he refused to meet your eyes some nights—it terrified you.

Because he wasn’t just in pain. He was shutting down. And he wasn’t letting you in.

You’d wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, so quiet it broke your heart.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to say Please don’t go away. Please tell me what to do. Please don’t become that ghost again.

But instead, you sat behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warmth of his back, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Even when he said nothing. Even when his silence felt like a wall taller than anything you’d ever climbed.

You stayed.

Because you remembered the way he looked at you when he was whole. And you would wait—for as long as it took—to see that look again.

But it took so long.

So long.

Long enough that the days started to feel indistinguishable from one another—an endless loop of dimmed lights, soft steps, whispered concern. You adjusted everything around him. At first, it was natural. A kindness. A compromise.

But over time, it became suffocating.

You stopped going over. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you were scared that the sound of the door clicking shut behind you might wake him—and God forbid you be the one to trigger another migraine.

You didn’t call or text anymore. Not even to say I love you, not even to say I miss you, because the brightness of your phone might hurt him. Because he wouldn’t check it anyway. You told yourself that over and over, he wouldn’t check it anyway.

So you stopped reaching out.

Even when you would go over, you didn’t play music. You didn’t turn on any lights. You started wearing socks around his apartment so your steps wouldn’t echo off the hardwood. You learned the rhythm of his medication alarms better than your own sleep schedule. You brought food and left it untouched on the counter. You came to check in, to switch out towels, to refill water bottles.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

You forgot how to be his girlfriend.

Because that’s not what it felt like anymore. You were a nurse. A shadow.

An afterthought orbiting quietly around someone you loved more than anything, who couldn’t seem to see you anymore.

And the worst part—the most devastating, gutting part—was that you didn’t even know if he noticed.

If he saw the way your shoulders slumped when he didn’t respond. If he noticed how your voice had grown quieter, your touches more hesitant. If he could feel how hard you were fighting not to break.

Because you were still fighting. Every day. 

But the silence between you was deafening, and love—no matter how deep, no matter how patient—cannot live forever in the dark without being fed.

You didn’t want to leave. But you didn’t know how to stay like this either.

And you were beginning to wonder— If maybe he was already gone.

…

Your fingers slipped off the keyboard the moment you heard the lock click.

You froze. Heart stopped. Because no one—no one—used that lock. No one should be using that lock. You hadn't had someone walk into your apartment unannounced in... weeks. Maybe longer. You lived alone. You lived quietly. That sound—unexpected and metallic and out of place—sent a cold jolt of adrenaline through your chest.

You were halfway out of your chair, breath caught and heart thudding when you heard the door shut gently. No crash. No hurried footsteps. Just soft movement, deliberate. Familiar.

Still, your voice was shaky as you called from your office, “Spencer?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then footsteps padded across your floor with hesitant slowness. And then—he appeared.

He looked... wrecked.

Not bloody or bruised. Not in any visible way. But hollow. Sunken. His curls were tangled. There was stubble on his jaw. His coat was barely buttoned, satchel slipping from one shoulder. And his eyes—those big, expressive, vulnerable eyes—looked up at you with the kind of ache that reached straight into your chest.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered like the question itself was too heavy to speak out loud.

And your heart just about shattered.

You swallowed hard, stepping into the doorway, grounding yourself. “No.” The word came out as a breath, too light, too soft, but true. Completely and utterly true.

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

So you pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you, slow and measured like he was a wounded animal like you were afraid any sudden movement might send him bolting.

“I was…” your throat tightened, but you pushed forward. “I was scared you stopped needing me.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Just shook his head—hard, like he was trying to dislodge the very idea—and his voice broke on the edges when he finally looked at you again.

“I was scared I stopped being someone you could love.”

That hit hard. Because those weren’t just words. That was Spencer. That was the man who overthought everything, who felt deeper than he admitted, who retreated when the world became too much because he doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone he loves. Especially you.

You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

You just closed the last few feet between you and reached for him, and he met you in the middle—hands finding your waist, your arms looping around his shoulders, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat like you needed to physically hold him together.

There, in your entryway, with his bag slipping to the floor and your heart pounding in time with his, you stood wrapped in each other.

Not speaking. Not rushing. Just holding on.

Letting the silence breathe between you. Letting the ache be acknowledged. Letting your hands say everything your voices couldn’t.

And that—right there—was where the repair began. Not with an apology. Not with a solution. But with the simple act of staying.

…

Spencer stays the night.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t offer. He just... doesn’t leave.

After the kind of reunion that left both of you too full and too fragile to say anything else, it didn’t need to be discussed. He dropped his coat onto the rack like muscle memory. He put his satchel on the same hook he always did, though it sagged heavier than usual like it knew too.

And then he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like he used to.

You followed a few minutes later with your own toothbrush in hand, standing beside him at the sink, pretending—trying—to pretend that nothing felt different.

But it did.

Because Spencer was here, in your space, but it didn’t feel like your Spencer. Not completely. His presence carried a weight you weren’t used to. Not uncomfortable, not unwanted—but heavier, older, a little weathered at the seams. Like he’d been through something he still hadn’t told you. Like you were brushing your teeth next to someone who looked like your boyfriend but who hadn’t touched your hand in nine days.

Your palm hovered for a moment before you rested it on his back, just lightly. You felt the subtle tension there—his body registering your touch before his mind did. He didn’t lean in the way he usually would. But he didn’t move away, either.

It was enough.

Later, he sat on his usual side of your bed; the covers pulled up neatly over his legs, a worn paperback in his hands. The lamplight was dim, golden, soft—just the way you always kept it when winding down for the night. And you curled up beside him, face half-hidden against your pillow, listening as he read aloud from the page in that soothing cadence of his.

It felt familiar. It looked familiar. But it didn’t feel quite right.

Because there was too much air between you. Too much left unsaid.

But still, you closed your eyes and listened to his voice like a lullaby, like its rhythm might stitch something back together.

In the morning, it was… normal.

Almost eerily so.

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently as you sip your coffee, and Spencer stood between your knees, his forehead resting softly against your chest. Your arms loosely circled his neck, and his hands settled on your thighs. It was tender, quiet, and domestic.

Everything about it screamed routine, but your heart still beat too fast.

Because this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t easy. This was two people pretending they hadn’t been drifting.

Trying to return to something soft. Trying not to acknowledge that it felt just a hair too tight.

But you held him anyway. Pressed your cheek against his hair. And tried not to think about how long it would take to feel normal again.

Or if it ever would.

…

Spencer doesn't say it all at once. He doesn’t sit you down and unfold his guilt into a perfectly formed apology with bullet points and clear, linear thought. That’s not how this lives inside him.

It spills out in pieces—fragments—little revelations that tumble out when his voice is already low, the night is already quiet, and the space between you is already stretched thin with everything left unspoken.

You're sitting on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket that doesn’t quite reach the edges anymore, and his head is resting on your shoulder, a book forgotten in his lap. You don’t know what triggers it—maybe the way your hand idly combs through his curls or the way you haven’t said anything in minutes, and the silence has grown too tender to ignore—but suddenly, Spencer shifts.

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” he says quietly, voice hoarse, like it’s been caught in his throat for too long. “Not without making you carry it for me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen. Because you know he needs to say it.

“I was scared,” he continues. “Scared that if I leaned on you too hard, you’d… break. Or get tired. Or realize I’m too much.” He laughs, but it’s dry and hollow. “I thought keeping it in would protect you.”

And there it is.

The heartbreaking, twisted logic of someone who loves too hard and hurts too quietly.

You tilt your head, rest your lips in his hair, and whisper, “You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”

Spencer doesn’t respond at first. But his hand finds yours beneath the blanket. Clumsy. Seeking. He laces his fingers through yours like he’s making a new promise. Maybe he is.

From then on, he tries.

In the smallest ways.

He texts first—even if it’s just a simple thinking of you or a blurry photo of something he saw that reminded him of a joke you once made. You reply warmly every time, no matter what you’re doing. Because you know what that little message cost him. And what it means.

He starts saying, “Want to come over?” again. Not every day. Not even every week. But it starts. And when he does, you go. Even if he’s tired. Even if all you do is sit silently, eat soup, and read on opposite ends of the couch, you go. Because he’s asking. Because he wants you there again.

And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom and trying not to get toothpaste on your shirt, he walks past and lightly rests his hand on your back. Just a press of fingers. No words. No performance.

It makes you tear up.

Because that little touch says: I missed you. I’m trying. I’m still here.

And you let him try.

You show him you want him—not just when he’s dazzling and fast-talking and quoting obscure facts to fill the silence—but when he’s slow. When he stumbles. When he forgets how to let love feel easy.

You hold space for all of it.

Because you’re not just here for the version of him that’s easy to love.

You’re here for all of him. Even the parts that still don’t know how to stay. Especially those.

This part isn’t easy either.

Because silence had become your way of coping—of making space for him, of shrinking yourself so his pain didn’t have to make room. You thought you were being kind. And maybe you were. But kindness without communication turns into quiet resentment. And now it’s time to speak.

Your voice wavers when you begin. Because you're not angry. You're hurt. And that kind of honesty is terrifying when you've spent so long treading carefully around someone else's fragility.

But you do it anyway.

You look at him—really look—and say:

“I don’t need you to be perfect; I just need you to let me in again.”

You see it hit. Right there in his eyes, the way his breath catches like he’s just now realizing how far he pulled away.

So you keep going. Gently. But honestly.

“I missed you,” you whisper, softer this time, “and I need to know you missed me too.”

His hand twitches, like it wants to reach for yours but doesn’t know if it has permission yet. You give it to him, not with words, but with your eyes.

Then, because this is the hardest truth and the one that’s been buried deepest, you let it out:

“I want to feel like your girlfriend again. Not just your support system.”

There’s a pause. A long, heavy one where the silence could crack either way. Where he could shut down or shut you out.

But Spencer doesn’t.

Because he listens.

He always listens.

And more importantly—he responds.

His hand finds yours, finally. His fingers squeeze, just once, but it says everything. And when he speaks, it’s quiet and raw, his voice hoarse from emotion.

“I didn’t know how much I was asking you to carry,” he says. “And I didn’t know how to say I missed you without breaking apart.”

You nod, already tearing up. But you don’t drop his hand. You hold tighter.

Because now it’s out. The words are real. The air between you isn’t full of what-ifs and almosts anymore—it’s full of truth.

And from here, you can finally start again.

…

Rossi notices it first.

The way Spencer walks a little lighter into the bullpen, his satchel slung across one shoulder and a barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The way he lingers longer in conversations again and doesn’t just nod and disappear into the nearest file. The way his eyes brighten when his phone buzzes, and your name lights up the screen.

He’s back.

Not just showing up. Not just surviving. But present.

And for a team that’s seen him hollowed out by pain—grief, migraines, trauma, silence—it’s everything.

So Rossi, in his infinite paternal wisdom and subtle Italian flair, throws out the idea over coffee one morning like it’s nothing.

“Team night at my place this Friday,” he says, handing Hotch his espresso. “The usual—music, wine, enough pasta to drown a horse. Partners invited.”

Hotch raises a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It always is,” Rossi grins. “And that’s the point.”

The word spreads quickly—Penelope is already planning outfits and playlists, JJ starts texting around to see who’s bringing what, and Spencer?

~

It’s a quiet afternoon when your phone buzzes.

You’re in the middle of some mundane work task, one of those peaceful moments where your brain is finally unoccupied just enough to hum again. You glance down at your phone, expecting some spam notification or a reminder you forgot to cancel.

But it’s him.

Spencer.

Spencer Reid — who still, despite everything you’ve been through together, texts like he’s composing a letter with a fountain pen. The preview on the lock screen reads:

Would you maybe want to come with me to something?

You smile before you’ve even unlocked the phone.

You can practically hear the cadence of his voice in the phrasing. See the way he’d glance away when saying it in person, fingers tugging at the corner of a folder or the hem of his sleeve, his mouth twitching with nerves and hope.

You type back:

Yes. Absolutely. What is it?

There’s a pause—a longer one this time—and then:

Rossi is hosting a team dinner. Just something casual. Partners invited. Everyone will be there. I’d like you to be there too. With me.

Your heart swells. Not because it’s a party, or because you get to be in a mansion, or even because it’s a rare invitation into his work life—but because it’s him.

Of course.

You send it immediately, no second thoughts, no edits. And almost instantly, the three little dots appear. Then a single message comes through:

Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

But you do. You really do.

You put your phone down, and for a moment, just sit in the warmth of it all.

Because even through the screen, you can feel it—that tiny shift in Spencer’s world. That quiet loosening of his shoulders. That sweet, boyish, barely-there smile you love so much.

~

He asked. You said yes. And something inside him—tight and long-held—finally lets go.

Because he’s not just inviting you to dinner—he’s inviting you into something. Back into his world, where you belong.

The week flies by, and by Friday night, you're practically bouncing in your seat as Spencer drives you through winding roads and tree-lined driveways. He’s wearing that soft sweater you love, the one that clings to his arms just right, and his hair is freshly washed, curls soft and neat, like he tried extra hard.

When you arrive at Rossi’s mansion—stone archways, glowing windows, and the smell of garlic and rosemary floating through the open door—you’re met with warmth. Laughter. Familiar faces.

Penelope squeals when she sees you, immediately wrapping you in a glittery hug. JJ hands you a glass of wine before you’ve even made it past the foyer. Derek grins, claps Spencer on the back, and says, “There’s the man of the hour.”

But the best part— The best part is how natural it feels.

You and Spencer move through the house like you’ve always been a pair. Like the distance, the silence, the months of aching and not knowing how to reach each other are finally, finally behind you.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back as you walk into the kitchen. He leans in to tell you little jokes while you nibble from the charcuterie board. When someone teases him—probably Morgan—you rest a hand on his knee and feel him exhale with laughter instead of flinching like he might have weeks ago.

And later, when the group settles into the living room with glasses of wine and soft music playing in the background, you find yourselves tucked into the corner of Rossi’s oversized sectional, Spencer’s arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest.

You’re back in your groove.

You feel it in the way he laughs again without hesitation. You see it in how he looks at you—like the storm has passed, and you were his shelter the whole time. You feel it in yourself, too—in the quiet calm beneath your ribs, the safety of this, whatever this is becoming again.

And as the team jokes, reminisces, and bickers affectionately around you, you can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, smile into his sweater, and think—

We’re okay. We made it. We’re home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[carnatedrugs]

Fix me.

Part 2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Hi guys! I was struggling with my LOVE for Simon Riley so I wrote this and I'll just leave a first chapter. English is not my first language SO IM SORRY IF ANYTHING WRONG and I don't know if I need to continue but let's just leave it here for now.. heh ; - ;

Chapter 1

The train was late—too late, I’d say. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed; the summer heat was torturing me, melting my brain, making it hard to concentrate on anything. "Why did this damn piece of metal have to break now?" I huffed in frustration, eyeing the engine my father had built for my car. Now I had neither a car, nor a father to fix it.

Our relationship had always been... complicated. Maybe I’ll get into the details later. Despite our issues, there’s no denying he was a gifted man. The whole village relied on him—if it could be fixed with hands, he could fix it. Me? Not so much. I have my own talents—at least, I like to think so. But you know how it goes when parents want you to continue their legacy. So yeah, now you get why our relationship was tricky.

But none of that matters right now. I’m standing under this merciless sun, waiting for the fucking train. No one in my small town could fix the engine, so I had no choice but to travel to another city. I’ve never traveled like this before. I was content with where and how I lived. But without my dad around, I might as well throw the car away and forget it ever existed. Still, I made a choice—to find at least one person on this planet who could understand my father’s work and fix what he left behind.

Luckily, I’d heard rumors about a genius, someone who could fix anything. They said he was on another level—more magician than mechanic. Of course, no one could confirm that. I’m not someone who usually believes in miracles, but I’m desperate enough now to hope the rumors are true.

After what felt like forever, the train finally arrived. The ride would be long—apparently this so-called genius isn’t fond of people, and his home is far off the beaten path.

While watching the endless landscape pass by—fields, wires, smoke columns from distant furnaces—I started thinking about how hard these past four months had been. Money was tight, work was draining. The timing of this breakdown couldn’t have been worse. I couldn’t wait for another paycheck to get it fixed—without the car, my job becomes nearly impossible.

"Maybe think of it as a mini vacation—the one you always wanted," I whispered, forcing a sigh.

I work as a tutor for school kids. Since I was struggling financially, I started taking clients from nearby towns. They paid more—I didn’t have much of a choice. So yeah, I need that car back.

After countless kilometers of fields and lakes, I finally dozed off. My body had given in, but my mind kept spinning. Each bump on the tracks felt like a knock on the door of my nerves. Four months of holding everything together—and now this. I stared out the window, but the scenery blurred into something meaningless. What if this trip was a waste? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if I was chasing a ghost? The engine wasn’t just a piece of machinery. It was the last thing my father ever made for me. A cold thought slipped in: maybe it was never meant to be fixed.

I pressed my forehead against the window. The glass burned from the heat outside, but I didn’t move. The world rolled on, and I felt like I was stuck in place.

Taking these complicated thoughts aside I tried to cheer myself. I’m finally shifting my focus away from work, to steal a few hours of sleep. But just as I started to drift, the train jerked to a stop. I groaned from the sudden jolt and the ache in my back. Looking out the window, I saw a small village nestled among green hills, with quaint houses and scattered farms. The village looked like it had been plucked from a forgotten blueprint—where nature and machinery coexisted in a delicate, rusted balance. The cobblestone paths were lined with copper piping, some of them hissing gently with steam. Wind turbines, some broken and tilted, spun lazily above wooden rooftops reinforced with iron brackets and rivets. The air smelled like oil, coal, and lavender fields. An interesting mix.

As I stepped off the train, a rush of cool air filled my lungs. For a moment, I felt relief. This wasn’t my final destination—I still needed to find a ride to reach the “magician.”

I dragged my cart off the platform, the engine perched awkwardly on top. Back aching, hope still clinging to me, I headed into the village.

After asking around, one kind old man agreed to drive me where I needed to go. Everything went surprisingly smoothly. The people here were warm, the landscape beautiful, and I found what I needed faster than expected. That gave me a pause—maybe this “genius” wasn’t a magician after all. Maybe he was just a regular guy, and this trip was all for nothing.

"There’s no turning back now," I muttered, trying to quiet my doubts.

Lost in thought, I spotted a large windmill standing still against the sky. The car stopped. I got out.

"He lives here," the old man said, helping me unload the cart.

"Thank you so much!" I said with a smile as he drove off. Probably should’ve asked him to come back later. There’s no way this guy’s fixing it today. Looks like I’ll be staying in the village.

The moment that thought crossed my mind, exhaustion finally caught up with me. But rest would have to wait. I took a deep breath and approached the windmill.

It was quiet here—peacefully, almost hauntingly so. The air felt still. Lonely, that’s the word. Maybe it was just me.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door. No answer. Of course, I didn’t expect it to open right away, but it felt like no one was even inside.

"Maybe he went somewhe—" Before I could finish, the door creaked open with startling force. I stepped back, heart skipping a beat.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a skull mask that clung tightly to his face like it belonged there. One arm, bare and marked with tattoos that told a story I dared not ask about, rested tensely at his side. He didn’t move much—just enough to study me. His eyes were steel-gray, the kind you don’t forget.

There was something military about him. Not in uniform, but in presence. In the way he stood, how his gaze scanned me like a tactical assessment. A man used to violence. Used to solitude.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me, expression unreadable beneath the bone-white grin of the mask. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed, bored, or thinking ten steps ahead of me. Maybe all three.

When he finally opened the door wider, I realized I hadn’t breathed in several seconds. “Surprise” doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, hello! My name is Y/N. Sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of urgent. I’ve got an engine—one that’s pretty complicated. No one back home could fix it, and... that led me here." I tried to sound calm and confident, though the man in the skull mask standing silently in front of me didn’t make it that easy. He looked more like a serial killer than a mechanic.

He didn’t say anything—just listened, eyes never leaving mine. Then he gave a short nod and stepped aside, holding the door open.

Confused, I hesitated, then gave him a weak, awkward smile and turned to grab my cart.

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and dry. It wasn’t aggressive, but it didn’t need to be. It felt controlled, like everything else about him. Calculated.

I tried to answer, but my voice came out thin. "It’s okay."

His voice sent shivers down my spine. Maybe it was the suddenness of it. Or maybe it was how deep and rough it sounded. I hadn’t expected him to speak at all.

I couldn’t stop staring at the mask. At his silence.

He didn’t rush. Just took the cart like it weighed nothing and held the door with a nod, as if to say Move. I tried to make sense of what was happening. I snapped back to reality and hurried inside the windmill.

[ultravi0lence14]

THE DIARIES OF A GIRL INTERRUPTED

DEAN WINCHESTER AU

SYNOPSIS: the story of a girl and her lost love through the views of her old, tattered diary

WARNINGS: heavy topics | descriptions of parental abuse | slight drug use | swearing | insane infatuation 🫠

NAT BABBLES: inspired by the heart breaking story of willoughby tucker and ethel cain🙂‍↕️

JULY 2ND — 1996

dear diary,

daddy is being mean again. he says it’s god’s will. that if we’re going to act out, then god is going to punish us through his hands. but i don’t understand what i did; i don’t understand why daddy acts out when i don’t do anything to provoke him.

i’ve heard mama over the phone, telling her friends how daddy is just an angry man. how he’s good. just. because he’s our small towns preacher. but his actions aren’t good and just, and i can understand that.

i’m seventeen now, and i the exact moment i turn eighteen, i am out of here. going somewhere far away from here, somewhere i can be free.

i just hope that is soon.

JULY 4TH — 1996

dear diary,

today is the fourth of july, and daddy made me and mama go to the church’s barbecue; just to show face i’m sure.

he made us stand like shiny toys, hands clasped on my shoulder so hard i could barely breathe. is he going to pinch me when i say something wrong? grab my arm and drag me off somewhere private to really make me hurt? i was not sure, but i wanted today to be done and over with.

something strange happened though, and i’ve been thinking about it ever since it happened. before daddy dragged mama and i home.

there was a new family there today; a man and two boys. one of them looked my age, but the other couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

i’ve never really been attracted to any boys, since the town is so small and all of them are either disgusting pigs or bottom feeders. but this boy my age was different. refreshing somehow.

he had sandy brown hair was a little longer, and his hazel green eyes caught onto mine before i could even process he noticed me. his stare was piercing, and the softness in his eyes blanketed something else i could tell; like sorrow, or pain.

i find myself wanting to see him again, and if this town is as small as i know it is, then i hopefully will.

JULY 8TH - 1996

dear diary,

it took four days, but i finally saw him.

the lake is a peaceful place for me to go. away from daddy and mama’s yelling, away from the sad reality of my sad life. it’s a five minute walk down the road, and i find myself going there more and more each day.

today, i was sitting on the edge of the dock, reading my new book that i bought a couple of days ago. i was so engrossed in the riveting tale, that i didn’t hear the smack of boots on the wooden dock.

“can i sit here?” the voice was rough and edged, a voice that has seen and screamed. when i turned, i was faced with an angel.

the sun backed his milky skin beautifully, and i swear i saw god’s vision. his black shirt and distressed jeans made him seem rough around the edges, but that same softness in his eyes remained, and the book he carried under his arm was anything but daunting.

i was such a weirdo. nodding for him to sit because i was so tongue tied. i couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t fathom words that wouldn’t make him hate me. that’s how i was raised. anything i said could be used against me or used in the wrong context.

we sat side by side on that dock for hours, silently reading together in peaceful harmony. i didn’t go home until i knew it was time for dinner, and i found myself hoping he’d be back to the dock some time soon.

JULY 12TH — 1996

dear diary,

he introduced himself as dean winchester today.

i’ve gone to the dock everyday since the first time he came by, and each day, he’s come too.

we’ve sat in silence, no words spoken. i was too nervous, and he seemed far away in his own world. it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it was something i found myself yearning for.

peaceful. serene.

but today he broke that silence, an outstretched palm and dog eared page being our peace offering. his smile was soft, but forced. i could tell he wasn’t used to doing the facial expression, like he was so used to grimacing his whole life.

i could understand. i can still understand.

i know my palm was sweaty when i shook his, but the roughness of his hand and the nimble fingers that wrapped around mine had my head reeling, so it doesn’t even matter.

today was only pleasantries. how old i was, if i was the preachers daughter, stuff like that. all i found out about him is that he’s originally from kansas and that his younger brother is named sam.

i am hoping to figure out more. he seems like a man with enough skeletons in his closet to fill a graveyard.

JULY 14TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’ve only been talking to him for shy of two days, but dean winchester is becoming somewhat of a comfort in my life.

i found myself wanting to open up to him. not lie and say the bruise on my cheek was from running into a door but from the scratch of daddy’s ring striking against my cheek.

though i didn’t. i found myself stopping the words from coming out of my mouth. when he asked further, all i said was what i believed to be true; ‘god loves you, but not enough to save you’.

it’s something i’ve preached like a new religion since daddy started getting more angry, and i didn’t expect anyone to agree with me.

until dean.

he opened up about his mom dying when he was a kid, about how his dad relies on drinking to ease the pain of losing his one true love.

he said if god truly loved him and his family, he wouldn’t have ripped his mom away from them so tragically; making his dad a semi-functioning drunk who goes to church to make himself feel better.

dean’s ideology on running away is he wouldn’t go anywhere without his sammy, and if i had a younger sibling i loved as much as dean loved sam, i would think the same.

mama came out to call me for dinner, and she almost caught me and dean talking. if she or daddy saw, i’d be done for. but i’d still see him, i realize. i’d crawl on my hands and knees to dean if it means i can spend five minutes in his company.

this blossoming friendship is becoming something i look forward to, and i won’t let anyone or anything take it away from me.

JULY 19TH — 1996

dear diary,

what i have with dean is not normal, i know that more and more as we spend hours upon hours together on that dock and in the adjacent field.

my infatuation with him grows stronger, and my will to bare my soul and heart to him grows stronger. i feel him in my bones, in my ribs and in the crevices of my veins. without him, i believe i would be nothing but a shell of a girl who let’s the world tell her what to do.

he treats me like a human, like his equal. his green eyes shine as he stares at me, dusts his fingers across my back when we venture into town to get soda at the gas station. he plays with the ends of my hair and the willowing fabric of my billowy shirts, and i find that his hands were made to be touching my skin.

no one has ever listened to my thoughts like him, has told me to be more than i am so i can reach my full potential. but dean does, and he makes me feel lighter than i truly am.

handling me like i am mad of glass, he doesn’t throw me and destroy and chip away at my girlhood like my dad. he honours me for all i am, and i find myself falling more and more in love with him.

i need him. need him more than a friend. i don’t care that we’ve know each other for less than a month. i need his soft words in my ear, his lips on my skin, and his rough edges and soft cheeks brushing against my own.

god, if you’re even listening, please give me this one thing. please. please. please.

JULY 22ND — 1996

dear diary,

i did something reckless today, and it made me realize that a spur of the moment decision can get you to where your heart desires.

in the tall grass of the field by my house, under the shade of a weeping willow tree, i kissed dean, and it felt like the most natural thing to me.

his hands were rough yet soft on my waist, holding me tender yet strongly like he didn’t want me to run away from him. i never would. dean would be by my side in all aspects of my world.

the feeling of his lips gently pressing against mine was cathartic, and at first, i thought he was going to pull away. but dean never did, and i found myself crawling into his lap and wishing time slowed down for just a couple more minutes.

in that moment, i wanted to tell him about my dad. how the bruises weren’t from doors, and how my mother’s neglectful attitude kept getting worse. in that moment, i wanted him to take me away from that house; grab sam so we can run away. for good.

but deep down, i knew none of that would happen, and i felt silly to even fathom telling dean about the slaps and kicks i endure from my father.

someday though, i will.

JULY 29TH — 1996

dear diary,

the past week of my life has possibly been the best in a while, and that truly is saying a lot.

dean and i have spent practically most of our time together, and i yearn for the days to surpass 24 hours, just so i can spend more time with him and not have to go back to the circle of hell i call my home.

a couple of days ago, when i met him at the corner of my street, he was smoking a cigarette. i was awestruck, for drugs even as small as nicotine was foreign to me.

daddy always told me that if he ever caught me smoking, he’d put the whole package of cigarette butts out on my skin. and knowing him, i know he isn’t bluffing.

so when dean offered for me to take a ‘hit’ as he called it, i was nervous at first.

“you don’t have to,” was his words, a coaxing hand twirling a piece of my hair while the other held his cigarette. “do whatever you feel is best for you, darling.”

he started calling me darling, and when he does, i find myself pliable in his hands. the words made me grab the stick from his hands, taking a long drag and puffing the smoke out almost immediately.

the taste of marlboro reds still lingered on my tongue for hours after, but the feeling of freedom and rebellion from my daddy felt good. it made me feel in control, and dean always tells me that i’m the only person who’s in control of my life. that no one pushes me around.

“be mean.” he says, pressing feather light kisses across my skin. “be demanding and fucking cruel when need be. because the only person who’s going to change the trajectory of your life, is you, darling.”

i believe him. i truly do. but daddy breaks down my soul, lifts my walls even higher, and each day i stay under his roof, under his religious driven views, i become more and more wary of myself.

all i can look forward to is spending more and more time with dean, and if the rest of my life is like this past week, i won’t be mad.

AUGUST 1ST — 1996

dear diary,

dean might kill my daddy, and i don’t know what there is to do about it.

we were at the local auto shop today — the one where dean works at, and my carefree attitude made me slightly forget that i have demons and bruises to hide from my one true love.

he saw the splatters of purple and blue on my ribs, and demanded to know the truth. i knew the lies about me running into doors and walls wouldn’t last forever, but i hoped it would hold for longer.

when i broke down and told him, he cradled me in his arms like i was made of glass, like he couldn’t even fathom breaking me even more. each stroke of his fingers through my hair, each tightened grip he left around my waist, i felt like he was healing me. making me whole again.

but then he pulled away, and i swear, i saw murder in his eyes.

“that fucking hypocrite!” he grit out, hands clutching my face with a tenderness that didn’t match his voice. “preaching god’s word only to go home and beat on his daughter like a fucking mad man. i’ll make him pay, darling, i promise you.”

i don’t know what he means, but i hope whatever it is, he makes my daddy feel as broken and bruised as i have throughout the years.

AUGUST 6TH — 1996

dear diary,

when dean said he was going to make my daddy pay, i didn’t think he meant trying to expose him in front of our entire church.

daddy was talking about eternal damnation today, and what sends one to the fiery pits of hell. he was speaking like he wasn’t the one who slapped his wife and daughter around, and i could feel dean simmering from a couple of pews behind me.

when church was done, and everyone was talking outside, dean walked right up to my dad, his fist pummelling into his jaw before i could even suck in a breath.

“how does that feel? huh?” dean had snarled, trying to attack my dad for a second time while his father and other men from the church held him back. “does it feel nice to be beaten? can you understand what you put your daughter through each and every day you lay your sick hands on her?”

everyone was staring at him like he was crazy, and it was then i realized that my daddy had not only a grip on me, but a firm hand on everyone in this fucking church. he breeched his claws into their skin, ripping and tearing at their marrow and mirth until they were nothing but pliant sand in his palms.

when dean saw the realization in my eyes, he broke away from the crowd, rushing over to me so he can grab my hand and drag me away from the crowd.

he took me to our field, and i swear, i have never cried tears as bottomless and salt stricken as the ones i cried in his arms.

i wanted it all to be done and over with. wanted daddy to stop, mama to wake up, and for me, dean, and his brother to run far away from here. but none of that would happen, and i saw it clear as day today at the church.

“we’ll get away from this town.” dean reassured me, hands stroking over my skin as i was perched in his lap. “we will go to wherever your heart desires. i’ll let you see the west with me, and everything will be different.”

i wanted to believe him, i really did. but something in my gut told me that what he was saying wouldn’t come to truth.

AUGUST 13TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’m so heartbroken, i haven’t been able to write anything without tears dripping down onto the paper.

when i got home from being with dean after that fateful day at church, dad had punishment in the form of his closed fists and the metal ending of his belt. mama had to carry me upstairs afterwards, and i laid curled in my bed for the next day.

he threatened that if he ever saw me with dean again, that he’d do worse than put the fear of god in me. he forbade me from seeing my only true love, and i couldn’t have that.

two days later, when i could actually walk, i snuck out and ran straight to dean’s house. sam answered the door, and when i saw the moving boxes piled up behind him, i felt my heart crack in a million pieces.

“daddy found a new job in california,” sam explained, a soft tender smile across his cheeks. just like his brother. “dean told me to tell you, he’s currently out right now.”

i immediately ran around town, trying my hardest to find dean, but he was nowhere to be found. at the end of it all, i knew the one place he would ever be waiting for me.

the dock.

when i got there, i halted as i saw dean sitting on the edge, head in hands as his shoulders shook in silent tears. when he heard my footsteps on the wood, i have never seen someone leap up faster.

his hands immediately cradled my face, words coming out a mile a minute as he tried to reassure me.

“come with me, darling.” he breathed, hands moving around my face, like he was trying to make me out to be real. “see the west with me. leave your past behind and start a future with me.”

i wanted to leave. so desperately i did. but my mom. i couldn’t leave her. it wasn’t fair of me, and i knew my dad would just track me down.

so i left dean winchester on that dock. the hope of seeing the west together breaking like a new, intangible dream.

AUGUST 17TH — 1996

dear diary,

what is wrong with me? i should’ve said yes. i should’ve gone with him.

i can’t breath without dean winchester, and i feel the cracks in my heart falling all over my rib cage each day he is gone.

daddy is just getting worse since he learned about my tryst with dean, and his anger is making me crumble mentally and physically, making my bones and soul ache an absolute amount.

i will die in this house, i’ve realized. and no one — not even dean, will be able to help me.

i can’t write anymore. i can’t write what i made myself have. dean was right. what i want in life, i need to take. i should’ve been mean. i should’ve listened. but i didn’t, and now my final resting place will be the four walls of my room.

JANUARY 24TH — 2006

dear diary,

it’s been almost ten years since i’ve last seen dean winchester, and my heart has broken each day since.

today would’ve been his 27th birthday, and i found myself walking into the cemetery this morning with a looming sense of dread hanging over my heart.

he died three years ago, and when sam called me to break the news, i fell to my knees, screaming so loud my mama ran upstairs in worry. i hadn’t left home, and dean would never come back. all because some drunk idiot decided to drive.

i mourn him today. what we had ten years ago, what he told me, how he loved me. when daddy died from a heart attack, i thought about what dean would’ve said. would he have consoled me? watched silently as he laughed at my fathers grave? spewing out hate he would smack me for.

everything is so confusing. but what i do know, is that dean is with his mom, and that’s the only beautiful aspect of god i think about.

rest easy, angel. i will always love you.

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @bluemerakis @luimousine @sacr1ficialang3l @beausling @h8aaz @deanspookiebear @hvnlygrl @losers-clvb @j4ckles @shypilled @honeyryewhiskey @tinas111 @thesevnthseal

[marvey-sideblog]

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Dog Tags (3)

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When a mission goes wrong, Bucky gets his Dog Tags back.

Disclaimer: This is part three for one and two. Mentions of serious injuries, blood and being hospitalised. Angst, bit of fluff here and there, hurt/comfort, Bucky stays by reader's side. Sam giving Bucky his own reality check, platonic!Wanda, swearing. Left kinda open ended in case I decide to write part four? Not Proof Read.

Bucky stared down at the dog tags in his hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the blood stained letters. He had to take a deep breath before the tears started flowing again. 

You were meant to be on a simple recon mission. You’d done them a thousand times. Maybe you’d come back with a bruise or two, but you still came back. 

This time, his phone had rung throughout his room just as the clock turned 4:00 am. An agent had found the tags on her person. They knew they weren’t hers, but they were definitely someone’s. 

Bucky had gotten to the hospital in under an hour. You’d still been in surgery by the time he arrived, but the nurses had brought out your personal belongings in a large plastic bag. 

Your clothes; blood stained to hell. Your Shield issued weapons were empty of bullets. Whatever had happened, you’d emptied your clip, plus your three backups. Your knife lay at the bottom of the bag, stained with blood, too. 

Bucky couldn’t work out if it was yours or someone else's. But he did know one thing for certain. The blood that lay splattered over his tags, as he pulled the chain from the bag, was yours. You never wore them outside of your uniform. You kept them close to your chest. It couldn’t be anyone else's. 

Bucky had left a message at Hill’s desk, as well with Sam explaining what had happened. What he knew, at least. Hill was sending someone to the mission base to find out more. 

“Mr Barnes?”

Bucky took in a deep breath as he stood up, clasping the tags in his palm. Maybe if he squeezed tightly enough, he’d be able to feel you. 

“Yes.”

“Your wife is now out of surgery. We’ll be keeping her under observation for the foreseeable, but once she’s situated in a room, you’ll be able to sit with her.” The Doctor told him. 

Bucky just nodded. “Do you know what happened?”

“I know it’s not common, but I’ll bring you her more detailed medical chart.” They told him. “There was too much extensive damage to talk about off the top of my head.”

Those words hit Bucky in the chest, harder than anything else had ever done. 

“But she’ll-” Bucky couldn’t bring himself to talk. 

The Doctor just nodded. “She’s going to need a lot of physical therapy. Thankfully nothing broke within her legs, but the damage to her muscles will make her training a lot harder than it should be for a while.”

Bucky nodded. 

“But she’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

The Doctor nodded. “Thank you for the tags.”

Bucky was a little confused as he followed the doctor’s finger, pointing to his hand. The dog tags? Why was she thanking him for the dog tags?

“If your wife hadn’t been wearing them, we wouldn’t have known who to contact.”

Wife.

Bucky felt himself chuckle inside. If you were awake and could hear the doctor now, you’d have probably made some disgusted eye roll and comment over being even associated with him. 

“Oh, yeah.”

The Doctor smiled. “I’ll come and get you when she’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

She just nodded with another soft smile before walking away. Twenty minutes later, he was being walked down the hallway where he stood outside of your room for ten minutes before opening up the door. 

You had at least a dozen wires hooked up to you, aside from the standard hospital gear. Bucky just stared at the monitor for a while, watching your heartbeat print onto paper. 

Eventually, he sat in the chair beside your bed and looked at you. In that moment, he’d give anything to have you yell at him. Cuss him out, threaten him, roll your eyes…anything. 

“They…” Bucky cleared his throat, looking down at the tags in his hand. “They told me you should still be able to hear me…and that talking helps. I know you’re probably mad it’s me who’s here, but you can’t blame me for this one, doll.” 

A weak chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he looked from his hand and to your sleeping frame. “They think we’re married, by the way. Mostly because of the dog tags they found on you. I’ve…I’ve got em’ right here. They’re safe. You’re safe, doll. Just…just kinda need you to wake up soon. Maybe tell me to piss off. Not that I’d leave you anyway, but that’s kinda our thing, right? Fighting?”

Bucky went silent for a while as he looked at you. 

“I need you to fight me, sweetheart.” Bucky told you. “So you’ve gotta mend and pull through all of this. Whatever happened out there in the field…that’s not the end of your story. It can’t be. I won’t let it.”

Bucky could hear your voice in his head. “You’d don’t have a choice in it, Barnes.”. 

Bucky told you a few more things, like how he’d called both Hill and Sam. He told you that he’d text Wanda, “She’ll get it once she lands. I’m sure she’ll be flying through that window soon.”

But, eventually, he stopped talking. He just let the sound of your steady heart fill the room. It was proof you were still alive. You were still here. 

On the days where Bucky couldn’t sit with you, Wanda took his place. Or Kate. Or Sam. On the odd occasion, Joaquin sat with you. Bucky had walked in on plenty of PowerPoint presentations of how his suit was better than Sam’s old one. 

But when he did sit with you, his mind would wander to memories of you and him. Like the training room when he’d told you he knew you had his dog tags, or when he’d helped you when you got hurt a few months back. 

But one stuck out to him in particular. Plenty stuck out to him as time ticked by, but he was reminded of this one as he looked at the side table beside your bed. Your knife lay on top, still in its protective covering. 

Less than three weeks before you’d landed in hospital, Bucky had been training with you. 

The main noises being made were grunts. As you hit his chest, as he knocked your legs down, as you twisted his arm, as he flipped you onto the mat, as you kicked his legs from beneath him, as you both rolled across the mats before you landed on top, trapping him in place. 

“Give in yet?”

“Do you?”

You were about to question what he meant, but then you felt it. Cold and sharp; he had your knife, again. But this time, it was pointed against your side. 

“What?” You hesitated for a second and looked away. Bucky took his opportunity. 

In two simple moves, you were on your back staring up at him with your own knife gently pressed against your skin. 

“Give in.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes at his glowing smirk. “Yes. Fine. Now get off me.” 

Bucky chuckled and stood up, lowering his hand down to help you up. At first, you swatted it away. But he held it out again, “Come on.”

Reluctantly, you accepted it and he helped you stand. “You’re focusing too much. Too in your head. You need to relax.” 

Bucky flipped the knife over in his hand so he was pinching the sharp blade. He handed it over to you and you swiped it up. “Thanks.” Your voice grunted a little before you placed your knife back in its place. 

“You know, if you wanted to, you could train with me more often.” Bucky offered as he walked away. “I know you and I are…whatever we are. But I have training that isn’t exactly found in a Shield manual.”

“I’m fine.” You said, avoiding looking at him as he stood with his back to you. You had stared at him in this fashion one too many times. It was only a short time before someone caught you doing so. Even worse if it was Bucky. 

“It’s not an issue. Hell, we don’t have to even talk-”

“I said I’m fine.” You didn’t mean to raise your voice when you spoke to him. You regretted it instantly. You sighed. “Look, I know you mean well. And, thank you. But I’m okay.”

Bucky watched you, over his shoulder. You walked away from the mats, grabbed your water bottle and sat down on one of the opposite benches. 

“What is it?” 

“What?”

“Do you have a problem with me or something?”

You sighed. “Bucky.”

“I get you and I don’t exactly get along-”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” you cut him off. “I just-” 

You gave a short sigh. There were so many reasons why it wouldn’t work if he was the one to train you. He wouldn’t know it, but you’d become more distracted by him. And for some reason it was written into the heavens that if you and Bucky spent more than ten minutes alone together, things in the air started to get…close. Too close. 

But the main thing was your undisclosed feelings for the super annoying, massive pain in your ass, super soldier. The longer you spent around him, so close to him, the harder they were getting to manage. 

It was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

Bucky watched you for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

You just nodded. 

Later that evening, Bucky had been with Wanda. And he’d been avoiding the topic of you ever since he walked through the front door. 

“Did something happen between you two?” Wanda just flat out asked him. 

“No. Nothing happened.”

“You’re sulking, so I know something happened.”

Bucky shrugged. “She just doesn’t want my help. I’ve tried being nice. But she’s just so…her. It’s annoying.”

Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more information than just…you not handling your school boy crush very well.”

“I don’t-” Bucky shut his mouth as he whipped his head around to look at Wanda. “I don’t like her like that.”

“Doesn’t like who?” Sam asked as he walked through the door. 

“Bucky. Not liking Y/n.”

Sam just barked a laugh as he opened up the fridge and put his groceries away. “Ha! That’s a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“What-”

“Bucky,” Sam was practically laughing. “You’ve had a crush on her for god knows how long. I don’t know what twisted bullshit you both have going on that prevents you from talking like normal human beings, but even I know you saying you don’t like Y/n is nothing but a complete and utter bullshit lie.”

Bucky looked at Wanda for backup but she seemed to be on Sam’s side. 

“You know, maybe if you…I don’t know…talked to her rather than fight her-”

“She fights me!”

Sam just looked at him. “You fight each other.”

“Maybe you should just try and talk to her,” Wanda told him. “Might just clear a few things up.”

Sam sat down on the arm of the chair. “You’ve had feelings for her for a long time, Buck. Maybe it’s time you did something about it.”

Bucky just sighed. 

“How long have you guys been married?”

Bucky hadn’t noticed the nurse walk inside to your hospital room, at first. “Sorry?”

“I’m sorry to ask,” she apologised as she changed out your IV and drew some blood. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of couples pass through these doors and I’m yet to see ones with a connection like yours.”

Bucky sat up. The nurse could read the confusion on his face from a mile away. 

She just stepped to the side and pointed at the print of the heart rate. 

“See these spikes here?” 

Bucky nodded. 

“These are from when you’ve been with her. It’s good they’re going up. It means she’s recognising her surroundings. At the very least, the people in it. You’re healing for her.”

Bucky just looked at your still sleeping frame. He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

The nurse smiled again. “How long have you two been married?”

“Not long,” Bucky answered. “But we’ve…we’ve known each other for years.”

The nurse smiled. “Who made the first move?”

Bucky thought for a moment. “She did. She saved my life.”

And you had. 

You’d been one of the new agents placed with the team. In the middle of a forest, Bucky had noticed every tripwire save for one. As something came flying over head, you’d swiped his legs from underneath him and pinned him down. 

“You’re welcome,” you whispered. 

That had been the first time Bucky had met you. It had also been the first time he’d looked you in the eyes. He could have happily drowned there and then. Which scared him. More than he knew what to deal with. 

“And now you’re here saving hers,” the nurse smiled. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything I can get you? Blankets, pillows?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“She’ll be okay, Mr Barnes.”

Bucky just nodded and watched as the nurse left. As he turned his head, that was when he noticed your chart. They still kept you as Y/n Barnes. Nobody, including Bucky, had bothered to correct them. If anything, it meant Bucky still learnt about your injuries and your healing process. 

It also meant he got access to stay with you for as long as he wanted. Which, if he didn’t have to work and if Sam didn’t come and drag him outside every few hours, he’d stay the whole time. 

It was a month or so more before you finally woke up. 

When Bucky had gotten a text from Joaquin telling him to get to the hospital quickly, he’d dropped what he was doing and came running down the hallway of the hospital ten minutes later. 

“What’s happening?”

“I-I don’t know.” Joaquin told him. “I was just holding her hand and she moved. Like, she squeezed my hand.”

“What?” Bucky moved past Joaquin and to your side, leaning his hand on the side headboard. 

“Y/n? Hey, doll? Can you hear me?”

Bucky held your hand in his. Nothing happened. “I know you don’t like me all that much, but if you can hear me, can you try and squeeze my hand?” 

Again, nothing.

Bucky looked at Joaquin. 

“I didn’t dream it.”

Bucky looked back at you. For a split second, he pushed some of your hair from your face. “Doll, if you’re awake, please. I just need you to squeeze my hand.”

Again, nothing. 

Until there was something.

“Go and get a nurse.”

“On it!” Joaquin practically flew out of the room. 

It all happened in a matter of seconds. Joaquin had been talking to you, telling you that you were gonna be okay. Then you heard Bucky’s voice which was quickly followed by a rough hand gently holding onto yours. 

And when you finally opened your eyes, you saw him. Standing beside your bed, holding your hand, looking like the world had finally started moving again. 

It was a few hours before you came around properly. And when you did, it felt a lot less hectic. Everything was peaceful and quiet. You had time to look around. There was a steady beeping somewhere. 

A heart monitor. 

You had different wires and tubes sticking out of you. The lights weren’t as bright as they’d been when you’d first woken up. 

But the thing that caught your eye the most was the sleeping frame of Bucky, hunched over your bed. Then you felt it. His hand, still in yours. 

You tried to squeeze his hand but eventually it hurt a little less and he stirred awake before shooting up. 

“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“How long have I been out?”

Bucky answered you honestly. “Almost two months. The damage was extensive. Can you remember anything?”

You just nodded. “I think I blacked out after the building collapsed because I don’t remember anything after that.”

Bucky stood and pressed a button on the headboard of your bed before sitting beside you, clasping your hand in his. If it had been any other time, you would have taken your hand right back. 

But in that moment you needed comfort. You needed to feel safe. 

You felt safe with Bucky. 

But then you gasped. “Shit.”

“What? Are you hurt? What is it?”

You sat up and touched your chest and neck. “Your- your tags. I-”

Bucky just pulled the chain from his shirt. “There’s right here.”

You visibly relaxed but then you tensed as you watched Bucky remove them. “What are you doing?”

A small chuckle left him, “Just stay still, would you?”

“It’s not like I can exactly run away right now.”

Bucky smiled to himself before lifting the chain up and over your head. “There.”

You looked at him, wondering what he meant by all of it. “They’re your tags, Bucky.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I know they’re safe with you. They always looked better on you, anyway.”

Once Bucky knew you were okay, he’d wiped the rest of the tags clean. He’d been waiting to lay them back on you. He didn’t want to do it while you were sleeping. He needed you to fight him first. 

He needed proof you were alive. 

That was when the door opened and a nurse walked inside. “You’re awake! I must say, you nearly gave me and your husband a fright earlier. The doctor hadn’t predicted that you would wake up this early.”

You looked at Bucky and whispered, “Husband?”

“Just go with it,” he whispered back. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so, when both the Doctor and nurse had left, that you spoke to Bucky again. 

“You wanna tell me why we’re married?”

“They found my tags with you. They called me and…”

“You never corrected them?” You’d asked that question a lot calmer than Bucky had been expecting. 

“It meant I got to stay with you longer. And that they’d tell me what was going on.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Bucky.”

Bucky was honest with you. “I’m glad they called me first.”

You hand clutched the tags dangling from your neck. “They really thought you were my husband?”

Bucky chuckled. “If anything, the tags made sure you came home.”

In the silence as you and Bucky looked at each other, you felt the coolness of the metal in your palm. His tags had brought you home. His tags had brought him to you. His dog tags made sure you weren’t alone. And something told you Bucky had the same idea. 

Which was only confirmed when he attended almost every physio appointment with you. 

“How’s she doing, doc?”

The physio smiled as they held their arms up, in case you fell. “She’s doing great.”

“She’s tired and pissed off.” You answered truthfully. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I brought your favourite snacks from that store you and Kate found.”

Your hand gripped the two parallel bars as you slowly walked from one side to the other. “How the hell do you know about that store?”

“I asked Kate. She told me.”

As the phyio’s pager went off, Bucky offered to take over for a few minutes to help you. And, considering the medical staff still believed you and Bucky to be married, you’d both decided to just keep the act up. 

So, slowly walking beside you in case you fell, Bucky helped you turn around and walk back down the parallel bars. 

“How’ve you been feeling?”

“You mean other than tired and pissed off?”

“Yeah.”

“Sore,” you admitted. “Bored. I can’t wait to get back home.”

If Bucky was being honest, he would say the same thing. Even if you did spend more time fighting each other, he missed it. He missed you. 

“Neither can I.” The honesty slipped out from Bucky before he could think about any awkward consequences. 

You paused and looked at him. “What?” Your voice was a little softer than usual. 

“What?” Bucky shrugged. He’d said it. There was no taking it back. “It’s boring without you. I get we might fight the whole time, but without you I’ve got no one to keep my ego in check.”

Bucky earned a laugh from you as you looked away to keep walking. And he laughed, too. 

You had to admit. Laughing with Bucky rather than groaning was a nice change. 

And it only got easier from there on out. Your groans had turned to laughter, your scowls had turned to smiles and the roll of your eyes had turned to tears of laughter. 

And slowly, the same things happened for Bucky, too.

Eventually, the ten minute window you and Bucky spent together turned into twenty, then forty and before either of you knew it, hours had passed. 

You were both together and, surprisingly, still alive. 

Part Four

[littlepeach-world]

 Which Boyfriend Calls Back First?

Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your friends test your boyfriends' responsiveness with a playful TikTok challenge, and naturally, your devoted boyfriend In-ho is the first to call back.

Warnings: Fluff, Cute!inho, Clingy!Inho, Protective!Inho.

Word count: 1k

You and your four friends—Yuri, May, Chaein, and Hayoung—gather around the dining table, each of you armed with your smartphones. The room buzzes with a mix of excitement and nervous laughter as you all prepare to join the latest TikTok trend: determining which of your boyfriends will respond the fastest to a missed call.

"Okay, ladies, are we ready?" Yuri asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Ready!" everyone chimes in unison.

You steal a glance at your friends, feeling the collective anticipation building up. "Alright, on the count of three: one, two, three!" you call out.

You all dial your respective partners simultaneously and then quickly hang up, creating what’s known as a "flash" call. The five of you place your phones back on the table, the screens facing up, and exchange amused and curious glances, eager to see which boyfriend will react first.

May leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with a smirk. "I bet Mark will call me back first. He's always so quick to respond."

Chaein laughs, shaking her head. "Oh please, Sunoo is definitely the fastest. Just wait and see."

You feel a familiar flutter of excitement as you look at your phone, fully confident in In-ho’s attentiveness. "Well, let’s just see about that," you say, grinning.

"Honestly, In-ho will probably call back first because he's so obsessed with Y/N. I mean, I'm surprised he even let her come out tonight," Yuri jokes with a knowing smile. 

It was no exaggeration; you and In-ho were practically inseparable. He despised being apart from you and would become upset if you were away for even a few hours. Heading out tonight to spend time with your friends had been an uphill battle, as he did everything he could to persuade you to stay with him instead. His unwavering devotion and the way he always wanted to be near you were endearing, adding a touch of romance to your relationship that made your bond even stronger.

Within moments, your phone lights up and starts ringing. The screen displays In-ho's name, and your heart does a little flip. You catch the surprised looks from your friends and can't help but laugh.

"Damn, In-ho’s fast!" Hayoung exclaims, genuinely impressed.

You pick up your phone, feeling a surge of warmth. "Hello?" you answer, trying to suppress a giggle.

"Is everything okay?" In-ho’s voice comes through, filled with concern.

"Everything's fine, love. It was just a little game we were playing," you say, your voice softening.

In-ho is renowned for his authoritative role and his emotionally guarded demeanor, but in moments like these, the depth of his love for you becomes undeniably clear. Despite the demands of his position as the Front Man, where he commands control and garners respect from everyone around him, you are the exception to his rigid exterior. Even amidst his busy schedule, he always ensures to carve out time for you, willing to drop anything at a moment's notice just to be by your side.

The room fills with light-hearted groans and chuckles as your friends mock-complain about losing the lighthearted competition. "Looks like Y/N's the winner," Yuri concedes with a playful pout.

You walk into another room, still on the phone with your love. In-ho's concern is palpable, yet there's a gentle humor in his voice as he says, "I could hear those groans and laughs—sounds lively over there."

"It's definitely lively," you reply, a soft laugh escaping. "We're just caught up in a silly game right now. But everything's all good, nothing to worry about."

There’s a brief pause, and you can imagine him thoughtfully staring into the distance, just as he often does.

"Are you having fun?" he asks, his tone lightening.

You smile, "Yeah, it's a lot of fun. We're all really into these goofy challenges."

"Good," In-ho replies, a warm undertone in his voice. "Do you need me to pick up anything from the store before you come back home?"

You think for a moment and then smile. "Actually, could you grab some snacks for later? You know, our usuals."

"Consider it done," he says with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Anything else?"

"No, that should be it. Thanks, love," you say, feeling grateful for his thoughtfulness. "Just get yourself home safely."

"I will," he promises. "I miss you."

Your heart swells at his simple admission. "I miss you too," you reply softly. "I'll see you soon."

As you hang up, your thoughts wander to the unique dynamic of your relationship with In-ho. You know that most people would probably find having a clingy, overprotective boyfriend suffocating or annoying. They might complain about the constant check-ins or the way he always wants to know you're safe. But for you, it's different. His attentiveness and concern are like a warm blanket on a cold night—they wrap you in a sense of comfort and security that you've come to cherish deeply.

You love how every call, every message from him is a small reminder that you are loved and valued. In a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable, his protective nature provides a reassuring constant. In-ho has a way of making you feel like you are the most important person in his world, and it's a feeling you wouldn't trade for anything.

Your mind drifts back to a conversation you had with him not long ago. He had confessed that he had never been this way with anyone before. "I've never felt the need to be so protective," he had admitted, his voice soft but sincere. "But with you, I just want to make sure you're always okay."

His words had struck a chord deep within you. Knowing that his behavior wasn't a default setting but something unique to your relationship made you appreciate it even more. It was as if you had unlocked a part of him that had remained hidden until you came into his life.

Rejoining your friends, you can't help but smile, the warmth of In-ho's recent call lingering like a tender embrace. The noise and laughter around you feel a bit more vibrant, the evening a bit more enjoyable, all because of the love and devotion you know is waiting for you at home.

[arminsumi]

tattoartist!suguru losing nonchalance when reader flirts with him?

im down bad for him holy hell

Oh, he's falling to pieces, got it bad for the girl he just met 'n he's gonna make a drunk little bet — y'think he's crazy enough to get your name tattooed on him? Or crazy enough to ink his name into your skin?

ㅤ★ wc; ~3k

ㅤ★ note; continuation of tattoo artist Suguru Geto!

ㅤ★ an; aaa!! you got my brain whirring like a laptop... tysm and i hope this makes u blush and kick ur feet as much as i did while writing!! 🍰✨

ㅤ★ tagz; @ohimsummer 💗@fairiesthrum💗 @heartofjasmina 💗 @kwonan 💗 @ghost-buddies 💗 @madamecorbie 💗 @mima0127 💗 @moggleatlife 💗 @natasaa13 💗 @yemmuishomeforthementallyunwell 💗 @wakashudou 💗 @khaothick 💗 @candy-s72 💗 @creamflix 💗 @starriesworlds

ㅤ★ warnings; sum alcohol/drunkenness

“So, was she joking, or am I your type?” Suguru asks, black eyes staring right into your soul.

“Mm, well…” you hum, giving his form a look-over – god, if only you could feel how hard his heart’s beating when you do this. “Maybe.” You reply teasingly.

“Aw, just ‘maybe’?” he groans, now leaning his hip against the edge of the display case that housed the studs and gauge earrings.

“Yeah, just ‘maybe’ – I’m teasing. No, she wasn’t joking; I’ve always had a thing for the black hair, black nails, bad boy look…”

“The ‘bad boy’ look…?” he questions, recalling what your friend had said earlier about bad boys being just your type.

“Yeah, the ‘bad boy’ look.” You giggle.

His heart beats even harder, muttering a naughty little “Well, lucky me.”

“Nah, not so fast – I’m a smart woman.” You warn.

“Oh, are you?” he clicks his tongue in defeat, “Damn, would you believe that my type is smart women? No, no I’m serious… I’ve got a thing for smart women.”

Your cheeks grow hot, the heat spreading to your ears.

“I can assure you that the ‘bad boy’ look is just an aesthetic; I’m really an artsy dork making a living off doodling on people’s bodies.” He shrugs.

“Hm… maybe, maybe not.”

You rub your lips together. He briefly licks his bottom lip. You look him up and down. He looks you up and down. Body language open and alive with attraction, the both of you stand in this air of electric tension that Shoko spies from the other end of the room.

She watches as the two of you giggle like little flirts, observing how totally absorbed the two of you are in each other’s company. When you catch her eye, Shoko gives you a wink and points at her wrist, mouthing “five more” – fair enough, the two of you have promised to get pizza.

Pizza first, boys later, right?

Five minutes more go by – adding to the total of four hours spent at the tattoo & piercing parlor. But despite her discomfort and need for a change of scenery, Shoko decides to linger around just a little longer so that the two of you can indulge in each other just a little more.

But now you're getting nervous – Suguru has you breathless, holding you in a battle of who can flirt harder? which you're starting to lose.

He's captivated by you. This 6’3, tattooed, goth-grunge, slightly dorky man chuckles and smiles like he hasn’t had this much fun talking flirting with someone in years.

It's going well, then your smile trips him up. I know, it’s always the smile, huh? If you see enough of it, you slip… and that’s exactly what's happened to Suguru. He quickly grows obsessed with the way your cheeks look when you smile – the image burns into his memory without him even realizing it in the moment.

No, in the moment he doesn't realize the magnitude of your effect on him. He's just thinking about himself, about you, about —

“I’ve gotta go,” you say goodbye finally, “I don’t want to keep my friend waiting. But you’ll probably see my face here again… she loves dragging me along for these kinds of things.”

He stutters, “Oh! Oh… yeah – yes. Of course. Looking forward to it… maybe next time, you’ll be the one getting ink in your skin.”

“Yeah right.” You smile.

It’s your French exit that makes his heart throb in need.

No, don’t leave yet… I like you – don’t you ever wonder how many acquaintances in your life have thought this when leaving your company? And you’ll never even know.

Oh, Suguru was thinking so hard about asking you to exchange numbers or to meet up for coffee, but he didn’t want to come off as too forward – no, no… he had to maintain his mysteriousness. Or at least, he had to cling to whatever was left of it after revealing his inner dorkiness to you.

*****

After you leave, he wanders in and out of his studio, has small interactions with his co-workers, and doodles ideas for tattoos down.

Throughout all of these things, your face is at the forefront of his mind. Your voice echoes in his head as he recalls every detail of the conversation you two shared. Then he starts smiling softly as he applauds himself for being so gutsily flirty with you… a stranger, just someone, who he probably won’t see again…

A girl with no name.

God, why was he so slow? He didn’t even ask for your name. Suguru groans.

Yes, he probably won’t see you again… not unless your friend brings you along for her next visit. How long does he have to wait? Weeks? Months? That’s insane.

Suguru stops doodling, stares at the scrap of paper, and then looks up at the wall displaying his works. He rubs his fingers back and forth across his mouth.

I gotta.

He looks over to his phone. He reaches for it, takes it into his veiny hand, unlocks it, and scrolls through his list of contacts.

And then he dials his client’s number. Shoko Ieri.

*****

Now, it’s been just under an hour since you and Shoko left the tattoo parlour. She’s complained three times about the pain because exactly three times she has leaned back on the seat – squishing the fresh ink wound against her chair. You just cruelly laugh at how her eyes twitch in pain and each time.

The two of you sit eating pizza.

“He liked you. Why don’t we go back and you ask him for his number?” she teases.

“No way… he’ll think I’m too forward.” You shake your head.

Then three minutes later, Shoko's phone goes off. She reaches into her backpack. She looks at the caller ID, then at you, then at the caller ID, then –

“… is that him?”

“It’s him.”

“What’s he calling for! Me?”

“Absolutely he’s calling for you – I can bet gold on that.”

It stops ringing. She tells you she’ll text him back but guess what? She doesn’t even need to, because he calls again.

“Relentless.” She giggles. “I’m answering.”

“Pretend I’m not here!”

She winks at you and answers, “Hey, Suguru, what’s up?”

The two of you lean in until your foreheads press together – it’s still hard to make out every word.

“Yo.” You hear his smooth voice coming from the other side, “Sorry to bother you… (muffled)… your friend (muffled)… so embarrassed, so don’t tell her that I’m calling… (muffled)… what was her name?”

You clap your hand over your mouth when you hear those snippets.

She gives you a devious look before saying, “Oh! Well, she’s right here with me, actually, so you can ask her yourself.”

Mouth full of pizza, you freak out and X your arms to signal a fat NO WAY SHOKO! and fall to pieces all with the taste of pepperoni on your tongue.

But she just hands the phone over to you anyways, then proceeds to silently laugh as you spit out your pizza before talking.

“Hehlooo?”

“H-hey.”

You get right to the point. “My name’s Yn…”

“Oh… I like that… I’m Suguru.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Suguru. Suguru Geto.” He raises his voice.

Cheek hot against the screen of his phone, Suguru is silently freaking out at the tense silence. He can feel his stomach starting to flip. His mind blanks.

“Anyways! Um, that’s all.”

No. That’s not all. He has a novel’s length worth of things to talk about with you.

At this point, Shoko rolls her eyes at the two of you being so awkward on the phone and decides that she needs to take matters into her own hands.

So she snatches the phone from you.

“ – Suguru? Say, you wouldn’t be free on Saturday, would ya? Yeah, I’m going on a date with this guy… and I’d love to make it a double date with you and Yn if you’d like to –”

You hear him stutter out a yes, absolutely before Shoko can even finish her sentence. She grins.

Suguru can sense that the two of you are smiling and giggling. He can predict that the two of you are probably going to gossip about him being the 'dork from the tattoo parlor that called not once, but twice for the name of a girl he just met' – but he doesn’t care. He’s been presented an opportunity and taken it.

To hell with seeming too eager.

When the call ends, Suguru blows out a breath through his lips. Then he promptly texts his best friend. Dark strands of hair slip out of his sloppy bun as he puts his face over the screen, thumbs swift and eager.

Toru 🤞😜 lol bravo... but i thought u said she was out of ur league??

Sugu i mean... yes. she's way too pretty and smart for me. but i'm not gonna pass up this opportunity

Toru 🤞😜 still can't believe u called ur client just to get her friend’s name... lol

Sugu you would understand if you met her ok

Toru 🤞😜 damn she must be something else

Yes, yes you are something else — Suguru can’t even begin to describe why. Translating his thoughts into words isn’t his thing; he translates them into art.

****

It's later in the day. You're lazing around Shoko's apartment.

She confirms the time and place of the double date, and cackles on her couch while kicking her feet, teasing you for being so crazy about a guy you just met – her tattoo artist.

You just couldn’t stop talking about Geto Suguru.

“Shiiit, should I even let you and a bad boy like him be alone in a room together?”

“I can control myself.” you assure her.

She slowly shakes her head at you.

“Yeah right… but can he? I don't trust neither of you... miss crazy and mister crazy... you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

You giggle to yourself, biting your thumb. “Maybe…”

“Oh girl…” she groans, causing you to giggle into yourself, “You’re gonna be licking the tail of his dragon tattoo by the end of the date tomorrow.”

“H-h-he has a what? And where?” you stuttered, lashes quivering.

She shakes her head at you. “God, you’re screwed…”

*****

It's Saturday night. The bar's more alive than ever.

You've learned that Geto Suguru does, in fact, have a dragon tattoo inked up his toned arm – and a tight-fitting black tank top that shows it off along with his martial artist’s physique, too.

He’s got a glint of the devil in his black eyes. Softly-delivered dirty jokes ready to roll off his pierced tongue. A habit of tilting his head and looking hungrily at your lips and neck.

“Martial arts, huh?” you ask with stars in your eyes.

“Mhm, I could teach you a few things.” He purrs in reply.

Your stomach starts squeezing and flipping – that’s got to be the flirtiest 'mhm' that you’ve ever heard in your whole life.

“You think so?” you purr back.

Now it’s his turn to feel that squeezy, flippy feeling in his stomach.

Fuckfuckfuck is all he could think when he looks into your eyes.

I’m gonna fall to pieces. You’re gonna be the death of me.

“Uh…  do you two need some privacy?” Shoko teases.

Oh. It’s a double date. How could you forget? Shoko is literally sitting beside you at the bar with her date. But for a second there, it really felt like it was just you 'n this deliciously tattooed bad boy.

“Maybe.” Suguru chuckles coyly.

“There’s a hotel just next door…”

“Shoko!” you scold, playfully shoving her arm.

She giggles into herself, sipping down her cocktail innocently as if she didn’t just electrify the air between you and Suguru. His throat’s tensing, foot’s tapping up and down on the bar stool – boy’s got long spider-legs, huh?

Now after that, Suguru grins wider – showing off his pretty canines – his posture assuming something self-soothing; he holds his elbows, arms squished against his ribcage, which just makes his biceps more pronounced. Oh why, why did he have to wear a tank top like that? Surely he’s aware of the effect it has on girls. Or maybe he’s oblivious…

Nah. He's not.

*****

“Did it hurt?” you ask, trying to blink out the tipsiness from your love-drunk eyes but you’ve got three cosmopolitans surging through your veins.

“Not really… I’ve got great pain tolerance.” Suguru replies.

“Oh really?” you blink up at him again and his mind goes blank.

“Look at that...” He murmurs softly, not breaking eye contact with you. Where’s your friend and her date? Who knows. It’s just you and him now – and that’s all he wanted.

“Hm?”

“Not every day I see eyes like that…”

You widen your lips into a smile, “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I? Sorry – see, this is what happens after you feed Suguru too much rum. I just can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s terrible… need someone to shut ya up?” you flirt.

He tilts his head at you, loose strands of hair shifting across his cheek. His left brow quirks up – he’s so taken aback by your forwardness but he falls right into it.

You just giggle flirtatiously after making that comment and pull the straw of your drink between your lips, sucking the remnants of a cosmopolitan into your mouth as sensually as you dare to in front of a bad boy who’s got bedroom eyes on you.

“I think I could do with some shutting up…” he admits.

“Mm,” you hum, “y’think by our third date you’re gonna snap and kiss me hard like we’re in a movie?”

Suguru smiles bashfully and looks down into his drink, swirling the melting ice cubes with a straw – slowly, round and round, they clink. Then he draws his gaze back to you, catching you with a sultry side-eye, and now it’s not just the ice cubes that are melting.

“Nah-uh…”

“Nah-uh?” you question.

“… I think it’s you who’s gonna snap first.” He says.

“Wanna bet?” you tease.

“Sure. What’ll be at stake?” he asks.

He keeps his sultry gaze on you as you look off to the side in thought for a moment. Your friend’s joke echoes in your mind.

“… you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

Then you look back to him – his heart throbs but he’s trying to keep it together here, pulling his straw to his lips to get a sip of whatever rum still exists in his glass.

“Loser gets a regrettable tattoo?” you suggest.

He looks at you with a little bit of disbelief at your boldness.

“How regrettable?” he questions, one eye squinting shut in suspicion. He's wondering just how wild you actually are.

“Like my name on you? Or vice versa.”

He covers his mouth and lets out a chuckle hearing this. “You want me to tattoo my name on ya skin?” he teases. “Sure, I’ll bet on that.”

You can’t believe that he’s matching your crazy.

You stutter, replying only after a lingering moment of hot eye contact, “… there’s no way I’m gonna snap first…” you say boldly, proceeding to pop the cherry of your drink into your mouth and eating it right in front of the poor boy’s eyes. “ ‘m gonna have you walkin’ around with my name on you.”

Eyes glued on your lips, his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah?”

Ooh, there it was. That feeling. That body singing electric songs feeling… that tummy-tightening, blood-rushing, skin-flushing feeling – it hit him all at once. He knows that if he were standing, his knees would have buckled now for sure, or at least he would have felt the tremor of your words under his feet.

He’s unsteady – smiling uncontrollably, looking dishevelled and softly drunk. Those rouge lips are begging to be kissed.

The bar grows quieter and quieter.

You’re hardly able to call each other anything more than strangers, and yet you’re leaning into him, closing the distance.

The tips of your noses are just inches apart now. You’re in each other’s air. He eyes out your lips, feels your hot, liquor-scented breath tickle his face.

But when you try and close the distance, he raises his hand and presses his thumb against your soft lips, stopping you.

“What happened to that bold statement, huh? Keep it together, baby; the bet’s on.” He feathers against your face.

*****

Tumbling into Shoko’s apartment after a night out drinking, you smile and giggle into the pillows of her bed.

She’s letting her hair down and swapping out her tight dress for jammies when she looks at you in your gleeful state.

“Someone’s in love.” She teases, coming over to tickle you.

“I’m not in love!”

“Oh, quit the act; I saw how the two of you said goodbye – you could barely hold yourself together. Drunk or not, I ain’t seen two adults giggling like that before.”

“Sh!” you swat her, “Not! In! Love!”

She takes a look into your eyes and observes your smile, then shakes her head. You're drowsy, so you make a dive into her bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

Shoko pulls a blanket over you, affectionately ruffling your hair.

“Madly in love, at the very least.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Something that has been on my mind.

Taskforce 141 with a smol reader who can sleep anywhere because she just fits into all the small spaces around the base and everyday it's a game between the taskforce on where they find the reader dozing off on the base! 🙈

Hope you have a good day! 😽

The Great Task Force 141 Hide-and-Seek Champion

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Tiny!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, ridiculous amounts of fluff, protective 141, jealousy, cuddling

Author's Note: i tried making this poly. You might be able to see it if you squint so… yeah :)

Summary: You have an uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. Thanks to your small size, you manage to squeeze into places no one expects, turning the base into your personal nap zone. At first, it was a game—finding you before Price lost his patience. But slowly, things change. Now, the boys aren’t just looking for you—they’re making sure you’re safe, warm, and taken care of. And maybe… just maybe… they’re realizing they don’t just want to find you. They want to keep you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Day 1: The Supply Closet

"Where the hell is Mouse?"

Price’s voice echoed through the barracks, already laced with exasperation. It had only been an hour since they'd last seen you. An hour. And you’d already vanished.

Gaz, standing casually by the doorway, sipped his tea. “Check the supply closet.”

Soap narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would she be in the—”

Ghost, moving like a man far too used to this, didn’t wait for the debate. He walked straight to the supply closet, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.

There you were.

Curled up on one of the metal shelves, wedged between a stack of MREs and a pile of folded tarps. Your cheek was pressed against a plastic-wrapped ration pack, arms tucked under your head like a damn cat.

Soap stared. “Yer kiddin’.”

Price sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "How the hell do you find this comfortable?"

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before sleepily muttering, “Warm.”

Gaz snorted. “Comfortable, Mouse?”

A small nod. “Mm.”

Ghost studied you in silence, then turned and walked away.

Soap gawked. "We’re just leaving her here?"

Ghost shrugged. “She’ll wake up eventually.”

Price sighed. He wasn’t paid enough for this.

——

Day 5: The First Shift in the Game

It started small.

The first time Soap found you tucked into an abandoned supply box, he huffed out a laugh, shook his head—and left his jacket over you.

The next time, Gaz found you curled up under a desk and quietly slid his extra hoodie beneath your head.

Price, despite all his grumbling, was the one leaving snacks.

And Ghost? He never woke you. Never disturbed you. But he stood guard.

The others didn’t notice at first. But after a few days, Soap started eyeing him.

"Y’know, mate," he smirked, "fer someone who acts like he don’t care, you sure stand ‘round a lot whenever Tiny’s sleepin’."

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

But the next morning, when you woke up in your favorite nap spot, there was a blanket over you.

——

Day 12: The Wrong Soldier Found You First

This was not part of the game.

Normally, it was them who found you. Normally, you’d wake up to soft teasing, grumbling, or just being carried away in Soap’s arms.

But today?

Today, some random soldier found you first.

It was innocent at first.

The guy had walked into the break room, noticed your small form curled up in the corner, and let out a snicker.

"Christ, does she ever actually work?"

The temperature dropped.

The conversation across the room stopped.

The soldier barely had time to react before four very dangerous men turned to look at him.

Ghost’s voice was low. Cold. "What did you just say?"

Soap moved first, stepping closer—a little too close. "Say it again, mate."

Gaz threw an arm around your shoulders, very pointedly shifting you away from the guy.

And Price? Price just gave the final nail in the coffin.

“She’s with us.”

The soldier left.

Quickly.

——

Day 20: The Final Nap

At this point, Price was done.

"Alright," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Where the hell is she now?"

Soap groaned. "We've checked the barracks, the mess hall, the damn armory—"

Gaz cut in. "—and all the lockers."

Ghost, silent as ever, merely looked up.

The team followed his gaze.

And there, sticking out of an open vent, were a pair of very familiar boots.

Soap wheezed. “Oh, no bloody way!”

Gaz just stared. “I don’t even wanna know how she got up there.”

Price turned on his heel and walked away.

“I don’t care anymore,” he announced. “If she falls, she falls.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “She’ll come down eventually.”

Soap grinned. “God, I love this game.”

——

Day 27: The End of the Game

They weren’t expecting to find you here.

Ghost stopped in the doorway first.

Soap nearly bumped into him before looking past and freezing.

Gaz, coming up behind them, just blinked. “Well… shit.”

There you were.

Curled up in Ghost’s bed.

And not just curled up—wrapped in his blanket, half-buried under the heavy black comforter, nuzzled into his damn pillow.

Ghost just stared.

Soap broke first. He grinned. “Oh, this is rich.”

Price, arriving last, sighed. "At this point, she’s not hiding anymore. She’s just making a statement."

Ghost finally moved forward, stepping to the edge of the bed. He tugged at the blanket.

Nothing.

You made a soft, grumpy noise, burrowing deeper.

Soap snorted. “Mate, she just claimed yer bed.”

Gaz smirked. "Might as well get in."

Ghost glared.

Price, done with all of them, turned to leave. “You deal with it.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose before sitting on the bed.

The shift in weight made you stir, eyes cracking open.

"...Ghost?"

He hummed.

You blinked sleepily at him before mumbling, "...Warm."

Soap grinned. "Y’know, mate, if ye just let her sleep with ye, we wouldn’t ‘ave to find her all the time."

Ghost stared.

And, to everyone’s surprise…

He laid down.

Didn’t move you. Didn’t wake you. Just shifted so you weren’t alone.

Soap gawked. “No bloody way.”

Gaz smirked. “I think she wins.”

Ghost just closed his eyes.

Fine.

She wins.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[targaryenluvs]

DELICATE

pairings: dark!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

warnings: erm we’re back at it with another dark corio! possessiveness, literal murder, threats, vulgarity, nc touching -dumbification/babying, emotional manipulation and vulnerability, sexual undertones and thoughts, ownership?? NOT PROOFREAD

summary: coriolanus had to marry. lucky for him one of the most eligible girls of the capitol was up for grabs. only problem? he hoped his cold exterior would keep her away but nothing broke her sweet spirit. what happens when he finds himself being drawn to her light? and how far was he willing to go to keep it untainted and all to himself?

word count: 2.09k words

a/n: i swear i can only think of dark ideas for him because he is practically crayz - i loved this concept tho so enjoyyyy - annoyed i can’t find any post-lucy gifs snd i’ve already used the other one help me plz

taglist: @sleepydang @aspieundercover @darktrashsoulbear @3lliesrifle @rafeysbafey @zejjef @themorriganisamonster @cryfordemie @winterblu2 @earthangel-111 @taylarxse @alexameliamg @katastrophic04 @jjggdfvvy @joshwifeyslaymamaballs @10ava01 @kis9na @princessdaella @princessloveweird @prettybiching @justacaliforniandreamer @bxtchopolis @witchafterz @har-rison-s

PART TWO

coriolanus wanted nothing more than a relaxing night. he’d been at a campaign meeting for about four hours and he’d gotten absolutely nothing out of it.

he was in the right mind to fire them all and work it himself but he knew he couldn’t. all he wanted was to go home, have a bath drawn for him, eat dinner with you and go to sleep.

coriolanus had seen a number of weird things in his life but nothing was weirder than seeing you, hanging up the laundry to dry. you’d stopped him in his tracks but hadn’t yet noticed his presence as you hummed to yourself and went about your business. after staring in confusion for a few minutes he cleared his throat, “y/n. what are you doing?” you turned towards him with a smile, “it’s christmas! so i sent the staff home for the rest of the day so they could be with their families. don’t worry i had them prepare your bath, dinner and everything else. there were some things left to do so i thought, why not do them myself? i cleaned my room and yours, ironed the previous batch of laundry and placed them away, dusted the library and i was hanging up the laundry until you showed!” you beamed as you continued to hang the clothing.

coriolanus took a seat on one of the lawn chairs as you continued. he decided to watch you, to make sure you were okay. because who on earth wants to do laundry? that was the very reason you had so many servants. but here you were.

“you can head inside corio, no need to wait for me!” you said sweetly. coriolanus was a strong man, always rational. but god when you spoke so sweetly to him- no. “there’s no need, i’ll wait till you’re done.”

the sun was hanging low as the last rays illuminated the dining room. you’d set out candles, flowers and other pieces on the table. back home you loved setting the table, until your father would reprimand you for doing something you didn’t need to. what will people say if my daughter is acting as a servant?

but right now you felt at ease.

you had a good life. good friends which were rare to find in the capitol. good family and a good husband. he was proper, took care of you in every way, even if he didn’t love you, you were grateful to be married to someone you liked. admired. you’d heard whispers of corio’s childhood, his depleted resources and poor upbringing. but you couldn’t care less. he was more of a man than anyone you knew. and he was extremely pretty, your parents would’ve probably married you off to whomever they thought would help with social standings so this match? a lifeline.

coriolanus kept himself in check. he was up for presidency, his name and wealth restored and he was respected and feared. you were a diamond in the rough. whilst all the other girls in the capitol were, special, to say the least, you weren’t like them. first of all, he could tolerate you. like you even. you were exceptionally smart, well-read and spoken, respectful of those worthy but even those beneath you. you were kind, not the fake kind of the capitol. kind to everyone, helping everyone however you could.

and to him it was more than perfect. someone kind would be easy to have, easy to be married to. he knew from the second he saw you as marriage material that you’d never endanger those around you. you cared, enough to put your happiness to the back of the line. you’d be easy to control. after the wedding he expected you to be clingy, desperate for his love and affection. as any girl would from their husband, but you kept your distance. you didn’t push yourself on him, you did your duty. you did what was required and more. but you always listened, listened to him.

so he assumed you’d be easy to be married to, but he was always in awe of you. your sweet smiles every time you passed eachother in the halls, in the morning at breakfast and at night for dinner. always catering to him.

“what should i wear?” “you can choose.” “you tell me.” “it’s your choice.” and god did it inflate his ego. you were always asking about him, how his day was, what he did, who he saw etc. but it wasn’t just small talk, you were always listening. absorbing his words like a sponge, wide eyes, head nodding along dumbly. he loved it. and over the year he found himself, caring, on the inside at least.

every time you’d go out there were hungry eyes consuming you. your face, body everything. and he wanted to personally pluck out each eyeball and feed it to their families. so again, overtime, he’d shield you, protect you. his sweet wife who knew nothing of what the others wanted to do to her. a hand on your back, an arm around your waist, a peck on your forehead and his large red coat around you. all for show right?

he wanted to puke.

the smell of cabbage wafted to his nose and he was oh so close to putting this fist through the wall. who on earth-

you were humming, again. “corio!” your voice was music to his ears, corio, no one said it to him anymore. not even tigris. but he only liked, only wanted it to come from you. “dinner is served, some of your favourites are here. i asked tigris what you use to eat as a kid. ooh, you never told me you liked cabbage, me too! guess that’s another thing we have in common.” you beamed as you walked over with a bottle of wine, “tell me when to stop.”

he eyed you up the entire time. trying to catch a fleck of disgust whilst you ate, andddd, nothing. you weren’t lying, you actually liked it. he swallowed his own fear and began to eat.

“mm, i was wondering what you wanted me to wear tonight? i’d like to match corio, if that’s okay with you.” corio smiled slightly, “i would like to match. i have something i would like you to wear tonight sweetheart.” your eyes darted forwards as the word fell, sweetheart.

you couldn’t help the smile that came to your face, he only used terms like that in public. and based on his reaction afterwards, of which there was none, it meant that he probably didn’t even realise. or he did, you could never read him.

the red dress did things to coriolanus. the idea of you in it has his head spinning, but to actually see you in it? he wanted to throw you onto his bed and never let you out.

but to you it looked as if he was studying the dress rather than looking at you in it. “you look good.” you grinned, “thank you corio! i love your suit, you look very handsome.” you straightened his suit as he looked over your shoulder, your back was bare. “do you have a throw?” you quickly nodded and picked it up from the dresser. “good.” you already got a million stares in ordinary clothing, tonight was going to test his patience and anger.

the gala was gorgeous. for once there wasn’t ugly statues and weird color matches. a clean and pristine white hall, chandeliers, gold accents.

your heels clicked on the floor as coriolanus held his arm for you. “your hand please.” corio stared, waiting for your further explanation. “when we link arms your arm is too high for me. i end up with my arm at my neck.” you laughed as he lent his hand, which you gladly took.

stares and compliments at every corner of the room, everyone was looking at you two. the future president and first lady of panem. a match made in the capitol. you and coriolanus made the rounds, talking to present sponsors, potential sponsors and other candidates, much to coriolanus’s distaste. after a while you realised you were sort of just standing there, so you excused yourself for a drink and a closer view of the band.

“you look, ravishing.” charles operman. a sight which no one wanted to see, but to you he was just an ex-peer of the academy. “charles! thank you, corio picked it out for me.” you’d missed the way his jaw clenched at the mention of your husband, but you were to engrossed by the angelic singer and band. “you know, i always thought we’d end up together.”

the abruptness of his sentence had you choking on your drink, “excuse me, i’m married charles. i’m sorry if you thought that we would be together, i see you as a friend. i’d hate to lose a friend.” you smiled as he got uncomfortably closer and leaned into your ear, hand on your bare back.

coriolanus’s grip on his cup was tightening as he listened to lucky drone on and on. he wanted to see the life leave charles’s eyes, maybe his head would make as a nice present for you. “excuse me.” he nodded his head as he placed his cup on a passing waiters tray. you were helpless, and he was here to help you.

his breath was hot in your ear and you could smell the liquor on him as he was grabbed from you. “coriolanus, sir.” charles mocked salute as coriolanus stared at him, maybe he thought if he stared long enough hed burn into the floor. coriolanus rarely smiled, but this one was unsettling to say the least.

“if you ever put your hands on my wife, look at her, speak to her. it will be the last time you do so. i might just call in a favor with dr gaul, i hear your fond of snakes?” charles’s eyes widened, he hated snakes. he couldn’t even watch the 10th hunger games, the second he saw the snakes he ran to the bathroom and hurled.

“when i become president, you better keep yourself in line. it’d be horrible to see your family in the games no?” charles took a step back, “you can’t do that, i’m capitol.” coriolanus drew back,

“you won’t be for long.”

you couldn’t believe your eyes, of course he’d protect you but, threatening? he’d never do it right? the shutters of cameras had you reaching for corio, “can we leave my love?” coriolanus turned to you, “of course sweetheart.”

he’d stayed up for a long time. a smile came to his face when he remembered the sound of charles’s neck snapping. the door creaking open revealed a disheveled you, “corio? are you awake?” he sat up as you released a breath.

“what is it y/n?” you took a shy step forward, “i uhm, i can’t stop thinking about charles. he scared me, i didn’t know what to do corio. i-” you couldn’t stop the tears from falling as coriolanus swiftly got out of bed, helping you into his bed. “i- can i sleep here tonight? please?”

this was definitely not how he first expected to have you in his bed, but how could he say no to you? your hair in its braid, messy and lose, puffy eyes and tear stained face. he wished he’d first seen you cry underneath him but he’d take what he could get. what he didn’t expect was for him to like this, the scene of you crying, needing him. he was the one who could help you, console you, coddle you.

coriolanus nodded as he moved back to the bed, tucking himself and you in softy, caressing your hair and kissing your forehead. god he’d held out for so long, denied himself and his feelings but having you in his arms was all he could ever want, but the idea of being in you flooded his head.

would you cry like this? would you shout and scream? did you like it soft and sweet? he couldn’t be soft and sweet, he’d savour the moment but he loved the idea of unravelling you, he’d be the only one to see you like this, him being the only one to make it happen.

you curled into his chest, like a baby. your soft cries and whimpers went straight to his crotch and soon enough you were asleep.

his sweetheart, his delicate little wife.

corios hand slipped downwards and into your pants, he promised himself he just wanted to feel but god you made it difficult. he saved you tonight, didn’t he deserve a reward? didn’t matter if you detested he had you where he liked. so he slowly rolled over and placed you on the bed.

your eyes fluttered at the change of placement but he couldn’t care less. he was done waiting.

you squirmed underneath him in your sleep but his worries faded away.

[makaylaloves-words]

Jason Todd thought his need for touch had died with him.

Part two!!

here’s part one

Pairing: Jason Todd x afab reader

TW: Loss of virginity (male), nsfw, pinv, religious imagery, body issues mentioned.

1.7k words

The sun comes dreadfully early. Bright butter yellow beams forcing Jason away from the oasis that is your embrace. You kiss his forehead then head to get ready for work. You start your usual routine, unaware of his recurring thoughts. Usually, he will wake up a little slower then go to make breakfast while you get ready. Today he lingers like the last bits of snow as winter fades into spring.

He watches you come out of the bathroom after your shower, music still playing from your phone. Music he will never admit to liking but listens to when he misses you. Your perfect skin slightly damp as you put on that lotion that makes him want to take a bite out of you.

Clad in only your underwear and bra, hair up in a towel, you pick your outfit for work and start on your makeup. Humming and dancing to your music. He stands.

He’s silent as he approaches, a huge sleepy figure looming behind you.

“Hi” you chirp, rubbing lotion into your skin.

“I want to have sex with you.”

You slowly turn, eyes wide. “Well good morning to you, too.” he swallows but doesn’t back down.

“I kinda have work” you blink.

“I- I didn’t mean right now. Just soon.” he says and your heart picks up. “Okay, honey, soon.”

You step closer and lift on your toes to peck his cheek. You let your hand linger on his bare chest, his hips against you in a way you can feel as hard he is. It gets you drunk on power to know how little it takes for you to do that to him.

Four nights later, it’s the usual routine but something’s off. He goes out on patrol for a few hours and you get finish up some work and make dinner. You eat together then he showers while you wind down. You’ve been dating over a year so naturally you’ve seen eachother naked but he’s always been a little secretive about his body. That’s why you’re very surprised when he walks into your bedroom in just his towel around his waist. Raven hair still damp and water droplets clinging to the scared tissue of his muscled chest. As anyone would eyes would, you give him a good stare down. He looks.. nervous.

“Something wrong?” you finally say.

“Now.” he says

“Now.. what?” your head tilts

He looks away, swallowing in embarrassment.

“I want to have sex.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I- uh right now?” you nearly laugh. You have been on a dry spell ever since you started dating Jason so honestly just him shirtless has got you hot and bothered but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ve made you wait this long” he nods and steps towards the bed. you stand, arms looping around his neck like a perfect ribbon. “You’ll help me know what to do?” he whispers and you smile “of course.”

Turns out you really have to tell him what to do. You don’t know if you pity the guy or are proud because he’s clearly never watched porn or anything of the sort.

“Just kiss me firs-” you instruct and before you can finish the words his lips are on yours. He’s grown a lot in his kissing ability. From small pecks on your forehead to now as he tangles his tongue with yours. Jason hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you with practiced ease. Your legs wrap around his hips and his hands hesitantly inch towards the back of your thighs. You nod against as your mouth works on his and his hands slide to grip your ass, holding you to him. He groans.

The towel is slipping off his hips and you can feel an anticipation that you haven’t felt in so long coursing through you, straight to your gut.

“Are you sure about this? You can change your mind.” you say, pulling back. your chest is heaving and you know his answer as he licks a stripe up your neck.

He slowly steps forward, setting you on the bed and looking at you like you’re a goddess who just offered him immortality. “Do i sit down or-“ he bites his lip and you giggle. “We can just do missionary.” he blinks in confusion. “i’ll lay down” you add, stripping your shorts and scooting back on the bed.

You strip your shirt and look up. He’s staring at you in a way you’ve seen very few times. He’s flushed, pupils dilated and hands gripping the towel on his hips so hard his knuckles are white. “Um you come over here now” you swallow as he drops the towel and crawl towards you.

For a long time, Jason thought he was disgusting. A foul ugly creature who rose from the dead and doesn’t deserve a single thing he has. You, however, have never understood this. He is beautiful. Greek god level. You can feel the arousal on your thighs as you bite your lip.

He leans down and kisses you again, hard length pressed against your bare stomach as you start taking off the rest of your clothes.

It’s a charming process in the way that it’s kinda clumsy. You haven’t done this in a while and well Jason’s literally a virgin so it takes you a couple tries to get your bra and underwear off.

He breaks the kiss to look down at you. Eyes trialing over your breast as he rests his hands on your ribcage. “You are beautiful” he whispers and you smile shyly. “You too” he blushes.

Both naked as the day you were born, he gulps “So do i just-“

“pretty much”

He gives himself a few strokes, dark lashes fluttering before he leans to you and presses against you. An inch in and he bites his lips. “God” he whines and you smile. he’s larger than most and you revel in the stretch as he pushes more.

“Oh i understand now” he mutters, hands fisting the sheets by your head.

“Understand what?” you say with a small whimper.

“Why people enjoy this so much” he cuts his words off with a moan as he pushes in a bit more.

With a final gasp from him, he’s all the way in and he swears he’s in heaven. He’s never been a very religious person but if there is a god then it is you and this fucking pussy. He groans, hands gripping the sheets beside your head as your hands delicately grasp his wrists.

“You can move” you say quietly, eyes loving as you look up at him.

“I-“ he should move. he knows he should but he is already close to coming and he doesn’t wanna come that fast. You’re just so warm and wet and tight and- oh no.

no no no.

you shift your hips, forcing his dick to rock in and out of you. It barely even moves. “Fuck, no—sto—"

Jason grunts. Chokes on it. 

you do it again, just the softest roll of your hips. “Baby, you don’t understand” he groans, arms shaking beside your head. “It’s okay” you coo, “it’s normal just- please” he swallows. yes he didn’t want to be the guy who blew it like a two pump chump but it’s true he wanted you to feel good to. god, he wants that more than his own pleasure. So, he moves.

A small thrust, just the last 2 inches coming out and in but he whines and turns his head away. You smile, “Hey. look at me, pretty boy”. he groans and looks down at you. god you look like a fucking angel.

He’s nearly drooling as he shudders and thrusts a few more times. Then he stops, “What are you doing?” he gulps.

You blink up at him. It’s true your hand had snaked down and drew a few circles around your clit but that was not a crime.

“I-“

“Show me how.”

“What?”

“That thing you’re doing. Feels good? Show. me. how.” Jason’s words would sound like a demand if he wasn’t bright red and pussy drunk. And instead of getting all butt hurt, he’s asking you to teach him and-

—and oh, isn’t your heart melting into a puddle.

You gently take one of his hands off the sheets next to him and guide his thick calloused fingers to your clit. “Just- circles or press a little.” you say, words cutting out with a moan when he rubs your clit. good to know he was a fucking natural. His eyes are glued to where his cock is pressed into you and he gulps before continuing his ministrations on your clit. Then he thrusts at the same time. You both moan in sync and he smiles, “‘m doing good? I’m not gonna last much longer, baby.”

You nod, simply letting him now it’s okay. A few more thrusts and he is shaking. Eyes closing as he gulps.

“Can i-.. in you?” he mutters.

“Yes.” you say calmly, chest heaving.

He buries his face in the warm crook of your neck, a bright flush over his scared skin. Then he’s coming and- “I love you” he groans and you pause.

“what?”

he’s only half conscious as he spurts into you. eyes rolling back as he gasps. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you sooner. I’m in love with you, have been for a while.”

you blink “i love you too, Jay.”

He keeps his head buried in your neck but he slowly trails some kisses along your jaw in response. His hand speeds up on your clit as he keeps pumping his slowly softening cock. After a few moments he sits back up, eyes hazy, “you haven’t- should i try again?” you laugh.

“Just give me a minute, love.” your hand snakes down and you lay your fingers on his, helping his finger your clit in that way that had you sparking. You tighten around him and he swears he’s seeing stars. “Fuck” he pulls out of you, grunts turning into a self satisfied smile when you come. You aren’t super loud or anything but he swears it’s the most beautiful melodic thing he has ever seen.

When you come down from your high, he’s laying half on top of you. You can feel his heartbeat thunder against yours, as if merging together—erratic and unsteady. “You did so good” you kiss the top of his head. “You too” he teases.

you have officially deflowered the great jason todd.

thank you for all the support! this is my first time really writing and i’m having a very fun time. i’m kinda new to tumbler so let me know if i’m doing this tag list wrong, lol.

@theendofthematerialgworl @nwjsns @anamiranda7383 @vicky342 @jayskookies @cyberangel-graphics

[yeonzzzn]

♠️off limits: sim jaeyun

part one of the off limits trilogy

pairing: jake x afab!reader word count: 19.6k

synopsis: your older brother has always told you “no boys” and his friends “sister is off limits”, which always worked…until everyone comes back home from college and you see how grown up his best friend has become…

genre: friends to lovers, older brothers best friend!au, forbidden love, eventual smut.

warnings: swearing, masturbating, fingering, reader being called a “bad girl” once, alcohol, blood mentions, sex in a hot tub, unprotective sex, oral (m. receiving), dom!jake, hair pulling, cum eating, MINORS DNI! lemme know if i skipped anything ♡

˗ˏˋseries spotify playlist´ˎ˗

a/n: jake is so older brother best friend coded I couldn’t help myself

✰ this is part one to this series, please see the masterlist under the title for parts two-three. ✰

The last thing you expected was your older asking if you were planning to head home during the last bit of your winter break. 

You raised your brow at the texts from your brother, thumbs hovering over the keyboard debating how to let him down easily in the nicest way possible that you rather lounge around in your dorm room in your PJs for the last two weeks.

You sighed and fell back on your bed, “Guess I should start packing then.” 

You knew Jay was right, it’s been roughly a year since the two of you were back at home at the same time. And even when both were at home, one was always going out and never really stayed home. 

Maybe spending the next two weeks at home wasn't such a bad idea. Spend some quality time with your family. 

Or so you thought until you walked into your parents' house with your duffle bag and backpack in your hands staring into the living room and seeing not just your brother, but his three best friends. 

The same three best friends he grew up with who all followed him to the same college after high school graduation. Ones you haven’t seen in like four years. 

You’re only a year younger than your brother and two of the friends while two years younger than the oldest one in their little circle. 

You basically grew up with them as well, since you were just a grade below them. 

They haven’t even noticed you arrived yet. Your parents weren’t even home from their jobs yet. 

The four boys sat on the couch, their hands going a hundred miles per hour on the Nintendo Switch controllers going head to head in smash bros. 

They all started screaming as one took the rest out. 

You dropped your bags to the floor, clearing your throat to show your presence. 

Jay was the first to turn around, his smile growing all the more wider seeing you. Jay dropped the controller onto the coffee table, stepped on the couch, and jumped over the back of it, “Hey stink!” 

You cringe at the nickname he continues to call you even as an adult. He wraps his arms tightly around you, squeezing you. 

You hug your brother back, tapping his back, “Jay, you can let go now.” 

As Jay steps to the side, his three friends fully come into your view, all their eyes on you. 

You tried hard to not drop your jaw at the three of them. 

“Hey, Y/N!” all three of them said in sync. 

Heeseung fully turned his body around, leaning on the back of the couch, “You’ve sure grown up a lot since the last time I saw you.” 

Heeseung stood up, stepping over the couch the same way your brother did, rushing up to you and squeezing you just as tightly. 

Sunghoon was next at your side, pulling you into a small hug, “It’s been what? Like four years?” 

You nodded, “It has been a while, hasn’t it guys?” 

“Jake, what are you doing?” Jay called him, “Come say hi too, don’t be rude.” 

Jake stood from the couch, his eyes locking with yours, and didn’t leave them until he was in front of you, arms stretched out, “Was just saving the best hug for last.” 

You rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around his waist, “Haven’t changed at all, have ya Jake?” 

He chuckled, his heart beating loudly in your ears as you rested your head on his chest. 

Jake pulled away from you, taking a step back, “I’ve changed!”

Jay scoffed, “Right. We’ll say that.” 

“Most that has changed is your grades are a bit better than high school.” Sunghoon teased, placing a hand on his best friend. 

“Bro,” Jake playfully shoved him, “I’ve grown up a lot!” 

Oh yes, that he did. 

All of them have. It’s only been four years, but each of them has grown up. They went from those nerdy boys you would scrunch your nose at saying they have cooties while holding your index fingers into an x, to the most good-looking men you’ve ever seen. 

Four years feels like it’s been a long time, mostly with how they are in front of you right now. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts, as Jay sets a hand on your shoulder, “Let’s get back to playing Smash Bros and let Y/N rest, she drove longer than we did.”

It was true, you drove three hours to get back home while they only had an hour. You were overdue for a nap. 

Jake waited for you to glance over at Jay before eyeing you up and down. You’ve sure grown up a lot too in the last four years. He was expecting the same girl from all those years ago, oh but he was wrong. 

Jake eyeing you down didn’t go unnoticed by his friends, mostly Jay who was shooting darts into Jake’s soul. 

“Oh also!” You said as you picked up your bags, “How long are you three staying here today?” 

Sunghoon wrapped his arms around Heeseung and Jake’s necks and pulled them in, “We are here the whole two weeks.”

You raised a brow, confused. Of course, they are going to be in town the whole time, “I meant here at the house,” you said pointing your index finger to the floor, “Aren’t you staying with your families while you’re in town?”

Heeseung chuckled, “Nah, we are staying here, that’s what Hoon meant by being here.” 

You glanced at your brother, a smirk on his face, “Nice to know I was told.” You glared at him. 

Jay shrugged, “It was last minute.” 

“We will go see our families, don’t worry,” Sunghoon smiled, “I have to see my little sister, or else she’ll kill me for not coming back home.” 

You glanced between the four of them before deciding it wasn’t worth thinking about at the moment, you needed a nap, “Whatever, I am taking my nap.” 

The three boys turned around heading back to the couch, Jake took one last look at you as you headed for the stairs, Jay catching him once again looking, Jake quickly turned back around and placed himself back on the couch. 

Jay quickly caught your arm before you were too far up the stairs. You turned and looked at him, giving him your nastiest side eye, “What corn lover?” 

“The rule still stands.” 

You raised a brow, “What rule?” 

Jay tilted his head at you, “Really?” 

You gave him a confused look, trying to read his mind. The gears in your brain turned until it finally clicked. 

“You mean the rule from when we were kids?” 

He nodded, “No boys.” 

You rolled your eyes, “As if, they still have just as many cooties as they did four years ago.” 

Jay nodded, “Good. Keep it that way. Get rest, I’ll come to wake you when mom and dad get home. We are barbecuing tonight. I’m grilling.” 

Your mouth was already watering thinking about your big brother's cooking. The one major con of going to a college further away was missing his cooking.

You continued your journey up the stairs and into your childhood room, seeing that your parents left everything the same as it was when you left it. Dropping into your bed, face first into the pillow, sleep finds you quickly. 

Jay dropped himself back on the couch, picking up the switch controller, “Alright douche bags, let’s get this party back in motion.” 

Everyone grabbed their controllers except Jake, who had his nose in his phone and searched for your Instagram account from Jay’s account, curiously stalking through your account. 

It didn’t go unnoticed by Jay, who glanced over at Jake’s phone, catching him staring at the recent selfie you posted a week ago. 

“Sim Jaeyun.” Jake jumped at his government name being called so sternly by his hyung. 

“Jesus Christ, what?” Jake breathed out, his hand flying to his chest, his heart rate increasing, “You scared the shit out of me.” 

Jay glanced back down at his phone, bringing realization to Jake causing him to quickly lock his phone. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon also had their eyes on Jake. He looked between the three of them, raising a brow, and glared at them, “What?” 

Heeseung slowly faced back to the TV, “I ain’t saying anything.” 

“I am,” Sunghoon chimed in, “We all saw how you eyed her.” 

Jake quickly shook his head, realizing the situation he got put in, “It’s not like that! She just grew up a lot more than I was expecting.” 

That wasn’t helping Jake’s case. Jay was just getting more pissed. 

“Dude,” Jay narrowed his eyes, “That’s my little sister.”

“Who is also like a little sister to us,” Heeseung added in. 

“Who passed you the baton?” Jake groaned, finger pointing at Heeseung and eyes looking between all his best friends, “Why are you all on my ass?” 

“Off limits.” Jay said, bringing in the old rule from childhood, “Nothing has changed.” 

Jake rolled his eyes, slouching into the couch, “Obviously! Trust me, I am not interested, like a little sister, remember?” 

“Good. Goes for all three of you, she’s off limits.” 

The conversation ended there. The last thing Jay needed was having to pull any of his friends off you. He was way too protective of you and knew his friends way too well, mostly after the sex demons they became after graduating. It was already bad enough in high school, but with the freedom college gave the four of them along with the parties and of course, females…

Jay had to protect you at all costs. And he would always stand by it. 

—

Jake’s hands trembled as he stood in front of your bedroom door. He’s stood by your door many times as a child growing up, always kicking your door open and running away with Jay, Heeseung, and Sunghoon, before you could shout at them for annoying you. 

But obviously, you all weren’t children anymore. So why was Jake so scared to simply knock on your door?

Jay decided to start grilling before your parents got home so that it would be ready or almost ready by the time they walked in. 

Your parents arrived just at the right time as the steak was almost done grilling. 

The three boys sat at the picnic table outside by the portal heater and set up the plates while Jay stood by the grill, grilling away. 

Your parents hugged each of the boys, welcoming them into their home like old times. 

“Oh, where is Y/N? Jongseong?” your mother asked sweetly, placing a kiss on his cheek, “I saw her car outside.” 

“She’s napping,” Jay said, turning over the steaks, “Everything is ready, so someone should go wake her.” 

Heeseung and Sunghoon were already way too busy talking to your dad to notice what Jay said, your mother ultimately decided she’ll go wake you.

“Mom! No no no!” Jay quickly spat, “Go sit down, you just got off work, I’ll make one of the boys do it.” 

Your mother sweetly smiled, “Are you sure? I can do it.” 

Jake quickly stood from the table, placing a hand on her shoulder, “I’ll go get her, Mrs. Park, please sit.” 

She quickly pulled Jake into another hug, “Such a sweet boy like always!” 

And that’s how he found himself at your door. The sounds of the laughter of his friends and basically his second family echo from the background as he continues to hover his trembling fist at your door. 

“Come on, Sim…” he whispered, trying to hype himself up, “She’s the same girl you grew up with.” 

Jake’s knuckles made contact with the wooden door, leaning himself closer to listen for any movements. 

Nothing. 

He knocked again but a bit louder, “Y/N?” silence. Another knock, “Hey, Y/N?” 

There was shuffling on the other side, the door opening too quickly. You and Jake were now face to face, barely inches apart. 

Oh lord was Jake’s heart racing. 

You were in your favorite pair of sweatpants and an old tee shirt back from high school with the school's logo on it. Your hair was slightly messy from sleeping and had on the same pair of glasses you wore growing up. 

Jake was weak. He always loved your glasses growing up. Thinking they shaped your face nicely and made you look really cute. Of course, he’d never tell you this, he just always made fun of you like the other boys did. 

Jake quickly stepped back, giving you space. 

You yawned and did a small stretch, “What’s up?” 

“Umm,” Jake quickly looked away from you, too scared you’d see how his heart was practically bursting through his chest, “Your parents are home, and dinner is ready.” 

Whatever tiredness you once felt was out the window at the mention of Jay’s dinner. 

“Okay! Let me change and I’ll be downstairs.” You closed the door quickly, not wanting to miss a second away from the delicious dinner. 

Jake made his way back down the stairs and outside, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket as he sat back down. 

Jay raised a brow, “My sister?” 

Jake shrugged, “She’s coming. Said she was going to change.” 

As if on cue, you slid open the glass door, quickly embracing your mother. 

You wrap your arms around her from behind, surprising her. 

“Hello, mom!” 

She quickly turned around to hug you properly, “Oh my sweet girl! I’ve missed you!” 

You smile, the familiar smell of her rose perfume fills your nose, “I’ve missed you too momma.” 

“Jongseong, come over here too!” your mother waved your brother over, pulling the both of you into a tight hug, “It’s been so long since I have had both my children home. I’m so happy you’re here:” 

Jake and the others smiled at you three.

Once your mother released you from her arms, Jay sat down across from Jake, leaving you a spot between him and your mother. 

Before sitting down you hugged your father and gave a wave to Heeseung and Sunghoon. 

“Good to see you back to the land of the living,” Heeseung teased, “We thought you’d died.” 

You roll your eyes, “Haha, very funny.” 

Jake took a moment to take in your new outfit. Hair was nicely brushed, tight skinny jeans with rips at the knees, and a baby blue long-sleeve shirt that hugged your torso snug, perfectly shaping your breasts. His eyes not leaving you until you sit down, and then his eyes go to his plate of food. 

Jay glances at his best friend, eyes shifting to you, then back at him.

“We can finally eat now that Y/N decided to grace us with her presence,” Jake teased, finally digging into his food. God he was blessed to have Jay as one of his best friends. 

You reached under the table and kicked Jake’s shin, him only laughing more than before. 

“Just like old times! You kids never change!” your father smiled, lifting his beer for a cheer. 

—

Jake tossed and turned, eventually ending up on his back staring up at the ceiling. 

The thoughts of the outfit you wore earlier tainted his mind. The way your clothes perfectly shaped your body. 

Jake quietly covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes in hopes it would take the thoughts out of his head. “She’s your best friend's younger sister, what are you doing?” 

He sat up in bed, throwing the blankets off him, and carefully crawled out from the bottom bunk of the bed, trying to not make too much movement to disturb the sleeping Sunghoon above him. 

Heeseung was fast asleep on the twin-sized bed across from him, small snores escaping his lips. 

Jake took one last look around the room before carefully tip-toeing out. 

Jake remembers when Jay announced to them that his parents were buying a bunk bed to add into the spare room so that each of them had a proper place to sleep besides sharing the twin-sized bed or having an air mattress. 

Mostly after the four of them got into middle school, no one wanted to share a bed anymore. 

It was a blessing, even more of a blessing that the Park’s kept the spare room just the same after all these years. 

Jake opened and closed the door with such grace praying to be quiet enough to not wake anyone. Carefully walking down the hallway, stopping at the foot of the stairs, swearing he heard something, looking up them. 

The moonlight gave enough light to show how empty the upstairs was, Jake shrugged off the noise he heard and went to the kitchen. 

You quietly opened your door, making sure to not disturb any sleeping body, specifically your parents since they needed to be up early for another full day of work. 

The nap you took earlier in the day completely messed up your night's rest. You tossed and turned in your bed hoping for sleep to find you but never did. Hoping for a few bites of the leftover barbecue and some water will help you chase the sheep. 

You tip-toed to the stairs, carefully and slowly making your way down them, eyeing down the hallway as you made your way to the kitchen, making sure no one else was awake. 

You turned the corner of the kitchen, fingers flipping the light switch on. Once the lights came on, your heart nearly dropped to your stomach. 

You swore you jumped ten feet in the air, “Oh sweet god, what the fuck Jake?!?” you whispered loudly. 

What the fuck indeed. 

Jake was pressed against the counter, the water bottle he once held in his hand was now on the floor and the liquid completely covered him. 

He took a few deep breaths, hand clenching his now wet shirt, feeling his heartbeat. 

“You scared the shit out of me, Y/N.” 

You raised a brow at him, “I scared you? I nearly had a heart attack!” 

Jake relaxed against the counter, his hands now gripping the counter behind him, “That makes two of us.” 

You ran your hands down your face, taking a deep breath in, before dropping your arms back at your side, “Why are you even up?” 

Jake’s face was glued to you, his eyes turning dark. 

You just looked at him, “What?” It wasn’t until you crossed your arms that you realized what he was staring at. 

You remembered what you were wearing. Sweatpants that hung loosely at your hips and a black sports bra. 

Jake didn’t notice it at first, mostly not after the surprise of you scaring him half to death, but after he finally looked at you is when he noticed. 

The way your breasts were exposed and practically spilling out of the top of your sports bra, how loosely your sweatpants hang. Oh, the thoughts running through his head. 

The way all he would have to do is barely slip his fingers at the fabric of your pants to remove them from your hips. The access his lips would have to your tits as he slid his against your heat. 

Jake didn’t even realize how hard he was staring at you, looking like a meal he could easily eat up. 

Normally you’d run out of the kitchen and back up the stairs full of embarrassment, but something about the way Jake was looking at you made your knees weak. 

Your body moved on its own, walking closer to him. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles turning white and his heart rate accelerating. It wasn’t until you were a couple of inches away from him that he realized what was happening. 

You could easily see the tint in his shorts growing. All it took for him to see you like this to get so hard?

Jake watched as your eyes dropped to his crotch, and slowly made eye contact with him. 

Oh how hard it was for him to keep his hands to himself. 

“Jake,” you whispered. You, yourself, want to put your hands on him. 

From the moment you saw him, Sunghoon, and Heeseung in the living room earlier this afternoon, you’ve had to admit you were attracted to them, especially Jake. He was no longer the icky boy you grew up with. He’s a man, looking at you like a woman, not the little girl you once were. 

You whisper his name again, moving your hand to touch his bicep, but stopping halfway. 

“Y/N, touch me and I can’t promise to behave myself.” His Aussie came out thicker in that moment, filled with lust and want. 

You wanted to test his boundaries and see if he would actually misbehave. 

Your cold fingers brushed his bicep, and that’s all it took for his hands to fly to your hips, switching positions and pinning you against the counter, his hard length now pressed to your aching core, hands gripping your hips. 

Jake felt as if he was on autopilot, moving against you as if it were second nature to him. 

Jake’s mind has been going wild since the moment you walked through the front door. 

He wasn’t expecting the woman he had pressed to his body. 

Jake was still expecting the little girl he used to tease. The little girl he would gang up on with his friends. The little girl he would scrunch his nose at when he’d see you in the halls at school as you’d pass by him. The little girl Jay would rant about if another boy looked at you in a romantic way. The little nerdy girl who got straight A’s and never skipped a day of school in your life even if you were sick. 

Jake never expected to see you so grown. To see how your body changed and filled in. The way you style your hair and the taste of fashion you have now. How your tits naturally fall and how your ass fits so perfectly in any pants you’ve worn today. 

Oh, Jake was a mess. And oh how badly he wanted to make a mess out of you. 

You kept your eyes locked with Jake’s, honestly loving how seen you felt by him right now. 

“Thought you were going to behave?” you whispered, your hands now gripping the counter behind you. 

“I told you the consequences of your actions if you’d touch me, and here we are.” 

You let a small laugh leave your lips, rolling your hips against him. 

Jake groaned, resting his forehead against yours, grinding himself back onto you, “What are you trying to do here, Y/N?” 

You bit your lips, trying to hold back the sounds threatening to escape your mouth from the pleasure of his dick just rubbing against you. 

“Are you trying to get me in trouble with your brother? Huh?” Jake whispered, dropping his head to the side of yours, lips brushing against your ear, rolling his hips a bit harder than the last, “He’s already on my ass from the way I’ve been eye fucking you today.” 

Your knees buckled, Jake not letting your weight drop with the grip he has on your hips. 

“You’re being such a bad girl right now, Y/N, disobeying your brother's wishes so easily just to get a feel of my dick.”

Your brain was going fuzzy at his words, trying to focus on the sound of his breathing to keep you in reality. 

Jake’s hands drop down to your ass, squeezing the fat as he thrust his hips against you. Your breath hitched at his touch, knees buckling again. 

You wanted to feel his hands everywhere, to feel his lips on yours and against your skin. 

You turn your head towards him, wanting to find his lips, only to be met with his hands leaving your ass, body no longer pressed against yours and him taking a couple of steps away from you. 

Jake’s chest raised and fell with each deep breath he took, eyes glued to the floor as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. 

“We can’t be doing this,” he finally said between deep breaths.

No matter how badly Jake wanted to lead you up those stairs and push you face down into your pillows, he couldn’t betray his best friend like that. Couldn’t betray that trust. 

You nodded in agreement, taking your own deep breaths to steady out your heart rate, “You’re right, we can’t be.” 

You relaxed your body, pushing yourself off the counter, eyes darting to the fridge. 

You grabbed a water bottle, walking past Jake as you exited the kitchen, stopping right past him. 

“Jake,” you whispered, looking back at him. Jake stared back at you with lustful eyes, praying you’d jump his bones right here, right now, “Make sure you pick up that bottle and clean any water that got anywhere, mom will kill you if you don’t clean your mess.” 

And with that, you left him alone in the kitchen. 

Jake didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he heard your footsteps going up the stairs. He quickly cleaned up the spill and threw away the bottle.

Jake made his way back to the hallway, stopping at the door of the spare room, and seeing the bulge in his shorts. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes going straight to the bathroom door. 

He locked himself in, pulling his shirt over his head and to the floor, quickly dropping his shorts and boxers down to his ankles. 

His cock pulsating and red, precum leaking from the tip. 

Jake took himself into his hand, pumping himself slowly. Head leaning back against the wall, mouth slightly open. 

Jake stared at himself in the mirror, watching as stroked himself, hand picking up speed. 

His hand wasn’t enough, and as guilty as he already felt, he imagined his hand was yours. Imagine how your hand would be wrapped around his thick cock, thumb spreading his precum around the tip. He imagined how it’d feel to how your lips on his neck, kissing down his chest and torso until your lips wrapped around his cock, tongue licking up and down his shaft. 

Jake had to bite down on his lips to keep his moans quiet, whining at the sensation of the twitch his dick made, so close to release. 

He whispered, “I’m cumming Y/N…I’m cum-“ 

Before he could finish his words, his cum was dripping down his hand. 

Jake slowed his hand movement, chasing his high. 

He looked down at his mess, taking deep breaths and relaxing against the wall. 

“Fuck…oh fuck…” 

Jake knew thinking of you while he got himself off would only make this sexual frustration worse. How was he going to survive the next two weeks? He barely survived the first day. 

—

If you weren’t awkward around Jake before, you sure are now. 

You barely slept at all last night because of the hard-boiled embarrassment you felt. 

You came onto your older brother's best friend?! What were you even thinking? You can already see how pissed off Jay would be if he found out what happened last night. 

You knew what happened was just a one-time thing. Some weird thing that happened because of your choices. 

But the way Jake looked at you…how his eyes spoke for him…it clouded your mind. 

When you walked into the kitchen that morning, Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung sat at the kitchen table yelling and pushing each other while your brother stood at the stove flipping pancakes. 

Jay was the first to notice you, “Aye, good morning stinks.” 

Three other pairs of eyes fell onto you, feeling Jake’s gaze specifically. 

You walked to your brother, taking a glance at the pancakes, “When will they be ready?” Your mouth was practically watering just by looking at them. Maybe it was a good idea to come back home, all for Jay’s cooking. 

“Soon, go sit down with everyone else, impatient.” 

You stuck your tongue out at him, crossing your arms, “How can I not be impatient when I don’t get to have your cooking anymore?” 

Jay rolled his eyes, “Maybe if you came home more often-“

“Okay, whatever corn lover.” You scoff, “You win.” 

Jay chuckled at his victory, telling you once again to sit down. 

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, eyes landing back at the spot Jake had you pressed against just the night before. 

Jake took notice of your stare on the spot. Covering his mouth with his fingers, eyes staring down at your legs and how your ass is barely covered by your shorts. 

It’s like you were trying to tempt him. 

Sunghoon also noticed your stare at the counter, raising a brow in concern, “You good over there Y/N?” 

The thoughts of last night faded from your mind as you turned around to face him, smiling with a “Mmhmm! Just lost in thought!” 

Oh, Jake couldn’t help but tease you, “What’s up with that spot to get so lost in thought about?” 

He did not. 

You narrow your eyes at him, the shit-eating grin that spread across his face pissed you off. 

While the others giggled and went back to their normal business, you kept your eyes on Jake. Fully watching as his eyes traveled down your body. 

If he wants to play games, you’ll play back. 

You walked back over to Jay, leaning yourself onto the counter, knowing full well your shorts will ride up, showing off your ass cheeks. 

Jake clenched his fist in his lap, biting down on his fingers at his mouth, feeling his dick start to harden. 

The way your shorts lifted to show the small amount of fat from your ass, basically showing off to Jake that you were either wearing a thong or…nothing at all underneath. 

You slightly shifted your weight between your legs, the small jiggle of your ass made him clench his fist tighter, having to completely cover his arm over his bulge. 

Jake knew he couldn’t get up and walk out of the kitchen, not with his raging boner on full display. Everyone would clown him. 

This was the consequence of pushing his luck. Now he’s got to suffer with it. 

You turned your head back to look at him, seeing the way he twitched in his seat and how his jaw was clenched tightly. The look he was giving you, the same hungry look from last night, but worse. 

It was enough to dampen your shorts. 

Jake knew he had to turn the situation around, to drop it entirely, “Hey Jay!” 

You quickly twisted yourself around, looping your fingers at the back of your shorts to pull them down, seeing the smug look that now played on Jake’s face. 

It was a powerful move to get your brother's attention, knowing Jay would turn around along with Sunghoon and Heeseung's attention being brought in this direction. 

Checkmate. 

—

You nearly jumped for joy when you found out all the boys would be leaving the house for the day to see their families, Jay going along with them. 

You decided since now the house was empty and you’d be alone means the massive TV in the living room finally being free. 

You pulled Netflix on the TV and skipped your way into the kitchen, pushing a bag of popcorn into the microwave, watching the timer go down as you grabbed a bowl for the popcorn, fingers barely holding the bag to drop them into the bowl. 

You dropped onto the couch, popping the corn into your mouth, free hand searching for something to watch. 

There was a show your best friend from college told you about not too long ago, but you couldn’t for the life of you remember the name of it. 

You looked on the coffee table, searched the couch, and couldn’t find your phone anywhere. 

“Where could it be…” 

You set the popcorn bowl on the coffee table, rushing upstairs into your room, and finding the device sitting on your bed. You snatched it up quickly, shooting your friend a quick text as you made your way back down the stairs, the sound of the spare bathroom door opening nearly sent your soul into orbit. 

You found yourself standing across the hall from Jake, him shooting the same confused look back at you. 

“What?” he raised a brow, “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

You pointed a finger at him, “Why aren’t you with the boys?” 

Jake got more confused, “Why would I be?” 

“Don’t you need to see your family? Ya know while you’re back home?” you retort.

Jake chuckled, “Honey, how can I visit my family if they’re on vacation in Australia?”

You…didn’t think of that. You just assumed his family would be here in town too. 

You fidgeted with your shorts, suddenly embarrassed for thinking you’d be home alone. 

Jake looked down at your legs, the thoughts from earlier in the morning coming back to his head. 

You caught him looking, a smirk playing on your face, “You sure have a staring problem, Sim Jaeyun.” 

His eyes whipped up to yours, the corners of his lips curving, “You really want to play this game right now, Park Y/N? When there’s no one else here?” 

You came back to the realization that the two of you were alone. 

Jake walked over to you, arms stretched out at his sides, corning you between himself and the railing of the staircase. 

Jake knew this was wrong, but the stunt you pulled this morning had him taking a thirty-minute shower after breakfast just to beat himself off to release that tension. 

“I’m asking you this again, what are you trying to pull, Y/N?” 

You were at a loss for words because you weren’t sure what you were trying to pull. You want to respect your brother's “off limits” wishes towards his friends, but god damn at the same time, you were so attracted to Jake. 

He has always been a good-looking kid, you always found him so adorable, but once middle and high school came around and he started to finally fill into his body properly, the more attractive he became and the girls around school knew it too. The last time you saw him was his high school graduation, and boy did those years make him one of the sexiest men you’ve ever seen. 

“Turning me on in front of my friends and your brother? So dirty.” 

You clenched your thighs together, trying to hide the arousal you were feeling, except nothing could get past Jake. 

“You want me,” he whispered with a smirk, leaning his body closer to yours, “You want me so bad.” 

Jake had to admit seeing you like this was such a turn-on. The way he’s got you clenching your thighs and hasn't even laid a hand on you. 

God he wanted to touch you again, have your body pressed close against his, feeling your tits squish to his chest and hands grasping your ass. 

Him being alone in this house with you was dangerous. 

Day two and still basically a full two weeks left to go. 

But he can’t fold, no matter what. 

You saw how quickly Jake’s face changed, how the lust left his eyes and was replaced with the soft puppy dog eyes he normally has. 

And you knew why. 

Jay. 

“Maybe we need to stay clear from each other,” you said, slipping under his arm and up a few steps on the stairs, “Like you said last night, we can’t be doing this.” 

Jake knew it was the right thing to do. Besides, once these two weeks are over and he goes back to college, things will go back to normal, right? No thoughts of his best friend's little sister fucking him into oblivion. 

He nodded, pushing himself off the stairs, “But unfortunately we can’t completely ignore each other, that’ll be more suspicious than anything.” 

“Right,” you knew the moment your brother caught onto the two of you ignoring each other he’d known something was up. Thankfully for you, nothing has really happened between you and Jake, just some dry humping, dirty talk on Jake’s end, and him grabbing your ass in the kitchen on top of you teasing him this morning. No big deal! “We just need to act like how we used to do, like when we were kids.” 

Jake softly smiled at you, “That’ll be an easy thing to do, right, stinks?” 

You rolled your eyes and stomped up the stairs, “I’m so sick of that name.” 

Jake couldn’t hold back his laugh, seeing the popcorn bowl you left on the table, “I’m stealing your popcorn!” he yelled, shoving some of the buttery goodness into his mouth. But the only response he got was the sound of your door slamming. 

—

What Jake thought would be easy ended up being the hardest thing. 

He couldn’t look at you without the thought of laying face first into your bed running across his mind. 

Talking to you was a small challenge in itself. Mostly because Jay, Sunghoon, and Heeseung were always right there. Jake felt like their eyes were secretly judging him, watching his every move when probably in reality there was nothing but elevator music going on in their heads the entire time. But he still couldn’t help but feel like an ant under a microscope and had to watch how he looked at you or spoke to you. 

The four of them grew up teasing you, calling you silly names, spitting their watermelon speeds at you during the hot summers while you all played outside, and even when they would throw snow at you when you five would play outside in the cold. You were really like a little sister to them, basically family. So why was staying clear from you so hard? It was easy as kids. What was so different now besides how grown up you were now?

It was now Monday, four days into the small vacation at your parents and still all this week and a full week after that to be here. The last couple of days have been…somewhat of a struggle for you and Jake. 

You acted normal when everyone was around, but still couldn’t help but steal glances at Jake, sometimes already catching him looking at you. 

After that day you were both alone, you stayed in your room at night, already having some snacks and water up on your nightstand so you wouldn’t have to carefully sneak yourself back downstairs and run into Jake again. 

There’s only been a few times where walking past him was a challenge, mostly in the living room trying to find a seat to sit down or in the kitchen when everyone is putting food on their plates at dinner time. 

Small touches of your hands grazing from reaching for cups or when you walk past each other in the crowded kitchen and living room. Nothing too big that anyone would really notice…or so you hoped. 

Jay nudged your shoulder with his, “What’s up Stink?” 

You looked up at your brother, “Huh?” 

Jay raised a brow at you, “Y/N, you’ve been twirling your spoon around your cereal for like five minutes now.”

You thinned your lips into a line, looking back down at your cereal that is more than likely soggy now, “I was, wasn’t I?” 

You dropped the spoon in the bowl, excusing yourself from the breakfast table and walking the bowl to the sink.

Jay crossed his arms and slid back into his chair, “You not going to tell me what is going on?” 

Your heart dropped, does he know? Does he know you and Jake have been acting not completely normal? 

“I’m just really tired today is all,” you decided to play it off, hoping your worst fear wasn’t happening. Dumping out your wasted cereal and washing the bowl and spoon, “I also didn’t sleep much last night, could hear your snoring from next door.” 

Jay, who now appeared at your side, chuckled, taking the bowl from your hands and a towel from the cabinet, “Was I really snoring that loud last night? I was exhausted. Heeseung spam called me saying they all could hear it from the guest room downstairs.” 

Score! He doesn’t know. 

You watched as he placed the now clean bowl back into its home in the cabinet and placed the towel over the rack to dry, “Damn, even Heeseung heard it? How is your throat not dry as hell?” 

Jay flicked his finger against your forehead, laughing as you winced and one hand went to your head while the other balled into a fist and reached across to punch your brother in the chest. 

His bright smile was enough to completely change your mood, taking whatever negative energy that was balling up to release and escape back to wherever it came from. Jay always had this effect on you, it was one of his best sibling traits. 

But that didn’t stop you from still trying to square up with him. 

And you failed…horribly. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon walked into the kitchen at the perfect time for Jay to put you into a headlock between his biceps, “Say you're sorry,” he said in a teasing tone, “And I’ll let you go.” 

Even with the laughing fit you were in, you still didn’t give up. Hands gripping his arms in attempts to get yourself free, “Never!” You chanted, “You snore like an old man!” 

Heeseung and Sunghoon shared glances before walking around the two of you wrestling to grab their own bowls of cereal and sitting at the table. 

Jake was the last to pile into the kitchen, stopping abruptly at the fight in the kitchen. 

“Just walk around them,” Sunghoon mentioned, “We did.” 

Jake carefully walked around the two of you who now sat on the floor. 

You had your arms and legs wrapped around your brother, his back to your chest. But he had your back pressed against the island, his shoes digging into the floor to help him use all his weight towards his chest to keep you against the island. 

Jake carefully made his way to the table, sitting down beside his other two friends, “Have they been fighting long?” Jake asked, too scared to even prepare himself his own bowl of sugar. 

Heeseung shrugged, “We found them like this when we got here.” 

Sunghoon groaned, “Should we break it up now? Probably been going on for long enough.” 

“Hey!” Heeseung shouted. You and Jay stop wiggling around, eyes now set on the table at the three friends staring back at you, “Some of us would like to eat our breakfast in peace.” 

“That sucks,” you joked, tightening your grip on your brother. Jay pushing his weight back onto you. 

While Heeseung and Sunghoon seemed to completely discard the two siblings, Jake couldn’t help but smile fondly at you two. 

He dropped his jaw into his palm, his smile only growing wider. This moment felt like old times when you were all children. 

But that happy feeling soon faded and was replaced with fear when your mother walked into the kitchen. Jake never sat up straight so fast. Even Heeseung and Sunghoon stopped slouching. 

“Park Jongseong! Park Y/N! What are you doing?!” 

You and Jay got up from the floor, standing side by side in front of your mother. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Jay quickly asked with his, sorry for wrestling my baby sister on your clean kitchen floor mom, it won’t happen again, awkward smile. 

Your mother placed her hands on her hips, “Am I not allowed to have a day off from work?” 

Heeseung scooted his chair closer to the table, leaning against it in a way to get as close as possible to the conversation, him eating his cereal as if it were popcorn, and you guys were the movie. 

Sunghoon followed Heeseung, him pulling at Jake’s hoodie to pull him close too. 

“I think what Jay means mom, is that we weren’t expecting you to have the day off.” You elbowed your brother's ribs, a small oof leaving his lips from the pain. 

Your mother relaxed, looking between the two of you, “Your father has a company party tonight up at that new fancy hotel a couple of towns over, we are leaving now to get there at a decent time. We are packing as we speak.” 

“Wait, you're not coming home tonight?” Jay asked with a hint of shenanigans in his tone. 

Oh boy…

She shook her head, “The party is ending too late, so we are staying at the hotel and coming home tomorrow morning.” 

Jay didn’t even hide the fact that he had some kind of bullshit cooking up in his head as he turned and faced his friends, a smirk forming. 

You leaned back, glancing at his friends, trying to decipher whatever secret language they were using to communicate with their eyes.

Before your mother could protest whatever shenanigans your brother was planning, your father stumbled into the kitchen. 

“Boys, I need your help. The mail just came.” your father said, pointing his index finger at each of the three boys one by one, “It’s a big one.” 

“Are we building something, Mr. Park?” Heeseung asked, already standing up from the table. 

Your father nodded with a big smile, “We bought a hot tub for the back porch.” 

—

You sat at the picnic table, cold hands shoving into your hoodie pocket, watching as the three boys hovered around Sunghoon who held the directions to the hot tub. 

“When your dad said he got a hot tub that he needed help setting up, I thought he meant he was going to be a part of helping…” Jake sighed, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. 

Jay also sighed, “Yeah, trust me. He put his whole faith into us with this one. Not to mention one person is just watching while we struggle.” 

The three boys looked at you. You sat up straighter, smiling at them, and waved, “Dad never told me to help.” 

Each of them glared at you before going back to the instruction booklet. 

You were surprised your parents even bought the hot tub. Mostly since it would only be the two of them using it up until the spring came when it got too hot for it. Plus you and the boys would only be able to use it while you were visiting. But it’s their money, not yours. They can do what they please. 

“Wait,” Heeseung said, picking up one of the hard plastic pieces, “I figured it out.” 

The boys, sooner than later, had the hot tub built. It was a beautiful oak brown wood color with six seats and came with massaging capabilities with cool lights at the bottom for when it was dark out. It was small, and everyone’s legs would get all tangled up, but beautiful nevertheless. 

The next step was setting up the pumps. Which racked the boy's brains too hard, causing them to sit at the picnic table with you. 

“My brain hurts,” Heeseung said rubbing his temples, “I need a break.” 

Sunghoon’s eyes lit up quickly, he sat up on the bench, hands slapping onto the table, “Tell us your plan, Jay!” 

Jake’s attention also drew in, curious as well, “Yeah what’s the plan?” 

Heeseung looked up at his friends, also waiting. 

You looked at your brother, “Are you talking about whatever hidden language you three stooges had while in the kitchen earlier?” 

“How dare you compare us to the three stooges!” Sunghoon snapped, reaching over to flick your forehead, but you were too quick, swatting his hand away. 

“Can’t tell me I am wrong?” you retort, “Anyways, spill the beans.” 

Jay looked between his two friends, “Might as well tell her,” Jake shrugged, “She’s already onto us.” 

You shook your brother’s shoulder, “SPILL!” 

“Party,” he sighed, shrugging you off, “We are going out tonight.” 

You raised a brow, switching glances between the three idiots, “And you were trying to keep that a secret…why?”

“We couldn’t go to parties when we lived here?” Jay sassed. 

“That didn’t stop you from sneaking out your window and jumping into Heeseung’s car?” you threw back, “You’re adults now, you think our parents can stop you?” 

Jake released a giggle, “Your mother actually called Jay on the drive here telling him no drinking while we are here.” 

You shrugged, your mother was always against drinking and going to parties. It’s what caused Jay and yourself to sneak out half of your high school lives. Your dad caught Jay sneaking in through the front door once and that’s all it took for him to start using his bedroom window and bribing you to keep your mouth shut until the first time you snuck out and couldn’t get back inside due to your window closing while you were out having no choice but to call him to let you inside. 

“Anyways, yeah we are going out to a club, possibly bar hop. Just depends.” Jay shrugged it off as if it were no big deal. 

“Cool, when are we leaving?” You asked, fully invested in going. 

Jay scoffed, “Who said you can come?” 

You scrunch your nose at your brother, “I am an adult, if you tell me no I could always drive myself and follow you guys.” 

Heeseung chuckled, “She’s got a point, might as well let her come.”

You gave your brother a smug look, “See?”

“Fine, jeez!” he groaned. 

“Plus, maybe you’ll get lucky and someone else can take me off your hands.” you wiggled your eyebrows, hoping they picked up what you were putting down. 

Jake was the first one that pick it up. Chills being sent down his body. Eyes darting between you and Jay, then it finally clicked in his head. 

“No!” Jay snapped, “Not happening, keeping you in my sight.” 

You rolled your eyes, knowing damn well once you all get to the club or bar and get some alcohol in your system Jay can’t stop anything. 

Heeseung slapped his hands on the table, “Anyways, enough of that! Let’s get these pumps on the hot tub working so we can get ready to leave, there’s five of us that have to get ready and lord knows we will need that time.” 

Sure enough, the boys got the hot tub up and running smoothly in no time. 

—

“Wear the fucking jacket Y/N!” Jay snapped, yelling over the loud music from the club, shoving his jacket in your face.

“I said no!” you snapped back at your brother, shoving his jacket out of the way. 

“Dude,” Heeseung rolled his eyes, “did you not notice her outfit when we got in the car?!” 

Jay sent daggers shooting at the older, “I was in the driver's seat dumbass! We were running late on leaving!” 

You crossed your arms, looking down at your outfit. It wasn’t even bad? You had on your favorite faded blue ripped skinny jeans with fishnet tights underneath. You had on a long-sleeved crop top that was just above your belly button and in a v-neck style, shoving off your breasts, and your long hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. 

“Besides, it looks like a completely normal outfit!” Jay once again tried shoving the jacket at you. 

“Dude!” you pushed his hands away once again, “There isn’t anything wrong with my outfit!” 

Jay looked at each of his friends to help convince you, his eyes landing on Jake last. Jake just shrugged his shoulders, “Your sister man.” 

Jake on the one hand had no problem with your outfit, it was cute, it was sexy, and it showed off all your curves, not to mention it made your tits and ass look GREAT. On the other hand, he can see Jay’s frustration. The moment any of the guys would take their eyes off you, another man would make his move. 

“Jesus Christ I’m ordering us shots I can’t take this bickering,” Sunghoon said with a roll of his eyes as he pushed past everyone making his way to the bar. 

Jay pleaded with you with his eyes, “Y/N.” 

“Jongseong.” 

Sunghoon returned quickly with five shots, handing everyone theirs, “Let’s get fucked up tonight!” 

“Amen to that brother!” Heeseung shouted, “CHEERS!” 

Everyone clacked the shot glasses together and then drank down the shot. 

It’s been a while since you drank last, already making a promise to yourself to not go overboard. 

Sunghoon collected the glasses and set them on the table next to you all. 

Jay wouldn’t take his eyes off you and you shot darts into his soul. 

He opened his mouth to say something, his eyes looking away from you for a second, his mouth hanging open at whatever sight he saw behind you. 

You raised a brow, turning behind you to see what he was staring at, “Wow, and you want ME to cover up?” 

Granted, the female your brother was going heart eye for was beautiful, she just happened to be showing off a lot more skin than you. She had a matching black crop top and skirt with black boots. It was a cute outfit, no wonder it got Jay’s attention. 

She was also staring back at your brother, even giving him a little wave. 

“Oh shit man,” Sunghoon nudged his arm, “Go get her.” 

Jay ran a hand through his dyed hair, walking in her direction, “Put this on, I’ll be right back,” he dropped the jacket on the top of your head and disappeared into the crowd towards the female. 

You pulled the jacket off you, dropping it down onto the table, “I need more alcohol.” 

You walked away from the boys, only for the three of them to follow directly behind you to the counter of the bar, “Don’t you guys have girls to be going after?” 

Heeseung chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders while he leaned against the counter, “We came here to drink, Y/N, and that’s exactly what we are doing.” 

You pulled Heeseung off you, “Can’t you do that somewhere else?” 

Sunghoon leaned closer to you, “You trying to get rid of us?” he gave you his famous smirk, and oh man did you want to punch him. 

“Duh?” you said matter of fact, “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“Yeah, Sunghoon,” Heeseung said, slinging his arm back around you, “She wants to get laid tonight, she can’t be seen with three other guys hovering around her.” 

Jake didn’t like this conversation nor did he want to hear it. In hopes of changing the vibes, he called the bartender over. “Can we get a couple of rounds of shots please?”

The bartender nodded, “Coming right up!” 

You once again removed Heeseung from you, getting more irritated by the second. You didn’t know what was more annoying, your brother, or his friends. 

The eight shots were placed in front of you all, everyone taking one into their hands.

“Cheers!” Jake calmly said, once again clacking the glasses together before slurping down the liquid. 

You set the glass down and then dropped your head into your hand, this wasn’t how you wanted the night to go. You expected to drink with the boys, yeah, but you weren’t expecting them to be up your ass. 

“Is that who I think it is?” Heeseung asked, pointing a finger down the bar. 

Everyone shifted their gaze looking in the direction Heeseung was pointing at. 

“No way!” you gasped, leaning your head more into your hand, “Is that Choi Yeonjun?!” 

As if hearing his name being called from across the bar, he turned and faced your direction, his eyes wandering between the four of you. He gave a small wave, his eyes lingering on you. Way too long for Jake’s liking. 

The more shots Jake ordered, and the more the liquid courage went down your throat, the more you wanted to walk over to Yeonjun. 

“Are you going to keep giving him heart eyes or are you gonna actually go talk to him?” Sunghoon said with a roll of his eyes, taking another shot down. 

You tucked your lip between your teeth, slightly pulling at your ponytail while making eye contact with Yeonjun, him giving you a few winks and his own lip bite to flirt back. 

It was driving Jake up a wall. 

“Should I?” you asked, “Haven’t seen him since he graduated a few years before you guys.” 

Yeonjun used to be in band class along with the boys and even lived the next street over from you and Jay before he moved away after graduation. He wasn’t close with the boys since he had his friend group, but they all hung out a few times from what you could remember. 

“Y/N, maybe you shouldn’t,” Jake said, taking a small step closer to you as he eyed Yeonjun. 

“Why not?” you stood from the bar, causing Jake to bring his eyes back to you. You adjusted your shirt, pulling it slightly down to reveal your tits a bit more. 

Jake clenched his jaw at the sight, seeing how your tits slightly jiggled from you adjusting your shirt, and the fact Yeonjun was about to see it up close and personal wasn’t sitting right with him. 

“How do I look?” you asked, turning and looking at each of them for their opinions. 

“You look hot, now go talk to him before some other girl beats you to it!” Heeseung said, quickly pushing you away from them, which gave you no other choice but to walk over to him. 

Once you were far enough away, Jake glared at Heeseung. 

“Dude what?” he scoffed, “She came here for this reason. Jay ain’t even around, relax.” 

That’s not the point.

“Come on, let’s go back to the table, I’m tired of standing,” Sunghoon said, collecting the leftover full shots, “Hee, Jake, order us some beer or something.” 

“Well, hello there,” Yeonjun said, pulling you into a hug, “It’s been what? three-four years?” 

You nodded into his shoulder, “It’s really been a while hasn’t it?” 

Yeonjun sat back on his bar stool, pulling the one beside him out, “Please sit.” 

Now that you are closer to him, you can see how grown-up he has gotten. Damn, what is with everyone you knew getting hit with puberty like a fucking truck? 

“Are you still friends with Soobin, Beomgyu Taehyun, and…?” 

“Huening kai?” he smiled, “Of course!” he glances around the club then looks back at you, “They are around here somewhere.” 

You came over here specifically to flirt and hopefully get dragged out of this club by him, yet you’ve found yourself at a loss for words. He’s too beautiful and sexy with how he smiles, it’s throwing you for a loop. Plus you barely knew him back in school, only the basics really. 

Yeonjun leans closer to you, placing his hand on your forearm, thumb rubbing circles, “How is your brother?” he asked, glancing behind you, “I saw you are here with Lee, Sim, and the other Park.” 

You sighed, “Jay is around here somewhere,” you said, taking a quick look around the club, just to find your eyes back on Yeonjun. 

Yeonjun sucked on his bottom lip as he stared you up and down, his eyes always landing back down onto your tits. 

Yeonjun remembers perfectly well how overprotective Jay was over his sister, so if Yeonjun wanted to get you out of your clothes, he needed to act fast before Jay caught eyes on the two of you. 

Yeonjun was so attracted to you right now. He found you cute back in school, but damn did you grow up to be such a fine woman. And with the way your friends were eyeballing him, he knew they too found you just as sexy, making him need to act even faster before one of them decided to ruin everything. 

Jake took notice of how Yeonjun was eye fucking you without a care in the world. His hand was on your arm as you two talked. Oh, it was setting him off. 

“Damn,” Heeseung said, putting his beer bottle to his lips, “You’re going to burn a hole in the guy if you keep staring at him like that.”

“Are we just going to let him touch her like that?” Jake spat out, taking his eyes off Yeonjun to look at his friends, “You both are staring at them too!!”

Sunghoon shrugged, “I am only watching to see if he can actually bag her.” 

“Dude,” Heeseung quickly said, “One hundred bucks that he fucks up somehow.” 

Jake furrowed his eyes, “What the actual fuck?” 

“What?” Sunghoon snapped, “You’re acting like Jay right now. What is up with the two of you? Huh?” 

Jake didn’t know how to answer that. He can’t tell them the sexual frustration he’s been feeling knowing one of them will let it slip to Jay either by accident or purposely.

“I am just worried about her, that's all,” Jake said, looking back over to you. 

In the time Jake had his eyes off you, Yeonjun had his stool pulled closer to you, his legs found their way between yours, his knees touching yours and hand resting on your thigh, his fingers slowly slipping between the tears of your jeans. 

Jake’s jaw locked, his hands forming into fists. 

“Jake,” Heeseung said calmly, noticing his friend's behavior, “Let’s think smart about this, ya?” 

“She is basically our family and you’re just going to stand by and let some random dude touch her like that?!” Jake snapped. 

“Jake, he isn’t some random dude, we went to school with him,” Heeseung tried to play damage control, but it wasn’t working. 

“He also had a reputation for the females he pulled into his bed!” Jake spat. 

Sunghoon let out a whistle and with a tilt of his head said, “You’re so into her.” 

Jake whipped his head around, “Would you let Yeji be in Y/N position right now?” 

Sunghoon scoffed, “Fuck no! She wouldn’t be anywhere near here!” 

“Then what’s the difference of letting the girl we grew up with be in that position right now?” 

Heeseung sighed, “Jake, what is really going on with you? You’d never bat an eye at her before.” 

I want her all to myself. Don’t want another man touching her. 

Jake looked away from his friends. Heeseung was right, he’d never thought twice about you before now, he should be supporting your choices to get laid. 

Except he wasn’t. 

Yeonjun’s hand completely slipped between the tear of your jeans, squeezing your thigh as he continued to eye fuck the shit out of you. 

And that’s all it took. 

Jake shot from the chair, his brain on autopilot. 

“JAKE!!” Both his friends called after him. Jake ignored them. 

Jake approached the two of you quickly, Yeonjun locked eyes with Jake and slid his hand out of your jeans with a disgusted look on his face clearly showing his irritation towards Jake. 

“Hey,” Jake said, his hand finding your lower back, his fingers twisting into your belt loop and slightly pulling, “Let’s go find your brother and leave, ya? We still have a few other places to check out.” 

Oh here we go, Yeonjun thought. 

“Wow, no hey Yeonjun! Long time no see! How ya been?” Yeonjun sassed, his thumb still making soft figure eights on your forearm. 

Jake burnt holes into him, “Sup, Choi, long time no see. How have you been? Cool. Bye.” 

“Jake!” you snapped at his rudeness. 

Jake’s hand found your waist, slightly pulling you again in an attempt to remove you from the stool. 

“I don’t think Y/N wants to leave,” Yeonjun glared at him.

Jake scoffed, reaching over to remove his hand from your arm, then completely wrapping around you, lifting you from the seat. 

Yeonjun clicked his tongue, “Is there a problem, Sim?” 

Jake chuckled, “Nah man,” he looked around behind Yeonjun, “Where is the rest of your rat pack huh?” 

“Jake!!” you snapped at him again. What the fuck was his problem? 

Yeonjun chuckled back, his tongue digging into the side of his cheek, standing up from the stool, “Why don’t you let miss pretty thing go and head back over to Mr. Ace and Ice Prince, ya?” 

Yeonjun reached for you, only for Jake to whip you behind him, “Don’t you fucking touch her.” 

“Come on man, trying to get my dick wet, stop gatekeeping her pussy for yourself.” 

Oh, man. 

“The fuck did you just say?!” Jake lost it, letting his grip on you go and stepping into Yeonjun’s face. 

This can’t be good, “Jake!” you gripped onto his arm, trying to yank him back, “Jake come on, let’s just go!” 

He wouldn’t budge, so you did the next best thing. Whipping your head around to find Heeseung and Sunghoon. Waving your hands to get their attention to look in your direction, eyes pleading with them. They got up immediately. 

“You heard me, Sim,” Yeonjun said, “I saw the way you’ve been staring her down all night.” 

Jake clicked his tongue, “Man, fuck off!” and Jake shoved him. 

Yeonjun shoved him back harder.  

Before Jake could swing, Heeseung wrapped his hands around Jake, “Woah woah woah!! Hoon get Y/N out of here!” Heeseung yelled as he fought to keep Jake still. 

Sunghoon wrapped his arm around your waist, trying to pull you away from the situation, “Y/N, let’s go please,” but you fought against him, “I need you safe! Please!” You stopped struggling against Sunghoon’s hold, slowly letting him back you away. 

“Jake, man listen to me,” Heeseung whipped himself in front of Jake, “Let’s just go okay? Think about Y/N, we need to get her somewhere safe, ya?” 

Jake took his eyes off Yeonjun and over to Heeseung, his body relaxing and nodding. The last thing he wants is to put you in danger or see him start a fight. 

Jake nodded, letting Heeseung push him back and turn him around. 

The moment Heeseung’s hands were off Jake and he was now at his side, Yeonjun scoffed, “Pussy shit.” 

Pussy shit?

Heeseung wasn’t fast enough to get ahold of Jake, because now his fists were balled and made contact with Yeonjun’s cheek. 

Yeonjun hunched to the side, his left hand touching the area Jake just punched him, only to quickly whip around and land a punch right on the corner of the left side of Jake’s mouth. 

“Find my brother!” You yelled, fighting against Sunghoon’s hold on you, “Find Jay!!” 

Heeseung ran into the crowd, pushing past the dancing bodies on the floor. 

Jake licked the blood that dripped down his lip, letting out an evil laugh before gripping Yeonjun’s collar of his shirt, Yeonjun took his fist full of Jake’s shirt and gave him a shove. 

“You’re fucking dead!” Jake spat, getting himself ready to throw another punch. 

Before the next moves could be made, Heeseung and Jay were at Jake’s side with Soobin and Taehyun at Yeonjun’s. 

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Jay yelled, pushing Yeonjun off his friend and then wrapping his hands around Jake’s biceps, Heeseung doing the same in hopes of holding him back. 

Soobin and Taehyun also hand their own death grips on their older. 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you two?!” Jay snapped, eyes darting between him and Jun, “Fighting in a club? Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Sunghoon let you go to run to his friend's side, placing his hands on Jake’s shoulders to help pull him back. 

“Let’s fucking go!” Heeseung growled, “NOW!” 

You made your way over to Jake, eyes landing on the cut on his lip. You whipped your head back around and looked at Yeonjun, seeing the bruise already starting to form on his cheek. 

Much deserved. 

Jake’s hands found your waist as he pulled you to him, giving Yeonjun one last fuck you look as he backed away. Jay also places a hand on your back, giving Yeonjun a stare himself. 

Yeonjun chuckled, taking a step forward but his friends stopped him, “Yeah! Learn to get your dog and bitch of a sister under control!” 

Yeonjun was now on the floor on his knees, spitting blood onto the tile, and blood dripping from Jay’s fist. 

You quickly ran over to your brother, pulling him away, watching as Soobin and Taehyun pulled Yeonjun up. 

“Let’s just go hyung,” Taehyun said, “You’ve drank way too much tonight.” 

With a nod from Yeonjun, he let Taehyun pull him away, Beomgyu taking Soobin’s spot as he quickly apologized to us for Yeonjun then followed behind his four friends. 

Heeseung drove home while Sunghoon sat in the passenger seat. 

You sat between Jay and Jake, your hands examining your brothers, napkins, and a bag of ice you guys got from the bar laid onto his hand. 

“I can’t believe you punched him that hard,” you said, squeezing his wrist tightly. 

“I wasn’t going to let him talk about you and Jake like that,” your brother mumbled, “couldn’t let Jake get hit again either.” he teased

“Fuck man,” Jake said, leaning his head back and tilting it to look at Jay, “I had him!” 

Everyone laughed. 

“Oh!!” Heeseung finally spoke up, pointing a finger at Sunghoon, “You owe me one hundred dollars!!” 

“Huh?” Jay questioned. 

“They made a stupid ass bet,” Jake said, rolling his eyes, “Sunghoon lost.” 

“I wouldn’t have if someone didn’t storm off.” Sunghoon snapped, whipping around in the seat to look at Jake, earning a middle finger from Jake. 

“Wasn’t going to let him continue touching Y/N like that.” 

“Thank you,” Jay said, “For watching after my sister.” 

Jake nodded, “Someone had to.” 

You rolled your eyes and sent your elbow flying into his ribs. 

Turning your attention back to Jay, you shifted the ice and napkin up to take a look at the cuts on his hand, “It’ll be bruised for awhile, you hit him pretty hard.” 

Jay just nodded, eyes getting heavy. 

“Hey,” you tap his leg, “You okay?” 

Jay smiled with a laugh, “I’m so fucking hammered, surprised I sobered up enough to stop that fight.” 

You smiled sweetly at your brother, “Let’s get you to sleep once home.” 

—

After the night you had, all you wanted was to try out the hot tub. 

Once you and the guys got Jay into bed, you watched as they made their way into the spare room, the door closing. 

You did get into bed, but the jitters from the fight still haunted you. And what better way to get those jitters away than to try out the brand-new hot tub? 

You quickly changed into your dark blue bikini, slipping sweatpants and a sweatshirt over your body, and quickly but quietly made your way down the stairs, into the laundry closet to grab a towel and into the kitchen, carefully unlocking and sliding the glass door open and shut. 

Turning the hot tub and pulled the cover off and the lights lit up the porch, and watched the bubbles start to form. You dropped the towel onto the table and slid out of your sweats, the cold immediately touching your skin. 

You tied your hair back into a tight bun and quickly jumped over the steps and slid your body into the warmth. 

You released a soft ahhh as the water warmed your body. 

You laid your head back onto the pillow at your seat, closing your eyes and moving your arms back and forth. 

No wonder your parents wanted a hot tub, this shit was relaxing as hell. 

The sound of the sliding glass door opening scared you, making you quickly sit up and whip around. Your eyes nearly rolled out of your sockets from how hard you rolled them. 

“Hello to you too,” Jake said snarkly, “What are you even doing up?” 

You turned back around, “Can say the same about you.” 

Jake wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the hot tub, he wanted to be alone and get out of the spare room for a few hours. After tonight a relaxing time in the hot tub sounded amazing. 

He was probably the last person you wanted to be around, yet he also couldn’t help but feel happy knowing you were also here. 

“Am I allowed to get in or??” 

You looked back over at him, giving a small nod, “Yeah, that’s fine. You’re already out here.” 

The corner of Jake’s lips curled, dropping the towel next to yours. 

His hands found the ends of his sweatshirt, pulling it up and over his body. 

You felt your face flush. Feeling as if you just saw the work of a God. 

You knew he worked out, his whole physique was proof of that. But seeing shirtless was a whole new level. 

Your eyes wandered from his chest down to his abs. Yeah, he was sculpted by the gods. 

Jake looped his fingers in his sweatpants, giving a small smirk at you staring, “Staring problem?” 

You quickly made eye contact with him, then shifted yourself back around, “No.” 

He softly laughed, dropping his sweatpants to the ground and climbing into the hot tub. 

“I am so glad I brought my swimming shorts.” 

You watched as he sat across from you, his legs sliding down beside yours. 

“Did you just, randomly pack swimming shorts?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Jake laid his arms out against the top of the tub, sinking himself lower in, “Yeah. Always have to be prepared.” 

You narrowed your eyes, “It’s the middle of winter.” 

Jake chuckled, “Heeseung’s family has a heated pool. Figured we would go use it at some point during this trip.” 

All you could do was nod. You’ve only ever been to the Lee household during birthday parties for Heeseung as kids. Guess the heated pool came around after you stopped hanging around them. 

Everything went silent. It was awkward, both of you knew that. You both went from staying clear of each other the best you could to sitting across from each other alone. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Huh. 

You looked at him with confusion, “Why?” 

Jake sat up, leaning forward, and wrapped his arms around himself, “For starting a fight with Yeonjun in front of you. For him talking about you the way he did.” 

“Jake,” you also leaned forward, placing your hand on his knee, “You were just defending me, there’s nothing wrong with that. My brother would beat the shit out of you for even apologizing for it.” 

Jake scoffed, “The fight wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I didn’t lose my cool.” 

“You aren’t…wrong…” You studied him. You’ve known Jake basically his whole life, you know his mannerisms and tell by his body language that he was truly deeply sorry, that’s one thing that has never changed about him, “Just don’t be sorry. You were defending me.” 

Jake nodded, his eyes finding a corner of the tub, watching as the bubbles pop, then softly laughed, “Sorry I cock blocked you, that wasn’t cool of me.” 

You let out a small giggle, “Yeah, you really did cock block me,” you let out a sigh, “Too bad he ended up being an asshole, really wanted to have a good fuck.” 

“Fuck me then,” Jake said softly. 

All you could do was look at him, not being able to tell if he was serious or not. 

“Funny joke.” 

“I’m not joking, Y/N.” 

The whole reason you wanted to go out and gain a hookup was to release the sexual frustration that you had for the man sitting in front of you. But now that said man is straight up asking you to fuck him. 

“You said we can’t be doing this, my brother—“

“I don’t care,” Jake moved forward, reaching his hand out and grabbing your waist, pulling you back over to him and in his lap. 

His hands squeezed your thighs on either side of him, his forehead connecting to yours, “I can’t take it anymore. The way you’ve been teasing me…After seeing the way Yeonjun was undressing you with his eyes…the way he was touching you.” 

His length grew hard underneath you, his hands sliding up to the strings of your bikini bottoms, gripping them tightly. 

Jake thought he could survive these two weeks, thought he was stronger, and that the respect and bond he had with Jay was strong enough to keep him away. Unfortunately, your hold on him was stronger. 

“I want you, so bad,” he whispered, his hot breath hitting your lips. 

You placed your hands on his shoulders, “I want you too…” 

You did. Oh god did you want him badly. But how could you betray your brother's rules? He’d kill you both. 

Jake pulled at the strings of your bottoms slightly, “Just give me the word, and I’ll fuck you so good I swear it.” 

Oh, fuck it.

You nodded, “Jaeyun, please.” 

And that line got crossed. 

Jake’s lips connected to yours, kissing you with such passion and need, like he’s been wanting for this his entire life. 

His fingers pulled at both sides of strings, your bottoms completely coming undone and him pulling them away from your body to float off somewhere in the hot tub. 

His tongue invades your mouth, twisting the muscle around yours letting soft and quiet moans release into your mouth. 

You rolled your hips against him, sliding your folds against his clothed length as your fingers got tangled up in his hair. 

Jake squeezed your hips, pushing you down harder onto him, bucking his hips up in motion with yours. 

You released your mouth from his, a string of saliva connected to your mouths, “I need you, Jake, please.” 

His hands left your hips and flew to his shorts, his fingers pulling at the strings. You, being impatient, looped your fingers into his shorts, helping him pull them down. 

“Fuck baby, that needy for my cock?” 

You nodded, watching as his shorts went down at his thighs, his thick length now resting against his abdomen. 

Taking his cock in your hands, you slowly pumped him. 

Jake’s hand went back to your waist, biting his lips. Fuck your hand feels so good against his cock, it was everything he ever imagined and more. 

Jake lifted you, letting you adjust him to your fuck hole, lining him up perfectly. 

“You ready, baby?” Jake asked, wanting one last form of permission from you before crossing the line even further behind the return. 

You nodded, slowly sliding yourself down onto him. 

You both groan out at the feeling of him bottoming out, the sensation already sending Jake over the edge. He could cum right now just from bottoming out. 

You rolled your hips slowly to help get adjusted to his size, hands gripping his broad shoulders as you slowly picked up your pace. 

Jake’s mouth connected back to yours as you rode him. bucking his hips up at the same motion as you. 

“Fucckkkk, you’re so tight, baby. Taking my dick so good, oh fuck.” 

You picked up the pace, his dick hitting your g-spot perfectly. 

Jake’s brain was going fuzzy, the sensation of his dick buried deep in your cunt was sending him to another world. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Jake slid his hands up to the string of your top, fingers gripping them tightly along with your skin, fingers digging in as he slid them back down your back, his hips bucking up harder into you. 

You moaned out a little too loud, Jake’s lips reattaching to your lips, “Shhh, baby, you need to stay quiet.” 

You nodded, biting down on your lips to suppress your sounds as you continued to slide his dick in and out of you…in and out, in and out. 

Jake knew he would cum soon, that knot in his stomach threatening to snap and the twitch of his dick. 

Then your pussy tightened around him, your own high approaching. 

“I’m…cumming soon,” you whispered, digging your nails into his shoulders. 

“Yeah, baby?” He slid his hand down to your heat, thumb rubbing circles on your clit, “Wanna cum?” 

“Please.” You begged, throwing your head back as your legs got weaker, biting down on your tongue as the knot snapped. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, make a mess all over my cock.” 

You fell forward, resting your head against his, his hands squeezing your hips tightly as he fucked into you, the overstimulation making you dizzy along with the heat from the water. 

“Jake…” 

“I know baby girl,” he whispered, locking his jaw at the knot and getting close to releasing, “Fuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming.” 

With a groan, he pumped his seed against your walls riding out his high. 

Jake wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead against your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your skin. 

You tangled your fingers in his hair and let out a sigh, “Jay is going to kill us both.” 

Jake chuckled, “Yeah, but only if he finds out.” 

You both took a moment to catch your breaths, your hands releasing from his hair and sliding down his neck, your fingers stopping at the chain of his necklace. A beautiful large double link pendant.

Jake noticed your eyes at his neck, “It’s pretty, right?” he said between deep breaths.

You nodded, twisting the metal between your fingers.

He lifted his hands from your sides, reaching behind him and unattaching the clasp, removing it from his body and moving it to yours, the double links dropping at your collar bones.

“Jake, no, I can’t take this!” you went to take the necklace off, “This was probably very expensive!”

Jake grabbed your hands, sliding them back around his neck, “It’s yours now, a beautiful necklace for a very beautiful woman. Keep it.”

Your heart was racing, your stomach filled with butterflies at the way he smiled and looked at you.

“It looks better on you anyway baby,” Jake wraps one arm back around you, his free hand cupping your jaw and pulling you in for a kiss.

—

Jake had to admit, that seeing you walking around with his necklace around your neck drove him insane. 

It was like his own way of marking you without physically having to do it. 

You plopped down onto the couch next to Heeseung, the necklace sitting beautifully against your collarbones. 

Oh, did Jake want his lips on your neck right now. 

“Damnit!” Sunghoon shouted, tossing the Nintendo Controller onto the coffee, “Why are you so damn good?!” 

Heeseung raised a brow, “It’s Mario Kart??? It doesn’t take skill??” 

Jay patted his back, “At least you aren’t last place, like someone sitting in the corner over there,” 

And then all eyes went to Jake.

“Oh, fuck off!” he snapped, “I don’t play Mario Kart!” 

You smiled at your friends, eyes connecting with Jake’s. 

He gave you his flirty smile, eyes leaving yours, and went back to the TV as the next race started. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Last night in the hot tub replayed in your mind on a loop. The way his hands felt against your skin, how his lips fit perfectly to yours. How his cock felt…You couldn’t help but wonder if he went to bed last night too with his brain flooding of you. 

And he did. 

Having sex with you was everything Jake imagined it to be. It was actually BETTER than he imagined it. To finally feel you wrapped around his cock and hear your pretty moans in his ears. Oh, it was heaven. 

The only issue now is…well…he wants more. So much more. 

He spent most of his time last night after the hot tub sex thinking the next moment he’d be able to fuck you. Thinking how he’d be able to get you alone long enough or even have the opportunity to get you alone. 

Another problem is, that those chances are slim. 

You lifted the collar of your hoodie over your neck, not wanting to chance your brother, or really anyone, seeing Jake’s necklace. 

You both crossed a line and now have to deal with the secret of it. 

The sound of the washing machine went off, telling you your laundry was finished. 

You quickly jumped from the couch. 

“What are we doing for lunch?” Jay finally said, “Y/N? What do you think?

You stopped halfway out of the living room, turning back to look at your brother, “Why not just order takeout?” 

Jay shrugged, “Guys?” 

As the boys discussed lunch, you finished your walk back to the laundry room. 

By the time you transferred your wet clothes into the dryer, Jake walked in, “Is the washer open now?” 

You gave him a nod, closing the dryer door and turning it on. 

“What did you decide for lunch?” you asked, leaning against the dryer. 

Jake shoved his dirty clothes into the washing machine, “We decided on takeout like you suggested.” 

You nodded, “Nice, I’ll go tell Jay what I want.” 

You barely were out of the room when Jake’s hand wrapped around your wrist. 

He pulled you back, leaning you back against the dryer, “Stay, please.” 

Jake’s free hand gripped the door, barely leaving it open a crack. 

Before you could ask him anything else, his hands cupped your face, his lips crashing to yours. 

You kissed him back, your hands pulling at his jacket, bringing him closer to you. 

Jake has been waiting since watching you walk up those stairs last night to kiss you again. To feel you pressed to him again. 

With one last passionate kiss, he rests his forehead against yours, “Jay already knows your order, no need to leave.” 

It was true your brother knew your food orders, which was all you needed to stay in place even after Jake removed himself from you to finish starting his laundry. 

Once the washer was started, he leaned against it beside you, crossing his arms, “Can I ask you something?” 

You nudged his arm, “Yes, of course! We’ve known each other for our whole lives, you can ask me anything.” 

“Can I sneak up to your room tonight?” 

It was a simple question, yet it was enough to make your heart stop. He bit the inside of his mouth, anxiously waiting for your answer. 

His question was proof that last night wasn’t a one-time thing. And honestly, you wouldn’t mind it. If Jay’s bedroom wasn’t right beside yours. 

“Jake,” you whispered, peeking your eyes between the cracked door, “You know his bedroom is right beside mine, right? And my parents' room down the hall?” 

Jake shrugged, “And? That’s the point of sneaking into your room like we are teenagers.” 

You tried to not laugh, looking away from him and his goofy grin. 

“Come onnnn baby,” he teased, pulling you to his chest, “Let me shove that pretty face of yours face down into your pillows while I fuck you so good from behind.” 

He slid his hands down to your ass, squeezing the fat while he pressed his hard length against you, his lips finding your neck, “Wanna fuck you so hard and watch my necklace bounce against your pretty collarbones.”

You were melting under his touch. Folding so hard for him. He makes your heart race faster than anyone else ever has. 

“Please…” you softly moaned, hoping he heard you over the sounds of the machines. 

He did. Hearing you beg for him to fold you like an omelet later tonight was turning him on so badly. He thrust his cock harder against you. 

“Get on your knees, baby,” Jake whispered into your ear, sending chills down your spine. 

You dropped down with no hesitation, hands already reaching for the buttons of his jeans, helping him slide them down along with his boxers in one motion. 

Your mouth watered at the sight of his hard cock resting against his abdomen. 

Jake stroked himself, watching how undone you’re already becoming for him, “Such a good girl for me. Put your hands on my thighs, and stick that pretty tongue out.” 

You did what you were told, hands resting against his toned thighs, tongue sliding out of your mouth. 

“Fuck…” 

He placed the tip onto your tongue, immediately wrapping the muscle around him, taking him completely in your mouth. 

Jake groaned, his hands gripping the edges of the washing machine and praying his knees wouldn't fail him now. 

You bobbed your head, tongue licking up his shaft all the way to the top, spreading his precum and mixing it with your saliva. 

Lifting your hand from his thigh, you wrapped it around his length, following the motions as your mouth. 

Fuck you were sucking him off so good. His mind went cloudy, the only thing he focused on was how fucking good your mouth felt. 

Jake pulled your long hair into a ponytail, wrapping the locks between his fingers and giving it a tight pull. 

You moaned against him, the vibrations sending gasping out of his mouth, his hips fucking forward, “Oh, fuck…Y/N, fuck.” 

Jake pulled your hair slightly harder, not wanting to hurt you, his dick hitting the back of your throat as he fucked your mouth. 

Your hands found his thighs again, fingers digging into his skin. You were losing yourself against his cock, knowing full well your panties were soaked. 

You looked up at him, seeing how much of a mess he was. Pupils were blown out, mouth opened, chest heaving. 

Who knew you could make such a mess of him? 

“Sucking me off so good, Y/N. I’m…fuck I’m, I’m gonna cum.” 

You stuck your tongue out further, giving him more access to the back of your throat as he continued to face fuck you until his warm load shot down your throat. 

“Clench your lips,” he whispered between breaths. You did as you were told, him slowly sliding his dick from your lips, “Swallow and show me.” 

You gulped it down, opening your mouth wide with your tongue sticking out, showing him the proof. 

Jake smirked, using your hair that was still wrapped around his hands to pull you back up to your feet, “Such a dirty girl, only for me, ya?” 

You nodded, licking the side of your lips.

He gave you one final kiss, then pulled his boxers and jeans back over his hips. 

The laughter from your brother and friends from the living room filled the house while they cheered over their video games. 

Jake’s fingers adjusted his necklace on your neck, fingers rubbing up to your jaw, his heart did flips seeing how you stared back at him with your fucked out lips. 

“Let’s go back, can’t let them get too suspicious.” 

Jake watched as you left, carrying your laundry basket quickly up the stairs to your room. 

He leaned back against the washing machine, hand clenching his shirt, feeling the rush of his heartbeat. 

Oh, he’s in deep trouble. 

—

Jake’s promise to fuck you face down ass up was fulfilled. Yours and his clothes scattered all over the floor of your room. Your moans being muffled out by your pillows and Jake’s hand at the back of your head shoving your face deeper into the fabric. It was the best you’ve ever been fucked. 

Your bed felt empty after Jake snuck right back out your door and went back downstairs. 

You were scared tonight would be the last, but fortunately for you, it wasn’t. 

The following night he quietly knocked on your door before quickly slipping in and crawling into bed with you. 

This went on for the rest of the week. The two of you finding time throughout the day to have a quick make-out session just for him to crawl into your bed at night. 

But it wasn’t always the rough sex you’d have. One night Jake cuddled you until you fell asleep before quietly exiting your bedroom. One night he held you in his arms listening to you talk about your classes back at college and the friends you had. One night he laid his head against your chest, listening to the sweet sound of your breathing and heartbeat. And then, oh god that night, it wasn’t rough sex or even a good fuck. He made love to you. 

He hovered over you, one hand gently cupping your face as he squeezed your leg that was wrapped around his waist. Soft and slow thrusts were completely turned on just from being with each other and the feeling of skin-to-skin contact. How softly he’d kiss you and tell you how pretty you are. How lucky he was to have you in his life. 

That’s the night you completely folded. You fell in love with him. It wasn’t about the sex anymore. It was about him. About the man you’ve known your whole life, that you grew with and watched him become who he is today. 

Your feelings for him ran deep. 

The secret meet-ups during the day turned into playful kisses, him wrapping you up in his arms and hugging you tightly. 

You were really screwed. 

The final week of vacation was half over and Jake was dreading the finale. He wasn’t ready to leave you yet. Wasn’t ready to let you go. Knowing damn well the minute you go your separate ways he would lose his goddamn mind. 

All because of Jay’s rules. All because of the fucking “off limits”. 

You and Sunghoon made lunch for everyone, giving your brother a day off from cooking. 

Since you weren’t the best cook, ramen was on the menu. 

You prepared the noodles and broth while Sunghoon prepared the meat. 

“You guys both know that if this ramen turns out like shit it won’t be me beating your asses right?” your brother teased, his eyes looking between Jake and Heeseung. 

“Yeah yeah fuck off,” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, “We know the ramen lovers will lose their shits. They’ll survive.” 

“Hey now,” Jake snipped, turning around to face his friend, “I am so serious about my ramen!” 

Heeseung agreed, high-fiving Jake, “We don’t fuck around when it comes to our ramen.” 

You finished up two bowls, rolling your eyes as you set the first fresh bowls in front of the ramyeonz, “You both are so annoying!” 

“They are, aren’t…they.” Jay’s eyes fixated on the necklace around your neck. He barely noticed it with the way your sweatshirt covered it. But when you bent down just right to put the bowls in front of Heeseung and Jake, it became noticeable. 

If it weren’t for Heeseung sitting to his left, and Jake sitting in front of him, Jay wouldn’t have clocked the necklace as suspicious and went on about his day. 

But the necklace looked familiar, and all it took was Jay’s eyes to wander to his best friend, no longer seeing the silver chain sitting against his neck. 

“Can’t believe I’ve spent my whole life stuck with annoying boys like you!” You teased them, earning a middle finger from Heeseung and Jake scoffing out an “whatever” trying to shove you playfully but missing as you were too quick to back away. 

“We are men! And you totally love us!” Heeseung said with a mouthful of ramen, “Doesn’t she Jake? We are the extra brothers you didn’t ask for.” 

Jay clocked the look on Jake’s face, the awkward smile he had, and the way he was hesitant to answer, “Y-yeah. Of course.” 

“We are stuck with you just as much as you’re stuck with us,” Sunghoon added, “Get over it.” 

You elbowed him, “Whatever Hoon!” his smile and laugh causing your own to form. These boys were truly dear to your heart, and it took years of being away from all four of them to realize how deeply you did miss them. Especially your brother. 

Jay kept quiet most of lunch, his eyes wandering back and forth between you and Jake. Taking mental notes of everything in the small details. 

How you look at him, how he looks at you. How you sat beside him at the table when you usually sit beside Jay or Sunghoon. The little graze of Jake’s hand ran across your ass as he walked past you while you and Heeseung cleaned the dishes, causing you to scrunch your nose at him, thinking no one noticed. 

You all went grocery shopping to refill the food in your parent's cabinets and fridge, Jay taking notes on how Jake was always right behind you or straying not too far from you. Jay was hoping he was overthinking, that maybe the two of you got closer after the bar fight last week, but something didn’t sit right with Jay. 

He lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling that night, the sight of Jake’s necklace suddenly appearing around your neck. 

Jay shoved his face into his pillow, trying to chase after the sleep he deeply needed and wanted, wanting to forget everything and give his best friend the benefit of the doubt, to trust the bond they had and the rules that were set. 

That was until he heard your bedroom door opening and quickly shutting right after. 

Jake spreads your legs and wraps them around his waist as he bottoms out, one hand flying to cover your mouth as he fucks into you fast and deep. 

Both of you became a cumming mess. 

You pulled your shorts over your hips and Jake’s tee shirt that you stole from his clean laundry over your head. 

After Jake had his boxers over his hips, he playfully pulled you down onto your bed, his face cuddling up into your neck, “I don’t think I ever could get enough of your pussy.” 

You wrap your arms around his bare back, drawing small infinity eights, “And I don’t think I ever could get enough of your dick.” 

You felt him smile against your skin, “At least we are on the same page.” 

Jake could get so high off the sex you have, it was addicting, his own personal drug. 

His heartbeat fastened due to the thought of being away from you. Deciding now was a better time than any to bring up the topic. 

Jake sat up, his hand resting at your hip, “Y/N, can-“ 

Before Jake could get another word out, your worst fear came to fruition. 

The door opened with such force, your brother standing in the doorway, jaw locked tightly and fists clenched. 

“I fucking knew it!” 

Your heart stopped, quickly sitting up, trying to find the right words. 

Jake sat up behind you, “Jay, bro, listen to me,” 

“There isn’t a DAMN thing to listen to!” Jay yelled, turning on his heels.

“JAY!!” Jake yelled back, jumping from your bed and quickly sliding back into his sweatpants, pulling his shirt over his head as he followed your brother down the stairs, “Man stop we need to talk!!” 

You finally found the will to move, climbing out of your bed and rushing down the stairs at the right moment of Sunghoon and Heeseung running from the spare bedroom, confused looks piled onto their faces. 

“Will you listen to me!” Jake grabbed his friend's shoulder, Jay quickly whipped around and threw his hand off him. 

“Listen to you? Give me one goddamn reason why I should be listening to you right now?!” Jay snapped, getting into Jake’s face. 

“Woah! Woah!” Heeseung rushed over, pushing himself between them. 

“Because I am your best friend man!” Jake snapped back. 

“Yeah? My best friend?” Jay moved forward, Sunghoon now had to step in, pushing Jay back as Heeseung handled Jake, “My best friend wouldn’t be dicking down my little sister!!” 

Everyone in the room froze, Sunghoon and Heeseung making glances between each other, and then between Jay and Jake. 

Jake’s jaw locked, not wanting to say the wrong thing right now. 

You stood at the last step of the stairs, too scared to move. 

“I gave you one, ONE, rule. That she was off limits,” Jay’s eyes found you, “And you! I said no boys!” 

“Nah, man!” Jake finally spoke up, stepping in front of Jay’s line of sight, “This is between you and me. Leave her out of it.” 

“She betrayed me just as much as you did!” Jay scoffed, “How could you do this to me, man?” 

Jay relaxed his body as he leaned against the couch, Jake also relaxed, “Bro it just…it just happened.” 

That wasn’t the right thing to say, “How does it just “happen” Sim Jaeyun?! Huh?!” 

shit. 

Jake rolled his eyes, “Dude, I don’t know!” he threw his arms into the air, “It just did!”

“Stop lying!” Jay stood back up, “Stop fucking lying to me!” 

“Oh good FUCKING god! Why are you so protective over her?! She’s a grown-ass adult!” Jake ran his hand through his hair, “We aren’t kids anymore man!” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s my everything!! From the moment she was born, I promised I was going to protect her from everyone! including you.” 

Jake chuckled, “Protect her from what?!” 

“From her getting hurt!” 

“I wouldn’t do that!” 

“What’s so different with her then huh?” Jay stepped forward, Sunghoon placing his hand on his chest, “What’s so different dicking down the girls in chem class and my sister, hmm? You’re such a play—“

“I am in love with her.” Jake spat out. 

The room fell silent, confusion not only on Jay’s face but your own. 

“What?” 

“I’m in love with her, man,” Jake sighed with a shake of his head, “I’ve always been in love with her. Even as kids, I…I always had this ache in my heart, never understanding what it was, and because of your stupid ass rule…I was never able to figure it out.” 

Jay relaxed himself back against the couch, eyes staring holes into the floor. 

Jake continued, “Yeah I might have been a stupid ass playboy and completely forgot about your sister and what she meant to me but good god, the minute she stepped foot into this house…” Jake turned and looked at you, “Everything I felt all those years ago became clear.”

Jay looks up at you, the hardness that once sat in his eyes a second ago was gone, nothing sat there except soft sadness. 

“Yes, I’ll admit, I had sex with your sister at first to release the sexual frustration, but the moment it happened…I was done for.” 

Jake placed his hands on your face, his forehead touching yours, “She’s everything to me too, Jay.” 

Jay let out a sigh, “What about you, stink? What’s your side?” 

You remove yourself from Jake, walking around him and standing in front of your older brother, “I love him,” Jay rolled his eyes, staring back down at the floor, “But I love you too!! Jongseong, you’re my everything too. You’re the best big brother I could have ever asked for, you’ve done your job protecting me.” 

Jay looked at you with glossed-over eyes, “Why him? Why out of everyone, one of my best friends?” 

You shrugged, “It just happened that way.” 

You stepped closer to him, pulling him into a hug, he gave in and hugged you tightly back. 

“I am deeply and truly sorry that everything happened this way. I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Jay knew that, deep down he knew this wasn’t what either you or Jake wanted. That this was something that just kinda happened. And he has to accept it. 

Jake appears at your side, having you step away, pulling Jay into another hug, “I won’t hurt her. I promise. I’d die first before I’d ever do that.” 

Jay sighed, also giving into Jake and hugging him back, “Hurt her and it’s your funeral I am planning.” 

Jake chuckled, slapping his best friend on the back, “No problem there buddy.” 

Jay pushed Jake away, “Okay, let’s all go back to bed. I am sure we already disturbed my parents enough.” 

You let out a yawn, exhaustion sweeping over you. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon walked towards the spare room and you up the stairs, Jake following behind you. 

“Uhhh nah,” Jay snapped his fingers, pushing Jake towards the spare room, “You ain’t going back up there.” 

“Come on dude.” Jake groaned. 

“No, I’m sleeping in front of her door.” Jay pointed at the two others, “Make sure he doesn’t leave the room.”’

You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, “You all are really actually annoying.” 

—

You sat at the kitchen table, peeling the potatoes for tonight's dinner, watching as the four boys and your dad stood outside in the cold grilling the meats. 

Your mom stood behind you at the island, tossing the salad. Her careful eyes studied you, “Want to talk about it, my sweet daughter?”

You turned and faced her, “Talk about what?” 

She gives you a soft smile, “About the reason your brother was screaming last night.” 

You sighed, turning back around to continue peeling the potatoes, “You and dad heard everything?” 

Your mother sat down beside you, taking the peeler and potato out of your hands, forcing you to face her. 

“Honey, your brother is a very vocal person when he’s upset. It scared us half to death.” 

She held your hands, her thumbs circling your palms, “Why didn’t you come and stop the fight?” 

She sighs, looking outside at your father, “We wanted to, but your father said it was best for you guys to handle it. It was a matter we couldn’t step into.” 

You understood that, everyone here is grown adults, your parents stepping in probably more than likely wouldn’t have helped anyway. 

You followed your mother's gaze outside, watching as your brother flipped over the steak with dad right beside him. Jake sorted the raw meat into separate plates, handing them off to Jay to be grilled while Heeseung and Sunghoon helped cut the cooked meat into pieces. 

Your eyes lingered on Jake, watching as he said something to Jay, your brother smiling wide and shoving Jake. That made you happy at least, knowing that your betrayal didn’t completely shatter their friendship. 

“Y/N, you love him, don’t you sweetheart?” 

You nodded, the tears swelling up in your eyes, “Momma I love him so much. But the fact Jay caught us the way he did is eating me alive. The last thing I wanted to do was see that betrayal and hurt in my brother's eyes.” 

“Y/N, can I tell you a little story?” 

You nodded, looking back at her. She wiped the tears off your face and squeezed your hand, “You want to know why your brother started that rule in the first place?” 

You nodded again. 

“It was Jongseong’s tenth birthday party, and Jaeyun just returned from visiting Australia, you remember that?” 

You slightly nodded, trying to recall the memory. Jake would disappear to the land of kangaroos at least once or twice a year growing up. Narrowing down specifically when this is in this situation would be hard to pinpoint. 

“Well, Jaeyun brought back gifts, not just for you know, your brother, Heeseung and Sunghoon, but one for you.” 

The memory completely came back to you. Jake brought you back a small keychain with a baby joey and your name on it. You had that keychain on your school backpack for a couple of years until you lost it. 

“I remember, Jay was irritated with me that day and I couldn’t figure out why, I was only nine.”

Your mother nodded, “It was the first, and last time may I add, that Jaeyun ever brought you back a gift.” she softly laughed at the memory, “Little Jaeyun handed your brother his birthday gift and souvenir, giving Heeseung and Sunghoon theirs, then he rushed away from the picnic table looking for you. That little keychain was in his hands until it was placed into your hands. Oh, was your brother upset.” 

“So he was jealous that I also got a gift?” You raised your brow, glancing back outside at your brother, jealousy was never something he had or even showed. 

“That’s what we thought it was at first, just Jongseong being jealous that his baby sister also got a gift on his birthday. Your dad tried calming him down for a good twenty minutes.” 

Jay and Jake started to play fighting outside, running further into the yard as your dad just laughed and took a sip of his beer bottle. 

“After your dad got him calmed down, we were finally able to talk to him about why it upset him, and you know what he said?” 

You looked back at your mom, waiting for the answer. 

“That you were too young for a boyfriend,” you rolled your eyes, of course he said that. Even as a child at the age of ten, he wanted you nowhere near other boys, “We had to explain to him that just because Jaeyun brought you back a gift, didn’t mean he likes you. But your brother wasn’t having any of it, kept saying over and over that the look Jaeyun gave you said otherwise. Then he told your father no one would be good enough for his little sister, that you were a prize that could never be won. So he came up with his rules. His friends were told you were now off limits, specifically to Jaeyun. And then he told you no boys.” 

Your heart melted, knowing that Jay’s rules were always just a way to protect you, that he held you on such a high pedestal to the point no male would ever be good enough for you in his eyes. That you did indeed deserve so much. 

“Obviously, your brother didn’t want you dating his friends, it would have been weird, mostly with how close the five of you were growing up. But your father and I figured he would have eventually let it go.” 

You shrugged, making eye contact with Jay, he gave you a small smile before returning back to the grill after his play fight with Jake, “But you know, mom, I am grateful for his rules. He has helped me get out of so many terrible relationships and helped me see my worth.” 

Your mom pulled you into a hug, “He loves you so much. You two are truly blessed to have each other as siblings.” 

You agreed, no one will ever compare to your brother. 

Your mom pulled back, rubbing your shoulders before standing up and going back to the island, “I always secretly wanted you to get with one of them.” 

“Mother!” you snapped, “Huh?!”

“What?” She smiled, “Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon have always been good kids. I practically raised them! If any boy would be good enough for my daughter it would be one of them. Just funny how the person who created the whole reason the rules came into place is the same one who took your heart.” 

You had to admit, it was funny. No wonder Jay literally lost his bonkers last night, questioning you on why Jake. 

“Treat him well, Y/N. And give your brother some time to get over it. He’s strong, and he will get over it. Don’t beat yourself up or let it affect your relationship with Jake.” 

Your mother was right. But you still can’t help but feel a bit guilty. Jay deserved the truth from the beginning. 

—

The rest of the week went by in a flash. And turns out you really had nothing to worry about with Jake and Jay. 

The two boys moved on like it didn’t happen, that their friendship was never on the line to begin with. 

Jay even was being his normal self to you. 

Dinner last night Jake sat beside you and even put his arm around you, and Jay didn’t even bat an eye. 

It felt…different. You and Jake went from secretly hiding around to holding hands, hugging you any moment he could, and weren’t afraid to sit close to you. The only thing he secretly did was when he wanted to kiss you. Which you understood. 

Jake still snuck into your room as well. That didn’t change. But the final night at the house, Jay straight up told him to spend any final moments with you. 

Unfortunately, the night went by too quickly. You woke up in Jake’s arms, the only thing that could be heard was the sounds of his soft breathing and his heartbeat in your ear. 

Jay’s alarms went off in his room, then the sound of his feet shuffling against the floor. You knew it was time to get up. 

You got Jake up, sending him downstairs to pack and get ready. 

Time was flying too fast, and soon enough your parents stood on the front porch, hugging each of you goodbye. 

“Please come back home soon!” Your mother whined, tears staining her face, “I miss you both already!” She pulled you and Jay into a hug. 

You fought back your tears, and you could tell your brother was too. 

Your parents hugged the other boys as well, telling them to not be strangers and stop by anytime they come home or to even come back when Jay does. 

But then the moment you wanted to shove away came, saying goodbye to Jake. 

You hugged Heeseung, “Keep in touch kiddo!” he said with a pat on your head, “Stay out of trouble.” 

“I think you’re the one who needs to stay out of trouble, Hee.” You pinched his arm, then moved on to Sunghoon, “You too! I heard all about your party shenanigans!” 

Sunghoon playfully shoved you, “As if!” and then pulled you into a hug. 

Jay was next. 

“C'mere stinks.” Jay pulled you into a tight hug, “Thank you for agreeing to spend the rest of your time with us.” 

You nodded against his shoulder, “I’m so glad you convinced me.” 

Jay gave you one last tight squeeze before releasing you, “Love ya, please stay safe and talk often, ya?” 

“Of course.” 

He gave you one last smile, before his eyes lifted over behind you, “And keep him in check, ya? I can’t do it on my own.”

You turned behind you just in time to see Jake roll his eyes, “Dude, I keep myself in check.” 

You patted his arm, “Sure you do babe, it’s okay.”

Everyone had their laughs except for Jake who rolled his eyes once again. “I hate you all.” 

“Whatever, go say your goodbyes so we can leave,” Jay said, shooing you away. 

Jake followed you to your car, his hands settling on your waist as he pulled your body to his, leaving no space in between. “I’m not ready to leave you yet.” 

“I don’t want to leave you either, Jake.” 

He really wasn’t ready to leave you yet, wasn’t ready to be apart, “Why did you choose a college so far away?” 

You gigged, “Because at the time it’s where I wanted to be.” 

“Transfer. Come be with me.” 

You smiled at him, cupping his face, “I’ll think about it.” 

Jake shook his head, sticking his tongue out at you, “Don’t tease me.” 

You touched his forehead to yours, “I’ll miss you, so much.” 

Oh, now Jake wanted to cry, “God knows how badly I’ll miss you too.” 

He pulled you even closer, lips connecting to yours. 

Jake kissed you like you were about to disappear from his grasp. Like the universe was going to rip you away from him. 

Your cherry chapstick filled his senses and made his head spin, oh the things he’d do and the crimes he’d commit to always get a taste of your lips. 

“Hey!!” Jay shouted from his car, his head hanging out the driver's side window, Heeseung and Sunghoon also peeking out their windows, “You gonna keep making out with my little sister or we gonna hit the road? She’s got a longer drive than us!” 

Jake laughed against your lips, head turning to his friend, “If you’re going to give me a choice then…” 

“Hurry up!” Jay snapped with a laugh. 

“Go,” you said, “You’ll see me soon.” 

Jake placed one final kiss on your lips, pulling away as he walked backward towards Jay’s car. 

“I love you!” Jake shouted freely, finally happy to say those three words he’d been holding back. 

“I love you too!!” You shouted back. 

“Call me when you’re back in your dorm!” 

You nodded, climbing into your car. Jake got into the back of Jay’s car, letting out a sigh. 

“Missing your girlfriend already?” Heeseung teased. 

“Man,” Jake shook his head, “Shut up.” 

Jay took off down the street, slouching down into the seat, “Don’t worry, man.” 

Jake slung his head back onto the seat, staring out the window, “How can I not?” 

Jay looked into the rearview mirror, “I already have a plan to convince her to transfer.” Jake smiled, “If I can convince her to come home for two weeks, I can convince her to transfer. It’s already in motion.” 

Jake sat up, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “My man!” 

Jay knew he had to get used to seeing Jake with you, and he already could imagine the pain you both would feel being apart. Plus, having you around more often wouldn’t be a bad idea. It would be just like when you were all kids. 

Jake sat back down in the seat, his smile never fading with thoughts of you.

—tags: @wooziswife @enhaslxt @woniebae @nctislifue @nanabbg @rikisnuggie @ericluvs @nyfwyeonjun @ratedjaeyoon @addictedtohobi @nshmrarki @hey-hey-heybitch @eneiyri @smiling-lion @loves0ft @luvswonyoung

[mari-positas]

flutter

Jackson! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner. 

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair. 

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?” 

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten. 

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home. 

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains. 

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

[mattsstarlet]

camgirl!reader hates pornstar!matt’s beard.

the more you stared at matt, the wetter and achier you became. he was across the room from you, standing against the wall with a cup of alcohol in his hand while he chatted with a few of his friends, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. meanwhile you desperately tried to sit still, trying so hard not to rub your thighs together at the sight of his new look— a growing beard.

sure, you were needy but you were also angry at the fact that you hadn’t seen this look on him before he left his house because now you were about to sit on an uncomfortable wet piece of fabric for hours.

you were so lost in your own dirty fantasies that you didn’t see him striding down your way, leaning down close enough to your ear that you could feel his facial hair brushing against your skin. “somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?” he taunts, placing a light kiss onto your shoulder.

you clear up your dry throat, you had been caught but in that feverish moment you didn’t give a fuck. “i hate you.” you whisper back, earning a cocky chuckle from him. he stood up straight, tilting your chin upwards to catch his gaze as his thumb ran over your bottom lip.

“oh yeah?” he grins, licking over his pearly white teeth at your little nod of approval. “then we should fix that.”

your face was pressed up against the bathroom door while matt’s tongue was deep inside your messy hole from behind, his rough hands placed on each of your ass cheeks, eating your cunt like a starved man who was having his last meal. you felt the burn of his beard while he aggressively shook his head, lapping at your puffy folds like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“holy fuck, matt— mhm yes.” you cry out, your eyesight pooling with tears as you angled your head to look back at him, your hand reaching behind his head— holding him in place.

a loud sting echoes through the four walls of the room followed by a squeal from your glossy lips. you dig your fingernails into his locks, tugging harshly as you chase your high, spilling out pornographic moans that were muffled by the music outside the door. “gonna cum — oh fuck– on your pretty face.” you announce so sweetly, your pelvis rutting against his arousal covered face. “so hot eating me out like that.”

matt groans while his lips wrap around your clit, spanking you once more. your hole pulses around nothing as he makes suckling noises, his kisses were sloppy and fast paced.

he feels you trembling, holding your hips to support your body going weak. he makes humming sounds to bring you closer, swirling his tongue around your bud and then through your folds, rolling his own eyes at the sweet taste of you— he couldn’t get enough.

a stream of sobs replace your moans as you reach the edge, the coil in your tummy snapping apart, coming undone on matt’s face. matt sends you into overstimulation, kitty licking you clean while giving your messy folds a few taunting kisses.

he finally pulls away, spinning you around to face him. his beard was glistening with your sweetness, his chin drooly all while he hooked his arm under your leg, swinging it over his shoulder. “still hate me?”

you scoff, gluing your eyebrows together as you ran your hand through his hair, feeling the cool air on your cunt. “shut up and keep going.” he smirks at your sassy tone, kissing your inner thigh.

“knew you’d love the new look, sweetheart.”

© 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗌𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍

note ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ meow meow beard!matt please save me. also don’t know if i wanna fuck this blurb or not.

[abbotjack]

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

���I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Gruffalo: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

It’s been two months since Pope last laid eyes on you.

Two months since you told him you were pregnant with his baby.

Two months since he broke your heart to save your life.

He’s been depressed since then, suicidal. He knows Baz sees that it’s getting worse, especially after the last job. He still has bruised ribs from where two bullets struck him in the chest, fracturing the plates in his Kevlar vest.

It’s why they’re sitting outside your house right now in Baz’s truck, watching you potter about through the open blinds.

You still look as beautiful as the day he left. Your hair shines in the sun that filters through the window, your palm resting on the baby bump that’s started to show through your clothing. Pope clutches the stuffed grey elephant he bought for the baby even harder, his fingers digging into the fabric as you tuck an errant strand of hair back behind your ear. He’s missed so much already. By now she’ll be starting to move, to respond to your voice. He wonders if she’d respond to his, if she'll understand what you've told her about him.

“What if she doesn’t want me?” He asks quietly, staring down at the elephant.

“She does want you Pope.” Baz reassures him, his arm coming to rest on the open window as he studies the street. “When I told Dylan about Smurf, about what she threatened to do… She understood that you were just trying to protect your family.”

“And Smurf… She doesn’t know we’re here?” Pope says, his voice hitching. “Because if she finds out…”

“She won’t.” Baz reinforces. “Our phones are at Deran’s bar, she’ll just think we’re having a drink with our brothers, that I’m trying to drown your sorrows, talk a little sense into you.”

“Alright.” Pope says shakily, nodding his head as he grips the door handle. “Thanks for doing this… You have no idea what it means-”

“I do.” Baz cuts him off. “She shouldn’t be able to use our children to control us, she shouldn’t be able to reach out and hurt them if we don’t do what she wants.”

There’s finality in his tone, one that Pope doesn’t pick up on as he opens the car door and climbs out of it.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Baz tells him before he closes it. “I’ll call Dylan’s phone from the bar to let you know I’m coming.”

He drives away then, leaving Pope standing at the steps leading up to your porch. He takes them one at a time, his palm gliding over the rickety railing that he’s going to fix for you the next time he’s here.

When he reaches the door, his chest constricts because this is the moment of truth, the moment you tell him what he did was unredeemable and that you don’t want him in your child’s life.

He raises his hand to knock but the door it’s already opening and there you are standing in front of him with your pretty sun kissed features and hair that flows like a waterfall over your shoulders. He squeezes the elephant tighter before thrusting it at you.

“I got this for her-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because your arms wrap around him, drawing him close. The scent of the ocean floods his senses, the swell of the baby nestling between the both of you. He buries his face into the curve of your throat, his eyes stinging as he clings to you like a lifeline, like you are the only thing on this God forsaken earth worth living for.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his chest heaving as he tries to hold back the sheer force of  emotion raising up in him. “She was going to hurt you, she was going to hurt Freya. I didn’t see a way...”

“I know.” You sooth him, your fingers running through his unruly curls. They’re wilder now, no longer cropped to his scalp the way he normally keeps them. “You were just protecting us.”

“I don’t know how to do that anymore. I don’t-”

It’s then the baby kicks, a swift hard punt that lands right in his navel.

“Oh.” He says looking down between the two of you, his hands coming to rest on the baby bump, cradling her beneath his palms.

“I think she wants to say hi.” You tell him, taking his hand and guiding it just a little lower towards where the next kick is. “She must like the sound of your voice.”

“Really?” He asks you, his chestnut brown eyes glistening as he looks up at you.

“You have a relaxing cadence.” You tell him as the baby kicks again. “It’s why I always  fall asleep to the sound of you reading.”

Always, not used to.

Those words aren’t lost on him, they’re a sign that he still has a presence in your life, a future with you, with Freya.

“Do you think that I could read to her?” His voice cracks as he asks the question. “So she can learn who I am.”

“I have a few baby books on the coffee table I’m sure she’d love to hear.” You tell him, your fingers threading through his as you lead him inside. “She loses her shit when I read The Gruffalo.”

“What’s a Gruffalo?” He asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You sort through the picture books on the coffee table, before pulling one out and handing it to him. “Read the book and find out.”

It turns into a literary discourse, one that has you laughing as he lays with his head in your lap, reading out loud to your daughter. When he’s done with that one, he picks up another and then another. It goes on until he drifts off, his body relaxing into you as his words falter.

He’s not been sleeping, you can tell from the dark circles staining his skin. The crows feet at the edge of his eyes are more pronounced, his features more weather worn. Your fingertips trail over his freckles as you listen to the steady sound of him breathing.

Your phone vibrates on the cushions next to you, Baz’s name flashing up on the screen. Your heart thuds faster in your chest as you pick it up, tucking it underneath your chin.

“You get it done?” You ask, your tone low.

“Yeah, it’ll look like she slipped in the shower, broke her neck. The same way Craig almost did the other day.” Baz tells you as he closes the door to the bathroom behind him. “I’m going to ‘find’ her along with Deran in a couple of minutes.”

“He’ll know.” You say gently as Pope stirs in your lap, his cheek coming to rest upon the place where his baby resides. “As soon as we tell him…”

“Then we’ll tell him the rest.” Baz reminds you with a voice like steel. “About how she was going to wait for the baby to be born to kill you, how she was going to adopt her because the state wouldn’t hand her over to someone with his record, how she would have used her like she did Julia-” He cuts himself and you can taste the bitterness in your mouth at the life your daughter almost had, the one that was almost identical to yours. If Baz hadn’t overheard that phone call between Smurf and her lawyer, asking her to draw up papers and date them for four months’ time… “-Pope will understand why it had to be me. He hates her but he doesn’t have it in him to hurt her. She made sure of that.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth, she spent years cultivating him into the perfect attack dog, training him not to turn around and bite his handler no matter how much horrible shit she put him through.

“Just promise me you’ll take care of him.” Baz says, his voice softening. “That you’ll love him the way that he deserves.”

“We will.” You promise Baz, your fingertips lightly combing through Pope's curls. “There is no one on this earth that could love him more than us.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[heavyhitterheaux]

Push The Limits

Synopsis: You and your husband aren't on the same page when it comes to disciplining your sixteen year old son, but that changes once his safety becomes compromised.

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: a beautiful anon 😍

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

The night had been peaceful and calm with a cool breeze coming from the bedroom window that was slightly opened until Joe was woken out of his sleep for unknown reasons.

He hadn't been sleeping well the past few nights and tonight was no exception.

He peeked over at you, his wife of close to twenty years and saw that you were still resting comfortably despite him moving to sit up with his back against the headboard.

Joe knew what a light sleeper you were ever since you had your first child and he was convinced that even a pin dropping would startle you.

Running a hand through his hair, he was caught off guard when he heard a small shuffling sound. He didn't think anything of it, blaming it on the wind outside until he heard it again.

And again.

It was evident that the sound was coming from downstairs and Joe silently cursed underneath his breath. Trying his hardest not to wake you, he slid out of bed as quietly as possible before slipping past your master bedroom door.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the staircase, he was face to face with his oldest child, Maddox, who looked like a deer caught in headlights coming through the front door.

Joe raised his eyebrow at him and crossed his arms as Maddox started stuttering in order to try to come up with some type of excuse.

“Um, h-.. hi dad.”

“You better have a good reason why you're sneaking into my house at three in the morning.” Joe replied as he glanced at the clock on the wall behind Maddox.

“Uh… I…..”

“You what? I'm waiting.”

“I went to a party. All of my friends were going and I didn't want to be left out.” He quietly confessed as he gazed down at his Nike's that were covering his feet.

“So instead of asking me, you sneak out instead? Do I have that right?”

“Well you weren't here earlier and I knew that if I asked mom that she was going to say no.”

“How do you know that she was going to tell you no if you didn't even ask her?”

“She's just…. She hovers too much.”

“Hovers? You are literally a child. OUR child. You can barely take care of yourself as it is and you're complaining that your mother is trying to keep you safe? And I would have told you no too considering it's a Sunday night.”

“I… just how much trouble am I in? Are you going to tell mom?”

It was no secret that Maddox, even standing at 6’1, a few inches below his dad was terrified for a lack of a better word of you.

Even though you were 5’2 on a good day.

He was mentally preparing himself for you to rip him a new one.

You were the no nonsense parent, while Joe on the other hand would be more lenient. Being in a house full of boys will do that to you seeing as Maddox was the oldest of four.

You were longing for a girl, but since your last pregnancy had taken such a toll on you, both you and Joe decided that four was enough.

“I haven't decided yet. But, I'll keep this between us as long as it doesn't happen again. If it does, I'm telling her.”

Maddox looked up at his dad with admiration in his eyes and he nodded saying that he was in agreement.

“Get upstairs and you better be on time for school because I don't want to hear any excuses. If you fall asleep in the next ten minutes, you can get a good two hours in.”

“What!? I still have to go to school!?” He groaned as Joe stared at him.

“You have two options, go to sleep now and wake up for school in two hours or… I can wake up your mom right now. Your choice. And no one told you to stay out late partying on a Sunday night. And so you just assumed that you wouldn't have to go?”

“Nevermind! Goodnight!” Maddox said all within the same breath as he took the stairs two at a time. Joe followed close behind him and made sure he was inside of his room before slipping back into the master bedroom that he shared with you.

He climbed back into bed and once he was settled and laying on his back, you turned to face him and scooted closer as he wrapped his arms around you and you placed your head on his chest.

“Are you okay?” You quietly asked him as you peeked one eye open making it so you could see the outline of his features in the dark.

“Fine, baby. Just thought I heard something downstairs. Go back to sleep.” He told you as he placed a kiss on your forehead.

As promised, he didn't tell you the sound that he heard just happened to be your oldest child.

“Okay.”

It was now almost 5:15 in the morning and your mom radar immediately went off. You usually hear movement by now coming from your eldest son's room and when you didn't hear anything, you quickly got up to investigate.

Slipping from your husband's grasp, you made your way down the hall and softly knocked on the door.

“Bubs?”

No answer.

“Maddox, baby. You need to wake up for school.”

When you didn't get an answer for the second time, you slowly turned the knob to see him still knocked out and sprawled across his bed.

Laughing to yourself, you walked over to him and stroked his hair before attempting to wake him up.

“Maddox! Come on, baby. Wake up.” You said as you shook him and he let out a groan, letting you know that he was showing signs of life.

“What time is it?” He asked while shielding his eyes from the light that you just turned on.

“Almost 5:20, you're going to be late if you don't get up and get ready. I'll go make you some breakfast.” You replied as you slowly pulled off his comforter and grabbed his hand to help him sit up.

“Come on, baby boy. Wake up. Why are you so tired? I thought you went to sleep early?” You curiously asked as he looked up at you.

“Oh, um I was up late studying.”

“Hmm, makes sense. I expect nothing less if you want to go to LSU like we did. Be downstairs in 20.”

“Okay, mom.”

Closing his door and walking down the hallway, you made your way downstairs to decide what to cook for breakfast. You usually ended up cooking breakfast twice seeing as Maddox would get up the earliest, and then the three youngest would wake up around seven, Ryder, Silas, and Hunter being the youngest at two. And no one ever wanted the same exact thing.

As you were hovering at the stove, you could tell that it was Maddox that had entered the kitchen by his footsteps, who immediately went and sat at the island and put his head down while throwing his backpack at his feet.

“Waffles sound good, bubs?” You asked him and turned to look over your shoulder to see him slowly nodding his head against the table.

A few minutes had passed and you were mixing up the batter when Joe walked into the kitchen to see Maddox asleep at the island once more and lightly grabbed his shoulder for him to sit up.

Joe leaned down to whisper in his ear so that you wouldn't hear him.

“Hope it was worth it and you better take an energy drink to keep you awake because you have until 2 pm before school is over and you better not miss football practice after either.”

At the same time Joe was hovering over him, you turned around and was honestly confused because Maddox looked like he would fall over at any minute and you were concerned.

“I have never seen you this tired even if you had stayed up the night before. What class were you studying for?” You curiously asked as you poured the batter in the waffle maker.

“Yeah, Maddox, what class was it?” Joe added on as he eyed him before walking over towards you to properly greet you.

Maddox wanted to glare at his dad, but decided against it since he knew if he stepped out of line now that he would definitely tell you what he did.

“Um, AP world history.”

“And you have a test coming up this week, right?”

“Yes, on Wednesday.”

“Hmm, I expect nothing less than a B since we've gone above and beyond with our studying.” Joe replied sarcastically as he wrapped his arms around you from behind and placed his chin on your shoulder before kissing your cheek.

“He'll be fine. Leave my oldest baby alone.” You said as you were placing his waffles on the plate.

“Could you hand this to him, please?” You asked Joe who quickly nodded and grabbed the plate from your hands.

He came face to face once again with Maddox as he placed his food in front of him.

“Step out of line between now and what I decide your punishment is and I'm telling her. Now eat up, don't let it get cold.” Joe added at the end with a smile.

Maddox was now beginning to regret sneaking out the house and had a feeling that Joe would not let go of this easily or any time soon.

–

A week later, it was around 2 in the morning when Joe collapsed on top of you trying to catch his breath and placing kisses all down your body.

Your four children had actually gone to bed early which was a surprising feat so of course you and Joe took advantage of that.

“You okay?” He asked you and the only thing you could do in response was nod.

Finally rolling off of you and onto his back, he quickly pulled you on top of him and wrapped his arms around you while placing a small kiss on your forehead.

“Babe?” You quietly asked while looking up at him.

“Hmm?” Joe answered you as he had closed his eyes.

“Can you go get me some water?”

“Yeah, you want anything else? Maybe round 3?”

“For you to hurry up and come back so I can lay on you. And maybe.” You said as you looked up at him and smirked.

“In that case, be right back.”

He leaned down to give you several kisses before sliding away from you to look for his sweatpants in order to leave out of your bedroom.

Once he found them, he quietly opened the bedroom door and shut it behind him before heading downstairs.

By now it was close to 2:15 in the morning as Joe poured two glasses of water to take upstairs for the both of you.

Once the glasses were poured, Joe started his journey back upstairs and as he was passing the front door, the sound of a key sliding into the lock was heard as the knob turned.

“You cannot be fucking serious.” He said out loud to no one in particular.

He already knew that it was Maddox, but simply waited it out for confirmation.

After what he pulled last week, Joe simply just gave him a warning and told him not to do it again and the whole thing would be forgotten.

He clearly didn't listen and was trying to take advantage.

Sure enough, he came through the door and seeing his father made him instantly freeze.

“Maddox, you literally suck at sneaking out. Get upstairs right now and we're talking about this in the morning. I literally don't have the strength or mental capacity to deal with you right now.”

“But…”

“Don't want to hear it. And you better stay quiet so that your mother doesn't hear you. I already let you slide once before, but I'm not letting it happen again.”

With a defeated sigh, Maddox slowly climbed up the steps but was surprised to see you standing at the top with your arms crossed.

You had slipped on your robe after you decided that you wanted a snack as well but overheard Joe and your oldest. You had caught the tail end of the conversation, but you knew enough to know that he snuck out and you wanted answers immediately.

“So, where were you? You think you can come and go in and out of this house as you please?”

“Out.” Was all Maddox said and from that point on all you saw was red as he tried to move past you, but you moved to the left blocking him from going any further.

“Hmm, we aren't done here. Out where? And I'm not going to ask you again. Because you have absolutely no business sneaking in and out of my house at all times of the night. Last time I checked, you were only sixteen years old and nowhere near being an adult and you being irresponsible shows that.”

“I was out with my friends, so what is the big deal? It’s not like you ever let me do anything anyways.” He replied while shrugging. He was tired and at this point didn’t care if he got yelled at by you.

“Well that’s a bold face lie. If that was the case then you would never leave this house.”

“You are the main two people who taught me not to lie.”

After you let out a sarcastic laugh, Maddox spoke up again.

“You are always so strict and the only way I can usually get something is if I ask my dad who obviously doesn’t care that I snuck out last week since he has yet to ground me for it.”

At that exact moment, Joe appeared behind Maddox on the stairs with the water he promised you in his hand and his eyes went wide, indicating that he had heard him.

“Oh, is that true, Joseph?” You asked, ready to go toe to toe with your husband who would always try to avoid conflict at every turn.

“I.. umm… I still made him go to school?” Joe replied as if he was answering a question.

“Maddox, get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you later and I can promise that you are not going to like anything about this punishment that I’m going to give you seeing as your father can’t be responsible enough to do so and went behind my back to sweep this under the rug. You can start by handing over your keys.” You said as you held out your hand towards him.

“Dad?! You’re not going to say anything to her?”

“What do you want me to say, Maddox? Come to your rescue after you literally threw me under the bus for letting you slide last week and not receiving a punishment in return? Give your mother the keys, NOW.”

“I swear I hate living in this house.”

“Well it can be arranged for you to live somewhere else if you don’t want to abide by my rules. Rules are set in place for a reason and EVERYONE in this house needs to follow them, no exceptions.”

With a heavy sigh, he handed over his keys before dragging his feet towards his bedroom and closing the door. Once it was closed behind him, you turned back towards your husband to glare at him and snatched the glass of water from his hand.

“Baby…”

“No, absolutely NOT. He snuck out last week and you didn’t tell me?! Is that why he was so tired that morning and I had to wake him up for school?”

“I… look…”

“You are so lenient with them that it is honestly ridiculous. There is NO leniency, WE HAVE FOUR BOYS! Why do I always have to be considered the bad guy because their father doesn’t want to properly discipline them?! We have standards in this household that we abide by. I even have expectations for Hunter and he’s TWO.”

“Okay, hold on a minute. First, we need to go into our room and finish talking about this so the other three don’t wake up. Second, we were once teenagers too and we also know about peer pressure.” Joe tried to reason with you as the two of you walked back inside your bedroom.

“What does that even have to do with anything? Yeah, I was a teenager, but I also wasn’t stupid and taking advantage of my parents, either.”

“I honestly think that you are making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. He's 16 and can have a little more freedom, he's not a bad kid.”

“Joseph…. If our child sneaks out of this house in the middle of the night, who knows what he is getting into and I’m making a big deal because I want to keep him safe? Is that right?”

“Taking things away from him isn’t the answer, because more than likely he’s going to do it again. I’m trying to keep us from having to go in circles with this.”

“So what do you suggest since you obviously have all the answers?” You asked as you finally sat down on the bed and crossed your arms after you had placed your water on the nightstand.

“I am not trying to argue with you about this.”

“Too late. Shouldn’t have kept it from me. And did you honestly think that I wasn’t going to find out? Let’s be real, Maddox has a big ass mouth and can’t keep secrets for shit. Been that way forever. Actually, you know what…”

“What?”

“On second thought. You discipline him because it seems to always be me. If something else goes wrong, I’m not stepping in and he has to answer to you. Now goodnight.” You told him as you turned off the lamp next to you and slid underneath the covers.

“Wait, babe…”

“Goodnight, Joseph. And if you knew what was good for you, you would be quiet and let it go because I am done with this conversation.”

-

Maddox's heart rate was increasing by the second because of the situation he had now been thrown into.

And now he was honestly regretting not listening to his parents.

His best friends CJ and Travis had come to get him around midnight since you had taken his keys away from him a few weeks ago and he had yet to get them back. There was a party across town that he wanted to go to and since he couldn’t drive his car, they offered to come and get him to take him home once it was over.

When he noticed that CJ, the designated driver, was downing cup after cup of alcohol like it was water, he started to get nervous. Even if Maddox didn’t always listen to his parents, he knew how dangerous drunk driving could be and did not want to risk getting in a car with him if he could help it.

He could see the disappointed looks on both of your faces now.

Travis had gone off somewhere with some girl and Maddox knew that now he had absolutely no one to help him with CJ and trying to get him to sober up so that they could all go home. It was nearing close to 5 in the morning and he knew that you would be waking up soon.

When he had asked Maddox to get him another drink, he decided to switch his drink out for water and when he handed it back to him, he instantly got a sour look on his face after taking a sip.

“What the hell is this? Maddox, I didn’t ask for this shit.”

“I know you didn’t, but you had enough to drink tonight and there is no way that you are driving the three of us home until you get a little more sober.”

“And why the hell do you care all of a sudden? You have definitely been in the car with me before when I was a little buzzed.”

“Yeah, buzzed, not flat out fucking drunk. We wouldn’t even make it down the street until someone would be pulling us over.”

“Listen, man. You worry too much. It’s going to be fine. Travis is about to go home with that girl anyway so we don’t have to worry about him.”

“Only way I’m getting in a car with you is if you let me drive.”

“Hell no. That’s my mom’s new Escalade. If you scratch that shit it’ll be my ass.”

“Scratch it? Your ass will probably total it at this rate. CJ, just give me the keys.” Maddox pleaded with him but he was slowly running out of patience.

“No and I’m about to go and get me another drink.”

As he walked away all Maddox could do was shake his head and send a quick text to Travis to tell him to keep an eye on CJ and to make sure he didn’t drive anywhere.

Maddox- CJ is drunk out of his fucking mind. Just keep an eye on him because I’m leaving.

Travis- He’s always doing some dumb shit, but yeah I’ll make sure he’s good.

He took one last look over at CJ who was talking to Kevin, who was another player on the football team before he walked outside.

Grabbing his phone out of his pocket again, he took a deep breath before dialing your number knowing that you were probably going to kill him and would be grounded until he was 70 years old.

Joe wasn’t home since he had a few events to attend so you were his only option.

It took him calling you twice before you answered.

“Hello?” You groggily said and Maddox sighed before saying anything.

“Um, mom? Can you come and get me?”

Him asking that question immediately made you sit up in your bed and turn on the bedside lamp.

“Come and get you from where?” You asked as your heart was pounding with the worst possible scenarios running through your head.

“Uh… I’m in Greenwood….”

“MADDOX!”

“I know, I know that I’m in trouble and that I snuck out again and I’m sorry but CJ is really drunk and I’m not getting in a car with him behind the wheel. I have enough since to know not to do that.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm fine. I'm standing outside.”

“Just send me the address.” You calmly said since it literally took every ounce of you not to yell.

“Okay.”

After hanging up the phone, you quickly sighed before throwing the comforter off of your legs. Since Joe wasn’t here, it wasn’t like you could leave your other three boys here by themselves and go and get Maddox, especially when Greenwood was almost forty five minutes away.

Quickly brushing your teeth and throwing on some sweatpants, you got your boys up one by one and got them into the car as sleepy as they were. Two of them you had to carry and you considered that to be your workout of the day.

Once everyone was buckled in, including yourself, you quickly typed in the address on your phone to get to your oldest son as soon as possible.

The main thing that you were grateful for was that he wasn't hurt and was in one piece.

Pulling up to the address roughly forty five minutes later, you saw Maddox waiting outside and quickly unlocked the door.

He slid into the front seat and turned around to look in the backseat to see all three of his siblings knocked out cold and it dawned on him since his father wasn’t home that you would have to bring them.

“Mom?” Maddox said as you started to drive and turn onto the highway.

“Yes?” You quietly replied.

“Thank you for coming to get me and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time, Maddox.”

-

Sitting on the couch after you had been playing with your youngest and he had finally gone down for a nap, you heard the door open indicating that your husband had finally returned home.

When all of you were back in the house that morning, you had sent a quick text to Joe telling him what had happened after making sure all of your children were in their beds and accounted for.

It went unread for about ten minutes, but once Joe had finally seen it he was fuming. You could tell by the text bubble suddenly appearing and then disappearing. That was when he finally called you.

You explained to him in detail what had happened and he simply told you that he would handle it, that he loved you and that he would see you later.

Later had finally come and your oldest was about to be in for it.

Throwing his bags by the door, he came straight over to you as you had your arms wide open anticipating a hug.

He quickly embraced you and pulled you off of the couch in one swift motion and kissed you.

“Besides the oldest, did everyone behave themselves while I was gone?” He asked as he placed you back down on your feet.

“Everyone else was fine. No complaints. I was waiting for you to get back and order pizza because Hunter made a special request.”

“That’s fine. I just need to do something first.”

“And what's that?” You asked as you had sat back down on the couch.

“You'll see in a minute. MADDOX NOAH BURROW GET DOWN HERE, NOW!”

In all of the years that you had been married to him, you could probably count on one hand how many times that you had heard him yell. So, you were simply going to sit back and let him handle it.

Maddox was dragging his feet and it was no surprise. He was taken aback when the only thing you said when he got home was to head upstairs to his room.

That was this morning and he had been on edge for the entire day knowing that something else had to be coming. What he honestly didn't expect was you waiting until his father came home for his punishment to be handed down to him.

Once he reached downstairs, he walked into the living room to see you sitting on the couch and Joe with his arms crossed.

“It has come to my attention that you think sneaking out all times of the night is some type of game? And it seems like every time you do it, you end up being caught.”

“Dad, I can explain.”

“Strike one. In the thirty seconds that you've been down here, I didn't once ask you to speak.”

“But…”

“I'm being nice at the moment so don't make me go to strike two. Sit down.”

Maddox did as he was told and sat on the couch opposite of you as you scrolled through your phone, but was listening at the same time. You had absolutely no plans of intervening and would let Joe handle it as he said he would.

“I'm not letting you slide anymore with this. Your mother should have left your ass there to teach you a lesson since you think you're invincible and that nothing bad can happen to you. You had found your way there so you should have been able to find a way back. So, this is what we're going to do. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Maddox was honestly taken aback seeing that he had never seen his father get as mad as he was at this very moment.

“No car for two months added on to the month that I already told you about, you go to school and come straight home. I'm still debating on even allowing you to participate in any sports. Considering how I had an interesting phone call on Friday about how you're failing almost all of your classes and one more failing grade away from getting kicked off the team anyway and I also found weed in your car-”

“You smoke too, so what are you even saying?!” Maddox yelled quickly, cutting him off.

“What I'm saying is that I'M AN ADULT. And can do whatever I want considering this is MY house and I pay the bills. Interrupt me again and we're going to have a problem. You know what? Yeah, football is done, no car, can't go out with friends, and I don't think you need to go to prom with an attitude like that. And how about we get a part time job that you will start looking for TONIGHT after dinner. Only way you get there is if me or your mother takes you and picks you up. Step out of line again and we're selling your car.”

“Mom!?” Maddox said while looking at you. Before you could respond, Joe jumped in.

“No, don't look at her. You put her through enough. You're talking to me.”

“It's not even that serious.”

“Oh, not that serious? Drunk driving isn't serious? Disobeying your parents isn't serious?”

“Dad, that's not what I meant.”

“I don't think I care to hear any explanation of what you did mean. I said my piece and now give me your phone and every electronic device in your room. I am sick and tired of you acting out so we have to learn the hard way. Go upstairs and put everything in our room, NOW. Do you understand?”

As much as Maddox was fuming on the inside, he knew that he had brought it on himself and couldn't be mad at anyone else.

“Yes, sir.” He mumbled and Joe not being satisfied made him repeat it.

“What was that? Say it loud enough so that I can hear you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And apologize to your mother.”

“I already did when she came to get me.”

“Did I ask you all of that? You're already on thin ice with me so I suggest that you do what you're told. Apologize to your mother and don't make me ask you again.”

“I'm sorry mom. I promise that it won't happen again.” Maddox sincerely told you as he came over to hug you.

“I want to see you change your actions and that is the only way that I'm going to accept your apology.”

Maddox nodded towards you as Joe pointed him in the direction of the stairs.

“We'll call you when dinner is ready. In the meantime, you need to do your homework and I need to see it once you finish.”

Nodding his head towards your husband, Maddox started climbing the stairs. Once you heard his door close, you looked at your husband and smirked.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked as he sat down and slid you onto his lap.

“Oh, nothing.” You replied as you kissed the side of his mouth.

“Yes, something because you are literally giving me bedroom eyes. You missed me that much?”

“I just love when you get like that.”

“Like what? I'm not following, babe….”

“When you take charge like that and all I literally have to do is sit back and watch. Even more when you're inside me, but I take what I can get.”

“That can definitely be arranged for later.” Joe told you as he leaned down to kiss you.

“But question, what if he tries it again?”

“I changed the security system alarms from my phone before I walked in here. If he tries it, he'll wake up the entire house. I also have to apologize to you for not meeting you halfway with this. I honestly thought he wasn't going to take advantage.”

“I forgive you. It's not easy having a teenager and figuring out the best way to discipline them. We have to take it one day at a time.”

“Agreed. Just have to learn as we go.”

“But in the meantime, we have thirty minutes until the food gets here if you want to meet me upstairs.”

“Say less. I'll give you a head start.”