#and I found some notes for the next chapter where I’m like

[mcrdvcks]

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[jinglyjangly]

Howdy howdy!

I've written up the WIP first chapter for my fallout OCs. Calling it “Moon River” for now!

I just really want to write about them before the second season of the show before it ruins more lore. It's set a year before FNV in California… again still a wip, still working on more, still not super satisfied but I’m happy I got this much done tbh

When the sunlight begins to bleed into the horizon, everything in the Mojave shifts. That last stretch of dying light stains the sands a burnt orange as the distant mountains catch its highlight on every ridge. The heat that clings to your skin during the day suddenly retreats, replaced by a bone-deep chill that slips in through your clothes and sinks into your core. Dimitri knew that sensation all too well. He’d felt it a thousand times before, traveling the endless wasteland between Death Valley and the Colorado river. Out here, nothing cared about war, not even him.

He’d been scouting the junction where the 127 and 178 met, once a spot that once pulsed with life. Merchants, caravans, and wanderers all visited creating new livelihoods. Now, it lay buried beneath an unrelenting sandstorm, the air thick with grit and blinding white haze. It wrenched at something in his chest to see it reduced such violence so suddenly. No one even seemed to know how it happened, only vague myths and rumors. One day it was bustling, the next it was swallowed whole.

He relayed everything he saw to the nearest outpost, and was greeted instantly with new orders. The crumpled papers were handed off to him by a weary trooper. Her dust-caked face betrayed the exhaustion that hung on every soldier posted in these outer areas. It said something about a captured legionary prisoner having important intel. He noticed who sent it and realized exactly why he was the one who got it.

It had ended up taking him much longer than he expected to to get to Havasu. Every broken down outpost along the way seemed to tug at him, asking for one thing or another. Fix a busted generator, clear out a nest of bloatflies, find a missing kid — always something. One favor turns into two more, and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in nonsense you never meant to be part of. It's the wasteland method he both resented and relied upon, for as much as it delayed him, the caps jingling in his satchel proved it was worth it in the end.

The resort stood before him now, after what felt like an endless trek. The front doors creaked as he pushed them open, and a stale, musty scent of mildew and aging wood greeted him. Soldiers crowded around ancient terminals repurposed for military duty, their faces pale in the sickly green glow of monitors. The rapid clatter of keystrokes mingled with the steady echo of his footsteps on cracked tile, filling the dimly lit lobby as he made his way through. Faded murals of the pre-war paradise peeled from the walls, and forgotten lounge chairs lay rotting in a corner, making way for stacked crates of ammo, rifles, and armor. It felt like a graveyard of luxury, the bones of a fanciful life repurposed for the business of survival.

“Here’s the report.”

The voice snapped him out of the haze. A manila file filled with a stack of papers was shoved into his chest. Lieutenant Cruz. She looked even more tired than the last time he’d seen her — eyes shadowed, lines cutting deeper into her face. The war with the Legion wore on everyone, but some seemed to carry it heavier than others.

“Our prisoner is Legion, no doubt about it,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “He’s only said maybe two things since we found him passed out on the 95. Mostly screamed like hell when we treated his wounds.”

Dimitri thumbed through the packet. No name. No rank. Nothing but a few notes on his injuries and a location where they found him.

Dimitri paused for a second and huffed under his breath, “screaming isn't really words.”

“He eventually said words, alright? Figure of speech. And now you’re here to do your thing. Says he won’t tell us anything unless we cut him loose.”

“How would that work?”

“It doesn’t. It’s why you’re here.”

Dimitri grimaced. Interrogations weren’t his style. He could talk his way through most situations, but trying to pry answers from men too stubborn or too proud to break gets exhausting.

“I’m not going to tell you to be careful,” Cruz said, eyes narrowing. “But stay sharp. There’s something about this one. He’s… strange.”

Dimitri grinned. “What, got a crush on him?”

She snorted a short laugh. “No, you idiot. I just know you. You’re persuasive… but you can be persuaded. Get me anything on Blythe. Or the dam. Or hell, Caesar’s grocery list. Anything.”

He paused hearing the town, his grin fading, brow furrowing as a flicker of unease crept in. “Blythe? What’s going on there?”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Did you even read the brief?”

“I skimmed.”

“Goddamn Rangers…everyone of you are practically allergic to paperwork.” She shook her head and continued, “Blythe went dark a while ago. There were reports about random legion sightings, and then nothing. You were supposed to check it out before Mr. John Doe showed up.”

“Think he’s connected?”

“No idea. That’s why you’re here. He’s in the cell down the hallway.”

“You’re not—”

“I’ve got shit to do. Good luck.” She clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, handing him the key and disappeared down the hall.

Dimitri lingered a moment, a knot of unease coiling in his gut. Blythe being silent was bad. The faster he wrapped this up, the faster he could see what waited for him downriver.

He walked up to the door and nodded to the soldier guarding, opening the door with the key she gave him. The “cell” wasn’t so much a cell as it was a repurposed laundry room. Broken washing machines lined the walls like rusted tombs. Snapped ironing boards and piles of rotted linens cluttered the space. A single figure sat among the debris facing away from the door, handcuffed to a dented folding chair beneath a flickering overhead bulb.

Dimitri frowned. The prisoner didn’t fit the usual mold of a hulking brute in Legion armor. He was slender, tall, with unkempt black hair and a scattering of old scars across sun-worn skin. The tattered scraps of clothes baring red barely clung to him, and fresh blood darkened the bandages around his midsection. And then there was the bull, branded into the back of his neck.

He poked his head back out the door, “This is the guy she wants me to ��interrogate’?”

The guard shrugged. “Only Legionary here.”

“He’s not… the usual-”

“Is there a problem?”

Dimitri clenched his jaw. “No.”

He stepped inside, locking the door behind him. The man stared at him with unsettling clarity, pale eyes glinting in the dim light. Dimitri sat opposite, the sun’s last light slashing through the grimy window and reflecting off a dented metal table, forcing him to squint.

“Not the typical interrogee,” he muttered, flipping open the file, clicking his pen. “Name's Dimitri. Do you have a name? Or do I have to call you John? You really don’t look like a John. Johnny maybe, or JJ. Jr?”

He got a dismissive eye-roll in response.

“I should be guessing Roman names, huh? Although I don’t know a whole lot. How about…Alexius. That sounds cool.”

“That's Greek.”

“Is there a difference?”

That made him turn his head, and Dimitri greeted him with a smug look at the break in the prisoner’s silence. The voice did catch him off guard, low and crisp. He leaned back from the glare of the window, idly tapping the pen against his jaw, a thoughtful glint in his eye. Cruz was right about him being a bit strange. He noticed a shift in the prisoner's jaw as he went back to looking at the clock on the wall. 

He sighed and realized this wasn’t going to go very far. Dimitri tilted his head and looked at the same broken clock on the wall. 9:47 like every other single one. Why doesn’t anyone ever fix them? He opted to look at his watch. 17:02. He doesn’t really have the time to keep doing this if what Cruz said was true.

“Look, since you’re not talking, I’m left guessing. So, I'm guessing you have no rank either by exile or by choice, so you have no allegiance. Here, right now, you're a prisoner, but you're safe. If I'm right, that means if the legion does find you, you're worse than dead. If you’ve got something useful, now’s the time. Talk, and maybe things get a little easier for you. Cruz said you wanted free, but you have to talk first.” 

He stayed perfectly still, though his gaze slid back to Dimitri’s with the slow, deliberate weight of sizing him up.

“I have nothing.”

Dimitri stared into the man’s pale eyes and saw nothing but an unbroken calm. No fear. No desperation. He sighed, closing the file. Whether he did know anything or not, there was no point in wasting time. Dimitri pulled back and got out of the chair.

“Alrighty. Thank you for your participation.”

He left the room, the soft scrape of the door dragging against the warped tile floor, and locked it behind him with a metallic click. The key felt heavy in his hand as he passed it off to the guard. Without a word, he turned and made his way down the dim hallway, each step echoing alongside the steady chorus of keystrokes from the command post terminals. The combined rhythm of hurried typing and his bootfalls filled the air, a sharp, hollow percussion against the crumbling rafters of the old resort.

The kitchen sat at the furthest end of the hall, repurposed tables cluttered with ration tins and dented canteens. A few soldiers loitered there, faces drawn and weary, savoring the illusion of rest. The stale scent of scorched mirelurk meat hung thick in the air, mingling with acrid wisps of cigarette smoke. Dimitri’s stomach gnawed at him, a sharp reminder that if he was going to cover ninety miles of wasteland, it wouldn’t be on an empty gut.

He sat down to a plate of half-burnt potatoes and stringy mirelurk tail, barely tasting the briny, overcooked flesh as his mind churned. Lying to Cruz would be easy, a simple mercy for everyone involved. Blythe was likely already ash, overrun by Legion, and this entire interrogation had been a pointless inconvenience. Confirm her fears, get a handful of troopers, maybe a truck or jeep, and the mystery man gets buried in paperwork and eventually let go. The Legion mark was the only thing keeping him here, and if Dimitri spun this right, he might wrangle something better than a rusted seat at NCRCF.

The clatter of dishes and dull murmur of conversation broke suddenly as Cruz stormed into the room, her palm slamming against the table hard enough to rattle his plate.

“Did you lock the fucking door?”

Dimitri blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Uh… yeah?”

“Well, he’s gone.”

He frowned, glancing down the hall as if he might see the escapee lurking in the shadows. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

“I know that, smartass. Just—ugh!” She spun on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. Dimitri let out a long sigh, abandoned his plate, and stacked his dishes onto the cart with a dull clatter.

The hallway felt colder now, an undercurrent of tension tightening around him. He double-checked his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the utility room. The door hung ajar, the dim overhead bulb throwing a wedge of light across the cracked tile. The cuffs lay discarded on the floor, dull against the grime. Cruz was already inside, pacing in a tight line, gnawing at the edge of her thumb.

“It’s like he vanished,” she muttered. “And so did my soldier.”

Dimitri’s eyes swept the room, past rusted washing machines and sagging shelves. One of the larger machines had its door slightly ajar. He approached, dread creeping up his spine, and tugged it open to reveal the missing trooper crammed inside, stripped of his uniform, with a bruise forming on his head and unconscious.

“Shit—”

He pressed two fingers to the kid’s throat. The pulse was weak, but there. Dimitri exhaled in relief, pulling the soldier free from the cramped metal drum.

“Oh god—”

“Relax,” Dimitri grunted, laying the kid down gently and turning him on his side. “He’ll wake up with a killer headache, but he’ll be fine.”

A deep rumble rolled through the air, the distant sound of an explosion blooming somewhere beyond the walls. Dust sifted from the rafters. Cruz and Dimitri locked eyes.

“Go,” she ordered. “I’ve got him.”

Dimitri bolted, boots pounding against tile and wood, the sharp echo of each step chasing him down the dim hallway. The night air hit him like a slap as he burst onto the porch, dry and cool, carrying the bitter scent of gunpowder and burning wood. The beach was in chaos—troopers shouting over one another, scrambling for weapons, smoke curling skyward from a fresh crater near the supply dump. But out on the docks, one figure moved with eerie calm. A tall man in a trooper’s helmet and mask, no armor, just a standard-issue uniform. That alone made Dimitri’s interest pique. The cool night air carried the harsh, acrid scent of scorched timber from the explosion and diesel fumes wafting from the nearby motorboat, thick and bitter as it filled his lungs.

Without hesitation, he snatched his helmet from his pack, jamming it onto his head as he crept through the shadows, keeping low. Waves slapped lazily against the pilings, a grim, steady heartbeat against the wood. The muffled crunch of his footsteps on sand mingled with the ghostly echo of his own breathing inside the helmet, every sense sharpened by adrenaline.

As Dimitri reached the end of the dock, words failed him. No clever speech, no rehearsed demand. Just raw instinct.

“You really don’t need to do this.”

The figure froze mid-motion, halfway through tossing a canvas bag into the boat, and turned to glare at him. That same cold, calculating stare from earlier. Dimitri’s fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

In a flicker of motion, a small butter knife whirled through the dark, catching a glint of moonlight before striking Dimitri’s chest with a dull, metallic thunk, deflecting off his armor. He grunted, instinctively recoiling — and in that heartbeat, the man surged forward. A boot swept his legs out from under him, and Dimitri hit the planks hard, the rotting dock shuddering beneath his back.

The figure was on him instantly, wrenching his pistol free with a swift, practiced jerk. The butt of the weapon cracked hard against the side of Dimitri’s head, a flash of light bursting behind his eyes. Dazed but fueled by sheer stubbornness, Dimitri lashed out, driving his fist into the man’s gut. He felt the impact in his knuckles, hearing a grunt.

He twisted, grappling for control, and managed to knock the pistol loose, sending it skittering across the dock. Gritting his teeth, Dimitri shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, straining to flip him. As he tried to pin the other wrist down, he could feel a hand reach around his back. A sudden, hot sting bloomed in his thigh — a knife, buried deep. He screamed in protest, and his grip faltered.

He then felt a force to his chest as he was kicked back onto the boards. He hissed in pain, eyes darting to the gash on his leg where blood welled up, dark and thick in the dim light. He propped himself up on his elbow. It was deep, but didn’t hit any major arteries. He gritted his teeth , clutching the wound. He wasn’t winded, but close combat had never been his strength.

Across from him, the man had retrieved his bowie knife and now toyed with it, flipping it idly in one hand testing its balance on his finger. That smug, practiced arrogance in his stance made Dimitri’s blood boil.

“Are you afraid to die?” The sound of his voice made him pause again.

“No," Dimitri snarled, forcing himself up on his feet.

“No?” the man echoed, his head cocking in faint amusement.

“Because I know I won’t.”

The knife’s tip lifted, beckoning. “Then take off the armor.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. He was done playing games. “No.”

The man’s expression darkened. Without warning, he bolted for the boat. Dimitri lunged after him, but the other man was quicker, ducking low and driving an elbow hard into the back of Dimitri’s neck. His balance crumbled. A forearm clamped around his throat, powerful legs kicking out his knees. The dock blurred around him as the world lurched sideways.

He fought the hold, hands clawing at the arm crushing his windpipe. Darkness gnawed at the edges of his vision, his ears filling with the roaring rush of his own pulse. Desperate, he twisted, but the strength drained from his limbs.

Then everything slipped away.

Dimitri came to with a sharp, throbbing ache behind his eyes. The world was hazy, shapes and colors bleeding into one another until the full moon cut through the clouds. Blurred moonlight smeared across the river’s surface, turning the water into rippling glass. His head pounded with every heartbeat, his leg ached, and his throat felt raw where the man’s forearm had crushed it.

He groaned, pushing himself upright. Sand clung to his bloodied hands and the back of his neck, and sharp splinters bit into his palm from the dock’s weathered boards. Around him, the beach had settled into an uneasy quiet. Smoke still drifted in thin, lazy plumes as lights flickered on as the night settled in. 

At least no one was around to witness him sprawled in the dirt like a rookie.

He limped back toward the resort, each step sending a hot lance of pain through his thigh. He found Cruz outside the infirmary shack, leaning against the battered frame of the door, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. The soldier from earlier lay on a cot inside, pale and glassy-eyed, an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his temple. Another patient was curled on a second cot, groaning softly.

“Injury from the blast?” Dimitri rasped, voice rough from the chokehold.

Cruz didn’t look up. “Nope. Food poisoning. Bad mirelurk. The explosion was a goddamn dumpster. Distraction.”

Dimitri scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah… he took the boat.”

Cruz sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Damn it. That was our only one. Mead’s got the rest.”

“Why?”

“Recon runs. Repairs. Supply hauls. Take your pick.” She flicked the spent cigarette into the dirt and fished another from her pocket. The lighter’s flare briefly lit the wear on her face—new lines, old exhaustion.

Dimitri glanced upriver. “I guess that means I’m walking.”

“Sure as hell does,” Cruz muttered through a drag. “No jeeps, no trucks, no soldiers to spare. You’ll have to hoof it to Blythe the old-fashioned way. And pick up the pace while you’re at it. Feels like a timer’s running out for that place, if it’s not already gone.”

Dimitri grimaced, jaw tight. He could feel it too. A creeping weight in his gut and he murmured, “yeah… At least you still have soldiers.”

“I doubt he went upriver,” Cruz went on. “If you move fast, you might even catch him.”

Dimitri arched his brow. “You want your boat back?”

“You gonna carry it?”

He smirked despite himself. “What about your prisoner?”

She snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “You gonna carry him too?” A thin smile ghosted across her face. “I don’t need any more Legion bastards hanging around. If he didn’t give you anything useful, let the river take him. Boat’s worth more to Blythe.”

Dimitri gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Before he could brace, Cruz whipped a stimpack from her belt and jammed it into his thigh.

“Shit! Little warning next time.”

“Baby.”

Dimitri grunted, adjusting his pack as the sting dulled to a lingering heat. The desert night unspooled before him, cold and endless, the low murmur of the river threading through the hush. He set out along the bank, his boots scuffing over cracked stone and brittle earth. Somewhere out there, the current carried both a stolen boat and unfinished business.

[jamiesfootball]

Yeah sorry I can’t work today. Why? The bloodlust, you understand. The violence. It compels me

[theetherealbloom]

Don't Stop Talking To Me, And Maybe Stay Here Forever

Summary: You join Pedro Pascal in Morocco while he’s filming Gladiator 2. Between the beauty of the Moroccan landscape, the two of you share intimate moments, from quiet rooftop dinners to playful photo-taking and teasing with the cast.

Or… “I'll hold you, I'll know you. I'll never leave out the back door. And I'd love to complete you, hope you get all you could ask for.”

I just read your latest pedro fic it was the BEST DAMN THING i’ve ever read, my heart is going to burst out of my chest from all the butterflies 🦋🫠❤️ will you write more for pedro? perhaps his gf could visit him in marocco or something while he’s filming gladiator and to meet everyone from set and maybe have some alone quality time? :3 just a suggestion 😌 anyways have a lovely dayyy ^^ — anon

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, Age-Gap(ish), TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Cuddling, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Social Media, Embarrassment, Teasing, Shower, Slight Nudity, Make Out Session, Celebrities

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Okay, so, we’ve all seen the photo dumps!??!! Yes! GREAT! I haven’t watched Gladiator 2 cause it isn’t out yet in my country, so there’ll be no spoilers here mhmhmhmhm. I’m just gonna make stuff up based on the pictures Pedro posted on his Instagram lol. And again, this is all made-up, fictional, self-indulgent vibes so pls no one come after me ahhhhhh T^T

Also lowkey, I can see multiple parts to this so… stay tuned.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Songs: Packing It Up by Gracie Abrams, this is how you fall in love by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler

gif by @a7estrellas

→ Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — DAY

The warm Moroccan breeze kissed your skin as you stepped onto the bustling set of Gladiator 2. Pedro’s laughter echoed from somewhere nearby, his distinct voice easy to pick out over the hum of activity. Your heart swelled just hearing it. He was always magnetic, but here—working, immersed in a world of creativity and camaraderie—he was luminous.  

You adjusted your sunglasses, feeling both excited and slightly anxious. Meeting Pedro’s castmates felt like stepping into his other life, one where you weren’t the center of his world but a welcome visitor orbiting it. He’d reassured you endlessly. “They’ll love you. I mean, how could they not?” But still, nerves lingered.  

“Mi amor!” Pedro’s voice cut through your thoughts. He emerged from behind a cluster of tents, his smile so wide it could eclipse the Moroccan sun.  

“Hey, stranger.” You grinned, letting him sweep you into a tight hug.  

He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his arms still firmly around your waist. “You made it,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple.  

“Of course, I made it,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him. “I missed you too much to stay away.”  

The day unfolded in bursts of joy.  

Pedro introduced you to Coco Ullrich, Paul Mescal, and the rest of the cast. Everyone was warm and welcoming, their teasing camaraderie quickly drawing you in. Pedro stayed close, his hand finding yours at every opportunity, like he couldn’t stand to be too far away.  

Later, you found yourself perched on a stool in the makeup trailer, Pedro sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you. “Hold still,” you said, trying to fix his disheveled hair.  

Coco stood nearby, laughing as Pedro playfully swatted at your hands. “I’m serious, guapo! You’ll go out there looking like you just rolled out of bed.”  

“Maybe I did roll out of bed,” he quipped, grinning.  

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t, but if you keep squirming, I’m going to make sure you look like it.”  

Coco shook her head, still laughing. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”  

“I have my ways,” you said, giving Pedro a mock glare.  

Pedro leaned closer, his eyes softening. “You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before you could stop him.  

“Pedro!” you protested, laughing as he pulled you into a full kiss, distracting you from your task.  

“Hopeless,” Coco muttered, snapping a quick photo of the moment.  

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — SUNSET

The Moroccan sunset painted the sky in hues of gold and rose as you, Pedro, and the cast settled onto the soft blankets laid out for an impromptu picnic. The sprawling desert seemed to stretch infinitely, its serene stillness a striking contrast to the chaotic energy of the set. A light breeze rustled through the palm trees in the distance, carrying the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Pedro sat behind you, his arms comfortably wrapped around your waist as you leaned back into his chest. His fingertips absentmindedly traced small, lazy circles on your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. It was a touch that grounded you, soothing and sweet, and yet it made your heart ache with affection.

“This is perfect,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might shatter the fragile beauty of the moment.

Pedro leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “No, you’re perfect,” he said softly, his voice laced with adoration.

You turned your head to look at him, catching the warmth in his gaze. He looked at you like you hung the very stars above, and your cheeks flushed. “Cheesy,” you teased, though you couldn’t keep the smile off your face.

“Honest,” he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His nose nudged yours affectionately, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Paul Mescal, lounging nearby with a bottle of something cold in his hand, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, can you save the smoldering for the cameras? Some of us are trying to enjoy the sunset without third-wheeling your Notebook audition.”

Coco Ullrich snorted from her spot on the blanket, where she was busy assembling a makeshift charcuterie board. “Please, Paul, don’t act like you’re not taking notes for your own love scenes.”

Paul shot her a deadpan look. “What’s there to take notes on? I’m already perfect.”

“Debatable,” Coco quipped, popping a grape into her mouth and grinning.  

Pedro chuckled, his chest rumbling against your back. “Paul, don’t be jealous. You already found someone who tolerates you.”  

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Paul said, gesturing between you and Pedro. “I’m inspired. The level of clinginess you two have achieved—it’s an art form.”  

“Clinginess?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yes, clinginess,” Paul said, smirking. “He hasn’t let go of you since you got here. It’s like watching a koala in human form.”

Coco leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you think he’d survive a day without her?”  

“Doubtful,” Paul replied, his tone grave.  

Pedro shook his head, his arms tightening around you playfully. “Let them joke,” he said into your ear, his voice a low murmur. “They’re just bitter they don’t have their partners to hold them while they complain about the heat.”  

You turned your head slightly to whisper back, “I think they’re projecting.”  

Pedro laughed, loud and unabashed, and the sound sent warmth flooding through you.  

“Alright, enough roasting Pedro,” Coco said, waving her hands. “Let’s focus on the important stuff—like this cheese board I’m absolutely nailing.”

“Coco, you put a block of cheese next to some crackers,” Paul pointed out.  

“And yet, it’s still better than anything you’ve contributed,” she shot back.

You couldn’t help but laugh as they continued to bicker, the dynamic between the cast a perfect blend of teasing and genuine affection. It felt good to be a part of this world for a little while, to see Pedro in his element and to share these small, beautiful moments with the people who meant so much to him.  

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with deeper hues of crimson and violet, Pedro shifted slightly behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You doing okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his voice meant just for you.

“I’m better than okay,” you said, turning your face to his. “This is one of those moments I’ll never forget.”

“Same,” he replied, his eyes searching yours. “But mostly because you’re here.”

Paul groaned from across the blanket. “Seriously, someone hand me a bucket. I can’t handle this level of sap.”

“You’re just missing Gracie,” Coco teased, tossing a cracker at Paul with a sly grin.  

Paul caught it mid-air with a dramatic flourish. “She’s the love of my life, thank you very much. I’m thriving, just long-distance thriving.” His wide smile softened slightly, a dreamy look crossing his face.  

Pedro chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder as he held you closer. “See, even Paul can be romantic. It’s not just us being disgustingly in love.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, waving him off, though the grin never left his face. “But you two are setting the bar impossibly high. Stop making the rest of us look bad.”

Coco shook her head with mock exasperation. “Let’s face it, no one can compete with Pedro’s clingy koala act.”  

“Hey, it’s not clingy if it’s mutual,” you chimed in, leaning back into Pedro’s embrace.  

“Exactly!” Pedro said, kissing the side of your neck for emphasis. “This is just... efficient affection.”  

“Efficient affection?” Coco repeated, laughing so hard she nearly knocked over the cheese board. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Pedro shrugged, utterly unbothered, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured, “Don’t let them ruin this for us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whispered back, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his jaw.  

The first stars began to dot the darkening sky, their glow faint but steady against the fading hues of gold and rose. The laughter of the group blended with the soothing whisper of the desert breeze, wrapping the evening in a cocoon of warmth and love.

You let out a contented sigh, your fingers intertwining with Pedro’s. These moments—filled with jokes, tenderness, and the quiet magic of a Moroccan sunset—were the kind you knew you’d carry with you forever.

THE NEXT DAY

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – AFTERNOON  

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting warm golden light over the sprawling desert set. The faint hum of activity outside the large tent provided a calming backdrop as you and Pedro sat together, stealing a moment away from the chaos of production.  

Pedro’s lap had become your designated resting place, his arms wrapped snugly around your waist as you leaned into him. You had been quietly chatting about the day—how stunning the desert looked on camera, how Paul had stolen one of Coco’s snacks during a break—when the warmth of the afternoon began to lull you both into sleep.  

His hand moved lazily up and down your back, the motion soothing as his voice grew quieter, more relaxed. “You know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”  

“Falling asleep during work?” you teased, your voice soft and playful.  

“Falling asleep with you,” he corrected, his smile audible in his words.  

It wasn’t long before exhaustion claimed you both, your head tucked under his chin and his cheek resting against your hair. The quiet hum of the tent became a comforting cocoon, and time seemed to stretch and blur.  

The sound of muffled laughter stirred you from sleep, pulling you out of the warm haze. You blinked against the light, realizing you were still tucked into Pedro’s chest, his arms holding you close even as he began to wake.  

“Don’t move,” a familiar voice called. You turned your head to see Paul Mescal standing a few feet away, phone in hand, his grin wide and mischievous.  

Next to him, Coco Ullrich smirked as she aimed her phone at the two of you. “We’re documenting history here. You’ll thank us later.”  

Pedro stirred, squinting at them through his grogginess. “Seriously?” His voice was raspy, a mix of sleep and disbelief.  

Paul shrugged, grinning even wider as he showed Pedro the photo. “We couldn’t resist. Look at this. It’s like a promo poster for the most annoyingly sweet rom-com ever.”  

Pedro glanced at the photo, then at you, and laughed softly. “We should use that for the holiday cards this year.”  

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “This is so embarrassing. They’re never going to let us live this down.”  

Coco laughed, flipping through her photos. “Oh, it’s way too late for that. I’m sending this to the group chat and the PR team. They’ll love it.”  

“Please don’t,” you pleaded, your voice muffled against Pedro’s shirt.  

Paul tilted his head dramatically. “Why not? It’s just a little fun. Besides, you two are giving us all cavities with how sweet you are. We’re suffering.”  

Pedro smirked, holding you a little tighter. “You’re suffering? Sounds like a personal problem.”  

“Alright, alright, enough!” A gravelly voice interrupted, and you looked up to see Ridley Scott standing at the edge of the tent. His hands were on his hips, but the amused twinkle in his eye gave him away.  

“Ridley,” you started, your cheeks flushing with heat. “I’m so sorry—”  

He held up a hand to stop you, his smirk growing. “Don’t apologize. If anything, I should thank you. Pedro’s been suspiciously well-behaved since you arrived. But,” he added with a pointed glance at Pedro, “if this keeps up, we’ll have to rename the film The Gladiator and the Muse. Production’s going to take twice as long.”  

The crew burst into laughter, and you buried your face back in Pedro’s chest, groaning. “This is officially the most embarrassing moment of my life.”  

Pedro chuckled, his hand brushing gently over your back. “Embarrassing? Nah. You’re the best thing about being here.”  

You peeked up at him, your cheeks still warm, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. “You mean that?”  

“Every word,” he said, his voice soft. “You make everything easier, better… you make it all worth it.”  

Your heart swelled, and a small smile broke through your embarrassment. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try to believe you.”  

“Believe me,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.  

Paul groaned, breaking the tender moment. “Someone get a camera crew. We’re turning this into a reality show. Lovebirds in the Desert.”  

Pedro laughed, finally standing and pulling you to your feet. “Careful, Paul. You might not survive the sequel.”  

Ridley clapped his hands, his voice carrying over the lingering laughter. “Alright, lovebirds, enough stalling. Let’s get back to work! Pedro, we’ve got a fight scene to shoot.”  

Pedro gave you one last reassuring smile before winking. “Don’t go far. I’ll need more luck soon.”  

You nodded, watching him head back to set, and felt a sense of warmth that no amount of teasing could dampen. As you stepped out of the tent, the desert sun shining overhead, you knew this moment—this strange, beautiful mix of chaos and love—was one you’d carry with you forever.

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – EVENING  

The rooftop restaurant was like something out of a dream. Lanterns hung delicately from wrought iron fixtures, casting warm, flickering light over the table as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was cool but pleasant, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from a nearby garden. Below, the city of Marrakech stretched out in an intricate maze of rooftops and twinkling lights, the hum of life soft and distant.  

Pedro had arranged everything, from the secluded corner table to the small vase of your favorite flowers waiting when you arrived. He always had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like magic.  

“Look at this view,” you murmured, leaning against the wrought iron railing as the sky turned from gold to a deep, dusky pink.  

Pedro stood close behind you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. “The view’s got nothing on you,” he said softly, the teasing lilt in his voice balanced by the sincerity in his eyes.  

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned to face him. “That’s a terrible line.”  

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning as he pulled out his phone. “But it’s true. Hold still.”  

Before you could protest, he snapped a photo, catching you mid-laugh as you tried to dodge the camera. “Pedro!” you groaned, your cheeks warming.  

He chuckled, looking at the photo with a self-satisfied smile. “Perfect. Might frame this one.”  

“Stop it,” you said, trying to grab the phone from him, but he held it out of reach, his grin only widening.  

“Never,” he replied, his free hand reaching across the table to take yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and his gaze softened. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it—no teasing this time, just quiet, earnest affection.  

“Now you’re just being unfair,” you muttered, trying to hide your blush.  

Pedro leaned forward, his head tilting slightly as if to study you closer. “Not unfair. Just honest.”  

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was pounding. In a bid to regain some ground, you grabbed your own phone and quickly snapped a picture of him just as he brought your hand to his lips. The resulting photo was unfairly good—his lashes long, the lantern light catching the gold in his eyes, the softness in his expression making your chest ache.  

“Got you,” you said triumphantly, holding up the phone.  

Pedro laughed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again as he met your gaze. “Now we’re even?”  

“Now we’re even,” you confirmed, though your grin gave away how smug you felt.  

The waiter arrived with dessert just then—a delicate plate of Moroccan pastries accompanied by a small bowl of honey and almonds. You both leaned forward at the same time, reaching for the same pastry, and burst into laughter when your fingers brushed.  

“Go ahead,” Pedro said, gesturing gallantly.  

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, breaking off a piece of the pastry and dipping it into the honey. You held it up to his lips, your pulse skipping when he leaned in without hesitation.  

“Delicious,” he said, his voice low and warm. “But I think it tastes better coming from you.”  

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to suppress a smile as you took a bite yourself. The flaky pastry melted on your tongue, its sweetness perfectly balanced by the honey.  

As you shared the dessert, your conversation drifted from playful teasing to the little things that filled your days. Pedro told you about a funny moment on set earlier when Paul had forgotten his lines and improvised something so absurd even Ridley couldn’t stop laughing.  

“And then,” Pedro continued, his grin infectious, “he tried to blame me, saying my face was too distracting.”  

“Well, he’s not wrong,” you teased, earning a dramatic roll of Pedro’s eyes.  

“Oh, so now you’re on his side?”  

“I’m on the side of the truth,” you said, popping an almond into your mouth.  

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

Your smile softened, and you leaned your chin on your hand as you looked at him. “Probably still charming everyone who crosses your path.”  

“Not like this,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. He reached across the table again, his fingers lacing with yours. “You make everything better. You make me better.”  

Your throat tightened at the rawness in his voice, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, his words settling deep in your chest.  

“You do the same for me,” you said quietly.  

The soft music playing in the background faded into the hum of the city as the two of you sat there, the world narrowing to just this moment. Pedro brought your hand to his lips again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before resting your joined hands on the table.  

As the night stretched on, the two of you continued to talk about everything and nothing—your favorite childhood memories, the places you wanted to visit together, the little quirks you loved about each other.  

When it was time to leave, Pedro stood and extended a hand to help you up. “One last picture before we go?” he asked, his phone already in hand.  

You nodded, letting him pull you into his side. The lanterns glowed softly behind you as he kissed your cheek just as the camera clicked.  

Looking at the photo, you smiled. It was perfect—just like this night, just like him. 

L’HÔTEL MARRAKECH, MOROCCO – EVENING

The golden hues of the evening sun had long faded, leaving the hotel suite illuminated only by the soft glow of warm, ambient lighting. Laughter filled the room, bubbling up between stolen glances and playful teasing. Pedro leaned against the edge of the plush sofa, his hand resting casually on his hip as you doubled over with giggles at another one of his overly dramatic impressions. 

“I’m just saying,” he said with a grin, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “If anyone here is getting an Oscar for Most Entertaining Human, it’s me.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting at him lightly. “You? Entertaining? Please. You’re just lucky I think you’re cute.”

“Just cute?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, mock-hurt murmur. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “That’s disappointing.”

And just like that, with no warning, he took your hand and spun you gently into his arms. There was no music, no sound but the faint rustle of the curtains and the muted hum of life outside your window. But to Pedro, there was no need for anything more. 

“Dance with me,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, pulling you flush against him.

“Pedro,” you started to protest, but the way he was looking at you—so earnest, so unguarded—stole the words from your lips. He rested his forehead against yours, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid to let go. 

“You are the reason I can breathe,” he murmured. His voice cracked slightly, raw and unfiltered. “The reason I can survive.”

Your chest tightened, and your hands gripped the soft cotton of his shirt as you closed your eyes. Slowly, the two of you began to sway, side to side, as if the universe itself had orchestrated this silent melody just for you.

“Pedro,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill as the weight of his words sank deep into your soul. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh.” He cut you off gently, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “I want to. You’re my safe place.”

Together, you moved as one, the world outside forgotten. The phones were switched off, the curtains drawn, and for a moment, it felt like time had ceased to exist. All that mattered was this—his arms around you, your head resting on his chest, and the way his heartbeat felt steady and strong beneath your cheek.

“What’s easy is right,” you whispered suddenly, echoing words your mother had once said. The truth of it struck you in that moment, how being with Pedro never felt like a choice—it was instinct. Like breathing. Like coming home. 

Pedro smiled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “What’s easy is right,” he repeated softly. “Then I guess it’s easy to know... I’m going to love you forever.”

You laughed softly, though the lump in your throat made it difficult. “Forever’s a long time.”

He tilted your chin up, his warm, brown eyes crinkling at the corners with a quiet joy. “Not nearly long enough,” he said, his voice a low promise. “You’ll be my best friend until we’re old and gray. And even then, I’ll still love you.”

There was something in the way he said it—so simple, so sure—that your knees nearly gave out. But as always, Pedro was there, holding you steady, keeping you close. 

This is how you fall in love, you realized. Not in a blaze of fireworks, but in the quiet moments where you let go and they hold you up. 

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” Pedro said after a long silence, his voice filled with wonder. “You make my stomach ache with hope. You make my hands stop shaking. I wake up smiling now, and it’s because of you.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his chest. “Pedro…”

“No, listen to me,” he insisted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Love isn’t supposed to be heavy. It’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to be this. Us. A safe place. A hand to hold through every storm.”

His words broke something open inside you, and you nodded, letting the tears spill over. “You’re my safe place too,” you whispered. “You make me believe I deserve this.”

Pedro pulled you closer, resting his chin on the top of your head as he swayed you gently. “You deserve everything,” he murmured. “Every laugh, every sunrise, every stupid little joke I’ll tell for the next fifty years.”

You both laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the room. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this moment—this love that was soft, steady, and unshakable.

Right from your hips to your cuticles, you were everything to him, and he was everything to you. Wherever you both went, it was heaven. And neither of you ever wanted to leave. 

Steam filled the bathroom, the warmth clinging to the mirrors and wrapping around the two of you like a soft cocoon. Pedro stood under the cascade of water, droplets running down his broad shoulders and soaking his messy curls. His eyes flicked toward you, a tender smile tugging at his lips as you stepped closer, your fingers gently reaching for the shampoo bottle.  

“Turn around,” you said softly, motioning for him to face away from you.  

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, though there was a hint of shyness in his voice as he obeyed.  

You lathered the shampoo between your hands, your touch careful and affectionate as you worked it into his hair. His curls were soft and damp beneath your fingers, the grays glinting like silver in the dim light.  

“I love your hair,” you murmured, your voice reverent.  

Pedro let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, tilting his head back slightly. “The gray makes me look old.”  

You paused, your hands stilling in his hair as you leaned around to catch his gaze. “Stop that. It doesn’t make you look old; it makes you look distinguished. And I happen to love every single one of these.” You tugged playfully at a curl for emphasis.  

He gave you a sheepish look, his lips twitching as he fought back a pout. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck with me.”  

“Stuck with you?” you repeated, feigning outrage. “Oh, no, Pedro. I chose you—gray hair and all. And I’d choose you again. Every single day.”  

His pout softened into a smile, one so genuine it made your chest ache. “You’re too good to me,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple.  

“And you deserve it,” you countered firmly, finishing his hair with a rinse.  

When it was your turn, Pedro insisted on returning the favor, his hands gentle as he massaged the conditioner into your hair. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck as he marveled at you.  

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with sincerity.  

“Even covered in soap?” you teased, feeling heat creep up your cheeks.  

“Especially covered in soap,” he replied, leaning down to steal a kiss.  

The shower ended with a flurry of soft laughter and playful splashes, the two of you wrapped in towels as you padded into the bedroom. Pedro pulled on a pair of boxers while you slipped into one of his oversized shirts, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.  

The two of you slipped into bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden light over the room. The air smelled faintly of the lavender lotion you’d rubbed on your hands, mingling with the subtle hint of Pedro’s cologne that still lingered on his skin. He had one arm draped lazily over your waist, his other hand holding a book he’d claimed to be interested in, though his wandering eyes betrayed him.

A book rested in your lap, too, but you’d long given up on reading. Instead, you could feel his gaze flickering to you, watching you more than the words on his page. It was endearing, the way he thought you wouldn’t notice, how he never grew tired of studying you like he’d never quite figure you out.  

“You’re not reading,” you finally accused, peeking at him over the edge of your book.  

Pedro grinned, unabashed. He set his book down on the nightstand and scooted closer, leaning his head on the pillow beside you. “Can you blame me?” he said, his voice soft and teasing. His hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek. “I’ve got the most beautiful view right here.”  

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight the warmth rising in your cheeks, but the smile that stretched across your lips betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, nudging him lightly with your elbow.  

“And yet, you love me,” he replied with mock arrogance, leaning back against the headboard with a self-satisfied smirk.  

“Unfortunately for me,” you quipped, though your tone was dripping with affection.  

Pedro’s laugh filled the room, low and warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. You settled back into your spot, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, anchoring you to him. For a while, there was only the sound of pages turning and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted.  

Eventually, the books were forgotten, abandoned on the nightstand as the room grew darker, the soft click of the lamp switch plunging you into the comforting glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains.  

Lying side by side, your head resting on Pedro’s chest, you let your fingers trace lazy patterns along the bare skin of his arm. But your mind wouldn’t quiet, and as the minutes stretched on, the thoughts bubbling inside you demanded to be voiced.  

“Okay, but really,” you began, your voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Why is ‘llama’ spelled with two L’s? Wouldn’t one be enough? It’s not like we say ‘Llama-la.’”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. He tilted his head down to look at you, his lips quirking into a smile. “Mi amor, I adore you, but it’s almost midnight. Go to sleep.”  

“I can’t until I solve this mystery,” you said with mock determination, lifting your head to look at him.  

He sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine. Maybe the second ‘L’ is there to confuse aliens.”  

You gasped, sitting up slightly. “That makes so much sense! Like, imagine aliens judging us for eating cereal with milk.”  

Pedro chuckled again, his arm tightening around you to keep you close. “Cereal with milk is sacred,” he said, his voice heavy with playful conviction. “If aliens have an issue with that, I’ll fight them myself.”  

You grinned, turning to prop yourself up on your elbow so you could face him fully. “Okay, serious question. If you could ask someone anything and be guaranteed the truth, who would it be?”  

Pedro cracked one eye open, his other hand lazily resting on your hip. “I’d ask you why you’re so determined to keep me awake,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile.  

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I’m serious!”  

“Alright, alright,” he relented, the mirth in his eyes softening as he considered your question. “I’d ask my third-grade teacher if she really lost my homework or if she just didn’t like me.”  

You burst out laughing, the sound muffled by the way you buried your face into his chest. “That’s what you’d waste your question on?”  

“Don’t judge me,” he said with mock indignation, his fingers trailing absent patterns on your back. “It’s haunted me for years.”  

Your laughter subsided into a warm giggle as you tilted your head up to look at him. “Fine. My turn. I’d ask my mom if she’s proud of me. Like… really proud. Not just the ‘I’m your mom, so I have to say it’ kind of proud.”  

Pedro’s hand stilled on your back, his gaze softening as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “She’s proud of you, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “And so am I. Always.”  

The weight of his words wrapped around your heart, a comforting balm that eased the ache of self-doubt. You nuzzled closer, your fingers curling around his as you let the quiet stretch between you for a moment.  

Moments later, you broke the silence again, your voice a whisper in the dark. “When I was little, I thought my toys came alive when I wasn’t looking. Like Toy Story. Honestly, I still kinda think they do.”  

Pedro let out a deep laugh, his chest shaking beneath you as he pulled you even closer. “I wouldn’t put it past them,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “Your stuffed bunny? Definitely a troublemaker.”  

You giggled, your heart feeling impossibly light as his hand returned to its slow, soothing patterns on your back.  

The conversation drifted into comfortable nonsense, the kind of midnight musings that didn’t need to make sense but brought a certain kind of intimacy only shared in the quiet hours of the night.  

Finally, as your eyelids grew heavy and your words faded into murmurs, Pedro pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Goodnight, mi amor,” he whispered, his voice soft and steady.  

In his arms, with the world outside forgotten, you felt safe. Loved. His heartbeat was the only rhythm you needed as you drifted into sleep, a love like no other holding you steady through the night.

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

[stylesispunk]

Blind faith | part iii

Priest!Joel Miller x night club dancer! Reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the aftermath of Joel finding you are a stripper and you reveal your truth to some extent. A day trip to the beach and how Joel realizes something.

wc: 9,5k

warnings: age gap (Joel's in his late 40s and reader late 20s), forbidden love, angst, mentions of death, mentions of injuries, sexism, so much tension between joel and reader, they falling harder, fluff.

a/n: Hello loves! Here's chapter 3. I was kinda excited for this one but I'm kinda more excited for the following one. I hope you like this and how the story is developing. I'm really loving writing it. Please share your thoughts, and please take note that reader still have secrets to share. Please, share your thoughts with me I LOVE READING THEM. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You were in despair the moment you left the stage. Joel’s stare still stung on your skin, burning everywhere as if you were ashamed to have been trapped after the lies you had made up. You warn, pushing Carmen with no intention behind.

“Hey, hey, Estrellita, where are you going like this” She asked, placing her hands on your shoulders that seemed to ease its fire.

“I need to-I need—to I need to…Joel, uhm, the priest, she was here and he saw me.”

“Who? What the hell was he doing here?” she asked, surprised at the information.

“Someone must have told him about me.” You replied, the thought of him changing his mind towards you hurt more than any wound you could have.

“Okay, breathe.” She nodded her head, trying to erase your anxiety, “You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“I’m—”

“Why do you care so much about what he thinks?” she questioned.

“Because he has been good to me. I don’t want him thinking I was playing with him” you replied, without being able to ease your heart stammering against your ribs.”

Carmen’s gaze softened, but there was something knowing behind her eyes. “And what if he does?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

You swallowed hard, the thought twisting something deep inside you. “Then I—” you hesitated, feeling the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes. “Then I don’t know.”

Carmen sighed, her hands squeezing your shoulders. “Estrellita… men like him, they don’t come here. But you have to ask yourself something—was he here because he wanted to judge you, or because he wanted to understand?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know. But I saw his face, Carmen. He looked—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head.

“Hurt?” she guessed.

You flinched, looking away.

Carmen let out a soft laugh, not unkind. “That man is already gone for you,” she murmured.

You didn’t want to hear that. You couldn’t.

“I need to go,” you said instead, stepping away from her grasp.

“Go where?”

“I—”

“Rest.” She said, “Let him to process this and then you can go and talk to him tomorrow, okay?”

You hesitated, but ended up nodding.

“Okay.”

Three days had passed and there was no sight of him. At least no in the way you wanted it. You tried looking out for him at the church even, to his house, but everything seemed to be in vain.

Three days. Three days of trying to catch his eye, only for him to look away. Three days of waiting outside the church, only for him to slip out the back. Three days of silence where there used to be warmth.

And it was driving you mad.

Joel had never been like this with you. He had never shut you out like this before. Not when you first met, not when people whispered about you, not even when he wrapped his arms around your waist during the night you feel asleep together on his couch. But now? Now, he was slipping through your fingers water in your hands.

You found yourself outside the church again, fingers curling into fists at your sides, fidgeting your jeans as you took a steadying breath. The doors were open, the flickering glow of candlelight casting long shadows inside.

He was there. In front of the altar, on his knees, praying.

You knew it before you even stepped inside, and when you saw him, your breath caught.

He must’ve heard your footsteps because he tensed. But he didn’t turn around.

“Are you going to pretend I’m not here?” you asked, voice steady despite the storm inside you.

He exhaled, but still, he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, voice rough.

You scoffed. “Really? Then what do you call this?”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “Joel.”

He finally turned, and the look in his eyes nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

Regret. Want. Something deeper, something you didn’t want to name.

“Call me father, not Joel” he said, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

The words cut through you like a blade. Not Joel.

Not anymore.

You blinked, your throat tightening as you searched his face, waiting, hoping for some sign that he didn’t mean it. That this was just another wall he was building between you, one you could tear down if you only pushed hard enough.

But his expression was set in stone.

“You don’t mean that,” you said, voice quieter now.

He exhaled sharply, looking away like it hurt him to see you standing there. “I do.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because this has to stop.” His voice wasn’t unkind, but it was firm. “This… whatever you did to me.”

You shook your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re a liar. You seduce your way to people. I’m sure of it. You dance in that way for men and for women, you are what? A stripper? It was fun, wasn’t it? To walk inside this place but not being more than a sin?”

He could have slapped you in your cheek and it would hurt less. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, stunned.

Joel had never spoken to you like this before. Not even when he had been cautious of you, when he had been wary and careful with his words.

This was cruelty.

A slow, sharp ache curled in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a wound you hadn’t braced for. Your hands trembled, and you clenched your hands “Is that what you think of me?”

Joel didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his jaw locked tight, his fists at his sides like he was trying to convince himself of his own words.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears. “You think I was playing with you?” Your voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, something raw and unsteady. “That I… what? Tricked you? Made you feel something you didn’t want to feel?”

His silence told you everything. You let out a bitter, hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You’re a coward.”

That got a reaction. Joel’s gaze snapped to yours, something dark flickering in his eyes. “Watch yourself.”

“Why? You think you can hurt me more than you already have?” You took a step forward, your voice trembling now. “I didn’t do anything to you, Joel. You were the one who kept looking for me. You were the one who made me feel—”

You stopped yourself, pressing your lips together, shaking your head. He didn’t deserve to hear it.

“I should have known,” you murmured, voice quieter now, laced with something almost mournful. “I should have known you’d find a way to make me the villain as everyone else.

Joel swallowed, his throat bobbing. But he didn’t say anything.

You took a shaky breath, willing your voice to stay steady. “I never wanted to hide this, Joel.”

Then you turned away, walking toward the door.

But before you left, you hesitated, your fingers tightening on one of the pews. You didn’t turn around when you spoke again.

“I hope you can sleep at night,” you whispered. “There is no pray you can use to feel better about yourself.”

The church fell into an eerie silence. He stood frozen at the altar, his grip tight around the pulpit as the heavy wooden doors groaned shut behind you. Your words still rang in his ears, they feel like bleeding.

"There is no prayer you can use to feel better about yourself."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. But what was he really mad about? Was it the fact that you had hidden this part of yourself from him? Or was it something he didn’t want to name?

His fingers flexed against themselves.  He told himself it was about you, about the way you had let him believe you were someone else, perhaps pure. Someone untouched by the kind of life he had walked into that night at the club. Someone untainted.

But deep down, in the part of himself he didn’t let see the light. He knew that was a lie.

It wasn’t the lie. It wasn’t about the way you danced, about the way you let people look at you, about the way they whispered your name in the dark.

It was pure jealousy. A slow-burning, sickening jealousy that clawed at his ribs, that twisted inside him until he couldn’t breathe. Because he had wanted to be the first. The first to see you like that, to watch you, to take in the way you moved, the way you let your body speak without uttering a single word.

The first to know the weight of your touch, the warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice when you said his name and not just Father.

But he wasn’t. He would never be. Joel squeezed his eyes shut. The pulpit felt wrong beneath his hands; the church suddenly too quiet, too empty.

He had spent years preaching about self-control. About discipline. About resisting temptation.

But no one had ever told him what to do when he was the one being tempted.

When the sin didn’t come from you—but from him.

And that was the worst part of all.

The music pulsed through the walls, the usual hum of the club coming to life as the night stretched on. But tonight, it felt distant. Muted. You ears ringed.

You sat in front of the mirror, fingers resting in your lap, staring at your reflection without really seeing it. Your costume was half on, shimmering fabric draped around you, waiting to be fastened. But you couldn’t bring yourself to finish.

Because no matter how much you tried to shake Joel’s words from your head, they clung to you like ghosts.

"You seduce your way to people."

"I’m sure of it."

"It was fun, wasn’t it? To walk inside this place but not being more than a sin.”

Your throat tightened.

You had never felt this ashamed of yourself before. Not for dancing. Not for the way you made people feel about you. The stage had been your home long before any church and its priest. It was the one place where you had control over your body, over the way people saw you. This time it was different but still was the closer you had.

And now? Now, it felt like your skin was too tight. Like if you stepped onto that stage, it wouldn’t be you anymore. It would be whatever Joel thought you were.

A hand landed gently on your shoulder, and you jolted, blinking out of your thoughts.

Billy stood beside you; his brows furrowed in concern. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Estrellita?”

You tried to smile. Failed. “Nothing.”

Billy scoffed. “Don’t lie to me, cariño. I know that look.” He knelt beside you, adjusting the hem of your costume with practiced ease. “Who do I have to fight?”

A soft, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You? Fight?”

He grinned. “Don’t underestimate me. I might be small, but I’m scrappy.”

Something in your chest loosened, just a little.

Billy had been one of the first people to welcome you into the club, one of the first to make you feel safe. You had learned his story in pieces—how he had been thrown out of his home when his parents found out he was gay, how he had wandered the streets for days before stumbling into this place.

He had found his family here. His home.

Just like you had. And for the first time that night, you felt something like steadiness return.

Maybe Joel didn’t understand. Maybe he never would.

But Billy did. Carmen did. Everyone who worked here saw you and they still loved you.

Billy squeezed your hand, his voice softer now. “You don’t have to dance tonight if you don’t want to.”

You looked at him, at the warmth in his eyes, the quiet understanding there. Maybe you didn’t feel like dancing tonight.

But you weren’t going to let Joel take this from you.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders. “I want to.”

Billy searched your face for a moment before nodding, helping you fasten the last of your costume.

As you stepped onto the stage, the lights warmed your skin, the music vibrated through your bones.

And just like that, you let the weight of the night fall away.

The music pulsed through your veins, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. The stage lights bathed you in warmth, illuminating the shimmering fabric of your red suit as you stepped forward. The crowd murmured in expectation, eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to come.

So, you danced. You let the rhythm take you, let your body move as it always had, fluid, effortless, free. The music carried you, and for the first time that night, you felt like yourself again.

Until you saw him here again. Your breath hitched mid-spin.

Joel.

Hidden in the corner of the club, dressed in dark clothes, a cap pulled low over his face. His hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, but his gaze, his gaze was all on you.

The weight of it burned, heavy and unreadable as if he was tracing marks with fire over your skin.

Your stomach twisted, your limbs faltering as a shockwave of something sharp and unbearable ran through you. He wasn’t just watching, he was consuming you with his stare, with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

And just like that, your legs gave in, ankle wobbling.

Your balance tipped.

A sharp gasp cut through the music as you stumbled, your heel catching awkwardly against the stage and you fell. The floor met you hard, the impact sending a jolt up your spine, stealing the air from your lungs.

Silence. The club held its breath.

The murmurs started then, a mix of concern and amusement rippling through the room. Billy was already moving toward you, but before he could reach you, someone else was there.

Joel.

His hand was on your arm before you could blink, strong and steady, lifting you to your feet like you weighed nothing at all.

Your heart pounded as you stared up at him.

His jaw was clenched, his brows drawn together, his breath uneven.

You should have been embarrassed. Should have been angry. But all you could think about was why.

Why was he here? Why he has come back here after all he said?

Why was he looking at you like that? And why, after everything, did he still come running the second you fell?

Joel’s grip on your arm was firm but fleeting. The moment he was sure you were steady, he let go like your skin had burned him. His face was unreadable, stormy eyes, tense jaw, lips pressed into a hard line.

You barely had time to take a breath before he turned away.

No words. No explanation. Just gone.

The moment he disappeared into the shadows, Billy was at your side, helping you the rest of the way up. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, searching your face.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah.”

But your hands were still trembling.

Carmen appeared next, her gaze flicking toward the direction Joel had vanished before settling on you with knowing eyes.

Neither of them said a word about him. They didn’t have to.

The music had already started up again, the club moving on as if nothing had happened. As if you hadn’t just fallen, as if the man you’d spent days trying to reach hadn’t just been here, watching.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders back. If Joel wanted to act like this meant nothing, like you meant nothing.

You weren’t going to chase him. So, with the eyes of the room still on you, you turned toward the crowd, lifted your chin, and danced.

Back in the dressing room, the adrenaline had started to wear off, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest. You wiped at the sweat on your brow, breathing in deeply, trying to ground yourself.

But before you could even sit down, Billy and Carmen were already on you.

Carmen leaned against the vanity, arms crossed, one perfectly arched brow raised. "So... what was the priest doing here?"

Billy, standing beside her, nodded, arms folded tightly. "Yeah, and why was he dressed like some guy sneaking into a bar for the first time?"

You ran a hand over your face, sighing. "I don’t know."

Carmen scoffed. "Bullshit. He was watching you, clear as day."

Billy narrowed his eyes. "And then he just left when you fell? Didn’t even say anything?"

Your stomach twisted. "No."

Carmen let out a low whistle. "Damn. That man is tortured."

Billy leaned closer; his voice softer. "And you?"

You hesitated. What were you supposed to say? That seeing Joel there had rattled you to your core? That his stare had nearly burned through you, stripping you bare in ways you weren’t prepared for? That part of you had been desperate for him to stay?

That would be admitting too much.

So instead, you shook your head. "It doesn’t matter."

Billy and Carmen exchanged a look, but neither pushed further.

“Yo conozco a un hombre enamorado cuando lo veo” (I know when a man is in love when I see him” he said. Leaving, to help another of the dancers with her dress.

A man in love?

Later at night. You were back at the house you shared with Carmen. After the show and all the emotions storming in your head, you were getting ready to go to sleep, removing, the makeup, brushing your hair and slip into an oversized t-shirt you wore to sleep.

You were at the kitchen, sipping a cup of warm tea, while the clock shown two a.m. in the morning. You were about to go to the bedroom when a knock at the door stopped you.

You stood frozen in place, your fingers still curled around the mug. The knock at the door echoed through the quiet of the house, cutting through the remnants of the night like a blade.

Your heart pounded. No one came to see you at this hour.

Taking a slow breath, you stepped toward the door, pausing just before your hand reached the knob. Another knock. Firmer this time. You swallowed hard and opened it.

Joel stood there, bathed in the dim glow of the streetlamp. His dark eyes flickered over you, over your loose dress, the curve of your collarbone, the tired set of your features. He was still wearing the clothes from earlier, his shirt wrinkled, his hair slightly mussed like he had run his hands through it too many times.

Neither of you spoke, but you stepped back, just enough to leave the door open. An invitation.

Joel hesitated. His hands curled into fists at his sides like he was fighting himself, but then, he stepped inside.

The house was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single oil lamp casting shadows along the walls. Carmen’s door was closed; she was still out, unaware of the storm brewing in the doorway of your shared home.

You crossed your arms, your t-shirt brushing against your skin. “You shouldn’t be here,” you murmured, echoing his own words.

Joel’s jaw tightened. “I know.” But he didn’t leave.

You watched him, the way his shoulders rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. His eyes never left yours, dark and unreadable.

He looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

You swallowed. “What do you want?” then you pause, “Why were you at the club tonight?”

Joel let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face. “I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t know?”

His gaze flickered down your frame before he tore it away, shaking his head. “I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I see you everywhere. When I close my eyes. When I—” He cut himself off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “It won’t stop.”

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry" he began, "what I said about you...I was wrong. You're not—You're not at all of that. You're not a sin. That was so wrong of me to say."

He took the scene in front of him, red eyes, glisten and red from all the crying. He had seen the way he had broken your heart in a cruel manner, throwing daggers at you without even thinking, without hearing what you had to share.

There were no words left for him to make this better.

"I-I thought I could trust you." you replied, barely hearing your own words,"you were so kind to me all this time but you weren't capable of hearing my truth. Instead you heard people calling me names and cursing my name with venom, and that father, that makes you as shitty as all people in this fucking town."

"I-"

"Leave, father. Don't waste your words in a whore like me, you could get burned." An as a final statement, you closed the door leaving him standing there, speechless and with a heart so heavy he could barely stay stand in place.

Joel didn’t move for a long moment. He stood there, staring at the closed door, your words ringing in his ears.

You could get burned. Perhaps he already had.

The weight in his chest was suffocating. He had come here thinking he could make it right, that his apology, his regret, would be enough to fix the damage he’d caused. But there was no fixing this, was there?

Because you were right.

He had judged you without listening. He had let his own fears, his own jealousy, fester into something ugly, and he had taken it out on you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to knock again, to beg you to open the door, to please let him try—But he had lost that right.

With a sharp inhale, Joel forced himself to step back. To turn away.

The night air was cold when he stepped outside, but it wasn’t enough to dull the ache in his chest. He walked through the empty streets of town, past the glowing streetlamps and shuttered windows. He should have gone home, should have locked himself away and prayed for forgiveness.

But instead, he found himself back at the church.

The place that had once given him solace now felt suffocating. He stood in the center of the room, looking up at the altar, at the cross above it.

What had he done? He sank onto one of the pews, dropping his head into his hands.

Maybe this was his punishment. To pray until his heart stop bleeding.

Next day, Joel’s voice carried through the church, steady and memorized words that felt empty.

He had given hundreds of sermons before, about faith, about redemption, about the weight of sin and the promise of forgiveness. But today, the words felt hollow in his mouth. He spoke about grace. About salvation.

But his mind was elsewhere.

On you.

He kept glancing at the doors between sentences, expecting—hoping—to see you walk in.

But you never did. The pews were full, the congregation nodding along, but the one person he had been searching for wasn’t there.

He had told himself it was for the best. That his anger, his frustration, his jealousy—God help him, his jealousy—had been justified. That staying away from you was the only way to rid himself of this ache, this temptation.

But every day that passed without seeing you felt like a slow unraveling, like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap.

And now, standing at the pulpit, words leaving his lips with no real meaning behind them, Joel realized. He didn’t know what the hell he was even talking about anymore.

Continuing with the day, the town square had come alive with laughter and soft music, the scent of roasted nuts and fresh bread hanging in the air. Stalls lined the streets, filled with handmade crafts, sweet pastries, and bottles of drinks, lemonade and children running between the booths, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on your chest.

You walked slowly, keeping your head high, but you felt it, the judgment, the whispers.

Women clutched their baskets tighter as they passed you, their gazes cold and cutting. A few of them turned their backs as if your mere presence tainted the space. You weren’t surprised. You had expected it after that night. After Joel. After he had spoke about sin.

What you hadn’t expected was the men. The ones who had watched you under the dim lights of the club, whiskey glasses clutched in their hands, their eyes heavy with hunger. They weren’t turning away.

They were staring. Lingering.

The way their eyes traced over you made your skin crawl, the same gazes that once felt like power now left you feeling exposed.

You swallowed hard and pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders, your heart pounding.

The sun hung high in the sky, warming the cobbled streets as you wandered through the people, stalls lined the path, displaying fresh produce, homemade bread, and steaming pots of food. The scent of roasted corn and spices lingered in the air, mixing with the distant sound of a guitar being played by a street performer.

You stopped at a stand where an older woman stirred a large jar of lemonade, the condensation on the glass glistening in the light.

"Una limonada, por favor," (A lemonade, please?) you said, reaching for your coin purse.

The woman’s stirring slowed, her eyes flicking up to meet yours. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she didn’t move to pour the drink.

Behind her, another woman, one of the same ladies who had spoken to Joel that morning at the church,leaned in, whispering something into her ear. The vendor’s expression hardened.

"Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish” she said flatly, setting down the ladle. "But there is no more left."

You blinked, glancing at the nearly full jar. "I can see it full."

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and turned away as if you weren’t standing there at all.

Heat crept up your neck, not from the sun, but from the weight of the stares you suddenly felt around you. A few of the other vendors had gone quiet, their conversations dying as they turned to watch. You recognized some of them, women who had smiled at you in passing before. Now, their faces were unreadable, their expressions edged with something closer to disdain.

You exhaled slowly, setting your coins back into your pocket. "A la mierda con esto” (Fuck this) you murmured, stepping back.

You turned, walking away with your head high, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it stung.

The whispers started as soon as your back was turned.

“She is shameless”

"And then she was fine, as if nothing had happened."

"After what happened in the church..."

Your fingers curled into your palms as you picked up your pace, pushing through the small crowd until you were free of them.

It wasn’t the first time you'd felt like an outsider in this town. But today, it felt different. Today, it felt personal, like daggers thrown in your direction.

You didn’t go far. Just enough to be away from the whispers, away from the stares that burned into your skin like embers.

A quiet little street opened up ahead, lined with a low wooden fence overlooking a field. The wind swayed through the tall grass, the golden tips catching the sunlight. You sat down, letting your hands rest on the rough wood, the warmth of the day still clinging to it.

And then, finally, the tears fell.

You bit your lip, staring at the horizon as your chest tightened. You had told yourself you wouldn’t let them get to you. That you wouldn’t let their judgment, their disdain, push you down. But here you were, shoulders trembling, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your blouse like a child.

It was everything. The weight of the past meeting the present, the uncertainty of the future. The ache of missing your old life.

The sound of footsteps on gravel made you stiffen.

You wiped your face quickly, trying to gather yourself before turning your head.

Joel stood a few feet away.

His brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face, taking in the redness around your eyes, the slight shake of your hands. His jaw tensed.

He had that look again, the one he always got when he was trying not to feel too much.

"You following me now, Father?" you asked, your voice rough from crying, trying to mask the way your throat still ached.

Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sighed, stepping closer.

"I saw what happened," he said, voice lower, like he didn’t want to say it too loud. Like he didn’t want to remind you of it.

You scoffed, looking away. "Guess the whole town did."

Joel was quiet for a moment. Then, he sat down beside you, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the field like you were.

"You don’t have to prove anything to them," he said finally.

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. "I know."

"Do you?"

You turned your head sharply, meeting his gaze. He didn’t look smug, didn’t look like he was trying to challenge you. If anything, he looked… concerned.

And for some reason, that made your chest hurt even more.

You exhaled shakily, dropping your gaze to your lap. "I just—" Your voice wavered, and you bit the inside of your cheek before shaking your head. "It doesn’t matter."

Joel didn’t push. Didn’t demand you say more. But when his hand came to rest lightly on your back, a steady warmth between your shoulder blades, you nearly broke all over again.

You didn’t move because Joel’s hand was warm, grounding over your back. He didn’t rub circles into your back, didn’t try to pull you closer, didn’t say anything at all. Just let his touch be there, solid, steady, unshaken by the weight of your silence.

You sniffed, staring out at the field, blinking quickly to stop more tears from falling.

"You should go," you murmured.

But Joel didn’t move.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "They already don’t like me. And if they see you sitting here—"

"I don’t care," Joel interrupted, his voice firm.

You turned to look at him, brows furrowing. "Yes, you do."

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. "Maybe I do," he admitted. "But not enough to leave you sitting here like this."

The words hit something deep inside you, something you weren’t ready to face. You pressed your lips together, looking down at your hands.

Joel sighed beside you, shifting slightly.

"They’ll get over it," he said. "Eventually."

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You sure about that?"

A pause.

"No," he said simply. "But people forget. They always do."

You swallowed, staring at the dirt path beneath your feet.

"I don’t know how much more I can take," you admitted, voice small.

Joel was quiet for a long moment. Then—"You wanna get outta here?"

You looked at him, confused. "What?"

He nodded toward the dirt road, toward the open fields beyond the town. "Come on. Let’s take a drive."

You hesitated. "Joel—"

"Come on, let he said. "Just… somewhere else."

You searched his face, trying to understand him.

"Do you want to get out of town for the day?" He asked, struggling to take words out your lips.

"What?" You asked, dumfounded.

"Get out. You and me. We can go to the beach for the day, wherever you want.”

"Are you for real?"

He stood, offering his hand out for you. Joel's hand hovered between you, fingers slightly curled, waiting. His jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff like he was bracing himself for rejection.

"I know I don't deserve it," he said, voice rough, "but just—just for the day. No town, no church, no whispers. Just us."

You stared at him, searching for a lie, a trap, but there was nothing but raw sincerity in his face.

For a moment, you thought about telling him to go to hell. About slamming a door in his face again, making him sit with the mess he had made.

But then, you thought about the weight pressing on your chest, the suffocating stares when you walked through town, the way you felt like you couldn't breathe anymore.

And you thought about him. About the Joel you had known all this time.

The one who had been kind. The one who had made you laugh. The one who had looked at you like you were something worth knowing, something worth.

You exhaled sharply. "The whole day?"

His throat bobbed as he nodded.

You hesitated for only a second before reaching out and slipping your fingers into his. His palm was warm, calloused, solid.

"Okay," you said quietly. "The whole day.”

The drive through California's highway felt warm, the sun spilling golden light over the dry hills and endless stretches of road. The hum of the engine was the only sound, the occasional breeze ruffling your hair as you drove, the windows rolled down. There was something about the air, the space, that felt different—like you could breathe for the first time in days.

Joel kept his eyes on the road, but you could see his hands grip the wheel tighter than usual, his knuckles white, like he was trying to hold onto something. You weren't sure what, but his silence was louder than anything else, and you couldn't help but steal glances at him now and then. His jaw was set, his face a little more drawn than you remembered, but there was something else—something softer about the way he looked at the road, like he was giving himself permission to leave everything behind, even if just for a moment.

When you arrived at the beach, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore filled the air, soothing and constant. Joel pulled into a parking spot, then reached into his pocket for some change, heading to a nearby stand to grab ice cream. You lingered by the car, watching the ocean stretch out before you, the sand warm under your feet as you took in the vastness of it all.

Joel returned a few moments later, holding two cones. "Here," he said, handing you one, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Do you like chocolate?"

You nodded, accepting the cone. "Yeah, thanks."

He sat down next to you on the sand, his shoulders relaxed for the first time all day. The warmth of the sun on your skin felt comforting, like it was inviting you to leave everything behind and just exist for a while.

You took a bite of the ice cream, the cold sweetness a perfect contrast to the heat of the day, and sighed. For the first time in so long, you weren’t worried. You felt free.

You took another bite of your ice cream, the sweetness swirling in your mouth, but the question still lingered in your mind. You glanced at Joel, watching him for a moment as he stared out at the ocean, seemingly lost in thought. The steady rhythm of the waves only seemed to deepen the silence between you two.

After a few moments, you couldn’t hold it in any longer. “When was the last time you saw a woman in those clothes?” you asked, your voice quiet but clearly talking about the night he saw you at the club for the first time.

Joel turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing as if the question caught him off guard. He blinked once, then twice, as though trying to piece together the question in his mind. Finally, he sighed, his eyes dropping to his ice cream cone, his voice low.

“Never,” he said simply.

The word hung in the air like a truth neither of you were quite ready to face. You didn’t know what to say to that, but you felt something stir in your chest. Something raw. Something familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time.

You turned your gaze back to the ocean, letting the waves crash against the shore as you processed his response. Never. You wondered what that meant, what it meant about him, about you, about everything that had happened between you both. But the questions were too heavy, too complicated for this moment.

But then, “Do you want to know the real reason why I became a priest?” He asked, looking at you.

You looked at Joel, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. His gaze was fixed ahead, but there was something in the way he spoke, something raw that made you realize you were hearing a part of him he hadn’t shared with anyone.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

He hesitated, his hand gripping the edge of his ice cream cone a little tighter. He didn’t meet your eyes, but you could feel the weight of his words coming, like a burden he’d been carrying for a long time. “I became a priest because a woman broke my heart.”

Your throat tightened, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, so you just nodded, silently urging him to continue.

“My… what happened?” you finally managed to ask.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took a deep breath, then slowly began to speak, each word coming out heavy, like it was wrapped in years of pain.

“We were together since we were sixteen. I married her at 21.” His voice cracked just slightly as he said it. “We were going to have a kid together. One night, we got mad at each other. She took our daughter and drove away… said she needed space.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to imagine what that must have felt like. But Joel kept going, his voice steady but distant.

“Then there was this accident…” His voice trailed off, and for a second, you thought he might stop talking. He swallowed hard before continuing. “My daughter died. And I—”

You could hear the pain in his voice, even if he tried to keep it under control.

“She was one.” He said, “Adeline survived but my Babygirl didn’t.” his voice almost breaking.

“I stopped seeing grey hair and holding hands in my seventies on a porch,” he said, his words quiet but heavy. “I just never thought I would be able to love someone else that way.”

For a long moment, you couldn’t say anything. His words hung in the air like they were too big to process all at once. You could feel the weight of everything he was carrying, the layers of grief and loss, and the way he was trying to put his life together again, piece by piece.

But then you felt it, how much of this story wasn’t just about his wife or daughter, but about everything that had happened between you two. How much he had been struggling with the things he’d said, the things he’d believed about you. How much pain he was still holding on to.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whispered.

He gave you a soft, almost imperceptible nod, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he just let the silence stretch between you both, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like there were walls between you. It just felt like two broken people, sitting side by side, with a shared understanding that didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

You sat there for a moment, the cool breeze from the ocean ruffling your hair, the sound of the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. The weight of Joel’s story lingered in the air between you, but the silence felt different now, less heavy and more... shared. As if, for just a moment, both of you could exist in this small, quiet space without the world pressing down on you.

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say to something so raw, so painful? But your heart ached for him in a way you hadn’t expected, and before you could second-guess yourself, you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his hand.

His hand was tense at first, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to let someone in. But when he felt the warmth of your touch, his body seemed to relax, and slowly, his fingers unfurled. You let your hand settle in his, fingers entwining as the quiet of the beach surrounded you.

“How old were you back when it happened?” you asked, fearing he would get offended by it.

“Twenty-two” he replied, simply.

“Why did you think you would never love someone again?”

“Because love hurt people.” He said, “It makes you dumb and afraid of yourself and I didn’t want that happening to me ever again.”

“But maybe there was someone out there. “

“I’m forty-eight, darling. There is no one for me out there.” He said without glancing at you but at the sea because deep down, he knew that someone was sitting next to him, and he was afraid to admit he had sacred vows at such young age when his perspective was tainted by hurt.

“I don’t have the answers for you, Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady, despite the storm of emotions swirling inside. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, his thumb brushing over your hand slowly, thoughtfully. You could see the battle inside him, the conflict of wanting to open up but being so afraid of what that might mean.

Joel’s eyes met yours, his gaze intense yet searching, as if trying to read the words you hadn’t spoken yet. You felt a strange pull inside, the urge to break through the silence and share something that had been buried deep within you for a long time.

He nodded slightly, his voice a whisper, “Yeah, if you want to share.”

You took a slow breath, your fingers still tangled with his, the connection between you grounding you in this moment. The ocean breeze was soft against your skin.

“I’m a ballerina” you said.

Joel’s eyes widened slightly, his thumb still brushing over your hand in a soothing, almost unconscious rhythm. He hadn’t expected that. The quiet intensity in his gaze softened just a bit, as if he were seeing a side of you that he hadn’t imagined before.

“You’re a ballerina?” His voice sounded surprised, as though the revelation was both unexpected and fascinating to him.

You nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Yeah, I was. I went to university and studied dance. It wasn’t just a passion; it was everything to me. I put in hours, years… But things happened. Life happened."

You looked out at the horizon, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, as though it might somehow offer the words you were struggling to find.

“I taught little girls how to become dancers too,” you continued, your voice a little quieter now. “I used to love watching them, seeing the joy in their faces when they learned something new. They were like little versions of me, full of dreams and possibilities. But…”

Joel’s expression softened further, and he leaned back slightly, taking in your words with a mix of empathy and understanding. “What happened?” he asked, his voice gentle, as though he were offering you the space to say whatever you needed.

You hesitated, unsure if you were ready to share the full story, but the words came anyway. “Achilles’ heel” you said.

Joel raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little, intrigued by the sudden shift in your words. “Achilles’ heel?” he repeated softly, almost as if testing the phrase on his tongue.

You nodded, your eyes tracing the rhythm of the waves as you tried to gather your thoughts. “Yeah,” you began, your voice quiet but steady. “I got that injury and everything stopped.” you stopped, biting your lip as if the words themselves were too sharp to say.

You were lying a bit, but not entirely.

Joel’s gaze softened, his face etched with understanding as he listened to you, his body now angled toward you, as if every part of him was leaning in to hear your truth.

Joel’s eyes never left yours, his expression full of empathy, as if he could sense the weight behind your words, even if you weren’t saying everything. His hand tightened slightly around yours, a silent reassurance. “I get it,” he said softly, his voice steady. “The thing that defines you, that you think is everything... and then it’s gone. Like the ground beneath you suddenly disappears.”

You nodded slowly, the tightness in your chest spreading as you realized how much that injury had really taken from you, even if it wasn’t just physical. It had been more than a torn muscle or a strained tendon—it had been the loss of something you’d built your identity on. The thing that had once made you feel like you had a purpose, a place in the world.

“Everything stopped, yeah," you said again, more to yourself than to him. “I didn’t know how to live without it. I still don’t really know who I am outside of it. I’ve spent so much time trying to get back to that... and sometimes, I wonder if it’s even possible.”

Joel’s gaze softened further, and for a moment, the world around you felt distant, like it was just the two of you, suspended in the quiet of the beach. His voice, when it came, was calm, but it held a depth of understanding that surprised you.

“You’re more than that. More than just what you’ve done or what you’ve lost,” he said, his words carrying a weight of truth. “I can see it. You’re still you, even without all of it. You don’t have to keep chasing something that doesn’t define you.”

His words hit harder than you expected. You hadn’t realized how much you had been holding onto the idea of your past, of who you used to be, instead of seeing who you were now. It was easier to cling to something that felt familiar, even if it hurt.

“Dancing at the club is the closer I got to live from what I love” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability in it raw and real.

Joel’s thumb brushed across your hand again, the softest of motions, but it felt like the most grounding thing.

Joel’s gaze never left yours, his expression gentle but unwavering. The weight of your words seemed to settle between you, hanging in the air like an unspoken truth. He squeezed your hand softly, as though offering comfort, or perhaps just a reminder that you weren’t alone in this.

“That’s... that’s something, you know?” he said quietly, his voice filled with understanding. “I can see how much it means to you, even if it’s not the same as what you imagined. You’re still living it. It’s just... in a different way.”

You nodded slowly, the warmth of his words sinking in. "It’s not the same, though. It’s not what I dreamed of when I was younger, when I thought I’d be teaching classes, running my own studio, surrounded by little girls learning to dance. But at least when I’m on that stage, it feels like I’m close to who I was before... like a part of me hasn’t completely disappeared."

Joel’s thumb continued to move over the back of your hand, the quiet gesture a grounding presence in the midst of everything swirling inside you. He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence hang there, as though giving you space to breathe and reflect.

“Sorry for what I called you before” he said, looking at your eyes.

You met his gaze, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Sorry for what you had been through. I think you’re stronger than you realize. Stronger than you’ve given yourself credit for.”

Joel’s eyes softened, the weight of your words settling between you both, filling the space with a quiet understanding. He inhaled deeply, as though your response had lifted a burden he hadn’t even realized he was still carrying. For a moment, neither of you said anything, simply sitting in the comfort of each other’s presence. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only thing that filled the silence, their rhythm slow and steady, like the pulse of life itself.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever really be okay,” Joel finally said, his voice low, carrying the weight of years of unspoken pain. “But I’m trying. I’m trying for me, and for... everyone around me, even if it’s hard.”

You squeezed his hand gently, your heart swelling with empathy. “That’s all anyone can do. Try. It’s enough.”

He turned his head toward you, his gaze searching, but this time it was softer, more open. “I hurt you. I called you things... things that weren’t true. And for that, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to handle all the... feelings. And the confusion.”

You felt a knot form in your throat, but you swallowed it down, nodding in acknowledgment. “I know. I get it. And I’m sorry for... for pushing you away when I shouldn’t have. It’s just... I didn’t know who to trust anymore.”

He didn’t reply right away, his thumb moving in slow circles against the back of your hand, grounding you both once more. The world around you seemed to fade into the background, as though nothing else existed but the two of you on that beach, sharing this fragile moment.

After a few moments, he whispered, “I never wanted to hurt you. Never.”

“I know,” you whispered back, your voice filled with the same quiet sincerity. “I know you didn’t.”

Joel took a deep breath, looking back at the ocean for a moment before turning his gaze to you once again. “Maybe... maybe we can start over. No labels. No expectations. Just... us.”

You smiled softly, a real smile, one that reached your eyes. “I’d like that.”

With that, he leaned in, his forehead gently resting against yours, as the sound of the waves filled the air around you. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes, conveying all the unspoken emotions that had built up between you.

The night sky had settled over the town by the time you and Joel returned, the world around you bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The air was cooler now, the warmth of the day fading into the peaceful stillness of the evening. The drive back had been quiet, but the silence between you didn’t feel heavy—it felt comfortable, like the kind of silence that only comes from being in the presence of someone who understands without needing to say a word.

As you reached the edge of town, Joel parked in front of his house, getting out the vehicle, you turned to Joel, your heart still full from the day you had shared. You broke the silence, your voice soft but sincere.

"Thank you for taking me out of the city, Joel" you said, your lips curving into a smile that reached your eyes, accentuating the little wrinkles at the corners that made his heart skip a beat.

He glanced at you, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you feel good?”

"I did. Thank you again."

Joel’s gaze lingered on you, his expression softening as he looked into your eyes. "It was nothing," he replied, his voice low, yet filled with sincerity. "Seeing you smile like this is enough for me."

"I'm really sorry for what I said to you the other day, you aren't that. You're not a sin but an angel."

You felt your heart flutter at his words. They were simple, yet they meant everything. You took a small step closer to him, the space between you shrinking until you could almost feel his warmth, the subtle scent of him mingling with the cool night air. His cheeks flushed softly as he noticed how close you were.

Your smile widened, and you took a step closer to him, his cheeks tinted in soft pink as he realized how close you were, in front of him, tiptoeing in your feet to place a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek.

How could he be so close to you and not falling into temptation? How could he be so close and not dive into the waters and be sunbathed by your light?

He didn't want it to admit it, but his heart spoke for him. Sending clear signals, each beating, slow and fast, it was all because of you.

Because of the way you were.

Because of your smile.

Because of the little wrinkles on your nose when you smiled.

And because of how your face was sun kissed by the day you had shared today looked like under the light of his own eyes.

Without thinking, Joel cupped your face gently with both hands, his touch tender as he gazed down at you. You gasped softly, your breath catching in your throat, as he leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on your forehead, his eyes closing in the moment.

You didn’t want to admit it either, but your heart was bursting in that instant. He was everything you had dreamed of, a man who could love you with such sweetness, with such kindness, that he could build a fire just to keep you warm.

"Joel?" You spoke at the silence settled, his eyes seemed lost on your face, still inhaling the scent of vanilla of your perfume as if he wanted to memorize it forever.

You hesitated, your eyes flicking around as if you expected the world to turn against you, the hateful glares of the town’s people coming for you, their judgmental eyes sharp and heavy.

"I don’t think I should," you replied, the words tentative, the unease of the world outside pressing against you.

Joel’s voice was steady as he met your gaze. "There’s tea inside."

You chuckled softly, the corners of your lips lifting in amusement as you met his eyes. "Oh, you should have started by saying that."

Having you close was healing something he thought it was forever broken.

And he smiled, opening the door of his house that seemed to welcome you all over again, a fort where you could truly be you and him, with no eyes watching.

"You can stay over." he said out if nowhere.

"Why?"

"Because it's late and I don't want you walking alone at this time." He replied, trying to convince himself that was the only reason he wanted you here, closer to where he was.

"that's nice, but seriously why?" You asked him again, softly, looking for the real reason behind those soft brown eyes that made you this weak.

"This place seems brighter with you in it." Joel’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he met your gaze, his voice barely a whisper now. "This place seems brighter with you in it."

The words hung in the air between you, as if they were a secret the two of you had just shared. You smiled, a tender, knowing smile that spoke volumes without needing to say anything more.

"Okay." you smiled.

"Okay." he said after, mirroring the same lopsided smile he prayed to see each day.

And both of you laughed at the same time. Every possible line to be crossed was already crossed. This day you had both shared has ripened into love, it had consumed you, completed you as if the soul has spoken the words "oh, I already found you."

Perhaps, Joel was the destination where your strings landed on.

And perhaps, you were the soul Joel had given up to a long time ago, he had found you, and he stayed, worshipping the poems he had written about you all these years.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

@jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

@drewharrisonwriter @hjzghi-blog @picketniffler @nobodyssfool @pedritosgirl2000 @koshkaj-blog @cigarxttxs @sweetpeakarolinaaa @wandasimp-69 @canteenee4 @obivari @shortandderanged @casualbananapatrol @stevie75 @hammerhead1776 @brittmb115 @strangersdotmp3 @goodvibesonly421 @jackie923 @lunpycatavenue @capuccinodoll

@iamtoriasworld @priincehoseok @luunarr0 @dinomecanico @missadangel @alrihhty @pasc4lfuzz @materialgirl-97 @harrycherrylove @canteenee4 @bensonispunk @locaparapedrito

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 18

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

This has literally all the worst things the internet has to offer: Ableism, Sexisms, Toxic Media, horrible journalism, death threats...I am pretty sure I am missing some of it.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lando was exhausted. His body ached, the post-race adrenaline long gone, and his head was still spinning from the chaos of the last few hours. But the moment he spotted Lizzie waiting just outside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, wearing his hoodie, none of that mattered.

She grinned the second she saw him. “Podium at home,” she said, stepping closer. “You looked good up there.”

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “Felt like I could’ve done better.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “You stood next to Max and Lewis on the podium at Silverstone, Lando. Take the win.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fine. But only because you said so.”

She smirked. “Good, Pretty Boy.”

He groaned, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you keep me around," she teased him before growing serious. "I’m proud of you.” Her voice was softer now, meant just for him.

His chest went tight in the best way, and he wanted nothing more than to stand there forever. But the media was still prowling, and he knew the longer they lingered, the more likely someone would shove a camera in Lizzie’s face, and he was not in the mood for that.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist as they turned toward the parking lot.

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional burst of radio chatter as their driver navigated through the post-race traffic. Lizzie rested her head against the seat, fingers absently playing with the sleeve of Lando’s hoodie that she’d stolen earlier.

Lando found himself stealing glances at her while she wasn't looking, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the urge to blurt out what had been on his mind all day. The closer they got to privacy, the more his thoughts swirled.

It wasn’t until they were halfway there that he finally exhaled and said, “You won’t believe the absolute bullshit they asked me in the post-race presser.”

Lizzie hummed. “Oh, I have a guess,” she said drily, one hand absentmindedly petting Mara. 

That gave him pause. He turned his head to look at her. “Wait, you’re not surprised?”

She sighed, shifting so she could meet his gaze. “Lando, people like that always think disability is a burden. They just don’t usually say it out loud where it gets recorded.”

Lando had never wanted to throw a journalist into a wall more in his life.

His grip tightened on the seam of his race suit. “Well, they did say it out loud. And I told them they were full of shit.”

Lizzie’s mouth twitched. “I’d have paid money to see Max and Lewis’s faces.”

“Oh, Max looked like he was gonna throw a chair,” Lando said. “Lewis just did that thing where he got all quiet and disappointed, which somehow made it worse.”

Lizzie chuckled, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was trying to brush it off. Like this was just another part of life she had to accept.

It made him sick.

When they got to the hotel, Lando kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed, tugging Lizzie down beside him. She curled into his side without hesitation, their bodies fitting together easily.

For a while, they just lay there. Lando traced patterns on her back, letting the post-race exhaustion settle over him. Lizzie’s breathing evened out, her fingers lightly resting on his stomach.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he reached for his phone.

And immediately regretted it.

Fuck, he hadn’t expected this.

The internet was a fucking warzone.

The clip of the interview had already gone viral. His own words were plastered across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—everywhere. Some people were defending him, but far, far too many were twisting it into something else entirely.

He scrolled past comments that made his blood turn to ice.

“He’s just saying that because he has to.” “Epilepsy is a liability. He’ll figure that out eventually.” “Lando should focus on racing, not playing nurse.” “They won’t last.” “Imagine risking a career over some disabled chick.”

“She’s a liability.” “No way this lasts.” “Epilepsy is a burden. She’s holding him back.” “He’s just saying that because he has to.” “F1 drivers should date models, not disabled girls.”

Lando’s stomach churned. He kept scrolling, seeing more and more of it.

Then he started seeing things from before the interview.

People digging through Lizzie’s old posts. Analyzing her seizures. Mocking her service dog. Even accusing her of faking it for attention.

“She plays it up for sympathy.” “She knew what she was getting into dating an F1 driver, she shouldn’t complain.” “She’s so dramatic about it.”

Lando barely registered that he’d started shaking.

“Lando.” Lizzie’s voice was quiet but firm. “Stop.”

He blinked, realizing his breathing had gone shallow.

Lizzie was sitting up now, watching him carefully. “Give me your phone.”

He clenched his jaw. “No.”

“Lando.”

His fingers curled around the device. “Liz, this is—it’s disgusting.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t—” He cut himself off, because of course she did. Of course, she’d seen this before. Dealt with it before. Probably expected it.

“I already know exactly what you’re reading,” she said plainly. “I’ve seen worse.”

That was somehow worse.

“I just—I don’t get how people can be so fucking cruel,” he muttered, voice raw.

Lizzie sighed, reaching out to take his hand. “They don’t see me as a person,” she said simply. “They see me as an inconvenience.”

He swallowed hard. “I should say something.”

“You already did.”

“Not enough.”

Lizzie gave him a soft, tired smile. “I love you. But you can’t fight every battle, Lando.”

He exhaled slowly. “Watch me.”

“Lando.” Lizzie’s voice was sharp now. But not to him.

She was watching him with steady eyes, expression serious. “You don’t need to fight this battle.”

He knew that tone. She was digging in her heels, refusing to let him push himself to the edge.

“You’re wrong.”

She arched a brow.

He clenched his jaw. “This is bullshit, Liz. I can’t just—” He cut himself off, a strangled sound caught in his chest.

 “You said what mattered, Lando. The people who get it heard you.”

He swallowed hard, searching her face. “I just— I hate that you have to deal with this.”

“I know,” she said again, squeezing his hand. “But I also know that I have you. And that means more than anything some faceless idiot online could ever say.”

***

***

Lizzie had been expecting the backlash.

She had known what the internet would say after Silverstone. People had always found ways to turn her epilepsy into some kind of burden, like it was something Lando had to suffer through instead of something she had lived with her entire life.

But she hadn't expected this...this amount...

She had woken up before Lando, slipping out of the bed to go the bathroom, swiping her phone on the way...

She opened Twitter while brushing her teeth.

When she saw the hate, she wasn't surprised.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting. The words were still there, every slur, every insult, every snide comment about Lando being too good for her.

There were even worse things. Comments about the seizures, like the internet hadn’t decided to try and diagnose her enough times already.

But then—then she saw the thread.

She should have stopped reading after the first tweet. But she didn’t.

It wasn’t just speculation or people overstepping—it was surgical. Precise, methodical, cruel. Someone had gone deep, pulling up information she hadn’t even known was online. Her mother’s name. Her stepfather’s Facebook. The names and birthdates of her half-siblings—kids she had never met, would likely never meet.

Her vision blurred as she stared at the attached screenshot. An old Facebook post. A woman who looked so much like the mother she barely remembered, but older. A man beside her, his arm around her waist. And a baby in her arms.

The caption read: Our little family is growing.

Lizzie felt like she had been punched in the gut.

Little family.

She scrolled down further, her stomach sinking as she found another post. Two kids. A boy and a girl. Tagged with the names of people she had never heard of.

Her mother hadn’t just left.

She had started over. Had more kids. Had a whole new family.

And never once—not once—had she reached out.

A shaky breath left Lizzie’s lips.

Her mother’s new family. The one she had built without her. The life she had constructed, brick by brick, while leaving Lizzie and her dad behind like they had been a mistake she needed to erase.

Lizzie felt something sink inside her, deep and heavy.

And then she got to the comments.

"Lando deserves someone healthy.""She’s just going to be a burden.""You really think he’s going to stay with her forever?""He’s young, rich, and famous. Why would he settle for this?"

Her hands were shaking. Not from anger—though she should have been angry—but from something colder. Something sharper.

Because this wasn’t just strangers talking. These were the voices she had spent years trying to silence in her own head. The ones that whispered late at night, when her body ached from the aftershocks of a seizure. When she woke up disoriented, Mara pressed against her side, grounding her, reminding her that she was still here.

The ones that said, What if they’re right?

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, staring at the screen, heart pounding in her chest.

Then—knock knock knock.

“Liz?”

Lando.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands were still trembling. She forced herself to inhale, exhale.

The knock came again, a little firmer. “Lizzie?” His voice was careful. Concerned. “Can you open the door?”

Her fingers barely worked as she reached out, unlocking it.

The second the door opened, Lando was there, his eyes scanning her face, taking in her pale complexion, the way she was gripping the counter like she might collapse. His brows furrowed. “What happened?”

Lizzie swallowed, throat tight. “I—” Her voice wavered.

Lando took a step closer, his concern deepening. “Liz, talk to me.”

She exhaled shakily, forcing herself to say it. “My mum left when I was six.”

Lando stilled.

“She—” Lizzie laughed, but there was no humor in it. “She said she couldn’t handle it. That I was too much. My seizures, the hospital visits, all of it.” Her hands curled into fists. “So she left.”

Lando’s jaw clenched.

Lizzie’s breath shuddered out of her. “And now I find out she went and had more kids. That she had no problem being a mother, just not to me.” Her voice broke on the last word. “She replaced me.”

Silence.

Then—warm hands on her arms, grounding her.

“Liz.” Lando’s voice was quiet. Steady. “Look at me.”

She did.

His gaze was steady. Serious. “That is not on you.”

She tried to laugh, but it got caught in her throat. “It sure feels like it.”

His grip tightened—not too much, just enough. Just enough to keep her from floating away. “She made that choice. That has nothing to do with you.”

Lizzie shook her head, throat aching. “I—Lando, I just—I want to go home.”

His expression softened instantly. “Okay,” he said, no hesitation. “Let’s go home.”

Lando didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t press for more details. He just nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and said, Let’s go home.

Then he made it happen.

He was on the phone in seconds, making arrangements, calling his team, canceling whatever obligations he still had.

Lizzie sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring blankly at the floor, the phone still clutched in her hand. The thread was still open, her mother’s face frozen on the screen.

She couldn’t look at it anymore.

Her fingers trembled as she locked her phone and set it down.

Mara padded over, putting her head on her knee, staring at Lizzie with deep dark brown eyes. Lizzie swallowed. 

Her thoughts were spiraling, looping around the same things over and over again. She left because of me. She couldn’t handle me. But she could handle them.

A deep inhale. Exhale.

She heard Lando pacing near the window, voice low but firm as he spoke to someone on the phone. “No, we’re leaving right now. I don’t care what the schedule says.” A pause. “Then change it.” Another pause, and then, more clipped, “Figure it out.”

Lizzie glanced up.

His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with frustration. He ran a hand through his hair before finally sighing, rubbing at his temple. “No, I don’t need to be there. I need to be with my girlfriend. Just handle it.”

A beat.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He hung up, exhaling sharply.

His eyes met hers, and some of the tension left his face.  “We’ll be out of here in an hour,” he told her, voice softer now. 

Lizzie nodded. “Thank you.”

Lando crossed the room in a few strides, sitting down beside her on the bed. He didn’t say anything at first—just reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

His grip was warm, steady. Grounding.

Lizzie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then, quietly, Lando asked, “Are you okay?”

Lizzie hesitated. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to act like she was fine, that this was just another stupid internet thing that she could brush off.

But this wasn’t just that.

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Lando’s fingers tightened around hers.

Her voice was quieter when she added, “I think I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

Lando nodded, like he understood. Maybe he didn’t fully, but he wanted to, and that was enough.

Lizzie exhaled. “I always thought maybe she’d had a hard time. That maybe she wanted to reach out but just… couldn’t.” A shaky breath. “But she could. She just didn’t.”

Lando’s jaw clenched again. His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, gentle. “That’s on her,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not you.”

Lizzie let her head fall onto his shoulder.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then rested his cheek against her hair.

They stayed like that for a while.

Eventually, Lando murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”

Lizzie nodded. “Yeah.”

They left the hotel without looking back.

[yailtsv]

Chapter 2: Mistake? Lesson learned?

»»— warnings: none

»»— notes: ummmm i’m sorry 🙃

»»— word count: 1.1k

previous part ⌧ next part

Unprofessional Line Masterlist

you left.

you didn’t stay in the office like you were supposed to.

you got scared and left.

paige left for the GQ shoot about 30 minutes ago, which means you had 30 minutes of pure silence, which is bad, cause that’s 30 minutes of silence where you can be stuck in your head over thinking.

what if she fires me now? i can’t afford rent without this job. i have some money saved up though so maybe that can hold me over until i find a good paying job. no! what if she tells all the bosses that i slept with her so then they won’t hire me? i’m screwed. i need to get out of here before she gets back and fires me. why’d i cross that line?!?

you immediately stood up from the couch finding and putting on your clothes as you found them. once completely dressed - you bolted.

not turning back once, you just needed to get out of there immediately. although you did tell the front desk worker that you were leaving cause you didn’t feel good, but that’s it.

“babe i’m saying this in the nicest way possible, your dumb. not even dumb but ridiculous.” your best friend says over the phone

“oh gee thanks!” you responded sarcastically, sitting on your couch in your super overpriced apartment - that’s in terrible condition, may i add.

“hey don’t do that, you know i’m right. she never once showed any signs that she was gonna fire you right?”

“….no”

“and she wasn’t being rude to you, or making you feel like an object, or anything of the sorts right?”

“well no bu-“

“so you just left for no reason. she’s obviously interested in you and your interested in her, so what’s the problem? you’ve been telling me about her for years, bro! years! and now that you’re finally crossing that bridge, you just run away?”

“it was a mistake! she’s my boss, i-i can’t just sleep with my boss, you know that. i need to just…move on. she’s not interested in me and i can’t be interested in her. it’s against the rules on every level. lesson learned; don’t sleep with your boss! it makes things complicated.” you sighed, sounding like you were trying to convince yourself more than your friend. mistake? lesson learned? really?

“you don’t even sound confident in that! bro talk to her! you’ve been with her since her brand was created, you’re literally a day 1! she wouldn’t ever fire you let alone fire you because of something you BOTH did!”

you just sit there letting her words wrap around your brain, before you hear water dripping, making you sigh out loud already knowing where it’s coming from

“hey i gotta go, my ceiling’s leaking again, i gotta go find buckets to put under the leaks.”

you try not to give her time to respond but right when you’re pressing the red button, you could hear “TALK TO HER!” before the call ended

you sigh before standing up to search for these dumb buckets, to put under these dumb leaks, that the dumb landlord won’t send help for. you’ve been complaining about multiple leaks, and broken things for almost a year now. your showers been broken for the last two months too, so you’ve been getting to work before anyone else and taking a shower in the locker room downstairs, and you obviously left the office in a hurry and now you’re stuck smelling like sex, sweat, and paige’s valentino cologne. thank god your lease will expire soon.

paige had just gotten back from the GQ photo shoot, a little bit behind schedule but only because she had the driver stop at your favorite fast food place.

paige waved to the front desk worker as a way to say she’s back, as the worker was on the phone and then got in the elevator heading to the top floor - where hers and yours offices were

nobody should ever be up on the top floor unless they absolutely need to talk to you or paige, which is why paige felt comfortable yelling out to you, + like she said she’s the boss and she makes the rules, so really she could yell as much, and as loud as she wanted too, but she’s aware that you’re more introverted and private, so she is still gonna respect that you don’t want the office knowing about you and her.

“babe, i got us food!” paige yelled out, reaching for her keys to unlock her office door, only to find it already unlocked, making her enter confused

“baby?” paige called out taking her keys out of the door, before looking around to see no you, none of your clothes on the floor, and her shirt layed on the couch

she looked around confused and scared, before setting the food down on the small table on the side of the couch, and exiting the office going back to the first floor

“hey, hey, hey, have you seen y/n? she’s not upstairs.” paige says to the front desk worker, with her voice laced in noticeable concern

“she left a little bit ago. claimed she she wasn’t feeling good, and honestly? she looked very pale and tired” he said shrugging before looking back down at his computer, trying to finish whatever he was working on - not knowing that he just punched paige right in the heart

she slowly nods before hitting the desk gently as a way of saying ‘thank you’ before slowly making her way back to the elevator.

walking into her office, she immediately walks past the couch, going straight to her desk and pulling her phone out of her suit pocket

Hey, are you feeling better?

delivered at 7:30

Baby?

delivered at 7:47

Alright, message me when you

feel better, yeah?

delivered at 8:00

paige sighs throwing her phone onto her desk, before rubbing her hand over her face.

did i mess this up? did i ruin everything? is she actually sick or is she avoiding me? god i’m such a bitch, this is all my fault. wait, did i take advantage of her? no! she gave me consent, she has to just be sick, right? right?

paige groans throwing her head against her desk, food long forgotten about

but her overthinking time is abruptly interrupted as one of your interns knock on her opened door “miss.bueckers you need to have those new designs turned in tonight”

“yeah i’ll get to them, thank you” paige rasps out “are you ok, boss? you look sad”

paige puts on a fake smile “i’m fine, thank you.” the intern falls for that though, taking her word that she is ok, and leaves paige alone in her office with her overwhelming voices

is she avoiding me? did i mess things up?

🏷️ @melpthatsme @rebecca-woso @authentic-girl03 @souplored @bethsleftnip @evry1luvzzae @paigeluvvr @dopeeaglequeen

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake’s Farewell: The Day Gotham Let Him Go

They searched for him for months.

When Tim Drake disappeared, the entire Batfamily unraveled. One day he was there, saving Gotham alongside them. The next? Gone. No explanation. No note. Just silence. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian—they all assumed the worst. Kidnapping, foul play, an elaborate plot. Because Tim Drake doesn’t just leave.

But he did.

Months later, they found him. Not in a dark corner of Gotham. Not held captive by some villain. No, they found him in a small, quiet town in Europe. A place with cobblestone streets and flower boxes in every window. Tim was there, in a cozy house with a garden out back. And he wasn’t alone. He had a child—a bright-eyed little one with dark hair and a curious smile. The moment they saw the kid, they knew.

Kon.

The clone Tim made, after all those failed attempts to bring Kon-El back. Tim had finally succeeded. And he was raising this child alone, quietly, away from the chaos of Gotham.

The confrontation wasn’t what they expected. Bruce tried to argue, voice low and rough, that Tim was too young for this. “You’re barely out of your own childhood,” he said, the words falling flat even as he spoke them. He knew the truth: Tim had never really been a child.

Tim’s response? Calm. Firm.

“I raised you out of your grief. I was Robin because Gotham needed me to be. Because you needed me to be. But this isn’t what I wanted for my life. I’m choosing my happiness, Bruce.”

They didn’t know how to respond to that. Because Tim was right. He’d given everything—his childhood, his innocence, his sanity—for a city that never gave back.

Now, he had a family. A child who wasn’t burdened with masks and capes. And a life. A real life. One where he spent afternoons in the garden, mornings at the café down the street. Where he wasn’t “Red Robin” or “Tim Drake.” He was just… Tim.

There were signs of something else, too. Little things. An extra coffee mug in the kitchen. Another pair of shoes by the door. A faint, easy smile when he glanced across the street, as if sharing an inside joke with someone they couldn’t see. They didn’t press. But there was a quiet presence in Tim’s life, woven into the edges of this new chapter. Someone who helped build this safe haven, this peace.

And Tim had no plans of returning to Gotham.

“I’m not Red Robin anymore. And I never will be again.”

They didn’t understand at first. Not fully. How could he walk away? How could he choose this life, this quiet happiness, over the mission? Over them?

But deep down, they knew. They’d always known Tim’s heart wasn’t in it the way theirs was. He wasn’t like Bruce, who could never let go. Or Jason, who burned with restless fury. Or Dick, who carried hope like a torch. Tim had been the glue holding them together, but it had come at a cost. And now he was finally healing.

“I’ll still be family,” Tim promised. “I’ll visit. Holidays, special occasions. But this? This is my life now. You can’t take me away from my happiness because you need me to stay. That’s not fair.”

They wanted to argue. But what could they say? Tim had always been the rational one. The one who saw the bigger picture. And he was right.

Bruce’s voice softened. “You’re happy.”

Tim nodded. “I am.”

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

The Batfamily returned to Gotham, a little quieter, a little heavier. They’d lost Red Robin. But they hadn’t lost Tim. And as much as it hurt, they knew he’d finally found the peace they could never give him.

Some heroes leave the fight not because they’ve lost hope, but because they’ve found something worth living for.

Tim Drake had given Gotham everything. Now, it was time for Gotham to let him go.

[firingstars]

neighborly advice | ch. 8

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you and bucky finally go on your date.

warnings: mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, slight(?) dom play, teasing, mentions of toys, unprotected sex, cockwarming, timeline is somewhere around the middle/end of fatws, language, alcohol, no use of y/n

word count: 8.0k

a/n: it’s. TIME. next chapter might take a lot longer than usual or you guys might get smth entirely different before the next chapter idk every time i write chapter 9 i delete it and restart bc i don’t like what i did previously so let’s see what happens… i’m just as surprised as u guys are when a chapter comes out

previous chapter | next chapter

You finished getting ready as fast as you could in his bathroom. You cursed Leah one more time when you took a proper look at the cut on your face, then made a mental note to apologize to Bucky as you went through his medicine cabinet to find some bandaids. Thankfully, you found one, and plastered it on your face. You frowned at your reflection, but it was better than getting an infection on your face and spending your first date with Bucky in an emergency room.

You changed out of your clothes, and into the random outfit you brought. Thankfully, it at least made sense. Bucky didn’t look too dressed up. He was wearing jeans with a nice shirt and a black coat. You grabbed some black cargo pants, and a fitted, boatneck long sleeve. Simple, but nice enough. Comfortable, too.

When you exited the bathroom and went into the living room, you found him waiting for you with another bouquet of flowers in hand. A dozen, dark red roses, and a nervous look on his face.

”Are you apologizing to me again, Bucky? For entering my house without permission, maybe?” You grinned at him.

“I can, if you want,” he said with a deep breath, then looked down at the roses briefly before meeting your eyes. “But, no. I got these for you. For our date. You do like flowers, right? I didn’t see the other flowers…”

”They’re actually on the floor. Leah pushed me and the vase fell,” you explained, and you watched as a brief flash of disgust crossed his face. You didn’t want to see that anymore. So, you crossed the space and closed the distance to stand right in front of him. You pushed the roses to the side briefly to step onto your toes.

Your lips pressed to the side of his face, just a ghost of a kiss against his cheek.

”I love flowers, Bucky. Thank you. I’ll put them in a safe spot so these one’s don’t take a tumble,” you whispered, then moved a couple steps back. He released a breath, eyes watching your every move as you took the roses from him. You smiled at the flowers, then at him.

”I’ll buy you flowers every day, doll.”

You laughed. He sounded so serious. Like this was his newfound mission, that this was the hill that he was going to die on, and to hell with everyone that got in his way. You shook your head, and moved to rest the roses on the coffee table.

”Sure, soldier. Right now though, I’d love it if you told me where we were going.”

Bucky blinked, snapped out of whatever thoughts were rushing through his head at that moment. He nodded, and gestured towards the door. “Right. Our date.”

”Unless you want to show me a personalized tour of your bedroom,” you tried, watching him freeze mid-step. “Been there before, but didn’t get a chance to see where everything is.”

He cleared his throat one more time, then looked over his shoulder at you. Bucky seemed to finally compose himself, giving you a small, half smirk. “Patience, doll. That’s for the end of the night.”

A tingle of excitement shot through your entire body as your pulse quickened. You bit back your grin as he led you out the door.

Bucky opened your car door for you. He walked in front of you, making sure he reached the car first just so he could do that. Something that was so cute, you thought. You watched as he fumbled with connecting his phone to the car’s bluetooth for a second, muttering incoherent words to himself in frustration before you decided to gently take the phone from his hands and do it yourself.

”Thanks, doll,” he whispered to you.

”Of course, Sarge.” You saw a smile on his lips as he got music playing in a low volume before he pulled out of the parking garage.

With one hand on the wheel, and the other on the gear shift, he looked extremely attractive. Bucky looked relaxed right at that moment. The sun was setting in the horizon as the world was beginning to go to sleep, and illuminating his face perfectly as you watched him. He was picturesque. You wanted to take a picture, but fought against the urge. Instead, you painted the memory into your brain. You would remember this moment for the rest of your life.

When you were finished, you looked at the car— took a good look at it. The seats were leather, polished and nicely well made. It didn’t look like Bucky used the car often. Inside the car, you couldn’t hear the engine as he drove. Was it electric? You didn’t think it was, not with this make and model. Unless he had it modified. Briefly, you wondered how much money Avengers made. He owned both a car and a motorcycle— both of them very nice models.

“This car was a gift,” he told you, as if he was reading your mind. “From a friend.”

“From Steve?” you guessed with a hum

“How did you know?”

“You don’t call Sam your friend, and he’s the only other one you talk about,” you said with a grin. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Sam’s not my friend,” he said with a huff. “Steve’s different.”

“Steve Rogers,” you said, the name holding weight as you said them aloud. “An impressive man. He must be honored to have you as your best friend.”

Bucky snorted, “I think you meant to say it the other day around.”

“Nope.” You shook your head. “I’m sure Steve would be proud to know his best friend saved a poor damsel in distress in the middle of the night then has the pleasure of taking her out on a date. Seriously, Sarge. You must be have an entire harem at this point. You know— since you’re just scooping them up in your arms and holding them like that.”

“Women aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a man who’s over a century old with a trail of bodies. I think there would have to be something mentally wrong with you. And you’re the only one that I held like that,” he confessed. It made you bite back a smile briefly.

“Good for you, then. My doctor’s been telling me for years that I should be in therapy, but I just don’t listen to her. My mental issues will persist for a long time, so looks like I’ll stick around.”

Bucky barked out a laugh, and shook his head. “Therapy fucking sucks.”

“I agree. I tried it once, and my therapist just passive aggressively wrote down everything I said on a notepad.”

“Shit, mine does that, too. Do they go through all that school just to learn how to do that?” Bucky said, groaning. He dragged a hand over his face.

“No clue,” you said with a giggle. “I do know there’s schools for the elderly to learn how to use technology though. In case you wanna learn how to use your car. I’m sure there’s features on the motorcycle you haven’t touched yet.”

“Ha ha,” he laughed dryly at you, making your grin spread wider.

“Seriously though, why don’t you use the car more? It’s nice.”

“Both this car and the motorcycle… both of them were Steve’s. He gave them to me before they left. I guess I try to leave the car alone to perserve his memory as much as possible,” he said. The honest answer threw you off for a moment, making you pause. He looked a little sad. “This car doesn’t even smell like him anymore. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s left.”

”Since he went off to the moon?” you asked, hoping to cheer him up a bit. It worked. Your heart soared as you watched his face twist with amusement.

”You believe that conspiracy?”

”No,” you hummed.

“What do you think he’s doing?” he asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

”I think… He’s resting somewhere,” you said slowly, looking out the window. “I don’t blame him. Fought for so long, so hard. He deserves peace in his life, too. So, if peace is on the moon, then I hope the view is nice from up there.”

You looked back at Bucky, seeing a small, nostalgic smile on his face. He nodded at your words. He looked like he was at peace, right at this moment.

”What about me, doll? You think I’m worthy of any kind of peace?” he asked. You could tell he was trying to joke. Trying to tease and be funny— but it made you frown.

“I think you, of all people, deserve peace. You fought just as hard, if not harder,” you told him, never moving your gaze off his face. You watched Bucky as he swallowed, letting the words wash over him as the music began to fade in the background between the two of you. Then, the car was parked.

You didn’t even realize you had gotten to the restaurant already.

You moved to look out the window, to see where he had taken you to eat, but found yourself unable to move too far away. Bucky had reached for you, hand tangling in your hair as he gently pulled you closer to him. He met you halfway across the center console, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

It was different from the first kiss he had given you in his apartment. This one was slow. Sweet. He was treating you as if you were fragile in his hands, as if you were about to slip through his fingertips and break if he found himself too rough with you. Once again, you were wrapped around the scent of Bucky. Right in this moment, only he existed, right against you.

He pulled away first, but came back a second later to press a quick, softer peck to your lips.

”I hope you like steak, pretty girl,” he whispered to you.

”Love it,” you grinned.

”Stay put. Don’t open your door,” he ordered you, then quickly jumped out of the car. You watched as he practically ran around the vehicle to get to your side, quickly opening the door for you to let you leave. The sight made you giggle. It was silly, but chivalrous all at the same time. He grinned at the sound of your laugh.

Dinner was nice. He ordered a different cut of steak than you, along with different sides and a different drink, and the two of you ended up picking off each other’s plate. You shared the food equally amongst each other. The restaurant was quiet, for the most part, the two of you sharing quiet conversations about nothing in particular as you ate.

Just this moment alone was better than any dates you had ever been on. In a single night, Bucky had raised all of your standards. The date had barely just started, according to him. Either way, either he was doing everything right or you needed to respect yourself a bit more because just the fact he pulled and pushed in every seat for you was enough to make your heart flutter.

Then again, Bucky didn’t need to do much to make your heart quicken.

Just watching him across the table was enough. When he met your eyes and held your gaze with that unwavering, confident stare, you felt you were safe here. You didn’t want to stray far from him, or ever let him leave your side again. Then, a more dangerous side of you let your eyes wander.

His simple movements like cutting steak made the muscles of his flesh arm ripple a bit, and you could see that through the layer of his jacket. When he sat straight and shifted a little, you could see each line and definition of his chest muscles and where they started and ended.

You were going slightly crazy, if you were being honest.

You hoped Bucky didn’t notice.

When the check came, the waiter told you both to take your time. You gave him a grateful smile as Bucky opened up the leather book, and you looked over his shoulder to take a look at the numbers in front of you. The damage wasn’t too bad.

“Since I stole half your food, let’s split the bill?” you asked, reaching for your purse. Bucky froze in place.

He had already taken his wallet out, card ready to be removed from its pocket. Bucky’s eyes slowly drifted towards your face, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief.

“Split the bill?” he echoed.

“Yes. Or I can pay for my food, since mine was more expensive than yours,” you offered, taking another once over at the receipt.

“Doll,” he said slowly, placing his wallet on the table to free his hands. Bucky looked at you with concern written all over his face. “Why would you pay?”

“I just said so?” you answered, confused as you pulled your wallet out as well.

“I asked you on this date. There’s no reason for you to pay when you’re with me. Ever. It wouldn’t be a date if you paid, doll,” Bucky explained. There was a pleading look in his eyes, as if he was begging you to understand where you were coming from.

“You’ve spent a lot of money on me already, Buck,” you said, eyebrows knitting together with worry. Two bouquets of flowers on top of this meal, and the date wasn’t over yet. Not only did he spend money on you, he was spending a lot of time on you. Planning all of this wasn’t just something that came to him as a passing thought. Bucky was meticulous, and you knew that.

“It’s nothing compared to what you’re worth,” he dismissed, shaking his head. “Don’t ever bring your wallet out if you’re with me. I’ll throw it across the room if I see it. Now put that thing away before I do just that.”

With his half hearted threat taken seriously, he finally took his card out and placed it in the checkbook, giving it to the waiter as he passed by. He let out a small huff, crossing his arms.

“You’ve paid on dates before?” Bucky asked with a deep frown.

“I don’t go on dates often, but there have been dates where I have paid for my share. Or usually I pay for dessert,” you said with a shrug.

“Dessert,” he scoffed. “Fucking unbelievable. You will not pay a single thing when you’re with me.”

You smiled. Was he really this enraged over something like this? It was cute. You couldn’t help but want to tease him a little bit. “What if I ask you on a date? Can I pay then?”

“You can plan it,” he answered immediately. “If it requires booking something or paying in advance, take my wallet and use my card. Drill it in your head. You’re not paying.”

You could only let out a small laugh, but he wasn’t laughing with you. This was a hill he was going to die on, and no one would be able to move him or shake him from this decision.

Once the checkbook came back, he pulled your chair out, and led you out to the car. You could still hear him muttering about the disgrace of you even asking about paying. Something about his mother rolling in her grave if she ever heard that he let his girl ever pay for him. It made you giggle again.

When you were back in the car to your next destination, you began to hum along to the music. Both of you were in a comfortable silence, Bucky’s hand now intertwined with your own. It was something so small, simple— but it filled your chest with joy. Feeling the weight of his fingers interlaced with yours just felt… right.

“You know this song?” Bucky asked, surprise in his voice as you continued to hum.

“My grandpa used to play it all the time,” you told him, and you couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. “You know, since grandpas love this kinda music.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “I’m sure he and I have lots in common.”

“You would. He adored me, after all.”

“I think my version of adoring you is a little different, doll,” he said, steadying his eyes off the road briefly to give you a glance.

“I sure would hope so, or this is gonna get real weird, real fast,” you told him with a cheeky grin. You watched as he rolled his eyes and gave you a fake huff, but he couldn’t hide the way his eyes had a particular shine to it. “He would like you.”

“You think so?”

“I think he would think you’re a little slow with the times, but yeah, he would like you. My grandpa knew how to use bluetooth.”

“Okay,” he said, and you could hear the exasperation in his voice. “I ride the motorcycle more than I do this car. We would be on the motorcycle if it weren’t for what I had planned.”

“And what would that be?”

“Keep an eye out, and you’ll see,” Bucky told you. “It’s coming up.”

Soon enough, you saw the signs. A drive in movie. You let out a soft gasp of surprise, your hand tightening around his hand.

“I’ve never been to one of these before,” you confessed.

“No? Glad I can take you to your first,” he hummed.

The darkness of the night completely concealed the trunk setup he had waiting for you. His backseats were flattened down, and he had soft blankets laid out with pillows for the two of you to rest on while you watched the movie. Moreover, the roof of the car went invisible— see through, only for you guys. No one would be able to see in.

“Stark tech,” Bucky explained with a shrug when he saw your wide eyes.

“You know how to activate Stark technology, but not connect your phone to CarPlay?” you demanded, still in shock. Bucky shot you a half hearted glare before he continued his explanation on the car.

“Was a gift from Tony to Steve for one of Steve’s birthdays, I think. I have a bunch of other hand-me-down gadgets if you wanna tear apart Stark’s shit and rip him off for your own company.”

He was joking, you could tell, but you smacked his arm anyways. Bucky let out a laugh as you scolded him, “His wife will sue the shit out of me!”

“Only if she finds out, doll. I can make sure no one ever does,” he hummed, and pressed a kiss to your temple. You were more than certain he had all the means to do so. “Come on, let’s get comfortable. I got snacks for you, whole bunch of sugary stuff. Not sure what you liked.”

You guys managed to get your pillows propped up against the back of the car, half laying down as you waited for the movie to start. You went through the bags of snacks, Bucky watching you.

He must’ve bought the whole store.

There were different assortments of chocolates, caramels, pretzels, cookies, chip bags, red vines, and other things you hadn’t even considered buying before. He even got bottles of water, but also sodas and brought some cans of beers. You could only grin, thinking about how he must’ve looked while grabbing all of these things.

You settled for the cookies for now, and opened them with a smile.

“You’re driving. Can you even drink beer right now?” you asked with a raised eyebrow as you watched him crack open the can.

“Serum that makes me what I am makes my metabolism insanely fast,” he answered, and you paused.

“You can’t get drunk,” you said, and he hummed in response.

“Nope. Just like the taste. You, on the other hand, I’ve watched get drunk more than once. Probably not a good idea.”

“Why? Don’t like it when I get drunk, Sarge?” you asked as you took his can from his hands to take a drink as well.

“That’s not it,” he said, watching as you brought the can to your lips. “I just want you to be able to remember everything that I do to you when we get home.”

You locked eyes with him, the words weighing heavy in your mind as you lowered the can. You watched as a smile spread onto his face when you handed him back the beer.

“Shut up.”

“Every time you tell me to shut up, you kiss me. Where’s my kiss, doll?” he asked, tilting his head in question. He was the one daring you this time to make a move. Your eyes went to his lips, and your heart was pounding.

No.

“That’s too bad.” You pouted at him. “You haven’t done anything to deserve a kiss from me.”

If Bucky’s eyebrows could raise to his hairline, they would have at that moment. “That’s harsh, doll.”

“You could always just take what you want from me. I won’t complain if it’s you,” you told him, leaning a bit closer to him.

His eyes lowered. Not just to your mouth, but trailed all the way down your body. Taking all of you in. You watched as he swiped a tongue over his lips as he took in a deep breath. Then, he draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest.

“Movie’s about to start. Pay attention,” he said your name, his voice sounding a bit thick. “I’ll quiz you on it later.”

You laughed against him, but settled into his body. He was warm. Bucky shuffled a bit, grabbing the extra blanket to spread over your legs and his, tucking the two of you in before grabbing the cookies you chose as your preferred movie snack and placing them on top.

Briefly, you wondered if he was going to get handsy with you during the movie. You really wouldn’t have minded it, but as the movie roared to life, you decided that you definitely did not want him to.

He was just as into the film as you were. The two of you were there together, entranced in every single detail. You could feel his body tense against yours during climax’s, relax during the resolutions, and even felt a small jolt of his body when the main character prevailed. You enjoyed the rumble of his chest when he laughed at witty moments in the movie, and the sound of his heart in your ear as he was clearly reacting in real time.

“Rookie mistake,” he even muttered at one point when one of the characters got shot.

You laughed at the commentary harder than you should have, and missed the way he smiled.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, “if that were me? Would not have gotten beat up like that. Seriously. He has so many weapons and didn’t use a single one of them properly. I think this is my only issue so far.”

“Okay, soldier,” you snorted. “Keep watching.”

The conversation continued on the way home, and up the stairs of the apartment. Bucky talked about the inconsistencies of the battle and actions while you were picking apart the logistics of the science behind the project they were trying defend, literally with their lives.

Otherwise, the movie was quite enjoyable. You helped Bucky fold and put away his extra blankets and pillows, and even find space for his new snacks.

“You sure you don’t want any of this?” he asked. “I normally don’t eat this kinda stuff. Ever.”

“Just save it for me then. For when I come back next time,” you hummed.

“Next time, huh?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow with you.

“You don’t want me to come back?” you asked, feigning shock and hurt. “I thought this date was going so well. Shit, I misread the signs. I’ll get out of your hair. I’m really sorry.”

You quickly turned away, ready to rush out of his apartment. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest before you could take two steps away from him. His metal hand was splayed across your abdomen, pinky and ring finger slipping under your shirt and making goosebumps rise into your skin. His flesh arm was wrapped right around your middle, holding you firm, but gentle. Your breath caught in your throat as you craned your next to look back at him, hands falling onto his.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Date’s not over, pretty girl.”

“Mm… It’s not? What else is left, Sarge?”

“If you’re not too tired,” he said, his voice dropping into a whisper that sent shivers down your spine, “we can start that tour of my room.”

You smiled, turning in his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck as his hands naturally fell to your hips.

“Did you get some new decorations since the last time I’ve been here?” you asked, glancing at his lips before looking back up at his eyes.

“Well, I did just move in. Maybe you can give me some pointers, show me how to fill up the space,” Bucky murmured, holding you closer to him.

“Why don’t you show me around then?” you asked, a hand absentmindedly playing with the back of his hair. A breath caught in his throat briefly before he finally moved.

One of Bucky’s hands went to your chin, tugging your mouth open for him as he pressed his mouth to yours. You hummed in delight as his tongue swiped against your own, pushing your body further into his. You didn’t want any space between you both.

Bucky navigated the two of you away from the kitchen and towards the hall— and you were bumping into things. Well, he was bumping into things. Anything that you would’ve hit with a hip or an arm, Bucky had shot out his own hand to take the blow himself. Bucky didn’t allow for you to get hurt at all.

“This is,” you gasped between kisses, “the worst fucking tour.”

Not that you were actually complaining.

Bucky let out a breathy laugh, pressing your body against the wall in the hallway. He leaned down, hands hooking behind your thighs as he lifted you to wrap you legs around his waist. He started his assault on your neck, sucking on that same spot he bit down before.

“We haven’t even gotten to my room yet, doll,” he whispered, grinning against your neck, a whimper escaping your lips. You couldn’t let him take all the power.

Your hands moved from his shoulders to behind his neck, and you tugged on his hair again. You remembered how he moaned before, and wanted to hear it again. A smile broke out on your face when he did.

“Not even at your room yet, and you’re already so hard for me, Sergeant,” you teased, locking your eyes with his. To prove your point even further, you slowly rolled your hips against his, reveling in the way his eyes closed just slightly, and a groan escaped his throat. “Will you even make it to the bed?”

“You’ll regret those words,” he grunted, pulling you off the wall.

Bucky’s lips met yours again in a feverish mix of tongue, heat, passion, saliva, and moans as he walked down the hall to his bedroom. Along the way, he had parted from you briefly to rip your shirt off of your body, discarding it somewhere behind him. Then, he laid you on his satin sheets, hovering above you as your legs were still docked at his hips.

“Look at you,” he whispered, a shiver passing through your body as his metal hand started its journey from the hollow of your throat, down to your sternum, and finished at your navel. “So pretty.”

“I’m not even fully naked yet, Bucky,” you whispered back, feeling shy under his gaze.

“So?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing at you as he met your eyes once more. “Doesn’t change the fact you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been alive for a real long time, doll.”

Before you could give him another smart comment, he descended on you. Lips met yours once more as his hands started to work on the button and zipper of your pants.

Your skin was on fire as he broke the kiss to trail his lips down the side of your neck and to your collarbone as he pushed your pants off of your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, gaining a hum of appreciation and a small nip against the swell of your breasts.

He paused at the lacy ensemble you had on, eyes trailing over your body in a different way now. Hungry. Bucky looked almost insatiable.

“All for me, doll?” he chuckled lowly, hooking a finger on a bra strap to slide it down your arm. An involuntary shiver rushed through your body. “Almost like you planned for me to take you tonight.”

“You can’t ever be too sure,” you whispered back, watching him as he exposed one of your breasts. Bucky licked his lips slowly before glancing at you, locking eyes with you.

“So pretty,” he told you once more before latching on. His warm tongue flicked at your hardening nipple, electricity rushing through your body with each swipe and suck of his mouth. You weaved your hands through his short hair, tugging lightly. Not to pull him away, just to let him know that you liked it. He hummed against you— you quickly realized he enjoyed having his hair pulled.

The thought made your insides twitch.

“Bucky,” you whined, rolling your hips slightly, trying to get some sort of friction.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered against your chest. While his flesh hand took to work freeing your other breast, beginning to roll your nipple between his fingers and massage your breast, his metal hand had trailed southward.

The cool touch of him left goosebumps where he previously was. Then, his hand dipped beneath the fabric of your underwear. You felt him smile against your skin when you gasped.

“This okay, doll?” he murmured, moving to kiss your neck again. You nodded, almost frantically. You needed him to touch you where it mattered. Where it damn near hurt. He chuckled lowly near your ear, then moved to capture your lips as his fingers finally touched you.

Your mouth fell open in a soundless moan. His fingers spread you open, taking account of how slick you were for him, before returning to your clit to rub slow, torturous circles into the bundle of nerves.

“Bucky,” you moaned. “More.”

“Mm,” he hummed in response, “No.”

“No?” you cried, your hips moving to meet his hands. His other hand immediately moved to pin you to the bed, not allowing you to chase the delicious friction.

“The serum that makes me what I am enhanced a lot of things,” he suddenly said, making you blink in confusion. You were trying real hard to understand why the hell he was talking about this now of all times, when his fingers were still covered in your juices and you just wanted him inside you. “Like I told you before, I can’t get drunk—“

“Barnes, are you going to fuck me or give me a lecture on the super soldier serum?” you cut him off, then gasped as his fingers pressed on your clit hard.

“I’m getting there, doll. Patience,” he told you, clicking his tongue in fake annoyance. “Cut me off again, and I’ll stop touching you.”

Oh, you couldn’t have that. So, you nodded weakly as he continued his slow work on you. You were trying to control your breathing, trying to focus on the sensation between your legs and the slight pleasure he was granting you.

“I can’t get drunk,” Bucky repeated with a soft hum. “Other things that happened to me include my senses being heightened. I see things in sharper definition. Makes for a great sniper, if you really think about it.”

Suddenly, you felt extremely exposed. You were keenly aware of how his eyes were slowly going every centimeter of your body, taking in every single part of you. He was seeing pieces of your body that you hadn’t even really stopped to look at, and he was loving what he was seeing.

“You’re a smart girl,” he said, voice dropping barely above a whisper. “Tell me another sense that could have been heightened.”

His fingers stopped its lazy rub on your clit, slowly moving to the aching throb that where you needed him the most. Bucky spread your folds, and you could hear the slight squelch of wetness as he parted it. He hummed in delight, fingers just poking and prodding at the entrance, but never pushing past.

You swallowed, “S… sound?” you stuttered. “Your hearing?”

“Good girl,” he praised, shoving a finger into your core. You gasped, hands grabbing at his forearms as he started a slow pace. “These walls are really thin, doll.”

“W.. what?” you whimpered, the hand on your hip pressing harder to keep you in place. You were squirming now.

“Especially thin for me, who has great hearing,” he continued, a smirk forming on his lips as he shifted on the bed to tower over you. “And your room is right on the other side of my wall. How do you think I felt listening to you say my name every night for the last few days?”

Your eyes widened in shock, but you didn’t have time to process. Not when he pulled his hands away from you, only to grab your thighs and drag your body to the edge of his bed. You barely had the chance to push yourself onto your elbows to see what he was doing before the sound of fabric ripping filled the air, and the warmth of his mouth was on you.

You collapsed onto the mattress, back arching as his tongue flattened against your clit. His metal hand went to your chest, massaging your breast as two other fingers started thrusting into you.

It was too much and not enough all at the same time. Your hips jerked against his face, the stubble brushing deliciously against your thigh. Bucky moaned into you, the vibrations making you clench around his fingers.

“Bucky!” you moaned, hands finding purchase in his hair again. He pulled away from you briefly, and you looked down at him to see him smiling.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” he whispered, his hot breath against you making you shiver slightly. “That’s how you would say my name in your room.”

A wave of embarrassment crashed over you, then was quickly overpowered by pure pleasure and desire as he put his mouth back on you. His tongue flicked at your clit, his fingers quickened their pace, and angled slightly before finding that one spot and fuck, you were so close.

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair to pull him closer to you. He hummed in understanding, and added a third finger, stretching you even further. Just the feel alone was enough to teeter you over the edge—

He was gone.

Bucky was standing now, leaving you hanging and breathless and confused and anxious as he swiped at his lips.

“Why— why?” you asked weakly, feeling tears of frustration begin to brim over your eyes.

He held your gaze as he brought his finger to his mouth, licking off every single drop of you that had come with his sudden departure. You could only watch with baited breath as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing cuts of muscle and strength that made your breath catch in your throat. Your eyes slowly dragged from his chest down to his abs, then watched as he slowly undid his belt before making work of his own pants.

“You’ll cum on my cock first, doll,” he told you, shedding the last of his clothes. He was left with nothing but the dog tags around his neck— something that you didn’t even know he had until now. He must’ve kept them hidden under his shirt at all times. “Then I promise, you won’t ever have to beg to cum again.”

Fuck.

Bucky reached for you, situating you comfortably on his pillows. Somewhere along the way, he finally unclasped your bra and threw it somewhere behind him, no longer allowing anything to come between the two of you as he pressed your bodies together.

His lips met yours, and you could taste the saltiness of your own arousal as his tongue swiped at yours. He held your hips down again, but he was slowly grinding his own hips against you. The thick length of him was rubbing against you, covering himself in your slick.

“Tell me you want me,” he whispered, parting from your lips briefly to kiss at your neck. “That you want this.”

“I need you,” you immediately replied. “Please, Bucky, I need you— I fucking need—“

The head of his cock aligned with your entrance, shutting you up. Both of you let out a soft groan as he finally pushed in and slowly slid home. He dropped his head into your neck, and you could hear his breath stutter as he continued the rest of his journey into you.

He was large. The preparation with his fingers barely did much in the grand scheme of things, but the stretch and the length of him was absolutely delicious and addicting. You needed more of him.

“More, Bucky,” you pleaded. “Please, I can’t wait any longer—“

“Baby, I’m doing this for me, not for you,” he cut you off, his voice lowered and thick with want and need, he cursed when you twitched around him. “You don’t understand what you do to me, doll. So fuckin’ hot, so wet— God, doll. Where were you all my life?”

“Just here,” you said meekly, gripping his shoulders tight and digging your nails into the muscle. His hands gripped tighter at your waist in response.

He swallowed, and slowly lifted up. Bucky let out a soft groan when he took in the sight of you, stuffed full of his cock, needy. You wanted him badly, and he finally started moving.

Electric rushed through your veins as his hips started pumping in and out of you. You watched as his jaw ticked, trying to keep himself under control as he fucked into your soaking cunt.

“Fuck,” he groaned deeply. “You’re so wet. Look at you— gonna fuck you better than whatever fucking machine you were using the last few nights.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You grinned at him, “I— I’ll probably still use it tonight, when I go home though?”

Bucky’s eyes widened briefly before his hips snapped harder into yours. You gasped, finding stability on his forearms briefly before he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them over your head. You couldn’t even talk anymore, you could only focus on him.

He wasn’t even going fast. Bucky was going hard. He was making sure that his cock was hitting you deeply, his hips grinding into you. It was driving you insane. He would pull out all the way until only the tip of him was left, then plunge back in all in one go.

“Don’t have anything smart to say now?” he teased, moving to suck on your neck again. You could only moan in response, and shake your head. “If I ever hear you use that shit again, I’ll break down the wall and come take care of you myself.”

“Please?” you begged weakly, making him chuckle into your ear.

Then, his thumb. The hand that wasn’t holding yours splayed across your stomach, thumb beginning to rub tight, fast circles into your clit. The stark comparison to his slow and deep thrusts was jarring. His hand on your stomach didn’t allow you to buck your hips against his.

“Bucky!” you cried out.

“I got you,” he whispered. “Cum whenever you want, pretty.”

Mixed with both his cock, his fingers, and his pretty words— who were you to deny him? You came undone quickly under him, becoming a babbling mess. You couldn’t help it. He wound you up and denied you earlier— the release felt even more intense than before.

Bucky didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it. If anything, his hips sped up as your walls tightened around him, spurred on by your fluttering pussy. His moans in your ear sent shockwaves through you that must’ve altered your brain chemistry because God, he was so pretty. Just the thought and sight alone sent another, mini orgasm through you.

“Mine,” you whispered between moans, making him chuckle.

“All yours, doll,” he confirmed, catching your lips with his again. He finally let go of your hands, and you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him closer to you as his other arm went under the small of your back to close the rest of the distance.

His hips stuttered, and you could feel his heart in his chest begin to hammer erratically. Bucky was close, too.

“Where?” he asked quickly, his grip on you tightening. “Where can I—“

“Fill me up, Buck. God, please fill me up, I need all of you—“

“You can’t just say that shit, baby,” he groaned, holding you tighter.

“Please?” you begged softly. Bucky’s jaw clenched, and his eyes shut tight.

“Fuck,” he groaned your name, and everything was on fire. You felt incredibly full beyond what you were capable of. Bucky was trembling above you. He still fucked into you, shallow thrusts as your walls sucked in every drop of him greedily, never wanting him to leave, until he was dry.

Bucky collapsed to the side, pulling you to his chest, then moved to his back. He was still inside you, softening.

“Lemme stay in you for a bit,” he grunted. “Feels good.”

“Mm,” you hummed. No complaints there. You closed your eyes as you rested your head on him, his fingers ghosting up and down your spine. The sensation alone was lulling you into a deep rest.

You wanted to fight sleep a bit longer, and stare at his face. You wanted to trace the lines of his face with your fingertips, touch every single part of his body and commit it to memory so you could map every single part of him without ever having to look at him again. He was so breathtaking, and he didn’t even know it.

Bucky laid there with a hand under his head, glancing down at you with soft eyes. His eyebrows raised in question as you stared at him.

“Kiss?” you asked him softly.

He only chuckled in response, then moved his hand away from his head to place his fingers under your chin to tilt your head up as he craned his head down. His plush lips met yours in a sweet kiss, and your eyes fell shut as your world made sense.

Bucky was still tucked away inside you, softening, with his arms around you. His body was warm and pressed against you and sheltering you. This felt like home.

“Sleep now,” he whispered to you once he pulled away, only to return a few seconds later to kiss your forehead. “I’ll take care of you.”

You were more than certain that he would.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound and smell of something happening in the kitchen. You were delightfully sore all over, and found you weren’t naked at all. You were dressed in one of Bucky’s shirts, and he had even put his boxers on you. You found that you weren’t a sticky mess between your legs, either. Once you passed out, he must have cleaned you up.

He was cute. You wanted to see him.

“Damn it. You weren’t supposed to be awake yet,” he groaned when you came outside.

“Should I go back to sleep?” you asked with a smile.

“No. Stay,” he told you, coming over to you. He wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you closer, and pressed a kiss to your lips. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Sore, but it’s nice,” you hummed against his lips.

“Tylenol?” he offered, gesturing to the counter. Bucky had already had the medicine out and ready on a tissue with a glass of water and a box of Plan B.

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I Googled it,” he admitted. “I bought it this morning for you.”

“What a gentleman,” you snorted, but gratefully took both medicines.

When you were done, he also pushed a set of keys closer to you. “This is also yours. While we were out on our date last night, I called in a favor and had a buddy change your locks. So Leah doesn’t have access to your apartment anymore. I don’t think she gave you your keys back when you asked.”

“Oh.” You stared at the keys. “Bucky, you didn’t have to…”

“No, but I also don’t like the idea of the person that hit you being able to access your space,” he said with a shrug before turning back to the stove to turn it off. He plated the rest of the food. Bucky made bacon with eggs and pancakes. “Hungry?”

Your stomach growled in response, making him smile as he brought the plates to the living room. You made yourself comfortable on the couch beside him before he gave you your plate, both of you about to start eating when his phone began to buzz in his pocket. Bucky let out a soft sigh before picking it up.

You couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end. Bucky didn’t really respond, either. There was just a chorus of grunts and okay’s that were passed before he hung up the phone.

“Work?” you asked him softly, trying to ignore the dejection beginning to build in your chest. In reality, he had no obligation to spend the morning with you.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking at you with helpless eyes. “I have to go. Sam needs me.”

“Don’t apologize,” you told him, nudging his knee with your own. “Someone’s gotta go keep the world safe, right?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” he told you, a frown on his face before he handed you his phone. “Your phone number. If something happens and you need me, I’ll come back as soon as possible.”

“Don’t think anything like that will happen, but you could’ve just said you wanted my number, Sarge,” you said with a grin as you took the device.

He let out a huff, rolling his eyes as you programmed his phone with your contact information. Then, he quickly pressed a kiss to your temple before standing. “Gotta get ready, doll. Eat breakfast, stay here as long as you want. Extra key is by the TV, you can keep it with you. Don’t gotta return it this time.”

Bucky was fast. In just a matter of seconds, he was in and out of his bedroom, dressed and ready to leave. He made one final pit stop to you, to properly kiss you on the lips, before heading out the door without looking back.

He was almost like a storm. Here one moment, and gone the next. It was his job, after all. Though you didn’t really know what his job really meant or what he was doing, it still was his work. The thought of him getting hurt and beat up filled you with dread.

You stared at the plate in front of you, frowning. Bucky didn’t even have a chance to eat before he left.

next chapter

taglist: @iyskgd @1967barracuda @falconxsoldier @retrxgreyde @lemonpiegurll

[wobblingjello]

The First Chapter of Our Story

Summary: Post prison Spencer enjoyed his spare time in the library. One day, you interrupted his reading time.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3218

Warnings: None??

Author Notes: Please enjoy a tooth-rotting fluff of Spencer and Reader meet-cute!!!

After Spencer was out of prison, he spent most of his spare time in the library. If people asked him why, well for the obvious reasons; he liked reading, and he found solitude by burying himself in books. Now that he also had a mandatory teaching role, he wanted to make sure that he had everything that he needed for his classes. If he wasn’t in the field catching UnSubs or teaching his classes,  then he was most definitely in the library.

Furthermore, as a creature of habit, Spencer always visited the same library. (One time he was completely immersed in reading, he forgot he supposedly had lunch with Garcia and Emily — they found him with zero trouble. He was that predictable). The library was only 2 hours away from his apartment. He could easily get there by metro, or once in a while when he was up for a ride, then he’d ride his car. Not only was the distance convenient for him, the library had a few cozy reading spaces on the second floor — made it even easier for him to get lost in books.

This week was Spencer’s last week on his 30-day mandatory off field. He still had at least 2 classes before he was back on duty. As for today, he wanted to spend it in his current favorite go-to place. After making a simple breakfast; waffle and a cup of coffee, Spencer walked out of his apartment. Honestly, he was still a bit sleepy. He stayed up late rewatching a few episodes of Doctor Who until 2:00 AM. He almost drifted back to sleep when the alarm went off, but he managed to fight that urge. He feared he might end up staying inside the whole day if he did. He used to be fine spending his day off at his apartment, but after prison, it could make him feel trapped. Being in the library was a nice compromise for him — he was technically out in a public space, but could have minimum interaction with other people.

Spencer occupied one of the reading spaces, and had picked more than 10 books to read — some reading materials for his next classes and novels in Russian and German. He had his nose stuck in a book, he didn’t even notice someone approaching him. He heard someone clearing their throat to get his attention. When he looked up from his book, he saw you standing close to him. Tightly holding a novel and a notebook to your chest.

“Um, can I help you with something?” Spencer hesitantly asked, voice barely audible. He was in the library after all.

“I don’t know how to say this without making me sound like a creep, but I’ve seen you here a couple of times, and you always have so many books with you. I always wonder, are you even able to finish reading all of them?” You asked him in one go, with the same hush voice as him.

He was looking at you wide-eyed. Noticing how you were almost out of breath by the time you were done talking, like you were trying to say everything in one breath. Was this how others saw him when he rambled? Spencer found himself dumbfounded, and you most likely took his silence as a sign that he was mortified with what you just said.

“Oh God. I just scared you off, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’ll just—” You whisper-yelled.

“Hey. It’s okay.” He started softly. He didn’t want to cause more panic for you. “I can answer your question. Do you want to sit here with me?” Wait, what? He wasn’t sure where that came from, and he certainly surprised himself. Well, it was already out in the wild, and he couldn’t take it back.

“Are you sure?”

Spencer saw you fidgeting in the corner of your notebook, and he feared you might damage it. He rearranged the books at the table and motioned the chair across him for you to sit. He could tell you hesitated to sit, but you eventually did. Once you seemed comfortable in your chair, he continued the conversation again.

“Our conscious mind can process 16-bits of information per second. Our unconscious, however, can process 11 million. I can read 20,000 words per minute. So, to answer your question, yes, I’m actually able to finish reading all of them because I can read that fast.”

“Wow. You intrigued me even more now. Are you a genius or something? I bet you are.”

“I do have an IQ of 187, and eidetic memory, so you bet right.”

“Do you mind telling me what you do, genius?”

Spencer, in fact, didn’t mind at all. With a hush voice, for almost an hour, he talked about his job at the BAU, his classes, and why he spent so much time in the library (he spared the part where he once went to prison — he didn’t wish to scare you off). In return, he learned that you worked as a pediatric nurse. When you weren’t at the hospital, providing care for the little ones, you also enjoyed your day off in the library — just like him. Sometimes you even attended a pottery class. It was a new hobby you started a few months ago. You showed the mug you made in your last class a month ago. Another thing he learned was your name, just like you learned his.

Once the two of you finished sharing stories, you both fell into comfortable silence and continued reading your respective books — Spencer still needed to take a few notes for his next classes. Every now and then, he’d glance at you before going back to his notes. He noticed how sometimes you’d smile when you flipped the pages. What kind of story made you smile like that? 

Their little encounter was unfortunately cut short when you announced that you had a dinner plan with your girls. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Reid.” You slid a piece of paper his way, and then left.

You gave him your phone number.

---

It was safe to say that you visited this particular library almost at any given chance. You discovered it by accident many moons ago when you finished your work. Now, you were on a first name basis with the librarians. As a regular visitor, you’ve had your fair share of interesting stories of other visitors. Then there was him. It was impossible not to notice him, especially when he always occupied the same corner of the library whenever he visited. Not to mention the stack of books, and many many notes  on the table. There were at least 10 or 15 books on the table. Was it even possible for someone to read that many books in one sitting?

After many occasions glancing his way like a creep, you finally found the courage to approach him. You even got the chance to learn his name. Dr. Spencer Reid. What a unique name — it suited him. Aside from intelligence, you wouldn’t deny the fact that he was also easy on the eye.

There was something about Reid that made you want to stay longer in the library, but alas, you already had a plan. You had this monthly dinner with your girlfriends, where every month one of you would take turns to host the dinner at that person’s place. This month was your turn, so you needed to make sure everything was set and ready.

On your way home, you thought about how you easily gave Reid your phone number. You normally wouldn’t do that with a stranger. A male stranger to be precise. However, your gut told you that Reid wasn’t like any other men. He chose to spend his spare time reading in the library. How many men did you know who did that? Nobody. It was also probably due to the fact that he was a federal agent. The point was it wasn’t an everyday thing that you didn’t have your guards up around a stranger. Again, a male stranger.

By the time you arrived at your apartment, Reid still hadn’t texted you. Your brain came to two possibilities; he wasn’t interested in you or he already had a partner. You cringed at the thought of you openly hitting on a man who might already be in a relationship. Well, in case he didn’t text you, you’d just have to avoid that particular spot he was always on for the foreseeable future. The library was pretty big, so it shouldn’t be difficult to do that. 

A moment later, your friends started coming into your place. You cherished time like this; catching up with the girls over greasy food and wine. A cute stranger you occasionally saw in the library was long forgotten.

By the time you were getting ready for bed, you heard your phone buzzing — notifying you of a new text. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears when you noticed it was a text from an unknown number. Surely he wouldn’t text this late, right? You unlocked your phone to read the text.

Unknown Number [11:18 PM]: Hi. This is Spencer Reid. I thought about texting you sooner, but you mentioned that you’re having a girl’s night and I don’t know how long it’ll normally take for you. I once babysat my colleague’s son so she could have a girl’s night with the other female colleagues — they practically went home the next day. My point is, I don’t want to interrupt your time with your friends. Anyway, I hope you had a fun night.

You blinked, then reread the text a few times. You found the entire situation funny. Not long ago, you convinced yourself that he wasn’t interested, and practically planned the best way to avoid him in the library. Then here he was. Explaining his train of thought on why he hadn’t texted sooner. Was this how he treated all the women who gave their numbers to him? This had to be too good to be true. You responded to him anyway.

You [11:23 PM]: How thoughtful of you, Dr. Reid. In fact, I just finished cleaning up my place like half an hour ago. Now, I’m getting ready for bed. Oh, I also had fun with my girls.

You didn’t have to wait long to get a response from him.

Reid [11:24 PM]: I’m glad you had fun. You should have that rest. Good night.

---

There wasn’t much text exchanged between the two of you since that night. You both only texted when either of you had the time to do it. On his part, he mostly sent you random facts about any states he traveled to when he was on cases. It was like a subtle way to tell you his whereabouts, if you were being honest.

However, since you started working on the night shift, you were usually still asleep when he texted. You’d reply way later, and he was most likely deep in the case files. The cherry on top was you work on the weekend this time around, so even when he was back in town, you couldn’t casually go to the library to see him since it was in the opposite direction from the hospital you worked at.

Between his constant traveling and your long-hour shift, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see him again. It’s been a month and a half since you last saw him. 

One Friday evening, when you were getting ready to go to work, you received an unexpected text from him.

Reid [5:34 PM]: What about we grab a light meal before your shift tomorrow? We can go somewhere close to the hospital so you won’t be late. You [5:35 PM]: Are you asking me on a date, Doc? Reid [5:36 PM]: Um, yes? I mean, if you want it to be. You [5:38 PM]: It’s a date then. I know a good coffee shop that also has delicious sandwiches close to the hospital. I’ll send you the details.

Honestly, you didn’t expect him to ask you on a date. Well, at least not that fast. But you wouldn’t complain anyway. You got yourself a date with a hot Doctor.

You exchanged a few texts while you were on your way to the hospital. He informed you that he just wrapped up a case in Miami, but the team decided to stay there one more night, so he’d be back first thing in the morning. He never really told you about the cases he worked on, that was understandable — mostly only informed you where he was and when he was coming back.

In return, you told him about your day; things that you were most excited about, or something you wanted to try to avoid doing. For example, you told him that tonight you’d help setting up the stuff for the treasure hunt event. Although you wouldn’t witness the event in person, since it’d be tomorrow during the day shift, you still got to do the fun part; hiding all the treasures. You texted some more until you told Spencer that your shift was about to start.

---

Spencer glanced at the clock on the wall one last time; 2:38 PM. You’ve instructed him to meet you at the coffee shop at 4:00 PM. If he headed there now, it’d take approximately an hour and 7 minutes. He definitely wouldn’t be late, and still gave him a reasonable time to be early. He smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles on his sweater vest before heading out.

On his way to the coffee shop, he’d unconsciously kept running his palms on his sweater vest, trying to fix his hair, or gripping the strap of his bag a little too tight. He wasn’t anxious for the date per se, but the fact that it’d be his first date after prison. He was still in the process of adjusting to his post prison life, obviously didn’t expect to go on a date this soon. He wasn’t even sure what had gotten into himself when he asked you out.

He could see the sign of the coffee shop. When he stepped inside, he spotted you immediately. Sitting at one of the tables, jotting down something on the same notebook, he believed it to be the same one you brought to the library the first time he saw you. He slowly approached you, then softly called your name so he wouldn’t startle you.

You looked up when you heard his voice, and instantly beamed at the sight of him. “Reid! You made it.”

As Spencer sat on the chair across from you, he heard you chuckling. “What? Is there something funny?”

“Are you always this formal?” You vaguely gestured at his general direction. “I feel underdressed in my plain t-shirt and scrub pants.”

He could feel the warmth on his cheeks. “I don’t really own casual outfits. Besides, you’re about to go to work after this. It’s completely understandable that you’re wearing scrubs.” 

“I’m teasing you, Doctor. The sweater vest looks good on you.” You threw a playful wink at him. “You should order something.”

Spencer went back to the table with his order. Both of you enjoyed your meals while talking about various topics. You told him about when the night shift nurses went shopping for the treasure hunt event, the upcoming pottery class that you’d attend on your next day off, and finally got the chance to tell him in detail about the girl’s night at your place. In return, he told you about the funny stories when his team went out to the bar the other day, what kind of topics he’d probably teach for his next classes and his attempt to clean his bookshelf which ended up with him mostly reading than actually doing the cleaning.

It was refreshing to talk to someone outside of the team, who didn’t fully understand the horror he faced almost every day. For a brief moment, he wasn’t BAU’s resident genius, but was simply a man in his late 30s having a normal conversation with someone he found attractive, you. In addition to that, he surprisingly enjoyed it. He liked listening to your stories, discovering shared interests, or challenging him to do something outside of his routine.

Contrary to his team’s belief, Spencer did go on dates every now and then. Well, maybe not as frequent as Morgan used to. He just hasn’t found someone that really piqued his interest, or lucky enough to go on more dates with the same woman to eventually make the relationship official. But it was different with you. He adored how expressive you were — your expressions changed according to the stories you shared. When you talked about something that made you excited, then your whole face lit up; you’d smile from ear to ear, and your eyes sparked with so much joy. When you talked about the sad puppy story you read online, however, the light in your eyes dimmed, and your voice was shaky. He had to restrain himself from reaching out for your hand to comfort you.

He didn’t know how long they’ve sat in this coffee shop, but one thing he knew for sure was he already planned on how to ask you for a second date and where to take you — if you agreed, of course.

The two of you were surprised when the alarm on your phone went off. “Oops. I guess the date is unfortunately over.”

“Did you set an alarm for the date?” He was amused by what just happened.

“Yeah. In case we lost track of time. I still need to go to work after all.”

“Are you walking to the hospital?” You looked confused with the question, but nodded as an answer. “Okay. I’ll walk with you there.”

“Are you sure?” He only smiled at you, then stood up.

It was a short 15-minute walk to the hospital, yet it was filled with another conversation. Mostly him listening to your complaint about how this was going to be another long shift. But Spencer knew there was a lack of annoyance in your words. You loved your job, just like he did his.

The two of you eventually reached the hospital. You turned to face him. There was a brief awkward silence there.

“Thank you, Reid. I had fun today. Definitely a great way to start my shift.”

“I had fun too.” You were about to bid farewell when he called your name. “I’d like to do this again sometime. Preferably soon. With you, of course.”

You didn’t even bother to hide the smile on your face. “Well, between the two of us, your work schedule is more unpredictable. Just let me know when you’re free from catching the bad guy, and I’ll let you know when my shift changes.”

He grinned at your answer. “Right. I’ll definitely do that.”

You started walking backward while waving at him. “Bye Reid! See you around.”

That grin on his face stayed in place as he also waved at you. You eventually turned around and ran inside. Spencer couldn’t wait for that second date.

[pretentious-blonde]

discovery

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: both you and steve discover some information that really should have remained buried

warnings: therapy, canon stranger things lore, so violence and death, lowkey blackmail???

a/n: i got a distinction on my essay so gets go!! here we are into the story's real drama, where i wanted this to go from the start so sorry if it's a little shorter, but it's only the beginning.

series masterlist

Steve quickly slammed his car door behind him, his nikes hitting the tarmac floor. He was five minutes late and knew his therapist wouldn’t really chastise him—still, the knot in his stomach refused to unravel as he rushed toward the entrance.

He blamed you, in the best possible way, for those extra minutes he’d spent tangled in bed. Your pout had always been impossible to resist.

He’d claimed that he had to see Robin for breakfast the following morning, and he was grateful you never questioned the odd shiftiness in his tone. You had to work the next day, making it the perfect excuse. But the second you looked so disappointed that you couldn’t come along, wanting to pick up the conversations from the other night at the bar, he caved and stayed the night. 

Those big, pleading eyes of yours were gonna be the death of him.

That turned into sharing coffee over the covers, lingering kisses that inched from sweet to teasing, and hush-hush morning bliss under rumpled sheets. Next thing he knew, he was barreling across the car park, hair still mussed from where your fingers had combed through it not even an hour prior.

And now here he was—running past the receptionist without so much as a nod, abandoning their usual routine of morning pleasantries.

He pushed open the familiar door with more force than intended, breath hitching from the sudden stop. Dr Avery was already on his feet, adjusting the sleeves of that soft wool cardigan, the kind that looked completely at odds with the decor. Beneath the bright overhead lighting, the doctor’s polite smile glowed.

“Steve,” he greeted, pleasantly unruffled. “Good to see you.”

He bent forward, hands on his knees like he’d just run a sprint.

“Hey—Hi. Sorry I’m—uh—late. I got… tied up.”

He cringed internally the moment he said it, cheeks colouring at the memory of exactly how he’d been tied up—not literally, but definitely preoccupied. He cleared his throat, straightening up in a way that hopefully didn’t look too sheepish.

“No worries,” the doctor assured him, ushering him inside. “Come on in.”

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound sounding in the empty hallway. The room itself was the same as always: soft yellow lamp in the corner, plush chair facing Dr Avery’s own seat. A bookshelf lined one wall, books stacked neatly with spines that looked barely touched, and not a single family photo anywhere. 

He always found that strange—like it was a stage set rather than a personal space.

He collapsed into the chair, sinking deeper than expected, exhaling a bit too loudly. In the reprieve, he could hear the dull hum of the building’s ventilation.

“Feels like it’s been longer than a month,” he remarked to break the silence, raking a hand through his messy hair. He had made a mental note to smooth it down in the car ride over—though it was probably too late for that.

“That tends to happen when things are changing,” Dr Avery responded smoothly. 

They both knew the significance of the last few sessions. Steve had been talking about you—gushing, would be the more accurate term—and the doctor seemed more than happy to help him navigate this new chapter.

“Yeah, they are—changing, I mean,” his voice trailed off. He felt a small smile growing on his face at the idea of talking about you—like he hasn't done enough of that already. 

“Tell me,” the psychiatrist pressed gently.

He let out a short laugh, rubbing his palms on his thighs. He felt fidgety, like a teenager about to confess a crush. Maybe because that’s exactly what this was—he was still completely infatuated with you. The emotions he felt at the start were almost identical. 

In fact, he would bet now they were even stronger. 

“It’s official now,” he started. “Like, we’re together. We had that talk.”

He tried not to let his mind stray to how that conversation had truly started—hot breath on his neck, you on your knees, the laugh you’d made when he blushed deeper than you’d ever seen. Absolutely not something he needed to share right now. 

Some details were private, no matter how relevant the story may be. 

“That’s great to hear.” Dr Avery’s eyebrows rose fractionally, a small, pleased smile touching his face. “You’ve been hoping for that, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted, his grin turning almost bashful. “I mean—I didn’t expect it to actually work out, but… here we are.”

Here he was. 

His heart thumped harder, excitement and nerves all tangled into one bigger emotion. He laughed awkwardly, brushing at his hair again—a gesture Dr Avery probably recognised as his default anxious habit.

“She’s just… she’s so good,” he went on, losing himself in the new memories. “Like—I just like being around her, which is what it’s supposed to be, right? I dunno. Probably start making her sick of me soon.”

He was practically glued to your hip these days.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Dr Avery said, always encouraging.

“Yeah.” He ducked his head, trying and failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Hope you’re right on that one.”

The two men paused, letting that optimism breathe. Then Dr Avery clicked his pen, the soft snick loud in the stillness.

“So… how’s the actual relationship going so far?” 

Steve felt his chest tighten as he recalled your shop—cinnamon and old books—and the sparks that flew every time you looked at him. How you still were looking at him. 

“Also good,” he said, automatically grinning. “It’s still early days, but… I introduced her to Rob, which was kind of a big deal.”

He also decided to leave out the rest of the details from that night—once again, that part was just for him. Besides, he didn’t even want to imagine the doctor’s reaction to the way he’d acted. Probably would’ve been thrilled. 

That was some real fucking progress.

“I’m also trying to get better at—y’know—explaining how I’m feeling. I still suck at that sometimes.”

“What makes you say that?” Dr Avery tilted his head, pen hovering over the notebook but not yet touching paper. 

“I mean—it’s not like I’m not trying, which I think she gets.” He takes a moment to figure out the correct way to phrase it. “She’s been really… patient. Wants me to open up more—and, like—I’m getting there? Well, at least I think I’m getting there.”

He felt a flicker of pride in himself. He really was making progress—less flighty, more honest about his struggles, more willing to trust someone with the darker parts. Hell, he was actually sleeping through the night now.

Still had nightmares—sure—but he hadn't felt one coming on in a while. Not one that had him half-cognisant, clutching at whatever was closest to him, not one that made him terrified to open his eyes.

That was when the pen finally met paper. The faint scratch of it felt louder than it should.

“That’s promising, Steve. Really promising.” The elderly man nodded, not looking up from his notes. “So tell me, what else have you two talked about?”

Steve blinked, rummaging mentally through the many conversations you’d shared—movie nights, your favorite authors, those silly debates over what to have for dinner.

“Uh… just stuff. Life stuff. Movies. Books—obviously. I try to keep up, but she’s pretty damn smart—feels like I learn something new every time she opens her mouth.”

The positives of dating a bookworm.

“Anything deeper?” Dr Avery pressed, that same mild tone in place.

Steve felt a sudden unease at the question. 

“I mean—not really.” Self-consciousness twisted in his stomach. “Not like… real real talk. She knows I don’t like to get into it. She’s cool about that.”

For the most part. 

He could practically see Dr Avery’s ears perk. The man never pounced, he just… waited. The pen still hovered. The blank page, waiting to be filled. His throat felt dry.

“Uh…” he continued, shifting in his seat, the silence drawing the words out of him. “I told her a little bit. About my old job, at the mall…”

“Starcourt,” the man clarified, writing something down.

“Yeah. Just that it, you know… burned down.”

“And what else did you share?”

A prickle of defensiveness rose along his spine. The memory of it all—Starcourt, Russians, the Mind Flayer—flashed through his head, but of course he’d never told you the real story.

“That’s it,” he said firmly, crossing his arms slowly. “Just that it happened. She doesn’t know the weird parts.”

He also neglected to mention you’d teased him about the sailor uniform he used to wear, but that was hardly the point. He definitely hadn’t told you about vent-crawling with Dustin and Erica, about the secret lab beneath the food court. 

Those secrets he’d rather bury if he had to.

“Alright.” The pen kept scratching. 

His gaze lingered on the ballpoint gliding across the paper. He felt a creep of discomfort—the same sensation as finding out you were being watched through a camera lens.

“What are you writing?” he asked, voice tighter than he’d intended.

“Just keeping track of progress,” Dr Avery answered lightly, not looking up. “It’s a good sign that you’re opening up.”

“…Yeah, but it feels like I’m being graded or something.”

The man paused, lifted his eyes. He kept that soft, almost paternal smile. 

“I assure you, Steve, there’s no grade. Just documentation.”

Documentation. 

The air felt heavier at the word, a thump of anxiety in Steve’s stomach. He shifted again, foot tapping on the waxy floor.

“You don’t usually write stuff down,” he insisted, voice nearly catching. 

Not like this. 

“This is a new development,” he explained, placid calm in every syllable. “A relationship is a significant emotional step.”

There was no warmth in his voice, no congratulatory tone—just an observation that felt clinical. His palms started to sweat and he curled his hands into fists, pressing them into his knees.

This was strange. 

“She doesn’t know anything,” he said, jaw clenching. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”

Dr Avery blinked, pen tapping quietly against the pad. 

“Danger?” He repeated, mild as a summer breeze. “Who said anything about danger?”

Steve’s mouth went dry.

“You’re right, of course,” Dr Avery continued, setting the pad aside. “But you see why it’s something we have to monitor. These things, they could have consequences.”

“What do you mean?” he managed, voice rasping.

Dr Avery finally met his eyes, no trace of the earlier, kinder smile. 

“Relationships end. Sometimes amicably. Sometimes not.”

A sharp sensation punched through Steve’s chest. He thought of you, how you were the last person on earth to betray him. His therapist wasn’t entirely wrong about people—he had lost friends and lovers in messy, painful ways before. Though that was years ago, and surely something this big wouldn’t be twisted into a form of vengeance. 

That would be downright cruel.

“You think she’d talk?” he asked, though he already knew the answer in his heart. 

You wouldn’t. You weren’t like that. 

But fear is a nasty thing, and it bloomed in him anyway.

“I think people say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt,” Dr Avery said, leaning back. “And if someone were to repeat details about certain… incidents, we’d have to intervene.”

That word—intervene—landed in his chest like a weight. Vague, but heavy as lead. He clenched his hands tighter, nails biting into his palms.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he repeated, half to reassure himself. “Not really. Just that there was a fire.”

“Good,” Dr Avery replied calmly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Silence stretched, thick and charged. Steve could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. The golden light in the corner lamp seemed too harsh all of a sudden.

“You’ve come a long way,” the doctor added, posture relaxing—almost like he was switching back to his normal, friendly mode of business. “You’re building something here. Stability. A job you care about. A life.”

Steve’s throat constricted. He thought about the second graders who always drew him stick-figure pictures with hearts around them. He thought about the paycheck he needed to keep up his home. He thought about how nice it felt to have you in that space now, in his bed, in his arms.

“I’d hate to see you lose that progress,” Dr Avery said lightly. Almost as if he were discussing the weather.

It took him a moment to register the subtext.

Lose that progress. 

Lose that job. 

Is this a threat?

A chill went up his spine, memories of government men in uniforms from years ago stirring in the back of his mind.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, forcing a tight nod. “No—of course.”

He didn’t stand up. He stayed planted in his seat, but it felt like the floor was tilting beneath him. He dropped his attention to his jeans and started picking at a loose thread, anything to occupy his trembling fingers. 

He knew the session wasn’t over. He couldn’t exactly bolt. He was too polite, and he had to keep going. 

This was supposed to help him. He’d made so much progress. He needed the psychiatrist to sign off on it.

“So,” the older man said with an air of near nonchalance, “is there anything you want to work on with this session?”

He blinked, staring at the pen still perched in the desk. He felt like a turtle retreating into its shell. Something in him just… closed off. Suddenly reluctant to let anybody into his head. 

Outwardly, he only gave a stiff shrug, forcing his knee to stop bouncing. The tension hung in the air, so heavy it nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his face carefully composed. Even if his insides were twisting in knots, he’d learned over time how to mask it—how to fight through the fear.

He cleared his throat, voice coming out quieter than before.

“I—uh… yeah, I guess we could… talk about my… coping strategies.”

As he said it, the spark in his eyes had dimmed, the floodgates of honesty closed a fraction. Right now, the only thing he could focus on was that single, ominous word echoing in his mind.

Intervene.

You push open the heavy wooden doors of the Hawkins Public Library, letting a small gust of morning wind in behind you.

Your scarf feels a little too warm in the heated interior, so you tug it loose as you take a few steps forward. You clutch the strap of your tote, you’d told yourself you’d come just for research, but it’s not exactly your standard brand of casual reading. 

No, you’re here for answers.

Tunnels, national labs, and the unsettling stack of government letters you found tucked away in Steve’s hallway table. Maybe you’re prying, but you can’t let it go. He’s been so cagey, and you care about him too much to ignore the little hints.

Archives first. Some old newspapers, maybe some town records from the 80s, see if there’s anything about that fire at Starcourt Mall. That would be the starting point. 

You mentally rehearse your polite request, even It still sounds weird in your head. You imagine the librarian’s puzzled expression and you debate claiming you’re writing a paper for a local history class. It would make your story more believable than the reality, the one in which you are purposefully going behind your boyfriend's back, digging up his traumatic past in order to settle your own mind…

The more you think about it, the worse it sounds. 

Your steps slow as you notice a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision. Someone stands between two towering shelves in the fiction section. At first, you can’t make out their face—just a short, choppy bob, flannel tied around the waist, black combat boots squeaking softly on the shiny floor. 

You squint. Then it clicks.

Robin?

You halt, your eyebrows arching in surprise. Robin, who was supposed to be at breakfast in the diner across town. Yet here she is, half-hidden behind the 800 Dewey Decimal section, looking anywhere but at you. She’s clutching a book to her chest like she’s trying not to be seen.

Suspicion runs through you, but you brush it aside. This might be nothing. Maybe they had breakfast before, and now she’s just here on her own. Either way, you’re intrigued enough to veer away from the front desk and head in her direction.

The silence of the library only amplifies your footsteps, and you try to be gentle. You don’t want to startle her—but it's too late. She’s already glancing up and sees you approaching. There’s a flash of panic in her eyes as if she’s been caught in the act of something scandalous.

“Hi, stranger,” you say softly, letting a little amused lilt into your voice.

“Oh—hey!” She fails to act surprised, leaning on the shelf feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. You scared me.”

You doubt it. 

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” you say, a friendly smile tugging at your lips. You feel a pang of sympathy for spooking her—she seems wound tight, as though she’s mid-espionage.

She exhales and recovers, offering a slightly awkward hug. You catch the faint scent of peppermint gum and laundry soap clinging to her form. It's oddly comforting.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, pulling away and brushing the hem of her shirt as though trying to smooth her nerves too.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Your tone remains playful. 

You don’t want her to suspect you know about the alleged breakfast meeting with Steve—not yet. Nor your true reasoning for your outing when you're supposed to be at work yourself. 

“Oh, just… browsing,” she says quickly, glancing at the row of books as though they might offer backup for her story. “For books. Y’know—in the library.”

Hmm.

“You do know I sell books for a living, right?”

She flushes, a wash of pink creeping up her neck. 

“Yeah—yeah, I do—sorry.” She clears her throat. “Traitorous impulse.”

“Unforgivable,” you tease, rolling your eyes in mock indignation. 

She laughs, the tension in her posture easing a fraction. But then, almost on reflex, she shifts the book in her hand to her side, like she’s trying to hide the title from view. You notice immediately—part of your job is noticing what titles people pick up or avoid.

“What you got there?” you ask, nodding at the paperback pressed against her thigh.

“What—this? Nothing, really.” Her voice is quick, a little defensive. “Just looking.”

You tilt your head, taking a small step to see the cover. It’s a stylised image with a bold title you recognise. 

“Is that Written on the Body?”

He eyes flick from you to the book. She hesitates, clearly torn between doubling down on her lie or coming clean. 

“...It is.”

Interesting. 

“Jeanette Winterson, right?” You smile, careful to keep your tone nonjudgmental. “That one’s… intense.”

She studies your face, as if checking for any sign of disapproval. 

“You’ve… read it?” She ventures.

“A couple years ago,” you say with a slight shrug. “Borrowed it from a girl I was trying to impress.”

You hope she is catching on to the insinuation. Her guarded posture softens marginally. Eyes sparking with interest, maybe a little relief. 

“Did it work?”

“Nope,” you reply, a wry grin curving your lips. “But I kept the book.”

Her laughter comes easier this time, a huff of amusement that leaves her shoulders looking looser. 

“Steve didn’t tell you?” she asks, the question surprisingly gentle.

“Tell me what?” You tilt your head, though you have a vague idea. 

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, hugging the paperback closer to her chest. Her voice drops a notch, tinged with vulnerability. 

“That me and Vic… we… y’know.” She swallows, waiting for your reaction.

You’d had your suspicions—maybe even put two and two together when you noticed how often Robin’s name was tied to this mysterious Vicky in Steve’s stories. So you’re not exactly shocked. More like pleased you were right, and also that she trusts you enough to say it out loud.

“No.” You give her a warm smile. “Guess he figured you’d tell me yourself.”

Her relief is palpable, like someone unclenching a fist around her throat. 

“I do trust him. It’s just—” She glances away, exhaling. “He has this thing where he blurts stuff out and then immediately regrets it.” There’s a real fondness in her tone, but also exasperation. “He’s great for the most part—don’t get me wrong—but I’ve learned half of the town’s gossip from what he lets slip after parent-teacher night.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You picture Steve in a little second-grade classroom, animatedly chatting with parents. You can just hear him reciting what their kid had been up to in his company. All big gestures and wide smiles, maybe an occasional detail about other students because he’s that excited to share. 

There’s something endearing in that mental image—Steve with a heart so big it can’t contain all the stories.

You feel guilty for being here in the first place.

“I can so see that,” you say, shrugging off your apprehension. “Does he also keep you up to date on the politics of second grade?”

“Ugh, yes.” She groans good-naturedly. “Who knew eight-year-olds could be such a soap opera? It’s like a never-ending stream of who’s got a crush on who, who fell off the monkey bars and demanded a duel… It’s concerning.”

You chuckle at the idea. It’s a perfect fit for him, actually. Caring for a bunch of hyper little ones, returning home with comedic tales of playground drama. You can practically feel your chest tightening at how well he’s found his calling. 

Peace after a life of trauma. 

Peace that you’re threatening to disrupt.

“Thanks for telling me, though,” you say, gently drawing the conversation back to the reason she’s been acting so secretive in the first place. “Next time, if you want any more queer fiction, you know where to go. Friends and family discount applies.”

Robin brightens, her grip on the book relaxing a little. 

“I might take you up on that,” she says. “I’ve been trying to be… less cagey. It’s easier with people who don’t make it weird.”

You can only imagine what that’s like.

“I’m not going to make it weird,” you promise.

“No, I know.” She nods, glancing at the cover like it’s become a security blanket. “I just—sometimes I still brace for it. Old habits.”

A sympathetic understanding settles over you. You reach out and give her forearm a gentle squeeze. 

“Makes sense.”

She shrugs, but there’s no dismissiveness in it—just acceptance that this is part of her journey.

“For what it’s worth, I think you have great taste in books…” You glance up at her, gauging her reaction. “...And friends.”

Your eyes lock. She knows you’re referencing both Steve and maybe yourself. 

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You too.”

You let her words settle, you feel safe with the validation she’s offering. She’s someone you always sensed was a fiercely loyal friend. She’s been a rock for Steve—maybe she’ll be one for you, too. If the need arises. 

You could see yourself growing to care for her the way your boyfriend does, and with that comes a deeper respect for him too. For her to entrust him with something so personal, she must think extremely highly of him.

A thought nudges at you. The reason you first approached, the clearly false breakfast date. You decide to test the waters, keep it casual in your questioning.

“So… any other plans for the rest of the day?” Your tone is light, only the faintest undercurrent of curiosity so as to not give away your true motive for asking.

She pauses, then lifts the book slightly, as if that explains everything. 

“Nope. Just me and my… well, my lesbian trauma reading.” She flushes faintly, but there’s a playful glint in her eye as she says it.

You both burst into laughter, the sound of which draws a disapproving glance from someone behind the next aisle. You muffle your giggles, pressing your lips together, and she does the same. 

The moment is human—two people letting their guard down. Though this interaction has only left you with more questions. As you calm, you file that little discrepancy away. Robin isn’t meeting Steve. She’s definitely not at any diner right now.

So why would Steve say so?

And if he’s not with Robin…

Where is he actually? 

You watch her leave and force a casual smile as you step up to the librarian’s desk, heart pounding. The woman was in her fifties with neat grey hair and glasses on a chain, she glanced up. Her eyes flick over you, polite but probing.

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I was wondering if you have any public records or newspaper archives from the eighties? I’m doing a little personal research on the Starcourt Mall fire. Just local history stuff.”

That sounded believable enough. 

She tilts her head, a hint of wariness in the lines around her mouth. 

“That’s not a very cheerful topic.”

“No, but kind of fascinating, right?” A half-laugh slips out, and you shrug. “My boyfriend mentioned it, and I realised I don’t actually know anything about it. Figured it was a pretty big deal.”

At the mention of the fire, the librarian’s gaze switches—like maybe she remembers that day, or at least remembers the number rumours that once engulfed the town. Her expression softens a fraction. 

“You’re looking for newspapers, or…?”

“Newspapers mostly,” you say, pushing your shoulders back in a show of confidence. “But if there’s anything about building permits or public works around the mall site, that’d be amazing. I’m… kind of a nerd for this stuff.”

She studies you, then gives a short nod. Opening a drawer beneath the counter, she removes a heavy iron key and places it in your outstretched hand. Cool metal presses into your palm, and you realise your fingers are a bit sweaty from the tension rising under your skin.

“Archives are down in the basement,” she says. “Back left corner. Bring the key up when you’re done.”

That was easy. 

Relief edges into your chest. 

“Thank you. Really.”

She just nods, returning her attention to something on her computer screen, as though she’s already dismissed you. You turn away and slip the key into your jacket pocket, hyperaware of its weight. A guilty thrill shoots in your stomach—like you’re about to dig up something you absolutely shouldn’t.

The stairs leading down are narrow and creaky, each step sounding with a groan. The air grows noticeably cooler the farther you descend, the scent of cardboard and dust wraps around you. It reminds you of the back corner of your own bookshop—where neglected boxes sometimes wait for sorting, usually with the help of your boyfriend nowadays…

A row of lights hang overhead with a low electric whine. In the gloomy space, time feels distorted, like the clock upstairs doesn’t quite apply here. The silence is thicker than the quiet you’re used to in libraries, completely devoid of another person's presence. You catch your reflection in a dulled metal panel—your eyes look sharp, and there’s a trace of apprehension there too.

You already feel like you don’t belong here. 

You pass rows of metal filing cabinets, their labels faded at the edges. Oversized newspaper folders line one wall, stacked so tall you’d need a stepladder to reach the top. There’s an ancient-looking microfilm reader in the corner, the plastic shell yellowed with age. 

You set your bag down on a rickety wooden table and carefully pull out one of the large bound volumes:

Hawkins Post — 1985.

Seems like a decent enough place to start. 

The cover is cloth, frayed slightly. It’s heavy, so you ease it open, scanning the dates on the top of each page until you land on July of that year.

A headline you have been searching for leaps out on the front page:

��Gas Leak Causes Deadly Explosion at Starcourt Mall — Four Confirmed Dead.”

Your eyes skim the blocky print. The paper is slightly brittle; you take care not to tear it as you turn the pages.

“A faulty gas line and electrical overload are believed to have triggered the explosion…”

“Authorities are urging citizens to remain calm. There is no long-term danger to public safety…”

“We are working closely with federal partners to determine the exact cause…”

You notice the name Police Chief Calvin Powell quoted beneath a photograph of the rubble. The corners of your mouth tighten. 

Federal partners? 

Since when would a run-of-the-mill mall fire require federal aid? Even as an outsider, that strikes you as odd, it’s too formal.

Orchestrated.

The article feels sanitised—curated words like “gas leak,” “electrical overload,” “containment.” No real emotion from the reporter, no heartfelt quotes from eyewitnesses—just a neat, glossy narrative. It sounds almost robotic. 

You lift the edges of the page and shift them gently, scanning for more details or follow-ups. Another small piece catches your eye. In the same volume, just a few pages later, tucked away in a smaller column of the community news section, you see a brief update. It’s dated five days after the initial report.

“Further Details on Mall Fire Unavailable”

Your pulse quickens as you read.

“At the request of federal authorities, the Hawkins Fire Department has declined to comment further on the incident at Starcourt Mall.”

“Residents are advised not to speculate or spread misinformation while the investigation is ongoing.”

The room around you seems to close in, pressing against your ears. The basement feels darker, though the lights haven’t changed.

Well, that just makes no sense. 

The complete lack of information about a fire that massive is absurd. Wouldn’t their first priority be putting the town at ease? There’s a clear warning not to spread details—a red flag if there ever was one. What could possibly be so out of the ordinary here?

No official story, no explanations. Just silence. 

The whole thing reeks of something being buried.

Fuck, Steve. What are you hiding?

Setting the newspaper volume aside, you hunt for anything labeled “Starcourt” among the older building permits and public records, there had to be something more at play here. Eventually, you come across a thick, dust-streaked folder.

“Starcourt Development / Expansion Plans.” 

You tug it free from the shelf, coughing as a small cloud of dust billows around you.

You find folded-up blueprints. The paper is stiff and smudged with dark grease marks at the corners. A quick scan of the top page shows the mall’s recognisable layout—wide corridors for shops, a large food court, loading docks. 

As you peel back the layers, you spot something more:

“STARCOURT COMPLEX — Site Development Plans, 1984”

Arrows and lines scrawl below the main building. Your mouth goes dry. There’s a sub-level beneath the mall. Narrow corridors designated as “ACCESS ROUTES” and “UTILITY” passages. 

Then, In red ink:

"RESTRICTED: NO DIG ZONE — PERMIT WITHHELD (INTL.)"

The corridor extends off the edge of the blueprint, vanishing into a blank expanse of white. Not just under the food court, either—farther, reaching what looks like the edge of the property line, maybe even toward the woods. There’s no note explaining the restriction, just that cryptic note. 

Permit Withheld (INTL.)

International?

Your stomach twists. The rest of the plans look standard—retail square footage, ventilation routes, plumbing grids—but this corridor is… different. 

No dimensions. No annotations. 

Just a thick red stroke and that vague, bureaucratic warning.

The idea that a foreign entity might’ve had pull in the construction of a Midwest shopping mall is equally absurd. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Whatever this place was built over, someone didn’t want it disturbed. 

Not the city. Not the state. 

Someone else.

The realisation sends your stomach twisting.

Should you even be looking at this?

Your eyes return to that bold, red-ink “NO DIG ZONE.” You can’t help imagining men in suits telling construction crews to skip certain areas, never explaining why.

These pieces of information didn’t explain anything—not even close. If anything, they only raised more questions.

Steve had made it all sound so cryptic, but the papertrail matched his version of the story perfectly. He said he’d stuck his head where it didn’t belong, found something he was never meant to see. 

But how old had he been when it happened? He couldn’t have been more than twenty…

That was young. 

Too young. 

Barely out of high school, probably still figuring out how to do his own laundry—and already carrying something like this.

What had they done to him?

The uneasy feeling inside you still felt unsatisfied, it was clear there is more to this story. If it was this censored, it meant that something big had occurred. Something you were even more desperate to understand. 

You find yourself flipping through folder spines again, now looking for any mention of the next year—1986—scanning for local headlines. Maybe there would be some new information a little further down the line, perhaps a rogue reporter uncovering something new. 

Your fingers land on a battered red folder. Hawkins Post  — 1986. 

What else happened?

You open it up. The first few pages are mundane—ads for local car dealerships, a brief mention of a new pharmacy. You’re about to give up when you catch a bold black headline stamped across a newspaper clipping.

Earthquake Rocks Hawkins: Dozens Missing, Entire Town Evacuated. 

Earthquake? 

Nobody ever mentioned a natural disaster before, something the town was clearly not interested in bringing up if the title is anything to go by. You run your fingertips across the grainy newsprint, reading each line slowly.

“Officials confirmed a natural fault line ruptured beneath Sattler Quarry, leveling several blocks of East Hawkins.”

“Emergency services have reported over 50 injured and multiple fatalities. Residents are advised not to return to the fracture zone.”

A pang tightens in your chest. 

Why did Steve never mention how devastating this was? Or Robin for that matter, she would have been a resident here too. 

“One local student, Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson, identified as prime murder suspect...”

That name. Eddie Munson. Something about seeing it spelled out in official print makes your gut lurch. It’s a snippet, a half-buried footnote. You have no idea how murder tied to this event, but the language feels similar to the Starcourt articles, aimed at stifling real questions. Another big tragedy in Hawkins, another clipped explanation that doesn’t quite add up.

Why was Hawkins the site of so many horrors in such a short span of time?

Your eyes scan the rest of the article. There’s no mention of secret labs or mysterious tunnels—just damage, rescue teams. You see a pattern in the phrasing, residents advised not to speculate. 

Sound familiar? 

You swallow, a metallic taste on your tongue. 

This reads like another cover-up. 

You decide to make a snap decision, folding the clipping into your notebook. This is technically theft—yes—but what choice did you have? 

You didn’t have a camera, nor the time it would take to write out every sentence piece by piece. You also didn’t know if you could access these archives with as much ease next time. This felt like a justified crime considering the circumstances. 

It’s not like anyone’s going to notice.

The next pages in the folder are mostly more coverage—pictures of shattered streets, interviews with sobbing residents. But something near the back catches your eye. 

You find a single, highly redacted document. The black bars are fresh and bold, blocking out entire paragraphs and lines of text. A small logo near the top—smudged and half torn—looks like it might belong to the Department of Energy, or perhaps some other federal agency. 

You gently flatten the page beneath your palm, trying to read what remains.

At first glance, you see only scattered fragments:

“…seismic event registering 7.4… multiple fractures… pattern incongruent with standard tectonic profiles…”

Your breath catches. You skim deeper, eyes darting across the page.

 “…unconfirmed sightings of anomalous flora, potential contamination risk…”

A knot forms in your stomach. 

Anomalous flora? 

What the hell did that even mean?

The silence around you felt suffocating but you couldn’t look away. Your eyes raced across the barely legible text, the dim lighting doing nothing to ease the mental strain as you tried to make sense of it all.

Every fragmented detail added another twist to an already labyrinthine mystery. You pushed on, desperation motivating you as every new discovery felt like another obstacle. 

You see a name repeated in the tiny corner of a clipped paragraph:

“…missing individual: Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson (status: presumed fatality). Further details withheld at request of…”

That name appears again—Munson. 

You glimpse it, a jolt firing through your nerves. He was plastered over that old newspaper article you found not ten minutes ago—the local student turned murderer. The next lines are almost completely blacked out, except for a single snippet:

“…survivors displayed acute stress responses, some presenting with inexplicable wounds or testimony.”

Your temples throb with an uneasy question. 

What happened to these survivors? 

Another black bar covers the rest. Carefully, you tilt the paper toward the meager light, hoping to glean even a faint silhouette of text beneath. 

Nothing.

You flip to the back, where you find a small note pinned with a rusted staple. It’s typed, minimal, and partially redacted, but at least you can make out a few more lines:

“…secondary injuries observed among multiple local residents… site infiltration suspected…”

You feel sweat bead on your temple. 

Site infiltration? 

By who? 

Your gaze drifts down to the final paragraph. Half of it is still blacked out, whole lines swallowed by darkness. You’d just been trying to make sense of it—events, scattered names, pieces of something bigger, something twisted you thought you could piece together into a puzzle with edges.

But then you see it.

Three fragments, set apart by a bullet point, still visible in the wreckage of the page. A name.

And not just any name.

A name you’ve whispered in half-sleep, murmured with laughter through the phone, gasped in the dark like a prayer. A name that’s fallen from your lips with care, with tenderness, with certainty.

And now it’s here. Cold. Formal. 

Clinical.

Filed and formatted between voids of black ink—the same blackness that clouds his mind, the same blank spaces he’s tried so desperately to protect you from.

SUBJECT: HARRINGTON, S.

Status: [REDACTED]

Observed: [REDACTED]

A tremor tears through you. Your eyes snap back to the text. 

Harrington, S.

Steve Harrington.

Steve.

You blink, but it doesn’t change. No matter how much you stare at the page.  

His name. 

Your Steve. 

Buried in more secrets than when you first entered the basement.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen

[sharieb]

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 3: The Ones Who Fade pt 1

Genre: Angst (not proofread)

Pairing: LADs x MC (Still a non-Mc fanfic, but this chapter is in MC's pov for the plot)

Word count: +2k

Writer's notes: Hey everyone! Welcome to this chapter of this series. This chapter will be divided into 2 parts and will focus on getting a glimpse of the guys' behaviour through MC's pov. I tried to keep the boys as original as possible but also display the turmoil that simmers within them through their day, so I hope you all enjoy.

First Previous Next

The rain had followed her all morning, clinging to her coat like sorrow. It tapped quietly on the windows of the Hunters Association building, whispering like an omen. MC stepped inside, brushing droplets from her shoulders. The Hunters Association was quieter than usual. The usual hum of chatter and footsteps was muted, shadows hanging heavier in the corners.

Lately, something’s been off with one of the boys, from what others have been telling her. Everyone says he has not been himself lately. And it’s been days. No matter how much others try to reach out, it feels like they are chasing shadows and hitting dead ends. She needs to visit him, needs to see him face-to-face. She won't give up until she somehow pulls him back from whatever’s holding him down. She owes him that much.

As MC sat at her usual post behind her desk in front of the computer screen, her eyes flickering from data to him, Xavier. He’s hunched over his desk, pale light painting shadows beneath, his fingers hovered over the keyboard, still as his eyes, repeatedly scanning the same line on his report like it holds some secret he can’t quite grasp. His usual quiet sweetness is masked by a distant, colder edge, and his restless eyelids betray how little sleep he’s gotten—probably from those damned nightmares again.

She approaches Xavier, who didn't look up, as MC tries to keep her tone light but gentle. “Xavier, you’ve been stuck on that page for twenty minutes. Maybe it’s time to step away for a bit?”

He doesn’t look up, voice low and clipped. “Can’t. There’s too much to do. Need to refine the data.”

“You’re staring at a blank field.”

That made him stop. Not because she was wrong, but because she noticed. He closed his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“I’ll get it done. Just… give me a minute.”

She frowns, sensing the strain beneath her partner's words. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. I’m here, you know.”

He finally meets her eyes, exhaustion flickering through his usual calm. “I’m fine. Just... tired.”

MC wanted to say more. Offer warmth and comfort. But the words felt like stones in her mouth, heavy and misplaced. So she nodded and sat beside him, letting the silence do what words couldn’t. Soon, Captain Jenna came over to where they both sat and handed them their mission for today before sending them off.

While out on the field, the duo found themselves in the middle of a fight with wanderers. As MC fought, she noticed a change in how Xavier moved—usually his movements were so sharp and precise—but today his steps were heavier, his reactions just a bit slower. It’s like the weight of those sleepless nights and haunting dreams is dragging him down. Even during the fierce battle, the distance in his eyes is hard to miss. Once the fight was over and they started to head back, MC softly nudged Xavier's arm. "Hey… you sure you're okay? You’ve been zoning out all day. Thought maybe we could grab hot pot or something. Your treat, of course."

Xavier paused for a moment and looked over to MC. He gave her a tired smile, even though his gaze still appeared distant, with the smile not reaching his eyes.

"Heh… tempting." His voice lowers, eyes now shifted back to the ground. "But… not tonight. I’m—" Xavier exhales, running a hand through his hair, shoulders slumping "—just really tired. Think I’m just gonna head back home and get some more sleep." MC frowned and try to get a read off of Xavier as she knew how much Xavier loved a good hotpot after a long mission.

"Xavier, this isn't like you. You've been off for days. Talk to me, please."

Xavier looked at MC for a moment, contemplating if he should talk to her about what was going on in his head, in his dreams, but the tiredness and then unusual night of insomnia he suffered with for the past couple of days got the best of him in the end.

"It's nothing, MC. Just tired. That's all." His voice was almost a whisper, nearly audible as he walked past her, down the sidewalk.

"Just really tired."

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

MC decided to visit Rafayel at Mo Art Studio. As she entered, the scent of turpentine and old canvas clung to the walls.

His space used to be full of life — beautiful colours, wet brushes in jars, half-finished portraits leaning against every surface. Now, it looked more like a graveyard of ideas. The floor was scattered with torn sketches, overturned paint bottles, crumpled rags, and a drying canvas smeared with abandoned strokes.

MC stepped in carefully. “You’ve redecorated,” she joked gently.

He was sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, a paintbrush twirling in his fingers like a cigarette. His shirt was stained and hanging loose off one shoulder, hair a bit of a mess, but somehow still intentional. That flair never left him — even now.

“I call it: ‘Melancholy in Eight Shades of Beige,’” he muttered. “It’s performance art. Very exclusive.”

She knelt beside him. “Want to tell me what happened?”

He sighed, dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “My muse has left me. Again. And this time, I don’t think it's coming back. I’ve stared at that canvas for hours, and all I managed was a panic attack and three broken brushes.”

“Four,” she corrected, pointing to the one snapped behind him.

He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Ugh, tragic. I’m a disaster.”

“No,” she said softly, “you’re just stuck. It happens.”

He looked at her then, eyes tired but still burning with something deep. “Yeah… just stuck, I guess. Nothing’s coming out right.”

MC offers a small smile, “Maybe a break? Or a walk on the beach? Sometimes stepping back helps.” He shrugs but doesn’t argue, eyes still distant. The air feels heavy, like the frustration is settling deep in him. MC notices Rafael’s usual flair is dimmed, his voice lacking its usual sass as he mutters,

“I’m fine… just a bit stuck, nothing more.”

That quieter tone sets off alarm bells for her. She leans in, voice gentle but probing,

“Raf, this isn’t like you. What’s really going on?” But he just shrugs, eyes flickering away, shutting her out with that distant, closed-off look she’s never quite seen before.

“You’re always popping up whenever I’m trying to work, huh?” His voice had that usual edge, but today it lacked its usual bite — more tired than annoyed.

MC raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. “You don’t sound like yourself. What’s going on?”

He gave a short, almost bitter laugh. “Maybe I’m just out of ideas. Or maybe the ideas have outpaced me. Either way, it’s... draining.” His usual sassy grin was gone, replaced by a distant look that didn’t reach his eyes.

MC stepped closer, softer now. “You don’t have to face it alone.”

Raphael’s eyes flickered, a moment of vulnerability breaking through. “It’s not about facing it. It’s about not knowing how to keep up.”

He turned back to the canvas, but the paintbrush trembled slightly in his hand, betraying his tired mind. Rafayel soon placed the paintbrush down with a sigh and a tired smirk, shaking his head. “Thomas has been on my case nonstop about the next exhibit. He keeps pushing for new work, new ideas. Honestly, I’m running on empty.”

He glanced at MC, voice softer but firm. “I appreciate you dropping by, but maybe give me some space to breathe. I need to focus before I lose it completely.” Soon, MC reluctantly granted his wishes as she steps back quietly, sensing the weariness beneath his sass, and lets him be, giving space without pushing too hard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the weekend when MC visited the Akso Hospital to see Zayne during his break. Even though the hospital tends to be hectic on some days, Today in particular, the place was really busy and tense due to the large flow of patients coming in and even that didn't stop some of the nurses and doctors, who knew her from giving her uneasy glances.

“Dr. Zayne's… tense today,” Yvonne whispered. “Snapped at three interns already. Might not be the best time, MC. Just a heads up.”

MC thanked Yvonne and went in anyway and made her way down the sterile halls of the facility to Zayne's office. Under the dim glow of Zayne's office, he sat slumped in a cracked vinyl chair, eyes closed but mind racing. The endless beeping of monitors and distant echoes of hurried footsteps seeped through the walls, relentless as the weight settling deep in his chest.

When she entered, he didn’t turn to see who came in. “If you're here to check on me for the fifth time, Greyson, don’t. Not now.”

Just as he spoke, the air thickened, a sharp cold creeping through the room like a frozen breath. MC notices but says nothing at first, just watches him with concern.

“I’m not. Just passing through.”

His eyes flash icy for a moment before they soften a bit at the sight of MC. He sighs, visibly forcing the chill back into control, rubbing his temples like he’s fighting to stay steady.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there… It’s just been a rough few shifts, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

"I can tell. You're more snappy than usual, Dr. Zayne."

MC replies as she steps quietly into the office and sits in the chair in front of Zayne's desk, a delicate box of macarons clutched in her hands. MC recalls Dr.Greyson's words, while making her way to Zayne's office, on how relentless Zayne's shifts had been—back-to-back, no room for rest. This was his first real break in what felt like forever.

And yet, he sat hunched over a tablet, eyes bloodshot but fixed on the screen, fingers scrolling through endless reports and surgical notes even now. The room felt colder than usual, the hum of the fluorescent lights pressing down on them both. "I brought your favourite,” she said, holding up a paper bag, holding a box of macaroons from the café they both loved. “Still warm.”

Usually, the moment he saw the macaroons, he’d pause to grab one—his small, sweet refuge amid chaos. But today, he barely glanced at the box.

“No thanks,” he muttered, not looking up.

MC hid her surprise at Zayne's unexpected rejection of having sweets for once. MC hesitated, not knowing what to do now as she set the box down beside him.

“You don’t have to push so hard,” she said softly. “Even the greatest fighters need a break.”

He let out a breath like a knife scraping over glass. “Not yet,” he said, voice tight. “There’s no time.”

MC didn’t respond right away. Instead, she sat quietly beside him, the macaroons untouched between them. Her phone buzzed softly with incoming messages—little updates from the others, Yvonne, Greyson, even Dr. Noah, checking in or dropping quiet remarks about Zayne. Every mention of his name came with the same strained tone. Not judgment. Not envy. Just… concern. As if they, too, had noticed the subtle shift in him. The growing coldness. The apparent distance.

She looked at him again—really looked—and spoke gently. “You don't have to be here all alone, struggling, Zayne."

That finally made him pause. His fingers stopped moving. Slowly, he turned to meet her eyes. Tired. Sharp. Haunted. Eyes that looked past scalpels and blood, that had seen death and refused to blink. He kept hearing those words for the past few days from everyone was if they were broken records to the point it was getting on his last nerve.

“Don’t make this harder than it is,” he snapped. It came quick and edged, like a reflex he couldn’t control, more defence than malice.

MC blinked at the sudden sting, but steadied herself, holding his gaze. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Help,” he echoed, and this time the word dripped with quiet bitterness. “That’s a luxury I can’t afford.”

The silence that followed settled between them like frost—unmelting, undeniable.

Still, she didn’t leave. Her presence, quiet and unmoving, was the only warmth in the frozen room.

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

I'm stopping this part of the chapter here for now and starting the second part of the section very soon. As you all already know, this is just an ooc version of the LIs based on the previous chapters, so their personality and reaction to situations like these won't be entirely accurate to how they might have reacted. Besides that, thank you all once again for reading, and shout-outs to everyone who likes, reblogs, and comments on my content. I deeply appreciated your support, even if it seems small to you all.

taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.3

Chapter Three: The Air Buzzes Whenever You're Near

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck,

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: HEHEHEHEHE. Yes, this fic is basically a slice of life, low stakes, and all-around good vibes. Eventually, there will be some drama but nothing too heartbreaking… maybe… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Magnets by NIKI

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING  

The soft hum of your phone vibrating roused you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim light of the TV still playing softly in the background.  

Your hand instinctively reached out to grab your phone from where it had slipped to the floor beside the couch. As you shifted, something warm and solid tightened around your waist.  

Oh.  

Oh no.  

Your breath hitched as the realization settled over you like a weight. Pedro’s arm was draped across you, his body pressed against yours, radiating warmth. Your head had somehow found its way to the crook of his shoulder, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your side told you he was still asleep.  

Oh God.  

Carefully, you reached down to grab your phone without disturbing him. Your thumb brushed across the screen to silence the alarm, and you winced when you saw the time: 4:30 a.m. Far too early to be awake but late enough to question how this even happened.  

Your heart pounded as you tried to make sense of it. You’d been watching a movie—something quiet and low-energy, just as you’d requested. You vaguely remembered leaning back against the couch, your body growing heavier with sleep. But you hadn’t expected to wake up like this, tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

Pedro stirred slightly, a low hum escaping his lips as he adjusted his arm around you, pulling you even closer. Your breath caught, panic and something else—something warmer—bubbling to the surface.  

Do I move? Do I stay? Oh, this is bad. Or is it good? Your thoughts raced, but your body refused to cooperate, frozen in place as if the universe had hit pause on this moment.  

A faint smile tugged at Pedro’s lips, even in sleep. His face was softer like this, the usual teasing edge replaced by something peaceful. It wasn’t fair, you thought, how he managed to look so effortlessly handsome even now.  

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing. Carefully, you began to shift, attempting to untangle yourself without waking him. But as soon as you moved, his arm tightened again, and this time, his eyes fluttered open.  

“Mm, what time is it?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.  

You froze, caught in the act. “Uh, it’s... early. Like, really early.”  

Pedro blinked a few times, his gaze slowly focusing on you. And then, as if realizing the position you were both in, a sleepy grin spread across his face.  

“Well,” he murmured, his voice still thick and low, “this is a nice way to wake up.”  

Your cheeks burned. “I—uh, I didn’t mean to—”  

“Relax,” he interrupted softly, his eyes twinkling despite the early hour. “I’m not complaining.”  

You stared at him, caught between embarrassment and the inexplicable urge to laugh. “Pedro...”  

He stretched slightly, his arm finally loosening its hold on you, though he made no move to pull away entirely. “You fell asleep first,” he said, his tone teasing now. “I just... went with it.”  

You let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking your head. “This is so unprofessional,” you muttered, though there was no real weight behind the words.  

Pedro smirked, sitting up slightly but still close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Guess we’ll just have to keep it a secret,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Our little... accidental cuddle.”  

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curving into a smile. “You’re impossible,” you murmured.  

“And yet,” he countered, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your heart stumble, “here you are.”  

The air between you shifted then, the teasing fading into something quieter, something unspoken but undeniable. For a moment, neither of you moved, the world outside the suite forgotten.  

And then, because it felt safer than facing whatever this was, you stood, clutching your phone like a lifeline. “I need coffee,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze as you made your way to the kitchenette.  

Pedro watched you retreat into the kitchenette, his easygoing grin fading into something thoughtful. He stretched lazily, his hair still mussed from sleep, before following you at his own unhurried pace. 

You were already fussing with the hotel’s coffee machine when he appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame like he belonged there. “You know, you’re very intense about your coffee for someone who just woke up,” he teased, his voice warm and teasing.  

You startled slightly, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I need caffeine to survive this,” you muttered, your words a little too sharp, betraying just how tightly wound you felt.  

Pedro quirked an eyebrow. “This? What exactly is this?”  

You didn’t answer right away, turning your attention back to the machine and praying it would brew faster. “Nothing,” you said finally, though your tone was anything but convincing.  

He stepped further into the kitchenette, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he didn’t want to spook you. “Is it the early morning? Or... could it be that you’re stuck sharing a suite with me?”  

You froze, clutching the edge of the counter. His voice held that teasing lilt you’d come to associate with him, but there was something softer underneath it, something that made your stomach flip in a way you were trying very hard to ignore.  

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your tone made it sound like you were anything but.  

Pedro chuckled, and the sound was low and warm, filling the small space between you. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”  

You turned to face him, your heart thudding in your chest. He was standing closer now, his dark eyes studying you with a mix of amusement and something else—something you couldn’t quite name.  

“I just—” you started, but the words stuck in your throat. How were you supposed to tell him that sharing a suite with him, waking up next to him, was a level of surreal you weren’t prepared for? That he wasn’t just Pedro to you; he was Pedro Pascal, your literal celebrity crush and the man who’d unintentionally been making your life both thrilling and impossibly complicated?  

“I’m just trying not to embarrass myself,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Pedro’s grin softened into something gentler, something almost fond. “You’re doing fine,” he said simply.  

Before you could respond, the coffee machine beeped, signaling it was done. You practically lunged for the cup, desperate for something—anything—to do with your hands.  

Pedro didn’t push you further, but as you handed him a mug of coffee without meeting his gaze, he murmured, “For what it’s worth, I like having you around.”  

Your heart gave a traitorous little leap at his words, but you forced yourself to nod, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” before retreating back into your room to get ready.  

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — DAY

The car ride to work was tense—at least for you. Pedro, of course, seemed completely unbothered, chatting with the driver and making the occasional attempt to draw you into the conversation. But all you could manage were one-word answers, your mind too busy overthinking everything about the morning.  

Once you arrived on set, you threw yourself into your work, doing your best to stay out of Pedro’s way. Which was easier said than done, considering he seemed to have made it his mission to seek you out every chance he got.  

“Hey, everything okay?” he’d ask in-between takes, his dark eyes scanning your face like he could read your thoughts.  

“Yep, totally fine,” you’d reply, before darting off to find something—anything—else to do.  

By lunchtime, you were exhausted. You slumped into a chair in the corner of the break area, picking at your food while scrolling aimlessly on your phone.  

“Who are you hiding from?” Daisy’s voice cut through your thoughts, startling you. She plopped down in the chair across from you, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth as she gave you a curious look. “You’ve been acting weird all morning.”  

“No one,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly, because Daisy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  

“Oh, really?” she drawled, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. “Does this have anything to do with a certain actor you spent the night with?”  

Your face went hot, and you nearly choked on your drink. “I—what? No! It’s not like that!”  

Daisy’s smirk only grew. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’re just blushing like crazy for no reason.”  

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “It’s complicated, okay?”  

“It doesn’t have to be,” Daisy said lightly, leaning back in her chair. “Pedro seems pretty into you, you know.”  

Your head shot up, your eyes wide. “What?”  

She shrugged, biting into another piece of fruit. “I’m just saying, he keeps looking at you like you hung the moon. It’s cute, really.”  

You shook your head, trying to brush off her words, but the flutter in your chest told you it wasn’t that simple.  

And as if on cue, Pedro walked into the break area, his gaze immediately landing on you. He smiled, that easy, disarming smile that made your knees weak, and started making his way over.  

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, sinking lower into your chair.  

“Good luck,” Daisy whispered with a grin, grabbing her tray and leaving you alone just as Pedro reached your table.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm and casual, as if he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “Mind if I join you?”  

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a soft, barely audible, “Sure.”  

Pedro sat down across from you, his eyes twinkling with that same unreadable expression that always made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.  

“So,” he said, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned forward slightly. “Why have you been avoiding me all day?”  

And just like that, your heart was racing again, because of course he noticed. Of course he did.  

Pedro’s question lingered in the air, heavy with curiosity and a touch of concern. He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he had all the time in the world to wait for your response. His fingers drummed idly against the table, a subtle rhythm that matched the uneven beat of your heart.  

“I… Um…” you stammered, feeling like your words were stuck somewhere in your throat.  

Pedro’s brow furrowed, and his expression softened. “Did I make you uncomfortable last night?” he asked, his voice quiet and laced with genuine worry. “I’m so sorry if I did—”  

“No, no,” you interrupted, your voice rushing out faster than your brain could keep up. You waved your hands slightly, as if trying to erase the idea entirely. “I didn’t mind. It’s just—”  

You trailed off, feeling the weight of his gaze. Pedro didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence with reassurances or jokes like he usually did. He simply waited, his head still resting on his hand, his warm brown eyes encouraging you to keep going.  

Taking a deep breath, you clenched your hands together in your lap, as if grounding yourself. “I’m just… I can’t believe you really want me around,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like you actually want to be friends with me. It seems so…”  

“Unreal?” Pedro finished for you, his lips curving into a soft smile.  

You nodded, biting your lip. “Exactly. Unreal. I mean, you’re you—a ridiculously talented actor, charming, funny, and so... well, famous. And I’m just... me. I keep waiting for the moment you’ll realize I don’t belong in your world.”  

Pedro blinked at you, his expression flickering between surprise and something deeper—something that made your chest ache in a way that was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.  

He sat up straight, his hand reaching across the table, stopping just short of yours. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you out of your spiral. “First of all, you’re not just anything. You’re smart, talented, funny as hell, and honestly, one of the most grounded people I’ve ever met. That’s a big deal in this industry, you know.”  

You looked up at him, startled by the earnestness in his tone. “Pedro…”  

“And second,” he continued, leaning a little closer, “I do want you around. Not because of some weird celebrity power imbalance or whatever you think this is. I want you around because you make my days better. You make me laugh. You make everything feel... lighter.”  

The lump in your throat grew, and you had to look away before your emotions spilled over completely. You focused on the half-eaten piece of fruit on your plate, blinking rapidly. “You don’t have to say that,” you murmured.  

“I’m not saying it because I have to,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”  

When you finally dared to meet his eyes again, you saw nothing but sincerity staring back at you. It was the kind of sincerity that made your carefully constructed walls feel like they were made of paper.  

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady.  

Pedro smiled then—a real, heart-stopping smile that lit up his entire face. “Okay,” he echoed, sitting back in his chair with a satisfied nod.  

The tension between you eased, replaced by something warmer, something fragile but promising. And for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, Pedro saw something in you worth sticking around for.  

“Now,” he said, breaking the moment with a playful grin, “can we please talk about how you were about to burn that coffee machine this morning? Because I have questions.”  

You groaned, rolling your eyes as he chuckled, the sound wrapping around you like a familiar melody. And just like that, the world felt a little less overwhelming, and Pedro felt a little more like home.  

The afternoon passed in a blur of tasks, and now, you found yourself walking toward the makeup trailer, your phone clutched tightly in your hand as you prepared to fetch Pedro for his next scene.  

You knocked lightly before stepping inside, the scent of hairspray and setting powder filling the air. Pedro was lounging in the makeup chair, eyes closed as Andrea Cracknell, the key hair and makeup supervisor, gave his hair a final tousle. Suzanne Harper, one of the main hair and makeup artists, was touching up the edges of his beard with careful precision.  

The warm glow of vanity bulbs cast a golden hue over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the soft crinkles near his eyes.  

Dara Hannon, the daily hair and makeup trainee, glanced up and grinned as you stepped in. “Ah, there’s our favorite ray of sunshine,” she said, setting down a brush. “You always look so put together. How do you do it?”  

You laughed, heat creeping up your neck. “Trust me, I don’t. I just hide it well.”  

“She doesn’t need to hide anything,” Pedro murmured, cracking one eye open. His voice was smooth, laced with something teasing but warm. “She’s effortlessly stunning.”  

You felt your brain short-circuit.  

From across the room, Samanta, one of the junior makeup artists, let out a low whistle. “Damn, Pedro. You don’t hold back, do you?”  

Chloë Pyne—one of the main team hair and makeup artists—smirked, tilting her head as she studied you. “He’s right, though. You have one of those naturally pretty faces. Like, the kind that doesn’t need much makeup.”  

Pedro hummed in agreement, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long. “See? Told you.”  

You waved them off, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Okay, okay—enough. I came to get you, not to hear you guys exaggerate.”  

Pedro grinned. “We’re not exaggerating. You just don’t take compliments well.”  

“I take them fine,” you mumbled, eyes darting anywhere but him.  

He chuckled, stretching his arms as he stood from the chair, towering over you. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, you know that?”  

Your stomach flipped, and you wanted to sink into the ground. “Pedro—”  

He smirked, leaning in slightly. “Yes?”  

You huffed, turning on your heel. “Come on, you’re needed on set.”  

Pedro chuckled behind you, his footsteps light and easy as he followed. Just before you stepped out of the makeup trailer, his hand brushed against your arm—barely there, a whisper of contact—but it sent a ripple of heat up your spine. You swallowed hard, pretending not to notice, pretending your stomach wasn’t doing ridiculous little flips at the way his presence lingered so close behind you.  

By the time you reached the sound stage, the energy on set had shifted.  

“There she is!” Vanessa beamed the second she spotted you, setting her script down to stride over. “Finally. The only competent person around here.”  

You snorted. “I think that’s an insult to literally everyone else.”  

Vanessa grinned. “And yet, somehow, they’ll survive.”  

Before you could respond, Joseph and Ebon chimed in from where they were going over their lines.  

“Thank God, I thought Pedro kidnapped you,” Joseph teased, crossing his arms with a smirk. “We were about to send a search party.”  

Ebon shook his head. “Nah, he would’ve kept her hidden all day.” He gave Pedro a pointed look. “You’ve been hovering.”  

Pedro scoffed. “I don’t hover.”  

Vanessa snorted. “You so do.”  

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, unsure how to defend yourself—or Pedro, for that matter—when another familiar voice called out.  

“Ah, the prodigal assistant returns!”  

You turned to see Jess Hall, the first AD, grinning as he strolled over, script in hand. “Seriously, where have you been? I swear the set runs smoother when you’re around.”  

“I… I’ve been doing my job?” you offered weakly.  

Jess huffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, keep being humble, we love that.”  

Before you could protest, Matt—the director—walked up, arms crossed, surveying the growing crowd around you with an arched brow.  

“So…” he mused. “Am I missing something? Because the way everyone gravitates toward you makes me think you might actually be running this set.”  

You blinked. “Uh—no? I mean, I just… I don’t know, I just do my job like everyone else.”  

Matt squinted at you like he didn’t quite buy that, but he just hummed and glanced at Pedro. “You keeping her distracted, or is she keeping you distracted?”  

Pedro grinned. “Bit of both.”  

Your brain stalled.  

Matt shook his head, muttering something about actors before waving a hand. “Alright, let’s go, people. Back to work before I regret hiring all of you.”  

As the cast dispersed, Pedro leaned in, voice low, warm. “See? Told you everyone likes you.”  

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as Pedro’s laughter rumbled beside you, rich and warm.  

“Why are you like this?” you muttered, voice muffled against your palms.  

He tilted his head, smirking. “Like what?”  

“You know what.”  

Pedro simply grinned, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, as if he wasn’t single-handedly unraveling your ability to function like a normal human being.  

There was a steady thrum in the air whenever he was close—something neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. It was impossible not to.  

It crackled between you when you stood side by side, almost magnetic.  

And when your fingers brushed, even just for a second? Electric.  

You pulled your hand away as if burned, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way you tensed. But of course, he did. Pedro always noticed. His gaze flickered down to where your hands had been, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.  

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing. “Someone might think you like me or something.”  

You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, smacked his arm.  

Pedro just laughed, dodging the second playful hit you aimed at him before finally relenting, his hands raised in surrender.  

“Alright, alright, I’ll behave,” he promised, though his smirk said otherwise.  

With a final glare, you turned and threw yourself into work, desperate for some sense of normalcy.  

The next few hours passed in a blur of controlled chaos—wardrobe changes, prop resets, last-minute adjustments. You did your job like clockwork, moving through set with practiced efficiency. Fetching cast members, tracking schedule updates, and ensuring things ran as smoothly as possible.  

Your friends worked nearby, their presence grounding you amidst the constant hum of production. But despite the familiarity of routine, you felt off-kilter.  

Every time you caught sight of Pedro—laughing with the cast, deep in conversation with Matt, even just sitting between takes, flipping through a script—your stomach did that thing.  

The stupid fluttery thing.  

By the time filming wrapped for the day, you were both exhausted and wired, your brain still buzzing with the day’s events.  

You found yourself huddled in a loose circle with some of the PAs and crew, all of you packing up while chatting, the easy rhythm of conversation filling the space.  

Daisy elbowed you playfully. “So, how’s your day been? You seemed a little… frazzled earlier.”  

You cleared your throat, focusing very intently on coiling a stray cable. “Just… tired.”  

Jordan snorted into his coffee. “You’re such a bad liar.” He raised a brow. “Let me guess—Pedro?”  

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.  

The entire group cackled.  

“Yeah, thought so.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grumbled, hugging your clipboard to your chest like it might somehow shield you from their knowing smirks.  

“Oh, sure,” Lucy drawled, her smirk downright devious. “It’s not like the man literally gravitates toward you every chance he gets.”  

“That’s just how he is!” you argued, feeling heat creep up your neck.  

Daisy hummed, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”  

“You guys are insufferable.” You crossed your arms, trying and failing to suppress your flustered expression.  

Jordan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. We’ll drop it. For now.”  

As the conversation flowed, the tension you’d been holding onto all day slowly unwound. Someone cracked a joke about a prop malfunction earlier, and you found yourself laughing, the sound blending into the hum of easy chatter around you.  

“Okay, but did you see the way the fake blood exploded everywhere?” Daisy wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes.  

Jordan shook his head, still grinning. “Poor props department. That cleanup looked brutal.”  

Lucy snickered. “I swear, Matt almost had a stroke.”  

You smiled, the stress of the day fading into the background. It was moments like this that made the long hours worth it—these small pockets of joy, of shared experiences.  

Then, like clockwork, he entered the periphery of your awareness.  

Pedro’s laughter rang out from somewhere behind you, low and familiar. The sound curled through your chest like a flickering ember, and before you could stop yourself, you turned slightly—just enough to catch sight of him.  

He was leaning against one of the equipment carts, deep in conversation with Matt, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. But then, as if he could sense you looking, his gaze flicked up—searching, landing squarely on you.  

And suddenly, it was just the two of you.  

Your breath hitched.  

Pedro’s smile softened, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. He lifted a brow, like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.  

You tore your gaze away, your face burning, heart hammering against your ribs.  

“Yup. She’s gone,” Jordan muttered, loud enough for only the group to hear.  

You smacked his arm. “Shut up.”  

Daisy cackled. “Oh my God, you’re so screwed.”  

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands as the laughter around you grew.  

Maybe you were screwed.  

Because, try as you might to ignore it, that pull—the steady thrum of something unspoken, something undeniable—was getting harder and harder to resist.

You quickly said goodbye to your friends as they boarded the shuttle back to their hotel, the last remnants of laughter lingering in the air. The set had mostly cleared out, leaving only a few crew members finishing up and the cast slowly trickling out of their trailers. You tucked your arms around yourself, the night air cool against your skin as you waited for the others, your thoughts still buzzing from the day.  

Then—warm hands.  

A firm, sudden weight against your back.  

You barely had time to process it before you were lifted off the ground.  

A startled squeal left your lips as Pedro spun you effortlessly, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Gotcha,” he murmured near your ear, his voice thick with amusement.  

“Pedro!” you gasped, swatting at his hands, but you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that followed.  

He finally set you down, his arms still loosely around your shoulders, and when you turned to glare up at him, he had the audacity to grin—full, boyish, utterly unrepentant.  

“You didn’t even hear me coming,” he teased, giving your shoulders a playful squeeze before finally stepping back.  

“You ambushed me,” you huffed, pressing a hand to your racing heart. “I almost had a heart attack.”  

Pedro smirked. “I’d apologize, but your little scream was too cute.”  

Your face burned. “You’re insufferable.”  

Before he could respond, you heard stifled giggles from nearby.  

You glanced up just in time to spot Coco, Vanessa, Joseph, and Ebon approaching, all of them watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of amusement.  

“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Vanessa quipped, smirking.  

Coco nudged Joseph with her elbow, grinning. “Are we interrupting something?”  

Pedro, ever the shameless one, just threw an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Not at all,” he said easily, then glanced down at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “Unless you think we were?”  

You glared at him, resisting the urge to shove him away—because knowing him, he’d just make a bigger scene.  

Instead, you turned to the group, feigning exasperation. “Can someone please save me from him?”  

Ebon just laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. You’re on your own, kid.”  

Your stomach did an unfair little flip as Pedro pulled you closer, his warmth seeping into you despite the cool night air.  

And the worst part?  

You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be saved.  

Pedro’s arm was still draped lazily around your shoulders, his body warm against yours, the scent of his cologne lingering—something woodsy, something undeniably him. You willed yourself to ignore the way your pulse picked up, to pretend your skin wasn’t tingling from the casual intimacy of it.  

Vanessa arched a brow, arms crossed as she watched the two of you with blatant amusement. “What are you doing just standing out here?” she asked, tilting her head. “You could’ve knocked at my trailer.”  

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath Pedro’s hold. “I, uh—” You cleared your throat. “I didn’t have your guys’ numbers, so I just thought I’d wait near the trailers.”  

Coco gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “You mean none of us thought to give you our numbers?” She turned to the others, looking genuinely offended. “What kind of monsters are we?”  

Ebon chuckled. “Okay, okay, let’s fix this.” He pulled out his phone and waggled it in front of you. “Give me your number, we’ll add you to the group chat.”  

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. You had kept a certain level of professional distance with the cast—sure, you’d exchanged pleasantries, worked alongside them, shared the occasional laugh—but this? Being included like this?  

Pedro, still pressed close, must have sensed your hesitation because he squeezed your shoulder lightly, his voice softer this time. “Told ya,” he murmured, just for you. “We like having you around.”  

Your chest tightened.  

Before you could overthink it, you rattled off your number, and within seconds, your phone buzzed with a message from an unfamiliar group chat.  

Coco grinned. “Welcome to the chaos.”  

Joseph laughed, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you just signed up for.”  

You looked down at your phone, at the flood of messages already rolling in—Vanessa sending a series of emojis, Ebon dropping a meme, Pedro sending a voice note that was probably nonsense.  

A warmth spread through you.  

Maybe you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be saved.  

But you were sure of one thing.  

You didn’t mind being pulled deeper into this.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

Turns out, everyone was exhausted. Some opted for room service, others had plans to meet up with friends in the city. The once lively group slowly dwindled, leaving you and Pedro lingering near the car.

Without a word, he reached for your bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it was second nature.

You blinked up at him. “Pedro—”

“I got it,” he said easily, already heading toward the car.

You huffed but didn’t argue, too tired to put up much of a fight.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, the streets of London painted in golden hues from the setting sun. Pedro, ever so casually, turned to you.

“Do you wanna go out for dinner?” he asked. “Or we could just order room service.”

You shrugged, watching the buildings blur past the window. “I don’t mind either way. It’s up to you.”

Pedro hummed as if considering his options, but he didn’t push for an answer right away.

When you arrived at the hotel, the two of you walked through the dimly lit hallway to your floor. The plush carpet muffled your steps, the air between you thick with something unspoken—comfortable, warm, charged.

At your door, you kicked off your shoes, swapping them for the soft hotel slippers. Pedro did the same, toeing off his boots before setting your bag down on the small table in the suite’s living area.

“You didn’t have to carry that, you know,” you told him, watching as he stretched his arms above his head, his shirt riding up slightly.

He smirked, that lazy, insufferably charming smirk. “I didn’t have to,” he echoed. “But I wanted to.”

Your stomach did a flip.

You swallowed, folding your arms as if that might steady you. “Well… thanks.”

He shot you a wink. “Anytime, cariño.”

After flipping through the room service menu, you both settled on an easy dinner—something warm and filling without the hassle of going out. Quickly calling the food service on the landline, the order was placed, and as you sank into the plush couch, stretching your legs, you sighed.  

"During the weekend, I’ll probably go grocery shopping," you mused aloud. "Ordering room service and eating out every day is going to burn through my savings if I keep this up." You glanced at Pedro. "So, I’ll stock up on food in the pantry if I’m still, y'know… here. In your suite."  

Pedro, who had been casually leaning against the armrest of the couch, stilled. His expression shifted from amused to something unreadable. "Why?" His brows furrowed. "Where are you going?"  

You blinked at him, confused for a second. "Uh… the front desk said they might have a room for me by next week, remember?"  

"Oh." His lips parted slightly, but he didn't say anything else.  

You watched the way his fingers tapped idly against his knee, as if the thought of you moving out hadn’t quite registered until now. There was something oddly endearing about the way his frown deepened. Like he didn’t like the idea of you not being here anymore.  

Before you could think too much about it, you cleared your throat, shifting the conversation. "Anyway," you said lightly, folding your arms over your chest, "you guys did great today on set."  

Pedro’s eyes flickered back to yours, and just like that, his easy grin returned.  

"Yeah?" He leaned in slightly, resting his forearm against the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Any specific compliments, or just a general ‘you guys did great’ kind of thing?"  

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched at his teasing. "Oh, I definitely had specific compliments." You tapped your chin, pretending to think. "Vanessa was incredible, Joseph absolutely killed his scene, Ebon had amazing delivery—"  

Pedro gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Wow. So, I just… I don’t even make the list?"  

You bit back a laugh. "I mean… you were fine."  

"Fine?" he repeated, eyes narrowing playfully.  

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Serviceable. Passable. Not bad."  

Pedro let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back against the couch. "Unbelievable. Here I was, thinking you were my biggest fan."  

You giggled, nudging his knee with your foot. "You’ll survive."  

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I guess I will."  

The warmth in his voice made your breath hitch. You quickly looked away, pretending to check your phone as the sound of the hotel staff knocking on the door saved you from whatever moment you’d just stumbled into.  

Pedro stood up to grab the food, but not before murmuring, just low enough for you to hear—  

"But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stuck around."  

And just like that, the butterflies were back.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — LATE NIGHT  

The scent of warm food filled the suite as you both settled onto the couch, the soft glow of the television flickering against the dimly lit room. Pedro had absentmindedly put on a movie, something familiar and easy to watch—though neither of you seemed particularly focused on it. The conversation flowed naturally between bites of food, soft laughter filling the quiet spaces in between.  

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Pedro asked, “So… no special someone waiting for you back home?”  

You froze mid-bite, your fork hovering near your lips. It wasn’t the question itself that threw you off—it was the way he asked it. Casual, like it was just another topic of conversation, but there was something in his voice. A quiet curiosity. A weight that made your stomach flip.  

You swallowed and shook your head. “Nope,” you said simply. “It’s just me.”  

Pedro hummed, nodding slowly as he chewed. “Huh.”  

You raised an eyebrow, setting your plate down on the coffee table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

He smirked, tilting his head toward you. “Nothing. Just surprised.”  

You scoffed. “Surprised how?”  

He took his time answering, setting his own plate aside before stretching his arm along the back of the couch. His fingers drummed lightly against the cushion behind you, close enough that if you leaned back just a little, you’d brush against them.  

“I don’t know.” He exhaled, gaze flickering to the screen before finding you again. “You’re funny, smart, kind—"  

Your eyes narrowed. “Sounds like you’re about to say something insulting.”  

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “I was gonna say, I just don’t get how someone like you is single.”  

A warmth crept up your neck, and you quickly picked up your drink, taking a long sip to avoid answering right away. Your heartbeat thrummed a little too fast, a little too loud.  

“I don’t know,” you murmured finally, voice quieter now. “Relationships just… never worked out for me, I guess.”  

Pedro studied you for a moment, his usual playful expression softening. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he just nodded, accepting your answer without prying.  

And then—because the air was starting to feel too heavy—you smirked. “What about you? No special someone waiting for you?”  

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Nah. It’s just me, too.”  

Your lips twitched. “Well, that is surprising.”  

Pedro groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch. “Oh, come on—”  

You laughed, nudging his leg with your foot. “I’m just saying! You’re charming, talented, kind of a big deal—”  

“Kind of?” He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense.  

You grinned. “Kind of.”  

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath about how unbelievable you were, but there was a smile playing at his lips.  

And just like that, the weight in the air lightened again, the conversation slipping back into something easy. The movie played on, mostly forgotten, and the two of you sat there, side by side—closer than before, shoulders brushing every now and then.  

Neither of you moved away.

End Notes:

OOOOOHHHH?!?! Things are heating up??? Or maybe it’s literally nothing at all and it’s all in your head 😃✊

OOF— you might stop sharing the suite at the end of the week? Oh naur T^T

Thank you all for the lovely words and comments that ya’ll keep leaving on each chapter. It warms my heart and gives me fuzzy feelings that make me dizzy AAAAAAHHH

Mfs, I’m posting this while I’m outside at a club LOL

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy

[januaryembrs]

I MIGHT JUST BE IN LOVE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [8]

GIF by fightingdragonswithwho

decription: the FIVE times they hide that they're dating + the ONE time they tell everyone

word count: 17.5k

warnings: blood, gore, usual cm stuff. FLUFF, OH GOD FLUFF. mention of sex (minors DNI in this one), no actual smut but very close to it (actual smut chapter of their first time to come soon), tiny sprinkle of angst because its ME.

author note: WE'RE BACK POOKIES. I'M SO SORRY MY BRAIN STOPPED FUNCTIONING.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

‘oh god I’m gonna marry him, if he keeps this shit up,

I might just be in la la la la la love’

The one with the revenge.

“This is so against company policy,” Bugsy murmured, her fingers twined in Spencer’s hair as he pressed urgent kisses to her neck. 

“Only if they have evidence,”  Spencer replied, his brows furrowed as she attached her lips to his fervently. They’d held it together until this point, kept the touches minimal, left the make outs and needy hands for home when they could be themselves without exposing their best kept secret to the rest of the team. But today was different. Virginia had reached an unnaturally hot peak, and the whole team had been forced to swap out their usual professional attire with something more casual. Spencer had forgone his sweaters, which had been a mourning in itself, and instead had been rolling his sleeves to his elbows in some attempt to cool his thick veins. 

Bugsy hadn’t needed to voice her opinion of the new look. Spencer wasn’t stupid, and he certainly wasn’t blind. He saw how she looped her fingertips between his, the second they had a minute alone, how her eyes trained on his hands when he drove them home, how she would press a quick peck to the back of his hand in between moments of silence when she had little more to do with her mouth. 

“Isn’t that funny, the evidence locker doesn’t have cameras, that’s almost-” She cut herself off with a jolted moan as he kissed over her collar bone, nipping so gently that it wouldn’t leave a mark. 

“And you guys say I talk too much,” Spencer said, a hint of teasing in his voice as she looked at him with a gaping mouth, learning very quickly that Spencer was a downright menace when they were sneaking around, the boy who never broke the rules, who ironed his socks and folded his underwear almost devilish at the idea of doing something in secret.

She pinched his bottom cheekily, and he jumped slightly, only to find her giggling to which he cut her off with an even harsher kiss. 

She was addictive, which was a strong claim to be made by a man like him. Yet he found himself thinking everything about her lips was laced with a toxin he couldn’t keep away from, like he’d had a taste of fresh air and couldn’t be without or he’d begin to turn bluer than Violet Beauregarde. He’d found the golden ticket, the key to the factory. For once in his life, Spencer Reid had come out the other side and won. 

Bugsy’s hands were yanking at his locks, their lips sliding against one another, and he pushed to the back of his head that they only had about three more minutes before it became suspicious that they were gone from their desks so long. 

And as if some being up in the heavens was sat back watching with popcorn, the door handle rattled as someone entered the room, and the two of them sprung away from one another. 

David Rossi strolled in, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand as he sat through his second batch of paperwork, looking for the file from the Milwaukee case to use as source material, His shirt had been unbuttoned, the Virginia heat stifling and he was already starting to regret picking a hot drink over the cold crap that wasn’t even real espresso that Penelope liked from Starbucks, yet he thought he might take anything that would cool him down when he strolled into the back room that was known for no open windows, and the sight of two sweating agents greeted him. 

Spencer’s hair was messed from where he must have ran his hand through it a bunch of times, trying to get it off his neck, Bugsy’s shirt was tucked where she probably attempted to cool herself off in the obnoxiously stuffy four walls as they both flicked through separate files, standing about ten feet apart from one another. 

“It’s a hot one today, kids,” He said, sliding his coffee on the table and strolling past the two of them towards the ‘M’ section. 

They stole a glance at one another, knowing smiles passing between them because it felt entirely clandestine what they were doing. 

“Don’t suppose the director would mind if we pulled funds to invest in a BAU swimming pool, would they?” She chimed in, fanning her blouse out because it really was stuffy in there, she had just assumed it was the feeling she got when she kissed Spencer. 

“We fuel the jet once a week, what’s a pool between co-workers,” He shrugged, smiling when he heard her giggle. 

Spencer pulled the folder he was actually looking for off the shelf, making his way to the exit, watching her eyes shy away from him because they both knew it was entirely obvious when they looked at one another, mainly because his cheeks heated up beyond what he could excuse as being the heat wave.

Yet he was feeling brazen, and maybe a little embarrassed at the way he’d leapt up as she’d grabbed his butt, and with a quick glance back to make sure David was nose deep in the bookshelves, he reached out and gave her ass cheek a quick pinch as he waltzed passed her, hearing her yelp and drop her folder as he did so. 

He left the evidence room with a smirk, heading back to his desk and keeping a low profile though he knew she was scrambling to collect the papers off the floor in the wake of his shameless grab. 

“You okay?” Rossi asked, his brows raised and watching the girl rearrange all the papers into a neat pile, a flustered look on her face. 

“Yeah, just thought I saw a spider,” She said, her voice breezy though her heart racing was anything but. She would have her revenge for that, she swore. 

If Spencer wanted to play that game, then it was on. 

-

Two days later, she had all but strolled into work with a shit eating grin, and he knew she was plotting something then. She had been unnaturally quiet on the car ride, had tried to keep her glances at him sparse, though he caught the little smile that tugged at her lips whenever he looked at her. 

“What?” He tried, despite the fact she shook her head in refusal, her eyes already sparked with mischief, “What? What’s that look for?”

“Nothing, just concentrate on the road, Spence,” She said, though he heard her toes tapping together with delight, and she sighed dreamily as she looked at him. Though he was under no illusion that it had come from a place of endearment, no matter how much she adored him. Because of course she loved him more than anything, he had no doubt about that, yet he also knew she loved a sweet serving of revenge just as much, and it was for that reason her smile alone worried him a little.  

“Oh, nothing, really?” He said with narrowed eyes, though he felt the infectious beam spreading on his face because he loved seeing her happy even if it undoubtedly was coming at his expense, “So I shouldn’t be expecting salt in the sugar shaker, hm? Or a water balloon under my seat?” 

“No, absolutely not,” She feigned innocence, reaching over to squeeze his hand in hers with a guiltless expression, “I am much more creative than that, Spence. I’m going big or going home, honey, you should know that by now,” 

Spencer snickered, pulling her hand up for a sweet kiss to the back of her knuckles, “I don’t know why I expected otherwise,”

The look of the cat that got the cream returned, and she merely hummed along to the radio. And oddly enough, Spencer was excited to see what she had hidden up her sleeve if it meant he could make her so childishly excited. He thought about embellishing his freight when she inevitably jumped out at him or had a can of worms pop out of his desk drawer, just to have her seem fulfilled just that bit longer. 

He didn’t care how much of an idiot it made him look, he was already a fool in love. 

Spencer trailed a few paces behind her as they stepped out onto the sixth floor, and he knew she had something truly diabolical planned because she was so brazen as to lean up and press a kiss to his mouth in the elevator, pressing her body against his and letting her velvet tongue slip into his mouth tenderly. He could have slammed a hand on the emergency stop button right then and there, could have devoured her mouth and her lips and her hot kisses some more until he stumbled out of the doors drunken and idle on her intoxicating touch. 

He made a move to caress the back of her head with one of his large hands, weave his nails through her scalp to hold her tight to him, only for her to part quickly, leaving his cheeks flushed and his lungs craving more than just oxygen. 

“For good luck,” She said with a chirp, a skip to her steps as the metal doors slid open, and she danced away from him with a grin that told him his day was about to be swiftly ruined by whatever it was she had organised. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked with a mildly worried tone, not letting her get away from him too easily as he paced behind her, his lean legs weighed down and skittish by the fact his cock was quickly getting hard at the spritely woman who had him trailing her like a dog begging for a bone. He tried not to think of the irony in those words, his expression conflicted between interested and hesitant, “Bugsy?”

“I thought you were supposed to be a genius. It means good luck, Spence,” She teased through a wry smile as she plonked herself at her desk chair, swivelling around to face him almost immediately, looking up at him through thick, roguish lashes, “Oh! Hotch says he wants the Oregon files done today, pretty boy,”

Because it couldn't be honey or baby or the other nice names she’d taken to calling him, but she could get away with the same name the entire team had called him for over ten years. 

Taking a final glance at her face that had chaos written all over it, Spencer held his tongue, looping the strap of his satchell over his head and gently placing it on his desk, his forest hues watching as she logged onto her computer, trying to keep her excitement subtle as she grinned into her keyboard clicks. 

Spencer Reid had learned quickly never to start something with that girl that he couldn’t finish. And yet, by a stroke of boldness and lust, he had gotten caught up in the whirlwind of their excursions. He had forgotten in between the soft touches and gentle kisses and soppy exchanges just how hellish she could be when she wanted. 

Shaking off whatever that look on her face meant, he rolled his draw out of his desk, the report he’d been half way through typing up laying where he had left it last night before Hotch had told them to wrap up for the day.

Pulling the manilla folder from his desk, he swore his heart leaped into his throat as a piece of thin, lacy fabric had appeared beneath his scribbles of handwriting, laughing at the look on his face when he spotted it sitting there in his drawer. 

He’d never seen her wear the satin, red thong before, but judging by the way his mind raced like a gelding let loose to conjure images of her in them, he didn’t seem to find it difficult imagining it. The lining was a gossamer mesh, small posies decorating the front in subtle detailing, but it was the floss-like string that trailed down the back that made him stutter, because there was no way that was covering anything important even if it tried. 

He heard a small giggle, and his head shot up to the offender, only catching the back of her head as she hid into her keyboard. He knew his cheeks were already flushing with poker hot flames, he felt them as much prickling and biting with heat, and he swore the shudder that ran down his spine was involuntary when he reached out to brush the fabric with his fingertip, testing the waters to see if there were really even there. Spencer’s jaw had slacked open uselessly, and she made it a mental note to tease him that she had finally been able to render the man who could tell her Thomas Edison’s childhood pets in alphabetical order speechless. 

“You alright, Spence?” JJ asked with concern lacing her fair brows, because her heels seemed to have made no sound as she had been walking by, unless they had and he’d been entirely wrapped up in his punishment to notice.

He slammed the drawer shut, loud enough to attract the attention of Morgan who was nose deep in his own report, and Spencer nearly cursed when his thumb got caught in between the pieces of wood, choosing to smash his lips together tightly instead and nod wordlessly.

“Something the matter, pretty boy?” Bugsy asked, feigning naivety as she swivelled around in her wheely chair, and he could do nothing but look at her with terrorred eyes, because he had hugely underestimated her with the can of worms idea. Though he couldn’t help but think that’s exactly what she’d opened in showing him that underwear. 

He wondered, in between thinking of excuses to give JJ as to why he had looked so disoriented, if she had a matching set. 

“T-tired,” He managed to bleat, his thumb throbbing where the pain had surged up his arm, and it seemed his pathetic justification half worked as JJ shot him wary eyes and a small smile, one that said she would let him off with that dumb response for now. 

Bugsy blinded him with a grin entirely cheshire, and she drew her file to her chest as she stood from her seat, following in JJ’s footsteps towards her boss’s office. 

“Oh, just so you know, I have it in black too,” She said almost too casually, sticking her head over his desk with a sly pull of her lips, as if she was doing nothing more than letting him know to expect rain in an hour or so. 

And he could do nothing but stare after her, his finger still aching from his mistake, begging himself not to take another peek at the divine material sitting just inches away from him. 

Spencer knew then, if he hadn’t figured it out already in the seven years he’d wanted her, that he was fucked.

2. The one where they almost get caught on a date.

She sipped the straw with a coy smile, the whipped cream and cherry only making the thick drink sweeter to the taste as he watched her intently. 

“Good?” He asked with a cottony mouth and her lips popped off the straw, her mouth exploding with strawberry goodness. 

“Gotta admit, it’s kind of living up to the ‘best milkshakes in town’” She replied swooping in to pop the glacé cherry between her painted lips as Spencer took a sip from his own double chocolate delight, not missing the way her eyes lit up as she crunched into the fruit. Pushing her cone shaped glass onto his side of the sticky wooden table, she gestured the straw his way, “Swaps?” 

He smiled, because he loved sharing his things with her. He might have found it annoying had it been anyone else because he had always had his things and other people’s things separate. He’d always kept his things to himself, not selfishly or maliciously, merely for the fact he liked having his own things uncontaminated. But with her it was different. Spencer would give her anything she wanted, which included a sip of milkshake here and there. His whole left leg if she asked.

Spencer’s almond curls fell over his forehead as he leaned down to sip the strawberry shake, sliding his own over to her awaiting hands, the cold glass moist with precipitate under his fingers. Yet he watched her, her lips pulling into a satisfied smile as she took a gulp, the two of them staring each other down with sickly sweet, adoring glances. 

“Good?” She repeated back to him, and he nodded, a large, broad hand reaching over the table to swipe a touch of whipped cream from her cheek, her skin soft and hot as hell under his advance. 

“Delicious,” He said, and without really thinking of the consequences, licked the cream from the tip of his thumb, his pink lips making a lewd smack as he did so. 

She watched him with hawk eyes, and he had a glowing sense of smugness as she shook her head to herself. 

“You’re not being fair,” She grumbled, huffing and slumping back in the squeaky diner seat, and his hand quickly chased hers over the table, grabbing it into a loving entwine of fingers and palms. 

“What’s not fair?” He asked, though the shit eating grin told her he knew exactly what he was doing and she nudged him with her sneaker for it. 

“You. Looking like a damn porn star drinking your milkshake.” She said, and he felt his cheeks twinge with a blush as she chuckled, squeezing their fingers together to tell him she was only joking. 

“Seems I’ve moved up in the world of explicit professions. First you called me a stripper, now I’ve been bumped up to porn star,” He teased, remembering the confusion that had written on her face the day they’d met. Spencer knew it had nothing to do with his freaky memory, he’d known she was special the second that door had opened, he knew everything Bugsy was committed to memory for the fact he couldn’t forget her even if he tried. 

She shrugged, a smirk on her lips, “What can I say, you’re a sought out man. You could charge double if you got Morgan in on it,” 

He laughed, shaking his head, “Only double?”

“Maybe throw in a Valentine’s day discount for your loving girlfriend,” She added with a million watt grin, and he rolled his eyes, hating how he could do nothing but indulge her when she was like this. 

“Ofcourse, I can't have pretty girls paying for things,” Spencer said, because he was somewhat confident now about flirting with her, knowing it would have the full desired effect and more. “Just out of interest, are we still talking about Morgan being involved?” 

“Well, I was going to give him the evening off to spend with his own girlfriend, but if you’re really so insistent-” He shot her a raised brow and she giggled, leaning forward to kiss the thumb that had been slowly stroking the back of her hand, “Always just me and you, honey,”

He smiled earnestly at that, and they exchanged a look that said those five words were much more set in stone than the teasing may suggest. Just them, always. Spencer could get used to that.

She leaned over the table for a quick peck on the lips because as much as she loved him, and god did she love him, they had quickly found they were just as embarrassed by affection in public as the other. 

“I’m going to use the bathroom before food comes,” She said, slipping out of the latex red seats, his head following her as she waltzed over to the loo, the two of them looking back at one another with small smiles like lovesick children. 

She loved the rhythm they had found, albeit the secrecy. It was nights like this, when they were able to act like a normal couple, when they were able to kiss and hold hands and flirt and look at each other with such heat it should have been public indecency, that she knew she wanted him forever. Because if this was how good it felt in private, she could only wonder how good it would be to tell people she was enamoured by one very handsome, very clever, Spencer Reid. Yet she loved having something for just them. In the lives of people who examined each other for a living, having secrets were like gold dust. Let alone a secret between profilers. That was pure jackpot material. 

He smiled into his lap, because he was truly happy for the first time in years. He had everything he’d ever wanted handed to him on a silver platter. He had the girl he’d loved for nearly seven years playing footsies with him while he eyed her lips and tried to analyse just how much she would hate being one of those couples that made out over milkshakes and burgers even if it was all he wanted to do. 

Spencer Reid had drawn the winning hand, no cheats or tricks or card counting needed. Just being him, awfully, nerdy, awkwardly him. 

He leaned in to take another sip of his milkshake, because they really were the best, only for his contented face to drop the second he saw four people walk through the door all smiles and fancy suits and heels, entirely unaware of what they were stumbling on. 

Spencer had never fumbled around his pockets for his phone faster, hitting the call button on her profile picture, which happened to be her asleep on the sofa with Sergio’s feet in her face while Niko peeked out at the camera from under the blanket, because Spencer thought it was possibly his favourite photo of their little family. She answered on the first ring, and he could just see the confusion written on her face before she even spoke. 

“Spence, I love you but I’m peeing right now, did you miss me that much-”

“Garcia and Morgan just walked in,” He whisper yelled, cupping his hand over the mic, whipping a look over his shoulder where their friends were standing at the host’s desk, waiting to be served. “They brought their partners, they’re staying in, we gotta go,”

Bugsy’s face tightened, her panties down to her ankles, Brittany Spears’ If You Seek Amy blasting in the women’s bathroom and she wondered, on bated breath, if this was exactly what her life had come to. 

“...Shit,”

“I’ll pay the tab and try to distract them now, you slip out and we’ll meet in the parking lot,” Spencer rushed, his brow sweating as he saw the waitress lead Morgan and Garcia’s new beau, Sam, over his way, no doubt towards the free booth next to them.

“Alright, I love you,” She quickly rushed, and he whispered it back, before the two of them hung up and realised just what a miracle it would be if the two of them got out of this undiscovered. 

Morgan’s dark eyes lit up in recognition as they neared their seats, just as Spencer grabbed her purse and stashed it under his shirt, dragging her milkshake over to his side of the table to make it seem like he was alone. Not the most convincing of cover ups, but it was all he had. 

“Pretty boy,” Derek called, and Spencer faked shock as best he could, though his mind was entirely consumed with whether or not Bugsy’s side of the plan was working out. 

“What are you guys doing here, I thought you were taking Savannah to that fancy place on fifth,” Spencer said, his gaze trailing behind his best friend to see Savannah and Penelope too wrapped up in chatting to catch up to the boys. Savannah turned to the woman with a polite smile, excusing herself for a moment and heading towards the bathroom. 

Shit. Spencer thought for a moment, watching the stunning vermillion dress trail off to the toilets, and Spencer was convinced then and there they were done for, Shit, shit, shit. 

Derek looked a little guilty, “You know how it is, man. We got home late from the case, missed our reservation, had to bring my lady to the next best thing. Patty’s.” Derek chuckled and Spencer smiled fleetingly, though Derek could tell it was bothered, “You here with someone-”

“Pretty boy!” Garcia cut Morgan off, bouncing over in her pretty Dorothy-red heels to where their genius was shuffling out of the booth, fidgeting with his hands nervously. “Are you here with someone, are we totally destroying your street cred?” 

“No, no. I’m here on my own, I had a hankering for milkshakes,” Spencer nodded convincingly with a taut smile as Penelope and Morgan simultaneously turned their heads to the two glasses half drunk on the table, before they looked at him with raised brows as if to wordlessly question his alibi, two milkshakes for one guy, Reid? Feeling their eyes on him, he baulked, “Like I said, hankering.”

Bugsy felt like this was some sort of Greek tragedy. 

After doing her business and washing her hands in possible record time,  Bugsy cracked open the door to the bathroom just enough to stick her head out, eyes scanning the restaurant for Penelope and Derek. She caught Penny’s Barbie blonde hair almost instantly, her sing song laugh travelling straight across the room into Bugsy’s ears and it was then she realised she was with a woman. The red dress spoke for itself, her hair was luscious and silky like she’d popped straight out a shampoo advert, her skin that of a bronze goddess, and she immediately clocked that it was Savannah, Derek’s new girlfriend, which made all the more sense when she caught their hunky co-worker talking to a very flustered Spencer. 

The girls had shamelessly stalked her instagram in Penelope’s lair at lunch just that week and sweet heavens was a catch, if not for her job as a nurse then for the toned figure Bugsy was convinced was god playing favourites. She stared at the back of the woman’s head, whatever she’d said making Penelope chuckle and turn towards her, her head pointing right towards where the women’s bathrooms were.

Bugsy slammed the door shut, quickly retreating back into the loo and yanking at her hair in a flurry of white hot panic. God, she hoped Penelope hadn’t seen her, or things were about to get ten times more difficult to explain why the two of them were out for a meal on Valentine’s Day, whilst claiming they were entirely platonic ofcourse. She wished the door had a window or she had X-ray vision or something-

A window. A window. That was it. 

Head whipping around, her eyes locked in on the two windows above each lavatory, the stall walls luckily low enough that she could see they were big enough for her to slide through if she was careful enough. 

Heading back into the cubicle she had been in, she shut the door behind her, and slammed the toilet lid down to give her a step. Her chest pounded, lips pursing when she cursed Derek and Penelope for possibly the only time in her life, because their date had been going so well. And yet here she was, cracking open a window in the diner’s toilets and she wondered for a second time if this was what her life had been reduced to. But Spencer was worth it, she told herself. She’d crawl through a million diner windows if it meant she got him all to herself. 

As if the universe was laughing at her, the second she’d swung the window open far enough for her to pull herself through, the bathroom door opened and she froze. 

Flashing a guilty look over her shoulder, her eyes widened in fear as she made direct eye contact with the woman who had entered, her lucious brown hair falling like silk over her shoulder as she stopped in her tracks, seeing the girl clear as day over the top of the stall. 

Bugsy prayed, on god’s she had never believed in she prayed that Savannah didn’t recognize her, though why would she. Unless she herself was a serial stalker. Though there seemed to be no hint of recognition in her eyes, just shock horror. 

A beat of silence passed between them. 

“Terrible date,” Bugsy said, thinking quickly on her feet and Savannah’s face melted into understanding. 

“Ah,” She nodded, “Is he a Catfish or is he a pig?” 

“Both,” Bugsy nodded with a tense smile, anything to get away from the situation where Penelope could walk in on any moment and catch her in the act. And it pained her to lie, because Spencer was the furthest thing from both of those things. 

Savannah rolled her eyes, “Sorry you have a crappy date on Valentine’s day, that sucks. Need a leg up?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Bugsy said, standing on the cistern and yanking herself up, hoping she wasn’t flashing Derek’s girlfriend a nice shot of her ass. “You should try the calamari, it’s real good!” 

And with that she’d pulled herself through the window legs first, dropping onto the top of Patty’s garbage bins with a ‘urgh!’, hopping off the lid immediately and dodging a heinously large rat that eyed her up for desert and flicking Spencer a quick text to say she was by the car. 

Savannah chuckled with a shake of her head, heading to the toilet herself and hearing a loud bang and a curse from the other side of the wall.

Derek and Garcia watched him look down at his phone with a perturbed expression, “I really should be going anyways,” Spencer excused, his mind reeling at just how she’d managed to slip past the lot of them, though the text only read ‘Meet by car. Window.’ and he could only wonder just what the fuck she’d meant by that. 

“Are you sure we’re not interrupting, Spencer?” Garcia asked, and he only shook his head. 

“Nope, definitely not. The only date I’m late for is between me and Lord Tennyson,” He said, which was almost too on brand for him that they didn’t question it. Spencer nodded to her date and wished them all a good evening before rushing to the front desk, his card in hand as he asked quietly if they could get their burgers to go instead. 

Morgan’s eyes narrowed at his skittish behaviour, his fidgeting fingers that tugged at his shirt, the cufflinks his mom bought him for his graduation that he only wore on special occasions glittering under the swinging, overhead diner lights. 

“Is it just me or is boy wonder acting extra shifty just now?” Penelope muttered, her blonde brows furrowed behind her glasses as Morgan nodded in agreement, Savannah returning to their table with freshly washed hands, her lipstick spruced up in the bathroom mirror. 

“I was thinking the exact same thing, baby girl,” Derek smelled a rat as Reid took a brown paper bag from over the counter, flashing a swift nod back to them as he all but ran out of the restaurant, his long legs carrying him even faster than usual. 

He saw her dusting herself off by his car, and before he could even question what her message had been, she had turned her attention onto him with a spritely excitement and launched up to give him a hungry kiss to the lips. 

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea they were coming, they told me they were going uptown,” He said, his expression worried that their night had been ruined. He gripped their to go bag pathetically, and it was only then he realised she was laughing. 

“Spence it’s fine, it’s not your fault,” She reassured, pressing another delicate kiss to his face as if to ward off the negative thoughts, and he rested his free hand on her hip, trapping her between his body and the car. He pressed into her, letting himself enjoy the affection a little too much in the cover of nightfall, “We probably shouldn’t be-” He kissed her again, because he couldn’t help it, because it was like the adrenaline of almost being caught together had set his body on fire, “-doing this here though, maybe-”  Again, his hand shoving the bag of food onto the roof of his car so he had free reign to cup her face entirely, -”wait until we get home just incase they come looking for you,” 

He nodded dumbly, “Probably,” He agreed, though he watched her with those eyes that looked dark in the moonlight, pressed against her wanton hands that clawed at his chest, pulling him closer as an impossible oxymoron to her chaste words, because she didn’t want him to let go of her, not really. 

He kissed her again, hard, because his chest was still pounding from the close call and her fingers scraped his waist, the feeling jumping straight to his crotch that was already well aware of how close they had become. 

“I love you,” He said with a slight slur, idle from their affection and it was only then he opened his eyes to look at her. She looked impossibly more ravishing in the cloak of night, her eyes sparkling in the street lamps, her lips wet with his own spit, her gaze adoring and soppy and so in love, “I’m sorry if our Valentine’s day got ruined,”

“Ruined?” She said, slipping a hand into his back pocket to grab the car keys, leaning in to kiss his chin gently a couple times, “I get to spend the most romantic day of the year with my very hot boyfriend eating amazing burgers and making out on the couch until the sun comes up,” 

He smiled, cheeks warmer than the freshly cooked beef steaming through the paper bag, and he couldn’t resist shooting a hand out to stop her from rounding the car to the passenger side, grabbing her jaw in one fell swoop, lifting her head to attach their lips once more, ‘one for the road’ he would excuse when he let her go, and he felt her smile into his affection. They let go with a sweet smack, and the second they did her mouth watered for more. 

“That really is the best Valentine’s Day,” He agreed, swapping the car keys in her hands for the food and walking round to her side to open the door for her like a gentleman. 

And that was exactly how it went. Until making out turned into more, more kisses, more intimate, more parts of themselves bared to one another for the first time, and they sat in naked silence afterwards, enjoying each other's body heat until their eyes got heavy and they fell asleep. 

And Bugsy swore she would love Spencer Reid with every part of her he’d touched until the day she died. 

3. The one with the fake boyfriend.

Spencer was pouring kibble when she screamed. The bag was all but spilled over the kitchen tiles as his head shot up, his entire body diverting to the direction of her yell, and before he even had time to put the bag down, perhaps step over the two shadows that dived for the rogue biscuits tumbling to the floor, he heard her footsteps tearing from their room and into the kitchen. 

Because it was their room now. Not just his. 

She wore black pants and a tight, white shirt with her buttons only half fastened shut. His eyes shamelessly dropped straight to her chest, a black lace bra staring back at him and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the week before, wondering for a second if they had a spare half an hour before work. 

It had been eight days since they’d had sex for the first time, and the two of them were struggling all the more to keep it together. He was like a man starved of oxygen, she was a woman let out of a cage, craving one another more than they had ever thought possible. Because before he hadn’t been given that taste of sweet heaven, hadn’t known every inch of her the way he did now, and Spencer thought he might not be able to ever know anything more intoxicating than how she looked in his bed when she-

He was quick to put his hands over her cheeks as she panted, horror in her gaze as she held her phone in her hand, damn near shaken for words, “What? What is it?” 

“Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick,” She murmured, her eyes never tearing away from her phone screen, and he promptly took the device out from her grasp, his hazel hues roving over the bright light. 

His lips parted, and he felt his stomach flurry into life as he saw the raunchy photo she’d taken of her lingerie, their shared bathroom in the background and what looked to be a toothbrush in the top of the photo, clearly having been in the middle of brushing when she’d taken the photo in the mirror. 

His gaze went to the top of the screen, because he certainly hadn’t heard his phone buzz on the counter, nor would it have been such an issue if she had sent it to him, though he suspected he was the intended recipient anyway.

Spencer frowned, “Who’s MILF?”

Bugsy looked at him guiltily. “It’s JJ.” She said through a cottonmouth. 

“You know what that word means right?” He said, and she rolled her eyes because of course he was focusing on all the wrong things, though she guessed that was down to his tented trousers and the rouge that crawled up his neck into the apple of his cheeks because Spencer always found an excuse to cram silences with words.

“Yes, don’t worry, you’re the only one I want to ilf for real.” She said, a hand running through her hair in panic as she looked over his shoulder at the text conversation.

“Can’t you just delete it?” Spencer asked, his eyes scanning the photo again because it certainly would have made his morning receiving a photo like that. 

“Not on messenger, not when- oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bugsy’s voice got louder with every with every curse, and she ripped the phone from his hand when the three little dots appeared, letting her know JJ was in fact typing. Spencer was knocked from his daze staring at the photo, realising that JJ was a profiler just like any of the rest of them, and she could very easily figure out who that photo had been meant for, “She’s typing, she’s typing!”

Spencer took a deep breath for both of them, his hands resting on her upper arms in gentle motions, “Alright, let’s just calm down, she might just be a little confused, I mean you don’t usually send her photo’s like that do you?” He said soothingly, only for her to let out a small screech, and he saw ‘incoming call from MILF’ written in bright white across the top of the screen, “Okay, I’m begging you to change that name, that is so weird thinking of JJ as-”

“SPENCER,” She barked, handing him the phone, “I can’t speak right now, I don’t know what to say, I’ll screw it all up,”

His eyes widened, ushering her hand back to her ear, “I can’t answer it, then she’ll know we’re together while you look like- like that,”

“We live together, I don’t think I’ve worn pants here once in the past five years,” She whisper yelled to him, the ringing going on only longer with every dial thrumming right to her already racing heart, “Oh god, I’m gonna answer it, I’m going to- Good morning, Jennifer, how’s the oatmeal in the Jareau-LaMontagne household?”

“Please tell me that photo was meant for a guy. Or atleast Penelope,” JJ’s voice was full of surprise, and Bugsy already knew she had her fingers rubbing her eye sockets, “Are you seeing someone?”

“Uh, y-yeah?” Bugsy stammered, exchanging a wide eyed glance with Spencer, “A guy from… a bar! I’m seeing a guy from a bar,”

“Oh, Bugsy, why didn’t you say?” JJ asked with a girlish delight, and Bugsy shrugged before she remembered JJ couldn’t see that, and she had to think on her feet for a response.

“It’s just casual- it’s new and totally casual right now,” She stammered, hoping the lie was convincing enough that JJ wouldn’t poke for more answers. But it was JJ, the same JJ who loved filling Emily’s shoes as big sister when she was away, and ‘totally casual’ seemed to not make the cut for explanations. 

“Is he cute, how old is he?” JJ rebutted as she submerged Henry’s empty cereal bowl in the sink full of soapy water, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear.

The girl’s gaze trailed over Spencer’s face, where he had gone deadly silent to listen in on their conversation. He flashed her a devilish grin at JJ’s mothering tone, and she shyly looped a finger through his belt.

“The cutest,” Bugsy replied, with a small beam, and she watched Spencer’s gaze turn doting and sweet. And that time, she hadn’t been lying.

–

“Oh come on, I want to meet this guy,” JJ said, bringing her coffee cup up to her lips. It wasn’t even that Emily had asked her to look after Bug the first time she’d left for Paris, then again when she left for London, that made her so protective. Moreso that fact Bugsy was a little sister if she’d ever had something close to one. Being the youngest herself, she knew what it was like to live in her own sister’s shadow, a feeling that had followed her around her entire life. 

If JJ was missing Emily, she knew Bug was feeling the same tenfold.

Either way, the second they’d gotten into the office all of three days ago after the incident, JJ hadn’t stopped badgering her about her new secret fling she had.

“He’s busy, super super busy,” She brushed her off and Spencer smirked into his book, his desk chair turned away from where JJ leaned against her desk. Penelope’s heels clicked against the BAU floor as she wandered over to them, a steaming mug of tea in her own hand.

“Who’s super super busy?” She asked, cutting in half way through the conversation to hear only half of the story, and Bugsy shied away into her lap. 

“Bugsy’s secret boyfriend,” JJ raised her brows at the woman who almost dropped her mug, her jaw hitting the floor as she looked at the girl incredulously.

“Did my ears just deceive me? Have you been hiding something from me, cause you know I’ll hack into your social media before you could even say Barbie Dream House,” Penelope said with an aghast expression. 

“He’s just a guy I met at a bar, it’s not a big deal,” She brushed them off, already digging the lie deeper, and she only could hope the reward would be a bigger pay out when she thought back the night after the restaurant. 

She’d tell them anything if it meant she could spend another night like that. 

“Not a big deal?” JJ said doubtfully, flicking a look at the girl, “Come on, I want to meet the guy who’s the best sex you ever had,” 

Spencer slammed his book shut, and twirled around in his office chair with just enough time to watch her groan, and bury her face in her hands. 

“What was that?” He asked, his eyes lit up with a boyish excitement as he resisted the urge to smirk at her, because he felt the glare before he’d even seen it. 

“Nothing,” She snapped at him, eyes laced with an unspoken warning for him to watch his step because they weren’t stupid enough to ignore his sudden interest in her lovelife, “Don’t you have a report due?”

He shrugged with rosy cheeks, his expression that of barely concealed delirium as he watched her flush under the pressure of his prideful grin. 

“You know me, I’ll catch up on that later, let’s talk about this new thing you have,” He brushed off, just as Rossi paced past their mother’s meeting, heading for the roundtable room. 

“We have a case, kids. Life waits for no man, no matter how juicy his gossip,” David said profoundly as ever, and the four of them rose to follow behind him like a trail of ducklings. Penelope’s heels clicked at his side, and she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at where JJ was interrogating their youngest agent some more. 

“You want the 411?” She mumbled, and the old man sighed, watching the girl's floral hair ties bounce with her pigtails at every step. 

“Shoot. Wife number one ruined Real Housewives for me, I guess I need something good,” Rossi said with tired eyes, as Penelope scooched closer. 

“Bugsy has a new secret boyfriend,” The bubbly woman said in between a million watt grin.

He raised his eyebrows at her, flicking a quick look back at the girl who looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole when JJ pushed her for details on their first date. 

“No kidding,” He murmured, tilting his head in consideration how he hadn’t seen the signs, he knew well enough now to know the look of a honeymoon phase. He’d had about fifty of them. 

“Still awaiting details on how he looks, but I reckon a quick deep dive in her socials will get me what I want,” Penelope added as if putting together a report on an UnSub, though the tech wizz would argue mystery man was just as much a person of interest than any of the others they went after. 

He looked at her for a moment, her chirpy tone almost a dichotomy of the invasive stalking she was revving herself up for, and he nearly stopped in his tracks for a second. 

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” He said, with a serious undertone, shaking his head, “I’d hate to be the guy on the end of your wirey maze, Garcia,”

But Spencer’s smile had yet to be wiped from his face, in fact he thought he might just get JJ to say it again into a microphone because the ego boost was set to last a lifetime. 

He promised he’d make it up to her for the annoyingly arrogant attitude he was sporting, but then any man with half a brain would if he’d been told he was the best she’d ever had, let alone one with a brain that had already engraved the sound of that into his hypothalamus. 

And Spencer knew just how he was going to say sorry. 

–

“Wait, so does this mean that your new hypothetical boyfriend is better than Sean?” Penelope said through the screen as they lounged on the jet on the way home from the case. Hotch’s head shot up from where he was reading the newspaper, and he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the youngest agent before he had practically thrown himself out of his seat. 

“I’m going for coffee,” He said before anyone could interject and the sight of their boss all but running down the aisle towards the kitchenette made her throw her head in her hands once more. 

“I’m begging you, never make me talk about sex infront of Hotch ever again,” She groaned, and Rossi huffed, clamping his own book shut and shuffling past them to meet where Aaron was spending almost too much time with his head in the cupboard, “Better yet, don’t make me talk about sex with his brother infront of him again,” 

“For the record, old man number two doesn’t want to hear about who jiggles your Jimmies either,” He grumbled, and Bugsy carded her fingers through her hair, too embarrassed to look at the two men that cowered in the back of the jet. 

“Jiggles your Jimmies?” Blake repeated, her brow furrowing, “At least, I’m not that old,” 

“Stop avoiding the question, Princess,” Penelope chided, and Morgan laughed as Bugsy huffed, turning her head away as if she hadn’t heard, “Is he?” 

“That’s usually what ‘the best I’ve ever had’ means, Pen,” She snipped through blazing cheeks, and she could feel the smug-shit eating grin coming from Spencer before she’d even looked at him, “Now, could we talk about literally anything else, please?”

There was a lapse of silence where Morgan exchanged a look with JJ, and the blonde picked under her nail, trying to think of anything else to say before she cracked, because it was rare that Bugsy ever sought anyone out so fondly. 

And possibly because she knew Emily would need the complete, padded out, full update when JJ inevitably called her to rinse her with details. 

“How many kids does he want?” The words fell from JJ’s mouth, not really thinking much about the way Reid’s face was claret red. He had never liked lewd conversations. 

And he wanted to blurt out three, as many as possible, as many as she wants and then another one, but he couldn’t because that would inevitably give their secret away completely. 

“Does he have a stable job?” Blake chimed in, ever the mother considering if the mystery man would be a practical partner, “Is he gentle? Angry men make for terrible fathers,”

“Is he gentle in bed?” Penelope added, her glasses glinting in the light of her computer screen, “Does he do the thing where he-”

Bugsy growled, half way between a groan and a scream, looking between her team with wide eyes, “You’re all perverted, hedonistic, gossip girls, and I beg you leave this alone before I join Hotch and Rossi in the cupboards,” 

“Cupboards are full,” Hotch barked, almost warningly because he didn’t think he could look at her until the subject of her and Sean banging was entirely out of his head. 

And they went quiet again, seeming to take the hint that Bugsy didn’t appreciate their poking. Morgan gave her an apologetic yet amused smile as he slipped his headphones on, Blake pulled out a puzzle book, JJ retired to her side of the couch for a moment of shut eye, though her brain was filled with what she guessed Emily would say about her little sister having a real life boyfriend. 

God help the kid who tries screwing that psycho over. 

Spencer smiled dopily into his book, his hands gripping the leather bound spine tightly, and it was the first time she’d looked at him the whole plane ride. His chest puffed as he met her with a cocky smile that he barely tried to hide, and he swiftly received a kick to the shin for his rare ego. 

But he didn’t care, the sting in his leg all but none existent because she hadn’t been too cruel with her chastising, and he couldn't wait to kiss the anger out of her the second they were alone. He loved her temper, loved her fire and the warmth it gave him, and he thought then there wasn’t a single thing about her that he wished to change. Even if the scowl and pout on her face didn’t exactly suit her. 

His smile was blinding the entire way home, even when they hopped into his car, and he looked at her with ill-concealed excitement, “Better than Sean?” Spencer asked, hopefully, and she tutted, swatting his thigh. 

“Spencer,” She hissed, though his eyes didn’t leave her, waiting for a response, “Fine, yes, better than Sean. Best I’ve ever had, right?” 

Spencer all but pranced up the stairs into their apartment ready to live up to his new moniker. 

4. The one where someone finds out.

“Can I borrow your deodorant?” Bugsy asked, as she slowly slipped a piping hot cup of coffee onto Penelope’s desk, making sure not to spill so much as a drop over the edge of the cute octopus mug.

“Oh, of course!  I always have something spare for my girls.” The tech wizz was quick to fish through her bag for the aerosol, handing it to the woman as she snuck a hand under her armpit to apply. “You ever need tampons, a box of cookies, or prescription painkillers, Garci is your gal. Though preferably don’t tell Hotch about that last one,” 

Bugsy smiled, “You’re an angel,” She said, as she sprayed herself quickly, “I left my stuff in, uh, secret boyfriend’s car. If you got a spare bra lying around your bag, you’d really be a life saver,”

Penelope’s eyes turned catlike as she narrowed them at the girl, “I said I’m your gal, not Mary Poppins,” She replied, looking up at Bugsy with a smug smile as she played with the fluffy end of her pen, “So, you guys hook up in his car or something?” 

Bug pressed her lips together tightly, wondering whether she could let too much slip to the woman who was known for tracking her friends’ phones like they were damn Sim characters on the loose. And despite their relationship being so top secret, it had been five months of sneaking around. Five months of keeping her smiles and butterflies and silly little notions of just how great Spencer was entirely free from girl talk. She knew the moment they told their team, there would be questions and rumours across departments. There would be prodding and interrogating and paperwork to fill out with Hotch, and they more than likely wouldn’t be allowed to be in the field together. 

Which brought her an even more worried thought. What if she was forced to move teams? 

Spencer certainly wouldn’t be the one to move, he had practically made a home in the BAU before any of them even knew she existed. And despite the fact they felt more like a family to her than the houses in every country ever had, she would leave them if it meant Spencer could stay. 

It was different with JJ and Will. They were together, yes, had been in the field together once or twice, but it wasn’t as if they were on the same team, liable to letting their relationship muddy the waters of worklife. She wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were of relationships in the team, and she knew Hotch would become suspicious almost instantly  if she asked; knew she could only lie to him for so long about this so called secret boyfriend before he became overbearingly fatherlike and weaselled his way into her head with those stern eyes and that patient law degree. 

She nodded after considering spilling her thoughts out to Penelope, because as much as she loved Spencer and loved that he was her best friend even before he was her boyfriend, she missed girl talk. The same girl talk he had no idea how to navigate, that was a complete mystery to him with its hidden politics and rules that he was convinced were purposely made up to confuse guys so they wouldn’t be able to figure out what women were talking about. She missed having someone there to hear just how Spencer would stroke her hair before they went to sleep, when her eyes were closed and her breathing was slowly evening out and he thought she was already dozing, when she would glance at him through bleary eyes because she knew he would be watching her, his eyes wide and fat with love as he looked at her like he was a kid seeing his Christmas presents lined up neatly beneath the tree. She wanted someone else to know how he managed to make her coffee perfectly, how he would wake up five minutes before her, drag himself out of bed to brush his teeth and cook her breakfast at the weekends, how she was trying harder to stay tidy for his sake because she saw the way he cleaned her messes up for her without complaints or grumbles. Bugsy wanted someone else to know that he would kiss her like she was going to be ripped away from him at any given moment, and that she melted into a puddle at his feet when he asked to shower with her just last week and they got to spend forty minutes under the relaxing hot water, just holding each other close enough to feel every breath and smile and laugh and everything else they ended up doing when they were naked. 

She loved having him all to herself, truly. Yet there was part of her that wanted to scream to the entire office the second there was a lull in conversation that she was in love with him more truly, deeply, insatiably than she had ever imagined anyone could be. 

Penelope squealed, kicking her legs and pulling her second wheely chair out for Bugsy to sit down in, “Tell me everything, were you in the back or the front? Oh my god were you in the trunk, can you imagine that? Didn’t the seat belts get in the way? What about the handbrake? And the wheel-”

Bugsy laughed with a shake of her head, but she obliged her anyway as she threw herself into the seat, if not for a spare five minutes of relaxing before she started her paperwork. 

“Slow down! I’ll give you three questions, tops, and that’s all you’re getting out of me, Garcia,” She chuckled, cracking open her Dr Pepper can and taking a sip of the cold fizz. 

“Three?” Garcia cried incredulously, “You’re like a genie in a bottle only you withhold secrets instead of granting wishes,” 

“I can make it two if you want, smartass,” Bugsy teased, and she giggled at the way Penelope glared at her, like she was ready to lay one of her perfectly manicured nails around her throat and wrangle her for the truth in a rare bout of Penelope Garcia rage.

“Okay, umm, first question,” Penelope held a finger up, pressing her peach painted lips together because she only had three magic wishes, “What was it like, your guys first time?” 

Bugsy smiled, melting inside because speaking to Spencer about how good he was in bed seemed like a little too on the nose even for her, and she’d kept it hidden for god knows how long, “It was good, but not just good in that way. Although believe me it was good in that way too,” She said with a bashful giggle, her cheeks heating on impact and Penelope squealed, “I felt safe, and he kept telling me he loved me, and when we were done he went to the store and bought me strawberry milk because I told him it was my favourite,” 

Penelope’s eyes melted into puppy dog ones, her lips pulling to reveal her pearly white smile and she quietly ‘aww’ed at the sentiment, her brows tugging together in earnest joy as she watched Bugsy flick the metal tab of the can lid to avoid eye contact. 

“What an angel, who did you pay to find you this guy?” Penelope asked and the girl’s chuckled together. She rocked side to side on her desk chair, mid thought of her very important question, “Alright, alright, next one! Have you told Spencer yet?”

Bugsy froze, flicking a look to Penelope because surely there was no way she could have guessed from that short exchange. She knew Garcia was a hotshot behind a screen, but she would have to be given a spot as a profiler if she’d managed to figure out just from that one question who it was she was trying so desperately to keep a secret.

 “What do you mean?” She said, trying to hide the way her throat had run dry, and Penny looked at her as if she had lost a few brain cells in the midst of the honeymoon phase. 

“I mean, it sounds like you guys spend a lot of time in your room. Spence surely must have crossed paths with him by now?” Garcia clarified, and Bugsy’s brows lifted in what she hoped was well concealed panic. 

“Yes- yes,” She cleared her throat, wishing the stuttering away as she scrambled to cover her tracks, “Spencer has met him, he said he’s a great guy, real baseball whizz,” 

‘Great guy’ didn’t quite cut it, she thought with a chiding voice in her head, but she was sure Spencer would forgive her with a small bat of her lashes, a sweet kiss even. She even thought of a way that would convince him just how sorry she was for limiting him to just the word great, because he was so much more than that to her; she thought of an apology, one where he would be so smitten and drunk on kisses and other things that she could tell him he was the dumbest boy alive and he wouldn’t care. 

Because she was all his, loved him far beyond ‘great’ and the idea of that alone cut his IQ from 187 to a mere 5 on a good day. 

Penelope smirked, like she knew a sudden shortcut in her system, “Remind me to interrogate Reid later about this ‘Home Run’ you’re bringing over for bang bang,” 

Bugsy snickered, making a mental note to remind Spencer where he suddenly fell in her lie, when in truth she had been thinking about the time he’d subbed for someone on Morgan’s team. She’d been thinking about how proud he looked, how he’d smiled for days after, how Morgan and Hotch picked him up and screamed with happiness at their younger agent, but she definitely hadn’t been thinking about how his hair had looked sweaty and full of curls on his neck, hadn’t at all been thinking that his face looked that extra bit kissable when he laughed. 

If it had been Emily, she might have been screwed. She swore her sister could sniff out a lie from her like a bloodhound to a body. It was why she had always been caught sneaking out, always been caught smoking blunts behind the shed, it was why Emily knew for a blatant fact whether she was really sick when she’d claimed she was too ill to go to school. If it had been Emily, she would have been six feet under for that small white lie alone, but Garcia wasn’t Emily. And so Garcia believed her. 

“Oh, third question, you guys are being like, safe right?” Penelope said, with rare concern swirling in her dark brown eyes, and Bugsy sighed with a knowing smile, because it felt like the team did nothing but mother her nowadays, “Because as much as I would love to be an aunt all over again, I don’t think the world is ready for a baby Bugsy,”

“I know what I’m doing, Pen. My IUD doesn’t run out for another couple years, we’re totally fine,” She replied, subconsciously running a thumb over the inner part of her arm where the rod lay under her skin until she felt the odd poking of the device. Spencer had insisted he wore a condom the first few times just to be extra cautious, had begun to tell her the fact sex was only safe 99 percent of the time with an IUD alone before she had kissed him to politely and lovingly tell him to stop overthinking things. However they had run out after the sixth time, and instead of stopping to go run out and get more, he’d decided perhaps they would be safe enough, or perhaps he had stopped caring the second she took her clothes off. 

Penelope grinned, pretending to wipe her brow, “Okay, phew. If you ever need anything, I’m talking condoms, lube, maybe you guys are getting it on and you realise you’re out of batteries for your-”

“Ah,” Bugsy winced, sticking her fingers in her ears and hopping out of her seat to head for the door, the feeling that Penelope was toeing the line of boundaries the way she usually did only this time she was unknowingly talking about Spencer, “Thankyou, Garcia, however I’m going to get going, breakfast is calling, and Dr Pepper is not cutting it this morning,” She said backing away towards the door, looking at the bubbly blonde who watched her go with a cunning smile. Because Penelope always meant well, even if she trampled over boundaries sometimes, or lacked the perfect words to say, she always had the best of intentions, and for a moment the guilt tugged at Bugsy’s stomach for being so abrasive in leaving. 

“As long as you’re being safe, I am happy to know you’re getting some,” The woman brushed off, whirling around her desk to log into her software, her manicured nails clicking against her keyboard at the speed of light. 

Pausing with her hand on the door knob, she looked back at Penelope with softened eyes, a small dose of sentiment trickling into her tone, “Pen?” She said in a quiet voice and Garcia stopped, looking back to the youngest agent with wondering eyes, “Don’t ever change,”

And with that she left to grab herself a coffee, because the guilt of keeping secrets was too much for the early morning.

–

She saw him coming mid way through lunch, Penelope tucked behind Morgan’s desk, stirring a spoonful of peanut butter into her oatmeal pot, steam whirling from the container with a sweet scent. Morgan leaned against Bugsy’s workspace, his arms crossed over his chest as the two of them chattered, Bugsy picking at a punnet of fat, red grapes. 

Spencer came down the stairs, his eyes already trained on her the second he’d left Rossi’s office after handing some files over to the veteran agent, and he fought the small blush away from the apples of his cheeks. Because even after five months of calling her his girlfriend, just the sight of her glancing up at him with that look in her eyes had him bashful.

His hand dived into his bag before he could forget, a rare and near impossible occurrence for him only he’d found he had the tendency to get sidetracked when she was around, usually looking at her expressive face when she was talking, or getting lost in the light scent of her hair that wafted over to him, watching the way her hands fiddled with her stationary when she was thinking. Bugsy made Spencer Reid forget things, and it was for that reason he knew she wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met before, not that he needed reminding of it. 

“Here you go, you left your deodorant in my car,” Spencer exclaimed, producing a pink can from his satchell and handing it over to her with little thought to the chaos those ten words had created. 

Because Spencer had unknowingly just set off a time bomb, one that threatened five months worth of covert operations. Unintentionally, ofcourse, because those five months had been just as hard on him. He had just been excited to see her. 

Bugsy felt herself go a sickly colour, felt her stomach drop and the wind whoosh from her lungs at the sound of it and her head whipped to Garcia before she could think to be even the littlest bit subtle, because never had there been a clue about their little secret so blatant and open for the taking. 

And as if that hadn’t been the nail in the coffin, as if the small look of confusion that washed over Penelope’s face hadn’t given away the small feeling of puzzle pieces slotting together in that wonderfully big brain of hers, Spencer plonked a drink from the cafe down the street on her desk. 

It was a pink liquid, thin and sickly looking, with a whipping of fresh cream on top, and a glacé cherry to make it look extra delicious. 

“I got you a strawberry milk as well because I know you wanted one last night,” He said, a helpful smile on his face as he slid it over the table to her. It wasn’t the brand that she loved, or the Nesquik powder she kept stashes of in their cupboards, but he knew she would devour it nonetheless. 

And yet she didn’t look at him with that loving gaze like she usually did when he brought her presents. Didn’t throw him a ‘thankyou’ dipped in hidden affection, or a small squeeze of his hand that they usually could get away with because they’d always been affectionate. 

Instead, the second the words had left his mouth, her eyes went so wide he saw the whites of her sclera, saw her pupil shrink as her head jerked around to Penelope who sat in Morgan’s desk chair, the oatmeal in her hands shaking as she lifted her dirty spoon to point at the young woman. 

“Pen-” Bugsy started with a warning tone, the panic laced in her words that were quickly overtaken by Penelope’s voice yelling, her eyes equally as peeled back wide with horror.

“OH! OH! You- YOU- And the- and the milkshake- and you said- OH,” Penelope screeched flicking her porridge covered utensil like a teacher pointing at a naughty student, and she was quick to turn her attention to Reid, “AND YOU! YOU- OH GOD-” 

“Woah, woah, what’s with the yelling, baby girl?” Morgan asked earnestly, holding his hands up in surrender to the woman who had cut through the working silence of the office, some of the other agents lifting their heads from their work to see what the commotion was about. Even Hotch had shot a look to the BAU floor from his office, and judging by the annoyed look on his face as he stood up from his desk, they didn’t have a whole load of time to shut Penelope up before Hotch began demanding answers.

This was it, Bugsy told herself. This was the moment she’d been dreading, when they would be outed to the whole office, not even getting to decide when or what they told the team that could soften the blow of a cover story so huge. The moment when Hotch would likely get her to put in a transfer form by the end of the week with a slap on the wrist.

But she wasn’t ready to leave; Bugsy didn’t want to be anywhere that wasn’t with her team, even if there was a grey area in the rules about what she and Spencer could and couldn’t do in the field. 

And so she sprung towards Penelope, a hand grabbing the arms of the wheely chair Penelope sat on, looking the woman dead in the eye. 

“Hey, Pen, quick question about IT for you, I think we should head to your office, don’t you?” She said quickly, already rolling the woman back towards her lair with frantic eyes while Penelope hopped between five trains of thought, her oatmeal all but slipping from her hands, “Spence, get the door for me would you?”

“And Spencer- you said Spencer spoke to him- you said-” Garcia muttered on like she’d opened pandora’s box and peered inside to see the great wonders of the universe and returned a madwoman, her words only made more dramatic by the way she pointed in Spencer’s face as he passed by them, his own expression curved into worry as he’d quickly clicked what the tech whizz was babbling about, “BASEBALL, SPENCER- SHE SAID YOU LIKED BASEBALL-”

“Okay, am I missing something or was that an extra dose of weird and wonderful from Garcia this morning?” Blake said with narrowed eyes as the genius boy held the door open and Bugsy wheeled a yelling Garcia down the hallway to her office, the youngest agent with an oddly harsh tone as she shushed the woman. 

“Pen, I’ll explain-”

“But you- YOU!” 

“Shhh!” 

“Something’s ruffled her feathers, I can tell you that for free,” Morgan said, his eyes trailing Spencer as he strolled behind the bickering women, tucking his hair behind his ear worriedly, “That right there was a level nine Garcia freakout,” 

JJ’s brow creased, as Hotch headed down the stairs towards the trio, all too aware of the commotion Penelope’s yelling had caused while the rest of the office attempted to settle back into their reports. But it seemed everyone’s eyes trailed after the three agents heading towards Penelope’s office, watching the car crash of a moment through the freshly cleaned windows as Pen tried speaking, though yelling may be a better term for it, and Bugsy barked at her to calm down. 

“What’s level ten?” The blonde asked, her arms crossed over her chest, and Morgan shook his head.

“You don’t wanna know,”

–

“YOU TWO ARE SEXING LIKE BUNNIES AND YOU DIDN’T TELL US?” Penelope all but yelled the second Spencer shut the door behind him, and Bugsy ran a hand over her face out of embarrassment, her cheeks hot and painfully tingly. 

“Penelope, would you please keep your voice down, okay, this isn’t a big deal-” Spencer tried to interject, his palms out in a non threatening manner like level nine Garcia was an unsub they were trying to subdue. The older woman looked at him wide eyed, as if he’d just told her the sky was falling, and her mouth dropped in aghast. 

“Not a big deal- NOT A BIG DEAL? Spencer Reid, two of my best friends are screwing around in his car- your car- and you mean to tell me to calm down?” Penelope shrieked, and Spencer wondered for a moment if he was getting yelled at or she really was just that shocked, “I mean, this is groundbreaking, like more groundbreaking than the Anniston-Pitt-Joley affair, you guys are messing around right under our noses- this is like the talk of the century-” 

“W-we’re not just messing around, Garcia,” Spencer spluttered, scratching at his neck awkwardly, “I mean not that that stuff isn’t great, cause, god, of course it is,” He looked at Bugsy who smiled with an unnatural shyness, rubbing at her mouth with an anxious touch, “But it’s not just that, I really-really love her,” 

Bugsy thought she might have just melted on the spot there and then as she looked at him over her shoulder, a meek simper spreading across her face and she flicked a look back to Penelope with pleading eyes. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in, and I know it's sudden,” She said quietly, and for once Penny listened, because it was like the air had shifted to accommodate the gooey feeling of love between the youngest agents, “But he’s right, it’s not just fooling around, Pen, we’re just being us. And we wanted to keep it that way a little while,”

If there was one thing about Penelope that Bugsy knew would tug on her heart strings, was that Pen, at her core, was a romantic. She gushed over the kisses in the rain, the soppy proposals, the cheesy love confessions. And judging by the way her horror seemed to have melted away, she was entirely right, because it left behind a sparkly look in her eye that flicked between the two of them, like she was a kid watching the prince get the princess for the first time all over again. 

“Wait, so you guys are like, in love love, like wedding bells and a white picket fence with kids in the yard and all that?” Bugsy grinned, feeling Spencer’s arm lay over her shoulder, pulling her close to his side, and in a rare moment of PDA, she looked up at him with the full extent of her adoring gaze. 

“I’m vetoing the white fence, but I guess so,” She said with crude humour, and he smiled down at her, raising his brows and almost instantly they’d flung back into how it was when it was just the two of them at home. 

“Vetoing the fence? How are the kids going to play in the yard, we’ll be raising a small horde of them,” He quipped back, and she laughed, burying her face in his chest as Penelope watched with fascinated interest how they fit together the same way they always had and yet now they were suddenly different. Glowing. Golden. 

“I was thinking more of a flock but okay-”

“Are you kidding me?” Pen interjected, her tone exasperated and sweet, besotted with the sight of the youngest agents poring over one another unapologetically and she felt like slapping herself silly because how had they not noticed before. “I take it back, you guys aren’t Pitt and Joley, you’re- you’re William and Kate, you’re Neeson and Richardson, you’re just,” She sighed dreamily as the two of them glanced at her with coy smiles, entirely exposed in their sickeningly loved up stupors, “Meant to be,” 

They looked at eachother, because Pen had hit the nail on the head, the fact they’d danced around one for so long that it felt like they had always been made for one another the second they’d kissed that day in her room. Bugsy couldn’t imagine a life without Spencer in it, didn’t think she started existing really until he came knocking on her door in search of a translator. Spencer never believed in god or heaven or angels, but he knew whatever it was that had sent her to him when he was ten feet below his rock bottom, was something even a man so smart as him couldn’t explain.

Bugsy grinned toothily at the tech whizz, pointing a reprimanding finger in her direction, “You can’t tell Morgan, this is top secret,” 

Penelope’s mouth dropped its smile almost instantly in moral offence, “Wait, what? But I always tell big daddy everything,” 

Spencer face scrunched in bafflement, his lips moving before he could stop them; “Big Daddy?”, whilst Bugsy brushed off the nickname almost too unsurprised at the woman’s words.

“Please, Pen, pleeeease,” She begged, her eyes round and wide with a pleading expression that made her seem ten years younger, and Penelope looked like she was ready to crack within mere seconds , “We’ll tell everyone soon, I promise, just please give us a few more weeks to figure things out,”

And Garcia showed signs of crumbling. Not that Spencer could blame her, because Bugsy could get anything she wanted from people when she really tried. He liked to think of it as her sixth sense, sometimes wondered if she had some sort of mind control over him that she hadn’t told him about because he seemed to bend and sway to her whims almost too easily, and it was almost comforting to see Garcia facing the same struggle as she huffed, turning away from the puppy eyes that stared into her soul. 

Penelope sighed, pouting a little at the fact she’d been given an explicit instruction to hide something from Morgan, the very idea of which setting her in a dampened mood. Yet she glanced back at the two agents that held onto each other like they were awaiting lottery results, their imploring eyes trained on her and patiently holding out for a response, knowing she was the only person in the whole world who had the power to put an end to their hypothetical romcom montage they’d been swept up in for months. She bet to herself for a moment that they would have some kind of cheesy seventies or eighties hit playlist running behind all of their hidden moments and secret affections, might have Cindi Lauper’s Time After Time running when they had their first kiss, She’s Always a Woman by Billy Joel when they danced in the kitchen at breakfast. 

Penelope Garcia was nothing but a hopeless romantic, and it was for that reason that she rolled her eyes with a wry smile, and Bugsy’s chest deflated with relief, her expression lighting up with joy, that Spencer was quick to replicate. 

“What would you kids ever do without me?” Garcia said with a dramatic huff, and Bugsy all but threw herself at the woman, grabbing her in a tight hug, squeezing her so hard she nearly popped a pom pom out of her hair. 

“Oh, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, I swear we’ll make it up to you, anything you want,” Bugsy said, her words flooding together with excitement as she buried her face in the woman’s blonde curls, “I swear, it’ll be a few weeks tops,” 

And with just a few more minutes of Penelope squealing over the sight of them holding hands, nearly fainting from joy when Spencer tucked Bugsy’s hair behind her ear lovingly with an adoring gaze, their secret was safe again. For a matter of a few weeks, that was. 

5. The one where he gets shot.

“We’ve got the suspect headed into El Lobito’s diner,” 

“Copy that, we’re on our way,” The sheriff reported, his radio sounding out as he approached the group where they stood around their table crammed full of suspect profiles. “We got him,” He said with a trace of relief, the preacher that had been murdering the prostitutes he pimped out finally within their grasp. 

Bugsy nodded, checking that her gun was holstered and reaching for her vest when Hotch put a hand out towards her, “Prentiss, I want you here with Rossi and I coordinating response here. Blake and Reid, you go with the sheriff to meet Morgan and JJ at the diner,” 

She opened her mouth to protest, maybe to exclaim that she was one of the best shots on the team, that there was nothing more that she could do here than if she was out in the field with the others, but Hotch’s word was always final, and she knew protesting on such a time constrained operation would only end in her unit chief giving her a timeout on the naughty step. 

So, instead, she bit the inside of her cheek, silenced whatever protest she was going to give because she knew he hated hearing her whine, and within a moment everyone seemed to jump at their orders. 

She caught Spencer’s eye as he trailed behind Blake, wishing now more than ever things could be different, because a horrible feeling settled in her gut like a rotten fruit, churning her stomach with horrid thoughts that Spencer was heading straight for the line of fire and she couldn’t so much as give him a hug without it seeming odd. 

She wished more than ever she could grab him in a kiss that Hotch would pretend to not see, that he would understand because the entire team fretted over one another when the cards were dealt and the guns were loaded, wished she could tell Spencer over and over that he needed more than anything to make it back to her safely because she wouldn’t know what to do with all the love she had for him if he wasn’t there to take it. 

Except she couldn’t. Not here. Not so public. 

So instead she flashed him a nod that said a million words and more. I love you, I love you, I love you Spencer Reid. Come back to me because I love you more than life itself, Spencer Reid.

And Spencer got the message, the exchange looking like a plain tilt of the head between coworkers, as he strolled out of the precinct, checking his gun was loaded in his holster. 

His eyes read clear back to her what his reply was, though maybe it was just their spidey sense working overtime, she could have swore she read his mind in the split second that their gaze met. 

I’ll try. I’ll try with everything to come back to you. 

–

“Copy that, two of ours, three of theirs,” Cruz said with little to no inflection as he held out the speaker phone to the middle of the room, and Bugsy felt her breath catch in her throat as she waited for Alex to go on, “Any casualties?”

“One,” She replied, and the Prentiss woman felt her head go funny at the sound of it, “Coleman. Morgan has a superficial wound to his shoulder, little winded from getting shot in the vest but Reid is..” 

Blake trailed off, her throat choking up with emotion as she watched the boy be loaded onto the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. 

“What?” Hotch pressed, and Bugsy would have to thank him later because she could have sworn words had failed her by now. 

“Reid’s been hit in the neck,” She felt her legs go numb, the world spinning around her like someone was playing a cruel joke on her, like she was falling down, down, down into the rabbit hole, down into wonderland, where Spencer was hurt, badly, and she hadn’t been there to stop it. “It’s looking… bad,” 

Hotch flicked a glance at her where they stood in the precinct, and it was only then she realised all the air had whooshed from her lungs in what she suspected had been something between a gasp and a ‘no’, though she couldn’t say for sure because her hearing had been knocked clean from her, a high pitched whine of white noise ringing in her ears, like she’d knocked the signal from a TV, like her brain had been filled with static the second Blake’s voice floated through the phone.

“Bugsy,” It sounded underwater, and suddenly it was too difficult to swallow, until she realised the feeling was that she might just throw up, and she stepped towards the precinct door in some sort of haze, rustling around her pockets for the keys to the SUV, “Bugsy, wait!” 

There was a hand on her shoulder spinning her around as she was hit in the face with cool air, and suddenly Hotch was there, his umber eyes full of concern, Rossi not too far behind him, and it took her Unit Chief all of one swipe to snatch the keys from her. 

“I- We have to go, Hotch- we have to see him,” She babbled, and she was surprised at the fact she didn’t feel like crying. She expected to feel the burn behind her eyes, the tingling and tightness in her throat, only to come up blank. Like her body had taken a back seat, her head working on autopilot because she needed to see spencer for herself, “They need to know he can’t have any narcotics- I need to make sure it’s on his sh-sheet,” 

Her teeth were chattering. It was the middle of July, why were her teeth chattering?

“I know, I know, he’s in good hands,” Hotch said, in a way that told her he wasn’t being Hotch, that right now he was Aaron. He put a hand on her shoulder, the size of it dwarfing her and he looked at her like he was explaining to Jack why he couldn’t have chocolate before bed, “I know, we’ll go tell them right now, honey. Just let me drive the car.” 

She nodded without really hearing him, and Rossi opened the front passenger seat door for her, a grandfather’s hand on her back that helped her up into the jeep, because she seemed ready to take a tumble at any point, walking like her knee caps were made from jelly. 

“Has Blake said anything else?” She said, her voice entirely childlike, and David would bet any amount of money that it was the shock. He took a look at her, the way her fingernails were picking around each other already in a bad habit he could already guess came from Emily, and Aaron hopped into the driver’s side of the car, leaning over to grab her seatbelt for her. 

“Not yet, kiddo,” Rossi replied, his eyes soft like a teddy as she nodded dejectedly, and he closed the door on her side of the vehicle, opening the back for himself, Hotch mother henning over her. 

Aaron had expected her to worry, god knows he was well aware that Spencer and Bugsy struggled to function when they weren’t close by. He chided himself for splitting them up, yet he’d thought he was doing his best keeping his team in two equal sized groups both in the field and in the precinct. With JJ’s suspicions of a mole in the police force, Hotch and Rossi needed back up just as badly as the others. And god forbid he had selfishly tried to watch over her. Not because he didn’t think she was capable, but because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened while he’d sent her after an UnSub. 

He knew it was wrong to pick favourites, and truthfully if he had to he’d say, his whole team meant something like family to him. But Bugsy was the youngest, the baby if you would, she was mellower than she liked to pretend she was, and she’d carved a small soft spot in his side that he would struggle to get rid of. 

Only now Reid was down, and with him went Bugsy. 

Hotch started the car, quickly navigating his way to the hospital where he knew his team would more than likely already be racing towards in the same state of panic. He caught the way her knee thudded on the carpeted floor, where she tapped her ankle and it took a small glance to his right to see her chewing at her cuticles silently. 

“Bug, he’s in good hands,” He repeated, and she nodded though she didn’t seem to really be listening, “He’s going to be alright,”

Yet part of Aaron felt like he was telling himself that as much as he was telling her. Because if something happened to Reid, he didn’t think any of them would be the same again.

–

Blake heard her before they saw her, the way Hurricane Bugsy usually went.

“I swear to god, you had better let me through this door right now, or I will have your superior on speed dial by the end of the week-” She snapped, her panic quickly turned vitriol anger as the desk assistant who tried blocking her way into the critical unit looked at her somewhat mortified that his job was walking along a fine line. 

Hotch and Rossi had gone straight to where Morgan sat resting in a separate ward, trying to gather more information about the shooter since Morgan had seen the UnSub first hand.

Blake’s head shot up, the wetness around her lashline stinging with guilt as she watched the youngest agent tear through the waiting room as if looking out for blood. Alex was out of her seat on shaking legs, heading towards the girl who she knew would go down in a blur of swings and insults for Spencer Reid. 

“Bug, honey, hey,” Alex’s tone was motherly, as were her soft hands that she placed on the girl’s shoulders, and it didn’t become clear that the source of distress was from a place of fear instead of anger until the girl whipped around to face the voice, and Blake saw the redness rimming her eyes where she had forced the weeping away, likely putting on a brave face and high walls to stop the real emotion swirling inside her. 

Bugsy looked at the older woman, and that was all it took for her lip to quiver. It didn’t help that Alex threw her arms around her, pulling her in for a soft hug, one she had never gotten from Elizabeth Prentiss, one she had been craving her whole childhood, a mother that held her tight and told her she was going to be okay. 

“What happened?” She said, the sob crawling up her throat, bleeding into her words and muddying them with tears, and Alex had to swallow thickly to keep down the wail that pressed tight against her tongue, “What happened?” 

“He pushed me out the way,” She said with a shaky voice, and it took everything inside herself not to cry right there with her. “UnSub was aiming right for me, Spencer grabbed me and pushed me out the way. By that point it was too late, he’d already pulled the trigger, I’m so sorry honey,” 

“Don’t be s-sorry,” She hiccuped pathetically, clinging onto Blake like she was her only lifeline, perhaps the only thing keeping her standing, “I’m glad you’re okay, I was s-so worried,” 

Alex nodded, knowing she might just start crying then and there with the youngest agent if she were to open her mouth, and instead she chose to press a delicate kiss to her temple, hoping it would have to do since the infamous Emily Prentiss wasn’t there to comfort her sister. She seemed to quieten down enough in the embrace that Alex could pull away, her hands still on the girl’s shoulders. 

“I was just doing a crossword if you wanted to join me?” Alex said, which was a half truth since she had been too bothered to get past even the first three clues, and Bugsy nodded, her mind immediately spewing a million mornings of her and Spencer fighting for space at her desk to do the daily crossword. 

She couldn’t think like that, couldn’t think of him as if he was gone. Because he wasn’t, he was simply down that hallway, in the hands of surgeons who could slash his throat if they made even the smallest of nicks wrong-

“Yeah, I would like that,” Bugsy nodded with a sniffle, wiping her cheeks with her cuff, feeling pathetic and entirely regretful for bursting into the waiting room with a million emotions and no idea which one to feel first. 

She had never been good at putting a name to how she felt, only this time, if Alex were to ask her, she knew she would say she felt guilt. Guilt for not being there to help them, for hiding things from them for almost seven months now, for not telling Spencer she loved him more, not reminding him every second of every day, guilt that everyone was hurting over Spencer taking a knock and yet she was the only one who couldn’t smush it down into a box and put on a brave face. 

Because she couldn’t even if she tried. The trojans had a horse, Rocky had Creed, and she had Spencer. She was all mouth and courage and stone faced until it came to him. He was her Achilles Heel.  

She looked over Alex’s shoulder, pointing at seven across, and sighed with the horrific irony of the clue. A feeling of deep regret and remorse. 

“Contrition” She said, slumping into the chair as Alex penned the answer in with a wobbly lip. 

It was going to be a long night. 

–

Hotch found her by the vending machine, looking between the Dr Pepper and the Full Fat Coke like one of them would be able to tell her how to feel. She knew he was waiting for her, knew they had a job to do, but she couldn’t make herself move. She felt like the hospital linoleum had claimed her as its own, like she had melted into the squeaking surface until further notice. 

He was out of surgery by now, already in his room resting. It was just a matter of waking up really, and then they would see how bad things were, though by the sounds of it the doctors had hopes for a miraculous full recovery. 

Two centimetres to the right and it would have been an entirely different story, that’s what the surgeon had said. She was two centimetres away from losing the person she loved more than she ever knew was possible, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. 

She thought for a second then, that if Spencer proposed the second he woke up she would probably say yes. Because she’d said it herself, her life had never been her life until it had him in it. 

“Bugsy,” Hotch tried, but her head had turned down, her chin pressing into her collar and it was then her shoulders began shaking, “Bug, come on, he’s going to be okay,”

She shook her head, biting down hard on her lip to stop a whimper of raw pain coming out, “I should have been there, I could have stopped it, I could have covered him,” She mewled, feeling him wrap a hand around her shoulder, and it was only then he tugged her towards him, letting her whimper into his chest as she clung onto him. 

“I know, I know it’s hard, but he’s going to make a full recovery,” He said in that cotton soft, loving tone usually reserved for Jack when he woke up from nightmares, “None of this was your fault, sweetheart, you have to know that-”

“I can’t do this without him, Hotch,” She said, pulling away just enough to look him in the eyes, and it pained him more than he’d ever admit to see her look so distraught. Memories of when Emily left flooded him and he felt all over again the painful shell she’d crawled into make an appearance, “I can’t,” 

It was a beg, a plea for mercy, a cry for help, and he could do nothing but nod, because he understood. If any of his team died, his team who he loved like a family, he thought he would crumble all the same. 

Only he knew it was different. He’d always known, deep down, why it was different for them. He saw the way Spencer had always looked at her, how damaged and tormented Bugsy’s eyes were as she looked at him now. And he knew. 

“I know, honey,” He said soothingly, stroking hands over her cheeks to dry them for her, because he couldn’t stand to see her so sodden with tears, “But you know what? You’re going to pick yourself back up until Reid gets better, because we have an UnSub to catch-”

“Hotch, I can’t,” She shook her head, but Hotch only pulled her closer, his eyes boring into hers with more affection than her father had ever shown her. “I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. You know why?” He asked, and she went quiet, shaking her head with a pitiful sniff, “Because I have never once stopped believing in you, even when you hated me, even when you had a damn building dropped on you, even when you were a reckless kid running away from your own wedding, I never stopped thinking that you were the bravest person I’ve ever known. And Spencer never stopped believing in you either,”

Her throat closed up all over again, her eyes wide and threatening to wash her skin with tears all over again as she nodded timidly. 

“Okay?” Hotch said, and she nodded again. He rooted around his blazer pocket for a handkerchief, passing it off to her before he reached for the top button of her shirt. He unbuttoned it with a gentle thumb, poofing her neckline out so she could breath a little better through her dying cries, “Why don’t we get that collar loosened a little for once, huh? Get you a soda, and then we’re going to make this son of a bitch pay for what he did to Reid,” 

Bugsy nodded again, feeling a hundred percent better the second air got onto her throat, and she saw glimpses of what he was like as a dad. Part of her wished then that things would have been different, that maybe she would have had a dad like him, one that knew how to fix things. One that knew just what to say to make her smile. 

He produced a five dollar bill, holding it up for the vending machine to eat as he turned to her, “Alright, now which one are you having?” 

Bugsy thought she might just love Aaron Hotchner ten times more than she already had. 

+1. The one where they tell everyone

She swore she had never run through hospital halls so fast. 

Blake had called her to update her about Garcia shooting the UnSub who posed as a doctor to try and administer lethal doses of medicine to Spencer, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d pulled a gun on her boyfriend and her tech whizz best friend. 

And Penelope had shot him. Killed him. All to save Spencer. 

And she supposed she needed to thank Penelope soon, that she would need to get the girl her own bunch of flowers like the ones she’d quickly excused herself to grab while Hotch and Rossi went straight up into Spencer’s hospital room, even when Aaron had tried to wait for her thinking she was having another crisis of faith, she had ushered him along and told him it was bad form to show up without a card at least. 

She burst through the doors like a bat out of hell, and the sight of Spencer in the scrubs, thick gauze wrapped around his neck made whatever resolve she’d been storing dissolve immediately. Her face crumpled in a cry, and he barely had time to carefully turn his head towards the door, before she had launched herself at him, the flowers and card she had gotten him from the hospital gift shop forgotten and tossed to the floor. 

She would apologise later, because she had ruined his presents despite the sentiment being there; for now she needed to feel him, make sure he was real and breathing and alive the way she’d told herself he wouldn’t be. 

“Bug-” His voice was raspy, no doubt having been drifting in and out of sleep for the past few hours, or even if the doctors had told him to rest his throat so as not to affect the thin, delicate stitches. But it didn’t matter much to her, she didn’t even let him finish anyway before she threw herself at him, minding his wound as she wept onto his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist, “Bugsy, it’s okay, I’m okay,”

But she couldn’t even speak, couldn’t even tell him to stop trying to reassure her, stop trying to make her feel better because he was the one in pain. She felt like a coward; she hadn’t even pulled herself together enough to see him before, when he had still been sleeping. The sight of him on that bed, his eyes squeezed shut… she had turned tail and run before she even gave him a chance. Knew she wouldn’t be able to hold herself together on the case if she went into his room and pretended everything was going to be fine the way Garcia and Blake were doing. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll stop-” She hiccupped, lifting her head up to look at him through distraught, reddened eyes, and she saw his face morphing into pure sorrow, his own hazel hues wide with grief because he hated seeing her in so much pain. 

And she couldn't stop herself, her hands migrated to his cheeks, steering clear of the suture. She didn’t think of the other eyes in the room, or the fact only Penelope knew, she suspected Hotch might have caught on by now anyway, she didn’t frankly care. She wanted to feel him against her, to know he was still hers. 

Bugsy kissed him like he was about to be ripped away from her at any given moment, and had she been in any other mindset she might have cared about the fact she could taste the salt of her tears, that he froze under her brazen affection, or that she surely looked a state after what the past twenty four hours had put her through. She didn’t care when she heard a gasp, or felt stares, only that Spencer kissed her back, possibly the most tender he had ever been, his hands soft and featherlike as they traced over her waist to pull her closer. He tasted like Jell-O, and she thought it might just be her favourite flavour suddenly, because it was all him. 

She pulled away with a sniffle, looking entirely sorry for herself and like a kicked puppy, and she was quickly ripped out of her delirium that allowed her to look at him without guilt or hesitation by a loud whistle. 

“Now how long have you kids been holding that out?” Morgan jeered, and Bugsy cracked a smile, wiping her face on the back of her sleeve as she looked at her team. JJ and Penelope clung to one another with ditsy smiles, like they were watching John Cusack playing the boombox over his head at the bedroom window, Rossi stood with his arms crossed, a nostalgic smile on his face as he watched the kids he’d seen grow up finally seem like they were at home. Morgan looked ready to tease some more until Blake put a hand on his shoulder, entirely motherly and chiding, and Hotch looked at her and her alone like he was looking in a mirror.

He supposed, for once, the bau had found a happy ending. 

--

@release-your-sweets s @smileykiddie08 @caramelised-onions @the-tpd-bau @stephthepeach @sunflowersndpeaches @sammy-4103 @starmansirius @yeonalie @delusionallooney @hades-disappointment-child @sadbae-33 @mdanon027 @swag13r @frickin-bats @bilesxbilinskixlahey @mindfullycriminal l @mrsbellastyles @nilopillo @imagines--galore @bluejaysaysstuff @imaginexred @flow33didontsmoke @spicyspirit @mywellspringoflife @lovelyygirl8 @pleasantwitchgarden @star-girl-interlud3

@rosylnsworld @jamieolivia27 @halcyonwithletters @waywardhunter95 @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist @theoraekenslover r @niktwazny303 @bliindmattmurdock @alyeskathewave @littlemadamred @yondiii @cultish-corner @lllucere @escapismurmom @stillhere197 @hiireadstuff @amortencjja @queermaxwooo @telengraph @ivyflowers13 @estrela-rogers @green_vita @busy-buzzing @kitty-kei @universallyblizzardlove @suckstobrlaurie @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @splatteredpurplepaint

[smoothlikealikeasnake]

Strong Coffee and Sweet Cakes

Chapter Three ‘The Price of Doing What You Love’

Genre - BTS FF, a/b/o dynamics, a/b/o BTS and MC, Ot7 x fem MC/reader, so fluffy, little angst, eventual smut

Warning - mentions of exhuastion, stress, tension, small injury mentions (accidental burns, muscle strains), lmk if theres any more to add!

Summary - A new cafe near the Hybe building will change the 7 members of Bangtan’s lives forever, 7 alphas in a pack? A recipe for disaster. Until a sweet omega starts to stir up their world with a little bit more sugar and slowly their loneliness dissolves

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Author Notes - I’m sorry for how long this took! Issues with saving on my laptop meant I lost the entire second half of this chapter and had no time to rewrite, it’s finally here though and chapter 4 is already in the making!

It can begin to pick up from here, finally met the first milestones I’d say. Yes they are all drawn to eachother but I don’t intend for them instantly to just realise and jump right in so this is maybe a slow burn, although I’ll be incorporating a lot of brief mentioned scenes like the scene with Hoseok asking about Y/n’s friends and a lot of spaces in the timeline (short ones) like the beginning where I show they progressed over a few weeks.

This just makes their relationship more realistic and it’s not going to be an instant change, I’d like to build a lot more on their individual characters too!

Aside from all the problems getting this chapter out, I’m happy with it (I think) please excuse any spelling or punctuation errors 😭

The following few weeks are busy but... Progressive. Your cafe continues to be as busy as ever but you have the special addition of three new customers. Namjoon tries to come in most days, he quickly learnt you work behind the scenes some days and he began to think his whole trying to come in every day was a little forward or pushy - even if you didnt see it that way - internally he knew he wasnt visiting just for the coffee and bakes so he came when he could, naturally rather than making it a part of his schedule. If he felt particularly peckish or really needed a break, hed come to get a coffee, but - only - on the days where you were working Upfront not that hed verbally admit that.

Hed argue that you just made his coffee better but the truth is that he visits for you - even if the coffee and food is amazing. Somehow you just brighten his day, make it a little easier with your expressive care and sweet gestures. The girls had began to tease you, finding a pattern when they were working of Namjoon coming in and then standing frozen like a lost puppy when one of them was behind the counter rather than you - of course he never asked for you - but Soojin did witness him making a small comment about you being back the following day when he returned and so they prodded, teased, pryed but you simply brushed them off. He just enjoys your coffee, right?

Its not like Namjoon ever made a bad impression on one of the others, he was as polite as ever, the only time they ever saw even a little bit of disappointment on his face that stuck was the day he couldnt see any of his new favourite pretzels behind the display and had even asked if there was any and he was just passing over them. Much to his dismay, you hadnt prepared any that day but when you found out, it felt like the end of the world, your heart pounded a little and you made sure there was his favourite pretzels every single day. Even if they werent on display, sometimes Namjoon would come in and whilst hed ordering his coffee, one of the girls will slide over a plate from behind the counter, labelled in your handwriting 'Reserved!' and they'd explain youd set it aside for him. 

His brain chemistry felt like it changed when you did that, he froze, his heart began to beat faster, something swelling within him - pride? Joy? pure and utter admiration? An intense desire to give you the world for your incredibly sweet gesture? 

Confronting- or rather- gently questioning you about it on his next visit rewarded him with the sight of your cheeks flushing red, a light stutter taking over your usually confident speech and a rather hasty explanation that only brought a wide smile onto his face and a blush of his own, sincerely thanking you and praising you for it only to watch you practically skip away when youd finished talking. This was also the day you exchanged names, your name then passed on to your other two new customers. 

These two are less- lets put it straight- adamant. Although they can feel the pull to be around you, they decide to be a lot more subtle than Namjoon, really only visiting when they are craving a - good - coffee/drink of any kind or a sweet pastry. Honestly, your relationship with them progresses at the same rate.

Hoseok finds himself ordering your banoffee pie every visit along with a medium roast americano or- if hes visiting in the early morning you prepare him a fresh fruit juice alongside his coffee, claiming he should have something properly hydrating before his day. Ultimately, its because along with learning eachothers names, youd also worked out a kind of dynamic where youd slowly learn more and more about them and their lives, sometimes theyd tell you what theyd done or are going to do that day, sometimes theyd tell you a story about one of the other members, you love it all, are interested in it all. You happily listen and give input to their every sentence, laughing sometimes, symapthising and borderline lecturing at others. On this journey, you'd discovered that the alpha that originally would appear smiley but felt slightly intimidating and definitely confident, was a dancer, an amazing one at that and he often spent most days doing atleast some form of dance so yiu began to stress the importance of him beginning his day hydrated. 

He'd watched in surprise the first day you did it, eyebrows raised and lips parted befre tilting his head in curiosity at your actions. Then he found a little fun in it, the way you breathed in a little more before speaking thinking it would help you get your words out but ultimately finding it didnt since his scent invaded your body and slowed your mind a little, that was... amusing. 

Especially intriguing when Hoseok leant forward, resting his head on his hand, in the way you do getting slightly closer to show your listening, only making your eyes widen more and brain falter a little, practically shaking yourself out of your daze to explain. Hoseok wasnt cruel though- he dropped it and got back to his gentle smile when youd finished talking and thanked and praised you for your thoughtfulness but maybe that was just as bad because you went even redder, teetering on the spot and fiddling with your fingers because good lord it felt amazing to hear it from him.

You'd scurried off, if thats the right way to put it, afterwards, his intimidating - and too attractive for anyones good - aura just making it hard to focus for the rest of the day, your mind a little scrambled even when Yoongi came in for his iced americano - having briefly heard about your interaction that morning - and acted all nonchalant and lazy about it until suddenly blurting out that you should sit down, your a little shakey, take a little break before you begin again and then went on about his merry day but it had only driven you further into your madness. What were they doing to you?!

Safe to say you crashed especially hard into your nest that night and - maybe - slept a little better than usual, their words playing in your mind on repeat, transforming into blissful dreams that you scold yourself for in the morning. Seeing Namjoon first thing that morning - when you were just making sure everything was in check before retreating back into the kitchen - had seemed to settle your body, putting you back into calm, focused routine, his clumsy but cute mannerisms and intrigue in your every small word feeling natural, so natural that you slowly left your frenzy during the day and were ready to face either of the two offending alphas that following day if they chose to come in. 

They might occasionally be driving you a little crazy but your doing it back to them tenfold. Truthfully, you dont leave their minds, they stay longer than they plan to everytime they visit your cafe, just watching, observing, admiring you. Even if you arent there, sometimes theyll stay just to catch a trail of your sweet, doughy scent, it just sets their day off right you know? Or makes a not so great day into one slightly more bearable.

Sometimes they’d come in and you already knew something was wrong before they’d even walked up to the counter or sat down but before you got there, you’d decipher wether to ask them about it, or to pretend it didn’t happen, and god they appreciate that. You just know, and it’s strange how fast that had all happened and become routine.

Sometimes you’d listen whilst making their coffees, sometimes when it’s less a lot less busy you’ll sit down with them for a short while and you don’t even have to answer, just listening makes it better, the way they can tell your actually listening and in return, not that you expect anything in return, there’s been days where they’ve absolutely done the same, looked at you in pure worry, ushering you to sit down and just say it all

Your unapologetically yourself, scolding them for their habits on some days and on others merely being a light in a gloomy sky for them, like when Hoseok’s running his hand through his hair repeatedly you know he’s stressed and don’t say a single thing about him ordering a double espresso at 5pm

Or when Namjoon clumsily lets a tiny hint of his strong, assertive scent out when his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s deep in thoughts, although it often makes you stumble a little you try not to show it, and if you can’t hide it you make a little joke, something that will make him apologise a little - even if you didn’t want any apology - but equally smile and lighten up even a little

Yoongi tends to just be a bit more silent, more than usual, a slight tension in his face and on those days, you make your way over and just silently accompany him if your given the chance, if not you just linger a little, top up his coffee without him asking, send him a short, telling smile and that’s more than enough for him. If he wants to talk about it, he knows you’ll listen, if not, you’ll silently be there.

Even when they are alone they find themselves smiling like idiots, thinking back about your conversations together, even the shortest ones, the way you scold them without a care anymore if their unhealthy habits show a bit too much, trying to guide them back onto a healthier path. Your every word replays in their heads, your every move, practically documenting your reactions to certain things like praise, their actions, their tone and their scents and you become a fascination theyve never felt before. The sweetest treat they could imagine, even without you trying to be. 

Safe to say they do a poor job of hiding it too, jealously lingers from the remaining 4 members of the pack when the three rappers just show up a little less stressed, a little more energetic for practice, a tad happier than the others. Curiosity follows the jealousy and they pry, the three just brushing it off a little, not for the sake of hiding it, more so trying to deny the fact that you are having sucha big impact on them. 

Everyone's been acting a big strange recently though. Jungkooks soft things frenzy was shortly brushed off, only to be followed by Jimin suddenly becoming very, very concerned with his clothes. Not how they look- nothing like that, specifically, how they feel. Hed put on a shirt only to cringe and practically banish it if it wasnt soft enough, if it didnt feel right, as right as he could explain. There soon was a pile accumulated of clothes he didnt deem soft and gentle enough, even if his skin was never bothered by it, his mind was, it just wasnt soft enough and thats all there is too it. Right?

They arent the only ones feeling and acting strange, alongside your clearly conflicting and growing feelings towards the three pretty alphas that youd grown to like so much, your instincts seemed to multiply. Their scents? Overwhelming, in the best way, more and more everyday, you just wanted to bottle it up and found yourself searching for any reminents of it on your clothes when you got home even if youd made no contact with them. Then your nest, which has always been your pride and joy, began to feel a little small, its big enough for you but somethings telling you it simply isnt big enough and when youd confided on your six amazing friends over your weekly dinner, theyd shared knowing glances with eachother and gently encouraged you to follow what felt right. 

So there you are, gathering even more blankets, duvets and pillows, pushing and pulling to expand your nest a bit but there is something missing and you just cant put your finger on it, something thats making it even harder to sleep properly than usual. It has you huffing through your monday, sighing every second you get alone even if you of course put on a smile for the customers. Something;s missing, but what? 

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

"We are done! Everything's ready'" - Exclaims of happiness and relief start to flood through the practice room as their choreographer declares everyones learnt the dances and theyd only need refreshers from here on out, so for a little bit, they can take it easier than usual. No recording, no learning, no producing, just refreshing their memories every now and then.

That calls for a well earned celebration, the group plans to go out for dinner and some drinks later that night but in the mean time, everyones hungry, thirsty and exhausted, whats a better time to visit your cafe than now?

The seven are spread out across the practice room, some sitting, some laying down, some downing their water but they sit in a mutual silence, the comfortable kind. A little bit of a break - as far as breaks go for them - ready to begin. Yoongi's the one who suggests it, finally letting on to where the three rappers suddenly disappear to every now and then and the singers only grew curious, heavily intrigued and oh so eager to go.

"Lets go get some coffee" - Its a sudden statement, everyone looking up from their various positions in the room, thinking- right now? when we are all sweaty? More coffee when we dont need it Now and we''ve consumed more than our bodies should be able to handle in the last 2 months?!

"Where hyung?" - Taehyung enquires because clearly its not in this building, Yoongi announced it to make it a sort of trip/ small occasion for them, a group thing - which they hadnt truly had in a very long time. 

The idea is appealing, something that brings them nostalgia since they hardly spend time properly together anymore. Its hard too, not just because of schedules but because of the conflict that has accumulated so easily as a result of their off-balanced hormones. 

Their concerns about being all sweaty and not exactly the best example of presentable are brushed away as a little light seems to gleem in Yoongi's eyes when they agree. They take a slow walk, relaxed and appreciating the fresh air they are getting after being in the practice room for hours. 

"Is it the cafe all of the other groups keep mentioning?" - Jimin enquires, always mingling here and there around the building 

"Yeah that one with the fresh bakery display" - Taehyung also adds, humming in interest and delight

"Yeah, the coffee's really good" - Namjoon gives away the fact that he already knows where they are going and that this is the reason theyve been acting the way they have recently

"So the coffee is what has gotten you three all giddy recently?" - Jin pushes, eyebrows raised from curioisty 

" theres clearly something else to it unless the coffee is made with actual magic" 

"Well, you can be the judge of that yourself cant you?"

"Don't hide it hyung, whats the real reason"

"You'll see wont you'"

"Oh- i see her now" - Jungkook blurts out when he sees the three rappers brighten up the moment you come into view and turn to them, only noticing those three at first.

They all watch as your nose twitches and your steps falter, taking in a breath and immedietly being overwhelmed by the combination of their scents and the pure strength of them, laced wit something that screams 'alpha' even more than usual - their sweat. It only strengthens their initial scents and adds this layer that cant be described, its alluring, something you naturally react to a little and when you get a little closer to greet them they can see your pupils blowing out and breath catching in your throat, having to gulp before speaking. 

"Your back! Together this time and- oh!" - You gush happily over the rappers at first and then the pure strength of the scents set in and nearly knock you over when you notice the addition of four new faces. These men are all too attractive for their own good- you gulp at the amount of eyes on you and slightly stutter in your next words, suddenly feeling like you could nest right here, next to the 7 and just surround them and yourself in hundreds of soft things over and over- Or maybe you should Tilt your head to the side and bare your neck or- or- what are you even thinking?! You shake yourself out of it visibly, resetting your smile 

"How lovely to meet you all finally! Ive heard so much!" - You gush brightly

"Aish Y/n your revealing our gossiping tendencies" - Hoseok laughs out, teasing and finding it amusing when you falter for a second before catching on

"Dont be silly its hardly gossip just- information" - You throw right back, your tone playful and the vocal line instantly liked how you matched Hoseoks energy so easily.

"Well now i understand why they keep coming back" - Without even thinking, it slips from Taehyungs lips, his deep voice caushing you to shudder and your lips part, his intense, admittedly intimidating, stare only making your brain stop, not quite knowing how to respond when it was so clear he was talking about you.

"Oh- well-" - Your mind hardly co-operates, pupils blown out and cheeks tinted red, looking anywhere but into Taehyungs eyes as they follow you, intense, overwhelming. Sometimes, those kinds of comments would make you nervously laugh and subtely back away but coming from him, there wasnt any underlying negativity, no prying intentions beneath and instead you almost wanted to shuffle closer but you couldnt, nervous and clumsy from it all.

"Taehyung dont fluster the sweet girl" - Jin scolds, nudging him with his shoulder as he observed you struggling to reply but that didnt exactly help calm you, infact it just made your eyes widen even more, beginning to find an out to try and hide the cheesy grin that was forcing itself onto your lips but it was too late and they wanted to coo, the rappers wanting to tease and prod for your reaction but refraining for now. 

"Ah- ill just- go to the counter" - You practically run behind the counter to hide your grin and escape the hot air that suddenly enveloped you around them, breathing in the fresh bake scent deeply to try and clear your mind of the haze the 7 alphas scents had started to settle over you. 

Namjoon, always attentive and honestly very sensitive to whats going on around him, takes the opportunity to unnecessarily apologise for the addition in their scents/their appearances

"Ah im sorry for us coming here like this" - He Clumsily gestures to himself, rubbing the back of his neck and you understand what he means, looking up at him from behind the counter but you instantly wave him off

"Dont be silly, theres nothing to apologIse for, infact-" - You catch your own words in horror with yourself because why were you just about to blurt out that you liked their scents like this too, your about to slap your hand over your mouth but quickly try to divert from ayone catching on by asking the typical question, even if a few did catch and guess what you were going to say by the few sneaky giggles from amongst the 7.

"What can i get you all?'' - You take their orders one by one, explaining to each of them what the sweets behind the glass display were when their eyes caught onto them, drinks first and then treats.

"A mint tea for me please and- amazing thank you" - Namjoon's practically beaming when you gently shift his reserved pretzel you routinely make sure is available towards the front in question before he can even get the words out, the newer members look over his shoulder in wonder at what has their leader pretty much like a lovesick puppy with his expression and the breathy tone of his voice.

J-hope has a similar interaction, ordering his usual but having grown more confident around you recently, he threw in a wink and positively had your cheeks roasting, quickly diverting your eyes and moving on to Yoongi

"Iced Americano and- whats that dessert?" - He never usually orders anything to eat but your pleasently surprised when he points to the Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake

"Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake, its not too sweet, slightly tart from the raspberry mix in but its balanced by the cream of the cheesecake- i think youd like it, would go nicely with your drink too" - Its clear your passionate abou your bakes in the way your well versed in getting the perfect balance in each treat and when you finish off your sentance with a proud nod. The addition of 'too' as you finished completely changed the meaning of your evaluation some of the members noticed, had you not said it, your conclusion could be completely generic based on his drink choice, with it, the drink choice was merely an addition to your initial conclusion tnat Yoongi himself would like it- a minor detail, but one that leaked your increasing interest even if you hadnt noticed it as much yourself. Yoongi happily agrees to try it and yo move on to the 4 new faces, some strange nerves or tingles in your body, the ones you got meeting the other three but more intense this time, probably from there being more of them. 

"Ill have a vanilla latte and a slice of that strawberry cake there- its cute" - Jin points to the pristinely decorated strawberry and cream cake, fluffy sweet sponge, ripe strawberries and sugary fresh whipped cream. His overall choice makes you smile because its equally contradicting and perfectly fitting to your first impressions of him- hes intimidatingly handsome, as if sculpted by a god but theres a gentleness and elegance to him naturally

"Sweet tooth?" - You brightly smile, tilting your head in question at him and he could agree but theres something else about Jin, 

"Just like sweet things" - He can be a flirt, and he does it well, the wink he gives you is suggestive as if you are another sweet thing to him but the smile he gives is calming, unthreatening to show his comment is merely playful, without ill intent. Doesn't fail to make your eyes widen and have you stuttering onto the next person though

Somewhere under Jimin's words to you, Taehyung quietly protests to Jin's flirting since he got scolded for it but Jin begs to differ, pushing that Taehyung was blatantly forward and intimidating'

"Ill Have aN iced americano too and oh- a slice of that chocolate cake please" - Jimin's sweet voice practically serenades you, along with how he brushes his hair out of his face, sweet, welcoming but devestatingly beautiful. His smile is just as drawing, a full grin with his eyes closing when he catches you stare a moment too long and you really scold yourself in your head because of all things to do you dont want to make any of them uncomfortable.

"A mint tea with hm... One of those croissants please" - Taehyungs voice is shcokingly deep, but its not a cold kind of deep, infact its rather warm, the rasp seductive but effortless and its suiting to his looks. You smile happily at his choice of a tea rather than the coffee you so despise your regulars ordering so often, ahem, the three rappers. 

"Uh an iced americano and what are these cakes?" - Despite his bold appearance - the tattoos peaking from his slevve you notice when he points and the piercings adorning his face and ears - Jungkook appears the most timid, shifting on his feet, only briefly meets your eyes and seeming to try and focus anywhere but on you, its strage, curious. 

"Coffee, blueberry, lemon drizzle and banana walnut" - For some reason you speak gentler, barely noticeable but Jungkook isn't as bold as the others have been so far, until you see his eyes light up At the last flavour voice perking along with the volume he speaks at

"Ill have a slice of banana walnut cake too then" - You nd and take a final look over incase they want to make any changes, they dont

"Will you be sitting in or taking to go today?"

"We will sit in today" - You nod and insist they get comfortable while you prepare their drinks and food, but then as they look around you realise there isnt a singular space set up for 7 people at once, youd have to move a chair or two and rushed over to where you found them on some couches in a corner of the cafe, cramped and right next to them there was two larger chairs which, added to their space, would accommodate them all comfortably

"Ah! One second ill just bring these two chairs over" - You gesture to the two next to their seating area but you are stopped by multiple protests when you go to push one of them, two people coming behind you to take over

"Dont- we Can do that if your okay with us moving them" - Namjoon quickly calls out, closer than you expected, you could almost feel his body heat behind you and although you wanted to protest and insist you could do it yourself, both the men- Namjoon and Jungkook were faster and had picked up the heavy chairs with ease-

How they managed to do it like its nothing astounds you, in a split moment they were both looking at you in waiting for your instruction of exactly where youd like the chairs placed, lifting the furniture that you would have struggled and broken a sweat to even push. 

Ugh, alphas. 

Well if they are going to have insane strength then might as well put it to use. After your momentary jaw dropping, you quickly instruct them to put them where you wanted them and it definitely wouldnt seem like you were only moving them to accommodate the seven of them- more looked like you were just having them help redecorate a small part of the cafe with the way they keep looking back to see if you want it just slightly forward, or maybe to the left a little. You arent that picky. 

"Aish now sit, you should of let me do it" - You scold, gesturing for them to sit now with a playful scowl, not that you were really complaining that they made it easier but they are customers after all- it just feels like you should be the one to do it obviously. And you dont want to dwell on just how effortlessly they lifted the chairs, pushing away that thought to usher the two alphas to sit and then rushing away shaking your head and setting off to do their orders. 

Theres a more lyrical type of music playing today, heavy on the instrumental but equally balanced by the singing and backing vocals, its slightly upbeat but gentle enough to be just right. Your familiar with the tune, a favourite on your own playlist and you find yourself gently humming as you subconciously put together all of the orders, body fueled with energy. 

Meanwhile, in a particular corner of the cafe, theres a group finally allowing their body to stop falsifying energy, sinking into their seats and embracing the need to just be tired and lazy sometimes. They dont speak, they dont have too, Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok are comfortable just dwelling on nothing, sometimes glancing at you behind the counter and other than that, accepting the comfort of soft chairs and background noise. 

The vocal line on the other hand, taking in every little detail around them, the comfortability the three rappers have, slowly creeping into their bodies.

Jin likes the intimacy of the cafe, perfect for an introvert like him, the kind of environment you can seamlessly blend in should you want too and not draw attention to yourself, a luxury for them nowadays.

Jimin’s feeling over all of the pillows and blankets scattered around, after his recent frenzy of texture obsession, its safe to say he approves, each and every one of the fabrics - you - picked out to decorate is just soft enough, hes less frantic, humming curiously.

Taehyung is infatuated with the designs and aesthetics youve chosen, visuals satisfying and intriguing, he isnt as studious of art as Namjoon is but the vintage feel to some of the furnitures deeply intrigues and inspires him. He feels like this is hwt he wants from his own home, decorated just like this.

Jungkook’s taking comedically deep breaths of the air, in his apartment there is a ridiculous amount of diffusors, air filters or all kinds just sattered around- not in any kind of organised fashion just to keep the air clearer. Here? Barely any in sight, yet the air is even fresher, its so refreshing he looks like a puppy trailing a scent.

You come over with the drinks first, too much to do both drinks and treats in a singular round, walking to the table in the middle of all of the sofas and chairs and placing each drink down according to where each of the seven were and what they ordered. Mumbling the order as you place them down but as you move around the table and therefore move around in the middle of the seven, its like your putting some sort of spell on them, your hardly doing anything out of the ordinary, merely serving their drinks but to them, for some reason its like your dancing, twirling around the table for them.

“Honey for the teas, sweetened cream for the coffees, hm… sugar cubes there…” - You watch intently over the drinks you placed down, Yoongi having had taken his from your hands rather than it being placed on the table, checking you have brought out all of the extras, water filled jug just in case too, nothing seems to be missing so far.

“Ah! Spoons.” - You shoot upright, your outburst surprising the men and you bashfully smile, saying youll be one moment, their eyes follow as one moment you spinning around placing their drinks down and the next your off again. Somethings telling them to just reach out and slow you down, tell you that you’ll fall if you keep going around like that, that youll get dizzy moving so quickly but its not their place to do that. 

A few moments later your back again, your hairs slightly fallen and pulled from the bun its in, a few strands over your face, probably from how fast you move, in your hand is another tray, the cakes they wanted, and a few small spoons for the additives on the table. You wear a different apron today, its black, like usual, but has a very mild pink hint to all of the stitching, just below your ear is a small patch, the same on both sides, a scent blocker, the effects of such last 24 hours usually, non harmful as they are non-invasive but they work to prevent your scent from being so evident. The boys wear them at award shows and- most places actually. What confuses them is how your scent seems to be just as strong as others are when they havent got a scent blocker on, if not stronger. 

“I forgot the spoons” - You say with a little laugh, it must be hard, they think. To adapt your body beyond what its originally capable of handling - your schedule is what they mean. You wake early, go home late, probably ignore how much sleep your body requires as an omega because there arent enough hours in the day for you to keep up with it. 

No one would guess that it is the case, with how energetic you appear all the time but from where Jin is sitting, he can see the back of your neck, below the wispy hairs theres small patches of red skin, a rash. He guesses what its from, overexertion as an omega will have your body protesting and showing visible symptoms, rashes being a possibility. They arent harmful, they are simply meant to be a warning, although they can be slightly painful. 

From Taehyung’s seat, your hands are right in his view, little scars are on various areas of them and spread over to your arms, healed burns- not the kind that seem continuous or large of any sorts. They are very small, not extreme, healed over and some clearly very old as they are barely visible, from baking. A slip of your hand on a hot tray for a singular second and such, its a regular occurrence, nothing alarming of course, still makes Taehyung frown though.

Yoongi has been noticing for a while the strain on your body as well, when you lean down, sometimes your lips pull as if in slight pain and at times, your movements are delayed, looking unnatural as you your body physically tries to stop you from moving in such ways, stopping for a split second before continuing. Its happened to all of them before, a sign of continuous strain and muscle aches, hes thrown small comments about it your way multiple times now, never going as far to physically stop you from moving in such ways that strain you because its simply not in his right even if he has to push away his instincts to do so. 

“Take it easy” “Go sit down for a few minutes at least.”

“Shouldn’t strain yourself like that.” You always wave him off; it’s nothing, you’ll say; you just slept on it funny, you’ll say. He’s since noticed how no matter what, you’ll deny any evidence of your body protesting what you put it through, and he understands, because he does the same. That doesn’t mean that he simply can accept it though, he puts it down to the natural dynamic, but that’s not all there is to it. 

He's grown a habit of preventing you from making unnecessary movement when it comes to him; no matter how much you protest, he doesnt let you get a chance to bend down to place his coffee down, always taking it from your hands before you get a chance. It's one interaction in your busy and long day, and he knows it wont make all the difference, but it's one second less of strain, and that's a tiny difference enough to ease his mind, and the flurry of your scent in appreciation is telling too; every time he does it, that's enough of a thank you to nearly have him dozing off in his favourite chair in the cafe. 

All your spinning has sort of created a whirlpool of your scent around them by the time you’ve handed out the cakes, a dizzying scent sending their muscles into relaxation mode, slumping in their chairs and that alone causes your smile to widen, standing before them after, clapping your hands together and double checking everything is out.

“Right! That should be it all, can i get you anything else?” - Your answered with polite denial and appreciation for what you have done, countless smiles and a couple sleepy sort of blinks.

You always think it, they work too hard, push too far, while they may yearn for the results and love their lifestyle at most times, their exhaustion is clear, you can practically feel the knots in their muscles with the way they move and sit, some of them still have veins prominent in their necks from the practice earlier, their body not yet calmed down although their scents have settled, still tainted with the remnants of sweat and standing there honestly makes you a little dizzy, mind a little soft but you put it down to the quick movements rather than their scents. Denial is a river in egypt. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

“So she owns this cafe?” - Taehyung questions, getting nods from the three rappers, everyones talking between sweet bites of their chosen cakes

“Works and bakes here everyday?” - A frown pulls at Jimin’s lips, concerned for a stranger, his caring nature evident

“It must be tiring, i dont want to make assumptions based on this but- wouldnt it be harder for her too? Since shes an omega.” - All of them perk up at Taehyung’s question because yeah, it biologically would be harder for you, the vocal lines eyes fell on the rappers for answer 

“Yeah, it is, you can see it sometimes, how it takes a toll but im pretty sure she loves what she does” - Hoseok gets humms in reply, not blind to the signs of your exhaustion either. 

“I like her scent” - 6 heads whip towards Jungkook at his words, teasing smiles and laughs because he has been breathing abnormally deeper than usual since you’ve been here to put their food and drinks down. Hes picky, its a known fact, incredibly sensitive to smells and he can hardly stand most peoples, can hardly stand his own unless he takes incredible care of his routine. 

“Wowww, whats got you all appealed, huh Kookie?”

“An omega catching your interest the first time you meet her- thats new” - Namjoon is hardly surprised, truthfully. Jungkook has had his fair share of short-term relationships and a good amount of one or two night-stands. Amongst it all, hes never taken any interest in omegas, tending to be too headstrong or their scents making him sneeze in close proximity or just internally he hasnt taken a liking to them. This is different, most of them are immune to omega-charm, not that youve ever tried to put that on them anyway, you just act as your nature wants you too but theyve taken an incredible liking to you so far. 

Like is the wrong word. Jungkook could take heaps more of your scent, breathing so deep you’d think hes running out of air, his pupils slightly dilated. It’s unusual to him, unfamiliar and he doesnt quite know what to do about it but for now, he just enjoys whats around him. 

“You cant deny that you three have taken a liking to her too” - Jin comes to Jungkook’s rescue and lets him dwell in his own thoughts about the matter without all the attention. In return, the rappers all get a little embarrassed and defensive.

“Well-” “Yeah maybe but-”

“You can see why, cant you?-”

“Shes not- in a pack?” - Taehyung suddenly speaks up and steals all of their attentions, he says it quietly so no one overhears their conversation but all of them slightly breath in more to evaluate what hes said.

“I dont think so, ive never smelt anyone but her” - Yoongi says, knowing its a question hes had himself. Omegas are partial to scenting, genetically drawn to it when in packs. It’s something they naturally crave but you have never had another’s scent on you, nor any of your friends had yours on them. Alongside that, even if you are clearly close with your friends, they arent your pack, he knows that for a fact from a conversation Hoseok had with you

“Enough about me, is there anything you’re doing tonight?” - Hoseok had ended his usual talk about his day as you were sat across from him, a late friday evening.

“Ah, im going out for dinner with my friends” - You gestured towards Soyeon, currently working as she’d seem you get a little jittery and told you to take a minute to sit down, conveniently just as Hoseok came in. He’d hummed, then answering.

“Your pack?” - You’d shook your head as a no, not said anything further on the matter , kept your smile on and there wasn’t a hint of withdrawal at his question or sadness in your answer so he assumed you didn’t have a pack. Which is true. 

“Thats, uncommon…” - The seven arent ones to judge, it is true what Jin says though, it certainly is uncommon.

“Pushing herself the way she does and without a pack for support? Surely thats unhealthy” - Jin continues, knowing that the omegas in his family surely wouldn’t be able to do this, he admires you, but also worries, glancing over at you and when he looks back

“I think her friends are great support, they arent a pack though” - Namjoon adds, pursing his lips and sighing out, he doesnt believe you have any romantic relationship currently either from how you find yourself mildly reacting to their occasional - light - flirting. He’d catch you with flushed cheeks for tens of minutes after, a small smile stuck on your lips even as you try to  suppress it. 

They end the conversation there, each in their own thoughts, maybe stepping over a few boundaries internally because it just simply didnt sit right, there were small pouts and frowns all around. The possible repercussions of not having a pack in tie with what your body endures everyday makes them cringe. They’d be whining like puppies if they were to take that form, eyes wide and sad but they dont speak on it, because they are currently in no position too.

Its best to just thoroughly enjoy their time there, maybe sneak a few glances at you and overly praise and thank you as they leave, even more so when you get so flushed its comical, from your neck to your ears, red all over. Its safe to say everyone will be back, very soon at that. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many nights you find yourself trailing down the streets away from your apartment, following the same memorised path to the convenience store. There are many reasons, one being that it at least forces you to stay awake that little bit extra rather than crashing the moment you arrive back home and gives you something to subconsciously focus on and aim towards to give you that little bit more time in the day. Another is that after a long day, of course you don't have the energy to be cooking yourself a good meal. You might scold your regulars for their unhealthy habits occasionally, but no one's perfect; everyone has their weaknesses.

Yours just happens to be a particular love for instant ramen and gimbap—quick, delicious, and easy. So what if it's probably not the best to be eating it nearly every day, and you've been scolded multiple times by your friends? Some things are a necessity, or atleast feel like it. 

That's how you are now: wired headphones playing your more upbeat playlist to give you some false sense of energy and suppressing your yawns while you drag your feet, hoodie pulled over your body alongside the fluffy pyjama bottoms you're wearing to aid your warmth, a scarf to top it off, and your hair in a messy high ponytail. It's a short walk after all, and you are a regular-—showing up in your comfy clothes is hardly abnormal now.

The bell chimes as you enter, easily navigating towards your favourite aisles but never giving up a chance to mooch around the snacks and absolutely pick up a few; your headphones suppress the few people also around the store—never many here or at this time of night. 

“Taehyung likes these ones- i swear all of these are too spicy for him.” - Jimin is lightly giggling and picking up one of the instant noodle bowls for the man hes definitely teasing

“Aish, how does he even live?” - Browsing the options besides Jimin is Jungkook, immediately going for the spicier options and struggling to pick just one.

“I’ll never understand it, and without coffee too!” - Jimin has always been passionate about expanding Taehyung’s palette to the things they enjoy too, such as coffee, and trying to help him build a tolerance to spice, but honestly, he’s long since given up and accepted his quirks, just as Taehyung has done for him. 

Jungkook's nose twitches and eyebrows furrow, and he swings his head to the side at the sweet, desserty scent floods his nose again for the second time today, the invisible scent trail hes following leading to you, making your way down the aisle slowly, browsing just as they are.

“Jimin is that?-” 

“Ah the pretty cafe owner!” - Gushing already, Jimin averts his attention from the ramen to you, bundled up in your comfy clothes, white fluffy trousers with light pink hearts catching his attention and the effortless pull of your hair in the hair tie- cute. Almost domestic-

You dont hear their little conversation or internal dilemma about you being here but you do smell it after a moment or rather, just as Jungkook noticed yours, you pick up on their scents, unique and distinguishable from those youve smelt before. It has your head turning in their direction and being surprised to find them already looking at you, startled at being caught and breaking out into awkward smiles and gentle waves. 

Easily reciprocating their wave, you dont quite know whether to just go back to your browsing for a lovely savoury dinner or to engage with them but Jimin easily answers that when his lips move in your direction, instantly taking your headphones out to listen. 

“Ah Y/n! What are you doing here?” - Simple, light, friendly conversation. Easy on your tired state even if their presence alone is equally lulling you to sleep and waking you up; that's not so simple, far from it, infact.

“I'm just grabbing a quick meal; I don't live far. What about you guys?” - You try to hide the tiredness in your voice, avoid seeming like you dont want to speak to them because thats far from the truth your body just struggles to keep up with the schedules you put it through. They catch on to your exhaustion quickly, noting how you subtly rub your cheeks on your scarf in a self-soothing sort of way, nesting when you can't truly nest. Eyes drooping and hands trembling—just one of those regular symptoms of your body's protest against your schedules. 

“Us too; i cant pick what to get though.” - Jimin Gesturing to the vast selection rather dramatically draws an amused giggle out of you and before you go back to your own selection, you point towards a small selection of ramens from the same brand

“These go great with a gimbap, especially the spicy ones” - Both the men light up at your suggestion, looking over the different flavours and picking some for themselves. That solves both of their issues with picking a brand. 

Its initially just a short interaction, you three go and find your separate foods and you are at the counter paying when they cant help but overhear the lady ringing you up, prodding and scolding in a motherly way to you.

“Look your trembling! Aish ive told you to be careful of overworking yourself, its not good for your body and especially not with these meals!” - The woman, Mrs. Han, who youve grown a nice friendship with since you have moved here, holds your hands so gently youd think they were glass, but to her, you are. She always voices her concerns, never afraid to scold you. 

The two boys overhear and frown as they assume this is regular because the older lady is correct, it cant be good for your body. Unfortunately, at that moment there is very little they can really do since they only just met you today.

That doesnt stop their instincts from nagging though, especially Jungkooks, hes younger, truthfully has no experience with omegas closely unlike his hyungs, even if theirs is limited too. 

“It was nice to see you Y/n, your recommendations are gonna be great!” - Jimin exclaims brightly as you all stand outside the convenience store, ready to part ways.

“Ah it was nice to see you too, i hope you enjoy the choice aha- Get home safe!” - Just as you give them a final smile and are about to turn to beeline home and burrow into your nest ,fight sleep until you've eaten, you're unexpectedly interrupted. 

“Can we walk you home-” - Jungkooks biting and pulling at his lip as he blurts it out, the words seeming to surprise even him, hes avoiding your eyes and you can see how hes fighting his own instinct, its curious. Maybe its out of courtesy, that he doesnt really want to so you train your usual smile onto your lips to reply.

“Oh! Thats alright its not far dont worry-” - Your enthusiastic to help him understand it really is okay for you to go home alone- you do it most days anyway. What surprises you is the furrow of Jungkook’s brows, cheeks pulled in as if hes biting back the words but a singular one escapes and has you pausing.

“Please…” - He doesnt really know why he does it, he just cant not do it, he has to ask, has to try.

“Jungkook-” - Jimin scolds, quietly as if to reel him back in, shocked at his behaviour, its out of the ordinary. 

“But- Mmfg- im sorry for being so persistent” - Jungkook tries to carry on but a sharp kick to his foot from Jimin’s cuts him off, shakes him a bit more to the present and he apologises but he doesnt need too, not to you, he hasnt done any harm.

“Its really okay Jungkook” - You smile both confidently and gently, nodding towards him to show its really not a problem, hes not even looking at you, just sort of struggling internally but you can see it, so clearly. Soemthings clawing at your own mind, begging, telling you to accept his request, but you fight it with your own feelings that it would burden them. 

“We can, of course walk you Y/n but please dont feel pressured to accept-” - Jimin’s eyebrows are downturned as he speaks, feeling bad about the interaction and Jungkook jumps in as if hes come to his senses too.

“Yeah! Im sure you really dont need us to walk you but-” - Nodding furiously as he speaks, Jungkook tries to save the situation because he realises so clearly you could of even taken offence to his offer- an alpha being persistent about walking an omega home can come off so many different ways: possessive, insisting, dangerous, degrading or even threatening. His mind is spiralling when you cut it all off, look directly at him as if you understand, as if you can see beneath his eyes and directly into his brain, at the turmoil thats so unfamiliar to him. 

“Would it make you feel a little better to walk me?” - What possesses you to ask and accept is beyond you- maybe it's your way of giving in to your instinct too.

The way Jungkook avoids your eyes as to not lie to your face is telling enough, and you're quick to understand; it's instinctual. He isn't being possessive or forceful of any kind, but he's concerned, and that's okay; you don't mind easing that. 

“Okay, come on, its not too far but i dont want you guys to get back too late; you work hard” - You spin around and usher them to follow your lead, both of them staring at you in shock, Jimin’s mouth agape and standing there a second too long whilst Jungkook actually perks up, quickly catching up to your side because he was the one to insist after all.

“Do you go there often?” - Another round of light conversation, something to cut the silence and maybe distract from the conversation that led up to this walk. Youd been walking for a solid minute now and for some reason, as someone random had walked past youd noticed them tensing a little, you figured it was because they didnt want to be recognised and felt bad about it but then you were swarmed with their scents, booming from them and it had you realising they werent tensing out of being uncomfortable- they were squaring up. Flooding out your own scent with theirs to mask it, subconsciously saying ‘not yours’ to the stranger even if they didnt even look your way 

“The convenience store? Most nights” - You firmly nod, surprise evident in both of the boy’s faces- since your job entails you cooking- rather, baking, so often, it makes sense that they are surpised, refocusing on you and their scents mellowing again.

“For dinner?” - Jungkook questions, brows raised

“Mhm, what about you guys?” - Throwing it right back to keep the conversation going, noting how the two boys seem to be walking slower than they naturally would on purpose to meet your own pace and picking it up a little bit despite your tiredness. 

“Ah yeah, we go probably more often than we should” - Jimin awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and laughs a little. Jungkook on the other hand, cant get the fact that you get this dinner over cooking out of his head when its what you must enjoy for it to be your job

“Do you primarily bake Y/n?” - Jungkook’s staring at you a little intense, you subconsciously grow a little awkward under his gaze and laugh as you answer.

“Yeah, its not that i cant cook; i can but its tiring after work and well- ironic, i know but i dont like the cleanup of anything savory” - Its an odd preference, liking cooking less just for that simple detail, but its just something you accept for yourself

“Wahh- That makes sense, but don't you mind cleaning up after baking?” - Jimin asks but their joint curiosity is amusing, both looking at you in wonder, wide eyes and transfixed on your words, “Not at all” - Shaking your head with a soft smile, slightly shivering and tightening your scarf around yourself as a gust of wind washes over you three, subconsciously, Jimin and Jungkook stand a little closer on either side of you, their warmth invading your own and suddenly you want to purr- your nest seeming more inviting than ever except, theres visions of their hoodies in your nest and you have to shake yourself out of it, clearing your throat and its as if it doesnt just shake you out of it, shakes them too, noting how close they are standing and taking small steps to the side giving you a little more space- that isnt what you were intending for though.

“I think most of us are the opposite, not for cleanup preference but we can cook, cant really bake” - Your replying to Jimin’s words in your head before you even know it- ‘Well that fits just perfect, i can bake’ But what is making you think this way- its abnormal, ridiculous. Instead, you reply out loud with something more suitable.

“Well everyone has their specialities; cooking is an amazing skill to have”

“Lucky you to have both” - Jimin’s playfully adding in, a hint flirtatious but you look at him in shock and laugh, 

“Arent you both blessed with like a multitude of talents alongside cooking? Singing, dancing—should i keep going?” - raising your eyebrows in question and looking at them both only to be amused as they grow a bit shy and avoid your eyes, a kind of warmth on their cheeks and ears that definitely isnt from the cold air, moreso from the praise you give, its different from the compliments they get truthfully on the daily but why?-

“Well maybe but im sure you also have a multitude of talents- tell us” - Pushing back is all Jimin can do to  pretend he didnt just react like a middle school boy when their crush looks at them. 

“Im a professional waffler” - You say matter of factly, noticing your building coming into view and maybe- just maybe, slowing down a tiny bit to prolong the walk for even a few more seconds. 

“Huh?-”

“I Swear thats not even a real thing-”

“Well, i guess youll have to find out another time wont you both” - Their confusion is amusing and puts a far more vibrant smile on your face, giggling for a moment until it fades out when your feet stop. 

Looking around the alphas notice theyve come to a stop infront of a building, glass doors only accessible by a passcode leading to a corridor and some lifts, your apartment building and a feeling of disappointment sets within, it had hardly felt like 2 minutes of walking whilst they are sure its been 10. 

“This is me, thank you both for walking me” - You dont know why your holding your breath- as if it will give you a few more seconds together 

“Ah its no problem at all- infact, thank you for letting us walk you” - Jungkooks sheepishly smiling, this time looking at you with big boba eyes that surely couldnt belong to an alpha- 

“Take care of yourselves; less convenience store food!” - Pointing a finger at them accusingly and giving them one final smile before turning to put in the passcode, hearing Jimin’s voice over your shoulder 

“The same goes for you, sugar” - You stop dead in your tracks, not used to your nagging being reciprocated nor for the nickname, it feels like warm caramel is melting in your body, slow, sweet and trickling over all of your senses. The burst of your scent around the three of you gives it away and your scurrying into your building and up to your nest faster than you can comprehend, the bag of food you dropped on the counter on the way in, distant in your mind compared to the beating of your heart in your ears-—what is this? It was just a nickname, right?

Its safe to say the two alphas went home with lighter minds and big smiles, searching up what a ‘waffler’ was only to be slightly amused. Along with that, the nickname sticks. 

—---------------------------------------------------------—

“What was all that about, huh?” - Jimin asks once theyve gotten far away enough from your building, confronting Jungkooks abnormal behaviour

“Hm?-”

“Pushing to walk her home Kook-”

“I didnt mean too, i swear.” - The guilt that sits on Jungkook’s face proves his words, has Jimin softening and patting his back as they walk

“I know, but why?”

“I dont know; it just didnt sit right to let her walk home alone and i know shes perfectly capable of caring for herself, but-” - Jungkook rushes it out, the words defensive but his confusion with himself is so clear in the uncertainty behind his tone

“I get it; I understand, Kookie, and it made me feel reassured to walk her home too but, a little less pushy next time, hm?” - Admitting Jimin’s own instinctual feelings made Jungkook settle a little, his shoulders falling despite not realising they had been so high to begin with. Neither of them tries to deny the reassurance behind the image of you safe and warm in your apartment- in your nest. 

“Yeah…’ll apologise when i next see her.” 

Thank you so much for Reading! I really hope your enjoying it so far, like it said in the notes, things start to pick up from here, I’m really enjoying their dynamic and the ideas I have for this story, they are definitely spiralling way further than I have properly planned yet hahah

Let me know what you think! As always, my asks are open! Characters asks, author asks, all of it!

Just lmk if you’d like to be added to the Taglist x

Mwah 💖

ཐི♡ཋྀ

———————————————————————————

Taglist: @annasixx22 @canarystwin @borahaetelevision @stay-tiny-things @chasinghxran @bangtan4lifetypeshit @bubblyyz @steddie-steddie @7milkbread7 @welcometomyworld13 @chroniclesofbts @sidnaazsworld @roryy95 @danielle143 @angel121 @imeverycliche @m00njinnie @kiki-zb @meowforluv @jiminsfavpillow @dachshunddame @corgilover20