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honeyncherry · 2 months ago

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all good things - joe burrow

summary in the morning light, where all good things come to an end

content 18+, smut, angst, language

You met Joe the spring he got drafted.

It was a fluke, one of those nights that wasn’t supposed to be anything special. You were bartending part-time at a rooftop lounge downtown, working your third double in a row, already dreaming about the frozen pizza in your freezer and the bath you’d promised yourself if you made it through the night.

Despite it being late, past midnight, the Louisiana air was still hot and thick with it’s signature humidity. Your first sign something was different should’ve been the way the crowd didn’t thin out like it usually did.

He was sitting in the corner booth when you finally noticed him. Shoulders raised, baseball cap low, head bent toward the guy across from him.

You wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the table of college girls at the other end of the bar whispering about it, zooming in with their phones, giggling behind drink menus.

You’d heard the name before of course (everyone in the city had), but you didn’t follow football and you didn’t really care. You were too busy trying to make rent, finish school, survive.

He tipped well. That was the first thing you liked about him.

He also didn’t stare at your ass when you walked away, which already made him better than 90% of the guys who came through there.

The second time he showed up, it was just him. He sat at the bar and asked if you remembered his order. You did. And when he left, he asked for your name.

By the end of the summer, he knew the shape of your bedroom window and you knew how he liked his eggs in the morning.

It was never supposed to last. You both knew that. He told you from the beginning there wasn’t room for anything serious—he was leaving in a couple months, and you weren’t the type to follow anyone across the country.

You told him you never would, like you were proud of it. Like you weren’t already half in love with the way he smiled when he was trying not to.

That was over a year ago.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in a city you don’t live in, wearing one of his shirts and trying not to let your makeup smudge from the tears that won’t stop welling up behind your eyes.

You shouldn’t have come. You told yourself that on the flight over and again when he met you in the lobby without a kiss or at minimum a hello.

The sex was good. It always is. Good enough to make you forget, for a minute, that none of this means anything. That you’re not his girlfriend. That you’ve never met his friends. That he only calls you when he knows you’re alone.

And the worst part is—you answer every time.

You let him push your hair back and call you “baby” in the dark even though he never says it in the daylight. You let him whisper things into your neck that sound too much like maybes, even though you both know they’ll never turn into anything more.

And then you get dressed and go back to your real life, pretending none of it matters to you.

You used to think you were good at pretending.

Lately, not so much.

You hear him moving around in the bathroom. Nothing purposeful, just the soft shuffle of routine. You stare down at the comforter, absently smoothing the wrinkles beneath your thighs, and try not to read too far into the fact that he hasn’t said a word since he pulled out of you twenty minutes ago.

That’s always how it goes.

You touch, and then you don’t talk.

Or you talk, and then you don’t touch.

But rarely both.

He comes back out with a towel in his hand, wiping his face like he’s hoping it’ll hide him. The glow of the city hits his shoulders just right—he looks good. Tired, but good.

His hair is damp from sweat, flushed along the collarbone, a few faded scratches visible on his ribs. You left those. He hasn’t looked at you since he stepped into the bathroom, but he tosses the towel onto the chair by the window.

The tension between you and Joe is thick enough to chew on. His back is to you as he grabs a bottle of water from the counter and drinks half of it without stopping, his throat working in tight swallows. You watch him from your place on the bed and try not to say what you’re thinking. Try not to say anything at all.

“You leave tomorrow morning?”

You nod even though he’s not looking. “Early flight,” you say, your voice scratchy.

He hums in acknowledgment, and you can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. You don’t think he knows, either.

Joe walks over to the foot of the bed and stops like he’s not sure if he wants to sit. You think maybe he’ll say something else—ask you to stay, tell you this feels different this time, something dramatic and stupid and out of character—but he just stretches one arm across his chest and winces at the tightness there.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

It’s not what you meant and you think he knows that, but you let it go.

The silence stretches between you. You let your head fall back against the pillows, sighing softly as your legs shift beneath the sheet. Your body’s sore in the places he touched you. Your heart feels worse.

You stare up at the ceiling.

“You know this isn’t working, right?” you ask.

It’s not a question, really. You say it too calmly for it to be a fight, too softly for it to sound like an accusation.

Still, Joe flinches.

He finally looks at you then, brows tight, mouth a little open like he’s about to say something but doesn’t know where to start.

You sit up slowly and cross your legs under you, pulling the sheet higher even though he’s already seen all of you. You hate that you feel like you need to cover up now. Hate that you always feel that way after.

You swallow. “I know we said this would be easy. That we could do this—long distance, no pressure, just when we feel like it…”

He nods, watching you carefully. You hate how good he looks to you even in this moment.

You let out a humorless laugh. “But I don’t feel like it anymore.”

His expression doesn’t change, not at first. But you see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way his shoulders roll back. The way he sets the water down on the nightstand like it’s something delicate, even though his hands are anything but.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” he says eventually, voice low.

You stare at him, blinking.

“You didn’t ask me to stay either,” you shoot back, and it sounds sharper than you meant it to.

He closes his eyes, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little. “What’s not fair is pretending like this is still nothing. Like it hasn’t been months, Joe.”

He exhales hard through his nose and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to you now. His elbows rest on his knees, hands laced together like he’s bracing for something.

You don’t know why you keep going, but you do.

“I don’t want to feel like some layover between everything else in your life. I don’t want to keep flying across the country just to fuck you in a hotel room and go home pretending like we’re strangers.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch and you feel your heart fold in on itself.

“I know you’re busy,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t the right time. But it’s never going to be the right time with you, is it?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he says, “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

You freeze.

Joe turns around, meets your eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe days—he looks like the version of him you almost let yourself fall in love with. Tired and a little lost, like he knows he’s fucked it all up but doesn’t know how to fix it.

You could say something. You could forgive him. You could slide closer and touch his jaw and kiss him like it’s a promise and not a mistake.

Instead, you sit there, staring at each other across the bed, letting the weight of the moment crush everything that used to feel easy and careless.

It’s hard to say how long you two are caught like that. Long enough for the air in the room to shift. Long enough for the space between you to start feeling like something tangible.

Joe lifts his body from the edge of the bed to sit beside you. His thigh brushes yours, just barely, but it's enough to make your breath catch. He doesn’t reach for you, or touch your hand, leg, or the small of your back like he would if this were still just about sex. He sits there, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, eyes on the carpet.

You’re quiet for a while, thinking that maybe this is where he apologizes. Where he says it’s been hard, that he didn’t mean to make you feel like this. That he missed you. That he doesn’t want it to end.

But that’s not who he is. Joe doesn’t talk when things are hard. He shuts down. Retreats inward. You’ve seen him do it on TV after a bad game—answering questions like they don’t matter, smiling without humor, eyes heavy with something that never makes it to his mouth. You should’ve known that if he couldn’t say it then, he wouldn’t say it now.

Still, you wait.

Because part of you wants to believe he’ll surprise you. That this version of him—vulnerable and two inches from the edge—might actually say something this time.

But all he says is, “I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice is low and quiet enough that you almost miss it. You lift your head slowly. His thumbs are rubbing over the calluses in small, distracted circles. “Do what?” you ask, even though you already know.

His jaw flexes. “Be something.”

You blink. “Is that what this is?”

He doesn’t answer.

You let out a breath through your nose and look away. Your throat feels tight again.

“I didn’t come here to trick you into a relationship,” you say. “I just… wanted to know if this thing we’ve been doing meant something. If it was ever going to be more than… than this.”

Joe nods like he hears you, but doesn’t say anything else. And that hurts more than if he had just said no.

You stand up, knees wobbling slightly from how long you’ve been sitting. Joe’s t-shirt hangs low on your frame and you hate how much you’ve come to think of it as yours. You open the closet, pulling your suitcase out.

“I’ll grab a ride to the airport early,” you say, more to the wall than to him. “There’s no point in staying.”

You expect him to let you go. He always has. That’s been the thing about Joe—he takes and takes and takes, but he never asks you not to leave.

Which is why it nearly undoes you when he says, “Don’t.” He exhales, long and uneven. “You don’t have to go tonight.”

Your hands hover over the suitcase, trembling just a little.

“I don’t want to wake up in the morning and feel like you’re already gone.”

You close your eyes.

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night. And that should be enough. Maybe it should feel like progress.

But it’s not a promise. It’s not even clarity. It’s just another thread in the tangle you’ve both been pulling at since last April—sweet, sincere, and ultimately useless.

You turn slowly, meeting his eyes across the room.

“I don’t want to stay because you’re lonely,” you say.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Joe’s mouth opens and closes once. He looks up at you like he wants to say something even bigger, something even truer, but it dies on his tongue.

You cross your arms over your chest, heart thudding so loud it’s hard to breathe. “I’m not asking for you to give me something you don’t have. I just—I need to know if there’s something here. Something worth staying for.”

Joe doesn’t say anything at first. He looks at you like he’s trying to find something in your face that he’s never been brave enough to name. Like he’s measuring the quiet, trying to decide if it’s safe to speak into it. When he finally does, his voice barely carries.

“There’s everything here.”

It’s not a dramatic confession but the weight of it settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected, like maybe it took more out of him than he’ll ever admit. You don’t move because you don’t trust yourself to, but you watch him, caught in the space between wanting to believe it and knowing how long it took to hear.

“I just don’t know how to let it in,” he adds, and this time the words sound smaller. Less certain.

Your throat tightens. You blink, hard and fast, but one tear slips through anyway, trailing hot and slow down your cheek. He sees it. You know he does.

He stands carefully, like even his own body might betray him if he’s not gentle with it. When he steps in front of you, he pauses. His hand lifts to your face, it’s cautious, thumb catching the tear before it can fall any further.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And you believe him.

You always do.

But it doesn’t change the room you’re standing in. Doesn’t change the months you spent pretending that crumbs were enough, that touches without words didn’t leave marks.

The hotel is still unfamiliar and your heart still aches in the same places. But when he leans in and kisses you with a certain tenderness you haven’t felt from him in weeks—you let him. Because for now, this is what you have.

At some point, the shirt comes off. You think he takes it off you, though it’s hard to remember. It’s all hands and shifting weight and his mouth brushing the side of your neck like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud.

The sheets pull around you as he guides you backward, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other skating down your body like he needs to relearn what he’s spent the last year forgetting. His forehead rests against yours for a breath longer than it needs to. His eyes stay closed the whole time.

Later, when the lights are out and the room has settled into a deeper kind of quiet, his body curves around yours like it always has. One arm drapes over your waist, bare legs tangled beneath the sheet, your cheek pressed into the crook of his bicep. His thumb traces a slow, absent path across your stomach, like he’s touching you just to make sure you’re still there. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

His breathing evens out eventually. Yours doesn’t.

And still, you stay curled into the shape of him long after sleep should’ve taken you both.

By the time dawn cracks through and the sounds of the morning begin to crawl in under the door, you’ve already been awake for hours.

There was a softness to the room that morning, the kind that made you move quieter than usual, as if anything louder than a breath might rupture whatever peace had settled into the corners overnight.

You’d already showered and dried your hair, fingers pulling slowly through the damp strands as the sky outside changed from gray to something even paler—washed-out and undecided. The kind of light that didn’t reveal much, only dulled the edges of what it touched.

It never quite sharpened into morning, just hovered across the room casting everything in a glow that made things look softer than they were. It slid over the floorboards, caught faintly on the edge of the mirror, and never reached far enough to feel like a reason to stay.

Standing in the bathroom in a tank top and underwear, you dab moisturizer beneath your eyes with your ring finger, watching your own reflection like she might say something first. Your skin was still flushed in certain places, warm to the touch where his hands had pressed down too hard without realizing it. You didn’t bother covering it up. You weren’t sure why, but it felt like erasing the evidence would’ve been dishonest.

Somewhere behind you, the low creak of the mattress echoed softly. Sheets shifting. A familiar breath pulling in through his nose as he stretched somewhere just beyond the bathroom door. You kept your eyes on your reflection and reached for your mascara.

When he appeared in the mirror a moment later, he moved with the kind of unhurried weight that only came after a full night’s sleep—when the body was still heavy with it, slow to catch up to the present.

His hair stuck up slightly at the back, his jaw shadowed, shoulders broad and relaxed in the way you never got to see during the day. He crossed to the sink beside you without saying anything, brushing past your arm with the kind of easy closeness that felt instinctive now.

He reached for his toothbrush while you leaned over to sweep mascara through your lashes, your hip nudging his absently when you adjusted your stance in front of the counter. There was something oddly domestic in the way you both moved around each other, even if this was only your second morning waking up together in this hotel, this city, this version of whatever it was you kept doing.

After spitting, he rinsed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t say a word. You weren’t in a hurry to break the silence either.

You were still smoothing your fingers along your collarbone, checking for any trace of product left behind, when his hand reached for yours. His thumb brushed lightly over the curve of your arm, and in a voice low enough to get lost in the silence, he murmured, “Come here.”

You let him guide you, stepping back without protest as he pulled you gently in front of him. You stopped when your back hit his chest and your eyes met his in the mirror.

His hands settled at your hips first, palms spreading slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold you still or simply remind himself that you were there. One hand traveled higher, skimming beneath the hem of your tank, grazing the edge of your ribs before settling just beneath the swell of your breast. You could feel his breath shift behind you and his lips hovered near your neck without touching.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

He watched you in the mirror while you watched yourself, jaw set slightly, chest rising slower than usual. Every part of your skin felt lit up under his hands, like you were waiting for something you knew you shouldn’t be.

A brush of his thumb across the underside of your breast made your mouth part on instinct. He pressed closer, his body curving around yours like the thousand times before. You could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of your underwear, his hips steady against your own.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmured. His hands continued their path, easing your tank up and over your breasts, bunching the fabric just beneath your arms before his hands returned to your skin.

He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle either. His touch landed somewhere in between confident, like he knew what you liked, but thoughtful enough to make you feel like this wasn’t just a reaction. Like it wasn’t just about getting off this time.

Your head tilted back slightly when his fingers rolled over your nipple. He breathed in at the same time you did. You could feel the tightness building already, low in your stomach, the kind that came not from what he was doing but how he was doing it. Less like a transaction, more like an answer to your questions.

There was something quiet in the way his hands slid lower, how he dipped his fingers past the waistband of your underwear without looking down, just watching your reaction in the mirror. Two fingers moved through the wet heat between your legs, the motion of his wrist barely visible, but enough to make you shift back into him without meaning to.

His free hand flattened across your stomach, thumb anchoring just above your navel. That steady weight kept you grounded while he circled your clit in slow, purposeful strokes—just the edge of pressure, just enough to make your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

The tempo never changed. Not when his fingers slipped inside you, not even when your hips started moving in rhythm. Your eyes fluttered half-shut and your mouth fell open, the softest sounds slipping out before you could swallow them down. He held you against his chest with one hand and fucked you with the other, and all of it felt impossibly close—like there was no part of you he wasn’t inside of.

“I think about you more than I should,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Even when I try not to.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. It felt too close, too exposed. But he held you with his body flush to yours, breath uneven now as he whispered, “You feel so good like this. Always do.”

You came with a soft, broken sound, his name catching somewhere between your tongue and the back of your throat. The orgasm moved through you slowly, one long, rolling wave that left your legs shaking and your body slack against his. He didn’t stop, one arm tightening around your waist while the other stayed between your thighs, still moving, coaxing you through every last aftershock. Your head dropped back onto his shoulder, breath catching, muscles quivering, skin hot where it touched his.

He didn’t say anything but you could feel his eyes on you in the mirror, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you unraveled without a word. Like he needed to memorize it, maybe if he studied you closely enough, he might be able to hold onto something this time.

You weren’t sure what made your chest ache more—that, or the fact that you wanted him to.

He stepped back just long enough to drag your underwear down your legs, hands moving slow, fingers grazing the backs of your thighs like he couldn’t stand losing contact for even a second. Rising behind you, he pressed his chest close, his hand slipping to rest low on your stomach.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the counter, spine arching instinctively when his hips aligned with yours. When he pushed in, it was one long, aching glide that left no part of you untouched.

He filled you like he was made for it, like his body already knew the way yours would take him. Your breath hitched on the exhale, mouth falling open, fingers curling tight around the countertop. He stayed buried to the hilt, not moving yet, just letting you take in every inch, one hand planted beside yours for balance and the other tight at your hip.

Every inch of him was inside you, and it now didn’t feel close enough.

He started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, the pace measured, like every thrust was something he’d been trying not to ask for. You clenched around him, the burn twisting into something heavier and needier, the kind of pressure that lives beneath the skin.

His grip shifted, fingers threading through yours on the counter. The other arm wrapped tighter around your waist as he drove into you again, harder, more certain, holding you open as you shuddered beneath the weight of it all. Each thrust pulled something out of you, soft and silent and old. Like the months had carved a space in you that only he could reach, and now he was trying to fill it all at once.

Through the mirror, you watched the flush spread across your chest, the way your mouth parted, how your eyes fluttered like you were trying to stay inside your body and outside of it at the same time. His hand dragged up your side, fingertips skimmed over your ribs, settling on your breast.

His thumb circled over your nipple with a pressure that felt more like a question than anything else. Not asking for permission. Just wondering if you’d still let him have it—your softness, your silence, the parts of you he doesn’t deserve.

His mouth dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the edge of your neck.

“I don’t say shit the right way,” he whispered. “But I’m better when you’re here. You know that, don’t you?”

It would’ve hurt less if he’d stayed silent. Tears started to pool, but you blinked them back, not wanting to break the moment—not wanting him to see.

Still, you didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Your body kept reaching for his, falling back into the rhythm like you’d never left it. His pace stayed steady, every movement felt heavier than the one before. He slid his hand down to your stomach again, pulling you back into him with each thrust, guiding your hips as if he needed the friction just to breathe.

He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, breath spilling into the curve of your jaw. There were no more words. Just the desperate sounds that tumbled out between you. Your name on his lips, his name on yours, softer and softer until you gave in to it completely.

You came again with your hands gripping the counter, voice breaking, thighs trembling as you pulsed around him, hips locking back into his. He followed seconds later, groaning into your skin, hands tightening and hips pressing in one final time as he spilled into you, holding there like he never wanted to leave.

Neither of you looked away from the mirror.

His eyes were on you. Yours were on him.

And for a second, it almost felt like enough.

One of his hands caressed your skin, the other lifted to your face, fingers curling beneath your jaw. His thumb brushed away the single tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded and let him believe it.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then once more just beneath your jaw.

From the bedroom, his phone rang. The sound broke the stillness in a way that felt almost nauseating.

He sighed. “Give me a second.”

The hotel room door clicked softly behind him, and you were alone again.

Your hand was still resting lightly on the edge of the counter, your other arm limp at your side. The silence felt different now. Not empty, exactly—but momentary. A pause you had to move through.

Then came the buzz of your own phone, faint against the marble behind you.

You turned your head slowly, eyes drifting to where it sat beside the sink, screen lighting up once before fading back to black.

Your driver has arrived.

No sound left your mouth, but something in your chest cinched tight. You moved before you could talk yourself out of it—pulling on a pair of jeans, not bothering with socks as you slipped into your shoes.

The sweater you’d laid across the chair went over your tank. A charger still tangled on the nightstand was shoved into your bag. You tucked your earrings into the side pocket without much care. Everything felt half-packed and hastily folded, but in the moment, it didn’t matter to you. You weren’t planning to look back.

The suitcase handle made a soft sound as you lifted it off the floor.

And that’s when the door opened.

Joe walked in, still rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, phone no longer in sight. At first, his expression was neutral. But then he saw you, and everything changed in an instant.

He stopped short in the doorway, brow creasing as his eyes dropped to the bag at your feet.

“…What are you doing?”

You froze.

“I—I just got a text,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “My ride’s downstairs.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. “Wait. You’re— You’re actually leaving?”

“You knew I had a flight.”

“That was before.”

He took a step forward. Then another. His voice picked up—still low, but sharper now. “I thought we were good. I thought we figured it out.”

“I didn’t—” you started, then stopped. “I just… it’s already been booked. It’s done.”

“So cancel it,” he said, motioning toward your phone. “Who gives a fuck? I’ll get you another one. I’ll buy you five. Just—why now?”

The hurt was there now, pressed into the edges of his words. You saw it in the way his mouth moved, in the way his hands hung stiff at his sides. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I have to leave,” you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice level. “This is what we said we were doing. No pressure, no expectations. Just this.”

“Right. But last night wasn’t just that,” he snapped. “You know it wasn’t.”

You stared at him.

“I told you how I felt,” he said, voice breaking in places he tried to hold steady. “I showed you. I don’t say that shit to just anyone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But you didn’t say it in time.”

His breath hitched and his eyes twitched.

“Oh,” he said, voice going flat. “Right. So there was a deadline.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He laughed once—cold, quick. “Sure it is. That’s exactly what you meant.”

You looked down, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase.

“You made up your mind before I even woke up,” he said, and this time his voice cracked for real. “Didn’t you?”

“I had to.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did, Joe.”

He stepped back like your words had physically hit him, hands now clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was locked, the muscles in his neck twitching with effort as he tried to hold himself together.

And then his eyes—red around the edges, shining just enough to betray him—finally lifted back to yours.

“I thought you were gonna stay.”

“I know.”

“I thought—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I thought this meant something to you.”

“It does,” you said, barely audible.

“Then why the fuck are you leaving?”

You didn’t answer.

That was when something in him gave out. His chest rose hard with a breath that didn’t sound like breathing at all, and he turned halfway toward the door, like he couldn’t stand to look at you but couldn’t walk away either.

“Fine,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Go.”

You teetered back on the heels of your feet.

“Joe—”

His hand was already on the door. “You wanna leave?” The knob turned fast under his palm. “Then leave.”

The door swung open with more force than it needed, catching the wall with a soft thud that echoed into the hallway. He didn’t look at you, standing there with his hand still on the handle like that counted as letting you go.

With your grip impossibly tight around your suitcase handle, you took a step and rolled it toward the threshold without a word.

As you passed him, the space between your bodies didn’t close—not even by accident this time. Your shoulder didn’t brush his. Your hand didn’t graze his arm. You didn’t move around each other the way you had moments ago, when it was quiet but not like this. And when your foot crossed the doorway, he didn’t move.

The hallway stretched quiet ahead of you. The undecided light from the windows had settled against the walls, clearer now—no longer undecided. It didn’t reach for you. It didn’t soften anything. It just watched as you walked past. Your footsteps landed too softly to interrupt the silence. Not loud enough to be final. Not loud enough to be forgiven.

You didn’t look back. Not once. And when the door slammed, somewhere down the hall, it didn’t startle you.

You’d been waiting for it.

And still, you kept walking.

Because last night, for the first time, he let something real slip through—words he’d never said before, touches that felt like they meant something more. And part of you wanted to believe it could finally be different. That maybe this was where the shape of things changed. But then the sun came up, the silence set in, and you remembered how many times you’d already convinced yourself that wanting was the same as having.

He meant what he said, you believe that now. But belief isn’t the same as trust, and it’s not the same as timing. You didn’t leave because you stopped feeling anything. You left because you finally did. And this time, you knew better than to wait around hoping he’d catch up before it faded.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

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pathologicalreid · 5 months ago

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spring into summer | s.r.

in which Spencer pursues a relationship with you. you try to resist every advance - for your own protection.

[previously] | [next]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angsty content warnings: blowing smoke part tew, at a bar but it's not specified whether or not reader drinks alcohol, kissing, if you have a problem with my bar music keep it to yourself, maeve as a plot device, love confessions, not edited word count: 2.25k a/n: y'all i wasn't gonna do this, but listening to this song... yeah i had to.

“Spencer’s here!” Penelope exclaimed from her bar stool, her heels clicking on her way to the front of the bar, hoping to lead Spencer through the crowd to where the team had decided to set up shop.

Your head snapped up in alarm, tilting your head to the side and trying to get JJ’s attention, “I didn’t think Spencer was coming out tonight.”

She frowned slightly, placing her glass on the bar and shrugging, “It was an open invite.”

An open invite that you extended to the guy you’re seeing. You huffed, pulling the strap of your dress back over your shoulder and flagging down the bartender, hoping to get a drink before you need to play defense against Spencer.

“Hey,” Ethan said from behind you, a cute guy from counterterrorism that Penelope had introduced you to. His hand sat comfortably on your waist as you got the bartender’s attention again, letting him know that you’d actually need two drinks.

You smiled back at him, panicking slightly when he leaned in to kiss you. Evading his kiss, you let his lips land on your cheek, turning your head so that you were facing Spencer.

The two of you had as little contact as you could manage in the past two months, ever since Spencer’s attempt to ask you out had gone completely awry. Of course, ceasing all contact was unavoidable, between work and Spencer’s continued pursuance, you continuously found yourself under his net.

Ethan squeezed your waist gently, taking the glass that the bartender had placed in front of him and grabbing a straw for yours. You thanked him, crushing the straw wrapper against the bar and taking a sip.

Admittedly, you weren’t interested in the guy in the slightest. The second time you went out together, he’d gotten your name wrong, but he was friends with Penelope’s crush, so you were trying to be a good sport.

It felt like the world was playing a cruel joke on you, pairing you with someone who couldn’t be bothered to remember your name while you were trying to shut out a guy who remembered your favorite flower from a conversation three years ago. Yesterday, you’d found a bouquet on your desk for the third Thursday in a row.

Every time you read the card that he sends with the arrangement, you almost forget yourself. It would be a waste for you to get rid of them, which is the only reason you’ve kept them on your desk.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

“You look nice,” Spencer whispered to you, reaching between you and JJ so he could grab his drink from the bar. He looked good, you noticed him against your better judgment, even the embroidery on his tie managed to catch your attention.

Before you could collect yourself enough to respond to him, Morgan had already pulled him back to a booth, putting an arm around his shoulders and pointing out different girls in the bar while Savannah rolled her eyes. His hair was growing out from the undercut that he’d debuted in the fall, falling in front of his eyes until he inevitably flicked the stray hairs away.

Peeling your eyes off of him, you looked back at Ethan, who’d already made his way through half his drink. His eyes were glued to the baseball game being displayed above the bar. If your date had noticed you ogling your coworker, he didn’t show it.

Tentatively, you tapped his stool gently with your toe, “Hey,” you tried to get his attention, batting your eyelashes. “Do you wanna go over to the jukebox with me? We can pick a song together,” you offered.

He frowned and shook his head, “Nah, the Nationals game is on.” He nodded his head up to the TV, refraining from sparing you a glance.

You looked up at the screen, they were at the bottom of the second inning, and you were in for an exhausting night. “Right,” you said flatly, “I’ll be right back.”

Sharing a look with Penelope, who shot you a supportive thumbs up from the other side of the bar, you got off your stool and adjusted your purse over your shoulder. You liked that this bar still had a real jukebox, as opposed to the updated touchscreens commonly found in bars nowadays. You dug through your purse for a quarter, half paying attention to your rummaging and using the rest of your brain power to study the available songs.

A few things caught your eye, most of the available tracks were classics—Journey, Queen, and a Meatloaf track that was suspiciously out of order. Probably because the song was over eight minutes long. “Here,” the familiar voice—that you’d been trying to avoid—spoke.

Spencer held a quarter out for you, leaving the coin displayed in his palm until you graciously accepted it. “Thanks,” you said, “Do you have any suggestions?” You expertly dodged his attempt at eye contact, sliding the quarter into its slot and reading through the titles again. Pressing your lips in a thin line while you ignored the way he was leaning over the jukebox.

“Why did you ask him to come out?” He asked, pointing at one of the songs and chuckling when you shook your head. He should’ve known better than to actually make a request. After all, you were just being polite.

You squinted at a title, worn with time, and you distracted yourself with the task of reading it. “I didn’t know you were coming with us,” you muttered, refusing to let your curiosity get the better of you and resisting the urge to just select the worn button. “You don’t usually like this bar,” you reminded him. You couldn’t remember the last time Spencer went out to a bar that wasn’t O’Keefe’s.

He hummed next to you, standing so close that you could feel his body heat intermingling with your own. “So,” he started, “You wouldn’t have asked him to go out if you had known I was going to be here.”

“I didn’t say that,” you told him, your eyes flickering to the side. Not enough to see his face, but enough to notice that he’d taken off his suit jacket, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You might as well have,” he returned, watching as you finally chose a Fleetwood Mac song, concluding that you’d either have to choose a song you didn’t want or waste Spencer’s quarter.

You peeked around him, your date still preoccupied with the sporting event. Even so, you tried to make your way around Spencer, but he grabbed your elbow and held you back.

There was nothing forceful in his action. If you wanted to snatch your arm away and stalk away from him, he wasn’t going to stop you, but you found yourself interested in staying with him. It would be worth your while to stay with someone who was begging for your attention rather than return to the bar to beg for someone else’s.

Spencer looked around, mindful of the members of your team who were still in earshot while he led you away from the crowds. He tucked you away, resting your back against a shiplap wall in a corner, perfectly concealed from curious profilers. “I want to talk to you,” he whispered, leaning against the wall.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest in preemptive defense, making sure he stayed at least a foot away from you. “I’ve said everything there is to say to you,” you made no effort to avert his gaze, no attempt to duck away from the conversation.

“I haven’t,” he responded immediately, his voice steady despite the noticeable pounding of his carotid. It was almost as if he’d practiced this speech before, going through every permutation of the conversation in his mirror before meeting you out.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked up at him; the sun was setting, the orange light reflecting in his brown irises while he studied you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. “Spence,” you breathed, waiting expectantly for him to continue.

“You never actively pursued me, how was I meant to know you were interested?” His question made you want to scoff, but the earnest look in his eyes gave you pause. “Admittedly, social cues aren’t my strong suit, and I know you know that.”

Your shoulders relaxed, “So, because I never actively pursued you, it’s my fault that we never ended up together? Was I supposed to declare my intentions to you?”

He shook his head, sending strands of wavy brown hair tumbling in front of his forehead. In another life, you would’ve reached out to fix his hair. “No, I’m saying that while you never actively pursued me, I am actively pursuing you. I just want to make sure you know what page I’m on,” he told you, nervously picking at his nails.

“Spencer,” you sighed his name, “I already told you I couldn’t do it.” You’d cried it to him, actually. You expected this conversation to be more of the same, pleading with Spencer to understand your perspective on the situation while he relentlessly begged you to reconsider.

Reaching out, he touched your arm gently, nothing more than a graze of his fingertips across your bare skin, “And I want to prove to you that we can do this. I can be the guy that you want.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to push yourself further into the wall until you phased right through it, “I can’t take the back and forth.” You needed something stable, but what you needed would never be reflective of what you wanted. The most brutal truth of all was that you still wanted Spencer. You considered him your first love, and no one ever gets over their first love.

Just like he’d never get over his.

“There are just too many years between us, Spencer. It’s too complicated,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing steady. It would be exhausting to explain your tearful look to the rest of the team.

He waved your reasoning away, “It’s not. It’s not complicated. I love you and you love me. So, why can’t we be together?”

Your lips parted, staring up at him with wide eyes as your brain frantically tried to catch up with the situation at hand. Each beat of your heart was like a repetition of the word—love, love, love.

Spencer took your silence for rejection, “Maybe it’s just me then.”

“It’s not,” you croaked, fear and love and sorrow causing your throat to strangle your words. You looked up at him and wondered how long he’d been sitting on that confession. You wondered how long he’d known you loved him. You wondered if he still dreamed about Maeve. For whatever reason, that’s the only curiosity that you voiced, “Do you still dream about her?”

“I only dream about you these days,” he answered, his voice soft in the cacophony of the bar, keeping the conversation private despite your public stage.

“You can’t mean that,” you murmured, your face warming in response to his confession.

Your response only seemed to encourage him further, leaning his head down to allow himself contact. He pressed his lips to yours gently, and you found yourself leaning into him more than you’d like, each movement of his lips reminiscent of a chisel against the wall that you had constructed between the two of you.

Reaching your arms up, you propped one over his shoulder and used your free hand to weave your fingers in his hair—just as silky as you had always imagined it would be. His lips were soft against yours, and you knew you were fighting a battle that you could never win. You’d always run back to him.

Even when you pried yourself away from him, there wasn’t an ounce of regret in your bloodstream, but there was an outpour of sorrow. “Spence,” you breathed, blinking tears from your eyes while he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, “I shouldn’t have done that.” His tone didn’t reflect his words in the slightest, there was no remorse in his eyes when you met them for the first time in a new light.

You shook your head instantly, “It’s okay.” You understood why he had done it. Telling you he loved you. Kissing you. He hadn’t done either of those things with Maeve. Spencer was trying to make a statement with you; he wanted his actions to speak louder than words.

He frowned, “You’re crying. I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted to respond, but you hesitated for a moment. Curiosity was rapping at your door, wanting to know if the last person he had kissed was Diane. “I’m not crying because I didn’t want you to kiss me,” you admitted, hoping that your candor would serve to bring him some comfort.

“Oh,” he breathed, “Oh.”

You nodded, confirming his suspicions, “But I meant it when I told you I can’t do this. I just… not right now.” You needed time to come to terms with the fact that the love you never expected was right around the corner, and you needed time so that Maeve wasn’t the first person you thought over after kissing him.

“Okay,” he said, taking a small step away from you, “But you… you’ll let me know?”

Your head bobbed, “I’ll let you know.”

"I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word." - Ernest Hemingway

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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lunarsilver · 6 months ago

Text

What awaits you in 2025?

REMEMBER

I’m not a doctor, a psychiatrist, a therapist nor a psychologist. Divination will never replace meetings with them.

It’s a general reading, so not everything will resonate.

If you can’t choose between two piles, probably both of them have some messages for you. You can also not identify with any of them, and that’s okay, too.

Readings can help you make a decision, but they shouldn’t be the main reason for making it.

1 ~ 2 ~ 3

4 ~ 5 ~ 6

PILE 1

What will this year teach you?

Strength

The Major Arcana shining on your 2025 is Strength. That’s my favorite Tarot card if I’m being honest so I may be biased lol. You’ll learn this year you have way more strength than you thought you have - especially the psychological and mental one. This card is both about your inner strength and the way you are able to influence others. You’ll learn how to channel this power.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Summer (expansion, growth) - Spring: Leaves (renewal, revival, progress) - Summer: Bird (freedom, opportunity) - Fall: Moon (phases, cycles, intuition)

Funny that for the winter season we’ve got a card called Summer, huh? The first three months of this year you’ll find new ways to grow and work on it. This trend will continue in spring, though you’ll correct the course a bit, maybe come back to something (a hobby or a dream?) and realize that hey, you actually still like it. Summer is the time of vacations, so it only makes sense you’ll feel more freedom in your wings. An opportunity may come to you. Fall will be a more reflective season. Noticing patterns, being after some time again in a similar situation or place, getting more in tune with your intuition.

Main blessings for you this year

Longevity (Chrysanthemum) - Productivity (Kent pumpkin) - Hope (Daffodil)

Longevity suggests good health and a lot of energy. For some it may be even about curing a serious illness or surviving a dangerous situation, but obviously I won’t throw such statements lightly. With how we’ve already talked about your growth and nice opportunities during this year, it’s no brainer that you’ll be really productive and have a hopeful attitude.

The main challenge of this year

Ring - Moon - Sun

Commitment to the deep desire of being happy.

Okay, pile one, looks like your main challenge is literally being consistent lol. Literally the only person that can sabotage your huge growth this year is you yourself.

How will you grow?

8 of Wands R - Justice R - The High Priestess

After some time of frustration and slowing down, you’ll take full accountability for your actions and take your fate in your own hands. Thanks to this, you’ll be more in tune with your intuition and get more at peace with yourself.

A piece of advice

Third Quarter Moon - Disseminating Moon - New Moon in Cancer

“Adjustments are required”, “Take time to breathe out”, “You and your loved ones are safe”

Think about what needs small changes. You’ll probably think mostly about what adjustments you should make during spring, as we’ve talked about it, but there’s no reason why you couldn’t do it now. Just take a deep breath and relax a little, it’s gonna be okay, both with you and your close ones, no need to stress out so much.

PILE 2

What will this year teach you?

The Sun R

This Major Arcana came up in reverse, so it’s more about your inner world. During this year you’ll learn how to take care of your inner child, how to balance optimism with realism and how to have fun with your hobbies that you thought you had buried a long time ago.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Cup of Tea (patience, reassessment) - Spring: Autumn (bounty, balance) - Summer: Tend (maintenance, encouragement, guidance) - Fall: Oak Tree (power, courage, strength)

The last card fell out even before I finished asking my question. This year will start slower for you, just to harvest the crops near the end of it. This winter you’ll reconsider what’s the best for you right now, patiently making plans with your interest in mind and seeing the first result of it in spring. Continuous work on it during summer will lead you to feeling way more empowered by the end of 2025.

Main blessings for you this year

Refinement (Dahlia) - Healing (Geranium) - Duality (Banana)

The last card showed up as I was shuffling, so I consider it the most important one. Balance keeps coming back in this reading. I think healing refers to healing your inner child, and refinement is about getting better at what you already have; progress.

The main challenge of this year

Coffin - Fox - Heart

The end of a selfish love.

It looks like you’ll get over some crush/ex, though it may refer to any kind of love. Moving on will be hard but necessary.

How will you grow?

The Tower R - Two of Cups - Queen of Pentacles

Despite the fear of change, a personal transformation will take place. This will lead to a joyful partnership (a relationship, perhaps) and you being this confident, earthly Queen of Pentacles: a person good at finances and comfortable in their body.

A piece of advice

Void-of-Course-Moon - New Moon in Capricorn - Third Quarter Moon

“Nothing will come of this situation”, “Your hard work is paying off”, “Adjustments are required”

The thing with the end of a relationship of some kind keeps coming back. Nothing will come of it, so time to move on. It’ll only benefit you, pile two! Correct your course a little and act because you’ll reap your rewards.

PILE 3

What will this year teach you?

The Lovers

2025 will teach you how to make right choices, how to be in harmony with yourself as well as with others. You’ll learn a lot about navigating relationships and getting closer to people.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Basil (prosperity, luck, love) - Spring: Seeds (new ideas, hope, open-mindedness) - Summer: Sow (planning, setting intentions, optimism) - Winter: Leaves (reneval, revival, progress)

Winter looks very happy for you - good luck both in money and in love. During spring, you’ll stay open-minded and find new ideas thanks to this. With them in mind, you’ll start making plans and work on them till the end of the year.

Main blessings for you this year

Tranquility (violet) - Clarity (carrot) - Grounding (potato)

A pretty calm, steady vibe. You’ll be able to stay at peace, gain a better perspective on certain matters and be down to earth. Stability and a more mature approach .

The main challenge of this year

Mice - Book - Heart

Misinformation about love.

There’s something you won’t know at first or get a false impression regarding some kind of love. Someone may not have your best interest at heart.

How will you grow?

The Tower R - The Sun R - Knave of Wands

Something is going to end, and this will lead to you withdrawing and thinking more about what you actually want and need. This period of introspection is needed because it will help you to become this Knave of Wands - someone fierce, fiery and passionate.

A piece of advice

New Moon in Scorpio - New Moon in Pisces - Full Moon in Aquarius

“Work through your fears”, “Meditate and contemplate”, “Show the world the real you”

The cards encourage you to face what you’re running away from. Think, meditate, maybe pray. Everything you need to make it easier for you to show the world what you have to offer.

PILE 4

What will this year teach you?

The Moon

You’ll get way more in tune with your intuition, as well as learn how to deal with your fears. You’ll mature a lot emotionally. You’ll get better at “reading” people but also at understanding your own patterns.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Cup of Tea (patience, reassessment) - Spring: Salt (protection, banishing negativity) - Summer: Earth (peace, grounding) - Fall: Hearth (safety, comfort, spiritual connection)

This year looks to be more on a quieter side. It’ll start off a little lazily. You’ll observe and revalue some things, and decide to leave what doesn’t serve you anymore; cut yourself off from toxic people. Thanks to this, you’ll have a much more peaceful life. You’ll get more in tune with nature, as well as more spiritual. You’ll feel more comfortable thanks to this decision of leaving people and situations that cause you harm.

Main blessings for you this year

Happiness (Marjoram) - Continuance (Apple) - Clarity (Carrot)

This year will be joyful and peaceful. You’ll move on from doesn’t serve you and get a better perspective on what surrounds you.

The main challenge of this year

Book - Birds - Mice

Knowledge about dirty gossip.

The thing with some people you should get rid of because they don’t have your best interest at heart keeps popping up.

How will you grow?

Queen of Pentacle R - The Fool R - Seven of Cups R

You’ll start putting yourself first more often. It will take some time, but at last you’ll get more financially independent and prioritize your personal values.

A piece of advice

New Moon in Aquarius - Waning Moon - New Moon in Cancer

“Bring love into the situation”, “What do you need to release?”, “You and your loved ones are safe”

Forgive yourself if there is anything you keep blaming yourself about. Release what doesn’t serve you. Both you and people you love are safe so make more room for the ones who want good for you.

PILE 5

What will this year teach you?

The Hermit R

The main thing you’ll learn about this year is being alone - depending on your situation, either that you should reflect and meditate more, or that it’s time to finish your solitude and go out to people. Based on other cards, I think for most of you it’s the latter.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Broom (energy clearing, freshening) - Spring: Potion (invigoration, empowerment) - Summer: Moon (phases, cycles, intuition) - Fall: Bird (freedom, opportunity)

You’ll start this year with cleansing - both physical and more metaphorical/spiritual. You’ll be very energetic during spring, as well as more in tune with your personal power. You can do so much, and this season will show this! Later, you’ll learn to be more intuitive, you’ll notice some patterns that were hidden before. Something from your past may show up again. Maybe vacations to the place you always come to, or your old friends or love coming back into your life. Some nice opportunities will show up for you in fall.

Main blessings for you this year

Healing (Geranium) - Focus (Stock) - Luck (Lime)

You’ll heal some part of you that was hurt in the past. You’ll find out what you should focus on and actually commit to it. “May the luck be ever in your favor”.

The main challenge of this year

Dog - Man - Clover

A friendly man’s offer.

Now, that’s interesting and can go a few ways.I highly doubt that the man represents you. Your main challenge of the year is this person that will probably give you some kind of opportunity. With how the cards before were, I think it’ll most likely happen either during summer or fall, so the second part of the year. The guy is a kind and loyal one, so don’t worry, the offer, while challenging, will be a good thing.

How will you grow?

Knave of Pentacles - Five of Wands - Queen of Pentacles

I think it’s lovely how you’ll grow from the Knave of Pentacles into the Queen of Pentacles. You’re starting as someone great already, and then become even better lol. You’re hardworking and productive. A challenge will show up, a conflict or disagreement between you and a few people. Probably a rivalry at work. You’ll emerge victorious and stronger than before: a royal who knows their worth and how to deal with earthly matters.

A piece of advice

New Moon in Taurus - Waxing Moon - New Moon in Aries

“Prosperity lies ahead”, “The energy is gaining momentum”, “It’s time to take action”

All the cards talk basically about the same thing: it’s your time. I think it’s about your career or your school. You have strong cards so time to play.

PILE 6

What will this year teach you?

The Empress

Regardless of your gender, you’ll learn the power that lies within femininity. Who said someone nurturing and empathetic isn’t strong? There are also lessons about utilizing creativity and discovering what makes you beautiful, as well as understanding better your sensual side. For some, this year may also teach you a lot about motherhood.

The main theme of each season for you

Winter: Oak Tree (power, courage, strength) - Spring: Sage (wisdom, purification, harmony) - Summer: Pine Tree (vitality, longevity, perseverance) - Fall: Summer (expansion, growth)

You’ll start your year strong and then only continue at getting more knowledgeable and in tune with your needs and inner self. You’ll secure what’s important for you and grow even more. Looks like an intense and rewarding year, happy for you!

Main blessings for you this year

Healing (Geranium) - Success (Peppermint) - Divination (Chives)

Yeah, we get further confirmation this year will be focused on you growing and learning how to nurture yourself. There will be work put into healing the part of you you’ve rejected and a lot of different kinds of successes. The Divination card is interesting. I think it means you’ll learn more about this topic (especially if you practice or think about practicing divination). Maybe you’ll have a spiritual awakening. For some, it’s simply about divination helping you navigate your journey.

The main challenge of this year

Heart - Garden - Moon

A loving community’s desires and expectations.

Social fear is your main challenge for this year. You’re scared of people’s judgement. But worry not, because there is a loving community for you out there, and they’ll love you the way you are.

How will you grow?

Three of Cups R - The Devil R - Three of Pentacles

You’ll release limiting beliefs and limit contact with people who don’t have your best interest at heart. If you’re lonely, it’ll come to an end. There are people out there with whom you’ll communicate easily and work as a team. You’ll learn a lot from each other and probably do something creative together.

A piece of advice

Full Moon in Capricorn - Full Moon in Taurus - New Moon in Scorpio

“The end of a tough cycle approaches”, “Your dreams need a practical plan”, “Work through your fears”

Yeah, it looks like it’s been kinda hard for you recently, huh? Well, this is coming to an end. Time to plan your next actions and face your worries. Time to deal with them, you can’t run away from them.

#divination #cartomancy #pick a picture #pick a card #pick a card reading #general reading #tarot reading #free tarot reading #moonology #green witch #oracle cards #lenormand #tarot #tarot deck #pac #witchblr #pac reading

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dedeinthewild · 17 days ago

Text

george weasley x reader, friends to lovers

- “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

summary : it's like they can't function without that little interaction, the one that infuriates Snape but makes McGonagall smile at the sight. They're never distracting, and they work obnoxiously well together.

Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.

Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.

But there was something different in the air that year. Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.

That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep. His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.

His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years. George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.

As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there. On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.

George always kept an eye on Snape. She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.

She loved Potions. Or maybe — she loved every class, really.

They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.

But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor. And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.

She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still. When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.

“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”

She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.

“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”

“No, sir.”

Her voice was calm, respectful, measured. When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.

Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge. But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.

They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.

By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier. But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.

He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.

“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”

“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.

George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.

Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.

“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”

George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.

Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.

“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”

The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.

He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot. Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.

He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.

“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.

He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.

She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.

And he never moved.

“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”

“With headings and bullet points.”

She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.

“Daily entries,” she insisted.

“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”

And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back. He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.

“He probably cries into his robes.”

“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.

“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.

“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”

“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”

George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.

Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces. George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.

As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk. She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch. The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead. The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.

“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.

The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it. When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.

“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”

“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”

McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered. Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.

Y/L/N and Weasley. They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another. Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.

And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly. She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind. George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred. He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there. They had never been distracting—and never would be. But they were always noticeable.

“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”

George smiled as he watched her walk away. And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.

“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”

She handed him another parchment, amused. Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley. He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets. All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers. And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—

George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments. And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts. And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.

By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year. In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone. Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.

The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.

Most students had already given up. A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers. Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.

Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.

He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar. And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion. Not once.

His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before. Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat. The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air. She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.

The classroom had quieted. Even Snape’s sighs were audible now. Everyone else had given up. Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.

When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up. Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.

For once, there was no mistake. Nothing to criticize.

“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”

They didn’t answer. George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision. And that’s when Snape saw it. The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.

“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”

At that, they finally looked up. Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.

The potion was complete. There was nothing left to say.

As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe. Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.

That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench. Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.

“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”

They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him. And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile. At the soft freckles on his nose. The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.

“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”

funfact: the first complete fanfic I've written on wattpad was about George, and writing this imagine was like reconnecting with middle school me

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

Text

A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.”

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.”

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic.

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade.

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision.

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him.

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction.

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.”

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman.

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first.

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now….

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his.

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together.

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly.

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk.

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member.

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip.

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!”

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense.

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race.

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside.

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently.

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing.

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body.

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever.

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #2k notes #3k notes #4k notes

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ddejavvu · 2 days ago

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Spring Fling - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Part Seven) (18+) / SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, pilot!reader, enemies/rivals to lovers, lots and lots of arguing, could these two people be any less cooperative, sex seven ways to sunday and then some, seriously like so much smut it'll make your eyes bleed, makeouts, rough sex, oral (m+f receiving), penetrative sex, will add as i post

WC: 7.3k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

A/N: a second spring fling update in 2 weeks??? and a long one???? we're so back, baby. this one's juicyyy i hope you like it >:) <3 day two is finished! thank you for sticking around and being patient with me, and I hope you enjoy :) <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

You hadn’t exactly tuckered yourself out while mini-golfing, but you’d certainly exhausted your brain and your emotions while thinking through the sunset with Jake, so you’re eager to get your hands on a drink.

It’s late, past what you’d normally call dinnertime, but not late enough to sleep after getting buzzed. Your only hope is the bar food, and you wonder if you’ll be able to choke down garlic knots after downing three drinks. That’s your plan for the night- three, no more, and hopefully no less. Three is the magic number, the one that will make you forget about your inner turmoil while still leaving you conscious enough to remember the night’s events tomorrow. You’re not the biggest fan of blacking out, but you’re glad you’re with Jake if you do.

You’re snacking on appetizers during your first drink, letting Daniel hand-feed you mozzarella sticks during your second, and by the third and final drink you’d planned for the night, you’re clumsily locking hands and arms with Danica, whirling around the small square of tiles they’re calling a dance floor. You’re whooping, cheering, and laughing as each of you stumble around each other, but you’re having fun, far more thrilling fun than you’ve had thus far and it’s pleasing your buzzed brain to not be thinking.

Jake’s tried to inject some Texan flair into your dancing, seizing the opportunity to teach you what he swears up and down is a ‘simple’ line dance when Fake ID begins blaring over the speakers.

You think he’s full of shit.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen Footloose, you’re no Julianne Hough.

You and Danica both decide that the footwork is too difficult in your inebriated states, and your shoes just don’t click on the floor when Jake’s do, no matter how hard you try. Although, that might have something to do with how distracting he is, swinging his hips around while turning on his heels, extra pronounced to show you how it’s done.

Not that you’ve been looking at his hips moving, and if you have, it’s totally the drinks’ fault. And it’s especially their fault that- not that, if, it looks good.

You’re enjoying the atmosphere of the bar much more tonight than you were last night, which you feel guilty for, because Daniel had been a dream not even 24 hours ago. But things seem more solid now, more real, more comfortable despite your two left feet.

You’re not sure how, because your entire perception of Jake is widening, deepening, shifting. But one of the perks of being stuck together for years in a work environment where your lives depend on each other is that you happen to trust him, at least a little.

He might not be the first person you’d choose for this particular endeavor, or the second, or the third, and maybe he wouldn’t have even been the last, before Danica had gotten to you, but you know you can fall back on at least being his friend while you’re trying to rhythmically peel your shoes off of the sticky floor of a bar.

Your brain had been buzzing with uncertainties last night, would Daniel kiss you, when would Daniel kiss you, how would Daniel kiss you, would it be as good as it was in the elevator, but here and now, you can predict Jake’s every move, even if Danica swears there’s new meaning behind it.

“No, darlin’, that’s not- that’s not it.” Jake shakes his head, and the speakers nearly drown him out as he studies your form, “You’re trying to jump, all you need to do is pick one foot up. It looks fancy ‘cause you’re turnin’ too, but it’s just one foot up and a spin, then you’re landing on the raised foot and doing the same with the opposite side.”

He demonstrates, and you stare blankly.

“Like this.” He offers, reaching for your waist with both hands, “Right foot up, heel against the floor.”

You let him shimmy your hips into position, and prop your heel up against the linoleum.

“Good. Now step back this way with the other foot,” He instructs, tugging at your hips, “And you’re gonna turn yourself to the right. Quarter-turn-” He calls, when you give it all you’ve got and nearly end up backwards, “Just a quarter-turn, darlin’. And then you’ve gotta come back the way you came, do it all this way. Left foot now, kick-ball-change.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” You yell to be heard over the music, your shoe slamming against the floor when you nearly lose your balance trying to imitate Jake’s impressive footwork, “Jake, I don’t think I’m made for line dancing!”

“You’re not.” Jake concludes, his voice deepening as he watches you try to keep pace with the song, but it’s useless when the last chorus ends and the music dies down, “But that doesn't mean we can’t try again.”

“The song’s over.” You point out, out of breath and grateful for the single second of silence before the next one plays, “I guess I’ll never learn.”

“I’ve got it on my phone.” Jake informs you, “And if we aren’t gonna have sex we’ve gotta be gettin’ some other exercise. You and me, darlin’, line dance drills first thing in the morning.”

You stuff your face into Danica’s bare shoulder, the strapless cut of her dress giving you a perfect expanse of skin to groan into. She laughs and you feel it where your nose is pressed into her neck- her perfume’s really nice. Elegant but sweet, something you’d want as an air freshener hanging from your rearview mirror.

You rest there, feeling her hand make contact with your waist as she tucks you against her. You sway slowly to the much more subdued song over the speakers, something about love and marriage and babies in the carriage.

You remember last night’s haze- as much as your brain allows, and you recall being spun in a barstool by Daniel. You’d enjoyed it at the time, but this slow dance doesn’t make you nearly as dizzy, which you give Danica a point for.

Perhaps a scoreboard would help you figure out what to do here?

Your head’s no longer in the clouds from Daniel’s allure, but thanks to your drinks your feet aren’t firmly on the ground anymore, either.

It’s actually Danica that lists sideways, but the way you’re pressed up against her means that you lean into it instead of against it, and the both of you tumble with startled yelps. You’re not so far gone that you don’t know you’re falling, but you’re too tipsy to balance yourself, and you resign yourself to breaking your nose against the dance floor as you fall for the second time in 24 hours.

Deja vu is not being kind to you on this cruise.

Danica goes down first, and you’re both lucky that Jake is there to chase after you, because he manages to lunge and slip his hand beneath her head before she can crack it against the tile, and he winds up clutching your back to his chest, keeping you upright against his own body. He’s hovering over Danica on the floor, one hand beneath her head and the other wrapped around your middle. It seems almost effortless, the way he keeps you upright, and you find that none of your weight is resting on your feet with the way they’re limply resting on the ground between Jake’s own. You’re just- hanging there, saved by Jake’s strong arms. You can see muscles bulging in his forearms as he tries keeping his center of gravity grounded without dropping either of you, but Daniel’s made his way over by now, mere seconds too late to catch you, and takes Danica’s head from Jake’s palm.

“I got it.” Daniel mumbles, neutral as a combination of gruff to Jake and crooning to Danica. She looks just as shocked as you are at your sudden change of perspective, and she lets Daniel haul her up into a seated position, resting her weight against his side.

“Jesus. You two can’t handle the damn dance floor.” Jake pants, his breath puffing against your ear as he straightens up. He’d been crouched over, and you’re impressed that he’d been able to stay upright himself with the way he’d hung onto your languid form, practically dangling you from his chest.

“Are you okay?” Daniel ducks to meet Danica’s glassy gaze, his voice soft and his eyes concerned.

She nods, scrubbing a hand over her eyes, “I think so. Jake- did you catch me?”

“I hope I did. Does your head hurt?” He frowns, and now that you’ve remembered how to use your feet again, you attempt to. You stand, trying to squirm out of his hold around your midsection but he doesn’t let go, only squeezing you tighter to his chest like a silent reprimand.

“Jake-” You grunt, trying to pry his hand off of your waist but he swats you away, eyes still worriedly locked on Danica.

“No, it doesn’t hurt.” She decides, “I’m just dizzy. And- um, a little sick.”

Daniel moves much quicker this time, standing and bending over to meet her instead of having his entire body in the splash zone, “Can you make it to the bathroom? Or do you want to just sit for a while and see if it passes?”

She swallows experimentally, and grimaces, “Bathroom. Please.”

“I can take her,” You offer, but Jake’s other hand flies to your waist now, and he manhandles you around to face him. You nearly lose your balance again when he spins you, and you’re so intimidated by Jake’s eyes staring directly into your own that you don’t feel steady despite your feet being on the ground.

“Wait. What about you?” He asks, peering into your eyes like he’ll find signs of a concussion in them, “Did you hit anything?”

His scrutiny reminds you of earlier in the pool, when your bikini had come untied and you’d seen genuine concern from Jake for one of the first times in your life, unmarred by amusement, scorn, or his ego. It had been raw, real, and you see the near-permanent cocky glaze clear from his eyes like clouds drifting away from the sprawling light of the sun. Underneath is Jake, really, truly Jake, and you don’t know how to act when you find yourself met with nothing but sincerity.

“I’m fine.” You manage, your protests melting into a feeble hand on his wrist, not pulling, not pushing, just holding, “Jake, you can- you can let me go, I’m okay.”

He takes a breath, then releases the pressure on your waist, but his hands don’t lower and yours doesn’t drop from his. You stay there for a moment, by choice, and then a soft groan comes from Danica and you remember there’s things going on outside of whatever vortex you and Jake had been sucked into just now. The music comes flooding back into your senses, you remember you’re standing in the sticky remains of dozens of spilled drinks on the dance floor, and Daniel’s eyes on you and Jake blaze, not warm like Jake’s sun but scorching, burning, painful.

Jake drags his hands off of your hips and your arm falls back to your side.

“Come on,” Your voice is almost shaky, something weak and frail as you let Danica drape herself over your shoulders, “It’s not that far to the bathroom. You think you can make it?”

She nods, but her response is more of a grunt than anything else. You feel for her- there’s nausea roiling in your own gut from where Jake had inadvertently squeezed your stomach.

You help her move slowly and carefully into the bathroom, trudging under her weight as she rests her face in the crook of your neck. It’s comforting, but now you’re marveling even more at how Jake had kept you both suspended, your tired limbs sluggish and struggling to hold another person’s weight.

Jake hadn’t been knocking back drinks like you had, but you have to hand it to him; he’s got military muscles.

Jake watches carefully as you and Danica cross the threshold of the bathroom, feeling the same urge to barge in as he had the night prior. This all feels like a time loop, where each day gets more confusing and complicated than the last. Same bar, same people, same drinks, but wildly different feelings in the air.

He wonders if Danica’s advice has been paying off- sure, you’d been receptive enough on the golf course, but he’s unfamiliar with doing anything but needling you, and trying to puzzle out your reactions to things while also engaging in an entirely new set of behaviors is a lot for him to handle.

He wishes he could read your mind.

This cruise gives him the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s an isolated environment that encourages sex without complications and people he’s never going to see again in his life-

Except for you.

Of course you’re here too.

Of course he couldn’t have just taken Coyote’s advice in peace, of course he couldn’t have gotten away from all the buzz of the San Diego port and fucked his feelings out on some random woman, using her as an outlet for all of his conflicting feelings on getting older and settling down. He’s in his thirties trying to live at twenty-one, used to the bachelor life but watching all of his friends get married and have kids right before his eyes. Each one is a wake up call, and waking up to a stranger in his bed opens a chasm beneath his heart that he digs deeper every time.

And it doesn’t help that he’s found himself drawn to you. At a time he’d have called you enemies or rivals, and even just a day before this cruise he would have described your relationship as something pitted against him. But you’re his favorite to mess with, you’re the one whose side he drifts to unconsciously, even if it’s just to knock you around by your helmet, and he slides into a comfortable routine of giving you a hard time every time you work together. Perhaps it was born out of contempt or jealousy but as he’s grown, shifted, deepened, it’s become something he does by default. The actions have stayed the same but the man has changed, and Danica’s suggestion that the actions may have to change along with the man thrusts Jake into highly uncomfortable territory.

No one has ever called Jake Seresin a vulnerable man, and giving anyone the opportunity to do so now makes him feel like he’s spinning out behind the controls.

Luckily for him, an agitating snarl comes from over his left shoulder to oh-so-kindly snap him out of his reverie.

“Are you just gonna stand there and wait for them to come back?” Daniel asks, his voice rough and jagged, “You can relax- they don’t need their guard dog right now.”

Jake turns, his face hardening into the smirk he wears so often, “Well staying alert was what just saved the day, wasn’t it? I noticed you didn’t get there in time.”

Daniel’s eyes flash dangerously, something steely in them that Jake notices every time something interferes with his faux-chivalry.

“You know what else I noticed? I think you’ve got a problem with me.” Jake pushes, edging into Daniel’s space like he’s practiced with dozens of opponents before. His signature move- push just far enough to get the other person to start the fight.

“Now is it the height,” Jake inches forwards, looking down at Daniel with his shoulders squared, “Or the muscles?” He doesn’t even have to accentuate those, “Or, is it that you thought you were gonna be gettin’ it on with two women tonight, and it’s looking like you’re down to none?”

“She doesn’t like you,” Daniel seethes, “Neither of them do.”

And maybe he hits his mark, maybe it’s ‘like’ instead of ‘want’- love instead of sex - maybe it’s the way he believes what he says, the conviction in his tone and in his tensed shoulders, but Jake bristles, jaw tightening and muscles tensed.

“You’re a cocky, self-centered, arrogant douchebag,” Daniel declares, “And that persona’s a dime a dozen straight out of high school. She wants- she deserves something better than that. She deserves someone better than you. A real man, not some frat boy who thinks one smirk can win him whoever he wants. And even if you manage to ‘get her’, even if you wear her down and coerce her into giving you what you want,” Daniel exhales heavily, reminding Jake of a stubborn, vicious bull, seeing red in the apples of Jake’s cheeks, “You’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing you made hers worse.”

Jake’s only silent for a few seconds, and then his voice is lower and more dangerous than it’s ever been, “Get out of my face before I knock your teeth out, son.”

“You know I’m right. And that’s why you’re mad,” Daniel goads, unafraid of Jake even if he should be, which is infuriating to the hotheaded pilot in and of itself. Jake leans forwards, fist itching, begging to drive itself into Daniel’s jaw but he restrains himself with the last shred of his self-control as Daniel keeps running his mouth, “You’re learning for the first time ever that some women won’t spread their legs for you just ‘cause you ask, and that you might actually have to care about them.”

“I do care about her!” Jake snaps, nearly shouting now, and the last thing on his mind is whether he’s drawing a crowd or not. It’s all-out, here and now, Jake vs. Daniel, onlookers be damned.

“No you don’t. You care about sex. You care about getting laid and you care about winning.” Daniel’s chest heaves, and Jake feels that almost insatiable itch to cock a fist back and slam it into Daniel’s nose so hard it breaks, “She told me that last night. She’s too good for you, man.” Daniel warns, the sneer on his face so disgusted you’d think Jake was a slug he’d trodden on in the middle of the sidewalk, “And whether you admit it or not, it’s true. Whether she forgets it or not, it’s true. So do whatever you want, fuck her or don’t,” Daniel scoffs, “But you’ll never deserve her.”

The only reason Jake doesn’t knock his teeth loose right then and there is because Daniel’s had the good sense to step back a few feet, and compose himself like he’s not about to fight back. There’s a few wary onlookers who eye them cautiously, edging away from the pair just in case they snap, but Jake’s not stupid- he doesn’t start fights, he wins them. He falls into old habits, abandoning sight of what the ‘new Jake’ would do and goading, smirking, pushing.

“And you do? You deserve her?”

“Maybe not. But I do more than you do.” Daniel’s clenched fist comes to rest on the back of one of the barstools, “And even she knows that.”

“It don’t matter what you think we’re worth.” Jake scoffs, breathing heavily, “She decides what she wants. Now who’s trying to win?”

“I am winning!” Daniel seethes, his voice roaring over the music as his fist slams into the upholstered cushion, “Just because neither of us have had sex yet doesn’t mean we’ve lost! All you’ve done so far is stepped on people’s toes and bullied your way into every conversation Y/N has with anyone. You think that’s attractive? She wants a real man, and you’re not one.”

“For once,” Jake narrows his eyes at Daniel, slits that ooze contempt and disgust, “I ain’t trying to win. And seeing you throw another one of your little temper tantrums about it makes me glad I’m not the man I was five years ago. If that’s what I looked like,” Jake spits, “No wonder she doesn’t wanna trust me now. But the difference is, Daniel, that one of us is changin’, and the other one’s punching a hole in a barstool because he’s coming in second.”

“Stay away from her.”

Jake laughs, a dangerous sound that he hopes Daniel takes as a warning, “No, asshole. You stay away from her. I mean it. She may deserve better than me,” Jake breathes, his jaw clenched firmly, “But whatever that is, it’s not you.”

If Danica hadn’t let out a weak, slightly wet cough from the door to the bathroom, Daniel would have lunged at Jake. But he doesn’t, and they turn to watch you shuffling out with Danica still draped over your shoulder.

“She wants to go to bed,” You glance warily at Daniel, “Just- don’t jostle her too much. Walk slow and don’t take the elevators.”

“Come here.” Daniel hums, hoisting Danica’s limp form off of your frame and cradling her in his own, “Are you feeling dizzy still?”

“Just from the drinks.” She nods, “And- sick. But nothing more than that. I should have eaten better before this.”

Jake hums sympathetically, and you feel your own near-empty stomach roil in indignation that you’d sicced liquor on it before food. Nothing sounds good now, not that you’re full of alcohol, but eating will be better than not eating, so you let yourself drift to Jake’s side and wait for him to notice you.

When he does, his entire focus shifts, and he cranes his neck downwards slightly to peer at you closer, “You okay?”

“Fine. Just- a little sick, too.” You admit, “Can we get something to eat?”

“Of course.” Jake nods, his hand flying to the small of your back whether consciously or not.

“We could all go,” Daniel offers, but the way he leans towards you makes Danica whine in discomfort as her head spins. He’s quick to correct it, but you shake your head at his offer.

“No, she needs to get to bed. Do you want us to bring you something later?” You offer, “We can ask for to-go boxes.”

“You can order room service.” Jake grins, a sneer in intention but not by looks, “Danica, honey, feel better.”

“Thank you.” She croaks, and Jake’s hand around your waist tugs you pointedly towards the door.

You try throwing Daniel and Danica apologetic looks, but you’re dragged out of the bar too quickly.

You feel irritation rising in your chest at Jake, something he’d been getting good at not triggering in you for the last couple hours. You side-eye him, but you let him continue leading you to the elevators instead of wrenching yourself out of his grasp, “That was rude, Jake.”

“He’s rude.” Jake states, his eyes forward and refusing to meet yours, “You didn’t hear what he was saying about you while you were in the bathroom.”

Your brows furrow, and when you enter the thankfully-empty elevator, you turn to face him instead of standing by his side, “About me? What did he say?”

“The kinda thing I would’ve said a few years ago.” Jake frowns, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that’s meant to come off as lazy but really just shows his tensed muscles.

“That bad?” You laugh nervously, trying to diffuse the tension while being eaten alive by your own nerves. Daniel? Sweet, perfect, caring- okay, slightly complicated and anger-prone Daniel?

24 hours ago you’d have called Jake a liar. Now you notice the stiffness in his jaw as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek and wonder how many times he’s tried to tell you something and you’ve assumed he was messing with you.

“What do you want for dinner?” You try, and he glances carefully at you where you stand across from him. Apparently he appreciates that you’ve dropped the subject, because his shoulders deflate slightly.

“I don’t know what’s open.” He checks his watch, finding the hour a little too late if the wrinkling of his nose is any indication, “The restaurants stop taking reservations after 7. And all that’s left is fast food and ice cream. We might have to order room service.”

The thought of gorging on half-cold room service beside Jake, crammed into the same bed while trying desperately not to touch each other, makes your stomach hurt worse. There’s too many things happening, too many things to think about, and you regret having stopped yourself at three cocktails.

“I want another drink,” You groan, leaning against the wall behind you as the elevator climbs steadily towards the top decks, the ones with the most food service, “Can we go to the buffet?”

The buffet is closed, but the bar is not. Drink number four wasn’t planned, but neither were the revelations you’ve been having, and taking care of Danica had really sobered you up. You’re in need of a good old-fashioned margarita, and once you’ve got one in your hands you let Jake parade you around the pool’s deck, peering at menus to quick-service restaurants that are already closed for the night.

“Wings?” You ask, but the kiosk is closed.

“We could do sushi.” Jake offers, but the neon sign is no longer lit.

It’s several twists and turns to investigate every little storefront, and several sips of your margarita to bring back your buzz, but it quickly becomes apparent that there’s only one sign left lit this late at night.

“I guess it’s pizza. Again.” Jake hums, “Is that gonna be okay on your stomach?”

“It’s fine. It’s still better than room service.” You have visions of reheated buffet food, “Let’s just get different toppings and pretend we didn’t have this six hours ago.”

What you decide on is veggie, hoping that the bell peppers and greens might do something kind to your stomach even if they’re soaked in grease from the cheese and bread beneath them.

You beeline for the table you’d sat at earlier as a party of four, but Jake catches your elbow and drags you closer to the edge of the deck.

“Let’s look at the water,” He urges, “Now that the lounge chairs aren’t all taken.”

“We should-” You start unsteadily, having chugged half of your drink in order to not spill it while balancing your pizza as well, “We should get up really early tomorrow to get a spot.”

“Tomorrow we’ll be docked,” Jake reminds you, “We can go to a beach instead of a tiny swimming pool.”

“Oh, right.” You hum, cramming pizza into your mouth to soothe the ache in your stomach, “What are you gonna do once we get off the ship?”

“We can try some excursions,” Jake shrugs, folding his pizza in half so that it doesn’t droop, “The website said something about a golf cart tour, and snorkeling off the coast, if you wanna do that.”

“You don’t have to do everything with me, y’know.” You hum, onions leaving a bitter taste on your tongue, “If you want to do something you don’t have to do it with me.”

He rears back, faux-offended, “Yeah? And what if I want to?”

“Then we can,” You chuckle, “Just- don’t let me hold you back more than I already am.”

He’d been raising his pizza to his mouth to take a bite, but he stops short and watches you instead of eating. You’re turned towards the sea, stray hairs blowing around your face as the nighttime wind pushes across the deck. He’s not sure what you’re seeing in the waves, but probably something induced by your mostly-empty margarita.

“You’re not holding me back.” He hums, soft and low, “I like doing stuff with you. Remember? You’re fun sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” You nod, “Right. Well, I’m just letting you know.”

“I know.” Jake assures you, nudging his knee into yours, “And if I’m ever- y’know, too pushy? You can tell me to kick rocks and eat-”

“Dolphins!” You shriek.

“Dolphins?” Jake’s brows furrow, “Why would I eat- oh. Dolphins.”

You’re pointing frantically off the side of the deck, and Jake quickly maneuvers himself onto your lounge chair to grab you from behind before you can launch yourself over the railing. There is, in fact, a pod of dolphins beside the boat, weaving over and under each other, breaching the surface to showcase their silvery skin that glints in the moonlight. The rational part of Jake’s brain suggests that they’re feeding off of any sea life being churned up by the boat’s trajectory, but the margarita part of your brain seems to think they’ve come to show off for you.

“Jake, look!” You gush, enthused, and then your ass is in his face.

Jake’s eyes widen when you prop yourself up on all fours, your knees now grating against the rough mesh of the lounge chair as you lean even further over the railing. It puts your ass right at eye-level, and the shorts you’re donning are loose enough that they offer him a rather salacious view of what’s beneath them. He tears his eyes away as soon as his brain comes back to him, even if he feels a rush of blood travel south. In order to stop you from tumbling he has to stand and grab you, rolling onto his own knees on instinct to grab hold of your shoulders and hoist you upright. It means that your ass is firmly, snugly flush with Jake’s crotch, and you don’t seem to notice because you’re too caught up in the dolphins swimming beside the boat.

“Jesus, please don’t fall.” He begs, his lips beside your ear as the wind blows cold against both of your faces.

“I won’t fall! But look, they’re jumping!”

Jake ensures you’re secure in his grip before peering down over the railing, and it really is a sight to behold. There must be five dolphins visible, jumping and diving through the churning water caused by the boat’s motor. They’re not vocalizing much, but every once in a while a click or a screech floats up on the ocean breeze and Jake hears you laugh the way that only someone who’s had four cocktails in a row can laugh.

As nervous as he is that you were going to plummet into the sea, he can appreciate the way you’re leaning into the wind and watching the dolphins below. You’re genuinely excited, something he hasn’t seen on this trip so far, and rarely gets to see on the tarmac. He catches a glimpse of your eyes when you turn your head to watch a dolphin to your left, and they’re shining like the moonlight is on the water. He doesn’t miss the way you melt into him, either, and he’ll take credit for this one instead of letting the liquor.

You let him hold you around the middle, though he’s sure you haven’t noticed that you’re nearly grinding against him when you stick your ass out to lean further over the railing. He’s trying really valiantly not to let himself be affected by this, but he’s fairly certain that at least half of something is going on downstairs from physical stimulation alone. Hopefully it won’t be visible when you pull away, and if it is, hopefully you won’t notice.

“This is like,” You start, your voice nearly lost to the wind as you face away from Jake, “-that scene in Titanic.”

You throw your arms out, and Jake has no problem curling his further around your belly.

“I’ve never seen it.” He admits, shouting to be heard over the noise of the ship and the whipping of the breeze.

“Me neither!” You laugh, and you fall back against him, nearly knocking him off of the chair altogether.

“Hey!” He yelps, but he’s laughing when you squirm at the way his fingers dig into your side momentarily. You’re not a fan of being tickled, and he knows this from painstakingly earned experience, (a kick to the balls), but he tests a few gentle squeezes at your side to get you giggling again.

“Stop! Stop,” You gush, laughing and panting, and he does, his fingers stilling on your waist. He’s on his butt now, with your weight against him, and he reclines the wrong way against the lounge chair to let you rest comfortably.

“That pizza was cold.” You muse, “But it did help. I don’t feel as sick anymore.”

“That’s good. Drinking on an empty stomach,” Jake scoffs, “Are you trying to black out?”

“Kind of.” You admit, your voice taking a quiet, somber turn, “I’ve had… a lot to think about, recently.”

Jake nods slowly, carefully, “Yeah. Me too.”

“And you’re not drinking about it?” You crane your neck to chance a glance back at him, that shimmer in your eyes dulled but not gone, “You’re braver than I am, Jake.”

“No, I’m smarter than you are.” He teases, “Someone has to make sure we don’t fall over the side of the deck.”

“I wasn’t gonna fall!” You whine, “You’re so dramatic. And besides, that’s not fair. I should take a turn being sober so that you can drink.”

“You should, Miss Margarita.” Jake agrees, “Just don’t let me get too smashed before snorkeling tomorrow, okay? I don’t want to try and befriend a stingray.”

You giggle at the imagery, your cheeks flushed and hot where they brush against his bicep briefly. Your grin is toothy and infectious, carefree from the liquor and- dare he say love.

Not for him, of course, or- not like that for him, it’s just that he’d like to think that eight years by your side constitutes some feelings of fondness towards him, and that maybe you could perhaps, possibly say it’s love. Even if it’s completely platonic. Just- you could use the word love, probably.

He wishes he was drunk.

“We should go to bed.” You hum, sounding almost sad, “I’m tipsy and I want to be up early tomorrow for the excursions. We can beat the morning rush and get a head start on exploring.”

“Sounds like a plan,” He lets your waist go as you stand from his grip, righting himself after you’ve proved yourself steady on your feet. You gather your trash slowly but surely, and you only miss your shot at the garbage can with one balled-up napkin stained with copious amounts of pizza grease.

Neither of you say anything about the way his hand gravitates towards your waist again while he’s walking you back towards the elevators. Maybe it’s because you’re too buzzed to have a meaningful conversation, or maybe it’s because he’s doing a good enough job at pretending it’s just so that you don’t tip over again. Whatever the reason, Jake’s grateful for it when you pass by a closed piano lounge, and the tune of your favorite song makes its muffled way through the doors.

“Jake,” You breathe, that same shining excitement in your eyes as before, “I love this song.”

“I know. You put it on in the car every time we drive somewhere,” He grins, letting the hand on your waist serve as a leader as the other grasps at one of your hands, “You’re into them cheesy love songs, aren’t’cha?”

“Not all of us can be line dancers, cowboy.” You inform him smartly, your feet a slight second out of tune with your brain as you begin a slow, clumsy waltz. You reach for his shoulder, letting your other hand melt into his own,“Some of us enjoy the quiet things in life.”

Jake’s never been quiet for a second. He’d ridden saddle bronc in rodeos since he was old enough to, and even then he’d refused to use the smaller, more tame horses that they’d offered him. No, he wanted the biggest, the meanest, the best, and he’s always tried emulating those same characteristics so that no one can ever tame him.

But here, now, you’re swirling him around outside of a closed bar, tipsy and dizzy, stumbling over his feet and your own alike. Your eyes are closed and your face is curved in a soft, serene smile, and he feels your grip on his shoulder loosen comfortably as you ease into a rhythm with him that you’d failed to achieve only hours prior.

Perhaps, like Danica had been suggesting, Jake’s fast-paced, cocky routine might have to wait for a slow dance first. Maybe you’d both be better off waltzing before grapevining, in case one of you twists an ankle or breaks a heart.

Maybe he needs to appreciate the quiet things in life, if you’re willing to share them with him.

Your nose nestles into his neck at some point, and he feels your breath puff warm down the front of his shirt. Your arm is draped lazily over his shoulder now, not a grip but a presence all the same, your fingers ghosting feather-light over the nape of his neck. It tingles, gives him the urge to shudder but he doesn’t dare, not now that you’re sighing against him and swaying like you’re dancing at a ball animated by Disney.

He’s quiet, and so are you.

When the song ends you keep humming lazily against the collar of his shirt. It takes a solid ten seconds and the beginning of the next song to realize that you’re not harmonizing with anything anymore, and your eyes flutter open as you lift your head from his shoulder.

You’re close.

Very close.

Your nose nearly brushes his chin, and when he angles his face subtly, almost imperceptibly downwards, your lips are on a crash course. It’s a perfect trajectory, a little down for him and a little up for you. But you’re frozen in time, your eyes locking onto his and getting lost in what they reveal.

There’s vulnerability swirling in both of your gazes, and it’s so striking to see that you’re each rendered speechless. There’s nothing to say, there’s nothing that could properly convey your feelings on what’s happening to you both, there’s only your eyes and his, and your interlocked hands.

Then Jake sees something eerily close to stone cold, sober fear flash through your stare, and you slowly detach yourself from him.

Your hand slips out of his own, you step backwards to free your waist from his grip, and your hand is no longer raking through the wispy hairs on the back of his neck.

You step away, one foot at a time, and stare at him with that almost-petrified gaze, your chest heaving visibly.

Then your face falls into something more neutral, and you back towards the elevators, “We should go.”

“Right.” Jake murmurs, following behind you with lead feet that would very much like to stay planted right where they were a minute ago, with yours stepping all over them. But he follows, because he thinks he might be magnetized to you, even if sometimes you’re oppositely charged.

The elevator ride is silent and awkward. The type of silence that you thought was gone between you and Jake, the thick, tense kind that you’d suffered for years up until just hours prior.

Despite having years of experience sitting in heavy silence with Jake, this bout makes him feel like a stranger compared to the man you’d just been slow dancing with.

You’re sobered now, from the shock of being a second away from kissing him, and from staring at the floor in the elevator until it had dinged and let you out on your cabin’s floor. It gives you enough hand-eye coordination to dig your keycard out of your pocket, and you push first into your room, Jake hesitantly, silently on your trail.

You duck into the bathroom to change and Jake doesn’t tease you like he did yesterday. He doesn’t try to break in once, which is a comforting thing, but your reality check had reminded you that eight years of irritation can’t be solved in a few hours worth of chivalry.

Still, you’d had fun tonight. And you’d felt safe, secure- happy in Jake’s company, comfortable with his arm around your waist and giddy when he’d held you in his lap by the railing. Are you caving? Are you doing the one thing you’d sworn only a day prior to not do? Are you giving in and letting him win?

That’s why you’d stopped yourself. In that moment, you’d wanted nothing more than to press your lips to his and let your fingers sink into his hair, let his hands grope at your waist. And it scared you. You’d wanted to cave, to give in, to betray yourself, and all of the fear that had been momentarily silenced by Danica’s token live advice roils fiercely in your gut like liquor has been all night.

If he’s trying to win, you can’t lose. And he’s doing a good job at convincing you he’s not trying to win anymore, but old habits die hard. How can you be sure he’s not?

You stuff yourself numbly into a nightgown, the most chaste one you’d brought, and you avoid meeting Jake’s eye when you step out of the bathroom.

You’re reminded now, standing barefoot in the walkway, that there’s only one bed. Last night had been a blur, and you hadn’t woken even when Jake had changed you into your nightclothes. You’re still mortified about that, really, and remembering that you’re going to have to crawl into bed beside Jake, who’s already there waiting for you, doesn’t help.

“Um,” You start, your voice dull, “I’ll take the couch.”

“What?” He asks, trying to tamp down some of the brashness that typically inhabits his tone, “That’s silly. There’s enough room for the both of us.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t. I’d better-” You try, and he kicks the covers off of himself, standing and revealing that he’s once again wearing nothing but boxers.

“No, I’ll take it.” He mumbles, not surly, just subdued, “You can have the bed.”

“No, that’s not- that’s not fair.” You finally look at him, your eyes wounded and guilty, “Just- you take the bed.”

“Only if you do.” He looks similarly defeated, standing there in just his underwear, “C’mon, Y/N. You know I won’t do anything to you.”

And even despite the hesitation that had clawed at your heart only minutes ago, puncturing your lungs and making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to stay, you do know that. Because it’s always been true of Jake; he’s cocky, but he’s not a monster. You knew it last night, and you know it tonight. So you cave, you give in, you betray yourself, and you trudge towards the side of the bed you’d been laid in last night.

You feel restless as Jake buries himself under the covers again, and you know sleep won’t come easy. So you keep yourself upright, lounging back on two pillows stacked behind your back and reaching for your book.

“Mind if I keep a light on?” You hum, and Jake shakes his head, peering at your book.

“Late-night reading?”

“Can’t sleep.” You admit, “I’m not even gonna try.”

He inhales- it’s an audible thing, not a gasp but a long, steadying breath. Then he lets it out, and you tug your book so close to your face that it obscures him from your vision.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hums, his voice barely more than a whisper. You can’t see it, but he keeps himself turned towards you, studying the way your fingers twitch against the cover, wishing he could see the face obscured behind it.

You speak into the pages of your book, hoping your words get lost there, “Goodnight, Jake.”

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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eu-nicola · 8 months ago

Text

via part 1

summary: In the dazzling world of high society, you are a young woman who lives an apparently perfect relationship with the pilot Pierre Gasly. However, when you discover that your boyfriend of years Pierre was unfaithful to you with one of your best friends you decide to walk away and what better idea than a vacation in the break of Formula 1 in Italy with one of your friends, Charles.

warnings: tension, infidelity

word counter: 8718

author's note: english is not my first language, btw i'm writing the third part of Max's story

You had grown up with them, in those endless summers in the south of France, where the sun seemed brighter and the air was filled with laughter and promises that seemed eternal. Pierre and Charles were like brothers to you, always there, on days of adventure and days of calm. All of your families knew each other well, and every year the summers brought you together in the same coastal corner. Sometimes, Camille would arrive, that inseparable friend with whom you shared secrets and dreams.

Pierre was the center of calm in the group; observant, with an easy laugh and a confidence that inspired trust. He was the boy who always had a logical answer to every problem and calm advice for each of you. You got used to feeling safe when he was around, to trusting in his loyalty and relying on that serenity he conveyed. He had dreamed of being a driver since he was little, and his tenacity in reaching Formula 1 did not surprise anyone; you always knew that he had the discipline necessary to go far.

Charles, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of energy, the first to jump into any challenge, no matter how reckless or absurd it seemed. Always on the edge, he was the friend who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, but also the one who could drive you crazy with his impulses and ideas. But that intensity of his, that boundless passion, was also what made him unique. He and Pierre shared the same dream, and although their personalities were opposite, they were both united by that common goal, by that desire for speed that made them talk about races all the time.

Over the years, you witnessed their triumphs and falls. Sometimes, childhood summers seemed like a distant dream; the pressure, the training, and the anxieties of the future began to infiltrate those vacations that used to be just fun. But the friendship between you remained solid. Although life took you on different paths, the connections remained strong, and there was always a message or a call to remind you that they were there.

Pierre had been more than a friend in the last few years, and that spark that had emerged sometime in their teens had grown into something more solid and deeper. The shared laughter and knowing glances had transformed into a relationship in which both found refuge amidst the demands of their lives.

You remember how it all began, almost without realizing it, like a gentle current in the sea that slowly drags you along until you are completely immersed. For years he had been your friend, your confidant; the boy who was always there. But, at some point, something in him changed, or maybe it was you who had changed.

It had started on a spring afternoon in Monaco, when both of you attended a Formula 1 event. You clearly remember what he looked like: hair messy from the wind and an expression of excitement at seeing the drivers gathered together, his idols. That afternoon you noticed how good he looked, how much he had grown and how much he meant to you. A mix of emotions washed over you, and when Pierre looked at you, holding your gaze a little longer than usual, you felt something in the air, something you hadn't felt before. And in that moment, your relationship changed.

The days that followed were filled with small details, knowing glances, and words that seemed to contain hidden meanings. Sometimes, a simple shared laugh or a silence at his side made you feel something different. Pierre began to appear in your thoughts at all hours, and, at first, you tried to ignore him, because you didn't want to risk the friendship you had with him. But it was impossible.

The first kiss was at sunset on the coast, on a beach where you both used to go when you were younger. You hadn't planned anything, you didn't even know how you had ended up there, in front of him, feeling the breeze and the scent of salt in the air. Pierre looked at you with those warm eyes, and without saying anything, he shortened the distance between you. The kiss was soft at first, as if both of you were measuring the intensity, the newness of it, until it became deeper, more real. In that moment, you felt like a line had been crossed, and although a part of you was afraid, another part knew it was inevitable. Pierre held you with a tenderness you had never experienced before, and in that instant you felt safe, as if you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

From that day on, your relationship evolved with a naturalness that surprised you. The transition from friendship to love was so fluid that, at some point, you couldn't remember what your life was like without him. Pierre became your partner in every sense. He was that constant support in difficult times, the one who listened to you patiently when you shared your fears and your dreams, and the one who always had a smile for you, even after his hardest days on the slopes.

On one occasion, after a particularly exhausting race for him, you both sat on the terrace of your apartment, looking at the sky full of stars. Pierre was exhausted, his shoulders tense and his expression more somber than usual. Without saying anything, you approached and began to massage his shoulders. He sighed, grateful, and let his head fall back, relaxing under your hands. That night you talked for hours, about his career, about the future and about how you saw the world.

The days passed and, little by little, you realized that Pierre had become an indispensable part of your life. His way of seeing the world inspired you, his patience taught you, and, above all, his love made you feel complete. When he held your hand, looked at you, or said sweet words in your ear, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, and there were only the two of you.

It had been almost a year since your relationship with Pierre began, and things between you seemed to be going better than ever. The trust between the two of you was unbreakable, and you felt that he understood you better than anyone else. Pierre was present in every aspect of your life, and you, in his. It seemed like a solid love, a relationship based on years of friendship and respect. But there was something, a detail hidden between the corners of his life and yours, something that would soon emerge, transforming that feeling of security into a wound.

The first time Camille appeared again in your lives, it was on one of your weekend getaways. You had invited your childhood friends, as you did every year, to spend a few days in a villa near the sea. Camille joined the group near the end of the trip, saying that she had been away on a trip and hadn’t been able to make it earlier. Her presence made you happy, as always; after all, she was your lifelong friend, and sharing those moments with her made you feel like everything was in its place.

Pierre and Camille seemed to get along, and that had never worried you. They had known each other for a long time, as had Charles, and they all had a unique bond, one that you had come to value greatly. But what you didn’t know was that, months ago, during one of Pierre’s trips, something had happened between them, something that had become the darkest secret your relationship kept.

It was one night in Monaco, when Pierre was at a team dinner and Camille was visiting the city. Camille had always had a weakness for glamorous nights, clubs, and the freedom to be whoever she wanted. That evening, without thinking twice, she wrote to Pierre, and he, without thinking twice either, agreed to meet her for a drink after dinner. What started as a reunion between friends quickly turned into something more.

That night, Pierre and Camille shared not only laughter and memories, but also glances that went beyond friendship. They both knew it was wrong, that crossing that line was betraying the trust of someone they loved. But, between the intoxicating atmosphere of the place and the complicity they had shared for years, they let themselves go. Pierre felt an attraction he had forgotten, and Camille, who had always had a spark with him, encouraged him, letting herself go as well.

It was a mistake, one they both knew should stay in the past. After that night, Camille returned to her normal life, and Pierre returned to you, convinced that you would never know what had happened. They swore not to talk about it and to carry on as if nothing had happened. Camille continued to be your close friend, and Pierre, your partner.

In the following months, Pierre did everything he could to act as if nothing had happened. His attentions towards you increased, the small details with which he showed his love and the constancy of his affectionate words. With every glance he took at you, he tried to redeem the guilt he felt inside. But even though he seemed to have put it behind him, the shadow of that night still haunted him in his darkest moments. At night, in moments of silence, that guilt tormented him, and he knew that if you ever found out, his whole world would fall apart.

Camille, for her part, came back into your life without showing any trace of remorse. She was skilled at hiding her emotions, and although sometimes her glances at Pierre had a trace of complicity, she managed to remain distant, as if nothing was different. She was still the same Camille as always, with her contagious laugh and carefree attitude. When you were with her, you couldn't even imagine what she was hiding behind her smile.

A few months after that meeting at the villa, something began to change. At first, it was just an intuition, a slight feeling that crossed you from time to time, like a shadow that made you frown for no apparent reason. Pierre was still affectionate, attentive, almost as if he was trying to make up for something, although you didn't know what.

One night, while you were looking through some photos from that getaway, you noticed one in particular: Pierre and Camille, sharing a somewhat peculiar smile. It was a harmless image, but, without knowing why, it made you uncomfortable. You kept telling yourself that they were your friends, that they had known each other all their lives and that it was normal for them to get along. However, something inside you kept doubting.

The weeks that followed increased that uneasiness. You noticed how Pierre looked away when you mentioned Camille, or how Camille, in a conversation, avoided giving details about some nights in which, according to her, "everyone just had fun." You began to analyze her words, her gestures, her looks. You felt trapped in a spiral of mistrust, and you couldn't help it.

You couldn't keep those concerns to yourself; you needed to vent to someone, someone you really trusted. That's when you decided to talk to Charles. After all, he knew Pierre, Camille, and you better than anyone else. You knew he would be honest with you, without trying to sugarcoat things.

One afternoon, while Charles was back at his house, you decided to call him. He answered on the second ring, in that warm, relaxed voice that always managed to calm you down a little. It didn't take you long to convince him to meet you at a secluded café, away from the eyes of anyone who might recognize you.

Charles arrived shortly after you, and upon seeing you, he immediately noticed that something was wrong. He sat down in front of you, looking at you with a mix of concern and curiosity. You tried to smile to lighten the moment, but you barely managed to keep it. So, without further ado, you blurted out what you had in store.

“Charles, I need your help. I feel like… something is going on between Pierre and Camille. I’m not sure what, but… I have this feeling that they are hiding something from me. It’s just a suspicion, but I can’t get it out of my head,” you said, your voice a little broken, trying to control your emotions.

Charles looked at you silently, evaluating every word and every expression of yours. He knew how important Pierre was to you, and the seriousness of your words made him realize that this was not just a passing doubt. He leaned forward, getting closer, and gently took your hand, as he usually did in those moments when you felt lost.

“I don’t know what to tell you… I mean, Camille and Pierre have always been close, but I never thought that…” he paused, as if he didn’t want to feed your fears. “Look, I don’t want you to be hasty. Sometimes, the mind plays tricks on us, and it’s easy to get carried away by insecurity.”

However, your words had awakened something in him, a kind of doubt that seemed to invade his mind as well. Charles knew Pierre and Camille, and, although he had always trusted them, he had never ruled out that a spark could arise between them. After all, he knew what Camille was like, how impulsive she could be, and he also knew Pierre, and how much he hated dealing with conflict. And now, seeing you so distressed, he couldn’t help but think that maybe your suspicions had some truth.

“Do you want me to talk to Pierre?” he finally asked you, looking at you seriously. “Maybe I can get something out of him, try to see if there’s something he’s hiding from you.”

You stayed silent, considering his proposal. You didn't want this to turn into a confrontation, and you didn't want to put Charles in an awkward position either. However, the idea that he could get some truth that was hidden from you seemed tempting.

"I don't know... I don't want Pierre to feel like I'm distrusting him," you murmured, lowering your gaze. "But I can't keep this doubt in my head either."

Charles nodded.

"Look, I'm going to try to find out something, in a subtle way. And if there's something you need to know, I'll tell you. But promise me that you won't do anything until we have some proof, okay?"

You promised Charles that you would be patient, that you would wait before doing anything. At that moment, you felt a mix of relief and fear. At least you weren't alone in this anymore; now you had someone on your side, someone who was willing to help you discover the truth.

The days that followed were long and heavy. Every time Pierre took your hand or looked at you with his affectionate eyes, you felt a pang in your chest, a doubt that went beyond what he could see. Meanwhile, Charles did everything he could to find out something and, in a casual conversation, try to get some clue. You didn't reveal your suspicions to him, but you watched him, attentive to any gesture or word that could give him away.

Finally, one day, Charles called you again.

That call from Charles came when you least expected it. You were at home, in your kitchen, with a cup of tea in your hands, trying to stay calm. The sound of your phone brought you out of your thoughts, and seeing Charles' name on the screen, you felt a knot in your stomach.

You answered quickly, trying to hide the fear that was eating away at you inside.

"Charles?" you asked, your voice a little hesitant.

It took him a moment to answer, and his tone, serious and slow, gave you no reassurance.

“We need to talk. It’s about Pierre… and Camille,” he said, bluntly, and you felt as if the air was being knocked out of your lungs.

You fell silent, knowing that this was the moment your suspicions were either going to come to life or fade away completely. Charles continued, with a tense calm that only increased your anxiety.

“What I suspected about you… it’s true. Pierre and Camille were together, a couple of months ago. It was… it wasn’t something they wanted you to know, and they tried to hide it, but… the pieces don’t fit, and I found out.”

Confusion and pain hit you hard. The teacup in your hands shook and nearly fell, but your fingers tightened around it, as if that small sense of control could keep everything from falling apart.

“It can’t be…” you whispered, unable to process what you had just heard. Charles’ words echoed in your head like a distant echo, but your mind didn’t want to accept them. You couldn’t believe it, not after everything you had shared. Somehow, you hoped this was just a mix-up, a cruel joke. But the seriousness in Charles’ voice left no room for doubt.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Charles said, a mix of frustration and sadness in his tone. “I know how hard this must be for you, but what I’m telling you is the truth. Pierre… I don’t know what he thought, but he wasn’t being honest with you.”

Pain gripped you immediately. You slumped into the chair, your hand still clutching the cup, which now shook as if your entire body was trying to hold on to something that was about to break. Images piled up in your mind: Pierre, so close, so loving, and Camille, your lifelong friend. It all seemed like a cruel game, a lie that was woven with invisible threads until now.

“How did you know?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You needed to understand how something so destructive had gone unnoticed for so long.

Charles sighed, and in his tone there was a hint of helplessness, as if it hurt him too to be the bearer of bad news.

“I knew because when I was with Pierre last week, I couldn’t help but notice that something wasn’t right. He… was behaving strangely, and when I started asking him questions, everything fell into place. It wasn’t easy for me, but… that’s what I found.” I didn't like having to do it, but I did it for you.

A lump formed in your throat, and you felt the weight of everything you had taken for granted fall on you, crushing you. Everything you had lived with Pierre, all those moments of love, of complicity, suddenly seemed unreal, as if you had been living a lie.

"I... I can't believe it, Charles," you finally said, your voice cracked, full of pain. You felt like the ground beneath you was no longer firm, that everything you had built with Pierre was crumbling into a thousand pieces.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Charles, although worried, knew he couldn't say anything to ease the pain that was now overwhelming you.

"I'm so sorry..." he murmured, not knowing what else to say. He was also sad for you, for the way things had happened, and for what you knew you would have to face.

The words seemed to flee from you. All you wanted to do was scream, to run away, to run away somewhere where no one knew you, where all of this wasn’t real. How could Pierre, the man you trusted, the one you’d put all your love into, have done this? And Camille, your friend, the one who’d always been there, how could she have crossed that line, betrayed you like that?

“Thank you, Charles,” you said at last, your words cold, automatic, as if you were somehow trying to keep some control over yourself. You knew you needed to process it, but you didn’t know how. You didn’t know how to move on when what you thought was your life had been shattered in front of you.

You hung up the call, and for a moment, everything was silent. The pain washed over you like a wave, and you felt empty, as if the betrayal had ripped a piece of yourself out of you. The space Pierre had occupied in your life suddenly seemed like an impossible void to fill, and Camille, your friend, became a distant, unrecognizable shadow.

While you were sinking into your pain, your bewilderment and the whirlwind of emotions that Pierre and Camille had unleashed in your life, the two of them continued with their own secret. Far from what was happening with you, in the distance that you could not see, Camille and Pierre

were together at an event and, as on so many previous occasions, when they crossed paths in the hallway, there was an instant clash of glances. Memories of the past came back, like ghosts that had never left. Camille, like him, felt the tension between the two of them, a tension that seemed unable to dissipate, even with the passage of time.

Pierre, with his mind full of contradictions, had managed to calm down after his return to you. But now, again in front of Camille, the old emotions invaded him again. He remembered the moment when their bodies met, the touch of their lips, the sensation of something he had not been able to reject. Camille, aware of what had happened, stared at him, and although her expression seemed relaxed, her eyes betrayed the mixture of regret and desire she felt.

“I don’t know why, but… I haven’t been able to forget you,” Pierre told her, his voice lowering in tone, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear them. The confession came out without her being able to avoid it, like a truth that had been pressing against her chest for weeks.

Camille didn’t say anything at first, she just stared at him, with a slight smile on her lips. She couldn’t deny what had happened between them, even if she tried to act indifferent. After all, she had been the one who had made the first move that night, she who had accepted the kiss, who had taken him to a place where neither of them thought about the consequences.

“Don’t forget it,” she replied, her voice soft, but with a tone that Pierre recognized as dangerous. There was something in her words that caught him, something that made him feel as if he were at a crossroads. Camille hadn't let him go, and deep down, he knew she didn't want to either.

Pierre stayed silent, watching her. There was something about her, that intense, direct gaze, that completely disarmed him. He realized that, despite his relationship with you, something with Camille was still alive, something that refused to die out.

"And what do we do with that?" Pierre asked, his tone full of uncertainty, but also of an emotion that he couldn't hide. The words tasted bitter, but also necessary. He couldn't continue living with the guilt, with the weight of what had happened between them.

Camille took a deep breath, looked around to make sure no one was around, and then whispered, almost as if she were revealing a secret truth.

"I don't know what to do with us... with what happened," she admitted, and for a moment, Pierre felt time stop between them. Camille had always been direct, and though there was regret in her words, there was also something deeper, something that kept them connected beyond betrayal.

Pierre took a step closer, a movement that was driven by a need he couldn't control.

"I should never have let this happen… but I can't ignore it, Camille. I can't ignore you," he confessed, this time bluntly, as if the words were slipping from his control.

Camille didn't back down. On the contrary, she moved a little closer to him, and although remorse was present in her eyes, there was also a spark that she couldn't hide.

"I can't forget you either," she replied, with a smile that, although bitter, was sincere. There was something in her voice that, although full of contradiction, showed that, deep down, despite the betrayal, there was still something between them, something they couldn't just leave behind.

The conversation between them ended with a heavy, but not definitive silence. They both knew that what they felt, what had happened between them, wasn't going to disappear immediately. Although Pierre had returned to your side, his mind was still caught between the love he felt for you and the temptation of what he had experienced with Camille.

When Pierre returned, everything seemed to be in its place. At first, he tried to be the same as always: caring, attentive, the kind and loving boy you had been with. But something in him had changed, and you knew it.

That evening, after he arrived at your apartment, you found him in the kitchen while you were making dinner. There was something different about him, and you couldn't ignore it anymore. You knew you couldn't keep living with the doubt and the pain in silence. You had to face it, even if it meant losing him.

You approached him decisively, your heart racing, but determined that, at last, you would have answers. You couldn't keep up with that feeling of betrayal that was eating away at you inside.

"Pierre, we need to talk," you said, trying to stay calm, but knowing that your words sounded much colder than you wanted.

Pierre looked up, surprised by the tone of your voice. He tried to smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, and for a moment, everything seemed to collapse between you.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked, with that typical calm of his that used to reassure you, but now only irritated you.

You knew what you had to say, you knew there was no turning back now. You had the proof, you had the truth. It was time for him to face what he had done.

“I know what happened with Camille,” you said suddenly, and the air between you both grew thick. The words came out with the force of something that had been bottled up for too long. It was as if, as you spoke them, the pain you had been carrying around with you for weeks began to release, but at the same time, it intensified.

Pierre was silent for a moment, his face expressionless. Then, you saw him tense, his jaw set. His eyes shifted for a second, as if he were looking for a way out, a way to evade the truth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally answered, but his tone was no longer the same. There was something uncomfortable, something you couldn’t ignore.

“Don’t lie!” you exclaimed, feeling the rage and pain explode inside you. The truth burned you, and you needed him to accept it, to stop hiding it. You knew you couldn’t continue with someone who was lying to you so openly. “Charles told me everything, Pierre. I know what they did, I know you were with Camille.”

Pierre tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t help the slight trembling in his hands, the anxiety that invaded him. He knew he couldn’t continue denying the obvious, but he also knew that if he admitted it, he would lose everything he had built with you.

“It’s not what you think…” he said, his voice now lowering, trying to control the situation. But you weren’t going to let him manipulate you anymore. You knew him too well for his empty words to convince you again.

“How is it not what I think?” you asked, unable to contain the sarcasm and pain that seeped into your words. Do you think I'm so stupid that I don't realize what happened? You lied to me, Pierre. You lied to me! I can't believe you did this to me.

Instead of apologizing, Pierre tried to turn the conversation around, like he always did when things got tough. He tried to find an excuse, a justification for his behavior, as if that could make everything go back to normal.

"It was a mistake, something that happened, but it doesn't mean what you think it does. Camille… Camille has always been a close friend, and that night, it was just a moment of weakness. I love you, not her. What happened doesn't matter, what matters is that I'm here with you."

But those words had no power over you. They weren't enough to erase the betrayal you felt. He had overlooked it so many times, ignored so many signs that now they became crystal clear. And now, in front of you, Pierre was trying to downplay it, as if it was all an accident, something weightless, when what he had done had broken everything you believed in him.

You took a step back, unable to bear it any longer.

“I can’t go on like this, Pierre,” you said, your voice shaking, but firm. Each word was another nail in the coffin of what had been your relationship.

Pierre seemed surprised, as if he hadn’t expected you to get to this point. He tried to get closer, to take your hand, but you pushed him away roughly, not allowing him to touch you.

“Don’t touch me. You won’t.” You felt empty, but at the same time liberated, as if a heavy layer of pain and disappointment had suddenly been removed.

Pierre tried to speak, but the sadness in his eyes was evident. Now he saw that everything was crumbling before him, that the lie had come to light, and that nothing could save what was left of you.

“I don’t know what to tell you… I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice cracking, but the words no longer held the power they once had. No matter how sorry he felt, the truth was there, and there was no turning back.

“Then you should have thought about it before,” you answered, with a calm that surprised you. It was as if, finally, all the pain you had been accumulating had transformed into something more solid, something that strengthened you. “I don’t want you around. Not after all this.”

And without giving her any room to say more, you turned around and walked to your room, heartbroken, but with the feeling that at least you had done the right thing. You had reached the end, and even though it hurt, you knew that your life had to go on, away from lies, away from betrayals.

Pierre stood there, alone in the living room, watching as everything he had had with her faded away, unable to do anything but accept that he had lost what he loved most.

After the confrontation with Pierre, the weight of the situation did not fade away. On the contrary, what had started as a broken hope, was transformed into an urgent need to escape. You needed to disconnect, to get away, to find peace away from all that. And there was no better way to do it than taking a breather somewhere where no one could touch you, where you could recover a little of yourself.

That was when you thought of Charles. You knew that his impulsive personality and desire for adventure fit perfectly with what you needed right now: an escape.

The idea of traveling to Italy came to you as a perfect way to unwind. Italy had everything you were looking for: beautiful landscapes, tranquility, history, and culture. You called Charles, who was in the middle of training for the season, but you knew that if anyone could understand what you needed, it was him. At first, you took him by surprise, but upon hearing your voice, he immediately recognized the anguish you were trying to hide.

“Charles…” you said, hesitantly at first, but with the determination of someone who had already made up their mind. “I need to get away from all this. I want to go to Italy, to a villa in the mountains, away from everything. Away from Pierre, away from everything that happened.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. You knew he was processing what you had just told him, but you also knew that he would never leave you alone in something like that.

“Of course,” he finally answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “If that’s what you need, let’s go. To Italy then.”

The relief you felt upon hearing his answer was immediate. Charles never questioned your decisions. He had always been there for you, and his unconditional support gave you the strength you needed at that moment.

“Thank you, Charles,” you said, unable to stop your voice from cracking a little.

The idea of traveling to Italy began to take shape quickly. Charles took care of everything, from flights to accommodation, looking for a secluded place in the mountains, far from the hustle and bustle of tourist cities. A place where they could rest, explore, and above all, unwind.

As soon as you had everything ready, the anticipation grew.

The day of the trip arrived quickly. You packed your things with more excitement than ever, relieved to finally get away from the pain and Pierre’s constant presence in your life. It was clear that you needed this change, and, although you knew that the wound Pierre had left would not heal immediately, at least you could give yourself the space to heal, without the pressure of the media that already knew about the crisis between the two of you stalking you every day.

Arriving in Italy, the beauty of the landscape enveloped you like a warm hug. The mountains rose majestically, covered in green, the villas scattered among the vineyards gave a feeling of peace and tranquility that you had not felt for a long time. The villa in which they would stay was hidden between hills, and the rustic and cozy decoration made you feel as if you were in another world, one in which the past had no place.

You and Charles spent the first few days exploring the place, walking through the small towns nearby, tasting wines and eating fresh pasta at local restaurants. Every day was a respite, a chance to unwind, to forget about the pain for a bit and focus on the present.

Although Charles was his usual impulsive and lively self, he sometimes surprised you with his more reflective side, the one that appeared when he noticed that you were pensive, that the shadow of what you had experienced with Pierre had reached you.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he told you one day while you were walking through a small medieval town. The narrow streets, full of flowers and color, gave you a sense of calm that only Italy could offer you.

“I know,” you answered, smiling slightly, although it was evident that you still had a hard time letting go of what you had experienced. “It’s just that sometimes I think about everything that happened, and I think I should never have let it go so far.”

Charles looked at you and approached, placing a hand on your shoulder. He didn’t need to say more, because his gesture said it all. He was there for you, not just as a friend, but as someone who wanted to see you happy, free of any kind of emotional burden.

“Don’t worry about it. What matters is that you’re here now, and we’re in this together,” he said, and the sincerity of his words gave you the strength to keep going.

As the days passed in Italy, things between you and Charles began to change in subtle, but inevitable ways. The first day was just an escape, a respite from the pain Pierre had left behind, but you soon realized that being with Charles in that environment, without the shadows of everyday life, was making you feel something new, something you hadn’t anticipated.

Charles was excellent company, with his sarcastic humor and contagious energy, always ready to make you laugh even when your thoughts wandered to pain.

One afternoon, as they walked down a path between olive trees, Charles began to talk about his life, about his unfulfilled dreams of becoming a world champion, as if he was truly enjoying the company, as if the noise of the world had disappeared. When dinner time came, they sat together at a small table in the garden, with candles lighting the atmosphere and a glass of wine in their hands.

“Did you know that when I was a kid, I thought Italy was the perfect place to live?” Charles said, looking out at the landscape, as if he was reliving his childhood. There was something in his voice that made you think that, although he was always the impulsive and fun-loving boy, there was a side of him that he never fully showed.

“Really?” you asked, intrigued, and smiled at him as you took a sip of wine.

“Yes,” he replied, smiling back, but now with a softer touch on his face. “My family used to come here during the holidays. Italy has something magical, don’t you think?”

You nodded slowly. Something about the atmosphere, the tranquility that enveloped everything, was certainly special.

Every day passed so naturally. On the walks, the comfortable silences, the shared laughter, the deep conversations during dinner or at the end of the day, when you sat on the terraces to watch the sunset, everything seemed to fit together, as if you were both in the right place, at the perfect time. Charles' presence calmed you, made you feel protected and, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe without the anguish that had been drowning you.

On one of those afternoons, after a long walk in the hills, when the light of day was already beginning to fade and the fresh air was felt on your skin, Charles moved closer to you.

“You know, I’m glad we made this trip,” he said, walking close to you, with a look you couldn’t quite read. “I want you to know that even though I’m a little… unpredictable at times, you can count on me for anything.”

There was a silence between you as you walked together, as if the words had become more meaningful, heavier. At that moment, you realized something: Charles had been an unconditional friend.

The tension in the air between you was palpable, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was more of an attraction that grew little by little, unhurriedly, but inevitably.

Despite the serenity that Italy brought, there was something you couldn’t avoid, something that kept stalking you. Camille’s messages were starting to become more and more frequent. At first, you ignored them, thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be the right time to deal with what had happened between her, Pierre, and you. But, as the days went by, the messages became more persistent, more urgent.

Camille: "I need to talk to you, please. I know things aren't right, but we have to talk."

Camille: "I miss you, can we fix this? I don't know how to fix this, but I feel so bad..."

The messages were always similar, asking for a chance to explain herself, to tell her side of the story. You knew it wouldn't be easy, that nothing she said could erase what she had done, but at the same time, you couldn't help but feel guilty for not giving her the chance to explain. The problem was that, deep down, you knew you didn't want to talk to her. You had been so devastated, so broken by the betrayal, that it was impossible for you to find the right words to forgive her, or even to listen to her.

One day, while walking through a nearby villa, Charles noticed that you were staring at your phone, distracted. You didn't give it much importance, but he, as always attentive to your gestures, came a little closer.

"Everything okay?" “He asked softly, stopping beside you.

You looked at the phone in your hand, seeing Camille’s latest text. The temptation to respond, to end it all, was rife, but then you remembered what Charles had said: “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

You took a deep breath, feeling like even if you wanted to work things out, this wasn’t the right time or place to do so.

“It’s Camille,” you said, trying to sound calm. “She’s been texting me all the time. She wants to talk… but I don’t know if she should.”

Charles didn’t say anything at first, but his look said it all. He didn’t need to explain further.

“I understand,” he replied, his voice firm, but also soft. He moved a little closer, walking beside you. “Sometimes people do things they can’t undo, and even if she wants to explain herself, I don’t think that will change what happened. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something out of responsibility or fear. You have every right to decide what’s best for you.”

You were surprised by how Charles had handled the situation. It wasn’t just a matter of being there for you; he seemed to understand you beyond words. You felt cared for, supported, and that was something you had never experienced so clearly. Camille’s words seemed to fade away in Charles’ calm presence.

‘What if I just stop responding? What if we never talk again?’ you thought to yourself.

“Sometimes when someone hurts you, it’s best to let it go,” Charles said, not looking at you, but his confident voice made a shiver run through your body. “You don’t need to solve everything. You don’t have to heal the wound right away.” Just do what makes you feel better.

His words resonated within you. For the first time in days, you began to feel like you could truly let go of Camille and Pierre without feeling the pressure of having to face it all. The relief of taking control of the situation spread like a wave of calm.

You decided you wouldn’t respond to Camille. Not right now. You were learning to set boundaries, to recognize what really mattered at this point in your life.

The next night, after dinner, Charles sat next to you on the terrace, looking up at the stars, and broke the silence with a smile.

“Have you?” he asked, knowing what he meant.

You looked at him, a little surprised by his question, but the answer came easily, as if you had been waiting for that moment to finally make a decision.

“Yes,” you said, looking at your phone one last time before putting it back in your pocket. “I’ve decided not to respond. I need to focus on myself now.”

Charles nodded, satisfied, and moved a little closer.

“That’s good,” he said, his tone making it clear that, in his eyes, you had done the right thing.

And even as Camille continued to text, your mind and heart were beginning to free itself.

The atmosphere in Italy had already changed by then. Everything felt different, more intense. Although it had all started as an escape, a simple respite from what you had left behind, now things between you and Charles were clear. There was something else in the air, something you couldn't deny, even if you tried.

That evening, the villa was particularly quiet, the fresh mountain air caressing the skin, and the dim lights on the terrace creating an almost magical atmosphere. They had spent the afternoon touring a small nearby town, exploring local shops and enjoying Italian cuisine. It had been a day full of laughter, of shared glances, of small gestures that, although not obvious to the rest, were clear as day to both of them.

After dinner, in which everything seemed to happen with overwhelming naturalness, they retired to the living room, where the fireplace was already burning softly. The villa was silent, as if the outside world had been left behind. Charles approached you, offering you a glass of wine as he sat down beside you, closer than he usually was. Your breathing quickened a little, as if a fate you couldn’t resist was drawing nearer.

The words trailed off little by little. The silence between you two was filled with a palpable tension, an energy that only the two of you could understand. You realized that, in all that time, what was between you two wasn’t just friendship, it wasn’t just support. It was something much deeper, more visceral. And, for the first time, fear didn’t invade you. There was no doubt in your mind, only an overwhelming desire to be closer to him.

“You know, sometimes I wonder how we got here,” Charles said, his voice deep and low, as he looked into your eyes. There was something in his tone that made you understand that, just like you, he already knew. You already knew that tonight wouldn’t be like the others.

Without thinking, you took a sip of wine, trying to calm the racing heartbeat in your chest, but you knew it wasn’t just the wine that was affecting you. It was Charles’ closeness, the warmth of his body beside you, the way his eyes kept scanning your face, like he was searching for something, like he was waiting for your permission, or like he had already crossed that line without either of you saying it out loud.

“Maybe…” you whispered, staring at him. “Maybe this was all meant to be.”

Charles’ response was immediate, and before you could say anything else, he moved a little closer. His breath, warm and slightly intoxicating, mingled with yours as his hands, gentle but firm, settled on your shoulders. At that moment, you knew. There was no turning back.

The contact between the two of you was subtle at first, almost like a test, a check to see if you were both willing to move forward. But the desire, that raw, unadorned desire, became unstoppable. He didn’t say anything else. His mouth moved closer to yours, and when your lips finally met, it was like all the weight of the world melted away. It was a soft kiss at first, but with each second it intensified, as if the touch of your lips was just the beginning of something much deeper.

Your hands slid to his neck, pulling him towards you, as you gave yourself over completely to that moment, to that connection that had been slowly building over those days in Italy. The barrier between the two of you was completely broken. There was no longer room for doubt or the past. There was only the now, the shared present in which Charles and you were no longer just two friends, but something more, something that could not be ignored.

The intensity of the kiss increased, and Charles gently laid you down on the couch, his body now closer to yours, almost merging. Everything you had been holding back, all the pain, doubts and uncertainties, vanished in the electricity of the moment. There were no words, only the sound of labored breathing and the beating of hearts in unison. Each touch was more urgent, more demanding, as if the world around you did not exist and only the palpable desire between you remained.

Desire took hold of both of you without reservation. The connection you shared went beyond physical attraction; There was a deep need to be together, to explore everything you had been holding back, to take that friendship to a whole new place. And, even though you knew things would never be the same again, you couldn't do anything but surrender to the intensity of the passion you shared in that instant.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both breathing heavily, but with a feeling of having crossed a line that could no longer be erased.

Charles, with a mischievous smile on his lips, looked at you and, with his voice heavy with desire, whispered:

“That… wasn't just a kiss, was it?.”

The sparkle in his eyes reflected the same thing you felt deep within your soul. You knew that what had happened between you two wasn’t just a passing desire. It was something that would change the dynamic between the two of you forever. But at that moment, in that villa, with the cold wind blowing outside and the fireplace burning softly inside, it didn’t matter what the future held for you.

All that mattered was the desire you shared and the fact that, for the first time in a long time, you felt completely alive, completely present in what was happening between you and Charles.

The night dragged on, but time seemed to have stopped, as if the universe itself had been suspended between the accelerated heartbeats of both of you. The air in the villa, permeated with the mixture of your perfume and the woody scent of the fire, seemed to envelop you, making you feel closer to Charles, more connected to everything you had just shared.

You lay back in the chair for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, still processing what had happened. The taste of his mouth was still on yours, and the warmth of his body was still there. Despite the unexpectedness of the situation, there wasn’t a hint of regret.

Charles, for his part, was also silent, his eyes fixed on you. He seemed so serene, so calm, as if everything was natural, as if you had both been waiting for this moment. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, his tone soft but with a slight tension, as if he was searching for any sign of doubt in your eyes.

You turned to him, looking into his eyes, and felt a warmth run through your body. You could see in his expression that he already knew the answer. There was no need to talk about it, but something inside you needed to confirm that you were both on the same page.

“No,” you answered, the word firmly coming out of your lips. “I don’t regret it.”

Charles smiled, his expression relaxed, as if he had dropped an invisible burden that you had both been carrying for days. He leaned back, his body close to yours, as if he didn't want to separate for even a second.

"Me neither," he said in a deep voice, his hand sliding towards yours and intertwining it with yours, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Time passed without you noticing, between soft conversations, shared laughter and knowing glances. There was no need for more words, just the feeling that the moment was flowing in a way that neither of you had anticipated, but that, somehow, both of you wanted.

#fanfic #oneshot #imagine #x reader #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1

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kitchenisking · 2 months ago

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Things To Do On The Dates You Aren't Having by lielabell - (Rating: Mature, Words: 5,557)

"So are we dating now or what?" Stiles asks the third time he finds himself doing the obligatory postcoital cuddling with a certain sour wolf.

the engagement by bibliosexual - (Rating: G, Words: 1,595)

“Stiles,” Derek growls the next morning, “why did Wanda just call me to congratulate me on my engagement to you?”

“Uh, because we are engaged?” Stiles tries. “We’re having a spring wedding with two flavors of cake, or did you forget? By the way, you still need to buy me a ring.”

Hypothetically Speaking by KaliopeShipsIt - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 2,916)

“Soooooo, Daddy-O. Hypothetically speaking. Do you think you could potentially see yourself loving a magical werewolf grandbaby rather unexpectedly begotten via the carnal jubilation that is one man shoving his dick up another guy’s ass?”

Textual Promise by Areiton - ( Rating: Explicit, Words: 1,828)

Derek stares at the text for a long time before he goes for a run. Because this? From Stiles? This isn't something they do.

He still says 'ok'.

My Sea to Your Shore by Aquila_Star - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 66,178)

The setting was idyllic, but when he looked down at the poor animal caught in the trap, struggling for its life and its freedom, he saw only how its desperation mirrored his own, the trap he was caught in just as unforgiving. Unlike the rabbit, Derek's trap was not the result of random bad luck. It was a trap of his own making.

As he headed back to the house, he couldn't help but wonder if there was someone who could wrangle him from his trap, and whether he would survive to see his freedom.

kids say (and do) the darndest things by EvanesDust - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 7,787)

Have kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. ...or the one where Stiles and Derek's kids had no shame.

Nothing's Ever Worth it if it Doesn't Scare You by In_Over_My_Head - (Rating: Mature, Words: 3,707)

Running had become his default reaction to Scott. Whenever he had a stupid plan or didn’t listen, mostly whenever his moronic actions put the pack in jeopardy…again. Stiles ran now, ran because he knew that if they did what Scott wanted someone would get hurt. They’d just gotten Kira back and now Scott wanted to put her in danger by fighting something without all the information.

He knew Argent would try and help, to change Scott’s course of action, but it wouldn’t work. Maybe, since Cora was back, Peter might show up too. Sometimes he could get through to Scott. The problem with that was Peter always had an ulterior motive, and Stiles only figured it out half the time. Peter was dangerous, but Scott didn’t seem to get that either. God he missed Derek, missed knowing there was someone that would listen, that would get what he meant and actually try to help.

I know what you did Last Hot Girl Summer by Arver7 - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 6,908)

Stiles thinks he wants a Hot Girl Summer after a break-up. What he gets is definitely a hot girl summer and so much more.

"good boy" by quackquackcey - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 10,807)

Stiles doesn’t think his senior year can get any worse with his best friend turning rabid every full moon, until he finds himself stuck with a massive black wolf overnight that doesn’t even like jerky.

But on the bright side, the hot guy with the half-dying sister he met at the gas station seems to be in town for a bit, so there’s still a chance that his senior year, his supposed best year of high school, isn’t a complete lost cause…right?

That is, if he can manage to juggle the sassy wolf that he takes care of at night and the hot guy that asked him out on a date for some reason.~ 🐺

Finders Keepers by inhystereks - (Rating: G, Words: 3,340)

“Sorry, I know I’m kind of staring, but she didn’t tell me you were so good-looking,” Stiles babbled, wanting to hit himself even as the words left his mouth.

“She,” the guy said, something in his expression shifting. “Laura.”

“No,” Stiles replied with a frown. “Lydia. Who’s Laura?”

“My sister,” the guy said, brows furrowed once more. “Who’s Lydia?”

“My best friend,” Stiles said.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #fanfiction #stiles x derek #kitcheniskingficrecs

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maladaptive-daydreamer-23 · 1 month ago

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A/N: I wrote this for my dearest friend @cringeiknow <3 love you bestie <3 It's also posted on AO3 if you prefer to read there! I will drop the link below. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

Love, Mal <3

Summary: On a case in Alabama you find yourself facing your worst fear- thunderstorms. To your surprise, you don't have to face it alone.

Warnings: mentions of canon typical violence, unsub critically injured via lightning strike, cursing, Thunderstorms, anxiety, implied age gap.

Tags: Aaron Hotchner/reader (No use of Y/N) Angst, fluff, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, soft Hotch, pre-relationship pining.

Word count: 5.4k

Masterlist

Ao3 link here

Aaron had always loved the smell of rain. He didn’t know why, there was no formative memory or specific reasoning for his love of the scent. He just liked it. So naturally he also loved rainy days. He liked to watch the raindrops run down the floor to ceiling windows in his office, and occasionally lightning would streak across the sky and he always thought it was so—majestic. Rain on the roof at night was the perfect way to fall asleep. It was soothing and it kept him in a deep sleep all night. Rain brought life in the spring and rainbows almost always followed. He just loved rain.

This week though, the rain was nothing but a hindrance. The team had been on the trail of an unsub in Alabama who was using the line of thunderstorms moving through the south as cover, and part of his ritual. This unsub only killed when it was raining, which doesn’t sound like a huge issue, it only rains every few weeks in the south in the summer so the team should have had plenty of time between the third kill and the next rainy day to make progress and complete a profile. Right?

Wrong. The entire south was experiencing a tropical depression because of the hurricane that had just hit the Gulf a few days before. Which meant, it was raining incessantly, and the unsub was now officially on a spree.

To make matters worse, the worst of the storms were due in the next few hours and they were coming with severe weather warnings. The local meteorologist was calling for strong straight line winds, hail, electrical storms, and—at the worst—possible tornadoes across the state. Reid had been watching the forecast all day, and Aaron was sure that thunderstorms and supercells were going to become his newest hyperfixation.

The unsub hadn’t struck today. Not yet. That was the most frustrating part of this whole case, the team had racked their brains over it for the entire week, but they could not figure out how the unsub was choosing his targets! It was about to drive Aaron up the damn wall.

“Hotch! We got another one!” Morgan called from the doorway of the breakroom where Aaron had been standing behind Reid, attention fixed on the radar and the line of storms that was bearing down on their location. “It’s on the other side of the county.”

Aaron sighed heavily and squared his shoulders. “Let’s go and see what we can gather from the scene before these storms hit.” He said, looking from Morgan to Reid. “Why don’t you stay and keep an eye on those storms, that way you can call us if we need to take shelter.”

“Sure.” Reid said, barely glancing over his shoulder at him as he said it. His focus solely on the weatherman’s words and the bright colors splayed across the screen. Aaron shook his head at Reid—fondly, despite the circumstances— and started toward the door, where Morgan had already disappeared to gather the rest of the team. Until he noticed you.

You were sitting at a table in the corner of the room, eyes locked on the TV, brows furrowed.

As the newest member of the team—having joined only three months prior—Aaron didn’t know much about you personally. He knew you were a hell of an agent, and a brilliant profiler for your age. He knew you got along great with the rest of the team and he knew that he’d like to get to know you a little better when he had the time. He liked to know as much as possible about his team, it helped him to lead. You were usually bright and cheerful. A bit of a smart ass, but in an amusing way that was never truly disrespectful. You often had the team in fits of laughter with a well timed one liner and he appreciated your ability to lighten the mood on occasion.

This afternoon, however, you were quiet. Skittish and even bordering on paranoid. You jumped at loud noises and every time he’d said your name it had taken him three or four tries to get your attention. It was unlike you to be so distracted—as far as he was aware anyway—and it was beginning to concern him. Currently, your knee was bouncing a mile a minute and you were snapping a hair tie against the skin of your inner wrist while biting your cheek. Christ, you looked tense.

“Hey.” He murmured, stepping between you and the TV to get your attention without startling you.

“Huh? Sorry Hotch, did you say something?” You asked him, shaking your head as if clearing it like an etch-a-sketch.

He smiled at you, though his concern was clear. “I hadn’t yet, no. I was just trying to get your attention.” He explained gently, stepping a little closer and studying you while you were disoriented. He’d often found himself studying you. He wasn’t sure what it was about your features that drew his interest so often. He found you pretty, beautiful if he was being totally truthful, but you were also… young. Young enough that he shouldn’t notice how pretty you were—but his brain didn’t seem to get the memo. It was an issue.

“Oh.” You mumbled, your voice quiet as you barely managed to maintain eye contact. Thunder rolled softly in the distance and your eyes darted to the nearest window, widening slightly as you startled. Hmm. He’d ponder that later.

“Are you coming?” He asked you expectantly. “Morgan just said we have another victim.”

You once again looked around him to the TV and then looked back at him. Then frowned. “Actually, I think someone should stay behind and pay attention to the weather. Just in case.” You volunteered.

“Yes, that's what Reid is doing.” He told you then nodded his head toward the door. “Come on.” He prodded, not thinking anything else of it. “We’ll need you at the scene. We’re trying to get back before the next line of storms hits.”

You looked like you wanted to argue, which was strange because you had never given any push back over a simple instruction before. He raised an eyebrow at you—waiting for some sort of explanation— and you sighed softly, standing from your seat and walking to the door without a word. He’d have to check in with you later.

You HATED thunderstorms, the only good thing about them is petrichor. You loved petrichor. However, lightning and thunder might as well have been the bane of your existence. You’d been dreading it all week. The last few days had just been incessant rain. A constant, miserable, humid downpour that had made you feel as though you were never going to be dry again. You hated that too. Tonight though, that would be the absolute cherry on top of a terrible week. You were so glad you had grown up in the Mountain West region of the States, where hurricanes didn’t exist and tornadoes were so rare there hadn’t been one in your lifetime. The high altitudes and dry air didn’t allow for it. Thank God.

In the back seat of the SUV you noticed that Hotch kept glancing back at you in the rearview mirror. You didn’t know why, or what you had done, but you were sure you were in trouble— for something… That was just another thing to add to your ever growing list of grievances, but one you’d worry about later. Those thunderheads in the distance were growing ever closer, and the nearer they got the louder the thunder became. Every distant flash of lightning had made you more and more anxious. So Hotch’s possible ire would just have to wait. It was going to take all your energy to maintain focus on the scene, so you didn’t have any left to worry about him.

The crime scene was at a trailer park. The last place you wanted to be with bad weather on the way. The poor victim had been killed sometime during the previous night. No one heard or saw anything because of the rain. Hotch had split the trailer into sections for you all to go over and pick apart. You could hardly focus as you looked around the small bedroom. It was girly frilly and soft, everything was either baby pink or cornflower blue. She had lived alone but she had pictures of friends and family everywhere. There was so much blood, it drenched the bed and splattered the walls and one word kept coming to the forefront of your mind: overkill. It was entirely unsettling, especially as the flashes of lightning grew brighter and the thunder got louder and louder.

“What do you see?” Hotch’s voice made you jump and let out a small shriek. You’d been alone in the bedroom, and you hadn’t heard his footsteps coming down the hall over the a/c unit in the window. You panted as your heart rate spiked and you tried to settle yourself with a hand on your chest. “Sorry, I didn’t intend to frighten you.”

“S’okay.” You breathed on an exhale, waving off his concern dismissively. You looked around the room once more before you attempted to give him a response, hoping to see anything you may have missed before. “She was loved. She wasn’t a loner like the last guy, she had friends and a family. She was tidy, there’s nothing out of place—besides the blood— and everything is completely aesthetically pleasing. She liked order, or she had just finished a deep clean. But more importantly, she made this space homey, she was comfortable here. It’s not the ritz but she was making it work.

“She graduated from the University of Alabama in May. It’s August so she’s probably only been living here for three months at the most and look at what she’s done with the place. I mean, it’s not my style, but it’s nice. Very sorority, but nice. She wanted to feel at home here. The degree on the wall is in early childhood education, and I’ll bet Garcia is gonna tell us she was going to be working at the nearby elementary school we passed on the way over when school starts back next week.

“Given the amount of pictures, the fact that she was in fact in a sorority, and seemed to be a ranking member, I’d say she was probably outgoing. That’s really all I can gather about her from the appearance of the room, I haven’t gone through her closet or drawers or anything like that yet. I had to wait for the coroner to move her body.”

He studied you intently while you spoke and you just pretended not to notice.

“Good, that’s good.” He murmured, glancing around the room as well and then nodding at you. “What about our unsub? What does this room say about him?” He asks you, looking you over with a soft curiosity.

That's when you realized this was a test. Or maybe a teaching moment? You were unsure, but you knew he was looking at you expectantly and you didn’t want to disappoint him. You know it’s probably silly, but you have a thing for Aaron Hotchner. He drives you absolutely crazy with his dad bod and unruly hair that he keeps cut short because of the cowlick above his forehead. You can’t help but stare at his enormous hands and sometimes you giggle to yourself at the way they dwarf absolutely everything. His phone, pens, the hands of other men when he shakes them, your hands… Which you know because he helped you down off a chair the other day when Penelope couldn’t reach something she needed on a shelf even with the chair. You and JJ were the only ones there to help her and you’re taller than JJ but still not quite tall enough to reach the shelf from the floor. So you climbed on the chair, then Hotch came into the bullpen and almost had a fit because apparently standing in rolling chairs is dangerous—as if you don’t hunt serial killers for a living—and he demanded that you get down. Carefully. He offered you his hands before you stepped down and so you accepted the help—because you thought he might actually pass the fuck out if you just jumped— and that was when you realized that your hands looked like they were tiny compared to his.

Focus.

You cleared your throat and looked around, before looking back at him and answering. “I just keep thinking: Overkill.” You gestured around the room. “This is different than all the other scenes, he didn’t do nearly as much damage to the other victims, or leave such a huge mess. It’s overkill, I’m just not sure why…”

“But you do have an idea?” Hotch prompted you gently, his mouth quirking up at the corner in a rare smirk.

You sighed and nodded slightly. “I think she fought back.”

“That’s exactly the conclusion we all were coming to. Good work.” He said, and the added praise had your cheeks heating to a shade of red you were sure was unflattering. He turned to head back out the door, but stopped and looked over his shoulder to say something else.

A loud clap of thunder beat him to the punch, scaring you absolutely shitless. You screamed bloody murder and jumped nearly out of your own skin. “Fuck!” You hissed, bending down to rest your hands on your knees as you tried to catch your breath.

He startled at your outburst and then turned back to you. “Are you alright?” He asked softly, stepping back to your side and laying a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing firmly.

You tried to laugh it off, waving a hand and chuckling awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” You chuffed, giving him a weak smile. “The thunder just startled me, that’s all. I’m not a big fan of thunder and that one was super loud, it’s not a big deal. I’m fine.” You tried your best to be convincing, standing up straight and doing what you could to mask your anxiety.

He was frowning at you, but he nodded his head anyway. Stepping away from you, he removed his hand from your shoulder and then went back to the door. “I was going to say, we’re about ready to head back to the station. We’ve seen enough and we don’t want to get caught out in these storms if we can help it.”

Then he simply walked away, leaving you to regain a semblance of composure in the gore of this once cozy bedroom.

Aaron was now sure that something had his youngest agent on edge. You were normally unflappable, a crime scene like that one would have been just another day on the job for you. You’d seen worse, he knew you had because he’d personally been there with you. Maybe it was that the victim was near your age, or that she had fought back and you could see yourself in her. Maybe he’d just caught you off guard and that was what had unsettled you.

But none of that rang true for him, not really, because you’d been anxious all day. Come to think of it, now that it had drawn his attention, you had seemed a little nervous all week and the longer this case went on the more nervous you got.

He tried to tell himself that the only reason he really noticed was because you were still new and relatively untested. He was just keeping an eye on his newest subordinate, making sure you were settling in alright.

But that was bullshit too, and he knew it.

You had finished “settling in” weeks ago. You fit in with this team so perfectly it was almost like you’d always been there. Your giggles ringing out through the bullpen as you laughed at Morgan’s jokes had become a familiar sound. Your gentle teasing of Reid now an everyday occurrence that he barely registered anymore. The way you popped your hair tie against your wrist to focus had become as recognisable to him as the way JJ chewed on pencils and Prentiss cracked her knuckles.

You weren’t as experienced as the rest of them, sure. But you belonged here, with them. There was no question about it. He had no doubts about your potential and often he found himself relying on your uncanny ability to mirror others. If there was ever a time when he wasn’t sure when a person was a victim, witness, or suspect he had figured out that he could throw you into the room with them and you would sniff it out like a bloodhound. An empath, Penelope had called you. Hotch had thought he knew how to make empathy a tool and often used it himself to get what he needed from a witness or a suspect. However, the affinity you had for it was something he’d never seen before. It was like you crawled into the other person’s emotions, learned them, understood them, and molded them to fit your needs. It was an impressive interrogation tool and one he had taken full advantage of in the last few months, when the situation called for it.

So he really had no reason to watch you as closely as he did. There was just something about you that drew him in. It wasn’t your beauty alone, he’d worked with plenty of beautiful women in the past. It wasn’t your age, that was what made him agonize over this the most, he felt like a perv every time he found himself watching you. It wasn’t just your personality, your beaming smiles and your quirky little laugh. It was a combination of everything and it was maddening.

Now, back at the station he found himself watching you again. This time however, he was watching with immense concern. You were wound tight enough to break, your muscles tense and your face drawn. Your leg was bouncing wildly and you were snapping the hair tie on your wrist with such force he could hear the slap of it against your skin from across the room, it made him flinch each time. It was pouring down rain outside and thunder rolled every few minutes, each rumble causing you to twitch anxiously. The worst of the storms were due to roll in any minute now and the team had moved from the break room of the station to the basement, built specifically for nights like this. There was plenty of space and light down here to continue working on the case and so that’s what they’d all been doing. You, however, seemed to have nothing to contribute to the conversation. Instead staring into the empty corner of the room, a blank but worried look on your face.

Thunder roared, shaking the whole building down to the foundation and suddenly the room was pitch black. A shrill scream rang out followed by a loud scrape of chair legs on the floor, a crash as the chair in question seemed to topple over and several other loud thuds as someone fled the room. He didn’t need light to guess who had run.

The power came back on shortly once the generator kicked on, and the lights flickered now but they could deal with the minor annoyance. What he couldn’t deal with, was not knowing where you had gone and if you were alright. You might have hurt yourself running in the darkness like that. He was going to have to find you. Just in case.

“I’m going to go check on her.” He said to no one in particular. “I’m not sure what that was about, but she ran into at least two chairs and a table on the way out, so she could be hurt.”

The team nodded their agreement and he set out in search of you.

It was raining so hard now that he could hear the drumming of it on the roof all the way from the basement. The thunder continued to shake the building with every crash of lightning and the wind was howling so loudly it sounded like a band of demons wailing through the halls. He searched every room of the basement until he finally found you.

You were in the very back corner of a supply closet sitting on the floor with your knees tucked to your chest. Your head was buried in your lap so you did see him come in and you were pressing your palms to your ears so forcefully your elbows were shaking. You were rocking back and forth and your body was trembling. He could just barely make out the sound of your sobs over the wind and rain.

“You’re not a ‘big fan of thunder’ huh?” He said softly, just loud enough to alert you to his presence. You looked up at him with tears rolling down your face. Sniffling, you wiped at your tears, it was useless to try though. Your cheeks were soaked and you were just smearing mascara everywhere.

“Sorry.” You gasped, barely able to get the word out because your breathing was so erratic that your chest was heaving and you were doing the uncontrollable hiccup thing that was nearly painful. He smiled at you kindly. “I’m terrified of thunderstorms. It’s pathetic, really I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s not pathetic. Not at all. Everyone is afraid of something. Thunderstorms are powerful and dangerous, it’s a perfectly normal thing to be scared of.” He said calmly, trying to soothe you. Walking closer and squatting down in front of you, he noticed a box of Kleenex on the shelf just above your head. Grabbing it and tearing back the seal, he pulled out a couple and handed them to you. You wiped at your face, noticing as you pulled the tissue away that there were black streaks on the white tissue.

“Fuck…” you muttered, wiping harder at your face to the point that he was worried you’d rub your skin raw.

“Here let me.” He offered, grabbing a clean tissue and reaching toward your face. He gently dabbed at the black streaks until he was satisfied that they were cleaned up enough. “There.”

He brought his eyes back to yours, finding you staring at him in what he could only describe as shocked awe.

“How can I help you?” He asked, hoping his voice was calming and patient. You shook your head.

“You can’t.” You whispered, your voice shuddering as you looked down again, avoiding his eyes and wrapping your arms around your knees.

“Hey.” He whispered back, reaching out again to move your hair out of your face so that he could see your eyes. “Let me try, I can’t just let you sit here alone, terrified. I won’t do it. So tell me what helps at home.”

You scoffed and shook your head, new tears falling from your eyes and splattering on your pant legs. “At home I put in earbuds, curl up in a ball under a blanket in my bed and cover my head with a pillow to drown out everything but the music.”

You looked up at him, your face embarrassed and expectant. As though you thought he’d make fun of you. He just nodded his head, a plan forming in his mind. He could work with that. “I’ll be right back, stay right here.” He murmured.

“Don’t worry I will.” You quipped, a tad sarcastically and he smiled softly, deciding that attitude was better than tears. “My ass is firmly glued to this spot.”

He chuckled quietly as he left the room, in search of something to help you.

You watched him go with curious eyes at first, but the first peel of thunder after he disappeared had you shaking and crying again. You wished, briefly, that he had just stayed. He made you feel safer, just with his proximity to you. But then you dismissed the notion. You didn’t want him to witness your tears. The shaking, breathless, sobbing mess you referred to as your ‘ugly cry.’ Not when he was always so perfectly composed and put together.

You’d never once seen him crack. Nothing flustered him. Not that you’d ever seen anyway. Granted you’d only known him a few months, and he’d been chasing serial killers for over a decade. Of course he was solid as a rock under pressure.

You didn’t hear him come back. He didn’t say a word, just got to work. He’d found a couch cushion—somewhere—which he placed on the concrete floor against the wall near where you were sitting. The puff of air was what had alerted you to his presence again.

“This should be more comfortable than the floor.” He murmured, gesturing to the cushion and offering a hand to help you stand. You took it and then sat, as he instructed, on the cushion instead. He didn’t stop there though, no, he had a few more tricks up his sleeve. “I couldn’t find a blanket, but this should swallow you whole and it’s already warm.” He said taking off his suit jacket and draping it over you carefully. Then he turned to a nearby shelf and picked something up, handing it to you. It was a set of headphones. “I borrowed them from Morgan. Do you have music on your phone?”

You nodded but then frowned and shook your head. “I left it in the other room.”

“That’s okay.” He soothed, sitting next to you on the cushion. “I’ve got mine.”

He fiddled around in the pocket of his slacks and extracted his phone. Retrieving the end of the cord, he connected the headphones to his cellphone and started to search for the app he needed.

“Hotch, you don’t have to–” You started to protest, desperately trying to let him off the hook.

But he interrupted you with a gentle nudge of his shoulder against yours.

“I know.” He murmured, smiling at you kindly. “I want to.”

You were speechless. Breathless. Unable to comprehend the words he’d just said. Because why? Why did he want to sit here with you in this tiny little supply closet and comfort you through your juvenile fear of thunderstorms.

“Here. Put those on.” He instructed you gently.

You didn’t move, still flabbergasted at the improbability of Hotch sitting here, with you, just because he wanted to. He raised a brow at you expectantly but you couldn’t get your hands to reach up and put the headphones over your ears. So he did it for you. Gently taking your wrists in his hands and guiding your hands up to your head then situating the headphones so they rested comfortably over your ears. He let go of your wrists and you wrapped your arms around your knees again, pulling his suit jacket tighter around your body. You watched him carefully, still trying to find a reason for his kindness. His mouth turned up in a slightly amused smirk as he looked down at his phone again and tapped the screen once. Julie Andrews' voice flowed into your ears and you snorted a surprised laugh. “You think you’re hilarious right now, don’t you?”

You bumped him back with your shoulder, playfully, without thinking about it. The song was My Favorite Things from The Sound Of Music. The main character, Maria, sings it to the children she nannies during a thunderstorm to take their minds off the fear and the joke is not lost on you.

He laughed softly and looked over at you with a mischievous smile. “I’m honestly just impressed you got the joke. That’s an old movie.”

“I think I’m morally obligated to refer to you as Fraulein Hotchner from now on.” You joked, sniffling a little because your nose was still running and you’re sure you looked SO attractive, not. He laughed at your joke and bumped your leg with his, on purpose. Your stomach flipped, and he changed the song to something slightly more modern. You say slightly because it was late eighties rock and it was a song you’d never even heard before, but you weren’t going to tell him that. He had the volume high enough that you couldn’t hear the storm, but low enough that you could hear him perfectly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He murmured, giving you a soft smile that lit you up inside.

“What are you afraid of?” You whispered, and immediately wished you could retract the question, rambling an explanation instead of letting him answer. “I mean– you said everyone is afraid of something… this fear I have of thunderstorms seems… ridiculous, juvenile even. But it's real and I can’t shake it. So I was wondering… If maybe you’re being so kind because you also have an irrational fear?”

The soft smile remained, and he opened his mouth to respond– but was interrupted by a brutal shockwave of thunder that shook the ground and everything else. You whimpered involuntarily, ducking your head and clutching your knees tighter to your chest. He put his arm around your shoulders—without hesitation— and tucked you tightly against his side. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.” He murmured into your hair and suddenly you forgot entirely about the storm. You nestled in closer, not really caring about the unprofessionalism of the entire situation. You felt safe tucked under his arm like this, so you rested your head on his shoulder and he let you.

“I hate, hate, hate thunderstorms.” You grumbled, huffing frustratedly. “Which sucks because I LOVE petrichor!”

“What’s petrichor?” He mumbles into your hair again, talking so softly to you that your stomach was having a literal butterfly rave or something.

“The smell of rain.” You sighed quietly. “I love it, but I can’t truly enjoy it because rain itself makes me anxious.”

His thumb was softly stroking your shoulder through the material of his suit jacket and he laughed softly. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Mm hmm.” You hummed back. “Why?”

“It’s my favorite smell, I didn’t know it had a name.” He murmured, his breath moving your hair so that it tickled your forehead. His phone started to ring, but he didn’t move to answer it.

Then you realized that he couldn’t hear it ringing because of the headphones. “Your phone is ringing.” You murmured sitting up straight.

He unplugged the headphones and answered it on speaker phone without ever looking at the caller ID. “Hotchner.”

“Hey, did you ever find her?” Spencer’s voice rang out in the quiet as you took off the headphones. Too quiet, you realized after a beat, you couldn’t hear the rain any longer.

“Yeah, I did. You’ve got us both, what is it?” Hotch asked him.

“Oh, good. We’re all going back upstairs, the storm is past us and the weather channel says it's over for the night.” Reid informed you.

“Thank God…” You muttered, relaxing fully into Hotch’s side. He squeezed your shoulder reassuringly and smiled at you.

“We’ll be right up.” Hotch said and started to hang up but Reid hurriedly interrupted him.

“Wait! I was also supposed to tell you that we think we have our unsub.” He rushed out.

“As in, we’ve got a strong suspect or we have him in custody?” You asked in confusion, glancing up at Hotch with your brows furrowed, only to find your expression completely mirrored his.

“Both… Kind of.” Reid answered. “We got a call about a man who was trying to break into a single woman’s house and was subsequently struck by lightning. He’s in the hospital, but they don’t think he’s gonna make it. Which isn’t surprising given that lightning is molten plasma that is generally around 30,000 degrees Kelvin.”

“Woah.” You muttered. Hotch’s face echoed your sentiment.

“Thanks Reid, we’ll be right there.” He said and ended the call. “Are you alright to go back upstairs?”

“Yeah, if the storm is over I’m good.” You replied. “Hey, if this is our guy, do we get to go home and get away from this horrendous weather?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes.”

“Oh good! Now I’ll have two things about thunderstorms to kind of— sort of— appreciate.” You joked, leaning forward to look back at him.

“Oh yeah?” He asked, smirking softly. “What would that be?”

You grinned at him cheekily before chirping. “Petrichor and Plasma.”

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner gifs #thomas gibson #hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch x you #fluff #hotch fluff

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inkedinshadows · 2 months ago

Text

The Morning After

Pairing: Tamlin x f!reader

Summary: After a wild night at Summer Solstice and one too many drinks, you wake up in the bed of the High Lord of the Spring Court with no memories of how you got there.

Warnings: hangover, allusions to sex

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: I normally write in past tense, but I realized after a few paragraphs that I was writing this one in the present tense. Since it came so natural, I decided to leave it that way bc I was too lazy to change it all lol

Main Masterlist | Week Masterlist | Tamlin Masterlist | AO3

@sjmxreaderweek

You wake up to a constant, throbbing pain in the back of your head.

The first thing you notice when you open your eyes with a groan is the blinding sunlight streaming in through the open curtains.

Who leaves their curtains open before going to bed? Especially in the Spring Court, where the sun shines brightly most days. How can anyone sleep like this?

Once you adjust to it, blinking several times, you finally take in your surroundings.

The room is decorated in shades of verdant green and golden yellow, with high-end furniture far more expensive than you could ever dream of. There’s even a fireplace on the opposite wall.

Whoever you went home with last night must be really rich to afford a place like this.

Your head throbs, as if reminding you exactly why you can't remember who you went home with.

Maybe you shouldn't have drunk all that wine. You knew you couldn't hold your liquor.

You can hear someone breathe softly on the other side of the bed and, hoping you have at least made a good choice and picked a good-looking guy, you turn around.

Unbound blonde hair, slightly tousled from sleep, frames a handsome, tanned face you recognize instantly.

You went home with the High Lord himself.

And the worst part? You can’t remember a thing.

You remember the celebration in the vast rose garden facing his manor and how you stopped to admire its roses and their beauty when you first arrived. You remember drinking the first glass of wine to relax and enjoy the Solstice, even among all the faeries gathered there. You never liked big crowds.

After the second glass, you were dancing freely. Tamlin played the fiddle alongside the other musicians, and your eyes had been drawn to him from the start. He just looked so good in his elegant, bright green tunic, long hair tied in a braid that fell over his shoulder. You couldn’t stop glancing at him every so often.

The third glass came after you imagined—for the tenth time—that his gaze had lingered on you while you danced.

Thinking back on it now, maybe it wasn’t just your imagination after all.

But as much as you try to recollect, you can’t remember why you drank a fourth glass or what happened after that. The pounding headache doesn’t help, and you’re left wondering how much more you drank for your memory to be gone.

Tamlin sighs softly in his sleep, and you freeze.

If he wakes up, what are you supposed to do? You can’t tell him you have no idea what happened. You don’t even know if you slept with him.

You’re wearing the thin camisole you had on under your dress, and you catch a glimpse of his shirt as he shifts under the cream-colored sheets. So neither of you is naked. And you’re on opposite sides of the bed, which is large enough for at least four people. You wouldn't be able to touch him even if you fully extended your arm toward him.

So maybe nothing happened.

But then why are you in his bed?

You can’t face him like this. A pounding headache, no memories… not exactly the proper way to meet your High Lord. What if he considers it rude? You wouldn’t be able to live with the shame.

Slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible, you rise from the bed. Maybe leaving before he wakes up is also rude—especially if you did sleep with him—but it’s something you can live with. You can slip out of his room, find your way out of the massive mansion, and never have to face him again.

As soon as you stand up, you have to brace yourself against the wall. The room spins around you, and it takes blinking a few times for it to finally stop. Once you’re sure you won’t stumble and fall, you pick up your pale yellow dress from the chair next to the bed.

Someone—probably not you, if you had to guess—took the time to neatly fold it before draping it over the back of the chair. The fabric barely has a crease when you put it on.

Fortunately, the rustle of clothes doesn’t seem to bother Tamlin. His eyes remain close, his breathing steady.

To avoid making unnecessary noise, you pick up your shoes and tiptoe toward the door, praying it won’t creak when you open it.

“You're not staying for breakfast?”

For a moment, you don’t move. You just stand there—back rigid, one hand on the door handle, shoes held in the other.

Maybe if you don’t move, if you don’t speak or even breathe, he’ll forget about you and go back to sleep.

But you can feel his eyes on you, piercing and curious, and eventually, you turn around.

He is breathtaking.

His hair is molten gold in the morning sunlight, falling over his shoulders in soft waves. A hint of amusement dances in his green eyes as he studies you.

Forcing the words out, you stutter, “I’m… I’m sorry, my Lord. I was—”

“My Lord?” Tamlin repeats. “You sleep in my bed, and now you go back to calling me by my title?”

His voice is still laced with drowsiness, yet it carries a note of playful teasing.

A deadly mix.

At least he’s not annoyed.

“I don’t…” you begin, but you don’t really know what to say. Should you apologize? Tell him the truth about just how drunk you were last night? Or should you start by asking him for explanations?

Before you can make up your mind, he speaks again.

“How’s your head?”

At your confused frown, he adds, “You drank a lot last night. I’m assuming you have a hangover?”

Your hand finally falls away from the handle, but you don’t step away from the door. Keeping your distance seems like the safest, least embarrassing option right now.

“A little,” you admit reluctantly. “I was just about to…”

Your voice fades. Slipping out while he was sleeping is one thing, but now that he’s awake, maybe you should ask him about last night. You can’t just leave without knowing what happened. He’s the High Lord, after all. If something happened between you two, you need—and want—to know.

“About to leave without saying ‘good morning’?” he teases, brows raised.

Taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself for the dreaded question, hoping you won’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have. You already wish you could simply disappear.

“Yes,” you answer, then immediately add, “No! I mean, yes, but it’s just because I… I don’t really remember what happened…”

The beat of silence that follows is deafening, and you brace yourself for his judgment.

But Tamlin only chuckles.

“It’s that kind of hangover, then,” he comments, shaking his head as if disappointed. But rather than at you, he seems disappointed in himself. After a moment, he mumbles under his breath, “I should have seen it coming.”

At last, you take a step forward, your shoes still clutched in your hand.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, the golden strands tangling between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement before settling back on his face again.

“When you approached me last night,” he explains, meeting your gaze, “you seemed only slightly tipsy. I didn’t think too much of it. You just looked a little… overexcited.”

You hold back your groan. Of course you looked overexcited. That’s what alcohol does to you, and you can’t blame him for not realizing you were far beyond ‘slightly tipsy’. Your problem with drinking isn’t your behavior while drunk—it’s the morning after. Though it has never been so bad that you couldn’t remember things before.

“We talked for a while,” Tamlin continues. “And when the celebration was over, we came back here. But as soon as you saw the bed, you jumped on it and collapsed.” He flashes you an amused smile. “You fell asleep in seconds.”

You look down at your bare feet, fingers tightening around your shoes. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be,” he reassures you. “You looked quite adorable, to be honest.”

His tone is gentle enough that you dare to glance at him again.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, that smirk still playing on his lips.

Adorable.

Drunk and passed out on his bed, and he still thought you were adorable. You refuse to think about how your face must look right now—or your hair.

Not knowing how to respond to his compliment, you change the topic instead.

“You took off my dress.”

You don’t know why you said that. It’s obvious it was him. And as you watch Tamlin’s smile fade, you worry that your words came out more like an accusation than a simple statement.

“I did,” he replies quietly. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. It didn’t look comfortable to sleep in.”

Something flutters in your chest at his thoughtfulness. He has a point—it probably wouldn’t have been comfortable. Not that you would have noticed with all that alcohol in your veins.

“No, it’s alright,” you assure him with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Tamlin relaxes again, then he finally stands and pads closer, barefoot like you.

Has he always been this tall? You have never been so close to him before. Well, not that you remember, at least. His earthy scent floods your senses, reminding you of cut grass and fresh mint, soothing the dull pain lingering in the back of your head.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him as he stares down at you, and even though a racing heart doesn’t exactly get along with a headache, you feel too drawn to him to care.

Needing a distraction from his intense gaze, you decide to speak again.

“So we didn’t…?”

You leave the question hanging, unsure how to properly ask him. A part of you hopes the floor will open up and swallow you whole rather than face this topic.

Tamlin raises an eyebrow, and you can’t tell whether he’s waiting for you to finish the sentence or if he’s genuinely surprised by the question.

“No, we didn’t,” he answers eventually. His lips curl up at the corners. “I’d be very offended if we did and you didn’t remember it.”

Now you really wish the floor would swallow you.

You already assumed the answer was going to be no, so why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut? Why did you have to make it even more awkward for yourself?

“I slept on the bed just because there’s enough space.” Tamlin shrugs, glancing back at the oversized bed before turning back to you. “I figured it wouldn’t be a problem.”

You shake your head and regret it a moment later. Stupid hangover.

Tamlin’s gaze softens as he notices your slight wince, speaking before you can tell him you didn’t mind sharing the bed.

“Will you stay for breakfast?” he asks gently. Seeing your hesitation, he adds, “We can get you an infusion to help with your headache.”

You’re not sure it’s a smart idea. What if you say something else that makes things weird and awkward? Yet Tamlin doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all. Quite the opposite, actually. And maybe if you stay, if you get the chance to talk with him a little longer, you might find out what else you did last night. If he was so struck by you that he took care of you—and your dress—then your drunk self must have done something right. Hopefully, he won’t be disappointed by your sober self.

“Alright,” you agree with a shy smile. “I can stay for breakfast.”

Tamlin’s smile widens. He takes the shoes from your hand and sets them back on the floor, then offers you his hand.

“Shall we go, then?”

When you accept, his fingers are warm as they envelop yours. He gives them a gentle squeeze before leading you toward the door.

The long hallway outside is less colorful than his bedroom, but just as elegant. Pale green carpets—soft and plush under your bare feet—cover the white marble floor. A few paintings hang on the walls, and pots of small plants and pink flowers line the path to the staircase.

As you walk, Tamlin glances at you. “You know,” he begins with a smirk, “we might not have slept together last night, but we did kiss, though.”

You gasp, almost stopping in your tracks to gape at him. “We did?”

He nods. “Oh, yeah,” he replies, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Too bad you don’t remember that either.”

You are at a loss for words.

You kissed him. Tamlin.

You kissed the High Lord.

It makes sense, you suppose. If you went back to his room together, the intention was obvious. You would have slept together if you hadn’t fallen asleep immediately. Of course you had kissed before that.

You only wish you could remember. It would be nice to know how it feels, to know what his lips taste like.

But maybe… maybe you will.

After all, he invited you to stay for breakfast. Your shoes are still in his room, so you’ll have to go get them before leaving. He is leading you downstairs, his hand warm and steady in yours, his eyes still on you as he smiles softly.

Hopefully, you’ll find out.

“Yeah,” you echo in a murmur. “Too bad indeed.”

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

#sjmxreaderweek #sjmxreaderweek2025 #tamlin #tamlin acotar #tamlin x y/n #tamlin x you #tamlin x reader #tamlin fanfic #tamlin fluff #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fluff #acotar fanfic #a court of thorns and roses #sjm #sarah j maas #fluff #one shot #fanfiction

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biancasaidstfu · 6 days ago

Note

Emmy theory:

Luke and Nicola got together after filming Season 3 in spring 2023, around the time the famous play photo was taken.

Someone a few weeks ago said that many of the girls from summer 2023 had "agency represented" as their Instagram tagline. I had an eureka moment when I read their comment.

I think they (Luke/ Nic's PR Teams, Netflix or even Shondaland) were looking for a PR relationship for Luke to cover his real relationship with Nicola (I will get to the reason in a second).

I know this is a contentious topic but PR/fake relationships is a norm in the entertainment industry. These girls are represented by agencies so they have legal teams to back them and negotiate. They aren't random girls. Everything was coordinated. They needed a front from Season 3 press (early 2024) all the way up to award season ( Fall 2025). This is an 18-month to 24-month span, which is apparently the norm for PR relationships.

The biggest award for both Luke and Nicola is the Emmy. But how can they be contenders for Emmys if people think they aren't acting? They are the romantic leads. It wasn't like they were co-stars but didn't have many scenes together or played characters with no romance between them (ie Debling and one of the Featherington sisters, who really dated irl). The end goal before the World Tour and even before Season 3 aired was always an Emmy nomination. Think about how for most films the Oscar is the end goal.

Netflix and Shondaland invested so much in Season 3. Not only for promo and ratings but for award nominations as well. There are still Polin photos and clips posted by Netflix accounts a year later, and Variety recently posted an article about Nicola's potential Emmy nomination.

I think this is why everything with Luke and Antonia is all fake and PR. Notice that we need huge reminders that Luke and Nicola were just acting and have other partners.

- The infamous Papgate during the Season 3 Part 2 Premiere.

- The Boss Red Carpet Debut a few weeks before the SAG Awards (and doubled down by Nicola later after the SAGS with the Antonia follow)

-The BAFTAs speak for itself.

And we are going need reminders before the Emmys (Fashion Week, Wimbledon, more Backgrid stuff, etc, you name it.) The stakes were high for the BAFTAS nomination, but they are even higher for the Emmys. This is why Luke and Antonia "hardlaunched" a third time around the BAFTAs, and there were no Luke and Nicola interactions. Nicola is a serious contender for an Emmy; she can't say now that she was dating the romantic lead because again, people would assume she wasn't wholly acting.

If Nicola is nominated, expect the farce with Antonia to continue. It will end after the Emmys and before the end of this year.

If she isn't nominated (or Bridgerton doesnt get nominated for a serious category), it might end sooner.

I think both Nicola and Luke are incredible actors and their chemistry on screen and off is amazing. They both deserve all the nominations. But the optics at the moment is for them to be first and foremost considered as professional actors, not as two people who fell in love on set (that story can come out later).

This makes A LOT of sense with multiple theories wrapped into one and I can see this being a definite possibility.

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cosmicalily · 5 months ago

Text

"four letters (l-o-v-e)" - a minho oneshot by @cosmicalily | prequel to 'type it out (h-e-a-r-t)'

author's note: i may or may not write a part two for this (depending on if people like this one!) i've never really written a fic like this where there's zero romantic action/physical intimacy, but i kind of loved this whole soft, slow burn, and the idea that you can come up with your own ending for it (unless i end up writing one lmao). obviously, this fic is inspired by the 'youth' mv, bc i'm down WILDLY bad for 'youth' minho! also as i wrote in a little blab on my blog this will likely be my last post in my 'regular' writing schedule as it's my very last prewritten fic!! i'd been stockpiling them for days to keep me going but with school restarting (final year!) i know i'll most likely be too busy to write regularly. thank you for all the love over this summer (or winter!) xx i'll still be on here whenever inspiration strikes!

warnings: fights, blood, angst, difficulties at school, suspensions

The sunlight on the emerald coloured lawn was warm, melting through the semi-sheer clouds like honey. You stretched yourself out, torso propped up by your elbows, eyes squinted before eventually, you gave into the glare, closing them fully. You loved the spring sunshine; everything around you felt like it was saturated and glowing, and there was a freshness to the air that the other seasons didn’t carry. You felt a soft kick to your back and opened your eyes reluctantly, batting an arm aimlessly to return the blow.

“Were you asleep?” Seungmin asked, chuckling amusedly. Despite his smirk, he offered a hand to help you off the grass. Foolishly, you reached for it, and once you were about two-thirds above the ground, he let go, letting you fall back onto the lawn with a soft thump.

“You asshole,” you groaned, dusting off your plaid skirt. You pulled yourself to your own feet, stretching your back and slipping your arms into your blazer, giving Seungmin one last dirty look. He simply laughed at you, the way he always did, but you didn’t miss the quick once-over he gave you, checking to make sure he hadn’t really hurt you.

It was just the way you communicated. He teased, you tolerated. And sometimes, if you were bothered, you retaliated.

You reached for your bike, about to set your backpack in the front basket, when suddenly Seungmin tapped you on the shoulder. Not in the irritating way to interrupt you when you were studying, but urgently. You turned your head, craning your neck, and your jaw dropped.

Seo Changbin and Lee Minho were fighting.

Not play fighting, the way you typically saw the two of them tussle around in the back of class. No, there was no laughter, no joking or nicknames. Seungmin pulled the two of you a little further behind the bicycle shelter, eyes wide in shock.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” Minho spat, blood trickling from his lip as he fought against Changbin’s headlock. “You knew that was my last chance. I needed that grade and you’ve gone and fucking screwed it.”

Changbin scoffed, wincing a little at the scratches Minho’s nails left on his forearms. “You’re the one who doesn’t give a shit about school. Why do you suddenly care, huh? It’s just a stupid assignment.”

“They’re gonna kick me out if I fail another,” Minho hissed. “You knew that, but you still had to fuck around and ruin everything for me.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered to Seungmin.

Not quietly enough, apparently.

Minho’s head turned, sharp eyes immediately spotting the two of you. Your heartbeat quickened, and Seungmin mumbled curses under his mouth as Minho quickly pulled himself from Changbin. He gave the latter a quick shove, then pointed in the direction of the bike shed.

“Fuck,” Seungmin murmured.

“What are you looking at?” Changbin shouted, expression hostile.

“Let’s go,” you urged, and the two of you hopped on your bikes, making a hasty exit.

When you turned your head back, Changbin was nowhere to be seen. Minho, however, sat on the lawn, bloody face in his hands.

He looked so much smaller, so vulnerable.

Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned your bike against a fence and ran back to the school grounds, Seungmin shouting your name from behind you.

But Minho was gone now, too.

Seungmin panted beside you, cursing at your stupidity for running back.

Blood now streaked the grass where you’d been sitting earlier.

“Ms. Park and I have been thoroughly debating exactly what to do with you two, Lee Minho,” Mr. Shin sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Because clearly, the past consequences we’ve inflicted have had minimal, if any, impact.”

Minho’s eyes brightened. “Another suspension?” He asked eagerly.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Shin shook his head. “Especially when your attendance is already as bad as it is, and considering the fact that the past seven suspensions we’ve assigned you have only seemed to make matters worse. No, we’ve had to get creative.”

Minho rolled his eyes and yawned, but his heart beat a little quicker. Usually, this conversation would be done in two minutes; it was a script he’d repeated many times. Several apologies, each a little more dramatic than the previous one, then a two-day suspension. Then, Minho would be out of the room, collecting his bag, and could do whatever he pleased. It was like a routine.

‘Creative’, though? He did not like the sound of that.

“We have decided that perhaps individualised punishments are not effective,” Mr. Shin continued. “So we have constructed somewhat of a community service plan for you to complete.”

“What, like picking up rubbish?”

“What, Mr. Shin,” he groaned. “Have some courtesy, please. And no, something different. It will be collaborative, but also educational. Changbin will be doing the same; Seungmin will be assisting him in instructing the children’s baseball team. And, in your favour, we have taken into account your dislike towards physical exercise. However, you’ll still be responsible for a group of people, which will hopefully teach you leadership and empathy. Obviously, we were cautious of assigning you this role alone, so we have recruited some support.” Mr. Shin stood up from his desk and opened his office door.

“Hi Minho,” you said gently.

“Hi, Y/N,” he mumbled.

You pulled out a sheet of paper covered in squares and numbers, sliding it across the desk to him.

And the smile Lee Minho offered you, small but certain, as he stared down at the piece of paper was nothing short of genuine. In that moment, he seemed different.

You saw the same vulnerability you’d seen the day before.

“Have you ever played bingo?”

taglist: @hyunjiiza @velvetmoonlght @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @btch8008s @yaniluvs @ellemir2404 @bellarellasstuff @starsinagreenskyxx @ashtxrie @pigeonseatmayo @modesttiger - comment, dm or send an ask to be added

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darknight3904 · 5 months ago

Text

All Too Well

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: You reflect on your past with Joel, memories only you know flood your brain at a Fourth of July bash.

Warnings: Langauge, idiots in love.

Word Count: 3.4k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Brought to you by the songs All Too Well and You Are In Love by Taylor Swift

Summer 2003

Sarah Miller didn't think fate existed. At least a fate that worked out in her favor anyway. For example, if fate was in fact real, why did she end up with homework every night? If fate existed, the purple soccer cleats at the sports store would've been in her size. If fate existed, maybe her mom wouldn't have picked up and left before she was old enough to even sit up.

No, fate was a made-up thing for Sarah. Fate, however, seemed to be turning her lucky eye to her father.

Sarah loved her dad, even if he was a bit of a grump sometimes. As the years passed, she slowly learned how much he sacrificed for her. Between driving her to her soccer games and giving up nights when he could be out with Uncle Tommy at some bar somewhere, Sarah knew he loved her dearly.

She could feel his devotion, anytime she got sick at school, he dropped whatever job he had and ran into the nurse's office, frantically looking for her. Even when he'd been out on a date, and she'd broken an arm on her friend's trampoline, he'd pulled up in his beat-up pickup truck to take her to the emergency room.

Sarah loved her dad, and he loved her, there were no doubts about that.

Loneliness. It was something that she'd felt creeping up on her dad's life. Even if he'd never admit it, Sarah could tell he felt alone sometimes. She couldn't quite put it into words, but she saw it in his eyes.

Fate, however, pulled some strings, and before Sarah knew it, you were in their lives.

You were like a fresh spring breeze, blowing into Sarah and Joel's lives and breathing new life into it. It had been the night after your third date with her dad that she noticed it, the giddiness. Her dad had bounced into her Uncle Tommy's home with a pep in his step that Sarah only saw after a high-paying job was finished and the check was deposited in the bank.

"Think he's got it, baaaad...." Her uncle whispered into her ear

Sarah giggled when her dad's expression fell,

"I heard that, Tommy."

Sarah pretended not to see when her uncle flipped her dad off.

You were more fun than Sarah had expected. Sure you talked and listened to her whenever she recounted her latest soccer match or gossiped about the kids in her grade. But anyone could listen to that.

Sarah had only really met one of her dad's girlfriends before. Her name was Alison, and she smelled like fancy perfume. Alison was fine, a bit boring, and far too into romance movies for Sarah's taste. Things had gone south after Alison suggested a boarding school for Sarah.

Sarah remembered peeking through the crack of her bedroom door as her dad threw Alison, her nice purse, and bright red high heels out of their home. He'd polished it off with a, "Don't ever fucking come back."

You and Alison were complete opposites, though. You baked cookies for her friend's party and pointed at the funny-looking fish at the aquarium, making fun of their stupid eyes. You watched the gory action movies with her and her dad, even convincing her dad that a 1 am Dominos was essential to all movie marathons. And yes, you even talked him into those delicious lava cakes the made. You were simply magical.

When Sarah tried dunking you at the pool, you hadn't shrieked the way Alison did when a drop of water came near her precious hair. Instead, you sent a splash so big that Sarah got water up her nose and had the sting of chlorine in her eyes for 20 minutes after that.

Late one night, Sarah had tiptoed downstairs in search of a big glass of water. She hesitated when she was a few feet from the kitchen archway. Soft murmurs filled her ears, followed by a laugh that was definitely her dad's. She peeked around the corner just a bit, wanting a glimpse of whatever was so funny at 2:46 am.

An opened rub of ice cream sat on the counter, the refrigerator door was hanging open, and a can of whipped cream was halfway pulled from its spot in the door. Most surprising of all, though, was the way her dad, certified grump Joel Miller, was twirling you around, dancing in the kitchen, the two of you bathed in refrigerator light like it was a disco ball.

Sarah had snuck back up the steps, a stupid grin on her face, finally, her dad was finding some happiness in his life.

You had fit so perfectly into her and her dad's life. Fate had smiled on her and her dad for once.

What Sarah couldn't understand, though, was how he let you go. It'd been your birthday. Sarah knew it because she marked it in her school assignment book, she wanted to make you a nice card with the colored pencils you got her two weeks ago. Her dad wasn't letting her go to whatever party was being thrown at your little apartment across town. Sarah had begged, but he put his foot down, and instead, Sarah made him promise you'd get the card.

His truck had started, but it was sitting idle in the driveway. The slam of the driver's door had Sarah rushing away from the window. Maybe he'd forgotten something?

"You're not going?"

"No." He said, plopping down on his bed to pull his shoes off

"But it's her birthday." She tried to reason with him

"I don't belong goin'." He replied

"I thought you were invited..." Sarah said

Joel gave her a funny look that Sarah couldn't quite place.

"I was...I am. Look...." He patted the bedspread, beckoning her over, "Sometimes, adults, we just...we got things that are bigger than just gettin' along and watching movies together at night."

Sarah nodded, she knew that. How many times had she heard her dad stress about taxes and the transmission in his truck? It had to have been countless.

"I just, Look, what I'm sayin' is that I'm not what she needs." He says, his voice blank

"But you two seem so perfect..."Sarah trails off

He gives her a sympathetic look, "We're better off apart, real different in age too, it'd go bad eventually anyway, better to cut it off now before you get too attached."

Sarah scoffs, he was speaking like he wasn't equally as attached to you as she was.

"Yeah, okay....I guess I get it..."

She had asked her uncle about it one warm day in early September, thinking about how you could've been the one picking her up.

"Why'd Dad dump her, though? I just don't get it, they were so good together, always smiling and stuff."

Her Uncle Tommy glanced at her in the rearview mirror, a flash of concern on his features,

"Sarah, your dad...he's one complicated son of a bitch."

Sarah snorts, she knew that. Anyone who ever met Joel Miller knew that.

"But, if you wanna know my two cents, I'd say he was scared."

"Scared?" Sarah balks, her dad wasn't scared of anything, "Of what?"

Tommy's voice is so soft Sarah barely hears it over the idle of his truck's engine.

"Fallin' in love. He's scared of fallin' in love."

Sarah Miller wasn't one to believe in fate, after all, it had been rather unfair to her. She could only hope, though, that one day maybe, just maybe, fate might step in again and bring you and Joel back together.

July 4, 2024

You groan as your eyes flutter open, a loud voice registering in your ears.

"Get up!!!"

Ellie's face looms over yours as she pokes at your cheek. You try to shuffle back under the blankets, but she rips them off you. God, she was so cruel.

"Fuck off." You mumble, you need to sleep. You thought only babies were this needy, yet here was Ellie dragging you out of bed...again.

Last night's overnight patrol had sucked the soul from your body. You loved Tommy, but listening to him talk about Cailey for 8 hours was simply too much for anyone. Honestly, you didn't care whether his kid liked socks or not.

"You told me to get you up at Three Thirty. You said we were gonna make cookies for tonight's Fourth of July party. " Ellie says accusingly

You let Ellie drag you out of Joel's bed and down the steps where Dina stands at the counter, ingredients spread around her.

"Sleeping beauty arises." Ellie jokes, presenting you to her friend

You nudge Dina with your elbow, "Don't laugh at that, she's a brat."

Dina laughs anyway, her gaze fixed on Ellie. Ugh, teenagers...so gross.

You teach the girls how to fold the ingredients into the dough and catch Ellie at least three times trying to steal some of the chunks of chocolate meant for the batter.

"You're really good at this." Ellie notes as you drop the cookies onto a sheet

"Thank you." You smile at her compliment

"How long have you been baking?" Dina asks curiously

"Technically, I probably started with my grandma back when I was three. But I guess I really got into it in my early twenties. I baked a lot with Joel's daughter."

You hand the spoon off to Dina, letting her drop the cookies onto the tray.

You're not quite sure what it is, but your eyes have gone misty. You turn your gaze away from the girls and wipe at your waterline with the sleeves of your shirt. Fuck, you hadn't even said her name and you were tearing up.

The sound of the front door opening as you all turn. Joel comes in, wiping at the sweat on his brow.

"How'd it go?" Ellie asks

"Good. Fixed the door to the school and a couple of the wobbly desks for the kindergartners." Joel says, giving the report like the three women in front of him were his supervisors on some big fancy construction project.

You give him a weak smile as he turns to look at you.

"What's wrong?"

He's instantly in front of you, dropping his tool bag to wipe away a tear you didn't realize had escaped.

"Nothing. I'm just being stupid." You sniffle, "We were talking, and I brought up Sarah...my stupid waterworks didn't get the memo that there'd be no crying today, though."

Joel's mouth has set in a hardline, you've touched a subject he hated talking about. He steps back from you, his hands letting your face go, leaving the skin he'd touched burning from some feeling you couldn't quite coin.

His eyes are distant now as he backs away, reaching for his tool bag, "Gonna go put these away in the garage."

You fidget in front of the mirror in Ellie's room. A cute white summer dress sits on your body. It's one that Maria brought you, knowing that you'd love the way it fell to your ankles, hiding the ugly scars on your legs. The issue was the way your bare arms poked out, pink lines of ugly scar tissue lined them, making the dress look horrible.

A soft knock at the door sounds, and you slip your bathrobe back on just as Ellie enters, her hair dripping water onto the faded hardwood floors. Her eyes scan your attire, a fuzzy blue robe atop your upper body with a flowy skirt poking out the bottom.

"What the fuck is that?" She gestures to your upper body

"It's my bathrobe." You say dumbly

"You're wearing a bathrobe to a party?" Ellie asks, her voice filled with judgment

"No!" You groan, "I just hate my arms in this dress."

Ellie gives you a look, almost as if she's saying,' And this is why I don't wear dresses'. She sighs and turns to run a brush through the mess on her head.

"I got this ugly cardigan in my closet. You can wear it if you want." She offers

Instantly, you're off your feet, rummaging in her closet to find said cardigan.

"This is anything but ugly." You point out as you pull it from her closet

"Well, I'm never wearing it, it's all yours." Elie motions

The Tipsy Bison is a buzz with what looks like every single person in Jackson. Music plays from one corner of the room, some guy named Alex who apparently knows how to DJ stands at some speaker set up.

Ellie leaves your side in search of her friends, and your eyes roam the crowd. The school teachers stand in a small circle giggling and pointing at some poor guy who has just tripped and fallen on his face. There's another group clustered together and you recognize them as the younger guys who got sent out on graveyard patrol shifts, Brett tosses his head back and laughs at something another has said.

The people you and Joel had rescued from the Walrus are also here. They sit together at a table in the corner. They were all nice enough but you'd left them alone since they entered Jackson, they deserved a sense of normalcy.

Lana leans against the bar, and a nameless woman whispers something in her ear that makes her blush. You liked Lana, you small talked with her when she was assigned to the greenhouse. She was artsy, always sketching in her free time, plus it helped that she made a mean venison stew.

Your eyes finally lead you to the man of the hour. Joel stands, tucked away in a corner, sipping at a glass of whiskey while Tommy rambles about something.

"Didn't think you were gonna show." Tommy greets you with a smile as you cut in

"Well, free booze is hard to pass up." You say honestly, motioning to your half-full glass, "America's independence is nice too."

"Y'look real nice." Tommy nudges Joel, "Doesn't she look nice?"

Joel nods, not meeting your eye.

You'd crossed a line earlier. You knew he didn't want to talk about Sarah, yet you pushed it anyway. You should've just lied and said there was dust in your eyes or that Ellie had beaten you in Uno again.

"Is Maria here?" You ask, hoping to hold baby Cailey

"Ah, she was but uh, Cailey had a blowout." Tommy huffs, "Went all over her and Maria."

You nod, trying to imagine how bad that must've been.

"Would've gone with them but Maria insisted she could do it alone," Tommy explains, trying to justify his wife's absence.

"You don't gotta worry about me judging your parenting skills, Tommy." You smile

Tommy chuckles and shakes his head, "Shudda smelled it. I don't know what's in that breastmilk but it stunk worse than-"

"We don't need a play-by-play of your kid's shit." Joel cuts in

You suppress a laugh as Tommy shoots Joel a hardened glare.

The party rolls on into the night, and you join Ellie and her little group of teens in a game of Monopoly, somehow losing each time to Dina. By the time you rejoin Joel in his corner, you'd been bankrupt twice.

"It's so not fair. They weren't even alive to see a real grocery store and they're mopping the floor with me." You groan as you flop down next to him on a bench

"Would've made good gamblers," Joel says

You snort, trying to imagine Ellie, Dina, and Jesse at the casino gambling away, "Yeah, right. They'd be broke in the first twenty minutes."

"Sounds like you're speakin' from experience." Joel teases

"No!" You gasp, punching his arm only to hit what felt like a block of muscle

This sends Joel into a fit of laughter as he looks at your perplexed face.

He was gorgeous like this. Warm light bathes his tanned skin, highlighting his sharp features. The whiskey he'd drunk gave his cheeks the softest pink tint as his crow's feet crinkled when he smiled more. A green button-down stretches across his chest, it's rolled up at the sleeves, exposing his forearms to your greedy eyes. Blue jeans that are perfectly hugging his thighs and, erm, other areas compliment said shirt nicely.

You chalk it up to the alcohol, yes, the way he's laughing at you must be the booze in his system.

"You're real funny, y'know that," Joel says

"You just have a terrible sense of humor." You huff, crossing your arms across your chest.

A tingle shoots down your spine when you feel Joel's skin brush yours. His big hand has moved to fix your cardigan, pulling it back up your shoulder.

The soft strum of a guitar starts, and you look over to see a woman you recognize as Nadia, sitting on a stool, her acoustic guitar in hand.

The delicate notes of some unnamed slow song starts as Alex switches from his DJ set to a beat-up keyboard he had. You pick at the skin of your fingernails, watching as Tommy pulls Maria away from her seat and onto the dance floor, Cailey cradled between their chests.

"Can I have this dance?"

Joel's deep voice nearly has you falling off the bench. He stands over you, hand stretched out, offering you a dance. Your face warms as you give him your hand. What kind of a person would you be if you left him hanging?

Joel leads you out onto the dance floor and rests his hands on your waist. You nervously fidget, your hands landing unsurely on his chest.

"I dunno how to slow dance." You quietly admit

Joel chuckles and moves your hands so they link together behind his neck,

"Y'did twenty years ago."

The fuzzy image of Joel spinning you around in his kitchen in front of the fridge comes to mind.

"That wasn't dancing...that was just being stupid."

Joel snorts and shakes his head, "Don't worry, I'll lead."

It shouldn't be as hard as it is, dancing with Joel. Yet here you are, stepping on his toes as he tries to lead you in a dance. Your eyes nervously flick around, wondering if anyone is watching.

All of a sudden as if it's magic, it feels like you and Joel are the only people in the world. Alone in a snow globe that spins round and round, keeping the two of you together forever.

"I'm sorry about earlier." You say, "Bringing up Sarah...I shouldn't have done that."

Joel shakes his head, his mustache twitching as he gives you a small, sad smile, "It's alright. I uh...Talkin' about her it's a good thing. It makes me sad but I feel like..."

Joel fumbles with his words as he tries to think of what he's trying to say. You smile and run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, understanding what he means.

"It keeps her memory alive." You finish for him.

Joel nods and breathes a sigh of relief that you get it.

His dark brown eyes meet yours and your heart speeds up.

Fuck, you knew what was happening, and god was it bad. Joel runs his thumbs against the covered skin of your waist.

"Y'look real pretty tonight, baby." Joel's deep voice crowds your ears, "Sorry I didn't say it earlier."

"It's fine, thank you." You softly say

Was it getting hard to breathe in here? Who the hell was stealing all the oxygen? Probably Tommy and his fat mouth.

Joel speaks again, "Listen, I wanted to ask you if-"

"I, um, I'll be right back."

You force yourself to unlatch from Joel and push your way towards the doors of the bar. Once outside, you greedily gulp in the cool summer air. Crickets chirp as you begin the way back home.

Home. Joel's home was where you had been shaking up. Fuck! You couldn't go back there, not until this stupid feeling in your chest went away. If it ever went away, that is.

You were so stupid, falling for him again. You really didn't learn, did you? Twenty-one years into the apocalypse, you were head over heels for the same asshole who dumped you when you were in college.

College. If only your college roommate, Amelia could see you now. She'd probably either tell you to forget about Joel, or she'd say something about how hot Dilfs were.

The grass tickles your sandal-clad feet as you walk off, away from the bar. You must be the world's biggest fool. Of all people you knew, you knew all too well what he'd done. How he made you feel and then ripped it away just like that. He'd fucking mailed back your things and said your age was the reason for the breakup.

Fuck him. You weren't going to fall for his tricks again. Joel could shove his stupid mustache and his dad bod that made you drool up his ass for all you care.

The loud pat pat of footsteps has you spinning around, wishing you'd thought to tuck a pocket knife into the pockets of your cardigan. A deep voice fills your ears as you meet his eyes.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin'?"

Joel.

Next Part

Here we go, the feelings will be felt. Confessions confessed. Stay tuned for the final part!

Thank you for being patient with me as I write. My college courses are eating up all my time again. The Fantastic Four teaser motivated me to finish this part up for you, thank you, Marvel.

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter, I carry the tags over to each part.

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#joel miller #the last of us #tlou #ellie williams #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel the last of us #tlou fanfiction #fanfic #joel tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #maria miller #sarah miller

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