#I HAVE WANTED TO WATCH THIS SERIES FOR MORE THAN 20 YEARS

[citrus-cactus]

For the first time ever (as far as I’m aware), all seasons of Ranma 1/2 are legally available and free on YouTube, with English subtitles.

Does this mean I can finally, FINALLY, watch the series—it in its entirety—IN ORDER??

[coricomile]

Dear Deep Night Special Episode,

Wela/Khemtid is still uninteresting on all counts, and I could have done without the clip show for 60% of the ~new episode.

Seji continues to be the only one I care about, and for a hot second I thought he was getting a third boyfriend, but it was just an insurance ad that kept going through to the next scene. I am sure groups of 20somethings often discuss putting their life insurance in their partner's name after a month or two of dating. ;__;

But thanks for all the softcore horny scenes being compiled together, and kudos to whoever on the subtitles team decided to change "host" to "PR manager".

[highdramas]

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

Hard Launching ∘°∘♡∘°∘

Summary: lando and y/n wanted to hard launch their relationship after dating secretly for a while. lando finds the perfect way to do so.

☘ ln x reader ✧˖*°࿐

☘ fluff + humour ✧˖*°࿐

masterlist ☾☼

lando and y/n had been discussing for a while about hard launching their relationship. they had managed to keep it out of the media for an entire season, but the media liked to paint lando as a villain, in more ways than one. not only were they attacking his skills on track, they began collecting pictures of lando with women, no matter how many years ago, and publishing them with articles about him being a womanizer.

the funniest ones were the pictures of lando and her sister out on some bonding time. reading those articles always made y/n laughed, and she would be lying if she said that she didn’t have them bookmarked in her browser for a pick me up when she was having a bad day.

at first, they had thought of doing a simple post with a cheesy caption. enough to let the fans knows that he was off the market again. but, it also felt kind of boring, and that was not lando or y/n’s style.

they discussed it for weeks, looking at different social media websites for inspiration, until it struck lando. scrolling through instagram, he’d found the perfect way to hard launch his relationship with his girlfriend.

when y/n asked him, he said, “you’ll just have to wait like the rest of the world, my love. but, i know you’re going to love it.”

y/n waited, just like he had told her to. she waited for two months, until one day, in the middle of her work, she received the instagram notification of lando posting and tagging her. this was the moment, y/n thought.

opening instagram, she found a reel, instead of a post or a story like she assumed. quickly, wearing her airpods, y/n clicked on the reel, increasing the volume in the background.

the reel opened with someone recording lando as he walked, head down and concentrated. the person recording said, “excuse me, what are you listening to right now?”

lando took out one of his airpods, and said, “my girlfriend yapping,” and then walked away.

the reel immediately cut to different instances of y/n talking and lando patiently listening. they were all sped up videos, and y/n watched her animated hands as she ranted, and lando listening, changing his position every so often. the music in the background was a lively, jaunty sound, and it fit so well with the reel.

there were a series of videos, from their home, from the paddock, from conference rooms where they were waiting for zak, or even from the gym where lando worked out, and y/n basically followed him, still talking his ear off. there were multiple videos of them on facetime as well, or screenshots of their hour - hour and half long conversations.

y/n laughed. it truly was the perfect way for lando to hard launch their relationship. it described them perfectly, if she did say so herself.

scrolling through the comments, she saw a lot of fans crying that he was a taken man now. she saw some saying things like, “this is the realest representation of a relationship.” there were some hate comments too, but they were stupid, so she ignored them.

she commented on the post as well, typing, “wait till i send you a 20 minute voice note on my lunch break” to which lando immediately responded with, “can’t wait, i got my airpods and my phone fully charged”

y/n laughed again, opening her text messaging app, and sending a quick “i love you this was perfect” to her boyfriend.

·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙

hi! i hope you guys enjoyed this! it came to me while i was driving to college! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[gynnnicsworld]

You know Sterek has been frequently 'cancelled' and attacked for basically being the most popular ship in the TW world, right?

Because of the age gap between them, right? Well, I have to complain about it, because it really pisses me off that they're discarding the beautiful, slow-burning love story that exists between Stiles and Derek in CANON. Because damn it, they liked each other.

It bothers me that they tarnish Sterek's image for things like being a "pedo" ship when NO, they're not. They're trying to lump us all into a "sick shipper" category.

If we're being honest, Sterek has probably been the story with the most backstory, where we've seen how each season has seen the closeness between Stiles and Derek grow, where they've gone from 'hating each other and having to deal with each other because of Scott' to genuinely caring for each other to the point where Derek would take a bullet for Stiles or Stiles would go against the entire FBI to protect and get Derek out of whatever mess he was in.

They care deeply and genuinely for each other, so much so that Derek preserved and fixed Stiles' Jeep, keeping it in his garage as a sort of memento or anchor for him.

It bothers me so much that they talk shit about Sterek when this couple exists:

sorry but parrish/lydia was a canon pairing between a teenager and an ADULT and if that wasn't enough, an adult from the sheriff's department.

Why aren't people talking about this more? Why are they attacking Sterek instead? Sterek: a couple that wasn't canon during the show's run, and we only got confirmation of feelings for each other through the actors and through obvious hints in the show. But directly, it was never a canon couple between a teenager and an adult guy. They were together.

I put the adult that way because Derek's age was never confirmed as such. At the beginning of the series, Stiles says Derek is only a couple of years older than him and Scott. So at the beginning of the series, Derek was between 18 and 19 years old. But later on, they address the fire, so they change the age again, but they never say exactly how old he is, so canonically Derek could be 2 to 5 years older than Stiles. You choose what age gap to give them.

While Lydia, about 17, and Jordan Parish, over 20, are a CANON couple.

Anyway, hypocrisy and homophobia, right?

But there is a VERY important theme between the Derek/Stiles relationship, which if you ask me made the possibility of a relationship between the two of them impossible while Stiles was still a high school student and perhaps only when Stiles was older could something exist between them.

The existence of this damn bitch and what she did to Derek.

I hate her as much as you do, and it disgusts me to have to watch Teenage Derek with her.

But it's important to what I wanted to say; it's why I think Derek repressed his feelings for Stiles.

According to the Teen Wolf book, Kate was Derek's substitute swim teacher, who used certain hormones and scents to attract the teenage Derek to her. YES, that was not only a relationship rife with manipulation, power imbalances, and pedophilia, but she also ended up orchestrating the murder of Derek's family at a moment of vulnerability for Derek because Paige's death hadn't happened long before.

We all know Derek blames himself for the death of his family, and he hates Kate. He knows what she did to him. He knows he was manipulated by an older woman and that he fell for her.

Derek has serious trust and self-confidence issues.

He doesn't believe he's worthy of love or peace.

His anchor until Season 2 was anger because his life was infested with anger/hate/rage.

So he sees himself as something bad, something that hurts, someone who destroys what he loves. He's a victim of sexual abuse, even though he doesn't admit it.

But Stiles became that little glimmer of light annoying, but a light in his dark life filled with negative things. Stiles earned his trust. Stiles fought every step of the way and broke down that wall Derek built around himself to keep people away from him, because trust means giving someone the power to hurt you. Oh well, Derek's mind worked that way. Unbeknownst to him, Stiles earned that trust.

And that's where we have this scene.

This is where Derek lets us see how important Stiles has become to him, Stiles became his anchor.

At this point, it's undeniable that Derek already has feelings for Stiles. He trusts Stiles blindly. But then, why didn't Derek do anything to have Stiles? Because Derek is a victim of sexual abuse by a woman who took advantage of him in high school. And Derek never dealt with that trauma, or we were never shown to have it that way.

Derek dates women, of course—Jennifer (who also manipulated him), Braeden, etc.—whose relationships didn't end well or were never serious.

But not with Stiles, because Stiles is like that extremely important thing where he can't ruin that connection they have, he can't taint or sully this relationship he has with Stiles. It's too important to Derek. Plus, the untreated traumas surrounding his abuser are a clear impediment to starting something real, something serious. And everything seems to indicate that Stiles is THAT person his unconscious heart has chosen.

That is, to start any romantic relationship with Stiles, Derek has to face all of his demons, all of his traumas first, in order to give Stiles what he believes Stiles deserves.

Kate ruined Derek's heart and mind a lot, plus Derek already had a wounded and bleeding heart since Paige.

So, a relationship as such didn't exist in the series between S/D, and it was quite unlikely that it would, but the feelings were always there.

That's why I don't understand why they keep attacking a couple who has SO MUCH backstory, and who if they ever dated, it was definitely when they were already adults and able to deal with their own issues.

The sheriff's line about the jeep and Derek always makes me think that the sheriff was always aware and noticed everything. He never disapproved; on the contrary, he supported them, because he knows there's no one who deserves each other more than those two. It was also a clear confirmation that Derek always had feelings for Stiles, complicated feelings he didn't know how to address, but whose feelings led him to treasure and fix Stiles's jeep.

[iamasaddie]

push, push

Tommy Miller x f!Reader summary: you've been pushing Tommy's buttons too long for him to ignore, it was time he gave you a piece of his mind. warnings: MDNI, infidelity, Benji doesn't exist, PWP, dirty talk, tiny manhandling, naked grinding (is that a thing?), cum eating, big girthy age gap (reader late 20s-30s; Tommy 55), thick Tommy, kinda rude Tommy and kinda brat-coded reader? wc: 2.3k (that's 1.3k more than i intended oh well) a/n: tommy miller brainrot y'know what i'm sayin'. this is not heavily edited, english is not my first language all mistakes are my own and yada yada. special thanks to my special boo @cuppajoel for talking me reading through it series masterlist | next part ao3

Tommy was done with your shit. You were taking it too far to go unnoticed even by the most obtuse members of Jackson, let alone his fucking wife. 

It started when you felt enough at home in Jackson. The moment you came you were a trembling deer, still learning what it was like to live in safety; fed, warm. But when your nightmares became a rarely reoccurring echo of the past, another part of you showed its darker self and Tommy smelled danger. 

It all started with a simple hello, a bat of your eyelashes, a compliment to his shirt. Innocent, polite. But then your eyes started to wander to parts of his body no one but his wife touched for the last six years. And that wandering gaze didn’t falter when he cleared his throat to announce that he noticed, oh no, a vicious smile tugged on your lips, and you walked away but not before winking at him. 

Tommy wasn’t an idiot, he knew when someone was making a move on him, but he played stupid in front of you. Giving simple thanks and nods whenever you said that his hair looked good tied up like that. He was never rude, never gave you any emotional reaction, but that only fired you up more until you finally caught him alone in the Tipsy Bison cleaning up and doing inventory. 

“Here all by yourself, handsome?” You chirped, climbing on a bar stool. The apples of your cheeks became more pronounced as you gave him a toothy smile. Somehow this simple and innocent-sounding phrase tipped him off.

“You gotta stop with this shit,” he used more force to dry a freshly cleaned whiskey tumbler, his hand gripping the glass dangerously hard.

Your fingers tapped on the top of the bar table, the rhythmic sound imitated a timer, counting down beats before Tommy would explode. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t see your eyebrows jerking up in a mocking confusion.

“What are you talking about, Tommy?” There was laughter in you voice. Tommy threw the wet rag on the table a little too hard, slapping it with his opened palm at the same time and making you jump at his movement.

“You know damn fuckin’ well what I’m talkin’ about. Trottin' around me, touchin’ me, saying stuff you ain’t supposed to say to a man twice your age. To a married man twice your age.”

You shrugged your shoulders, tugging at a strand of hair that was tucked behind your ear. “I think you’re just angry ‘cause you want me, and if you weren’t stupid you’d already have me.”

Tommy’s jaw went slack as he counted to three, red hot anger blinding him and he exhaled heavily, like a tired bull at a bullfight. You could almost see steam coming out of his flaring nostrils. He finally looked at you, face screwed in a myriad of conflicting emotions, from anger to annoyance to… curiosity? 

“Have you thought that maybe—just maybe—I just love my wife? Maybe I’m a decent fucking human being?”

It was like he was asking questions from a test you’d spent your whole life preparing for. Didn’t even take you a minute to think before responding, calm and collected, everything Tommy wasn’t.

“Not asking you to love me.” You said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You put your elbows on the table, placing your face between your palms and not taking your eyes off him. “And if you were decent, you wouldn’t have let me watch. You like it. Bet you fuck your fist thinking how I much want you. How I moan imagining your cock instead of my fingers as I fuck my pussy.” 

Your mundane, matter-of-factually tone made him turn around, and he circled the bar getting to you in several heavy steps. Your hawkish gaze never left him and you turned on the bar stool as he approached. Without a second thought, he stood between the legs you spread in an inviting manner and pressed your back into the bar table painfully. The wood counter cut into your skin and it made you hiss, but it was short-lived as Tommy grabbed you by the cheeks, thick fingers making your lips pucker. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The anger tethered on being wondrous. As if he was shocked someone like you would even be there. You wrapped your hand around his wrist and pushed his hand down. 

“I don’t pretend that we live in a normal world, maybe you should stop, too.”

His face dropped and you gave him a victorious chuckle. Your right hand found his neck, squeezed it gently feeling his rapid pulse under your thumb and he shuddered under your touch, but didn’t stop you. You took it as an invitation, tracing it lower, while Tommy stood still. Didn’t push you away when your nail scratched his nipple through his worn white top; let you squeeze at his prominent belly that hung above his jeans. And then he let you touch his hardened dick through the rough denim. In turn, you graced him with a moan while he stayed silent, studying the fire in your eyes.

And then you just climb off the chair, your body almost fully pressing into him as he failed to take a step back. Your lack of bra let him feel your hard nipples dragging along his chest, the proximity of you felt criminal, deadly to everything good he’d ever thought of himself.

“You know where I live.” You leaned to press a kiss to his cheek, but he jerked his face away, so you gave his belly a gentle pat and left. 

When your door slammed open at 8PM that day, you couldn’t say you were confident enough for it not to bother you. You knew that most of the town was at the cinema, watching a cult classic from way before you were born, so you jumped to your feet leaving your cozy chair and grabbing running into the hall.

Tommy looked hot, not just because his hair were a bit unruly with a few greying strands falling over his forehead, his jaw set tight and eyes darker than the night during winter solstice. But also because he still radiated that fuming anger that made him warm enough to cross the street with his jacket wide open.

“Tommy,” you smiled as kindly as you were physically able to, “so nice to see you in my-”

“Shut up,” he bit back crossing your tiny hallway after slamming the door shut. He came up so close to you that you could count his freckles even in the flickering light that stretched from your kitchen.

You made a silly movement with your fingers across your lips, pretending to zip your mouth shut, but he didn’t give you a single chuckle. Instead, he grabbed your shoulder—his fingers painfully digging into the skin revealed by the short sleeves of your simple t-shirt— and dragged you to your room. You had one of the newer houses that were built for the expanding population of Jackson. It was ridiculously small, only one-story high, an open kitchen that leaked into the living room through the narrow hallway, the only rooms fully divided by walls were your bathroom and your bedroom, both holding only as much space as necessary, no excess. With a few other similar places, it stood out among the older two-story buildings, but you didn’t even think to complain. It was light years away from the places you’d nested in before.

Tommy practically shoved you into your modestly decorated bedroom, pushing you hard enough to make you fly onto your bed. The old mattress creaked, and your body bounced like a ragdoll.

“Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

If looks could kill you’d be already six feet under. 

Slowly, you scrammed up, your legs open wide as you moved and settled on laying on your elbows. Tommy looked too big for your room, it barely fit him in. With his broad shoulders, and thick flannel, with his belly standing out and thighs as big as tree trunks. You focused on the belt buckle, it was shiny and big and dragged your attention to the part of him you’re yet to familiarize with. 

“Will having my cock finally calm you the fuck down?” The anger in his voice subsided, giving space for mockery. It was cruel, and it made your sleeping shorts soak through with arousal. 

“I don’t know, why don’t we find out?” Your words merely a whisper, thick and sinful, just like the man in front of you.

He just nodded, taking off his jacket and throwing it on your bed but missing. The item fell to the floor next to it, but Tommy didn’t bat an eye. His hands unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, and then he just dropped his pants, no teasing, no foreplay. 

You were taken aback by such a mechanical action, but when he climbed on the bed you decided no to test your fate and quickly got out of your sleeping shorts, throwing them into an unknown direction.

When your wet, bare cunt was on full display for him, Tommy licked his lips. For a split second you thought he was gonna eat you out, but instead, he hiked up his wife-beater to bare his stomach. A thick black happy trail guided to the soft looking tuft of hair around his cock. A little outgrown, but that didn’t bother you, because you were too impressed by the thing that bush of hair surrounded. 

Modestly long, around 6-6’5 inches, his cock was as thick as your wrist, and you felt saliva pooling in your mouth as you imagined the thing splitting you open. Taking him would definitely take some preparation, so you shuddered when he slapped your slit with his cock.

“Tommy, I—” You stuttered.

“Shut up.” That was his phrase of the day, it seemed. You braced yourself, you weren’t afraid of a little pain and with the amount of slick arousal your cunt was pushing out, it wouldn’t take long to make the whole thing something pleasurable. You wanted him too bad and for too long to push him away now.

But he didn’t push into you, didn’t even press the head to your weeping entrance. He left the shaft to lay on your slit, pressing it pleasantly into your clit. He held his fingers like a cage around the top side of his shaft, making sure he’s stimulating your clit with every thrust of his hips. Tommy was teasing you, mocking. His cock glided through your slick irritating your clit, not giving it enough pressure. The thick, hot shaft was caged between your cunt and his hand and you dug your short nails into his bulging biceps to get his attention.

“Come on, I can take it,” you assured him, thinking it was his way to prepare you, make you even wetter.

“You’re not getting more,” he grunted back, concentrated on the way your silky skin felt on him. Grinding through his teeth when he felt too close to the sun. “Either you cum like that or you’re gonna cry your needy cunt to sleep.”

“Not fair.” You whined, even though you knew you were more than halfway done on your way to a somewhat satisfying orgasm. Your own thoughts about him riled you up, and now, being surrounded by the smell of his sweat, his hair dangling so close to your face you could smell the pine shampoo. And with his deliciously thick cock relentlessly teasing your buzzing clit? No, cumming wasn’t really a problem, but you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t push his buttons just a little. 

“No shit. I am not fucking you.” He spit, his lips twisted but not with anger, no, he was holding back. “I know how much you want it, how long you waited.” Tommy cooed, his mustache tickling the shell of your ear as you soak in the words.

“Will you deprive yourself just because you are a stubborn little shit?” He leaned back, his hips still lazily thrusting to make sure you were constantly stimulated. He looked into your eyes, almost gentle.

“Know you can do it, know you wanna show me how good you look when you cum.” His hand traced the curves of your body before returning to pressing the underside of his cock into your slick slit and nudging your clit. “Come on, show me.”

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as a wave of pleasure consumed you. Tommy kept sliding his dick through your slit, every time the ridge of his tip would kiss your clit you’d hiccup and sob with overstimulation. One look at you like that and he could finally admit that he loved this, loved seeing you ruined, nothing to say just pathetic little whimpers and pleas. 

He fisted his cock tightly, giving it a couple of strokes before erupting on his own knuckles and leaving a few ropes on your sweat-covered cunt. Tommy grunted with the sound of a wounded animal as the last drops of his pearly cum left his angry tip. 

Your fucked out look could easily be mistaken for love, if only he didn’t know you better. If you didn’t know yourself better. Silently, he brought his fist to your face, and you circled his wrist with shaking hands while your tongue cleaned his cum off his skin. When he was satisfied that you licked up every last drop, he ripped his hand from your grip. Without saying another word, he tucked himself in his jeans, tightened the belt and grabbed his jacket from the floor. 

“We should do it again sometime,” you laughed as his footsteps sounded more distant. With the way he slammed the door, you knew he heard you. 

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT AND REBLOG, IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME <3

'you can maybe like this' ahh taglist: @tommysversion @toxicanonymity @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @aureatelys @covetyou @strang3lov3 @megangovier

[hoshigray]

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 [𝐍𝐎𝐓]!! | a JJK series

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “GO FUCK YOURSELF, SATORU GOJO!” “BETTER THAN FUCKING YOU!” It’s no secret to anyone on this Earth that you and Gojo cannot stand each other. Despite that, the world seems amused to put these two star-crossed lovers haters in the same space. Or worse, have them dwell deeper into their feelings for one another…

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Gojo x fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern + college AU - frenemies to lovers + mutual pining - fluff + angst + misunderstandings - first kiss - virginity loss - Gojo and reader are at least age 20 - secret relationships; implied friends-with-benefits - sex in shared rooms; college dorms + hotel suite - college parties - use of party games (seven minutes in heaven) - confessions - mention of drug/alcohol abuse - humor bc Gojo and college, lol - Gojo is a cocky, tactless sweetheart, nothing new - cameos of other characters + explicit content will be listed in their respective fics (within the contents).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: when I say that I had this series planned out, I mean like mid-October last year planned out, lmaoo!! I'm honestly so psyched to do this series, as it's one of my favorite tropes + relatively short as I'll be busy irl, but we'll do what we can!! i was lowkey feeling this concept when i was re-watching Ranma 1/2 and figured it would work great with Gojo. So, here's to hoping i can properly execute my thoughts with this series, hehehe~

reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ❤︎ gif header made by me + fic dividers used are provided by the wonderful @cafekitsune and @animatedglittergraphics-n-more!!

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒊𝒓...

All the material below contains explicit 18+ content, so minors do not interact.

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (Feb 1st)

The start of the spring semester is supposed to be fresh and new, not be cramped up in a closet with your frenemy at a party! And what's worse: you actually like the feeling of his lips on yours!?

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 (Feb 7th)

Is it possible to wish to be in the embrace of someone who makes you want to throw them off a cliff? You seem to think so, and the same goes for Gojo. But alas, good things always come to an end, even when not meant to be...

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐒𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 (Feb 14th)

Going on a date with the guy who broke your heart is something you’d never thought would happen – especially on Valentine’s Day! But it’s just for him to be in your good graces again, nothing more…Yeah, go ahead and tell yourself that.

𝑨 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑳𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖!

Would you like to be tagged when these pieces get released? Lmk in the replies, please, and thank you!

𝑻𝑨𝑮 𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑺𝑬𝑫!!! Have made a list of the first 50 ppl who asked, but don't worry!! Check back for the stories when they're posted on their respective dates!!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ❤︎ These stories have been written by the original poster (me). Do not steal, edit, copy/plagiarize, or post any of my works on your own accounts, in or out of this app. Please and thank you.

[aegis-noctua]

Allow me to finally break and enter this fandom with my humble offering!

I just wanted to do something with them all being good friends. Love, love, love their group dynamic! Also I have like 20+ pages worth of silly little dialogs that I want to turn into equally silly little comics, so hopefully I'll be sticking around.

Aaand a lot of rambling under the cut.

I'm an avid reader, you see. I generally don't watch things (sometimes not in literal years), it's just not something I do. So when at the beginning of fall tumblr exploded with outrage over the Dead Boy Detectives cancellation, my first thought genuinely was "what a stupid f*cking name" and then immediately "people are overreacting, it's just a series, nothing is worth that much of a fuss". But after observing for some time from a safe distance I eventually grew curious. I thought I knew what I was getting into.

(I had no bloody idea)

Well. Here I am now, almost four months of obsession later, eating my words with shards of glass and no sign of reaching the bottom of this cursed rabbit hole. I've been drawing more than ever and for the first time seriously thinking about honing my artistic skills. I have some drafts for at least two stories, and even though I'm a little hesitant to write (not being a native and all), I'm pretty determined to give it a go anyway. I tend to avoid social media and digital public spaces in general, but #SaveDeadBoyDetectives campaign changed that as well. To my great regret, there is not much I can do or participate in, so I settled for trying to be supportive of all the lovely people who created probably the safest and most comfortable online space I've ever encountered. I'm not as good as Charles at keeping spirits up, but damn I wanna try.

It honestly feels like if I had something like dbda growing up, I'd turn out at least 40% less traumatized as a person. It grew to mean so much so quickly. It's like some moments were plucked right out of my life and then embedded in the show. I felt (and still feel) so seen, and understood, and reassured, and safe, and hopeful, and accepted when watching (pretty much everybody's but especially) Edwin's side of the story. It's so much more than "just a series", and these Dead Boys deserve every good word that's being said about them.

Okay, I'm wrapping it up now, and the only thing left to say is thank you to all the people who put their effort into keeping this wonderful story alive and making the fandom so friendly and welcoming.

(right now I'm working on a big Christmas comic that I definitely won't be able to finish in time, but it will appear here at some point)

[mommyslittlebird]

What the Body Wants

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

Summary: Now that you’ve decided to stay home for good, Wanda decides to take a step further into her role as your mama. The side effects bring out parts of her you’ve never seen.

CW: Stepmom/stepdaughter, induced lactation, breeding, cum strap, ovulation, light choking, W wants a baby, R is lowkey a bad fuck, R is confused but enthusiastic

Word Count: ~5k

A/N: Writer is also confused but enthusiastic. I’m not entirely sure I did this right but I like how it turned out and I really loved the premise. I hope this lives up to the hype/the rest of the series!

Part 5 of Her Special Girl

———————————————————

Coming home actually turned out to be a bit of a better deal than you expected. You’d half prepared to be regretting your decision by now, longing for the dorm life and solitude that moving away had given you. But, in reality, that college had never really given what you had hoped it would, so it didn’t feel like you were leaving anything behind.

Home life had also improved in the years you went away. A new custody agreement between Wanda and her ex-husband meant the boys were gone every other week, and they had grown up enough to not be riding Wanda’s coattails like they had been when you left. Your father was still deadweight, but he fell asleep early and stayed at work late, so even he was only an issue on occasion.

Even though it was only a 15 minute drive to campus, you adjusted your schedule to only have in-person classes on Tuesday and Thursday so you didn’t have to go everyday. So you spent most days in the bay window of Wanda’s office with your laptop and a lap desk, silently working on classwork while she sat at her computer.

Since you’d decided to stay home 2 weeks ago, Wanda had started the process of induced lactation, a thing the two of you had discussed in the past. You couldn’t help but be fascinated by the process. She would sit down on the couch or in bed, and spend around ten minutes with the funny looking devices hooked up to her chest. She still had an electric pump from when she had the twins, and you love to watch in awe as the clear plastic methodically massaged your mama’s nipples. She’d simply be reading a book or watching TV, but your eyes never left her chest.

If you asked nicely, she would let you help her use the manual pump. It never failed to amuse her how seriously you took this task. You would straddle her lap, furrowing your brow and sticking out your tongue slightly in intense focus. You always made sure the cup was placed perfectly, and you watched her face to gauge her reaction as you started to squeeze the pump. You were so receptive to anything she told you, whether you needed to squeeze it a little bit more, or if you’d gone too far. You always felt so honored to be allowed to take part in the process.

Your favorite, though, was when she invited you to join. She always insisted that the best form of stimulation was your suckling. She would lay you across her lap, running her hands through your hair, telling you that you did it better than the machines ever could. You spent 10, sometimes even 20 minutes on each side longing to draw out the process for as long as possible. Occasionally, she’d let you suckle on one side while she hooked up the electric pump to the other. She seemed to get extra stimulated on those days, hardly able to sit still even with your full weight in her lap.

On this particular afternoon, the two of you were curled up on the couch watching one of Wanda's favorite movies. You thought it was a little boring, but you weren’t going to complain while you curled up in her lap, securely wrapped in a soft blanket. The boys were at their dad’s house, your dad was at work and wouldn’t be home for several hours, and Wanda didn’t have any meetings this afternoon, so you didn’t have to worry about getting caught.

You wiggled around a little, trying to get comfortable, and you accidentally pushed your shoulder into Wanda’s chest.

She winced and sucked on her teeth. “Careful baby,” she whispered. “Mama’s a little sore.”

“Sorry, mama,” you apologized, turning to face her while carefully avoiding hitting her again. She took her breast in her hand, gently massaging it to ease the tension. You could see through gritted teeth how sore she was. You wanted to help her in any way possible. “Do you need a massage?” You asked innocently.

She perked up a little bit, intrigued by the offer. “Do you wanna give mama’s breast a gentle little massage?”

You nodded, and she slipped her shirt off over her head, revealing her chest. You could’ve sworn it was growing, though not so much she couldn’t hide it with baggy clothes. She took your hand in hers and slowly raised it to her breast. She could see you were nervous. You didn’t want to hurt her.

“It’s okay baby,” she reassured you. “You aren’t gonna hurt mama.”

You bit your lip, determined to do a good job and ease her pain. She was doing this for you, after all. You cautiously massaged the skin with your fingers, working your way carefully around her chest.

“Mmm,” Wanda hummed, throwing her head over the back of the couch. You could see her chewing the inside of her cheek, breathing shakily through her nose.

“Is this okay, mama?” you ask, concerned. “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, sweet girl,” she assured. “Don’t stop, just a tiny bit harder… ahh. You’re doing such a good job making sure your mama is all taken care of.”

“Mama?” you asked nervously.

“Yes, sweet girl?” she responded breathily.

“Is it hurting your body? To try and make milk for me?”

Wanda sat up straighter and cupped your soft, worried cheek. “Aww, sweetheart. You’re not hurting mama, baby. Mama is doing this because she wants to. And it doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just sensitive.” She stroked your cheekbone with her thumb, noticing how worried you still seemed to be. “Can mama tell you a secret baby?”

You nodded and leaned in, pressing your ear to her lips even though you were the only two people in the room.

Wanda dropped her voice to a whisper, playing along with your overly stealthy approach. “Mama’s body is reacting like this because all this pumping is making it want a baby.”

She took your hand, sliding it down her body and into the front of her pants. You nearly gasped as you felt through her thin underwear just how soaked she was. You pressed lightly into the wet patch, sliding two fingers up her slit through the fabric. She inhaled sharply, already grinding up against your hand. “It’s so sensitive, baby.”

She pulled back, gauging your reaction. There was a glint of recognition in your eyes. You were familiar with this sensation.

—----------

You stood in the doorway of her office, anxious and sweating. Your body felt it was on fire, tingling from your fingertips all the way down to your toes. You typically had a decently high sex drive, but you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt this needy. It would have been easy enough to go to your room and masterbate, solve the problem on your own, but you wanted more. You wanted Wanda.

“Mama?”

Wanda turned her office chair to meet you. “Yes, sweet girl? What can I help you with?” She opened her arms, signaling you to come in.

You sat down in her lap and laid your head against her shoulder. She cradled the back of your head, stroking your hair softly with her thumb.

You hadn’t exactly planned to press your lips to her neck, to gently suck at the skin under her ear, but you were so hot, and her skin looked so soft, and you were so close, and she smelled so nice. And god, the taste, the sound you drew from her lips, the warmth of her skin. You needed her so badly. You slid your hand under the hem of her shirt, sliding your palm across her warm stomach.

“Sweetheart?” she said in a warning tone, using her hand to gently pull you from her neck. “What are you doing?”

She looked down, finding your eyes already glazed over with lust. You were hot to the touch, and just the simple tug of your hair pulled a low moan from your throat. “I need you, mama….”

She swallowed hard. It took a herculean amount of strength not to throw you over her desk and take you right there. If she hadn’t been a tad concerned that you had lost your mind, she would have. “Baby…” she asked. “What’s going on? Talk to mama.”

Your eyes looked into hers, pleading for more. Anything to take away the aching from between your legs. “It… I feel… It’s all so tingly. Everywhere. It… it hurts mama.” You were practically begging her to rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless.

“Ahh,” she hummed in recognition. “It’s that time of the month, is it?”

You furrowed your brow, confused. “What? No. My period was last week.”

“So your ovulation is this week,” she posited, smiling devilishly. “I’ll have to start keeping track of it, if it’s hitting you this hard.”

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder while your hips bucked against her lap for any source of friction. You didn’t exactly know what ovulation was or what it had to do with you being so unbearably horny, but you weren’t exactly in the mood for an anatomy lesson.

Wanda kissed your head sympathetically and rubbed gentle circles on to the small of your back. “I’m so sorry, little love. Mama will take care of you in just a minute, just let me email Tasha and let her know I’m taking a long lunch.”

Thankfully, Wanda was true to her word, wrapping up her things rather quickly and carrying you to the bedroom. Your body hummed with electricity as she gently undressed you, making sure to egg you on with wet kisses and random hickies placed sporadically across your skin. You nearly jumped off the bed when she finally touched you, running a single digit up your folds and standing back to admire the results.

“Oh sweet girl, look at this,” she purred, holding her fingers in front of your face, covered in your excitement. As disinterested as you were in anything other than her hands and mouth on your body, you were admittedly a bit curious as to why it looked so different. What was usually a thin, clear liquid was now thick and white. She brought the fingers to your lips and you obediently took them into your mouth. “Do you know why it looks like that, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, quietly moaning at your own taste.

She leaned forward, whispering into your ear. “It’s because your body wants mama to give you babies.”

Just the raspy way the words left her mouth sent your hips flying off the mattress in a jolt of arousal. She stilled them with her hands, moving to kneel between your legs.

You had always had a pretty strong preference for missionary. You like to wrap your arms around Wanda’s waist and bury your face in her neck to stifle any sounds that she pulled out of you. This time, however, Wanda grabbed your legs and pushed your knees to your chest, gripping your thighs just below the underside of your knee.

You whined, feeling too far away from her, but she bent forward and kissed your head. “Shshsh. It’s okay sweet girl. Mama’s got you.”

You almost wanted to protest, but as soon as the tip of the toy hit your skin, any objections melted away. It was bigger than the toys you typically used, but you were so soaked the first four inches still slid in with ease. Your body momentarily seized and you breathed out a straggled moan.

Wanda took it slow at first, leaning forward to kiss your face and whisper words of encouragement as she gently eased the toy deeper and deeper with each thrust. “That’s it. That’s my pretty girl,” she cooed. “You look so pretty stretched out around mama’s cock, baby. Does it feel good? Is this just what you needed from mama?”

“Uh huh,” you moaned, eyes already starting to roll backwards. Your face flushed red when you realized you had nothing to cover your mouth with, leaving you squeaking and whining uncontrollably with each thrust.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as Wanda bottomed out. You quickly realized the reason Wanda had you folded over like this: the strap could go impossibly deep, stretching you out in ways you’d never felt before. It was like she was kissing your womb with every stroke.

She groaned, slowly but firmly thrusting in as far as she could and holding it there before pulling back again. “Look at you, honey. Mama’s got you nice and ready. Are you gonna be a good girl for mama and let me give your body what it needs? Are you gonna let mama give you her babies?”

You bit down hard on your lip. You didn’t really understand what she was talking about. She couldn’t actually get you pregnant, but you did not care. You nodded eagerly, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “Mhm.”

“Say it for me. Tell me you want mama to fill you with her babies,” she commanded gently, continuing her slow and careful thrusts.

“I want… I want your babies mama. Please. Please mama I want you inside me forever,” you whined. Still you didn’t exactly understand what you were begging for, but the glare in her eyes told you that must have done the trick.

She leaned forward, pressing her whole body against yours and pinning you to the mattress. Your feet went up over her shoulders, keeping you trapped in the position even as her hands moved from your legs to the mattress. What had previously been slow, shallow strokes turned into faster, brutal thrusts. She pulled the toy nearly completely out of you before slamming it all the way back in. Her hips met yours in a merciless rhythm that left you shaking.

“Fuck! Mama… Mama!” You screamed, trying to reach out and grab her, but unable to get your hands out from under your legs. “Mama… I love you. I love you mama.”

“I love you too, sweet girl,” she said, nearly grunting with the intensity of her movement.

There was a shift that happened sometimes, when things got particularly intense between the two of you. It was like the slipping of a mask, but not in a scary or malicious way. Just Wanda so brutally intoxicated with you that she lost control. Her eyes narrowed and her face hardened. Her breaths came more as grunts than light moans. Her grip on you tightened into something more possessive and domineering. It never failed to drive you crazy.

“Fuck,” she growled, leaning back and moving her hand to your throat. “I’m gonna breed you. I’m going to keep filling you up until you can’t do anything but lay here and wait for me to come back and fill you up again. I’m gonna keep you leaking with my cum until this sweet little belly is all nice and swollen. Would you like that, angel? Do you want mama to keep you nice and full?”

“Yes mama!” you cried. “Please… please mama. Mama I’m gonna cum for you. Please cum inside of me mama. Please cum in…” you were cut short by an orgasm tearing through your body, leaving you speechless and dumb.

Wanda did not let up, continuing to chase her own pleasure. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t get out anymore than incoherent babbles. Wanda grabbed the vibrator she had given you earlier from your hand, turning it on and holding it to your clit. You writhed underneath her, jerking and spasming off the mattress, but she held you firmly in place.

Neither of you could do anymore than whimper or squeak. The only sound in the room was her hips hitting yours and the low thrum of the vibrator.

She let go of your throat, leaning forward again so she could kiss your face. “You're so beautiful, angel. And you feel so good on mama’s cock.” She turned up the setting on the vibrator, burying herself inside of you as deep as she could go. She could feel the vibrations against her own clit now. “Oh angel, mama’s gonna cum inside of you. Mama’s gonna fill you up and give your body everything it wants.” She squeezed the strap as she came, filling you with a warm, thick liquid unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

Wanda slowly pulled out, and gently guided your legs down to a more natural and comfortable position.

You shuttered as you felt the liquid leak out of you and drip down the crack of your ass. You furrowed your brow in confusion. “Mama…” you whined. You were so exhausted you couldn’t do anything but turn your head to look at her.

“Yes, little love?” She said, leaning forward to gently wipe the stray hairs from your sweaty forehead.

“What was that?” You asked breathlessly. “Feels funny…”

“Mama just came inside of you, sweet girl,” she explained quietly, bending down to kiss your head.

“It’s so… warm,” you noted, rolling your head to the side. Your nose pinched uncomfortably as you felt the thick liquid dripping down onto the bed sheets.

Wanda reached her hand back down between your legs, collecting the cum on her fingers and pushing it back inside of you. You whined.

“Shshsh angel,” she cooed. “Mama’s just making sure you stay nice and full, sweetheart. You remember what we talked about, yes? That’s why you’ve been so needy for mama all afternoon. This is what your body wants.”

When she was satisfied, she discarded the strap and laid down behind you, putting her arms under yours and methodically rubbing your stomach. She imagined your stomach swelling with life you created together. What a beautiful display that would be, of your love for each other. She moved your hair aside so she could kiss the back of your neck and the spot up under your ears.

You laced your fingers in hers, resting them just below your navel. “Do you really have to go back to work, mama?” You couldn’t handle it if she left you in here alone, all sweaty and still leaking cum. Surely she would at least carry you to the bathroom, maybe run you a bath and get you cleaned up.

Wanda chuckled and kissed your shoulder blade. “I think Tasha can handle it on her own.” She pulled you closer, rubbing her cheek against your shoulder. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would explain this to her coworker in the morning, but she would be sure to start taking a day off around the same time every month.

—---------

“You want me to…” you asked nervously, but even the idea made your pupils dilate. You had never used that particular strap inside of her. She’d only ever used it on you. It was honestly still a mystery to you, how the thing worked.

Wanda bit her lip and nodded, pulling your hand from her pants. “I mean, only if you-”

“I do!” you interrupted.

She raised her brows and opened her mouth like she was getting ready to chastise you for interrupting, but when she saw the eager, innocent excitement in your eyes, she just sighed. “Okay angel. Let’s go up to your room.”

You practically jumped up off of the couch and raced upstairs, grabbing the strap and shedding your clothes before she could even make it up the stairs. She merely chuckled at your overeager behavior, casually stripping off her own clothes while you fiddled with the harness.

She sat down naked on the end of the bed, helping you secure it around your waist. She pulled at the straps you had already managed to get twisted and tangled, adjusting and tightening it to your body. “Is that too tight?”

You shook your head, waving your hips back and forth to make sure it was snug.

She led your hand to a bulge at the base of the toy. “Now when you’re ready, you’re gonna squeeze right here, okay?”

You nodded, feeling the unfamiliar shape with the pads of your fingers.

Wanda scooted backwards until her head hit the pillows. You followed, crawling on your knees until you were nestled comfortably between her legs.

You were always a little awkward, trying to get the toy in. Luckily Wanda was right there to help. She eased the tip in herself, biting her lip to contain a moan as she did so. “Okay now remember, just start nice and slow.”

You leaned over her, putting your hand against the mattress on either side of her. You stuck your tongue out slightly in concentration, trying to focus on finding a good movement. If you were being honest, you were never particularly good at this part either. But what you lacked in skill, you made up for in determination. You found a slow, and slightly awkward, but steady rhythm.

Wanda hummed delightedly, pulling you down against her. “Mmm… that’s it angel. Nice and slow. Give mama some time to adjust.”

As you continued your easy, slow ministrations, you found yourself being able to go deeper with each stroke. It was only a minute or two before you were all the way inside. If you weren’t actually trying to make her cum, you might just stay like that forever, deep inside of Wanda, feeling her body clench and pulse around you. It felt so natural. More natural to you than anything else in the world. Your bodies fit together like perfect puzzle pieces.

You took the opportunity to crane your neck downward and trace your tongue over her sensitive nipples. She gasped, squeezing her eyes closed and burying her hands in your hair. You sucked the hardened bud into your mouth and gently flicked it with the point of your tongue. Her body was taut like a bowstring, hardly moving under you aside from a few swallow gasps. You moved to the other side, gently circling the exposed one nipple with your fingertip while you did the same with your tongue on the other.

“Keep going, baby,” she panted, arching her chest up into you. She reached one of her hands down to play with her clit. “That feels so good. Mama is so sensitive for you. Mama’s body knows you’re her baby.”

You moaned at her words, your mouth and fingers doubling down. Her body shuttered and you felt her start to pulse around the strap. You felt a surge of warmth pool between her legs. You pulled your head up to look her in the eyes. “Did you just…”

She nodded and chuckled a little bit. “I told you I was sensitive.”

Your eyes went wide. You had never made her cum so fast. But a certain pride swelled up in your chest as you watched her body react to what you were doing. You gained a bit of confidence: enough to start rolling your hips in a steady motion against hers.

The smug chuckle immediately stopped as the strap started to scrap her sensitive walls. The toy was traced with vein-like bumps that scratched at that special spot inside of her. Her hands shot up and wrapped around your back, clawing gently at your shoulder blades and the length of your spine. “Ah!” she squeaked in pleasant surprise. You’d never quite taken initiative like this before. “Good girl. You're making mama feel so good. Keep going, just like that.”

She wrapped her legs around your waist, keeping your thrusts shallow and deep. “Oh god. I want to feel your cum inside of me, angel. You’re gonna make mama feel so full and happy. Tell me you want to cum inside me, sweet girl.”

“I wanna cum inside you mama. I wanna make you feel so full and… and happy. I’m gonna do such a good job for you mama. I promise,” you stammer. The sounds she was making were music to your ears. Her heels dug into your thighs in tandem with her nails on your back. She was everywhere, surrounding you in every way possible. You looked down between her legs, watching the strap slide in and out of her pussy. That was your cock inside of her.

Suddenly, as if it were some trick of your brain, you could feel it, warm and wet, drawing you in again and again. She wanted you to cum inside of her. You wanted to cum inside of her. You wrapped your arms around her back, pulling her slightly up off the mattress as you started to go faster. You buried your face into her neck, muffling your noises.

“Oh fuck,” Wanda panted, bury her hand in your hair. She cradled your head just over her shoulder. “Fuck… you would give me such beautiful babies.”

You whimpered and rutted into her so hard and fast she nearly hit her head on the headboard. She smiled breathlessly. Clearly she got you riled up.

“Did that make you happy? The idea of giving mama a baby?” She asked, turning her head so she was only inches away from your ear.

You whined and nodded, rutting into her again. This time she let out a deep, satisfied moan as she felt the tip of the toy kiss her cervix. “You want to put a baby inside of mama?”

You knew it wasn’t possible, of course. Wanda couldn’t have any more children, and even if she could you certainly couldn’t get her pregnant. Still, the idea tickled your brain in all the best ways. It would be a part of you inside of Wanda. You nodded eagerly, biting your lip. “Mhm.”

You wrapped yourself even tighter around her waist thrusting your hips into her with a new determination. “I wanna hear you say it baby…” she gasped. “Tell mama what you want.”

That was all she needed to say to get the dam to break. As soon as you open your mouth, the words flowed out of you in a flurry of desperation. “I want… I wanna fill you up mama. Please. Please, I need it. Please mama.” You were bucking into her like a virginal teenage boy, erratic and sloppy, like you could actually feel yourself inside of her. “You feel so good, mama.”

“I’m so full,” she breathed. She was so sensitive. You were hitting every spot inside of her while simultaneously laying on her aching chest. “Fuck, angel, you’re filling me up so good. Do you want to feel mama cum on your cock? Do you wanna make mama cum?”

“Yes. Please yes,” you begged, rolling your hips into hers. You sat up a little more, getting a better angle that allowed you to get even deeper inside of her. There was a surge of hunger that shot through you at the sight of her, absolutely beside herself with pleasure underneath you. You reduced her to this. You are the reason she feels so good. In a feeble attempt at dominance, you took her wrists in your hands and pinned them to the bed.

“Yes, baby. Hold mama down and make her take your babies,” she moaned.

You whimpered. You were far too small to even attempt to actually hold her down, but the sentiment still drove you both crazy. You buried the strap as deep as it would go, squeezing the base and releasing inside of her.

She arched up off the mattress, mouth fixed in a perfect “o” shape as she came around you.

You stayed like that for a second, buried inside her until she stopped shaking and collapsed back onto the bed. Slowly, you eased yourself out of her, watching your seed spill out of her. You hadn’t expected it, but there was a certain level of discontentment you felt, seeing your essence drip onto the mattress. You gathered what you could onto the tip of the toy and gently pushed it back in.

She groaned, exhausted and unable to move. You gently eased yourself down to lay on her chest, careful to avoid her tender breasts. You went limp on top of her, merging together in a boneless and sweaty pile of heavy breaths as you both tried to recover.

When she regained the ability to move, she scooted back to sit up against the pillows and moved to stroke your hair. The toy slowly fell out of her, and the warm remnants of your orgasm started to pool on the sheets below. After a long moment of lying lifelessly sprawled out on top of her, you heard her chuckle. You lifted your head to find her smiling down at you in an ecstatic giggle.

“What?” you asked, confused as if you had missed some joke.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just happy.” She craned her neck so she could see your face. She was grinning ear to ear. I was a true smile: one she couldn’t even repress if she tried.

“About what?” you asked, confused. Sex, even good sex, had never left her with such a cheery disposition before.

“Just…” she paused a minute, trying to figure out how to best phrase what she wanted to say. “My body is aching for a baby and then I look down and… you’re here.”

You smiled at that, feeling that you had filled some deep biological need within her just the same as she filled one in you. You looked at her swelling breasts, and you nosed at them in a silent question. She guided your head towards her nipple in a silent answer. Your lips wrapped delicately around the hardened bud, naturally massaging it with your tongue. Much to her dismay, there still wasn’t any milk, but there was a different type of magic to knowing there would be, eventually.

The two of you were working together to create a beautiful thing. It was a sort of tangible proof that her body was responding to you, claiming you as her own. Her breasts were growing for you. Filling with milk they made for you. Because she was your mama, and you were her baby.

[chronicdelusionistsart]

Bernard Dowd and the Art of Recontextualization

I'm what you might call a "fake Batman fan" - that is, I've only watched most of the Batman animated series', all of the live action movies, most of the animated ones, played some of the video games... so, you know, probably thousands of hours of my life in Batman related media. But not the comics! Fake fan!

Frankly, I find the comics medium the way DC and Marvel do it to be really hard to follow. There's the fact that you can't really follow an individual solo character without them getting caught up in massive crossover events that ruin their arc and pacing, there's the soap-opera-iness that encourages cheap and revolving conflicts inherent to the longform monthly release schedule, the writer roulette, and there's also just that going back to try and thread a particular continuity or character is an exercise in frustration. Oh and the retcons. Everyone hates those. They've (basically) never been good. Don't remember this part it will never come up aga

But, you know, despite this - or maybe because of this - comics is a breeding ground for ideas. Because of the quick turnaround and the demand for novel conflicts, comics just churn out idea after idea. Good ideas, bad ideas, doesn't matter. Get it to print. Retcon it later if we write ourselves into a corner. Comics are often soooooo first draft coded. This is why I personally prefer adaptations - they often reimagine ideas and retcon them into new narratives where they can serve a more coherent plot. But what happens when a character is picked up for a second draft ... without actually contradicting the earlier material? While enriching the earlier material, even?

(SPOILERS for Tim Drake: Robin and uh... 20 year old comics under the cut!)

So, uh, quick disclaimer - because I have very little overall knowledge of DC's Comics continuity, there may be more interesting examples of times that what I'm going to point out was done. But I love Bernard and from a writer's POV I'm impressed with the way they did it so we're talking about Bernard lmao

The Beginning (Robin 1993) - Reading comics from the 2000s hurts in a way I can't describe

Okay so I heard Tim Drake is dating a guy now? (Penny Sonic voice) Whoa he's bisexual I didn't know that! I'm sure people on the internet are being very normal about this. Cool let's find out more about his new bf. I like starting from the beginning... so like yeah hold on while I crack open the Robin comic and take down what this guy's deal is.

😬

So basically the TL;DR of Bernard in his original appearances is that he seems to be an attempt to introduce some normal stakes teen drama into Tim's life. He has all the Funny Guy Friend Classics - he's got an inflated sense of his proficiency at pulling girls, he's inexplicably drawn towards the protagonist (who is cooler than him), he wants to date the most popular girl in school, and he wants to get down with older women!

This might just be me but while I was going through this I thought like, he almost reads a little uncanny, like he's been filtered through a Disney Teen Special. In practice he mostly serves to introduce Tim to the Real Plot, Darla Aquista, and be one of his ties to civilian life, which is, like, fine. He's ultimately just a background character and he's so unimportant that he only has one appearance after their school gets shot up(!!!), which is, again, to be more of an accessory to the Darla plot.

After this display of "wow this guy's kind of lowkey insane for offering to his resurrected bestie supervillainess to be her manager actually", he's dropped forever. Comics! We're not gonna unpack that.

The Sequel (Batman: Urban Legends) - We're Gonna Unpack That

Until almost two decades later when he calls Tim up for a date. And while I'm trying to skim over a lot to get to the point here and I don't really know the FULL context, it is notable that Tim is in the middle of an identity crisis / the cusp of adulthood when this happens (I think he just lost a spleen or something. That sucks dude). It's pretty implicit that part of the reason he's going to see Bernard is because he's someone familiar in a time when he's facing a lot of new and scary stuff.

And at first blush, he really does seem like the same dude. The familiar arm over the shoulder, the banter, it's all very casual and similar to the ribbing from high school -

- and I guess nothing has happened to Bernard in the interim haha he's just the funny friend guy right?

I really like the way they did this. I'm just unambiguously going to praise how good this is if you just came off the 2000s stuff. Comics have kind of breakneck pacing by nature but they really manage to condense down and then pull off a neat sleight of hand over the course of like four pages here. They re-establish Bernard as a silly guy and then wham you with the fact that yeah actually we ARE gonna unpack that. Fuck you Tim Drake life is ever changing and nothing stays the same

So the TL;DR on the rest of the Urban Legends storyline is that stuff like, HAPPENED to this guy while our focus was elsewhere. He learned martial arts, presumably so that he wouldn't be so helpless in the next school shooting level event, he got into a pain cult, he's just Not Doing Well. We find out, reading between the lines, that calling Tim on a date was probably one of his last attempts to reach out to someone when the cult stuff was getting really bad.

I've heard people complain that Bernard is uninteresting or not a character or entirely focused on his relationship with Tim, and I think that criticism is really weird considering that his entire re-debut focuses on the point that he's been having his own life and making his own (often wild) decisions - ones that really changed the course of his life - while Tim was gone. And it's also notable that this story is about how the fact that he's his own person and has changed and has made the nerve-wracking decision to take action and call Tim inspires Tim himself to take a leap and fling himself into the uncertain waters of young adulthood.

Me when I have my bi awakening and call to get out of a rut simultaneously because Cute Insane Guy Inspired Me. iconic

So that's how Bernard has changed. But that's not recontextualization, that's just the writers taking a guy and making him do another, cooler thing. Well hold the fuck on because we're not goddamn done.

What did he mean by th-

The Recontextualizerrrrr (Tim Drake: Robin) - Bernard is the funniest person in Gotham City. I'll not be taking constructive criticism on this

Tim Drake: Robin is the followup to the Urban Legends story and Tim is the main character fr. Obviously. but Bernard is also a major character. Later, he even gets to be a POV character. But they don't do that for several issues, instead treating us to his shenanigans from Tim's point of view as he solves a bizarre serial murder case and like, they're cute! And neither of them are normal in the slightest. I love that for them.

Again, TL;DR, there are a lot of interactions where Bernard talks to Tim both in and out of costume, but we don't get to see his POV until they go out to a restaurant and meet Bernard's parents there by accident and Tim has to run off to do Robin stuff. And like... a lot of stuff happens in this one bois. Whammy after whammy

We're suddenly introduced explicitly to a lot that was only implied or just completely unavailable before. Bernard's parents are ragingly homophobic. Probably were never great even before that. He suffers from depression. All that is a lot to. wait. hold on a second

he knows?????

HE KNOWS????

Okay so if you stop at this point and reread the entire run so far you find out that Bernard is in fact the biggest troll in the entire universe. This is the moment that cemented him as my favourite, by the way. Like I had a feeling that he knew and I was just laughing my ass off when my suspicions were confirmed.

But this is really interesting on top of that because Bernard has been revealed to be, at this point, a guy who you should look deeper than the surface to understand. Someone who masks his true self and whose true motivations you can only uncover if you're really looking past the facade. Even with Tim, he sort of offers Tim and Robin half the story each, taking advantage of Robin's "distance" to give out information he wants Tim to think about but that he's reluctant to talk about frankly while at the same time almost daring Tim to open up about his identity.

Absolutely most normal way to tell your bf about your cult trauma. You'll always be famous to me Bernard Dowd

This is a really neat trick by the writers. It makes Bernard a multifaceted character who got to quietly develop while we were mostly focused on Tim, and there's some clever clever foreshadowing they set up in this run to achieve this. If it were just this, I would call it good writing.

But it actually goes one level deeper than that and becomes something really really special. because as we all know, Bernard was not conceived to be this way, he was a one-off guy who was kind of annoying and he was essentially retconned to be, like. Gay? Have depth? Be funny? All of those things?

The Seamless Retcon (Robin 1993 Again) - We took your guy and we gave him gay subtext and it worked astoundingly well

This is not a new observation btw, I've seen a ton of posts to this effect. But oh my god. Some of these panels really hit different with the new Bernard lore. Like holy fuck just read this back to back

There are tons of moments like this. There's SO MUCH that the revelation that Bernard is queer adds to his initially extremely underwhelming tenure in the Robin comics. A reread almost begs the question of what Bernard must have been thinking at any given moment! BRO YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO FUCK HIS STEPMOM. That's completely believable as a next-level closeting move and goes from kind of annoying to turbofunny.

Like yeah of course he's acting like a douche. His father is a status-chasing asshole and he's five racks deep in the closet. Of course he gravitates towards Tim - his gaydar is pinging and he thinks Tim is cute. And it's also pinging that Tim is like. You know

None of this would hit as hard if the writers had not set up Bernard as someone who masks so much. They worked it in that character trait to mean that you could always glean information deeper than the surface from his top level interactions.

Because of this, Bernard is really fucking interesting and he's a good character and he's one that gets better on reread. Like I said, that's a set of observations that are not new to me. But something that really gets to me is how seamless and intentional it is. It really feels like the writer sat down and took their time devising a guy that is believable as that other guy, but only if you read back with certain context.

The conclusion - Comics. Man.

So is this just about how Bernard is really fucking interesting and he's a good character and he's one that gets better on reread and that he can exist independent of Tim and all the haters are wrong. Yeah of course. 💖

But also like, I have thoroughly proven to myself that I was kinda wrong to just reject the published comics medium out of hand. I see now that there's room for the writer's roulette to hit the jackpot and that something I mistook as an outright flaw, the winding and unfocused and often improvised nature of it, can be ridden like a wave if you're skilled enough to do it. Meghan Fitzmarten is a goddamned genius.

I guess I have to read comics now. Fuck

[pedroscowgirl]

I love you, I'm sorry

a professor! remus lupin x (legal) student fem!reader series

Warnings: fluff fluff /SMUT at the end so minors DNI! p in v (wrap it up), student x teacher relationship, age gap (reader is 20 something, remus is 38), size kink? (he barely fits), professor kink, reader is sucker for academic validation

summary: fucking your hot new professor 4.5k words

A/N: so once again uni has been killing me and i need academic validation from a hot professor and remus is my current bae so here you go. Also this will be a series cuz I'm way too invested in their dynamic so stay tuned. And there is an insane shortage of older remus lepin smuts btw. pls fix it guys

The September air was crisp as you stepped through the ancient wooden doors of Hogwarts, your heart thrumming with a mixture of excitement and nervous energy. This wasn’t your first time entering the castle, but it felt different now—this was the year you’d finally take Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by the newly appointed Professor Lupin. You’d heard whispers about him in the hallways: brilliant, kind, but carrying an air of quiet sadness that intrigued you more than you cared to admit.

Clutching your books tightly, you made your way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, arriving early to secure a good seat. The room was lit with flickering candles, their light casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The faint scent of old parchment and wood polish lingered in the air, familiar and comforting. You chose a seat near the front, arranging your materials neatly as you waited, the quiet hum of anticipation growing in your chest.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence, and when the door creaked open, you looked up. In walked Professor Lupin, his robes slightly frayed at the edges, his sandy-brown hair streaked with silver, and a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder. His eyes, a warm hazel, swept across the room before landing on you. For a moment, he froze.

“Oh, hello,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with surprise. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, suddenly looking self-conscious. “You… you must be one of my students. I didn’t expect… I mean, I wasn’t expecting anyone this early.”

You offered a small smile, trying to put him at ease. “I wanted to make a good impression, Professor. This is my favorite subject.”

His brows lifted slightly, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, well, you certainly have. Punctuality is always appreciated.” He set his satchel down on the desk, his hands fumbling with the clasp. “I’m…” He paused, cleared his throat, and started again. “I’m Remus Lupin. Well, Professor Lupin, of course.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Professor Lupin,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your pulse quickened under his gaze.

He nodded, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he busied himself with arranging papers on his desk. “And you are…?”

You gave him your name, watching as he repeated it under his breath, as if committing it to memory.

“A lovely name,” he murmured, then seemed to catch himself. His eyes widened slightly, and he gave a nervous chuckle. “I mean, uh, it’s… a perfectly fine name. Good, strong. Not that I… Oh dear, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, charmed by his awkwardness. “Just a little, but I don’t mind.”

He exhaled, a self-deprecating smile curving his lips. “Well, I’m glad one of us doesn’t. I’m usually more articulate, I promise.”

The door opened again, and other students began trickling in, breaking the quiet moment. Professor Lupin straightened, slipping into a more composed demeanor as he greeted the newcomers. But as the lesson began, you couldn’t help noticing the occasional glance he stole in your direction, as if you had caught his attention in a way he hadn’t expected.

The lesson passed in a blur of practical demonstrations and insightful lectures. Professor Lupin’s teaching style was unlike anything you’d experienced before; he made even the most complex topics seem accessible, weaving stories and humor into his explanations. He had a way of drawing you in, his voice calm and steady, yet tinged with a passion that made you want to absorb every word. By the end of the class, you felt more inspired than ever.

As students began gathering their things, you lingered, hesitant to leave just yet. You pretended to adjust the straps on your bag, stealing glances at him as he packed away his teaching materials. Finally, you took a deep breath and approached his desk.

“Professor Lupin?” you ventured, your voice steady despite the nervous fluttering in your chest.

He looked up, startled but quickly masking it with a warm smile. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to thank you for the lesson. It was really… inspiring. I’ve never had a professor explain things so clearly before.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed genuinely touched. “That means a great deal, thank you. It’s always a pleasure to know my efforts are appreciated.”

You hesitated, then added, “If it’s not too much trouble, I was hoping I could ask you some questions about today’s material. I want to make sure I understand it completely.”

“Of course,” he said immediately, motioning for you to take a seat. “I’d be happy to help.”

For the next half-hour, the two of you discussed the finer points of defensive spells and magical theory. Despite the growing darkness outside, you felt a warmth settle over you as his passion for teaching shone through. He listened intently to your questions, his responses thoughtful and encouraging. At one point, he pulled out a piece of parchment and sketched a detailed diagram to illustrate a particularly complex concept, his movements precise and confident.

“You’ve really thought this through,” he said, glancing up at you with a look of quiet admiration. “It’s rare to see a student so eager to delve deeper. You’re going to go far, you know.”

Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you, Professor. That means a lot coming from you.”

He gave you a small, almost shy smile. “Well, I’m just glad to have someone so engaged in the subject. It makes teaching all the more rewarding.”

As the conversation finally drew to a close, you gathered your things, feeling a strange reluctance to leave. As you stood to go, he spoke again.

“You have a remarkable mind,” he said quietly. “I can tell you’re going to do great things.”

“Thank you,” you repeated, your voice soft. You hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m looking forward to the next lesson.”

“As am I,” he replied, his voice equally soft. “Have a good evening.”

You nodded and stepped out of the classroom into the dimly lit corridor. The warmth of his words stayed with you as you walked away, the echo of his quiet encouragement lingering in your mind. All you knew was that you were already looking forward to the next lesson—and to the moments when his gaze would meet yours, even if just for a fleeting second.

—----------------------------

The days that followed were filled with small, quiet moments that slowly deepened the connection between you and Professor Lupin. In class, he often called on you, his hazel eyes brightening whenever you answered correctly. There were times when he lingered after lessons, offering further explanations or engaging in discussions that felt more like conversations between equals than the typical student-teacher dynamic.

One afternoon, as the golden light of autumn streamed through the castle’s tall windows, you found yourself in the library, poring over a particularly dense tome on advanced defensive techniques. Your brow furrowed as you tried to make sense of a particularly convoluted passage. Suddenly, a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Struggling with something?”

You looked up to see Professor Lupin standing there, a gentle smile on his face. He held a stack of books in his arms, their spines worn and faded.

“A little,” you admitted, gesturing to the page. “This section on layered shield charms is… well, it’s a bit much.”

He set his books down and pulled up a chair beside you, his proximity sending a faint thrill through you. “Let’s see,” he said, leaning in to read over your shoulder. His voice was soft and soothing as he began to explain the concept, breaking it down into manageable pieces. As he spoke, his hand brushed yours briefly as he pointed to a diagram, the touch light but enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“That makes so much more sense,” you said when he finished, a smile breaking across your face. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re very welcome,” replied, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than expected. There was a softness in his expression, a quiet encouragement that felt like a promise—though a promise of what, you couldn’t quite say. You found yourself hoping for more of these moments, fleeting as they were, where the world around you seemed to fade and it was just the two of you.

Over the following weeks, these small interactions began to multiply. Sometimes it was the way his hand would briefly graze yours when passing back an essay, or the way his eyes would crinkle with genuine amusement when you shared a clever observation during class discussions. Other times, it was the unspoken understanding you felt during your private consultations, where the conversation would drift seamlessly from the intricacies of magic to literature, history, or even philosophy.

One evening, as autumn gave way to the chill of early winter, you found yourself wandering the castle grounds after dinner. The moon hung low in the sky, its silver light casting long shadows across the frost-kissed grass. You’d brought your notebook, intending to sketch out some ideas for an upcoming project, but instead, you found yourself simply walking, letting the quiet envelop you.

“Out for some fresh air?” came a familiar voice, startling you out of your thoughts.

You turned to see Professor Lupin leaning against the edge of a low stone wall, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. His robes looked heavier than usual, lined against the cold, and his scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. He offered a small, lopsided smile, the kind that always made your heart flutter.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you replied, moving closer. “Escaping the chaos of the castle?”

He chuckled softly, nodding. “Something like that. It’s nice to step away for a moment. Clear the head.”

You hesitated before sitting on the wall beside him, the stone cool against your hands. “Do you come out here often?”

“When I can,” he admitted. “It’s… peaceful. A rare commodity these days.”

You looked up at him, noting the faint lines of weariness around his eyes. “You must be exhausted,” you said, the concern in your voice unguarded. “Teaching all of us, managing everything…”

“It’s part of the job,” he said with a shrug, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But thank you. It’s kind of you to notice.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the distant rustle of wind through the trees. After a moment, you gathered the courage to speak again.

“You’re a really good teacher, you know. It’s not just the way you explain things—it’s the way you make us feel like… like it matters. Like we matter.”

He turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you worried you’d overstepped, but then he spoke, his voice quieter than before.

“That means more than you know,” he said. “Truly.”

The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks warming. To your relief, he shifted the conversation to lighter topics, asking about your project and offering advice that was both practical and insightful. The two of you talked until the cold began to seep into your bones, and he insisted you head back to the castle to warm up.

Beneath the surface, there was always the shadow of what couldn’t be said aloud. You both knew the boundaries that existed, even as the line between student and professor blurred into something more intimate. And yet, neither of you seemed willing—or able—to step away.

—-

Professor Lupin—Remus, as you’d begun to call him in the privacy of your thoughts—seemed to gravitate toward you just as you gravitated toward him. There was always a reason to linger after class, always a justification for a quiet conversation in his office, but the excuses were growing thinner with each passing day.

It was one such evening, after a particularly rigorous Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, that you found yourself in his office again. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the small, cluttered space. Books were stacked haphazardly on every surface, and a faint scent of parchment and tea hung in the air.

“You’ve outdone yourself with today’s essay,” he said, his voice warm with genuine praise. He held the parchment in his hands, his thumb brushing over the edges as he glanced at you. “Your analysis of nonverbal defense techniques was insightful, and your argument about their limitations was… well, brilliant, really.”

Your cheeks flushed at the compliment, though you tried to hide it by looking down at your hands. “Thank you. I’ve had a good teacher.”

He chuckled softly, but there was something in his gaze that lingered longer than it should have. “You give me too much credit.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, daring to meet his eyes. “You’ve made me believe I can do more than I ever thought I could.”

For a moment, the room seemed to grow impossibly still. His smile faded into something softer, something almost hesitant. He set the parchment down on his desk, his fingers lingering on it for a moment before he folded his hands in his lap.

“I see so much potential in you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a vulnerability you hadn’t heard before. “You’re capable of things you don’t even realize yet.”

“Is that why you’ve been so patient with me?” you asked, your tone light but your heart racing.

“Patient?” he repeated, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You make it sound like a chore. It’s not. It’s never been that.”

The weight of his words settled between you, heavy and charged. You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was him leaning forward or you—but suddenly the distance between you felt impossibly small. His hand reached out, hesitating for a brief second before his fingers brushed against yours. The touch was light, tentative, as though he were testing the boundaries of what was allowed.

“I shouldn’t—” he began, his voice barely above a whisper.

But you interrupted him, your own voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I think we’ve both stopped asking what we should or shouldn’t do.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you saw the conflict warring within him—the weight of responsibility battling with the pull of something undeniable. Then, as if the tension became too much to bear, he closed the remaining distance between you.

The kiss was gentle at first, his lips brushing against yours like a question waiting for an answer. When you responded, leaning into him, the hesitation melted away. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he deepened the kiss. There was a desperation to it, as though he’d been holding himself back for far too long and could no longer resist.

The fire crackled softly in the background, the warmth of the room wrapping around you like a cocoon. Every nerve in your body seemed to come alive under his touch, the world outside fading into insignificance. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no titles, no expectations, just a connection that felt raw and real.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in soft, uneven bursts. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw.

“This…” he began, his voice hoarse. “This is dangerous.”

“I know,” you whispered, your own voice barely audible. “But it doesn’t feel wrong.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. “No, it doesn’t. And that’s what scares me.”

You stayed like that for a while, the silence filled with the unspoken understanding that whatever this was, it couldn’t be undone. 

—---

It had been weeks since the first kiss, each stolen moment adding another layer to the unspoken understanding between you. It wasn’t just the kisses or the way his hand lingered on yours—it was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. There was something in his eyes, a mixture of wonder and hesitance, as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you found yourself once again in Remus’s office. The castle was quiet, the only sounds the occasional creak of the old walls and the faint crackle of the fire. His office had become a second home to you.

“You’re lost in thought again,” Remus said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He was seated across from you, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. His eyes, warm and inquisitive, searched your face.

You smiled softly, setting your own cup down. “I suppose I am. It’s hard not to be, lately.”

“Something troubling you?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. The concern in his voice made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, unsure how to put your feelings into words. “Not troubling, exactly. Just… overwhelming. Everything feels so much bigger than me lately—school, the war, us…”

The last word slipped out before you could stop it, and your cheeks flushed as his expression shifted. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you feared you’d said too much. But then he set his tea aside and reached out, his hand covering yours.

“Us,” he repeated softly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “That’s a word I never thought I’d hear in this context. And yet, it feels… right.”

Your breath caught at his admission, your heart pounding in your chest. “It does,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The room seemed to shrink, the air between you charged with something electric. His hand tightened slightly around yours, and you saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He wanted this—you could see it—but he was holding himself back.

“I’ve tried to tell myself all the time that we shouldn’t,” he said, his voice low. “That it’s too risky, too complicated. But the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You stood then, the need to close the distance between you overpowering. He followed your lead, rising to meet you as you took a tentative step closer. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his sweater.

“Then stop trying,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands coming up to cradle your face. “You have no idea how much I want this. How much I want you.”

“Then show me,” you whispered.

The words were all the encouragement he needed. He kissed you, his lips capturing yours with a hunger that took your breath away. It was a kiss that spoke of weeks of restraint finally breaking, of emotions too strong to be contained. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangled in his hair.

The sofa was only a few steps away, but it felt like an eternity as he guided you toward it. His movements were careful, his touch reverent, as though he were afraid of breaking the spell. When your legs hit the edge of the sofa, he hesitated, his gaze searching yours.

“We can stop at any time,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You say the word, and we’ll stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched, and then he was kissing you again, more fiercely this time. He lowered you onto the sofa, his weight settling over you as his hands explored, each touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His lips moved to your neck, his kisses slow and deliberate, as though he were memorizing every inch of you.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a mix of desire and restraint.

“You’re not,” you assured him, your own hands roaming, desperate to feel more of him. “Please, don’t stop.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

Your response was a soft sigh, your hands threading through his hair as you pulled him closer. There was no rush, no urgency—only a deep, mutual need to be as close to each other as possible. Time seemed to stretch, each moment etched into your memory with perfect clarity.

He had just shrugged off his sweater, revealing the slightly faded button-down shirt he wore underneath. Your hands moved instinctively, reaching for the buttons to slide them open. His breath hitched, and then, suddenly, his hands came up to stop you. The look in his eyes was a mixture of vulnerability and hesitation, making your heart twist painfully in your chest.

“Wait,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, looking down at where your hands rested against his chest. “I… I have a lot of scars. I don’t want to scare you.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you smiled gently, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You could never scare me, Remus,” you said with quiet sincerity. You leaned forward and pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. His tension melted slightly under your touch, and he gave a small, grateful smile in return.

Encouraged, your hands resumed their task, slipping the buttons of his shirt open one by one. He shivered slightly under your touch but didn’t stop you this time. Once the shirt joined his sweater on the floor, your hands roamed over his torso, tracing the raised, pale lines of the scars that criss crossed his skin. You didn’t flinch or look away. Instead, you admired the strength and resilience they represented, leaning down to place a tender kiss over one of them. Remus’s breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t from fear.

Your hands moved lower, brushing against the waistband of his trousers. His sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet room, and he hesitated for a brief moment before nodding slightly. You unfastened his belt, and he stood to step out of his trousers, leaving him standing before you in nothing but his boxers. As he slid those off as well, exposing himself to you fully, your eyes widened slightly, and a nervous laugh escaped him.

“Sorry, I just…” he began, but you cut him off with a soft smile.

“No, it’s okay, dear,” you assured him. Your eyes sparkled with affection as you leaned back against the cushions. “It will fit, don’t worry.”

His lips quirked up in a shy smile at your words, and his gaze roamed over you with a mixture of awe and desire. His hands moved to the hem of your skirt, lifting it slightly to expose the delicate lace of your panties. He bit his lip as his fingers hooked under the waistband to slide them down your legs.

“Darling,” he murmured, his voice husky, “I hope I’m the only professor you’re this wet for.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks at his teasing remark, and you hid your face behind your hands for a moment before peeking out to respond. “Of course. No one is as wonderful as you.”

He chuckled softly and grabbed your thighs, pulling you closer to him while your skirt bunched around your hips. You reached for the buttons of your blouse, slowly unfastening them as his eyes followed your every movement. When the blouse slipped from your shoulders, revealing your bare chest, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“No bra?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement. You smirked in response, shrugging playfully.

His hand moved to your tie, loosening it with the intent of tossing it aside, but you stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Wait,” you said, your voice soft but insistent. “Use it to tie me up… please.” Your eyes were wide and pleading, and he hesitated, his own cheeks flushing.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted, his voice laced with concern.

“You won’t,” you reassured him, your voice filled with trust. “I want this, Remus.”

He nodded slowly, swallowing his nerves as he looped the tie around your wrists, securing it firmly but ensuring it wasn’t too tight. The silk of the tie felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between the two of you. His eyes flickered over your bound form, taking in the way you looked so willingly vulnerable for him. The sight sent a thrill racing through his veins, igniting a fire that made his hands tremble slightly as they traced delicately over your exposed skin. He hesitated, his touch reverent, as though he were afraid of breaking the spell between you.

He positioned himself between your thighs, the fabric of your skirt bunched around your hips, and his hand moved to guide himself. His tip brushed against your entrance, teasingly slow, and you squirmed beneath him, a soft whimper escaping your lips. When he finally pushed into you, your head fell back against the cushions, a gasp spilling from your lips as your body stretched to accommodate him. The sensation was overwhelming—a mix of pleasure and a hint of discomfort that quickly gave way to a delicious fullness.

“Oh my God, professor, fuck,” you gasped, your words slipping out before you could stop them.

Remus groaned deeply, the sound rumbling in his chest as his hands gripped your hips to hold you still. He stilled for a moment, his own breath ragged as he tried to steady himself. “God, dear,” he muttered, his voice thick with restraint. “I love it when you call me that. And you’re so tight… I’m not even sure you can take it all.”

The teasing lilt in his voice made your cheeks burn, and you whined in response, your tied hands flexing against the restraint. “No, I can take it,” you begged, your voice trembling with need. “Please, Remus, I need you.”

His laughter was low and rich, vibrating against your skin as he leaned down to kiss you. “Such a needy little thing,” he murmured against your lips before trailing kisses down to your neck. His lips found a particularly sensitive spot, and he nibbled gently, drawing a shiver from you.

As he began to move, slow and deliberate at first, his hands wandered over your body, touching and caressing every inch he could reach. Each thrust pushed him deeper, and your moans grew louder, filling the room with the symphony of your shared pleasure. His pace quickened, and the angle shifted just slightly, sending sparks coursing through you. Your tied hands flexed uselessly above your head, and the restraint only heightened your senses, every touch and movement magnified.

“You feel so perfect,” Remus groaned, his voice raw with emotion. His lips continued to worship your neck, marking your skin with faint red imprints of his teeth and tongue.

The pleasure built steadily within you, coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. Your release washed over you in a powerful wave, your body trembling and arching into him as you cried out his name. The intensity of your climax sent him over the edge as well. With a low, guttural moan, Remus pulled out at the last moment, his release spilling across your chest in warm, white streaks.

Both of you lay there for a moment, your breathing ragged and mingling in the quiet intimacy of the room. He reached for a nearby tissue, gently cleaning you up before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. His fingers brushed against the tie still securing your wrists, and he paused, his gaze meeting yours.

You pouted slightly, and he noticed immediately, his expression softening. “What’s wrong, darling?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I wanted you to finish inside me,” you admitted, your voice tinged with disappointment.

He sighed softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I can’t,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “I… I’m scared of what might happen. I don’t want to risk making you pregnant. And there are… things about me you don’t know yet.”

You looked up at him with curiosity and concern, but you didn’t press him further. Instead, you cupped his face with your bound hands, offering him a small, understanding smile. “Whenever you’re ready to tell me, I’ll listen,” you said softly.

Remus’s heart swelled at your words, and he leaned down to kiss you once more, silently vowing to himself that he would find a way to share his secrets with you when the time was right. For now, he was content to hold you close, savoring the warmth and trust that flowed between you.

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° i'm addicted to the ' if only '

♡ a/n — for a new childhood friends to lovers series :) a little shorter than i wanted but yk

♡ word count — 1.1k

♡ content — sae itoshi x gn! reader, gn! reader, childhood friends to lovers, sae and reader are the " sit by this quiet kid so they rub off on you " kids i fear, mentions of sae going to spain, starts when they're in 5th grade ( does japan do elementary grades like that? idk. ) and goes all the way to the U-20 game, wrote this at midnight so sorry if it's confusing

♡ synopsis — From the moment Sae Itoshi said he loved you, you were his. The long-distance relationship wasn’t easy, but it didn’t matter. You had Sae, and that was enough. He was all you needed after all.

You met Sae Itoshi when you were ten, in the fifth grade. You were the loud one, always raising your hand to answer questions, always running up to classmates to start games during recess. Sae, on the other hand, was quiet. His answers were sharp, direct, and to the point. He preferred to sit at the edge of the classroom, observing rather than participating.

When the teacher paired the two of you together for a science project, you knew immediately that this was going to be difficult.

"Can’t you just sit still for five minutes?" Sae asked, an exasperated edge to his voice as you twirled around with the sheet of paper that was supposed to outline your project plan.

"Nope!" you said with a grin. "Sitting still is boring."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re impossible."

You should’ve hated him. He made it clear he found you irritating, and you had no interest in someone who acted like they were better than everyone else. But there was something about Sae that intrigued you—maybe it was the calmness that always seemed to settle around him, or the way he never tried to impress anyone.

To your surprise, by the time the project ended, he hadn’t abandoned you. Instead, he’d begrudgingly started helping you organize your thoughts, muttering under his breath every time you got distracted but staying by your side nonetheless.

Halfway through the school year, he stopped rolling his eyes when you dragged him outside to play soccer after school.

By the end of the year, you were spending every recess together. You teased him endlessly, calling him your best friend, even though he would only shrug in response.

But he never corrected you.

It wasn’t until you were twelve that you realized how much Sae had become a part of your life.

He wasn’t just your best friend—he was your favorite person. He was there for everything, from the boring group projects to the secret candy stash you shared during recess. He wasn’t just the quiet boy in the corner anymore. He was Sae, the person who made your days brighter without even trying.

One day, when you were both at the park, it hit you.

He was practicing soccer, as always. The golden light of the setting sun bathed his figure, making him look almost ethereal. He didn’t notice the way you were staring, too focused on juggling the ball with practiced ease.

You didn’t understand it then, but something inside you shifted. You found yourself watching him more closely, noticing the way his expression softened when he talked about soccer, the way he always let you have the last piece of candy, even though he’d complain about it afterward.

You liked him.

The realization was terrifying, but you pushed it down. Sae was your best friend, and you didn’t want to ruin that.

When Sae told you he’d been scouted to train in Spain, you didn’t know how to react.

You were happy for him—of course you were. Soccer was his dream, and this was everything he had ever wanted. But as you stood in the airport, watching him get ready to board his flight, all you could think about was how much you were going to miss him.

"Don’t cry," he said, his voice steady. He stood in front of you, his suitcase at his side, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked so calm, so sure of himself, that it almost made you angry.

"I’m not crying," you lied, blinking furiously.

Sae’s gaze softened, just for a moment. "You’ll be fine without me," he said. "You always are."

But you weren’t.

High school was different without Sae.

The loud, hyper child you used to be was gone, replaced by someone quieter, someone who didn’t raise their hand as much in class or run around during lunch breaks. The hole Sae left behind was too big to fill, and you didn’t know how to be yourself without him by your side.

But at night, when your phone buzzed with his Facetime calls, everything felt okay again.

When you were fifteen, one of those calls changed everything.

You were sitting on your bed, rambling about your day, filling the silence with every little detail you could think of. Sae’s face on the screen was calm, as always, but there was something different about his expression.

"I love you," he said suddenly, cutting you off mid-sentence.

Your heart stopped.

"What?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"I love you," he repeated, his tone steady, like he had been waiting to say it for a long time. "I’ve loved you for a while."

Tears welled up in your eyes. "I love you too," you said, your voice trembling.

From that moment on, you were his. The long-distance relationship wasn’t easy, but it didn’t matter. You had Sae, and that was enough.

When you were seventeen, everything started to fall apart.

Sae’s texts became shorter, his calls less frequent. You told yourself it was because he was busy—Spain was demanding, and soccer always came first for him. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

One night, he called you.

You were so excited to hear from him that you didn’t notice the tension in his voice. You launched into your day, telling him about school, your friends, everything he had missed. He stayed silent until you finally asked, "Sae? Are you still there?"

"I’m here," he said. His tone was cold, unfamiliar. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Your stomach twisted. "What is it?"

"You’re a bother," he said, his voice flat. "We should break up."

The words didn’t register at first.

"What?" you whispered, your voice shaking. "Sae, what are you talking about?"

"You’re holding me back," he said, his tone as sharp as a blade. "I don’t have time for this anymore."

And just like that, the boy you'd grown to love - your best friend - was gone.

A year later, Sae returned to Japan for the U-20 vs. Blue Lock match.

You hadn’t heard from him since the breakup. Not a single text, not a single call. But even after everything, you couldn’t help but hope. He was still your best friend… right?

You looked for him everywhere—in the streets you used to walk together, in the soccer fields where he used to practice. But he was never there.

The night of the game, you sat alone in your room, watching him on the TV.

He was brilliant. Every move, every goal, was flawless. The Sae on the screen was a stranger, a far cry from the boy who used to roll his eyes at your jokes and share his candy with you.

It doesn’t feel right, you thought, not knowing the Sae that’s out there, shining so brightly.

And maybe, you realized, you never would.

no one said all of these had to be happy. childhood best friends to lovers to strangers anyone ?

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[kiwriteswords]

Could we see reader who hasn’t really dated or is very inexperienced begin to date Hotch? Maybe non bay? I loved sweet beginnings and how trader was so taken back by hotchs romance. I want more of that vibes please!

Touch Me Like Nobody Else Does [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 12k|| AN: I really REALLY enjoyed writing this--so much, that I completely blew off my lunch break today to write this and stayed up until 3 am last night, lol.

Tags/Warnings: mdni, nsfw, fade-to-black smut, inexperienced reader, slow burn, meet cute, shy reader, non bau reader, age gap of 20 years, reader is shorter than Hotch, fluff, smut, reassuring Hotch, praising Hotch, Hotch calls reader "sweetheart", Jack is in this story, mentions of Haley's passing, confident but inexperienced reader, chivalry isn't dead.

Summary: In a serendipitous series of encounters at a local grocery store, you, inexperienced in dating, find yourself drawn into a deepening relationship with Aaron Hotchner, a man whose past shadows his present. As your connection evolves from chance meetings to a profound bond, you must navigate the complexities of his world while also dealing with your own inexperience.

Every Wednesday--schedule permitting, Aaron Hotchner frequented the same grocery store in his quiet neighborhood. The ritual, embedded in the monotony of his demanding job, brought him a semblance of normalcy. He could stroll through each aisle and shut his brain off while just focusing on the list of items he needed to pick up for him and Jack.

But on this particular Wednesday, the routine was altered by a serendipitous collision.

As Hotch reached for his usual brand of coffee on the top shelf, a gentle bump startled him. Turning, he saw you—standing with a look of mild embarrassment, your hand frozen in mid-air, inches from his coffee choice.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” you said, cheeks coloring slightly.

“It’s alright,” Hotch replied, a small, unexpected smile crossing his features. “Seems we have the same taste in coffee.”

You laughed, a sound that seemed to linger pleasantly in the air between the aisles. “I guess so. It’s the best one, isn’t it?”

He nodded, handing you the can you’d both reached for. “It is. You have good taste.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking the coffee with a shy smile.

The encounter, brief as it was, left a lingering impression on Hotch as he watched you navigate away with your shopping cart. There was something distinctly intriguing about the way your eyes sparkled with unspoken thoughts.

The following week, the grocery store’s fluorescent lights once again cast their glow on another chance meeting. Hotch found you in the cereal aisle this time, your fingers brushing over the boxes as if each held a story you wished to uncover.

“You again,” he noted, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. He reached for a colorful box of what was probably all sugar, per Jack’s request.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before it settled into a warm, inviting smile. “Seems like fate has a sense of humor,” you joked.

“Or a very specific shopping schedule,” Hotch countered, stepping closer to help you retrieve a box of granola from a high shelf.

“Thanks,” you said, your gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary. “I guess I’m still figuring out the best times to avoid the crowds.”

“If it helps, Wednesday evenings seem to work well,” he shared, his voice softening.

“Maybe I’ll take that as a professional tip,” you replied, a playful edge to your words.

As weeks turned into a month, these accidental meetings transformed into a series of eagerly anticipated encounters. Each conversation revealed layers to your character—your earnestness and a latent curiosity that matched his own.

The profiler in him also noted your shopping cart. The basket filled with a variety of foods, a treat or two thrown in there as well. It mirrored his own choices. 

One chilly evening, as autumn leaves painted the ground in hues of fire and gold, Aaron Hotchner spotted you outside the grocery store, struggling with a few too many bags. His steps were measured as he approached, a gentle offering in his voice. “Let me help you with those,” he suggested, his hands reaching out to ease the burden from your arms.

“Oh, you don’t have to, but thank you,” you replied, your voice a mix of gratitude and relief. Your fingers brushed against his, a subtle spark hidden in the fleeting touch.

As he walked you to your car, the crisp air seemed to thicken with unspoken words hanging between you. Hotch wasn’t a believer in fate, but he did feel there was a reason beyone his knowledge he kept running into you and it intrigued him. 

You fumbled slightly with the keys, a nervous energy emanating from your gestures. Hotch noticed the way your hands shook just a little, the way your breath caught as you tried to focus on anything but the intensity of the moment.

He set the bags down next to your car, his gaze softening. "You seem a bit flustered," he observed quietly, trying to read your expression under the pale glow of the streetlights.

You chuckled, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I guess I'm just not used to running into someone as often as I run into you here," you admitted, your eyes meeting his with a playful challenge.

“There’s something about fate, isn’t there?” Hotch mused, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It seems to have its own ideas about who we should meet.”

Your laughter mingled with the evening air, a sound that seemed to linger pleasantly. “Maybe it does. And maybe I’m starting to think it might be right.”

He took a moment to look at you, really look at you, noticing the way the light danced in your eyes. He was normally not this forward, but he realized by your trembling hands and overall nervousness, he would need to make the first move, if he read his cards right. 

"Would you like to meet for coffee sometime? Away from these chance encounters and somewhere we can talk without a shopping list?"

The suggestion seemed to brighten your expression even more. "I'd like that," you said, your voice carrying a hint of excitement. "It’d be nice to talk without wondering if I forgot to pick up milk."

As he watched you drive away that night after exchanging information, the warmth of your smile lingering in his mind, Aaron Hotchner felt an undeniable spark—a connection that, while unexpected, promised new beginnings. In the quiet solace of his car, he allowed himself a moment to savor the unexpected joy of this burgeoning connection, looking forward to the conversation that would unfold over coffee, under less fluorescent lights.

The first coffee date unfolded on a Saturday morning, the cafe a cozy alcove tucked between the bustling streets of their neighborhood. Hotch arrived early, his demeanor calm yet expectant, as he secured a corner table that offered both privacy and a view of the autumn-stripped trees outside.

When you arrived, there was a hesitant grace in your steps, a visible pause as you spotted him, and a smile that slowly overtook your initial reserve. You looked genuinely happy to see him, your eyes lighting up in a way that spoke of both nerves and excitement.

“Hi, Aaron,” you greeted, your voice carrying a melody of anticipation, as you took the seat opposite him.

“Hello,” he responded, observing the way you neatly arranged your coat and purse beside you, movements precise and considered. It genuinely piqued his interest how you could be so confident, so put together--while also seemingly so nervous and unsure. 

As the conversation began to weave between the hum of other patrons and the clink of coffee cups, Hotch noticed the careful way you chose your words, as if each one were being weighed for its worth. You asked thoughtful questions, genuinely interested in his answers, but often diverted the conversation from yourself when it veered too close to personal.

Throughout the conversation, Hotch learned about your career in marketing at a bustling agency downtown. The passion you exhibited when discussing your projects was contagious, and he found himself intrigued by the enthusiasm that lit up your eyes. It wasn’t just small talk; it was a glimpse into your world, which was vibrant and full of ambition.

Though he couldn’t avoid noting the age difference between you two—nearly two decades—it didn't seem to phase you in the slightest. Your ease and confidence in engaging with him bridged any gap that the years might have imposed. For Hotch, trained to observe and analyze, the lack of concern you showed about the age difference only deepened his interest. You were refreshingly unconcerned with numbers, focused instead on the substance of your interactions.

This approach resonated with him. Despite the initial reservations he might have had, Hotch found that the more he learned about you, the more the age gap seemed inconsequential. Your curiosity about his life, your shared laughter over coffee, and the way your eyes met his with an unflinching openness—all these elements wove together into a compelling tapestry that made the numbers fade into the background.

In you, Hotch saw not the years that separated you but the possibilities that lay ahead. This unexpected connection, fueled by mutual interest and undeniable chemistry, was too significant to be overshadowed by mere numbers.

When he complimented you on your dress, a simple yet elegant choice that complemented the season, your cheeks tinged with a soft blush. “Thank you, I wasn’t sure if it was too much,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear—a gesture he was coming to recognize as a sign of your uncertainty.

“It’s perfect,” he assured you, his voice steady and reassuring. He noted then how your smile seemed to linger longer, a little more confident.

Coffee gave way to a walk through the nearby park, where the ground was a landscape of gold and red leaves. You walked slightly apart, respecting a mutual but unspoken boundary of personal space. Hotch observed the way your hands occasionally brushed against yours when your steps would sync for a moment, before you subtly pulled away, as if unsure of the contact.

“You know,” he started, breaking a comfortable silence, “it’s okay to just be yourself around me. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You glanced at him, a flicker of surprise in your expression. “I guess I’m just not used to this… to someone noticing,” you confessed, your voice a whisper against the crisp air.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Hotch said softly, offering a gentle smile that seemed to ease some of your tension. “And I’m glad I get to be a part of this with you.”

As leaves crunched underfoot, you gradually moved closer to him, your previous hesitation melting into a quiet comfort. Hotch welcomed the change, sensing the trust you were beginning to place in him.

It was during these simple moments—your laughter at his anecdotes from the BAU, your attentive silence when he spoke of his son, Jack—that Hotch realized the depth of your inexperience was matched only by your sincerity. And in this burgeoning connection, he found an unexpected kinship—a shared understanding that sometimes, the heart finds what it seeks in the most unanticipated encounters.

Over the next several weeks, the initial threads of attraction wove into a tapestry rich with shared moments and quiet discoveries. Each date that followed seemed to gently peel back a layer of your mutual reserve, revealing more of the profound connection that neither of you could deny.

On a cool evening, Hotch took you to a quaint Italian restaurant known for its secluded ambiance. He noticed how your eyes widened slightly at the sight of the candlelit table, the soft music in the background creating a perfect setting for intimate conversation. You seemed momentarily awestruck, a reaction he found endearing and telling of your inexperience with such deliberately romantic settings.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Hotch commented as he pulled out your chair, a gesture that made you pause with a soft 'thank you,' your voice barely above a whisper.

Throughout the evening, he was acutely aware of the careful way you placed your napkin on your lap, the glances at the array of silverware, and how you delicately navigated the menu suggestions he offered. It was these little nuances—your hesitant acceptance of his hand across the table, the way your smile slowly spread when he toasted to "new experiences"—that told him how new this all was to you.

On another crisp evening, as you walked together under the starlit sky, a conversation unfolded—a delicate dance of appreciation and hesitance. Hotch had noticed your lingering glances at the bouquet of flowers he’d brought you, a mix of admiration and something akin to concern.

“You really don’t have to keep doing this,” you began, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “The flowers, the dinners... it’s all so much.”

Hotch stopped walking, turning to face you under the glow of a street lamp. His expression was serious yet gentle. “But I want to,” he assured you. “It’s how I show I care. It’s not about obligation—it’s about expressing what I feel, in the way I know best.”

You looked up at him, the soft light casting shadows that played across your features, deepening the earnestness in your eyes. “It’s just... I’m not used to this. No one has ever...” Your voice trailed off, not from uncertainty but from the uncharted emotional territory you were navigating.

He stepped closer, his presence reassuring. “I know it’s new to you,” he said softly. “And that’s okay. But allow me to do these things for you. Not because you need them, but because I need to show you how much you mean to me. It’s not just about romance—it’s about respect, about cherishing the person you are.”

There was a moment of silence as you absorbed his words, the night air filled with the distant sound of the city. “I’m afraid I might get too used to it,” you admitted, a small smile breaking through your initial reservations.

“That’s the plan,” Hotch replied with a soft chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a genuine smile. “To get you used to being treated the way you deserve.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into him slightly, the barrier of unfamiliarity crumbling just a bit more. “Okay, Aaron. I... I trust you,” you said, your voice a whisper of surrender to the new experiences he was gently guiding you through.

Hotch’s response was a simple nod, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as you resumed walking. The city around you faded into a backdrop, a mere stage for a connection that was slowly, but surely, deepening with each shared moment and each tender gesture.

Each date was a step further into the uncharted waters of your burgeoning relationship. Hotch, being a man of tradition, felt a deep-seated desire to revive the art of classic courtship. He sent you flowers before each date, not merely as a gesture but as a symbol—a recognition of the budding something special between you. He took note of your favorite foods, your preferred genres of movies, and even the way you liked your coffee, memorizing the details like lines of an important case.

During an evening that carried the crisp edge of early winter, Aaron Hotchner and you found yourselves meandering through the quiet halls of a local art exhibit. The soft lighting and the hushed voices around you created an intimate atmosphere, echoing the growing closeness between the two of you. As you leaned lightly against his arm, your fingers brushing his, Hotch could sense your growing comfort. Yet, there remained a delicate trace of uncertainty in your gestures, a subtle reminder of your inexperience in navigating the tender dynamics of romantic intimacy.

As you paused before a particularly striking painting, your gaze absorbed in the colors and forms, Hotch watched you with a mixture of admiration and burgeoning affection. You shared your thoughts on the artwork—insightful yet tinged with shyness—that revealed a depth and sensitivity he found increasingly compelling.

"It’s beautiful," you murmured, "the way the artist uses light to express emotion. It’s almost like... like you can feel the warmth of the sun just by looking at it."

"Yes, it does," Hotch agreed, his voice low, his proximity closing in the space between you. "Art has a way of reaching into our souls, doesn't it? Drawing out things we sometimes struggle to express."

You turned towards him, your eyes meeting his, holding a spark that neither the art nor the soft gallery lights could rival. "I think that's why I like it here so much," you confessed. "It feels safe to feel things deeply."

The vulnerability in your admission, coupled with the earnest look in your eyes, stirred something profound within Hotch. He realized then how much he wanted to be a part of those unspoken depths, to explore the breadth of experiences that made you, you.

Encouraged by your closeness and emboldened by the evening’s serene beauty, Hotch found the moment he had been intuitively waiting for. "There’s something else I’ve been wanting to express," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he stepped closer.

Your breath caught slightly, anticipation mingling with a trace of nervous energy. Yet, you stood your ground, your eyes locked on his, a silent nod giving him the permission he sought.

Gently, Hotch cupped your face in his hands, his touch light yet filled with intent. He watched your eyes flutter closed, a sign of trust that fueled his own confidence. Then, carefully diminishing the last threads of distance between you, he kissed you.

The kiss was tender, a soft press of lips that spoke of respect and a burgeoning desire. It was an exploration, a question posed in the silent language of touches. You responded with an innocence edged with a burgeoning confidence, your hands tentatively reaching up to touch his wrists, holding onto him, into the moment.

As you both pulled away, the world seemed to resume around you, the sounds of the gallery flooding back as if someone had turned up the volume. Hotch looked at you, a gentle inquiry in his gaze, ensuring the step he had taken was right.

Your smile, shy yet radiant, was all the answer he needed. In that smile, Hotch saw not just your response to the kiss but a doorway to deeper connection—a promise of many more moments filled with discovery and shared warmth. Despite your inexperience, there was an undeniable rightness in the way you fit into his life, filling spaces he hadn’t known were empty.

As autumn bled into the year, Aaron Hotchner and you found rhythms of familiarity, the initial cautious steps of your courtship giving way to a more assured dance. Despite seeing each other regularly, the intimacy of a shared night had not yet unfolded. Hotch, ever the gentleman, respected the pace you set, knowing the depth of trust such a step required from you. He was patient, understanding that the connection they were nurturing was something profound, deserving of time and care.

One evening, as Hotch planned, brought you both to a jazz club where the dim lighting and the intimate clinking of glasses painted the perfect backdrop for an evening designed to draw you closer. Conversation flowed with an ease born of growing comfort and shared smiles, yet there was an undercurrent of anticipation, a silent acknowledgment of the evolving intimacy between you.

When a slow, soulful melody began to play, Hotch extended his hand, inviting you to join him on the dance floor. There was a brief hesitation, a visible flicker of apprehension in your eyes, before your hand slipped into his. It was a testament to your growing trust, a step further into the vulnerability of this new emotional landscape.

On the dance floor, your touch was tentative at first, as if the closeness summoned both yearning and a faint trace of fear. But as Hotch led, gentle and assured, you followed, gradually relaxing, your movements syncing with the languid music. Eventually, your head came to rest against his chest, a subtle surrender to the rhythm and to him. Hotch felt the shift, a melting of barriers that warmed him more than the music itself.

As the song waned, he leaned down, his voice barely above the music, "Are you alright?"

You nodded against him, your voice a soft murmur that vibrated through him. "Yes, this is... it’s really nice."

He smiled, his hand tightening slightly around yours, a silent promise of his protection and patience. "I'm here, I’m not going anywhere," he assured you, his voice a blend of tenderness and strength.

The moment was a delicate one, laden with unspoken promises and the electric thrill of potential. The night deepened around you, the music a rich blanket that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of their burgeoning relationship.

As they stepped off the dance floor, the connection between you both was palpable, charged with the promise of shared tomorrows. Hotch felt the undeniable chemistry in every touch, every glance, each shared breath. He knew, with a growing certainty, that the slow build of their relationship was crafting a foundation strong and deep-rooted in mutual respect and an undeniable pull toward each other that neither could, nor wanted to, ignore.

Each gesture, each date, was a chapter in the evolving story of 'us'. Hotch knew the age difference might raise eyebrows, but in his view, the ways of old—courtesy, respect, and the slow dance of courtship—were timeless, meant to be upheld, especially when the heart found a genuine connection.

And in you, with your fresh eyes and tentative steps into romance, Hotch found not just a partner to protect but someone to cherish, to guide through the dance of affection and tenderness that life had, until now, kept just out of your reach. Each meeting, each shared laughter, only solidified his belief that despite the odds, the chemistry between you was undeniable—and deeply right.

As they stepped off the dance floor, the warm glow of the jazz club enveloping you, Aaron Hotchner sensed a subtle shift in your demeanor. The usual light in your eyes was clouded slightly by hesitation, a sign he had come to recognize as you wrestling with something unsaid. His protective instincts mingled with deep affection as he guided you to a quieter corner of the club, away from the lingering notes of the last song.

"You seem like you want to ask me something," Hotch said gently, his voice a grounding force amid the soft buzz of the club. His eyes searched yours, encouraging openness without pushing too hard.

You bit your lip, a nervous gesture that tugged at his heartstrings. "It's just... I sometimes feel like I'm under my own microscope," you confessed, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I overthink everything because I've never done this before. I wish I could just turn my brain off and just be, especially with you."

Hotch reached for your hands, holding them in his with a reassuring pressure. "Let's try that, then. Just be here with me, no pressure, no expectations. Can you try that for me?" His tone was soft yet earnest, hoping to ease the burden of self-scrutiny you carried.

You nodded, a fragile smile breaking through your apprehension. "I can try. Aaron, would you... would you like to come back to my apartment?" The invitation was hesitant, but your eyes held a hopeful spark.

Hotch felt a surprise ripple through him, but it quickly gave way to warmth. He was touched by your trust and moved by your courage to step beyond your comfort zone. "I'd like that very much," he responded, his voice steady, conveying both his respect for your pace and his readiness to follow your lead.

As you led the way out of the club, the cool night air seemed to buoy your spirits, lending you a newfound confidence. Hotch admired the way the city lights played across your features, casting you in a glow that seemed to mirror the burgeoning feelings he harbored for you.

The walk to your apartment was filled with an easy silence, comfortable and unforced. It was a silence that spoke of understanding and mutual respect, qualities that had become the foundation of whatever was blossoming between you two.

Once inside, you seemed to hesitate momentarily, the reality of the moment settling in. Hotch noticed the slight tremor in your hands as you hung up your coat. Stepping closer, he lifted your chin gently, guiding you to meet his gaze. "Remember, we're just being," he reminded you softly, his thumb caressing your cheek in a soothing motion.

The simplicity of his reassurance seemed to ease your nerves, and a genuine smile spread across your face. "Just being," you repeated, and in that repetition, there was a release of some of the tension you had been carrying.

That night, in the quiet sanctity of your apartment, with the city humming softly outside, Hotch and you found a new level of closeness. It was not just the physical proximity but an emotional connection that deepened with each gentle touch and shared silence. 

In the sanctuary you offered, Hotch felt honored to witness the layers of your vulnerability and strength, each one unfolding naturally, beautifully, right before his eyes.

Hotch’s observant eyes quickly taking in the surroundings that so clearly reflected your personality. The space was tastefully decorated, with vibrant plants dotting the corners and art prints that mirrored those you had admired earlier at the exhibit. Each detail seemed to tell a story, a quiet testament to your life and preferences.

Hotch noticed how the books on your shelf ranged from classic literature to modern marketing texts, suggesting a blend of deep thought and professional ambition. Small, framed photos of friends and family adorned another corner, hinting at a rich personal life, grounded in relationships that mattered deeply to you. It was these glimpses that gave him a fuller picture of who you were outside the moments shared together.

As you offered him a comfortable seat on the couch, Hotch could sense a mix of pride and vulnerability in your actions. It was as if you were opening up a private part of your world to him, and he recognized the significance of the gesture.

"I want you to feel free to share what you want here," Hotch said sincerely, his gaze meeting yours to emphasize his intent. "I’m not going anywhere, and there isn’t anything you could do or say to scare me off."

You nodded, a look of relief crossing your features, but there was a hesitance still lingering. Hotch decided it was time to address it directly. "What are you so afraid of?" he asked gently, his voice low and encouraging.

The question seemed to weigh heavily on you for a moment before you exhaled softly, the breath carrying with it the weight of unspoken fears. "I’ve never dated anyone before," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve never had a boyfriend before this... before you."

As you spoke, a blush crept up your cheeks, and you paused, suddenly realizing the implication of your words. Hotch caught your embarrassment and quickly reassured you, his tone warm and understanding. "Don’t be embarrassed," he urged softly. "And I’m sorry for not making it clearer before, but the term 'boyfriend' feels so much younger than I am." He smiled gently, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "But I most certainly want to be that for you, if you’ll have me."

Your eyes lifted to meet his, surprise and joy mingling in your expression. "I would like that," you said, the tension easing from your shoulders as you spoke.

Settled on your couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light around the room, Aaron Hotchner watched as another layer of hesitation seemed to cloud your features. He had come to recognize these moments—when you were teetering on the edge of sharing something significant. His presence, calm and reassuring, was meant to be a safe harbor for your thoughts.

"What’s on your mind?" he prompted gently, noticing how your fingers twisted together in your lap—a sign of your inner turmoil.

You hesitated, taking a deep breath before meeting his gaze with a newfound determination. "I want to be with you, Aaron," you started, your voice steady despite the obvious nerves. "I mean, I want to... have sex with you. But I have no idea how to initiate that."

Hotch felt a jolt of surprise at your boldness, though it was tempered with a deep respect for your honesty. He took a moment to compose himself, not just to temper his own reactions but to ensure he approached your admission with the sensitivity it deserved. He was a man, undeniably drawn to you in every possible way, yet he knew the weight of what you were proposing, especially given your limited experience.

"I want that too," he finally said, his voice low and earnest. "Very much." He paused, searching your face for any sign of discomfort. "Have you... is this your first time?" The question was delicate, his concern genuine, as he navigated the dual feelings of honor at being your chosen partner and the protective instinct that flared at the thought of anyone else having been with you.

You shook your head slightly a soft laugh appearing on your lips, a shadow passing over your features. "No, it’s not my first time," you admitted, and he felt a silent relief mixed with an unexpected twinge of something else—possessiveness, perhaps, or a protective anger toward anyone who might have hurt you. "I’ve done it once before, but it wasn’t good. I felt... rotten afterward."

The raw honesty of your words struck him deeply. Hotch moved closer, his expression softening as he reached out to gently touch your arm, offering comfort. "I’m really sorry to hear that," he said sincerely. "I want you to know, with me, it will be different. You are in control, and we will go only as far as you want, at a pace you are comfortable with."

Your eyes searched his, looking for the certainty and safety that had drawn you to him from the start. Finding it, you nodded, a tentative smile breaking through. "I trust you, Aaron," you whispered, leaning into the comfort of his touch.

Hotch’s heart swelled with a mix of emotions—care, desire, protectiveness. "Whenever you’re ready," he assured you, his tone a mix of promise and reassurance. "And we’ll make sure it’s a good experience, one that feels right for both of us."

The conversation marked a pivotal moment in your relationship, deepening the trust and intimacy between you. For Hotch, it reaffirmed his commitment to cherish and protect you, to guide you through the complexities of intimacy with the respect and affection you deserved. 

The conversation gently shifting to lighter topics, but the understanding between you remained profound—a silent acknowledgment of the steps you were ready to take together.

As the evening deepened, a soft jazz record spun quietly in the background of your apartment, casting a mellow sound that filled the space with a warm, inviting ambiance. Your taste in music, literature, and films surprised Hotch. They were much more akin to someone beyond your years--often beyond his years as well. 

Hotch observed you from where he sat on the couch, a half-smile on his face as he watched you move about the room, adjusting a pillow here, straightening a stack of books there—nervous energy channeled into tidying. But then, with a decisive pause, you turned to face him, your eyes holding a flicker of resolve that hadn't been there before.

"You know," you began, crossing the room toward where Hotch was seated, your voice steady but softer than usual, "I really meant what I said earlier, about... wanting to be with you."

Hotch's eyes followed your approach, noting the slight tremble in your hands that misrepresented your confident stride. He stood to meet you halfway, his height towering gently as he looked down into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, only a quiet determination, he nodded. "I remember," he replied simply, his voice low and encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, you reached out and tentatively placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "And I... I'd like that to be tonight, if you're still okay with that," you added, your gaze lifting to meet his.

The sincerity and quiet courage in your voice stirred something deep within Hotch. He covered your hand with his, pressing it gently against him to affirm his consent and support. "I'm more than okay with that," he assured you, his other hand reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. "We'll take this at your pace."

Encouraged, you stood on your tiptoes, bridging the gap between your heights, and pressed a tentative kiss to his lips. It was a soft, searching contact, seeking reassurance and connection. Hotch responded with equal gentleness, his lips moving against yours in a slow, respectful rhythm that allowed you the space to explore and deepen the kiss at your own initiative.

As the kiss grew more confident, your hands moved from his chest to loop around his neck, pulling him closer. Hotch's arms encircled your waist, drawing you into a firm yet careful embrace. The physical closeness brought a new layer of intimacy to the moment, and you both paused to catch your breath, foreheads resting together.

"Are you sure?" Hotch whispered, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steady and supportive at your back.

"Yes," you breathed out, your voice a mix of nervous excitement and resolve. "So sure."

With a nod of understanding, Hotch allowed you to lead him back towards the bedroom, each step measured and unhurried. He was acutely aware of the trust you were placing in him, and he was determined to honor it with every gentle touch and whispered reassurance.

The soft light casting gentle shadows around you, Hotch watched as you took a moment to steady yourself. Then, with a deep, shared breath, you both crossed the final threshold into intimacy, guided by mutual respect and a profound connection that promised to deepen with each passing moment.

Aaron Hotchner felt every subtle shift of the air as you moved slightly ahead of him, your steps hesitant yet filled with an intent that mirrored the pounding of his own heart.

As you reached the edge of your bed, you turned to face him, the light casting shadows across your features that highlighted the mix of anticipation and vulnerability in your eyes. Hotch, ever observant, noted the way your hands fidgeted slightly, betraying a nervous energy that belied the confident steps you had taken just moments before.

"It's okay," Hotch murmured, his voice a soothing baritone that seemed to resonate gently in the quiet room. He stepped closer, reducing the space between you, his hands rising to cup your face gently. "We can take this as slow as you need."

Your eyes searched his, finding reassurance in his steady gaze, and a tentative smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Thank you, Aaron," you whispered, the gratitude in your voice laced with an emotion deeper than the words themselves conveyed.

Hotch responded with a soft smile of his own, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your forehead—a gesture of affection and protection. Then, giving you the space to lead, he watched as you took a deep breath and reached out to him. Your hands, no longer trembling, found the hem of his shirt, and with a look that sought silent permission—which Hotch granted with a nod—you slowly lifted it over his head.

The act, simple yet laden with significance, marked a crossing into intimacy that Hotch handled with all the care and reverence it deserved. As the fabric parted from skin, it was as though barriers too were being shed, leaving a raw, beautiful honesty between you.

With the shirt discarded, Hotch gently took the lead, his hands guiding yours to the buttons of his shirt you wore. Each button undone was a mutual assent, a step deeper into vulnerability and trust. The cool air of the room brushed against your skin as the material parted, and Hotch's hands paused at your waist, giving you a moment to adjust to the new closeness.

"Are you still okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with concern and an unspoken promise to halt at any sign of discomfort.

"Yes," you breathed out, more sure than before, emboldened by his respect and your own burgeoning desire. "Please, keep going."

Encouraged by your words, Hotch's touch became more assured, tracing the lines of your arms as he helped you out of the shirt. His fingers brushed against your skin, each touch a word in the silent language of care they were writing together.

He never thought he’d get back here--never thought he’d be so lucky to have a second chance. 

In the shared quiet of your bedroom, with only the soft rustle of fabric and the steady, calming beat of two hearts synchronizing, a dance of mutual exploration unfolded. Each movement, each touch, was a discovery—a learning of boundaries, preferences, and the profound connection that pulsed vibrant and alive between you.

As the layers of fabric fell away, leaving vulnerability in their wake, Hotch felt a deep reverence for the trust you placed in him. The room was filled with the quiet symphony of their mutual breathing, punctuated by the soft sounds of fabric whispering to the floor. With every careful, considered touch, Hotch felt the gravity of your inexperience, sensed the weight of each movement, and honored it with his own measured responses.

Hotch was acutely aware of the significance of this moment for you. Each caress, each lingering touch was designed not only to explore but to reassure—to communicate that you were cherished, respected, and deeply cared for. 

His hands, steady and warm, traced the lines of your back, feeling the tension ease under his fingers. He could sense the leap of your heart, could almost hear the thrum of your pulse quickening with a blend of nervousness and excitement. Hotch’s own heart mirrored your tempo, a reflection of his own deep feelings and the earnest desire to ensure this experience was as beautiful and profound for you as the emotional connection they had nurtured together.

"Tell me what you need," he murmured, his lips close to your ear, his breath a soft echo in the quiet room. It was a question loaded with the promise of patience and the willingness to listen, to adapt, to ensure your comfort at every step.

You responded with a slight, almost shy nod, your voice a whisper that matched the tender atmosphere. "Just... stay close," you said, your hands finding his, seeking the reassurance of his grip. "Like this, just like this."

Hotch nodded, his eyes locking with yours in the dim light, a silent vow reflected back at you. He stayed close, his body aligned with yours, a steady presence that you could lean into and draw strength from.

The exploration continued, each touch a dialogue, each sigh a verse in the unfolding story of your closeness. 

Hotch was mindful, always, of your responses—the quick catch of breath, the soft sigh of contentment, the way your eyes fluttered closed in trust and surrender. These signs guided him, a map written in the language of touch and silent communion. He was a quick study, also, being with the same woman for over twenty years, he knew a thing or two about this subject.

Through careful, attentive touches, he discovered what elicited those soft, breathy moans that he knew he would never forget—the sounds that resonated deeply within him, stirring a blend of profound affection and desire. Each sound was a note in the symphony of their intimacy, a melody that he would carry in the quiet recesses of his heart.

You were eager to please, your movements and responses guided by an earnest desire to explore this new dimension of their relationship. Hotch could feel your eagerness, could see it in the way your eyes searched his for approval and reassurance. 

"You're doing wonderfully," Hotch whispered, his voice low and filled with warmth. The praise was not merely spoken; it was felt, communicated through every gentle touch and affirming look. He could see the way your eyes lit up at his words, a spark of joy mingling with relief fluttering across your features.

The way you responded to him, each movement and breath a testament to your trust and openness, resonated deeply within him. "You have no idea how good this feels," he continued, his hands guiding yours, encouraging each tentative exploration with a steady presence. "Not just what you’re doing, but knowing it’s you with me here."

His words were carefully chosen, aimed to reinforce the deep emotional landscape that underpinned the physical sensations. It was essential to him that you understood how profoundly he was affected by your presence, that it was not merely the act itself but the entirety of who you were that brought him such profound satisfaction.

And yet, little did you know, it took so little to please him when it came from you. The mere fact that it was you who was there with him, open and trusting, was more than enough to fulfill him.

In these moments, Hotch learned not just what you liked, but what you truly enjoyed—a discovery that felt both profound and sacred. He savored the honesty of your reactions, the unguarded way you shared yourself with him. Each revelation, whether a gasp of surprise at a new sensation or a sigh of contentment, was a treasure he stored away, a testament to the depth of the bond they were forging.

As the night wore on, the world outside their window forgotten, Hotch marveled at the deepening connection between you both.

The way you responded to him, the way your body arched towards his touch, spoke of a trust and a bond that went beyond the physical. It was as if each layer of vulnerability you revealed knitted you closer together, weaving a fabric of intimacy that was unique to the two of you.

When the dawn began to paint the sky with its first light, Hotch lay beside you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you slept peacefully. In these quiet hours, he reflected on the journey they had embarked upon together. The intimacy they had shared was not just a physical union but an emotional, soul-deep connection that promised so much more.

The knowledge of what you truly liked, the memory of your soft moans, and the realization of how eager you were to please—these were not just moments of pleasure, but profound insights into the beautiful, complex person you were. And Hotch, ever the protector and now the partner, felt an overwhelming gratitude for the trust you placed in him, and a resolute commitment to be there for you, in all the ways that mattered.

As dawn cast a gentle light through the curtains of your bedroom, Aaron Hotchner lay quietly beside you, his gaze fixed tenderly on your form as you slowly awakened. The soft rays illuminated your features, highlighting the flush of your cheeks and the peaceful rise and fall of your breathing. He observed the flicker of consciousness return to your eyes, watched as awareness spread across your face, and sensed the slight tenseness that accompanied your realization of his watchful, affectionate eyes on your unclothed form.

A hint of shyness crept into your expression, a stark contrast to the openness you shared the night before. Sensing your self-consciousness, Hotch allowed a soft, teasing tone to warm his morning greeting, aiming to ease the tension he perceived. 

"Don't get shy with me now, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and slightly playful, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle smile.

The term of endearment, new yet fitting, seemed to deepen the blush that already tinted your cheeks. You turned to face him, your eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something else—perhaps pleasure. Hotch's use of "sweetheart" hung softly in the air between you, a tender label that was both an assertion of affection and a bridge across the morning's shyness.

Seeing your reaction, Hotch's smile broadened slightly, but he also felt a pulse of concern—wanting to ensure his words had been well received. 

"Do you not like that?" he asked gently, his head tilting to catch your gaze more fully, seeking to understand your feelings.

Quickly, you shook your head, the sheets rustling softly around you as you moved. "No, I like it," you assured him earnestly, your voice carrying a warmth that eased any lingering doubt in his mind. "I’ve never been called that before. It makes me feel... good." Your admission, simple yet profound, reflected the depth of your emerging emotions, revealing how such small intimacies were new territories being explored and cherished.

Hotch's eyes softened further, a profound tenderness settling in his features as he absorbed your words. The significance of the term—sweetheart—gained a new weight, symbolizing not just affection but a recognition of the intimacy and closeness that had flourished between you. 

"I’m glad," he murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch as reverent as it was affectionate. "You deserve to feel nothing less than cherished."

In the quiet morning light, with the world outside still blurred by the early mist, Hotch felt a renewed sense of connection to you. Each shy smile, each hesitant yet trusting exchange, wove a stronger bond between you. Here, in the soft dawn of a new beginning, the previous night's vulnerabilities transformed into the day's strengths, each moment building on the last, each term of endearment a step deeper into the heart of what was swiftly becoming a profound and beautiful relationship.

The morning that continued was a blend of lingering sensations and the crisp return to reality as Aaron Hotchner made his way into the bustling environment of the FBI headquarters. The events of the previous night, filled with tender discoveries and shared warmth, were still vivid in his mind as he navigated through the familiar corridors toward his office. He was adjusting his collar, trying discreetly to ensure that no visible marks were showing, when Emily Prentiss caught him halfway down the hall.

"Hold it, Hotch!" Emily called out, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she approached him with a purposeful stride. "You have a hickey," she announced with a mix of amusement and mock accusation.

Hotch, caught off-guard, touched his neck almost reflexively, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "I do not," he countered smoothly, though his voice carried a hint of uncertainty as he felt the area she pointed out.

Emily laughed, pointing more directly now. "Oh, but you do. Right there, peeking from your collar." Her eyes twinkled with mischief, clearly enjoying the moment.

Memories from the previous night flashed through Hotch's mind—your growing confidence, the softness of your touch turning more daring as the night progressed. He remembered how your actions, once hesitant, had grown bolder, culminating in the passion that must have left the mark he was now accused of carrying.

Trying to maintain his composure, Hotch adjusted his collar once more, a futile attempt to cover the evidence. "It's nothing," he insisted, brushing past Emily toward the sanctuary of his office. He knew well the buzz this would stir among the team, especially once Emily shared her discovery.

As he closed his office door behind him, the slight smirk on Emily's face lingered in his mind. Hotch couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride mixed with embarrassment—after all, it wasn't just any mark; it was a token of the new intimacy and connection he had found with you. 

Deciding to embrace the lighter side of the situation, he took out his phone and composed a message to you, his fingers typing with a smile.

"Good morning, sweetheart. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night, or you. Also, thanks for leaving your mark on me—I’m trying to keep it under wraps here, but it seems I’ve been caught. Can’t wait to see you again."

He sent the message, the formality of his FBI role momentarily replaced by the warm, personal connection he now shared with you. Almost immediately, his phone buzzed with your reply, bringing an even deeper smile to his face.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry! I got carried away, didn’t I? I’m glad you enjoyed last night, though. I can’t stop thinking about it either..."

Hotch chuckled softly, the bashfulness and charm of your message warming him from within. It was these moments—these little exchanges—that continued to build the bridge between their worlds, a bridge that he treasured deeply.

Adjusting his collar one last time, Hotch settled into his day, the challenges of law enforcement ahead yet sweetened by the personal joy he now carried within him. Your presence in his life, marked subtly by the hickey hidden under his collar, was a secret badge of honor he wore with an inward, contented grin.

Later that day, as Aaron Hotchner navigated through the paperwork and case files that demanded his attention, he felt the presence of someone lingering near his office door. Looking up, he saw David Rossi, leaning casually against the frame with an all-too-familiar inquisitive look in his eyes.

“Got a minute, Hotch?” Rossi asked, his voice carrying a hint of mischief that only piqued as he stepped inside the office.

Hotch sighed lightly, already anticipating the direction of the conversation. “Sure, Dave, what’s on your mind?”

Rossi walked in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I’m just curious about the lucky lady who’s got you coming into work marked up like a teenager,” he teased, taking a seat across from Hotch.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, a resigned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I was going to keep it more private, at least for a while,” he admitted, the reality that the team would inevitably find out now fully realized.

Rossi chuckled, his eyes twinkling with camaraderie and a bit of brotherly concern. “Too late for that, my friend. Penelope’s already done her digging. Showed us a photo of her.” He paused, watching Hotch closely. “She seems… vibrant. And quite a bit younger than you, huh?”

Hotch couldn’t suppress the slight flush of embarrassment mixed with pride. “Yes, she’s younger,” he confirmed, his voice steady despite the personal nature of the discussion. “She’s wonderful, Dave. Genuine, kind, and yes, younger, but I feel... rejuvenated, I suppose.”

Rossi’s laughter filled the room, easing any lingering tension. “Rejuvenated, he says. That’s one way to put it.” His tone shifted slightly, the humor mingling with sincerity. “It’s good for you, Hotch. After everything, you deserve a bit of happiness. Just don’t forget to bring her around sometime. We’re all dying to meet the woman who’s captured our fearless leader’s heart.”

Hotch smiled, the warmth of Rossi’s words reinforcing the acceptance he hoped for from his team. “I’ll think about it, Dave. It’s still new, and I want to make sure it’s right before making introductions.”

Rossi stood, heading toward the door but not without throwing a final quip over his shoulder. “Just remember, Hotch, the clock’s ticking. We’re not getting any younger, and you’ve snagged yourself someone who probably runs circles around you.”

“Only metaphorically, I assure you,” Hotch retorted, the banter a comfortable, familiar exchange between old friends.

As Rossi left with a chuckle, Hotch leaned back in his chair, the interactions with his team leaving him somewhere between frustration and enlightenment. The dynamic of the BAU was such that nothing stayed private for long, but perhaps in this case, it wasn’t such a bad thing. His team’s curiosity, albeit invasive at times, came from a place of genuine care and support. Adjusting his collar once more, Hotch settled back into his work, a small smile playing on his lips as he thought of you, his newfound reason for joy.

The rhythm of the latest case had Aaron Hotchner more bound up than usual, with long days bleeding into longer nights, each hour stretching thin as the team chased down leads and suspects. 

Despite the consuming nature of his work, a part of his mind remained tethered to you, his thoughts wandering to your last night together and the silence that had followed. As the days passed without a word from you, his concern deepened, shadowed by the worry that perhaps he had misread the signals or assumed too much about the bond he felt was forming between you.

During a briefing, Hotch found himself checking his phone again—a habit that had not gone unnoticed. JJ caught his eye, her expression a mix of concern and gentle teasing. "Expecting an important call, Hotch?" she asked, an eyebrow raised in playful inquiry.

He pocketed the device, offering a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just keeping tabs on things," he replied, though his vague response fooled neither JJ nor himself.

That evening, back in the solitude of his hotel room, the quiet felt more oppressive than calming, each tick of the clock a reminder of the growing distance he felt from you. Resolved not to let the situation fester with assumptions, he dialed your number, the weight of his phone heavy in his hand.

When you answered, your voice brought an immediate relief, but it was tinged with a hesitation that prompted him to cut straight to the heart of his fears. "Is something wrong?" Hotch asked, his voice low and filled with a palpable concern. "If you're regretting our night together, it's okay, but I need to know."

There was a brief pause before you responded, your words slow as if weighing each one. "No, it's not that," you assured him. "I just... I'm inexperienced, and I didn't want to come off as the nagging, clingy girlfriend. I didn't want to bother you."

Hotch felt a pang of understanding mixed with a slight reprimand towards himself for not making his feelings clearer from the start. "You could never nag or be a bother," he said earnestly. "I want you to cling. I’ve been missing you."

His admission hung in the air, a bridge stretched out over the miles that separated you. After a moment of silence, filled only with the faint buzz of the line, Hotch's voice softened further. "Sweetheart, are you still with me?"

Your response was a breath, almost lost in the connection. "I'm sorry, I'm just taking all of this in. I miss you too," you admitted, and there was a warmth in your tone that made his heart swell. "Hearing that you miss me makes me feel so good. I never thought I'd get this."

The simplicity and sincerity of your words struck a chord in him. Hotch found himself reflecting on his past, on the loss and the loneliness that had once defined his days. "The feeling is mutual," he confessed. "You’ve brought something into my life I didn’t dare to expect again."

In the quiet of his hotel room, with the night pressing against the windows, Aaron Hotchner felt a profound shift. The connection between you and him, built on shared moments and the tender exchange of fears and hopes, was something deeply real—something worth every effort to preserve and nurture, despite the chaos of their daily lives. As he set the phone down, a sense of peace settled over him, the kind that only comes when two hearts find a way to beat in tandem, even across the distance.

From that heartfelt conversation onward, the dynamic between you and Aaron Hotchner transformed, becoming a constant stream of communication that threaded through the remainder of his case. Each text you sent, each call you made at the end of the day, wove deeper layers of connection and comfort into the fabric of his daily routine, which had often felt isolating given the demanding nature of his work.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of interviews and dead ends, Hotch felt his phone vibrate with an incoming message. It was from you—a selfie, your smile bright and genuine as you held up a large mug of coffee, your shared favorite…the one that brought you together at the grocery store. 

The image was a simple one, but it radiated warmth and a comforting normalcy. Your eyes sparkled with unspoken words, a silent message of support and affection that transcended the physical distance between you.

Hotch couldn’t help but smile, the stress of the day momentarily lifted by your thoughtfulness. He studied the photo, noting the way the light played across your features, the casual fall of your hair, and the cozy environment that spoke of a peaceful moment during your day. It was these glimpses into your daily life that he cherished, reminders of the vibrant, real person who had quickly become so significant to him.

Tapping out a response, Hotch’s fingers moved with a certainty driven by his emotions. “Thank you for this, sweetheart,” he wrote. “It’s the highlight of my day. Please keep sharing these moments with me. They mean more than you might realize.”

As the case progressed, with its usual ups and downs, the constant communication with you became something of a lifeline for him. Each message, each snapshot of your day, helped to ground him, to remind him of the life that awaited him beyond the paperwork and the critical decisions. Your willingness to reach out, to keep the connection alive and thriving, was a gift that Hotch did not take for granted.

Your conversations grew richer, filled with the mundane details of daily life and the deeper revelations that came with growing trust. Hotch found himself sharing more too, opening up about the challenges of his days, the small victories, and the moments that made him think of you. It was a mutual exchange, a give and take that balanced the scales of their relationship with equal parts affection and understanding.

In the quiet of his hotel room, as he prepared to finally head home after the case was closed, Hotch looked back on the past days with a reflective appreciation. The case had been tough, but the evolving relationship with you, punctuated by daily messages and endearing selfies, had added a layer of joy to his life that had been absent for too long.

As he packed his bags, ready to return to a routine that now included you at its heart, Hotch felt a profound sense of anticipation. The case had been solved, but a new chapter in his life was just beginning—a chapter that promised as much warmth and connection as the smile in the photo he had saved to his phone, a permanent reminder of the sweetness and light you brought into his world.

Returning home, Hotch found himself immediately swept into the world of his son, Jack, who had been patiently waiting for his father's return. Although eager to reconnect with you, Hotch knew that his first responsibility was to his son, especially after such a prolonged absence. Understanding the situation, you gave him the space he needed, focusing on preparing for an upcoming marketing conference.

One quiet evening, after dinner and a movie that Jack had picked out, Hotch found the perfect moment to broach a subject that had been on his mind throughout his recent work travels. They were sitting on the couch, Jack's head resting against his arm, the room filled with the soft glow of the lamp and the comforting silence that followed their laughter from the movie.

"Jack, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about," Hotch began, his voice gentle, ensuring it carried the weight of his words thoughtfully.

Jack looked up, his expression open and attentive, a look of curiosity spreading across his features. "What is it, Dad?"

Hotch took a deep breath, his heart filled with a mix of anticipation and hope. "It’s about someone very special that I’ve met recently. She’s become very important to me." Hotch paused, gauging Jack’s reaction to these initial words.

Jack’s brow furrowed slightly, then relaxed as he processed the information. "Is she your girlfriend?" he asked, his voice carrying a blend of childish simplicity and earnest inquisitiveness.

"Yes, she is," Hotch replied, smiling at Jack’s directness. "And she’s really wonderful, Jack. I was thinking, maybe you’d like to meet her soon? I think you’d like her a lot."

Jack seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Is she nice?" he asked, his criteria for approval clear.

"Very nice," Hotch assured him, his heart warming at the simplicity of Jack's priorities. "She’s kind, she’s funny, and she makes me very happy."

"Okay," Jack said, his agreement coming easily, much to Hotch's relief. "Can we go to the park or something when I meet her? Maybe have a picnic?"

"That sounds like a great idea," Hotch agreed, grateful for Jack's receptiveness and the ease with which he seemed to accept the news. "We’ll plan something fun."

As Jack yawned and snuggled closer to his father, Hotch felt a profound sense of gratitude for the open-hearted way his son approached the world. Turning his thoughts briefly to you, he felt a surge of affection and a quiet thrill at the thought of intertwining his worlds. He planned to text you later that evening, sharing Jack’s positive reaction and perhaps arranging that picnic Jack had proposed.

The day you met Jack was as picture-perfect as Hotch had hoped. On a rare warm day the three of you spent an afternoon at the park, bundled up under the tentative warmth of late winter sun, with a picnic spread that included all of Jack's favorite foods. Hotch watched, a soft smile playing on his lips, as you and Jack tossed a frisbee, laughter ringing through the air. It was clear from the way Jack clung to your hand as you walked back to the car that you had won his heart as thoroughly as you had won Hotch's. From then on, Jack often asked when you'd be joining them again, his acceptance both a relief and a joy to Hotch.

As winter melted into spring, the relationship between Aaron Hotchner and you blossomed with the season. The transition was marked by significant milestones and quiet moments alike, each one building upon the last, deepening the connection that had sparked during the colder months.

With you, every date, every encounter seemed to bring a new "first": the first time you cooked dinner together, managing somehow to turn spaghetti into a gourmet meal; the first time you danced in your living room to no music at all, just the rhythm of your own laughter; the first work event where Hotch insisted he joined you. Each of these moments was a step deeper into the life you were crafting together.

As the days grew longer, so too did your confidence in your relationship. Hotch noticed the subtle changes: the way your smile reached your eyes a little faster, how your hand found his in a crowd without hesitation, the ease with which you spoke of future plans, weaving him into the fabric of your visions as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Despite the growing security in your relationship with Hotch and Jack, the prospect of meeting his team—a group of people who were not just colleagues but family to Hotch—loomed large in your thoughts. You expressed your nervousness one evening, tucked away in the corner of a cozy cafe, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea for comfort.

"I'm just worried they won’t think I’m... enough," you confessed, your voice a whisper against the clatter of the cafe.

Hotch reached across the table, his fingers gently lifting your chin so you would meet his eyes. "Sweetheart, you are more than enough," he reassured you firmly, his gaze intense and sincere. "They’re going to love you because I love you, and because you are incredible, not just to me, but in your own right."

In the quiet intimacy of the cafe, as Aaron Hotchner uttered the words, "I love you," the atmosphere seemed to shift subtly, the world pausing for a heartbeat. His declaration, spoken so naturally in reassurance and affection, hung between you—a confession made all the more profound because it slipped out unplanned, unguarded.

As he watched your reaction, he saw the surprise that flitted across your features, your eyes widening as the magnitude of his words settled in. For a moment, Hotch felt a twinge of uncertainty—had he spoken too soon?

However, your initial shock quickly gave way to a deeper, radiant sort of joy. The smile that spread across your face was slow but unmistakable, lighting up your eyes and reflecting a mix of love and awe. "Aaron," you breathed, your voice thick with emotion, "you love me?"

Hotch felt a smile tugging at his own lips, his heart swelling in his chest at the sight of your happiness. "Yes, I do," he affirmed, more confidently now. He realized that saying it aloud, here with you, felt right—it felt true. "I didn’t plan to say it just now, but it’s the truth. I love you, and I have for some time."

Your hands reached across the table, finding his, a tangible connection that grounded the moment. "I love you too," you replied, the words seeming to fill the space with warmth and light. "Hearing you say that—it just makes everything feel so real."

Hotch squeezed your hands gently, a contented sigh escaping him. He was a man accustomed to control, to keeping his emotions tightly reined in, but with you, it felt natural to let those walls down. The love he felt for you was something powerful and deep, stirring parts of him he’d thought long dormant.

As the cafe continued to buzz around you, the world moving forward, the moment of your mutual confession felt like a sanctuary, a quiet space carved out of time where only the two of you existed. "It is real," Hotch affirmed, his voice soft but filled with conviction. "You’ve changed my world, and there’s nothing I want more than to keep building this life with you."

As spring unfurled its vibrant hues across the city, both you and Aaron Hotchner found yourselves drawn away from home by professional commitments—yours to a marketing conference and his to a case that coincidentally placed him in the same distant city. When Hotch discovered the serendipitous overlap, a plan began to form in his mind, a surprise that he hoped would light up your day as much as it did his.

Arranging to finish his day's obligations with the BAU team a bit earlier, Hotch made his way to your hotel. The thought of seeing your reaction kept a subtle smile playing at the corners of his lips as he approached your room. After a quick knock, the door swung open, and there you stood, momentarily taken aback but swiftly melting into a radiant smile upon seeing him.

"Aaron!" you exclaimed, surprise giving way to delight. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in town for a case," he explained, stepping inside as you beckoned him eagerly. "I couldn't pass up the chance to see you."

The joy in your expression warmed him more than the spring sun could, and in that instant, he knew he'd made the right call. After a few moments of catching up, he ventured further with his plan. "I have another surprise for you," he started, watching your curiosity pique. "How about dinner tonight with the team? They're all eager to meet you."

You paused, the initial surge of happiness tempering slightly into apprehension. Meeting Hotch's colleagues, the famed BAU team, was a significant step—one you hadn't anticipated taking quite so suddenly. Sensing your hesitation, Hotch gently added, "They're really looking forward to meeting you, sweetheart. But no pressure, we can do this at your pace."

Your eyes searched his, finding reassurance in his steady gaze. "Okay, let's do it," you decided, your voice steady with newfound resolve, bolstered by his support.

That evening, as you walked into the restaurant with Hotch's hand resting lightly on your back, a buzz of conversation and laughter greeted you, emanating from the table where the BAU team had gathered. Derek Morgan rose first, his demeanor open and friendly as he approached.

“Hey there! You must be the famous lady,” Derek said with a grin, shaking your hand with a firm, welcoming grip. “We’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

David Rossi followed with his characteristic charm, raising his glass slightly in a toast as he nodded toward you. “Welcome, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting.

Spencer Reid, slightly awkward but visibly interested, extended his hand next. “Hi, um, it’s really nice to meet you. Hotch talks about you a lot,” he admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose nervously.

Emily Prentiss’s smile was both warm and mischievous. “Don’t worry, only good things,” she chimed in, her eyes twinkling. “We’re really excited you could join us tonight.”

JJ, ever the empathetic soul, gave you a gentle hug. “We’re just like a family here, and anyone important to Hotch is important to us,” she said softly, making you feel truly part of the group.

As everyone settled back into their seats, the conversation flowed easily. You found yourself between Hotch and Spencer, who was more than eager to dive into an elaborate explanation about the historical origins of a case study he’d been reading.

“So, essentially, the behavioral patterns can be traced back to—” Spencer began, only to be interrupted by Derek’s good-natured groan.

“Reid, man, save it for the office. Let’s keep it light, yeah?” Derek teased, eliciting a round of laughter from the table.

You laughed, glancing at Hotch, who was watching you with a soft smile. “You fit right in,” he whispered to you, squeezing your hand under the table.

Derek, not one to miss a beat, caught the exchange and winked. “Look at Hotch, all romantic and stuff. We never get to see this side of him.”

Rossi joined in, his voice playful, “It’s good for him. Keeps him young.”

Hotch rolled his eyes but his smile remained, his gaze fixed on you with unmistakable affection. “I’m just glad she agreed to come tonight,” he said, his voice carrying a tone of deep gratitude.

As the evening progressed, the team shared funny anecdotes from past cases, carefully skirting around the more gruesome details, focusing instead on the mishaps and lighter moments. Emily recounted a tale involving a mistaken identity and a runaway suspect in a mascot costume, which had you laughing until tears formed in your eyes.

“You see, Hotch had to tackle the mascot, and when the head came off, it was the mayor’s nephew!” Emily concluded, as the table erupted in laughter.

The warmth and laughter of the evening did much to make you feel at ease, the initial apprehension you felt about meeting Hotch's team dissipating like mist. As dinner wound down, Hotch leaned closer, his voice for your ears only. “Thank you for being here tonight, sweetheart. It means a lot to me.”

Your response was a soft smile, your hand tightening on his. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Thank you for inviting me.”

As you both stood to leave, the farewells were warm and genuine, each team member making you promise to join them again soon. Walking out into the cool evening air, Hotch’s arm around your shoulders, you felt a sense of belonging and acceptance that was both new and deeply comforting. Tonight hadn’t just been about meeting his colleagues; it had been about joining a part of his life, a part that was important to him. And as you looked up at him, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, you knew this was just the beginning of many shared moments and memories.

As you entered the elegantly appointed lobby of your hotel, Hotch couldn’t help but comment on the plush surroundings with a gentle tease, “Looks like marketing agencies know how to treat their people right.”

You chuckled, leading him to the elevator with a playful nudge. “Maybe the bureau could take a few pointers,” you suggested, sparking a shared smile that lingered as you ascended to your floor.

Once inside your room, the reality of the beautiful evening began to sink in. The room was spacious and warmly lit, the city lights casting a soft glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hotch watched as you slipped off your shoes and curled up on the plush sofa, a content sigh escaping you. Joining you, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude.

“The team really liked you, you know,” Hotch said, his voice low and filled with pride. “They’ve never been so unanimously approving before.”

You looked up at him, your eyes soft. “I loved meeting them. They made me feel so welcome,” you admitted, your gratitude evident. “Thank you for making tonight happen. It was perfect.”

As you leaned into him, Hotch wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. The feeling of your body against his, the scent of your hair, and the warmth of your presence filled him with a deep, resonant joy. Sitting there, with the night sky stretched out before you both and the quiet hum of the city below, Hotch allowed himself a moment to reflect on everything that had brought you both to this point. 

“You know,” he began thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the twinkling lights outside, “there’s something incredibly refreshing about being with you. Your perspective, your innocence—it’s brought out a side of me I thought was long gone. I’m... I’m really grateful for that.”

You turned to look at him, your expression tender. “I feel the same, Aaron. You make everything seem exciting and new, like there’s a world of possibilities I never knew about.”

In that quiet hotel room, a soft melody playing from the small radio on the bedside table, Hotch felt the weight of his usual responsibilities lighten. Here with you, the complexities of his job, the burdens of his past, seemed distant and manageable. Your innocence, far from being a naiveté, was a lens through which the world could be seen afresh, vibrant and hopeful.

So much of his life, the goodness in people had been tainted from his line of work and all he had been through. There was a clarity in being in your presence. 

He kissed the top of your head, a silent expression of his feelings. “I’m looking forward to exploring all those possibilities with you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Your smile in response was all the confirmation he needed. The evening might have ended, but their journey together was just beginning, each new day promising more laughter, understanding, and shared growth. As Hotch held you close, the city’s pulse below you a faint echo to their own heartbeats, he knew that this—this right here with you—was exactly where he was meant to be.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[deen-djarin]

Soft Reins — Day One

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: Groundskeeper/Rancher! Joel Miller x City Girl! Reader

Summary: Her family made her want to leave, Joel made her want to stay.

Tags: Age Gap (50s/20s), No Outbreak, Familial Tension, Mentions of infidelity, Snobby and judgy family

Word count: 3.6k

a/n: HELLOOOO okay so this is my second fic heheh and i’m hoping i can stick with it and actually finish it because its definitely a huge learning curve for me lol. i’ve had this idea brewing in my head for months and i’ve gotten to the point where i just gotta write it. tysm for my beta readers ily all and also ty for reading this!

Summer 2025

You're behind the wheel, cruising down a winding road framed by towering pine trees—a striking contrast to the usual backdrop of glass and steel skyscrapers. Ahead of you, a line of sleek, high-end cars snakes along the road, unmistakably belonging to your wealthy, highbrow extended family.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming isn’t the kind of place you'd expect to find people like them—it’s a little too middle-of-nowhere America. And yet, that’s exactly what draws them in.

Nestled in the valley is a ranch—but not your typical one. This is a luxury dude ranch, “Silver Spur Ranch” where the wealthy come to sample the Western lifestyle. Well, sort of. The real West usually doesn’t come with spa treatments and gourmet meals. Still, there are horses, rustic cabins, and sweeping mountain views which are pretty close enough for them.

“Noah would love this,” your mother sighed, gazing out at the sweeping valley.

Your neck stiffened at the mention of his name.

“Can you not bring him up, please, Mom?” you murmured, eyes locked on the winding road ahead.

“I can’t help it, hun. He became the son I never had,” she replied, throwing up her hands in mock surrender.

“Well, he’s not. And we’re not together anymore,” you said, sharper now. “So I’d really appreciate it if you could just... let it go.”

She fell silent—not in compliance, but in calculation. You knew her too well to believe otherwise. She was building her next line, rehearsing it in her head like a lawyer preparing closing arguments.

“I just don’t get it,” she finally said, her voice soft but edged. “You were with him for what, five years?” A beat passed before she pushed forward again, “Have your father and I not set a good example for you? Even your grandparents—fifty years, happy as ever! And you gave that good man up just because—”

“Cheating is not a just because reason, Mom,” you snapped, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles went white.

She waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Well, no, of course not. But Noah is a good man. He just made a... lapse in judgment.”

You laughed once, hollow and humorless. “A lapse in judgement? A lapse is forgetting an anniversary. Not sleeping with someone else. For months.”

Your mother looked away, lips pursed, like she couldn’t quite argue but still didn’t agree. The silence between you thickened, stretching across the cabin of the car and the valley beyond.

“I’m just saying, honey, a man like Noah—he’s hard to come by.”

You grimaced inwardly. Of course she’d say that. You still couldn’t quite wrap your head around your mother’s unwavering loyalty to him.

Sure, he was polished. He came from old money—more than your family ever had. He knew how to dress, how to charm your mother with just the right words at just the right moments. He wasn’t bad looking either. On paper, he was perfect.

But inside? He was hollow. And for the last stretch of your relationship, so were you.

The rot had been setting in for months, invisible at first, until it was all you could feel. Then came the final blow: you found out he had been cheating. Days before he proposed.

And still—he did it. With your entire family watching, he dropped to one knee, smiling like nothing was wrong. A last-ditch effort to lock you in before the truth could catch up to him.

But you said no.

And you walked away.

It hadn’t gone over well. There were whispers, long stares, your father refusing to speak to you for weeks. Your mother never stopped calling it a “mistake” you’d made in the heat of emotion.

But it wasn’t emotion. It was clarity. Maybe for the first time.

The trip was meant to celebrate your grandparents’ anniversary—fifty years together. A milestone that, given what you knew about how awful men could be, felt almost impossible to grasp.

The entire extended family would be there, and you could hardly wait to be cornered with questions about your recent breakup and failed engagement. For seven whole days. A real vacation.

To say the timing was less than ideal would be generous. You could’ve opted out—God knows you wanted to—but that would’ve only fueled the whispers. And despite everything, under different circumstances, you would have wanted to be there. You loved your grandparents. They were the rare ones in your family who didn’t judge, didn’t press. Maybe it was because, unlike their children and grandchildren, they hadn’t grown up with money. There was a softness to them that hadn’t been bred out by status or social games.

They were the reason you came. Not the charade. Just them.

The ranch finally came into view, peeking through the tall trees like something out of a movie. It had a rustic charm, but you could tell it had been carefully renovated—polished just enough to suit the tastes of its upscale clientele.

Your car slowed as you passed through the front gate and followed the long gravel driveway toward the main cabin. The second your tires came to a stop, you were already reaching for the door handle, eager to escape the tension that had been simmering in the car with your mother.

You stepped out and made a beeline for the trunk, popping it open and reaching for your suitcase. But just as your hand closed around the handle, another—larger—hand landed over it.

“I got this, sugar,” came a warm, slow drawl, thick with a Texas accent.

You froze.

He was close—close enough for you to catch the scent of sandalwood, sun, and flannel. You instinctively stepped back, your eyes scanning upward.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of man who looked like he actually belonged on a ranch. You caught a glimpse of his profile: strong nose, weathered skin, hair streaked with silver that matched the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw and mustache.

“Long drive?” his voice broke through your thoughts, low and easy.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. It’s, uh... pretty far from, well—everywhere,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat—curious, unreadable. Then, without a word, he reached down and hoisted your bags, one in each hand like they weighed nothing.

“Welcome to Silver Spur,” he said with a small, polite smile.

And just like that, he turned and walked off, disappearing with your luggage before you could even think of a reply.

The main lounge buzzed with the energy of your entire family gathered together. The interior was stunning—tall ceilings draped in dark wood, a grand stone fireplace, and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a breathtaking view of the land. You stood by your cousin Amy, the one you were closest to growing up. You’d shared so many memories, but things had shifted a bit since she married and had a baby. You were still close, just not as much as before.

One of the staff passed around welcome drinks—icy cold lemonade. You accepted with a grateful smile.

“How are you holding up?” Amy asked, her voice full of concern. You sighed. “So far, so good. You?”

Amy leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Lily wouldn’t stop fussing the entire way here, and Justin was no help,” she murmured, glancing over at her husband, who was bouncing their three-year-old daughter on his lap. “He somehow always appears to be there when she’s calm, though.” Amy chuckled softly, and you followed suit, shaking your head.

A sound of glass clinking drew everyone's attention to the man standing on the small stage by the piano. He looked strikingly similar to the guy who’d taken your luggage earlier—maybe a bit younger. Next to him stood a stunning woman with dark skin and a warm, radiant smile.

“Howdy, y’all! Welcome to Silver Spurs Ranch!” he called out, his voice smooth and welcoming. “I’m Tommy, and this is my wife, Maria,” he gestured to the woman beside him, who waved her hand in greeting. “We’ll be your ranch hosts during your stay.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the man from earlier walking toward the stage and standing right next to it on the corner. You couldn’t tear your eyes away once you realized he was there.

“You like him too, huh?” Amy whispered, leaning closer.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered back, your voice a mix of surprise and mock offense.

Amy giggled, eyes twinkling. “What? You’re free now!” She gestured to her family with a smirk. “I, on the other hand…” She trailed off, pointing to her husband and daughter.

“You’re being ridiculous. We just got here,” you scolded playfully, rolling your eyes.

“Hey, he’s hot, so…” Amy teased.

You cut her off, whispering, “Amy, shut up.”

She laughed quietly. “Alright, alright!” she relented.

After a brief pause, as everyone focused on the ranch hosts listing activities for the stay, Amy leaned in again. “I didn’t know Silver Spurs Ranch came with a silver fox cowboy,” she whispered.

You bit back a laugh. “I hate you,” you muttered under your breath.

“That one over there is my brother, Joel,” Tommy said, pointing to the man standing a little off to the side. Joel. The name felt just right for him. He offered a small wave before slipping his hands back into his pockets, his gaze scanning the room.

“You’ll be seeing a lot of him,” Tommy continued, a proud smile on his face. “He takes care of the land and will be leading some of your excursion activities.”

You couldn’t help but watch Joel for a moment longer. There was something about him—steady, grounded.

Amy leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I gotta admit, he’s got that ‘I work with my hands’ kind of charm.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. “You mean he’s got the ‘I wake up at 5 a.m. to ride horses and shovel dirt’ look?”

Amy grinned. “Exactly.” She looked back at Joel, her gaze lingering for a moment too long. “He’s definitely got that whole ‘silent, mysterious cowboy’ thing going on.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny that there was something magnetic about him. Not in a typical ‘movie star’ way, but in a way that made you want to know more. Maybe it was the confidence that seemed to radiate from him without ever needing to say much.

At that moment, Joel turned his head and caught your eye. His gaze flickered toward you briefly, almost like he was assessing you. It wasn’t a stare, just a quiet acknowledgment, but it still sent a little pulse of awareness through you.

Amy caught it too, her smirk widening. “Uh-huh. I see that look. He noticed you.”

“What look?” you asked, feigning innocence. You turned back toward the stage as Tommy and Maria continued talking, but your mind kept wandering back to Joel.

“Don’t act coy. He definitely noticed you,” Amy teased. “You’re going to have fun here, I can tell.”

You glared playfully at her. “Just because I glanced at him doesn’t mean I’m about to go on a horseback ride into the sunset with him.”

Amy let out a short laugh. “Not yet, anyway.”

Maria's voice cut through the conversation, bringing everyone's attention back to the front. "Alright, everyone, feel free to explore the ranch, or just take in the view. We know it's a long journey to get here so your rooms is ready, and dinner will be served in an hour."

As the crowd began to move in different directions, you felt a strange mix of anticipation and curiosity swirling inside you. You were supposed to be here to relax, but for some reason, everything—especially Joel—seemed to be pulling you in.

Amy nudged you with her elbow again. "So... what's the plan? You gonna go for it or just pretend you're not interested?"

You sighed, trying to hide your grin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, sure," Amy teased, "keep telling yourself that."

Dinner was set like something out of a magazine. A long, weathered farm table stretched down the center of the dining hall, dressed in ivory linens, wildflowers, and flickering candles that made the roasted dishes gleam like still life paintings. Your grandparents sat proudly at the head, fingers intertwined, laughing like they hadn’t seen fifty years go by. The rest of the family filled the table in loud, familiar clusters, the wine flowing too easily, the conversations layered over one another.

You were somewhere in the middle, boxed in by a distant cousin on one side and a sea of aunts and uncles on the other. You kept your head down, halfheartedly pushing food around your plate, bracing for the inevitable.

It didn’t take long.

“So… no Noah this year?” Aunt Debby asked, tilting her head with feigned casualness.

“Nope,” you replied, stabbing a perfectly innocent carrot.

“I figured we’d see him again. Didn’t you two usually take trips like this together?” someone else chimed in. A cousin’s wife, maybe—you didn’t bother to look.

“Not anymore,” you hummed, your hand curling into a fist beneath the table.

“That’s a shame. I really thought we’d be getting a wedding invite this year,” Aunt Debby said, swirling her wine with theatrical sadness.

“Well, there won’t be one anytime soon.”

Uncle Rick joined in without looking up. “Still can’t believe you let that one go. Good job, good family, good-looking.”

“Not good at staying faithful,” you muttered.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Aunt Debby asked, all syrup and fake concern.

You didn’t think before the following words that came from your mouth, you’re fed up by all the judgement coated with faux sugar coated concerns, You looked up. “I said, he cheated. For months. Before he proposed.”

The table fell quiet. Someone clinked their fork against a plate, a few chairs shifted.

Aunt Margaret recovered first. “Well... relationships are complicated. Everyone makes mistakes. Your mother and I both—”

“I know,” you cut in, turning your gaze to your mom. “You’ve made that very clear.”

The silence was heavier this time.

You folded your napkin, set it on your plate, and stood. The scrape of your chair on the wooden floor sounded louder than it should have.

“I’m gonna get some air,” you murmured.

“Oh honey, don’t be dramatic—” your mother sighed.

“I’m not. I just need air,” you said, sharper now, and without waiting for a response, walked out into the night.

The door swung shut behind you with a quiet thud.

You slipped off into the dark, wandering past the edge of the cabins until you found a quiet spot beside what looked like the horse stables. You needed to be somewhere out of sight—far from the dining hall, far from your family. Because after all that, you needed a smoke. And if anyone in your family ever found out, it’d be a full-blown intervention before sunrise.

From your pocket, you pulled out a small tin, flipping it open with muscle memory and placing a cigarette between your lips. You were just about to flick your lighter when—

“You know smokin’ ain’t allowed on this property.”

You jumped so hard the cigarette nearly fell from your mouth. “Jesus—fuck!”

You turned and saw him. Joel. Standing half in shadow, half lit by moonlight, looking more amused than stern.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, chuckling.

You let out a breath, your hand over your heart. “Yeah, well, you did.”

He nodded toward the cigarette. “You still gonna light that?”

You hesitated. “Can I?”

Without answering, Joel reached out and gently took hold of your arm, guiding you farther back into the shadows—near a thick row of bushes. Your heart stuttered a bit from the contact, the feel of his large calloused hand against your soft skin, and you were suddenly glad it was too dark for him to see the way your face flushed.

“Cameras,” he murmured. “You’re safe here. Go on.”

“Thanks,” you exhaled, grateful, and finally lit the cigarette. You took a long drag, the smoke easing something tight in your chest.

The night wrapped around you, quiet and still, save for the soft hum of cicadas and the slow rhythm of your breath. Joel didn’t move far—he stayed just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon like he had nowhere else to be.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle. “Saw you stompin’ out here like you were fixin’ to do some damage.”

You laughed under your breath. “Might’ve, if someone hadn’t stopped me.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at you in that steady way that invited you to keep going.

You sighed, watching the smoke curl upward. “They think I ruined my perfect life. That I threw it all away because I said no to a proposal.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, listening.

“He cheated on me,” you murmured. “For months. And then had the nerve to propose like nothing happened.”

Joel let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a real catch.”

You barked a laugh. “Yeah. All sunshine and rainbows, that one.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a steadiness to him—like he knew how to be still in a way most people didn’t.

After a moment, he shifted. “Listen, uh… it ain’t really my business, but—sounds to me like you dodged a bullet.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Joel looked at you, earnest beneath all the roughness. “You did the right thing.”

You glanced over at him. “Thanks… Joel, right?” you asked as if his name hasn’t been echoing in your head eversince Tommy said them.

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah.”

“And I’m—” you said your name, almost shyly.

He repeated it back to you, the sound of it low and unhurried as it rolled off his tongue.

You gaze up at the sky, the stars shining much clearer here than in the city. It’s mesmerizing—you can’t remember the last time you saw more than two tiny dots scattered above.

Slowly, you sit down on the grass, and Joel lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re gonna ruin that pretty dress,” he teases.

You smile up at him. “I don’t really give a damn.”

He grins at that, then joins you, sitting down beside you.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m actually obligated to keep an eye on troublesome guests.”

You turn to look at him. His serious face slowly breaks into a smirk, and you chuckle softly. “Asshole,” you murmur.

Taking another drag of your cigarette, you sigh. “Must be nice, living out here, huh?”

Joel nods, eyes still fixed on the stars. “Gets real quiet. Makes it easier to think.”

You glance down, voice soft. “I could use a little of that.”

He looks over at you, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly: “Then stay a while.”

You smiled to yourself and kept your eyes on the stars. The silence between you and Joel was comfortable, but there was something simmering beneath it—something you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge just yet.

“The stars are beautiful out here,” you murmured.

Joel let out a quiet chuckle. “Bet you don’t see many of those back in the city, huh?”

You shook your head with a faint smile. “Kind of forgot how many there actually are.”

“They’ve always been there,” you said softly, more to yourself than him. “Just hard to see when the sky’s all polluted.”

Joel hummed low in his throat. “That sounds like a metaphor for a lotta things in life.”

You turned your head toward him, a light laugh escaping you. “You always been this wise?” He grinned, subtle and a little self-deprecating, eyes still on the sky. “Nah. Just old.”

That made you giggle, the sound easy and real, and something in Joel’s expression softened. Then, without a word, he pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you back before they send a search party.”

You hesitate, just for a second, then take his hand. His grip is solid and warm, and when he helps you up, he doesn’t let go right away.

You both stand there for a moment—closer than before, still caught in that soft, uncertain pull—before he clears his throat and lets his hand fall away.

“This way,” he murmurs, nodding toward the path.

You follow him into the quiet dark, heart beating a little louder than before.

Joel walked with you back toward the main cabin where the guest rooms were. You led him through the quiet hallways, the old wood creaking underfoot, until you stopped in front of your door.

“Well, uh… this is me,” you said, a little awkwardly, your hand hovering near the doorknob.

Joel nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Get some rest. Breakfast’s at seven,” he said, then added, almost hesitantly, “Me and Tommy are leading a horseback ride along the river tomorrow. If you feel like joining.” His eyes flicked from the floor up to yours, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost nervous.

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Alright then. See you tomorrow, city girl.” He started backing away, slow and casual, and you turned to open your door. “See you tomorrow,” you murmured.

Just as he turned the corner, you called out softly, “Joel?”

He stopped and looked back, quick like he’d been waiting for it.

“Thank you… for tonight,” you said, meaning it.

He nodded once, that same quiet smile still on his face. “Anytime, sugar.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, and you stood there for a moment longer, heart just a little too full.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

a/n: thank you so much for reading guys <3 i know its a short one but i’m just laying out the vibes and tone of the series before we get to the good stuff on the upcoming chapters!! your feedback is greatly appreciated!! ily all

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xi

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons and/or events

series: part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | ...

bonus: one, two, three

June 2-3, 2025

[Excerpt: True or False with Babolat Ambassador Y/N L/N] True or False – you’ve never won Wimbledon or the US Open

True, for now! Trying to change it this year. I did get to the final of Wimbledon two years ago, so hoping I can at least get there again.

True or False – Your favourite tv series is Abbott Elementary

Oooh, favourite tv series ever? I don’t know about that, that’s really difficult. But I do love it as one of my favourite tv series that’s currently on tv for sure. Especially because it's funny and low-stakes, but also still very real and touching.

True or False – Every tennis player also is an avid watcher of tennis

Definitely false. There’s a pretty clear divide between those of us who watch tennis for entertainment, and those of us who cannot stand it – because you can’t escape your need to analyse every single millisecond of a match. I’ll leave it up to you to guess which category I belong to.

True or False – you had a small background part in the movie Challengers

Ha, I wish!

True or False – Using the right, fresh balls makes all the difference in a championship match.

That’s actually true. The more you’ve used them and hit them over the course of a match, even in as much as 20 minutes the balls degrade. And so does the quality. It means you have to adjust your hitting style constantly, and that takes a lot of effort. It also depends on the surface a bit. Clay is a lot more physical than hard court, for example.

True or False – If you hadn’t become a tennis player, you would have wanted to be a location scout for movies.

How do you guys know that? Yeah, I just think it’d be such a cool and creative job. You’d get to travel a lot, which I get to do now as well – but you’d actually get to spend time exploring the place with a purpose in mind. I don’t know, I think capturing what the world looks like is so beautiful. Sometimes we forget just how beautiful it is, and just how precious our environment is.

True or False – your celebrity crush is Sebastian Stan

True. Has been since I first watched him in Once Upon A Time.

True or False – Your favourite racket is a Babolat Aero.

Hmmm trick question! I actually have my own modified version as of this year. It’s now available for people to pre-order – the Babolat Aero Pro L/N. I’m so excited to bring the racket that I’m using this tour to stores. It’s been a very rigorous process of designing and developing this racket to suit me the best, and give me the most feel and spin control as possible.

True or False – Your dream holiday destination is Japan.

True again. This year I actually got to spend my birthday there. It was absolutely wonderful, and also a complete surprise that my best friend had organised for me. I don't think anyone's ever given me such a thoughtful gift. I thought I was being dropped off at the airport, and instead we drove straight to Niigata for Sakura. I'm pretty sure I'll never forget just how breathtaking it was to be surrounded by so much beauty, and to share that with such special people who mean the world to me.

June 4-5, 2025

[Excerpt Max Fewtrell Twitch Stream, June 5th, 2025]

"Yeah, he is in Paris right now. What a life he leads, huh? Terrible. No, as much as I loved the Australian Open - I won't be going to the tennis this time. I'll be back to support Lando during his next race though. We do have our own lives, I know it might not look like it, but we do."

“Am I following the tournament? Yes I am, though I must say the atmosphere in a stadium is hard to replicate through a screen. It's such an intense sport. Really rooting for Y/N L/N of course.”

“If I have a favourite for the men? Ohh I can't really say. Let's first see who gets into the final, because it does take a while with tennis.”

“What else is coming from Quadrant? Quite a lot actually. It’s been very exciting, we’ve been working hard behind the scenes for a while. So just have to be patient for a little while longer chat, but I promise you it’ll be well worth the wait.”

June 6-8, 2025

A/N: omg so much has happened irl between previous chapter and this one, podium wins, the MET, there's a new pope, and i now have a new laptop woohoo. Next up in WSIIL: get in, we're going shopping with an increasingly unraveling y/n and loverboy lando :) :)

next part available now here

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

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[thatguywrites]

Since it's the month of May could you do driver (no preference on who) with Indy500 winning boyfriend?

love your fics!

Big Winners

Set in 2024, and I actually moved this up my to post list by a month bc I love it and I wanted to post it Indy weekend, and I need to write fics with driver reader more lmaoooo

Also idk how tf this became kinda horny? Idk, ig I just see charles as a horndog

Charles Leclerc x Male!Indy500 winner!Reader

Every year, when the schedules for both of your seasons are released you both rush to check every weekend you may possibly be able to see eachother, with the Monaco GP and the Indy500 obviously being favorites.

Which makes it so frustrating how they always seem to overlap.

The week before your big races, Charles was in America for the time you could have together, lounging about in your motorhome, going on headset and looking at data, and drooling over you every time you left the car. It was a very busy weekend for him.

"Goodness baby, you're getting faster every lap, and my pants are getting tighter" He calls out, embarrassingly loud, as he strolls toward you.

Debrief forgotten, you can't help but turn and give your boyfriend a smile. "Well I gotta do better and better to impress this pretty boy I saw in the crowd"

"Oh" Charles' arms wrap around you, as he looks up into your eyes and plays innocent, biting his lip to sell the look.

"Yeah, he's got this ferarri jacket on, the cutest little stubble, and seems to be undressing me with his eyes at this very moment"

"Well I can't help it, how could any man forget your hu-"

Finally slapping your hand onto his mouth, you laugh, before dragging him off to lunch.

"Hugs! Your amazing hugs"

"Sure, sure"

For the rest of the weekend, Charles followed you around like a lost puppy, cheering you up after bad sessions, and cheering louder than anyone else when you rose above the rest.

When Wednesday finally came, and he had to go, he dragged his feet the whole day, trying to advocate for him to stay for the race, but eventually, with many kisses, a stay in a supply closet, and promises that you would call him every night while he was gone, he departed to his own race.

When you were getting ready Sunday, there was always at least one screen near you playing Charles' race. When you had to get in the car while the race still wasn't over it killed you, but just a couple laps in your engineer delivered the news. He won. Charles broke the curse, the first home winner in 93 years. You'd been doing all week, sure, but the racing that you did that day was on a level you'd never yet achieved.

You could hear your blood pulsing through your veins as you lead the last few laps. You couldn't let yourself believe it yet, not until you crossed the line, not until you had the wreath, and kissed the bricks. You couldn't -

And all of a sudden it was over. You'd won. The blood rushing through your veins hadn't quieted, but you could hear the cheers of the crowd roaring below it. You did it. You and Charles did it.

The next hour was a blink, podium, wreath, milk, bricks, interviews, pictures. And finally you could breath. You did it, and Charles did it. And holy shit, you have to call him. Pulling your phone out you were greeted to over 100 texts from Charles alone. From pictures of him on the podium and sobbing about his win, to him in the shower cleaning up, biting his lip as always. An hour later a picture of what must have been most of the grid having a watch party in his house about half way through the race, at least 20 comments of live commentary as you continued to fight for the lead, and a series of panicked texts as you neared the finish line, lap after lap. The last few texts were some photos clearly taken by the others of Charles sobbing on the floor, kissing you on the TV while you were on the podium. Even a picture of him 'kissing the bricks' with you. And the very last message? I'm on my way, thank fuck for AirMax.

Charles_Leclerc

Boyfriends making history <3

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