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writella · 6 months

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The Confession

Synopsis: Confessions shared with the wrong person gone so sinfully right.

Details: rick grimes x reader, afab!reader, smut—masturbation, unprotected sex, riding, both rick and reader being desperate in the dark. I made the exact reason for the confession and occasion very vague. 18+, wc: 2.6k. Proof read, but there might be some errors.

A/N: Not sure how much I like this one, but I had this idea back in early October and I wanted to finish it and give you guys something after a whole month.

I miss you, I’m sorry. Hope you’re all well!! With love from writella. ♡

Your voice is solemn and heavy as you sigh before starting, “I don’t do this very often,” you say, “I hope this is okay.” Your eyes lowering shamefully as you stop. It’s only the first sentence and you’re finding it hard to continue. It’s almost as if there are needles piercing into your throat. “I just feel so embarrassed,” you admit.

Then you pause.

No response from him comes after.

Only silence fills the dark and hallow space of the wooden confession box. Only your thoughts, every creak you made on the built-in bench, and the light wind that rustled from the cracked door were heard.

You wait a second longer.

Hoping.

But still, nothing.

Part of you was suspecting that Gabriel would have been more inviting, telling you it’s okay; and doing so with his kind and gentle voice, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t doing anything it seemed. You only saw the silhouette of his face when you walked inside— the outline of a nose and mouth, really. He seemed to be sitting as far from the small barred window as he could, but you didn’t dare look again. You didn’t even turn on the light fixture in the corner. Your fear was all too big, and his unwavering quietness made it worse.

Maybe you had come at the wrong time, maybe you interrupted him. You almost wanted to ask. But maybe confessions happened in complete silence… you didn’t know anymore, but at this point, you were hoping so. You had already wasted five minutes and managed only one sentence. Perhaps he heard the fear in your voice and was just trying to be a good listener… yes, maybe, you pretend as you urged yourself to start again:

You breathe in sharply, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words come out in an uneasy, hushed whisper. “It happens a lot and I know it’s wrong. And you’re probably going to look at me differently after this, but I have to tell someone so I can stop.”

Your eyes screw shut, the next phrase coming out jumbled and continuous as you try to explain yourself quickly: “I’ve journaled about it and told myself it’s wrong but it’s not helping.” You start to weep, almost laughing at yourself, “I feel so stupid.”

You sigh and you almost think you hear him do so too, but you keep going.

“I’ve been thinking about someone,” you finally say. “For a long time. And I know it’s bad, I know it, but I do it anyway. It's all I think about.”

Another pause.

You catch your breath.

You wait.

But nothing.

So, you start again.

“I think I love him sometimes.” And if you couldn’t get any more timid, your cheeks flush, and your voice grows quieter, “I like his hair, and his eyes, those button-downs he always wears…” you smile at yourself, these were silly things, “Even his beard.”

And then you hear him shuffle, and a light sound is emitted.

It startles you, but silence ensues again thereafter. Maybe you imagined it.

“I like his kindness too. People would usually say strong or giving, but that’s what I like to tell him— that he’s kind. I think he’s kinder than other people give him credit for. He’s just protective. Everyone, and especially himself, we put a lot of pressure on him to make the hard decisions, but, really…” and there it is, “that's not the only way I think about him. There are things–” your throat tightens again– “ things that I think about. And things that I do.” Your eyes screw tight as you force yourself to say it, “I touch myself.”

Another bout of silence comes before the question.

One you’d never suspect.

“Can you describe it?” The voice asks, dark and curious.

The cool spring air of the night turns cold, but it adds no relief to the summer heat that burns in your heart as it begins to beat painfully. The texture in his voice, the inflection at the end that lined the sentence as a request, it rings through one ear and out the other and back again in a cycle.

You knew who it was.

“What?” You shriek so lightly as if playing dumb would help you now. He knew who you were talking about, you made it so desperately obvious.

“Can you,” he repeats steadily, “describe it?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“What other better time could there be?” You can’t tell if he truly means it. His voice remains firm and lets out no hints of his true intentions, but despite doubt, you start anyway. He’s right after all, you’re in here because there hasn’t been a better time.

“I- I start by touching up my thighs, trailing up slowly… I always get so nervous… I never do it fast because I know I shouldn’t do it while thinking about you- about him,” you correct yourself, squeezing your thighs together, your hands gripping the bench tightly.

“But you do it anyway.”

“I do,” you reply meekly.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I can't.”

“What happens when you finally reach all the way up?”

“Gotta touch myself.”

He puts his hands on his knees, making sure his voice stays leveled. “Where do you start?”

“Rubbing my clit.”

“Do it.”

And then you do. You truly can’t help it. Your fingers slide down your hips to the front of your heat, chilly fingers pressing up against your lips over your underwear.

He hears the little sigh as you finally allow your finger to reach your clit in between.

“How does it feel?”

“My fingers are cold right now, so,” a quick breathy laugh leaves you, “ good, really good.” You rub your fingers in slow circles, but your hand and hips jerk, forcing you to speed up, but you try, try to not seem so pathetic to yourself as if there was any attempt at going back now.

His voice’s a slight strain as he asks, “And what do you think about?” He starts to rub his thighs, feeling his cock stir to the side of his jeans, making the material feel tighter than it truly was. His fingers trail closer, knuckles brushing against his erection. He’s pretending like he can stop himself too. “What does he do in your head, sweetheart?”

“He watches,” you say as your movements speed up again. You really can’t help it now, his voice edges you on. Your hand goes under the band of your underwear, fingers collecting wetness below to bring up to your clit, “He’s standing at the edge of the bed,” you tell him, “he’s unbuttoning his shirt, and then he starts taking off his belt… He’s smiling.”

If only you knew that hearing how bad you wanted him was making him do the same thing on the other side.

You’re panting now, one foot comes up to the bench as you slide yourself over to press your back into the corner of the wall, your head tilting back as well, using the assistance to grind into your hand. “He thinks I’m pretty.”

“That's cause are.” He’s lowered his pants now and takes his cock out from under his boxers. Your words make his mouth gape and his eyes close as he begins to stroke himself. “You really are.”

His smile fades as he bites down on his lip lightly. You’re so needy for him and so desperate to admit it. It makes him feel powerful. Almost God-like, despite you both starring as the other’s tempter. So sweet and sinful the sounds you’re making are. How could he not give in? How could he not make you wet for him even at church and stroke his cock as it happens? You’re making it so easy with every whine and little moan you try to withhold. He could hear you getting restless, but he wants to make you want it more, “Keep goin’,” he tells you. “What’s happening now?”

“I put two fingers in,” you whine, “not big enough. Never enough.”

You let your two fingers stay inside you as you press your palm down on your pussy, rubbing your clit with the underside of your hand. You stop for a moment to take off your pants and underwear entirely, discarding it on the floor before you return to your spot. You put one leg up on the bench as you continue to finger yourself.

“I want him so bad.”

“How bad, sweetheart? What would you let him do?”

“Anything, Rick.” You say it louder than you intend, you’re losing yourself. “Anything for him.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.”

After that only nonsense comes out, simple sounds of desire and pleads. It was becoming too much to talk.

Rick felt the same. His hand on his shaft made quick and short movements, his lips parted and pink, more red on the bottom than the top from when bit his lip again at the words anything and everything for him. He repeated it in his mind, listening to your sweet little whines in the present. His head tilts so far back that it bangs on the wooden wall and he hisses.

It reminds him to compose himself.

Even after you let out another moan of his name, and he swears he could almost hear just how wet you are now, the squish of your fingers going in and out, louder and louder.

He swallows hard and takes a breath before he says, “What if I say I want you in here right now?”

That’s when your movements completely stop. You can hear the wind swirling again. You were speechless.

He turns to the netted window. You two can’t see each other but you know he’s looking. “C’mere.” He says slowly. “Now.”

And after that, your body takes control. Swift and instantaneous you move from your door to his, shutting it hard. You don’t even take a moment to look at him, it was too dark anyway, and that’s not what mattered. You’ve already dreamed of his curls, and the pierce of his blue eyes. You knew what he looked like. It’s time to know how he felt.

Rick takes off his shoes and fully lowers and discards his pants. Before he could even consider his shirt, you’re on top of him. You’re kissing his face, your lips and tongue missing his lips by just a little, but it doesn’t matter.

You begin to rock, your wet pussy making the length of his cock and thigh slick before it's even inside of you. You couldn’t help yourself and it makes him laugh, all cocky and proud. Something that you’d cross your arms to, even quip back at in any other situation but right now, it’s so fucking hot.

His hands latch onto your hips, his legs slide back to hit the wall. He raises your frame and you grab him. Your sticky fingers lace around his dick and then you both lower yourself down onto him.

You try to bottom out fast, but his nails dig into you, slowing you down. Your face reaches back with a pout and a whine as he says, “Wait,” even after he’s inside of you.

Your pussy quakes around him. You’re both trying to hold it together, but he’s faring much better than you.

His hand holds your jaw, thumbs caressing your cheeks and a tear falls from your eye, all the sensations becoming too much.

His eyes trail the sight as it rolls down and he tells you, “You’re right. I do think you’re beautiful.”

And he kisses you. Tongue slipping past your lips just as quickly as they depart, going to whisper in your ear: “Go on now,” he smiles, “show me everything.”

You begin to rock against him instantly. Initiating the kiss this time, your tongue slips into his mouth but his goes on top of yours. He grabs the back of your neck, deepening it, and you continue to take charge below as you ride him.

You squeeze around his cock tightly with every movement forward and you hear a strangled groan come out of him as his dick twitches at the sensation.

It makes you moan so loudly, you could wake somebody up.

But it doesn't matter.

You could even come right now just from feeling him inside you for the first time.

And it doesn’t matter.

“I've wanted you for so long, Rick!” You tell him.

He’s all that matters.

“You’ve got me.” He tells you breathlessly, kissing down your neck with his hand tugging on your hair. “You always could’ve.”

Now you know you’re all that matters too.

Your head tilts to the side, eyes closed, and mouth open for each pretty sigh and slight hiss that come out as he bites and kisses.

His hands lower to the hem of your shirt and he pulls it off. You start to undo the buttons on his too.

It’s fast and rushed and messy, but now your chests can meet. You press into him. Your hips are rocking hard. Your clit meets his pelvic bone making you whine and moan again. “Really good,” you say.

Rick’s hands slide to grab your ass, helping you go faster until they rise to your hips again. His thumbs press into the crevice of your hips and legs and he starts to bounce you on him.

You grip onto his arms, assisting him in his efforts. Your eyes are still closed, you’re smiling— already in a state of bliss, yet relishing in the fact that he was pushing you further and further into the dream-like feeling that was to come: your orgasm was close, and the string of airy moans made it evident to you both.

The way his hands move to caress your waist, trail up your back, roll over your arms, and back down again feels like gliding on ice. You felt him everywhere.

“Come on,” he tells you.

“I'm trying, I want to.”

“I know,” he affirms. He takes hold of your upper arms, letting his hands slide down to yours that tightly gripped his biceps and placed them on his shoulders.

You bounce yourself down on him harder, switching it up to rock on him and give your clit attention, then repeat it again.

Once you’re back to bouncing Rick takes one hand on your hip, helping you go faster while the other rubs your clit as vigorously as he can.

Your mouth is open wide, pants and squirms, and pleads coming out wildly. You almost feel like you’re making the whole box jump along with you as you bounce, and bounce, and bounce, and then… there it is: you shout his name and he speaks back to you, you both come together and ride out your high.

A glow emits as you smile, your head crashing into his as you catch your breath.

Then a noise erupts.

The church door closes.

Steps become louder and louder until they reach the open confession box door.

Rick puts his finger to your lips, silently quieting you both. Your eyes are owl wide knowing what the person in the next section would find in there. You almost squirm but Rick slots his finger into your mouth to stop it. “Quiet,” he mouths as the person next to you drops the wet garments they just touched, almost running out of the place as fast as they could.

You lower your face to his shoulder. Embarrassed, you sigh, “What are we gonna do now?”

Rick is unfazed: “Well,” he starts, picking you up by the hips, securing your legs as you wrap them around him, “we could do this one more time.”

He locks the church door and then walks you down the aisle and onto the podium, placing you gently on the ground. He’s standing above you. Just like it all your daydreams.

It was his turn now.

#rick grimes x reader smut #rick grimes smut #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes imagine #rick grimes fic #rick grimes x fem!reader #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes x you #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead smut #twd smut #twd fanfiction #rick grimes x female reader #rick grimes x y/n smut #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x afab!reader

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tayytayy12 · 17 days

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I hate it here (a lot less when I’m with you) | OP81 x Reader

Summary - Reader just got out of a mildly toxic relationship and released a song about what her coping mechanism was during that time, but when her new relationship gets leaked by the paparazzi, she decides to show off her new favourite person.

Warnings | Mentions of a past toxic relationship/ breakup, swearing

FaceClaim | Gracie Abrams

Requested | Yes - No

Type | SMAU

Yourusername

Liked by | AaronDessner, PheobeBridgers and 2,987,425 others

Tagged | @/AaronDessner

Yourusername | Long Pond Studios has always been a place where I’ve let my emotions and feelings guide my songwriting completely, every song that I’ve written and recorded in this place has been a complete raw reflection of my feelings, and I’m forever grateful that I can trust you enough to share them all with you without the slightest moment of hesitation. That’s why, I’m surprise releasing my brand new song, ‘I hate it here’ now. This song is about a method I’ve used to cope for the past few years of my life when I wasn’t in the best situation, and I hope that it will help any of you who are or were in the same situation I was. This song was made with my soulmate of a collaborator, chosen friend, found family of mine, Aaron and were so incredibly proud of it and we can’t wait for you to hear it. Sorry for being away for so long, I love you 🤍

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User1 - OMFG SHES ALIVE !!!

User2 - ONLY TOOK FIVE MONTHS TO CONFIRM YOU’RE ALIVE AND BREATHING

AaronDessner - My favourite one together so far 🤍

Yourusername - Love you forever 🤍

User3 - WTFDYM ‘I HATE IT HERE’ EXPLAIN?

User4 - GO LISTEN TO IT ITS SOOOOOOOOOO GOOD

User5 - A SURPRISE DROP? WE’RE SPOILED

User6 - When Aarons a co-writer AND the producer, you know for a fact the song will change your life (and make the therapy bill triple)

Liked by author

User7 - Girl don’t apologise

User8 - FR like she gets cheated on, takes a brake and then apologises to us 😭 like girl it’s okay

JackAntanoff - *Alexa play Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo*

Yourusername- Your times coming synth man 🤫 LOVE YOU STILL

User9 - WDYM HIS TIME IS COMING YOU CRYPTIC WOMAN

User10 - “I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind.” That’s all I have to say.

User11 - Y/n could write Romeo and Juliet but Shakespeare couldn’t write I hate it here

User11 - “I place you need a key to get to, the only one is mine” girly I hope someone makes you want to make a copy one day

Yourusername - God I love you lmao

User11 - OMFG Y/n loves me I can die happy

User12 - “tell me something awful, like you are a poet.” BC HE ALWAYS PAINTED HER BLUE SKYS THE DARKEST GREY, RUINING HER DAY BY TELLING HER AWFUL SHIT LIKE HES A TORTURED POET !!!!!! (I knew Coney Island wasn’t fictional you fucking delusional people, no one in a happy relationship writes that shit 💕💕💕)

User13 - “This man made me feel worthless.” Y/EX/N ISTG WHEN I FIND YOU. COUNT UR MINUTES

User14 - “I'm lonely but I'm good, I'm bitter but I swear I'm fine” bitch where did you find my diary

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Yourusername

Liked by, SabrinaCarpenter, OscarPiastri and 2,191,910 others

Tagged | @/SabrinaCarpenter

Yourusername - I’m sorry who’s this woman debuting at no.1 on the billboard hot one hundred? My god it is me, I can’t believe this, I love you I love you I love you thank you so so much from the bottom of my heart, I mean it, I really do. MY GOD I LOVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU. (And my baby with her first top ten entry, I love you Sabby, Go stream espresso, it is that sweet 🤍💕) OKAY ONE LAST THANK YOU. 💕🤍💕🤍💕

Okay I lied but being among names like Beyoncé, Ariana Grande, SZA and Kendrick Lamar is one of the biggest honours ever, I’m huge fans of them all and to be in the same space as them is an honour no words can express, I love you all, the most caring sweet fans on the whole planet 💕💕💕💕

(And yes, it was a reference to a physical key, this is it)

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User14 - We made the right one famous guys

User15 - I’m actually crying, when did she stop being our little secret

SabrinaCarpenter - My biggest fan 🩷

Yourusername - Your biggest fan 🩷

User16 - Oscar in the likes for what?

User17 - Who?

User18 - Oscar Piastri, he’s a 23 yr old f1 driver

User19 - What is vroom vroom boy doing here

AaronDessner - Truly blessed to work with you

Yourusername - I’m the blessed one don’t even

User20 - Only y/n could send a five minute long, slow, alt pop song with a main piano background, basically a depressing lullaby bop, to number one above all these TikTok songs

User21 - She’s actually adorable

OscarPiastri - Been on repeat!

Liked by author

User22 - UM HELLO WHAT ARE U DOING HERE LITTLE ORANGE MAN?

User23 - This is all bc of me btw

Celebrity.updates

Liked by, user24, and 82,828 others

Tagged | @/Yourusername @/OscarPiastri

Celebrity.updates - NEW COUPLE!!! Fast upcoming pop star, Y/n Y/l/n (21) seen out late at night on the streets of London with Formula one driver, Oscar Piastri (23), according to the source of these pictures the two were laughing and running around the streets together, when Oscar caught up to her and hugged her to him and kissed her. Rumours say that Y/n met Piastri through her ex partner who’s an engineer for f1 team Alpine, the pair seem to be quite smitten and loving with each other. What’s your thoughts on this?

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User25 - WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN

User26 - Posting these photos is bad enough, but tagging them in it is crazy

User28 - Neither of them have even been hinting at a relationship at all, they clearly didn’t want anyone to know yet

User29 - Can’t these sickos just let them live, they’re people too

User30 - Whoever took these is messed up

User31 - They do look rlly happy together though

User32 - The fact that her ex is an alpine engineer makes this situation so much more funny and interesting

SabrinaCarpenter - You’re actually disgusting

User33 - TELL THEM SAB

User34 - The fact that she’s not even wrong

User35 - the fact that she defends Y/n with no hesitation

User36 - The friendship we all need in our lives

Yourusername

Liked by, OscarPiastri, SabrinaCarpenter and 2,928,198 others

Tagged | @/OscarPiastri

Yourusername - I hate it here a lot less when I’m with you 🤍 my favourite polite cat xxxx

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LandoNorris- Finally. The pair of you at the paddock hiding in MY divers room bc you were scared someone would see you in Oscar’s. Sigh.

Yourusername - You love me

User37 - OH MY GOD

User38 - I need to know the bears name

OscarPiastri- She named him Gerald

Yourusername - Don’t sound so disgusted, that’s our son

OscarPiastri - Sorry baby

User39 - Hysterical

OscarPiastri - My favourite smiling dog 🤍

Yourusername- Excuse me did you just call me a bitch

OscarPiastri- NO I DIDNT MEAN IT LIKE THAT

User40 - The dynamic is already everything to me

User41 - Even his GF knows he’s a polite cat

Yourusername - He so is (he’s in denial)

User42 -“ I hate it here a lot less with you” Shut the fuck up

OscarPiastri

Liked by, Yourusername, LoganSargeant and 1,872,001 others

Tagged | @/Yourusername

OscarPiastri - She made me a copy 🗝️🤍

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User43 - Someone sedate me

User44 - SHE. MADE. HIM. A. COPY.

User45 - WTFFFTTFTFTD

User46 - Literally the ultimate Oscar on Alpine revenge

Liked by author

Yourusername - I don’t need my secret gardens, or my lunar valleys anymore, because I have you 🤍

OscarPiastri- My favourite and only girl 🤍

User47 - I’m taking a nap on the highway

///////

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literaila · 2 months

Text

it's not my fault

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: tsumiki and megumi get into an argument

warnings: sibling stuff, fluff, two oblivious (stupid) parents

last part | next part

year five.

“couldn’t you say something nice?” tsumiki is asking megumi when you walk in. “she just wanted to—“

you set your bag on the table, just barely able to make out their words.

they were... quiet in the car, you realize suddenly. but you hadn't thought that anything was wrong. megumi's typically burnt out after school, and tsumiki waits until you all get home to start telling you about her day.

but it only took a minute of you running back out to the car to grab something for it all to fall apart.

megumi groans. “i don’t even know her.”

you round the corner, just stopping there so you can observe. neither of them seem to notice you, or your wide eyes at both of their stances. the matching scowls on their faces.

they look so similar that it shocks you just briefly.

tsumiki has her arms crossed, shaking her head. “you still don’t need to be mean about it.”

“i wasn’t mean.”

“yes, you were. you told her to leave you alone.”

“that seems like a pretty straightforward request.”

“everyone at school thinks you’re mean,” tsumiki is pouting, looking dishearted at his reaction. typically, megumi will agree with her just for the sake of it. “and i always have to defend you, even if it’s true.”

megumi sighs, shrugging. he's got his satoru-type scowl on, and even though he looks disinterested--as usual--you can see it when his frown deepens, and he shifts away from tsumiki. “well, stop then. i don’t need you to come to my rescue. i don’t care what people say.”

“well, i do! you’re my brother.”

“that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like your responsibility. i can handle myself.”

“you’re always alone at school,” tsumiki disputes, almost whining at him. “if you were nicer—“

“i’ve never complained—“

“okay,” you turn the corner, brows already raised. “there’s a lot of raised voices going on. you two are going to wake up the neighbor's cat.”

tsumiki is pouting at megumi and he just rolls his eyes. both children stand facing each other, standoffish in the living room, arms crossed.

usually, they fight about what movie to watch, or who got to sit in the front seat last.

but those fights don’t typically involve yelling.

sure, they’re both sensitive about their childhood. about living here and being with you and satoru. they'll bicker about being little, megumi hating it when tsumiki mentions either of their biological parents, and tsumiki hating it when he refuses to listen.

but even then, tsumiki goes to hide, and megumi just shuts down.

this seems… different.

a part of you rationalizes that they're both exhausted from school and getting to that age where their priorities differ.

you don't have any siblings, but you quarreled enough with nanami and haibara back at school to know how these types of arguments work.

and unless one of them admits that they're wrong, it's never going to end.

with that thought in mind, you put on a learned smile, standing between the two of them so you can look back and forth between the two children, observing both of their very closed-off body language.

it's a little cute, honestly. they both look very different, but their matching stances and glares are worth much more than biology. you almost want to stop them to take a picture.

satoru would do it if he was here.

“tough crowd,” you say, feeling the tension between the two. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” they both say, at the same time, but megumi with an attitude and tsumiki with a sniffle.

really, you should find a book about expressing emotions. you and satoru are teaching them far too much about denial and avoidance.

you make a mental note to look it up later.

you blow out a breath. “yeah, well, i heard the yelling, but i’m missing some context."

you look between the two of them, but they’re not looking back. both sets of eyes are focused on each other, identical glares bouncing off of each other. they could be communicating in some secret language and you would have no idea.

in fact, you can basically see the thoughts they're forcing towards each other on their faces.

“hey,” you poke them both on the forehead at the same time, trying to get their attention on you. “talk to me. what happened?”

they both remain still as statues for a moment, not bothering to consider the question.

but after a moment, tsumiki blinks, and her frown increases, which makes megumi roll his eyes--like he already knows what she's going to say, and doesn't care.

“megumi was mean to a girl at school,” tsumiki says, finally looking at you with big doe eyes. her face is pained, confused, and worried.

and honestly, she could ask you for anything with that look and you'd give it to her.

but megumi sighs. “i wasn’t mean.”

“you told her not to talk to you!”

he looks to you, less pleading but confident. “if i want space, shouldn’t i tell someone that? isn't that what you say?”

you open your mouth. “well, it depends, megs, you can’t—“

“you’re always mean,” tsumiki’s eyes are filling with tears. she looks at you too. and usually, she would apologize for interrupting, but not right now. “nobody at school wants to be around him. he scares everyone, and they don’t believe me when i say that he’s nice.”

“tsumiki," you begin, face softening, "you shouldn’t—“

“that doesn’t make me mean. why would i want to hang out with people who don’t like me?”

you turn, “megumi—“

“they would like you if you weren’t always saying mean things!” tsumiki tells him, her sweet voice rough with frustration. the tears begin to slip from her eyes.

and you can feel it when megumi moves another inch away, wanting to flinch back from her sadness the same way you do.

“i don’t want them to like me,” megumi corrects, shaking it off. “i don’t care what they think.”

tsumiki frowns even deeper, eyes growing wide. “what about what i think?” she asks him.

“are you going to stop hanging out with me?”

“maybe.”

“how? we literally live in the same house. your room is down the hall from mine.”

“guys—“

“i’ll ask dad to move rooms. he won’t mind.”

“oh, sure. because you’ll be able to avoid me at the dinner table—“

“why are you always—“

“guys.”

they both look to you, glares immensely misplaced. their mouths are still open, ready to interrupt each other at a moment's notice.

you look between them, finding matching pictures on either side. clearly, they're both upset about something different. and still, you don't really understand, but it doesn't seem like they're going to explain anything further.

why would they when they can just keep arguing?

you purse your lips, closing your eyes for a moment, trying not to laugh.

really, if they wanted you to take them seriously they shouldn’t have grown up to be so cute. they shouldn't look like that.

harsh, angry breaths fill the room as the two of them wait for your instruction. you should probably be able to fix this problem immediately--you could by sending them both to their rooms and forcing them apart--but you'd rather talk this through.

plus you don't want either of them to think too hard about any of it. you hate it when you fight with satoru and take a break, just to linger in that anger like a quicksand you can’t pull out of.

“okay,” you say, once there’s a moment of silence. “i know you’re both upset.”

“i’m not—“ you look at megumi and he stops, little frown on his little face. his cheeks are red in indignation, and he's got clenched fists. you can tell that he wants to say something, maybe to you, maybe to tsumiki, but he won't.

you ruffle his hair. “it’s fine to be upset with each other,” you tell him, looking to tsumiki, her face entirely sad. “but going back and forth isn’t going to solve the problem, okay? and neither is saying anything just to hurt each other's feelings.”

“but he just—“ you shake your head, wishing with everything in you that you could go get one of satoru’s blindfolds right now.

it physically hurts to look at them, they're so precious.

you are a terrible mother for finding this moment slightly amusing. to be fair, you spend far too much time with satoru, and deflection is a family trait.

you finger tsumiki’s hair, pushing it from her eyes. “should we take a break?” you ask them both. “or do you want to talk about it now?”

“break,” megumi says, immediately.

“talk about it now,” tsumiki answers, at the same time.

for two people who are so alike, they sure think differently. you want to smile at the very predictable answers but refrain.

“okay…” you pause, thinking. “tsumiki, why don’t you tell us why you’re upset? megumi will do the same, and then we can take a break, or keep going.”

they both glare at each other.

“and nothing mean," you add because it feels necessary.

tsumiki sniffs. “everyone at school says that you’re cruel,” she tells him, a devastating pout on her face. “and i don’t like that. you’re my brother, and i want people to like you like i do.”

you both look at megumi, waiting.

he's silent for a moment, processing his sister's words, but then he’s got a scowl on his face. “i don’t care what they think, they’re all stupid anyway—“

“megumi.”

he looks at you, pleading blue eyes. you can see that tsumiki got under his skin, but you shake your head.

“see?” tsumiki complains, voice high-pitched. “he’s always—“

you wipe away a tear, nodding. “i know, sweetie, but it’s his turn. you can go next.”

you turn to megumi, wanting to laugh at his annoyed face. “don’t call your classmates names," you say, giving him a look. "it's your turn. tell tsumiki why you’re upset, megumi.”

he sighs again, looking towards the floor. he kicks at the hardwood, shaking his head. “i don’t like it when you baby me. i don’t need you to defend me, or try and take care of me at school. i’m fine.”

tsumiki swallows, not saying anything.

you look between the two of them, trying to read the complex emotions of your almost-teenagers. unfortunately, they're closed off from you, and you can only guess.

both of your hands rest on one of their shoulders, squeezing. “do you both want to answer? or should we sit down for a bit? i can make a snack or something. it might be good to cool off."

you say it mostly for yourself, because, honestly, any second you're going to break.

the two children look at each other, communicating telepathically, and then they nod.

“you should treat everyone respectfully,” tsumiki says, as an answer. “even if you don’t care what they think, you should still be nice.”

megumi frowns. “if i don’t want to talk to someone, i shouldn’t have to.”

“but you just told her to go away. she probably feels bad now, and—“

“i don’t even know her," megumi interrupts, brows furrowing.

okay, so maybe you should've separated them a couple of minutes ago.

“chiyo's my friend!”

megumi rolls his eyes. “just because she’s your friend doesn’t mean she has to be mine.”

“but you were mean.”

you look between the two of them, megumi annoyed and tsumiki frustrated.

“okay, kids.” you breathe out, wishing you had a brother to fight with, just so you knew what it felt like. just so you could be a part of this argument. “i know you’re both mad, and you disagree. that’s fine. let’s take some space, breathe, maybe i can—“

“just because you think i was being mean doesn’t mean that i was," megumi blurts out, like he can't hold it in.

you pause, mouth opening. you're about to say something, but you don't get the chance.

“if everyone doesn’t like you,” tsumiki argues, “then it’s because you’re mean.”

“maybe they just suck.”

“they don’t suck. this is—“

and then it all breaks down.

“well well,” satoru peeks his head around the corner, white hair a shock to all three of you. “look who’s falling apart without me.”

you sigh immediately, a hand against your temple. of course he would come in at the worst moment possible. “satoru, please go back out the door. i'm sure you forgot something at the store."

the two kids look at satoru, neither one of them happy to see him. there's a similar fire in their eyes, and you know that if he hadn't shown up they would've continued arguing until you pulled them apart.

he walks over to you, slinging an arm across your shoulder. his grin is far too self-satisfactory. "what'd you do?" he asks, tapping you.

"i didn't do anything," you tell him, "leave them alone. they're working it out."

"by yelling at each other?"

you push his arm off of you, glaring. "you just walked in at a bad moment--"

you say something else, telling him to get out again, and satoru laughs back at you, asking if you missed him, and neither of you seems to realize that the two kids are just staring at you.

megumi and tsumiki share a look, like this is a typical occurrence (it is), then shake their heads at the same time, like an echo of each other.

their faces have cooled, scowls fading as you and satoru bicker.

tsumiki sighs and megumi scratches the back of his neck, and for a moment, they both avoid each other's eyes.

but eventually, you and satoru look back at them.

"i don't want to talk anymore," megumi tells all of you, beginning to walk away. satoru tries to grab the back of his shirt to keep him in place, but megumi just shrugs him off.

and then he walks down the hallway to his room and closes the door gently, clearly no longer bothered by anything tsumiki said. or maybe too bothered.

but, you think, at least he didn't slam the door.

you can recall yourself telling satoru to give him space, to let megumi deal with his emotions as he pleases before you force him back into the spotlight, to apologize or hug tsumiki, or...

you blink and look back at her. she's still got a small pout on her face, but her eyes have relaxed, as red-rimmed as they are. you know, and tsumiki knows, that she's really just worried about him. trying to protect him in her own, sisterly way.

and, really, there's not much you can teach her about that.

so you just smile gently at tsumiki, wiping away some moisture from her face. "just give him a bit, hmm? let him think."

she sighs but relaxes into your hand for a moment, her shoulders slouching as she gives into defeat. and then tsumiki shrugs at you, agreeing despite herself, and walks over to satoru to give him half of a hug.

it's not a moment later that she follows megumi and walks down the hall, escaping to her room. you both listen as her door closes.

"wow," satoru whispers, shaking his head. "you did a number on them."

"they had a fight about school," you say, nudging him. "i had no part in any of it. i just walked in."

he wraps two arms around the back of your neck, smiling eagerly at you. "so what you're saying is, it isn't your fault?"

he's mocking himself, and the reoccurring events that happen when you leave him in charge. which you've sworn to never do again, by the way.

you scoff. "when i get home you've started all the problems," you tell him, shaking your head. "they're fighting because you instigated something."

"we're communicating."

"whatever."

satoru quirks a brow at you, eyes just barely visible behind his glasses. "the parenting books aren't doing much for you, are they?" he asks, rhetorically.

"you realize i caught you with those in your room multiple times right? i know you read them."

"you'll never prove it," he says, smiling maliciously.

"and neither will your parenting skills."

satoru snorts, nudging his nose against yours in an odious way. "clearly, you guys can't last a day without me."

"it wasn't a day," you argue, shivering at his touch. "more like an hour. you just went to the store..." you pause, tilting your head at him. "and where are the groceries, by the way?"

satoru looks away, hands tapping on the back of your neck, humming innocently. "oh, i might've... slightly misplaced those."

"satoru."

"i got distracted--but it's not my fault. there's a new kakigori shop down the block."

you look at him blandly.

satoru, because he cannot be trusted, smiles sweetly at you as he places a peck on your lips, as a sort of apology.

obviously, you don't return it. not even in the slightest.

satoru hums as he pulls back, already knowing that he's won. "so, i'll just get dinner..." he says, grinning at you.

you roll your eyes but wrap your hands around his neck, letting a little smile fall across your face.

you and satoru are sitting on the couch when you see megumi creeping down the hall, on his tiptoes, purposefully not looking at the two of you.

it's been an hour or two, the silence echoing across the house almost a bad omen.

but you decided not to bother either of them. considering the fact that you still don't know why they were really fighting, or why they didn't just talk about it like they usually would, it seemed like the best option.

and also, satoru shouldn't be involved in any conflict resolution. he'd probably suggest wrestling it out in the backyard.

still, as you watch him pass by, you lean away from satoru, your legs completely tangled in his. you stretch your neck to watch him, relying on satoru's hand around your waist to keep you steady, but he's too far down the hall for you to see where he's going.

but a moment later, you hear him knock on a door, and then a small, quiet voice telling him to come in.

you relax back against satoru, already grinning proudly. "see? i fixed it."

satoru laughs, his breath soft against your temple. "you didn't do anything. megumi just felt guilty."

"well, i taught him that."

satoru noses the side of your head. "mmm, i'm pretty sure i did."

"of course you didn't."

he shakes you a little, as a punishment for your words, but sighs. "what were they fighting about anyway?"

"megumi was mean to one of tsumiki's friends, i think. i missed... pretty much all of it."

"who?"

you frown. "chiyo?"

satoru snorts a little, and you shift to look at him, raising your brow. "megumi mentioned her."

you turn even more, eyes wide. you poke his cheek with a finger, and then wave for him to continue.

satoru groans, fingers trailing through your hair. "he said that he overheard some girls talking about 'miki."

"behind her back?"

satoru smiles, a bit sadly, nodding.

"oh."

"yeah, oh."

you frown. “what did they say?”

satoru licks his lips, watching your eyes as you concentrate on him. “dunno. megumi wouldn’t tell me.”

you roll your eyes. “of course not,” you say, sighing. “and he didn’t tell her?”

satoru winces. "okay, so… maybe i told him not to,” he whispers, like a confession, voice going a bit high at the end. and then he laughs at your annoyed expression. "what? i didn't want her to get sad."

you shake your head at him, tsking.

you could scold him for protecting tsumiki, but you know that you probably would've done the same.

so you just turn back towards the hallway, resting your head against his shoulder. after a moment, satoru nuzzles himself into your neck, humming against your skin.

it's a very unpleasant feeling.

"do you think i should go get them for dinner?" you ask him, quietly.

"nah," he kisses the side of your neck, looking down the hall with you. "give them a little while."

and it's about twenty minutes later that the two siblings walk back into the living room, megumi's lip quirked at tsumiki, and tsumiki beaming back.

after all, you and satoru have taught them well.

next part | series masterlist

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you��ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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allysunny · 3 months

Note

Hello!! Can i request a 14 + 19 + n for Miguel? remember to take care of yourself as always :)) , luv from anon! 🎀

"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me” + “I’ve got you” + Pregnancy x Miguel O’Hara

Words: 4.1k words

Warnings: Beach day! Fluff, pregnancy, mentions of body image issues, mention of suggestive themes, some light angst (if you squint, really), soft Miguel, he's an incredible husband <3 If I missed anything, let me know, I'm terrible at tagging! Not proofread - oops!

A/N: Hey everyone!!! I'm back!!! Wow, I could post two works this week? Insane!!! Well, it was a real blast writing this. I mean it, I got it ready in like, a day or two. That's just how much fun I had with this little drabble! It was just so cute, and I'm a sucker for soft Miguel. I missed writing for him!!!

Once again, I ask your patience. I promise I haven't given up on writing, I'm just really, really busy hahaha.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this! I certainly did <3

“These are so good…” you mumbled, biting into the treat in your hand.

Miguel, standing next to you, winced and his face contorted in a slight expression of disgust. “Cream cheese with anchovies?” he asked, “Yes, mi vida. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

You kept on biting at your sandwich, a content smile on your lips.

“How’d you know this is exactly what I’d want right now?” you asked, mouth stuffed. Miguel winced again. You knew it bothered him when people spoke with their mouth full, and yet he said nothing, simply happy to watch his loving wife indulge in her (honestly appalling) sandwich.

“Call it a lucky guess. All of your cravings so far have been disgusting, I thought I might as well mix whatever we had left on the fridge, and you’d enjoy it.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. Seriously? Were you and your cravings that predictable that he could just mix whatever two ingredients there were in your fridge? But as soon as you gave it some more thought, the notion made you laugh. Perhaps it didn’t mean you were predictable, only that your husband knew you that well.

You ran a hand on top of your pregnant belly, giving it a few pats before returning to your sandwich.

“Thank you. Our baby seems to be enjoying it as well,” you tell him with a soft smile.

Miguel returns it and bends down to press a soft kiss on top of your stomach. “Well, that makes me happy.”

You two sat there. You, enjoying your ridiculous sandwich, Miguel enjoying your company. He’d been meaning to take you on a small beach day for a while now, but his work kept getting in a way. After a few tweaks in his schedule (courtesy of Lyla), and a few missions handled by other people (Jessica and Peter B. had been kind enough to catch those anomalies by themselves), he’d managed to snag you away on a sunny Saturday morning.

You had everything you could possibly need. Lots (and lots) of food, an insane amount of sunscreen (that Miguel insisted on applying on your skin every 20 minutes), a few books to keep you entertained (even though you’re only spending the day, and not a whole week), lots of refreshments, and four beach umbrellas for you to sit under (that occupied far too much space, something you’d stressed a lot at home. But it’s not like Miguel listened).

“Everything alright, mi vida?” He asked you.

You nodded and wiggled your feet, relishing on the feeling of the soft sand against them. “As alright as it was five minutes ago, Miggy. I promise I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about me.”

He only sighed in response and shook his head.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Can I get you anything? Would you like something from the beach bar? Fresh juice? Any other beverage? An ice cream?” Miguel looked positively adorable when he worried. Ever since you told him you were pregnant, he started treating you as if you were made of glass, and as soon as you started showing, he went actually crazy.

His wife can’t lift a box – can’t bend down and possibly hurt the baby. He’ll do all of the heavy lifting. In fact, he’ll do all of the lifting.

She can’t do the dishes – spending far too long on her feet can tire her out, and he couldn’t have that. He’ll wash everything and get a dishwasher for the days he worked late.

She can’t possibly cook dinner – what if something goes wrong and she gets upset? Stress is not good for the baby. No, let Miguel do all the cooking.

She can’t clean either – let him handle it.

The point was, Miguel was an extremely protective man. He loved you more than anything. And now you were carrying the world’s most precious cargo: his son.

So why wouldn’t he treat you with the utmost care?

“Miguel, I told you, I’m fine.” You sighed, finishing your sandwich. Before you could say something, Miguel had handed you two napkins and a bottle of fresh orange juice. You took the napkins, cleaned your mouth, and he quickly grabbed a bottle of water, presenting both to you.

“Water? Juice? Which do you prefer, my love?” he asked.

You just shook your head. It was pointless to say anything. Better to simply enjoy it.

“Juice is fine.” You took the bottle and brought it to your lips, which earned a slight groan from him. Safe to say, your pregnancy had just made Miguel even more enamoured with you and your body. The accentuated curves, the softness and plushness of your skin, all for Miguel to grasp and tug and pull. Your tender breasts that had grown, and he’d already spent hours twisting and helping relieve some of your pain and soreness, your calves that often needed to be massaged – your body had always been a treasure to Miguel, but now that his child was growing inside of it, he was going to do everything in his power to love it more and more.

You looked at him; this look of his was easy to recognise. Crimson eyes low and darkened with desire, tracing every swirl of your tongue over your lips. You blushed furiously. It was flattering to know Miguel wanted you, and even more so to know both his love and lust had only increased with your pregnancy.

“Like what you see, Mister?” you asked, tilting your head, and playing coy.

Miguel loved it when you did that. It did things to him whenever you played hard to get, whenever you pretended not to know the effect you had on him.

“Very much. Te ves bien bonita,” he hummed, dipping his head low to place a kiss on your jaw. You sighed, and he took it as a sign to kiss you further, trailing down your neck.

You were just about to run your fingers through his hair when you remembered where the hell you were.

“M-Miguel!” you breathed out, slowly pulling him away from your body. “Please – we’re in public.”

“No me importa. Que vean.”

“No – Miguel, no.” You giggled and pushed him off you, earning an annoyed huff from him.

“We’re at the beach. We’re not going to give these people a show.”

“Oh, but who told you I don’t want to?” Miguel asked, raising a brow, “I’d like to show all of those idiots staring who the hell you belong to.” His voice was low and raspy, and you felt heat pool in your lower stomach. You shook your head, trying to get these nasty thoughts out of your head. This was supposed to be a nice, innocent beach date! Not fantasizing about your incredibly handsome husband.

“Well,” you spoke, “Too bad. You’re not doing anything.”

Miguel grumbled and got up, shaking his head.

“Always the same. Always ‘We’re in public Miggy!” or, ‘Don’t do that, people are watching Miguel”, or even ‘You can’t fuck me in front all of these people Miguel’!”

Your cheeks heat up and you blushed furiously, embarrassment spreading through your whole body. Your husband wasn’t talking in a particularly low tone, and people had started to look at him. More specifically, women, smirking towards him and licking their lips viciously. Your stomach was about to curl when Miguel spoke his next words, making you forget all about other people.

“One of these days I’ll take you in front of all of them, I’m telling you. Show them you’re mine.”

“Miguel!”

“What?” He turned to look at you, and you could see that stupid smirk of his plastered all over his face. It was no secret that Miguel loved to see you flustered like this.

“Don’t say that out loud, oh my god!”

“Why? It’s not like I’m lying here.” Before you could protest further, Miguel offered you a cheeky smile and nodded his head towards the water. “I’m gonna go for a dive. Do you want to come?”

You shook your head. “No, that’s fine.” It was enough for Miguel to tense up, but you were quick to reply. “It’s fine – I’ll be fine, Miguel, don’t worry. I’ll just stay here under the shade.” You tried offering him a reassuring smile. After all, you weren’t a child, and could take care of yourself just fine.

Miguel eyed you for a while, before sighing.

“Fine,” he said, “But if you need anything – “

“I’ll let you know. Don’t worry.”

“And I won’t be long. I promise. I just need to freshen up.”

“Miguel,” you said his name softly, “It’s fine. I promise I’ll be fine.”

He nodded and ran towards the water. You watched him as he looked around and the water tickled his feet.

You then looked around, taking the scenery in. It was a lovely sunny day. There were no clouds in the sky, and nothing but a small breeze could be felt brushing your hair. It was the perfect beach day, and you were so glad Miguel had taken today off to be with you. You missed him when he was gone, and although you knew what he did was extremely important (after all, your husband was Spider-Man), it was only natural to long for him when he was away. Especially with these pesky pregnancy hormones.

You returned your gaze to him, and that’s when you saw her.

A woman, eyeing Miguel up and down, shamelessly.

You raised an eyebrow. For the looks of it, it seemed as if she had been looking at him for a while. It was clear she was looking him up and down, and you felt a nasty feeling forming on your stomach, something green and envious and nasty.

The woman approached him, and your eyes lingered on her, on her perfect silhouette. Her legs were long and lean, her stomach toned, and her bikini sure did wonders showing off her boobs. Along with the jealousy you felt clawing at your skin, came another feeling, that instead of making you angry, just made you sad.

Miguel had seemed to notice her, because he turned to face her and the two started to talk. She was all smiles and giggles, tilting her head slightly and – was she actually swaying her hips? You huffed. Miguel was no stranger to flirtation. Women shot their shots with him all the time. Well, tried to. He was always quick to shut them down, mentioning his lovely wife, who happened to now be carrying his baby.

You knew him to be faithful. You knew he loved you and only you. You knew he would never hurt you or cheat on you or cause you any distress.

So why was it that you felt so unworthy of him when you two were out?

You looked at the woman again.

She was gorgeous, with perfect skin, flawless hair, and a great fucking body.

And here you were, sitting down on a chair you could barely get out of, eating a sandwich you were sure was positively disgusting to everyone else, feeling big and fat and ugly and simply not enough for him. The thought nearly brought you two tears. Miguel always assured you of how much he loved you, of how much he adored you and found you the most beautiful woman in the world.

And yet you couldn’t help but wipe away one or two tears that spilled across your cheeks, dark thoughts clouding your mind. You were surrounded by beautiful women, all of them reminding you of how much less you felt, with their perfect bodies and normal stomachs that did not weigh a ton because of the baby growing inside of them, with long legs that elegantly strutted instead of awkwardly waddling from one room to the other. Would Miguel be better off with any of these women? Would they look better on his arm, on his bed, on his life?

It was simply too much. You grabbed your nearby dress and placed it on top of your belly, hiding it. Then, you moved to grab your book, trying to focus on your reading. It was nearly impossible, and when Miguel returned after a while, you did your best not to look at him.

“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

You refused to meet his eye.

“Mhm. Just peachy.”

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Then why are you covering yourself?”

“Just protecting the baby from the heat,” you mumbled. What a terrible excuse.

Miguel hummed before you. He bent down and grabbed his towel, shaking the sand from it (away from you, of course), before setting it down on the spot next to yours, and laying on it. Now that he was up close, you could see every freckle on his body, every muscle, every droplet that fell down his arms, his legs, his back. He was as charming as ever.

And you had never felt more inadequate. Unconsciously, you brought your dress closer, hiding your chest too.

"¿Seguro que estás bien, mi vida?" Miguel asked again, looking up at you. Why the hell were you covering your body? Were you cold? It was rather warm outside, that couldn’t be it. Did you feel sick?

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Miguel followed your eyes. They landed on the woman that had tried to strike up a conversation with him earlier.

And then everything fell into place.

The way you were hiding your body from him, the way you looked somewhere else so that you wouldn’t have to meet his gaze, how sheepishly you were acting.

And it genuinely upset Miguel. Because how could you ever think that you weren’t the most gorgeous woman out there? That your body wasn’t worthy of worship and adoration and idolisation? His fingers slowly crept up next to you, and he softly pulled the dress away from your body, exposing your belly, your thighs, your legs, your beautiful skin and being.

“Miguel, gimme that back,” you mumbled, trying to take the dress back from him. He pulled back his arm and the dress was immediately out of your reach. You huffed, hugging your hands around your body, as if you could hide it from him. You couldn’t. And Miguel was heartbroken that you thought you had to.

“Tell me what’s wrong, mami.” He said, hand caressing your thigh. He’d have to coax the insecurity out of you.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just cold – “

“It’s so hot, we could almost fry an egg on that cute belly of yours.” Miguel said. He wasn’t afraid to talk about your body, especially not after you’d gotten pregnant. You’d felt insecure once or twice, but he had always reassured you of how beautiful you were, and how radiant you looked, even with that big pregnant belly of yours. And for the past few months, you’d been doing amazing, feeling confident about your body, and loving your new figure and everything it meant for your future alongside Miguel. But perhaps the beach had taken some of that confidence away.

You sighed and looked away. Unfortunately for you, Miguel reached out with his hand and turned your face towards his. Nowhere to hide.

“Vale. Suelta la sopa,” he spoke.

There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to look to aside from those gorgeous chocolate-crimson eyes of his. You trusted Miguel, you really did. So why were you having such a hard time saying this? Perhaps you didn’t want him to feel like he didn’t love you enough. You knew he loved you. You knew he found you attractive. What if you thought you were being dramatic? What if he thought you were too high maintenance, still feeling insecure even though all he did was reassure you of his love? It’s not like you can help your feelings.

“I don’t want to bother you Miggy,” you replied, voice soft. “It’s fine.”

“You’ll never bother me. You know that, right? Now, come on. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You bit your bottom lip, and then nodded.

“It’s just… I just feel so…” You scrambled for words.

“Take your time,” Miguel said to reassure you.

“I feel so unworthy.”

“Unworthy? How so, mi alma?”

“I’m not – my body is not – I’ve changed, Miguel. My body has changed so much. I don’t look like them – “ you nudged your head towards the water, where the gorgeous woman had been moments ago. “And I never will. And look at you – you’re so handsome. You’ve always been. And next to you, I feel… I feel inadequate. I don’t feel beautiful enough for you… And I know what you’re gonna say. That I am, and that you love me, and that you love this child. And so do I. More than anything. But sometimes, I just feel… I feel like you’d look better with someone like that on your arm.”

Miguel listened attentively to each word you said. Just as he figured out, you were feeling down because of your appearance.

“Honey,” he started, letting go of your chin. “You are right. I will say that you look beautiful, and that you’ll always look beautiful to me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was quicker.

“Uh-uh – let me finish. As I was saying, you are beautiful. And I love you. Sure, your body has changed, but it has changed because you’re carrying our baby. You’re carrying a child. Mi vida, do you know how miraculous that is?” His voice was laced with nothing but adoration, and so were his eyes. “You’re carrying a life inside of you. You’re going to bring a life into this world. That is such a beautiful thing. Your body has simply stretched to accommodate our little one. And that is such a lovely thing. It’s a miracle, mi vida. You’re a miracle.”

Your eyes quickly filled with tears, and Miguel cupped your face with both of his hands.

“I couldn’t care less about other women. Whatever they have, whatever they might offer, it will never compare to what you offer me every day. To the love you so selflessly give me every single day, to the greatest gift you’re about to give me. A child. You’re going to bring my child into the world. You say you feel inadequate next to me – Mierda, I feel inadequate next to you. You have chosen me to be the father of your child, and you’re doing all of this to carry it and bring it to the world safely. And all I can do is watch. I can’t take away your pain, I can’t take away your discomfort. I’m the lucky one. I mean – hell, you could’ve had any guy in the world, but you chose me. You chose this awkward, nerdy, standoffish man who couldn’t even tell you he loved you the first time he kissed you because he was so bad dealing with his own feelings.”

You giggled as you recalled the memory, and your heart warmed. Miguel laughed along with you. He’d come very far with you. He was a man of logic, of reason, never letting emotions cloud his judgement. Which made everything infinitely harder when he met you – you, who broke down his walls and made it impossible to think and be reasonable. He’d come so far, and it was all thanks to you.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Miguel continued. “This child is the greatest thing that could ever happen to us. I know that I can’t take away your insecurities just like this. And it kills me that you can’t see yourself the way I do. But please, please believe me when I tell you that you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my life. The kindest, smartest. The most miraculous of them all, carrying a child all by yourself.”

Tears ran down your cheeks, and you sobbed softly. Miguel scooted closer to you, and with his help, you got up from your chair and sat down on his lap. His arms were instantly all over you, one of them bringing you close, the other trailing patterns on top of your stomach.

“I just… I feel so ugly sometimes… And then we came to the beach, and it was supposed to be a lovely day just between the two of us, but then I saw that woman, and she looked gorgeous, and I’ll never be her…” You said in between sobs.

Miguel caressed your head and dropped a kiss on your forehead.

“You forgot the most important part.”

You looked up, confusion in your features.

“She will never be you.”

Your eyes widened softly, and you parted your lips.

“She will never be the woman I love. She will never be the woman who puts up with me every day, even when I’m cranky and grouchy. She will never be the woman who wakes me up with kisses in the morning because she wants me to start my day in the best way possible. She’ll never be the woman who packs my lunch and writes sweet notes. She will never be the woman who loves me unconditionally despite my many, many flaws. She will never be you. Never.”

You smiled through your tears and the invisible rope that tugged at Miguel’s heart loosened its hold. You were smiling. Thank God.

“She’ll never be me?” You repeated.

“No one will ever be you.” He replied, closing the gap between your faces, and taking your lips in his. You kissed him softly, cupping his jaw with your hand and trailing your fingers through his head with the other. When you pulled away for air, there were tears in your eyes once again.

“I’m sorry for being like this… Sometimes, the hormones, they just…”

Miguel quickly cut you off.

“You don’t need to apologize. I will never get tired of saying how much I love you, of telling you how much you mean to me. It’s okay to not be fine. Isn’t that what you tell me?”

You nodded with a small smile.

“Then I’m telling it to you too. It’s okay to feel like this. And I know I can’t understand the depth of your feelings. I can’t know for sure what you’re going through. But I’ll always be by your side. I’ll always be right here to help you. I love you, honey. I really do. I’m the luckiest man alive.”

If someone were to tell you a few years ago that Miguel would be capable of saying these sorts of things, you’d have scoffed and told them to fuck off. When you met him, Miguel didn’t do feelings. He never opened up, never spoke about himself or his emotions. But then you came along and taught him how to feel, how to love. You taught him it was okay to be vulnerable, to be taken care of, to be loved. You loved him all the more for it, your scary, mean, giant of a man who turned into putty whenever his eyes landed on you.

“I love you. Thank you so much for this. I mean it.” You said, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like the beach, like the soft breeze and the warm sun. You placed a kiss there and smiled as soon as the salt of the water hit your tongue.

“I’ve told you, mi vida. I’ve got you.” He said, still tracing patterns on your skin. “I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”

You two remained like this, in each other’s arms for a while.

You didn’t feel the need to get up or go for a swim. Not yet.

For now, all you wanted was to stay in your husband’s arms, feel his heartbeat against yours, sink further into his touch. You looked up and took in the scenery around you. The shining sun, the clear blue sky, the sparkly water. You watched as young couples smiled at each other, groups of friends played around, and families ran after their children. Someday, it’d be you and Miguel, along with your little one.

You realised you didn’t feel insecure anymore. Miguel was right. It was a miraculous thing, to be carrying such a precious thing inside of you. Your child. Miguel’s child. The product of the love and devotion you held for each other. You couldn’t be ashamed of that, could you?

You knew this would be an uphill battle. Your insecurities couldn’t be erased simply overnight. But with Miguel’s arms wrapped tightly around you, you realised that as long as you had him to remind you of all the beautiful things you and this body meant, and how much you two loved each other, it would be okay.

You would be okay.

A/N: And that's it! I hope you guys have enjoyed this little drabble.

Have a wonderful day ahead, everyone!!! <3

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara scenarios #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara x f!reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #astv x reader #atsv x you #across the spiderver fanfiction #across the spiderverse #miguel spiderman #spiderverse x reader #spiderverse fanfiction #spiderverse x you

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marvelfanfn2187a113 · 9 months

Text

Hold Me

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader, slight Sam Winchester x little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: various times that Dean comforts you because of John.

You and Dean had a special bond. Even before Sam had gone off to college and John disappeared, the two of you had been inseparable since the day John first placed you in Dean’s arms.

He’d been just a teenager then, and you barely a toddler. But he’d flashed you a genuine smile, and you’d giggled, and from that moment on, nothing could separate you.

Dean was the one you always went to when you needed anything, partially because of how close you were and partially because you had no one else.

John was far too consumed with the big picture for you to ever feel comfortable talking about your personal problems, and while you loved Sam, he always tried to psychoanalyze your problems, which was never how you felt like dealing with them.

Dean, however…

…

“Commere baby,” Dean pulled you, his four year old little sister, into his lap, rocking you gently as you cried. John had been gone for five days, and you missed your daddy.

“Dad’s gonna be home soon, really,” Sam tried to soothe you, but you only cried harder.

“Hey, can you bring me her backpack?” Dean asked. Sam tossed it to him.

“Are you alright with her? I want to go get us some dinner,” Sam suggested, feeling bad but also desperate to get away from your crying. You’d been upset for the past couple of days, and he couldn’t take much more.

“Yeah, I’ve got her, bring me back a feast.”

After Sam was gone, Dean lifted you so you were hanging onto his neck and began to rummage through your bag. He came up with a small sippy cup, and went to the fridge to fill it with milk. After heating it up in the motel microwave, he sat back down on his bed and settled you into his lap, placing the cup into your tiny hands.

You quieted almost instantly, bringing the cup to your lips and drinking greedily.

“There you go,” Dean grinned, running his fingers through your hair. “Never too old for the warm milk, works every time, eh?”

You didn’t respond, to intent on the cup in your hands, but you leaned your head against Dean’s stomach, taking a few deep breaths as you finished your drink.

By the time Sam got back, you were fast asleep in Dean’s arms, who was softly humming Metallica.

…

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Sam’s words were meant to be soothing, but you just shook your head.

“Dad says it was.”

“Well he-“

“Sam, you’re with me. Y/N, ride with Dean,” John walked past his kids as he headed for his truck, and Sam reluctantly followed.

You climbed into the Impala without another word, and you rode in silence with Dean for several long minutes.

“Why are we turning?” You’d tried to avoid speaking, because you knew Dean would notice your voice thick with tears. But you couldn’t resist questioning him when he stopped following John’s truck.

“Because the Dairy Queen is this way,” Dean answered simply.

“What?”

“What, you think I didn’t notice the sniffling and the way you can’t even turn in my general direction? You ain’t subtle kid, now what kind of ice cream do you want?”

You gave up trying to hide your tear stained face and turned to look at your brother.

“I don’t get it. I screw up the hunt, and you’re buying me ice cream?”

“Ok first of all, you didn’t screw up the hunt that bad, ok? I know it was your job to reassemble the guns, and-“

“Yeah, and I lost a piece, and it didn’t work! You could’ve-“

“Hey now,” Dean’s voice rose, and you stopped. “Would you just listen? I know, but that wasn’t the only gun we had on the hunt, we were fine one gun short. Look, I’m not gonna pretend you didn’t make a mistake ok? But everyone makes mistakes, and I mean everyone. And dad went at you pretty hard, and I know how much you hate it when he yells. So ice cream it is, now are you gonna tell me what you want or should we just go?”

Five minutes later, you were on the road again, your tears forgotten as both of you belted out to Dean’s Metallica tape between bites of ice cream.

…

The mood in the motel room had been solemn, to say the least, but no one was willing to bring it up. John had passed away just days ago, and the three of you had barely spoken to each other since. Sam had tried to talk to you, mostly because he knew that every time you went to “take a walk”, you really just wanted to cry your eyes out. But the last thing you wanted to do what talk about John. He wasn’t always the best man, but he was your dad.

What made matters worse, however, was that even though Sam had tried several times to help you, Dean seemed to be avoiding you entirely. You didn’t expect him to try to talk about it, that wasn’t his style, but you also didn’t expect him to ignore your existence.

But when Sam left for a food run and the time came to confront him about it, you were nervous. What if he just needed some space? After all, he was probably the closest to John.

Well, if that was the case, then maybe you could help him this time, but you couldn’t leave things the way they were, it was too hard.

“Dean?”

Dean looked up from John’s journal, which he was reading while stretched out on his bed.

“What’s up?”

“Um…” now that the moment had come, you weren’t sure of what to say. “How’s it going?”

He sighed, gesturing at the book.

“Not great, haven’t found anything of use yet.”

You swallowed, “That’s not really what I meant. How’s it going…like with you?” You cringed inwardly. This sounded ridiculous, even to your own ears.

Dean closed the book, frowning.

“Fine.”

You sighed, “No, really.”

Dean scoffed, “Who are you, Sam? What’s going on with you?”

“I just…I wanted to know,” you shrugged.

“You and me both know that you don’t want to stand here and talk about feelings.”

“It’s better than not talking at all,” you dropped your gaze at this, too embarrassed to meet Dean’s eye. Maybe you were wrong, he hadn’t been avoiding you, he was just quiet or something.

“What do you mean? We can talk, we’re talking now.”

You gained a little bit of your courage back.

“Yeah, and this is the first time in days. Dean, you’ve barely even looked at me since…” your breath caught. You couldn’t say it, not yet.

Dean seemed to catch on that you were done, and he sighed.

“Kid, I don’t know what you’re-“

“I’m not just a kid anymore!” You didn’t mean to yell, and when Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprise you brought your voice down. “Please, don’t lie to me.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finally, he cleared his throat, and found the words.

“I can’t fix this.”

“What?”

Dean put the journal down and gestured for you to get closer, so you climbed up on his bed and sat next to him.

“I can’t just buy you a treat and play Metallica and wait for you to stop crying, ok? I can’t put a bandaid on this. I can’t distract you from it, it’s too big.”

You looked up at your big brother, and his eyes looked more broken now than they did when John died.

“You wanted to fix this for me?”

“Of course,” Dean reached up and brushed a stray tear off your cheek. “That’s all I ever want to do. But baby…I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve been avoiding you, you’re right. And it’s because I know I can’t make this go away.”

“You don’t have to make it go away. I don’t need an answer to all life’s problems, I just need my big brother.”

“But what do you need me to do?” He demanded desperately.

“Be here.”

You could see in his eyes that it wasn’t enough, he needed to know he was helping you. You sighed softly.

“Open your arms.”

He frowned, but obeyed. You scooted closer, depositing yourself in his lap and leaning your forehead against his chest. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around you, one hand coming up to cradle your head.

“I just want this,” you whispered, and you felt Dean’s arms tighten comfortingly around you.

“Then I’m here,” he promised.

When Sam came back, tired and worn down, he felt a smile creep onto his lips when he opened to motel door to see you asleep in Dean’s arms, and it took him less than a second to recognize Dean’s humming as Metallica.

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marvel-ous-m · 1 year

Text

Eddie Munson’s Guide for How to Adopt a Jock in Four Easy Steps (2/5)

Part One

Part Three

A.N.: Um... guys, WHAT?! The outpouring of love and support for a blurb I had sitting in my Notes app for the last two months has been absolutely wild. I’ve been writing for the better part of the last day, and this is now a ~7k, five chapter fic that I will be posting to Tumblr as well as my AO3. I can’t thank y’all enough for all of the support, and I hope you like where this is heading!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Steve finished ranting about the middle schoolers he spent time with, Eddie launched into a description of the campaign he was working on for Hellfire. Steve listened intently as Eddie spoke, slowly making his way through Eddie’s sandwich and the bottle of water until both were finished. Eddie kept talking after Steve finished his food, distracting himself by going on a tangent about goblins in D&D. He was pulled from his rant at the sound of a soft thump- which, Eddie realized with surprise, was Steve’s forehead slumping down far enough to hit the tabletop.

Steve sat up almost immediately when his head hit the table, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

Eddie snorted at Steve’s antics, piling his books together. “Damn Stevie, I didn’t realize I was that boring.”

“Stevie?” Steve whispered under his breath, then shook his head, shooting a sheepish smile Eddie’s way. “You didn’t bore me- I liked it, really, I just-”

“Hey, Steve?” Eddie cut Steve off, smirking at him. “You don’t need to make excuses. No offense man, but you kinda look like shit, I can tell you haven’t been sleeping well. Speaking of which- why are you even here? You should probably be at home resting, not zombie-walking your way through a day of classes.”

Steve hummed at that, shrugging and resting his cheek on his palm. “S’better here than it is at home.”

Eddie frowned at that, his brow creasing. Steve had just told him a few minutes ago that his parents hadn’t been home in three months, and all of Hawkins knew he was the only child of the Harringtons. What was so bad about spending the day in a giant mansion that most definitely had central heating? Eddie would kill to spend these winter months in a house like that instead of under approximately fifty blankets (while somehow still freezing his ass off) in the trailer.

Steve breathed out a small puff of air, and Eddie noticed that his eyes had slipped shut in the minute-or-so that Eddie had been distracted by his internal monologue. Shit, Steve was really exhausted. Eddie sighed and stood, quietly loading his books into his backpack. After zipping up his backpack and pulling it onto his shoulder, Eddie gently shook Steve’s shoulder, wincing sympathetically. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Steve up, but Mrs. Boliene would have a fit if she saw Steve like this.

He was definitely not expecting Steve to practically jump out of the chair, or for his breathing to suddenly grow erratic, in response to being woken up. There was something in his eyes- a kind of fear that Eddie could only associate to something he saw in Wayne’s eyes after waking his uncle from a particularly bad nightmare.

Eddie held his hands up, taking a step back from Steve. “Hey- sorry, it’s just- Ms. Boliene can be kinda a bitch about people sleeping in the library. I know a place you can rest for a while if ya want. Let’s be honest, you probably aren’t going to be learning anything if you go to the rest of your classes today.”

Steve clenched his right hand a couple times- Eddie would file that particular coping mechanism away to ask about later- then nodded, his breathing (mostly) back to a normal pace. “Sorry about that. Yeah man, whatever you say.”

Eddie nodded, let his arms drop, then cleared his throat. “Right, just go ahead and follow me, King Steve.”

Steve sighed and stood with a wince, gathering the garbage from his (Eddie’s) lunch before following the other boy out of the library. He tossed the trash in the garbage bin outside the library then took a couple of long strides forward to catch up to Eddie. “Can you um- maybe, like… not call me that?”

“Sure thing, Steve-o. Here, hang a right.” Eddie turned down a hallway and Steve followed, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“That’s it?”

Eddie stopped walking when they reached the drama room door, shrugging. “Yeah man, that’s it. You don’t wanna be called something, I’m not gonna call you that. Nicknames are supposed to be fun, dude.”

Steve nodded in understanding, but his brow was furrowed- he was clearly deep in thought. Eddie stood there a moment, waiting for Steve to say something. When it became apparent that the jock was going to keep his thoughts to himself, Eddie smiled tightly and opened the drama room door, walking past the gaggle of students sitting together and eating lunch at the front of the room. He ignored their stares and walked to the back of the room to a set of double doors, which he opened and then led Steve through. “This is where Hellfire meets. You can lay down in the corner over there on the couch cushions and blankets. I set that up last year for my mid-morning, skip-P.E. nap time.”

Steve blinked in surprise, then turned to Eddie with a playful smirk. “Is that why you’re repeating this year? Slept through too much P.E.?”

Eddie chuckled at that. Harrington had some sass to him, huh? “One of the many reasons. What can I say, getting sweaty for some dumbass P.E. teacher just doesn’t agree with me.” ‘There are much better things to get sweaty for’, a distant voice in Eddie’s head whispered. Eddie pushed that thought away, shaking his head at himself. Harrington was not the kind of guy to think those kinds of things around.

Steve giggled to himself- honest to god giggled, it was quite possibly the best sound that Eddie had ever heard- then stepped into the room, taking in the variety of chairs surrounding the giant table and the various decorations on the walls. Suddenly, Steve’s playful smile disappeared, turning to a grimace. “Um, are you sure it’s okay for me to sleep here, Eds? Don’t you have Hellfire here later tonight? I wouldn’t want to intrude-”

“Stevie, I promise it’s fine. You’ll probably be awake by the time we’re in here playing through the campaign anyways. Just don’t worry about it and get some rest, okay?”

Steve nodded, walking to the corner and sitting down on the cushions. Eddie smiled reassuringly at him from his place at the doorway, then waved goodbye to Steve. “I’m off to English and Chem. I’ll be back in about two hours, but I could lock the doors in the meantime?” Eddie pulled a lanyard out of his pocket, grinning. “Perks of being club president. I’m the only one with a key other than the drama teacher, and he never comes in here. I just figured- maybe you would sleep better knowing that no one can get in? You would be able to get out, obviously, but- y’know what? Maybe this is creepy, pretend like I didn’t say anything-”

“-Thank you, Eddie. I… would appreciate that.” Steve cut off Eddie’s (admittedly awkward) rant and punctuated his request with a yawn, scrubbing a tired hand over his face.

“Yeah, yeah of course dude, whatever you need.” Eddie stepped out and locked the door behind himself, then slumped his back against the door. Step One: Get Steve Harrington to Take Care of Himself, complete. Time for Step Two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A.N.- tagging those who requested/insinuated a request, lmk if you’d like to be added/taken off the tag list.

@ellietheasexylibrarian @cuips-not-cute @melodymeddler @i-have-three-feelings @sc00ps-ahoy @singmeyoursimpsong @patchworkgargoyle @spectrum-spectre @devondespresso @thesuninyaface @obsessivlyme @angeldreamsoffanfic @carlyv @nburkhardt @inspirationorinsanity @rebelspykatie @my2amgaythoughts @lavenderagenda @just-a-tiny-void @mamafaithful @breadboi66 @beholdingloser @randomfandomcontent @oftirnanog @yellowdevilkitten @steves-strapcollection @keep-er-steddie

#stranger things #steddie #my writing #steve harrington #eddie munson #1984 steddie meeting au my beloved #stranger things fic #steddie fic #pre s4 #pre s4 meeting

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darkbluekies · 1 year

Note

what would ocs do if mc got arrested for speeding after trying to escape

Warnings: threats, handcuffs, chains, humiliation?, manipulation, gaslightning?

Silas:

He’ll have a field day with this one. He won’t even be mad as he walks into the jail, on the contrary — he’ll laugh. With his hands in his pockets, you trapped in front of him and having bailed you out, he can’t do anything but mock you. He’ll get into your cell and run his hand through your hair in a demeaning way. He loves to see you shrink under his touch.

“My poor little idiot, I think you dropped something when you ran away from me. What, you ask? Your fucking brain. How stupid can one be to get caught by the cops? I’ve bailed you out, now let’s go home, I’ll teach you yet another lesson of what happens when you try to run away from me since the last five didn’t seem to work.”

Dr Kry:

He’ll be able to convince the police to let him handle you. You’re clearly not well. You don’t need to go to jail, you need to be taken to a medical facility … like his hospital. He loves that you’re trying to tell the police that it’s where you ran away from … it only makes you look more and more insane. As soon as you come back to the hospital, he’ll keep you cuffed to the hospital bed and remove all of his personal stuff from the room.

“Now, now, don’t be sad. I’m not mad, just worried. We both know you weren’t fit to drive a car. You should be happy that you’re under my protection or you’d end up in prison for both speeding and stealing my car. You’re quite the little criminal, aren’t you, my dear? Now I have to keep you chained like this so you won’t repeat it. You could really hurt yourself, you know?”

King Edmund: (there are no cars in his timeline, a horse will do)

When a frantic horse rose through the village, the royal knights captured it quite quickly. When they saw who was on the horse, they nearly fainted. They kept you in a clean room for the king to come get you. He’ll come twenty minutes later in a carriage, holding a chain in his hands. He’s furious, you can tell.

“What were you thinking stealing my horse and riding away like that?! I had been thinking about taking you for a horse ride in the forest, but now I don’t think that’ll ever happen. It seems like you can’t act right and because of that, I need to chain you. I can’t trust you. Try to move with this heavy chain around your feet and you’ll find that you won’t get so far. How unfortunate … seems like you’ll be spending summer indoors. Come now, my darling. Let’s see you walk with those chains out to the carriage.”

Jerry:

She’ll be laughing as she bails you out. She’ll laugh all the way back to your home and somehow, it frightens you. She never laughs when you run away … so what’s different this time? It tells you that whatever you’ve done, it’s worse than all the other times you’ve escaped her clutches. As soon as you’re behind closed doors, she collects herself and grabs a fistful of your hair.

“You’re in such big trouble, baby. I’m honestly impressed that you managed to sneak out and steal my car keys without me noticing, but don’t think it’ll happen again. I’m going to put up cameras and I’ll be able to watch your cute ass as often as I’d like. Hah, try to beat that, you little shit.”

Hedwig:

You’ll be bailed out in no time and have Hedwig’s arms around your waist like a suffocating corset. She’ll shower your face in kisses before pulling you out to a car — not the one you’ve gotten caught in. Her chauffeur will drive the two of you back to her mansion in silence. Hedwig will lead you up to her room and sit you down on the bed. Before you have the time to think, she has placed something around your ankle.

“What? Oh, that’s a tracker. Honey, please listen, please. I can’t have you running around like that. We’re meant to be together, I know it. I’m just protective over you. What if you would have gotten in a car accident? You could have- … you could have died. So this is just for safety measures. I’ve told all the staff to report to me if you leave my room and they’ll do their best to keep you at home. I honestly don’t know what I would do if the police wouldn’t have caught you. Seems like there’s a benefit of your reckless driving after all …”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere mafia #yandere oc x you #yandere doctor #yandere female #yandere king #yandere reactions #yandere headcanon #yandere ocs x reader #yandere ocs #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc

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softspiderling · 10 months

Text

we always find a way (to make it out alive) | m.s.s.

Summary: beacon hills holds a lot of bad memories for you. you're still not sure how you let yourself be persuaded to go back.

pairing: Stiles Stilinski x werewolf!reader

warning: reader's parents die, mention of guns

word count: 8,8k (don't even ask, I don't know how it happened)

author's note: hello. i don't want to talk about this, i somehow vomited 8k worth of words about stiles. leave a like/reblog bestie. also, don't forget to come into my inbox to yell at me. thank you to charlotte @stilinskiderek for witnessing my teen wolf obsession rebirth and for listening to my occasional rant.

“We’re going to need to leave in five minutes if you don’t want to be late.”

Theo was standing in the threshold of your room, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. You merely glanced over at him, not even moving an inch. Your feet were resting comfortably on top of your desk as the book you were reading was in your lap.

“I was waiting for you. Wasn’t me who was standing in front of the mirror fixing my hair for like the tenth time. I’ve never seen you this nervous,” you commented dryly, swinging your legs off the desk and standing up.

“I’m not nervous,” Theo said defensively, ducking his head when you reached out to mess up his hair. “I’m just… Tense. It’s weird to be back here.”

“Oh, please. Don’t lie to me. I know you’re nervous and I know why, even though I don’t understand it. It’s just Scott and Stiles.”

“Really.”

You ignored Theo’s pointed look in your direction and turned to put your book in your backpack instead. While Theo was ecstatic to be back in your old stomping grounds, it took him and your brother a while to persuade you to return with them. Your life in Salvador was exactly what you had been building up to, why would you leave it to go back to Beacon Hills? The only thing that you remembered from here was the death of your parents and getting your heart broken in fourth grade. It was safe to say that you weren’t eager to return.

“Aren’t you super nervous to finally see the love of your life again?” Theo teased in a high pitched voice, as predictable as he was, and you only shouldered past him roughly, walking out into the hallway with your backpack in hand. Theo was quick to follow, pestering you for an answer.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” you said lightly.

“Oh come on!”

Theo snickered and you knew this was far from being over. You contemplated shoving him down the stairs but it would only be a temporary fix, he’d barely feel it, so you didn’t want to waste your energy on that.

“Brunet guy, moles all over, kind of heavy on the ADHD…”

You only threw a look at Theo over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him, daring him to say another word. You had a crush on a guy one time and of course Theo would hold it over your head for the rest of the time. Theo kept nagging you until you reached the front door, where Justin was checking his bag.

“You guys ready? I could give you a lift to school on my way to work,” Justin said, fixing the collar of his jacket.

“When’s my car getting here?” You asked with pursed lips. “I feel like I’m 12 getting dropped off at school by you again.”

“I mean, you could’ve driven yourself if you hadn’t insisted on bringing your own car back to Beacon Hills.”

“Well, it’s called loyalty, Theodore, maybe you could learn a thing or two from me.”

Your voice was biting as you said it, Theo only raised his hands in defense, a knowing smirk on his face and a grin grew on Justin’s face. You sighed internally, cursing yourself for your short temper. Let the teasing begin.

“Oh no, you mentioned the Valentine’s Day of ‘07, didn’t you, T?”

It was the beginning of February when you had started to get the idea of getting Stiles a gift for Valentine’s. He had always been kind to you and always tried to include you when he hung out with Theo and Scott. It wasn’t hard to develop a crush on him, to be honest. He was cute and nice. You were ten, the bar wasn’t that high. You started with leaving Reese’s Pieces with small notes in the pockets of his coat or in his lunch box when he wasn’t looking. Your mother had helped you with most of the notes, since you wanted them to rhyme without sounding too cheesy. The last note, which you had placed on his desk before he arrived to first period, contained a small rhyme about how the color of his eyes reminded you of honey, and to meet you for a Valentine’s picknick at the park later that day. When Stiles stumbled up to his desk a couple of minutes later, he scanned his eyes over the note, unwrapping the honeycomb bar you had left along with the note, taking a huge bite out of it.

“Are you excited to finally meet your secret admirer?” Scott had asked and Stiles grinned toothily at him, almost losing the content of his mouth.

“Yeah! But I’m pretty sure I know who it is.”

Stiles glanced over to you with a huge grin, jerking his chin in your direction and you flushed slightly, waving timidly back at him. You ignored Theo when he slid into his chair next to you, though you could see out of the corner of your eyes that he was hiding a smirk.

“Shut up Theo,” you muttered under your breath, kicking him in the shins under the table. Theo only yelped, glaring at you.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t have to, I saw it on your face!”

Before Theo could retort, Ms. Davis came into the classroom, starting the first lesson of the day. You turned to the front, your eyes glancing over at Stiles multiple times, watching him as he semi-focused on the lesson, playing with your note in his hand. Around noon, you and Theo raced to the pick-up zone where your mother’s minivan was standing, tumbling into the backseats.

“Hey superstar, hey Theo,” your mother greeted you, leaning over to look back at you as you buckled up. “How was school?”

“Great! I gave Stiles the last note, he was so excited!”

“She blushed!”

“You did?” your mother laughed, winking at Theo. “Well, then I guess the plan’s in its end-phase.”

You discreetly elbowed Theo in the gut, then talking loudly to cover his grunt. “Yep, definitely is! Did you pick up the peanut butter cupcakes from the grocery store?”

“’course I did.”

After your mother dropped of Theo at home, the two of you went home to pack the basket for the picknick. During this time, your heart was almost hammering out of your ribcage and you felt so excited and at the same time you felt like you were about to throw up. When you had the basket all packed up, you made your way over the park with your mom. While you walked over the grass to spread the blanket on the ground, your mother sat down on a bench a couple of feet away. Close enough to be there in a second if something happened, but far enough for you to get the sense like you were there by yourself. It was only a couple of minutes past three pm when you had set everything up.

“Maybe Stiles is just a little late,” you mumbled to yourself, smoothing down your pants, looking around. The park was not as busy as it usually was, some couples walking around, a lone man with his dog, and a handful of kids on the playground. But no Stiles in sight.

After ten minutes, you were growing antsy, telling yourself that Stiles was on his way. After about forty-five minutes, your mother knelt down on the blanket next to you, placing a warm hand on your shoulder.

“You okay superstar?”

With a shrug, you plucked at the three-leaf clover you had picked up. “… He’s not coming, is he?”

“I don’t think so, honey. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed quickly, giving your mother a somewhat believable smile. “I’m fine. Let’s just go home.”

“Nah, come on, let’s grab some ice cream on the way home,” your mother said with an encouraging smile. “My treat.”

Together, you packed up all the things and made your way to the ice cream parlor that was just outside the park. Your mother was telling you a story about how her and your dad had spent their first Valentine’s Day, but she suddenly slowed down, glancing inside the parlor. You paused following her gaze, freezing when you looked through the window, your foot stuck mid-air.

Stiles was sitting inside with Lydia, talking animatedly, his ice cream almost falling out of its cone as Lydia only listened half-heartedly, drumming her nails on the table. Despite your assurance to your mum that you were fine, tears sprang into your eyes and you turned on your heel, running the sidewalk back home, your mother calling after you.

You rarely thought back to that day, if you were honest. Most people (read, Justin and Theo) thought it was because of Stiles, and in some ways, it was. You’ve never been humiliated like that before. But really, it was just too painful. That Valentine’s Days was one of the last times you had spent with your mother.

It was only a few days later when your whole world was turned upside down when you were brought out of class by your brother, who had bloodshot eyes, muttering about how your parents were gone. Merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, they were standing in the middle of the grocery store when a robber came in with a gun. Your mother caught a stray bullet to the chest and in a panic, the robber had shot your father as well when he had cried out in shock.

There was a high possibility that you associated Stiles with the death of your parents and in another universe, you might have gotten over that rejection and stayed friends with Stiles; you didn’t even know if he had seen you that day, but alas. You had isolated yourself from most kids in your class except for Theo, and only a few months later, Justin turned 21 and the two of you left Beacon Hills.

Only to return, 7 years later, for whatever reason.

With some disdain, you stared at Beacon Hills High when your brother stopped in front, with the engine still running. Theo was already getting out of the car in the backseat, but you remained frozen in your seat.

“You know you’re going to have to get out at some point, right?”

You puffed out a breath, glancing over at Justin, who looked at you with a mixture of amusement and worry.

“Do I have to?”

Justin paused. “You don’t have to, but you want to go to college, right? Your senior year of high school is kind of crucial for that.”

Right, that.

Pulling a face, you opened the door with a sigh, getting out of the car. Even after you closed the passenger door, Justin didn’t drive off, watching you.

“Don’t forget we have that meeting with the alpha later, don’t be late.”

“Yeah yeah, don’t worry about it,” you said off-handedly and Justin nodded slowly.

“Hey, you know you’re gonna rock it, right sup-”

“Don’t.”

You cut Justin off with a sharp snap and he leaned back in his seat, giving you a glum look.

“I’ll see you later.”

With that, Justin pulled away from the side-walk and you turned to walk inside the building, Theo was just waiting by the entrance. He was raising his eyebrows at you in question, but you only shook your head, walking to the principal’s office. After getting your transfer papers sorted and getting your class schedule, you and Theo walked to the lockers, stacks of books in hand.

“I have science now, but we’ll see each other in Calculus and for lunch,” Theo said as he looked at his class schedule. You on the other hand were trying to put your books into the locker somewhat organized.

“You know you can just throw them in, right?”

“I’m not a heathen, Theo.”

Theo only rolled his eyes good-naturedly, only wincing a bit when the bell rang.

“Alright, I gotta go. Try to make some friends, yeah?”

You only gave him a look, Theo saluted to you before he turned on his heels to walk to his classroom. With a sigh, you gave up on neatly stacking your books and tossed the rest of them in the locker, only grabbing the book for econ and headed to the second floor, where your first class was going to be. You weaved your way through the crowd, already being accustomed to block out loud, unnecessary noise to keep yourself sane. Overstimulation was no joke. Luckily, your classroom was the first to your right when you reached the second floor and you took the desk in the last row. As the rest of the class filed in, you flipped your book open, not paying any attention to the class until the teacher, Coach Finstock, apparently, took to the front. He was waiting for the class to settle down as the classroom door opened yet again. You turned back to your back, tuning out the conversation, the smell of peanut butter and honey suddenly filling your nostrils. Scrunching your nose, you leaned back in your seat when someone dropped in to the empty chair in front of you somewhat clumsily. He stretched his arms, rather obnoxiously, if you might add and it was obvious that the smell of peanut butter and honey that was wafting over to your nose came from him. Unable to sit still, he bounced his leg and you narrowed your eyes at his back, like his restlessness was contagious. He drummed his fingertips on the desk and he just kept fidgeting! Almost like-

“Stiles.”

“Huh?”

Stiles whirled around to look at you because apparently you had said his name out loud. He looked at you with furrowed eyes, before recognition dawned on his face. He opened his mouth, surely to say something along the lines of Oh my god, how long has it been? but Coach interrupted him, knocking on his desk.

“Stilinski, what’s the definition of supply and demand?”

With one last glance over his shoulder, Stiles turned back to the front to face Coach, who was uncomfortably close to his face. Have the teachers always been this weird?

“Supply and demand? Well…”

When the bell rang to signal the end of first period, you were one of the firsts out of the classroom, though you could hear Stiles grapple himself to his feet to follow you. Even through all the noise of a high school, you could hear Stiles’ voice clear as day, calling after you. You ignored, well, you tried to ignore him, but his voice was ringing in your ears like he was right next to you. This has never happened before. Wincing, you quickened your pace and turned the corner, hoping more distance between you would lessen the volume of his voice in your ears, when you ran straight into someone.

Fuck.

“Shit, sorry, I-” you looked up, trying to clear your head to form a fucking clear sentence when you looked into the concerned face of Scott McCall, because of course that was just your luck. Scott raised an eyebrow at you in question, his eyes flashing red for a split-second, making you flash your golden eyes back at him involuntarily.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re the alpha?”

Scott uttered your name, his voice small, and you knew you were being unfair. He never did anything to you, but if he was the alpha, it meant Stiles was definitely involved in his pack somehow.

“You’re one of the betas Derek was talking about?”

You waved a hand at him, annoyed. “Cora was part of my pack when she was in Salvador, or well… Before she came to Beacon Hills and then came back with her brother in tow.” And then you left with your brother and Theo to come to Beacon Hills. It was like a fucking exchange program.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude," you said, feeling guilty for snapping at Scott. "It's just... complicated."

Scott gave you a sympathetic nod and you wondered if he knew about what had happened with Stiles, but before you could say something stupid like ask if he knew why Stiles had gone to grab ice cream with Lydia instead of meeting you on that Valentine’s Day, Stiles appeared at his side, looking slightly out of breath. You avoided his gaze, though you kept your chin high.

"Hey," Stiles said, a small smile on his face. The way he said your name made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Really? Still?

“It’s been a while.”

You forced a smile back, trying to keep your voice even. "Yeah, it has."

Scott and Stiles exchanged a glance, sensing the tension between you. "Well, we should probably get to class," Scott said, breaking the awkward silence. "See you around.”

“Wha-- hey, I wanted to catch up with her-” Stiles protested as Scott grabbed him by the arm to drag him along. You could hear Scott whisper distinctly under his breath before Stiles exclaimed a loud: “What?!”

You could only imagine that Scott had told him what he had just found out and with a deep sigh, you straightened your shoulders. Onwards and upwards, right? Before you headed to your next class, you stopped by your locker on the way to grab the books you needed, trying to get your head straight with the class material. Surprisingly, it wasn’t even that hard to keep up. You were worried that transferring in the middle of the school year would set you back a couple of weeks if not months, but somehow you were ahead of the class material, as your school in Salvador kept a much tighter and quicker schedule. By the time lunch period rolled around, you were far more relaxed than at the beginning of the school day, considering you had overcome your biggest fears.

Following the rest of the class, you let them guide you to the cafeteria. After grabbing a sandwich and some water at the counter, you followed Theo’s scent through the cafeteria, but you stopped in your tracks when you saw Theo sitting with - you guessed it - Scott and Stiles. There were a handful of people sitting at their table, you weren’t familiar with most of them, though the head of strawberry-blonde hair stuck out to you. Theo leaned over the side, lifting his hand for a wave and you only gave him a look, before turning on your heel, away from them. You could hear Theo’s chair scraping against the linoleum floor as he pushed it back.

“Hey, what’s her problem?” Stiles asked and Theo only sighed in exasperation.

“Come on buddy, seriously? Keep up.”

By the time Theo caught up with you, you were sitting outside at an unoccupied table, picking at your sandwich.

“Seriously? Next time slam the cafeteria doors when you exit, it’ll be even more dramatic,” Theo huffed as he dropped on the bench across from you. You barely acknowledged him as you opened your water bottle.

“Just trying to have my lunch in peace.��

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hey, I know you hate Stiles-”

“I don’t hate Stiles,” you interjected, heated. “I just don’t really want to spend all of my free time around him and Scott. What’s wrong with that?”

Finally, you lifted your head to look at him but Theo only narrowed his eyes at you.

“… You know Scott is the alpha right?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, I found out this morning. I bet you’re fucking ecstatic.”

“I mean, it helps that the alpha is someone we know and used to be friends with. It’ll be much easier to fit into his pack. But you really need to work on your people skills.”

“Me?” you bristled, but when Theo raised an eyebrow, you puffed out a defeated breath. “Fine. I’ll play nice. But I am not going to be part of their clique.”

“… That’s kind of exactly what you’re going to have to do.”

“Jesus, Theo you’re so annoying,” you moaned, standing up to leave the table. You threw your sandwich wrapper and the empty water bottle in the trash, reluctantly waiting for Theo as your next class was with him anyway. He shouldered his backpack, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Cheer up. I think this is going to be great.”

You gave a grunt of dissent. Luckily, the rest of the school day went by mostly uneventful and by 4 pm, you were walking out of the school building towards Justin’s car that was standing by the curbside.

“Hey, how was your first day?” Justin asked as soon as you got in the car, Theo climbing in the back.

“Pretty sure she is contemplating whether she should become an omega,” Theo quipped, unhelpfully as usual and Justin only looked at you quizzically.

“Scott McCall is the alpha.”

“The floppy haired one? Who has asthma?”

“Had, I guess. And yeah, the very same.”

Justin nodded slowly and it was clear that he had more to say, but he chose not to. He gave you a side eye, knowing the implications but your glare shut him up.

“So, how was your first day at your new law firm?”

Thankful for the topic change, you settled back into your seat as Justin launched into the recap of his day as he drove the three of you home. When you finally got home, you didn’t waste a second to get out of the car.

“We’re gonna leave in an hour or so,” Justin called after you when you were already halfway into the house.

“Yeah yeah,” you said absentmindedly, not even raising your voice. You knew he could hear you. “Just get me when it’s time.” You shut your door behind, wanting some privacy before you had to go show your face again. With a deep sigh, you fell headfirst into your bed, hoping you’d smother yourself. However, you couldn’t even do that in peace, when your phone suddenly vibrated. Rolling on your back, you slipped your phone out of your pocket, to see a new text from an unknown number.

[unknown]: hey, scott decided to hold the meeting at his house, instead of the vet practice, since it’s you

You frowned at the screen when the phone vibrated again with the arrival of the another text.

[unknown]: its stiles btw :))

Irritated, you tossed the phone on the pillow. How did he even get your number? And why was he the one telling you about the change of location, instead of Scott? You really contemplated leaving Stiles on read, but you remembered what Theo had said to you earlier. So you picked up your phone and texted him back.

[me]: Okay, thanks for letting me know

Stiles’ answer was almost immediate.

[unknown]: no prob!!

Your finger was hovering in the air and the question as to how Stiles got your number in the first place grated you.

[me]: How did you get my number anyway?

The ellipsis showed up, meaning Stiles was typing, before they disappeared again. You frowned, staring at the text chain before Stiles finally replied.

[unknown]: got it from cora. hope thats okay.

You groaned bumping your fist against your forehead, because of course it was fucking Cora putting her nose in your business all the way from Salvador. You swiped out of the text chain, opening the one with Cora.

[me]: why tf did you just give stiles my number without warning me first??

[cora]: i thought it’d be funny and i was right

[cora]: give him a kiss from me

[me]: I hate you

[cora]: no u don’t

You glared at your phone and exited the text chain, your phone almost slipping out of your hand when it vibrated again.

[unknown]: i just asked her bc i thought it’d be the most convenient way of contacting you. i wasnt stalking, i promise

[me]: Sure you weren’t.

[unknown]: i couldve asked one of my dads deputies to find out your address and shown up on your door instead

[me]: That’s abuse of power and I’m pretty sure your dad wouldn’t approve.

[me]: But I guess this is better

[unknown]: seeeee

You couldn’t help yourself to smile at the almost easy conversation you had with Stiles, and suddenly you remembered why you had liked him so much. But this was not you liking him again, this was just you trying to brush up on your people skills, like Theo had suggested. You were brought back to reality when your phone vibrated again.

[unknown]: i dont wanna keep you any longer, ill see you later :))

Exhaling, you dropped your phone on your stomach, feeling like you didn’t really have to reply to him. If exchanging only a few messages would have you grinning like an idiot already, how would fare with being a fucking pack with Stiles? God this was going to be so much harder than you thought.

“-ery full moon, just to be together. You don’t have to join us, but I think it would be nice.”

You had tuned out most of the conversation ever since you walked into Scott’s house, figuring Justin and Theo would just tell you the most important information you had missed. Scott’s pack was…. Unconventional, to put it lightly. The first thing you noticed is that the whole pack seems to consist of teenagers. Justin would be the oldest one by almost pushing 30. The second thing is that, somehow, most of the pack weren’t even werewolves, actually, there were only really 2, Scott and Isaac. Kira was a Kitsune, Lydia a banshee and Malia, Derek and Cora’s cousin apparently, was a werecoyote. Allison and Stiles were plain humans, even though Allison labelled herself as a hunter, which really raised the hairs on the nape of your neck, though you deemed her alright. For now.

“Have you guys always been weres?” Isaac asked, his arms crossed as he sat on the arm chair, legs thrown over the arm rests. “I remember you from middle school.”

“No. We got the bite in Salvador. Mariana kind of took us under the wing when we first got there and somewhere along the way, she offered us the bite and we accepted,” Theo said, shrugging his shoulders a bit. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.

“And your parents?”

Theo leaned back on the couch, his facial expression not moving a bit but you could tell that Stiles managed to get under his skin with basically the only thing Theo considered his weakness. You figured that the other weres might pick up on his comfort, but it was subtle. Theo was pretty good at masking his emotions.

“We’re not really in contact anymore. They took my sister’s death pretty hard.”

The fact that they barely acknowledged that they had another child went unsaid.

“Justin’s my legal guardian. From both of us, I guess,” Theo added, with a quick glance at you. That lead to the everyone else look at you too and you growled under your breath at the unwanted attention.

“I don’t really have anything to add.”

Theo kicked your foot making you growl, and you flashed your eyes at him, as he merely flashed his blue eyes back at you.

“O-kay!” Stiles suddenly yelped, jumping up with hand clap. “How about we get some food now? Time for food, we got a bunch of wolves here, I’m sure you’re starving. I could definitely eat. Scotty?”

“Uh sure, yeah. That’s a good idea actually. Do you guys want to stay for dinner?” Scott asked, an eyebrow raised.

Justin lifted his head, dropping them again. “Sure. It’d be nice to get to know the pack a little better, right?” He looked at you pointedly and you suppressed a grunt.

“Right.”

“We could order pizza, what about Gino’s?” Isaac suggested and Kira shook her head.

“They don’t deliver.”

“It’s fine, Lydia and I can go pick it up,” Allison said, standing up and pulling Lydia with her. She had been looking at you for a while and you gave her a somewhat tight smile. Scott gently touched Allison’s elbow, smiling at her.

“Thanks guys. I’ll go check for drinks and paper plates.”

“I’ll help!”

You coughed kiss-ass into your hand and Theo only glared at you over his shoulder as he followed Scott into the kitchen. Justin stood with a sigh, giving you a rather heavy look as he walked over to Kira, starting up a conversation with her. You suppressed the want to flee the house and seek comfort somewhere, when a scuffle between Malia and Stiles caught your attention. She was rather persistent, trying to push a hoodie into his hands which he vehemently tried to give back.

“-Iles, I don’t want it anymore.” Malia said, annoyed. “Just take it, your stench is taking over my room.”

“You guys are together?” It just slipped out, more than anything, and you fought the blush that was threatening to appear on your cheeks. Malia looked at you for a split second and you feared she’d call you out, before she merely shook her head.

“Not anymore,” Malia replied and you raised a surprised eyebrow at Stiles.

“So you got over your crush on Lydia, huh?”

“How long have you had a crush on Lydia?” Malia grunted and Stiles flushed, but before he could answer, you butted in.

“Pretty sure that’s like 7 years in the making, right?”

“It’s not ongoing,” Stiles insisted. “Lydia and I are friends.”

The embarrassment was rolling off of him in waves you could basically taste it so you figured you’d let him off the hook, even if you didn’t truly believed him. Turning away, you effectively clinked yourself out of the conversation ignoring how Malia was growling at Stiles before she disappeared. You were checking your phone, acting mostly disinterested but you could hear Stiles’ heart beating a mile a minute before he awkwardly sat down next to you.

“So, you know Cora and Derek, huh?”

Glancing up from your phone, Stiles was eyeing you, his face neutral but his eyes twinkling.

“Cora more than Derek. She’s pretty much my best friend apart from Theo that shithead.”

I heard that!

Ignoring Theo from somewhere in the house, you settled back against the couch, dropping your phone on the couch. Stiles perked up as you seemed you divert your whole attention to him.

“I miss Cora. I’m pretty sure she missed me too. Did she say anything about me?” Stiles asked and you gave him a look.

“She said you’re annoying.”

Stiles jutted his lower lip out, a frown creasing his forehead. Was he pouting?

“… She said it fondly,” you added slowly and Stiles brightened up again, straightening his shoulders. It was odd but even though you were the werewolf out of the two of you, he seemed to be acting more like a puppy.

“I knew it!” Stiles crowed. “The Hales seem to think they have an impenetrable wall of grumpiness but I’ve managed to worm my way into all of their heart nevertheless.”

Somehow, you couldn’t really imagine Stiles and Derek getting along.

“Even their psycho uncle Peter?”

Stiles winced at the question. “No, we don’t talk about Peter. I just ignore him most of the time and pretend he’s still dead.”

Right, that happened. You really hoped that the craziness around here has died down or else you’d have to seriously talk to Justin about staying in Beacon Hills.

Pleased, Stiles settled back against the corner of the couch.

An odd scent started wafting over to you from Stiles. It was something you weren’t quite familiar with. It wasn’t completely new but not exactly a common scent either, so it took you some thinking to recognize it, of course it didn’t help that Stiles was talking like his life depended on it.

“- and then he just left for London? I mean, how crazy is that? Werewolf in London, cuz that’s totally gonna work out.”

Stiles snorted and you blinked at him, having missed 90% of what he just talked about.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I kind of enjoy not having Jackson-” Jackson! “- around anymore, believe it or not but he’s gotten 200 times more insufferable ever since he got the bite. But what the hell is a werewolf doing in London without an alpha or a pack?”

You still had no freaking clue what the scent was and you were that close from breaking down. Luckily, you were interrupted before you could grab Stiles to shake him and ask him what he was feeling.

“Pizza is here!” Scott called and you heard tell tale sign of a car coming down the block as Scott opened the door to help Allison and Lydia carry the pizzas in. You moved to stand up but Stiles laid a hand on your shoulder, gently stopping you.

“I got it. Artichokes and extra cheese, right?”

Dumbly, you nodded, sitting back on the couch as Stiles got up, as everyone started swarming around the pizzas. As everyone started dispersing again, Stiles returned with two pizza boxes, handing one to you before he opened his own - classic pepperoni. When you opened your box, it was indeed a pizza topped with artichoke and extra cheese. You hadn’t even bothered to tell anyone what you wanted, you were fine with eating whatever pizza they brought back, but how did Stiles remember your pizza order? Theo could have ordered the pizza for you but Stiles never exchanged a word with Theo after Allison and Lydia left to get the pizzas, so he must have remembered it, back when you used to get pizza at his place. Even now, with you almost graduating from high school, you still had no idea what to make of Stiles.

“Thanks. I didn’t think you’d remember how I like my pizza,” you blurted out and Stiles paused, glancing at you with a mouthful of pizza. He swallowed, almost choking before he answered.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s my ADHD. I can remember a lot of unnecessary things.” His eyes widened. “Not that your pizza order is not important, but-”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted him with a small smile. “I remember small things, too. Reese’s and Honeycomb, right?”

Stiles’ lip parted and there was that scent again, so strong it nearly clouded over the rest of your senses. When you noticed Theo staring over at you with an curious look, you finally realized what the scent was.

Affection.

That was what you were smelling on Stiles.

But you knew that Stiles liked you, right? You were friends before your parents died, it was nothing new. This is like, your friendship blossoming again. You gave him a small, rather shy, smile, before taking a slice out of your pizza. Maybe this pack wasn’t so bad after all. You could do this, right? Being friends with Stiles? That was easy. As long as you didn’t slip up into the crush realm again, everything was going to be fine.

Over the next few weeks, your integration into the pack and their friend group at school was a slow but gradual process. Back in Salvador, you used to study for class with your packmates as it helped you focus on your work. Sometimes it ended up just being you and Stiles, since you were the only ones who took AP English Literature and AP Chemistry. Well, Lydia took them, too, but apparently she was too good for studying with Stiles and you, at least that was what he told you.

“I feel like my brain is leaking fluids,” you moaned, burying your face in your text book. It was nearly four pm and the sun was just blazing outside, while you and Stiles had been studying for the past couple of hours.

Stiles lifted his head off his desk, squinting at you. “Oh my god, same.”

“Do you have a hose in the backyard? I swear, if you’re going to make a dog joke, I’m going to kill you but spraying ourselves down could help with cooling down.”

“Or we could get ice cream,” Stiles suggested and you hummed. “It seems less waterboard-y and we haven’t eaten in like, five hours. I don’t know if you remember but there’s a pretty good ice cream place down by the park, Salt & Straw? And-”

“What did you just say?”

Your tone was sharp when you interrupted him, lifting the text book off of your face as Stiles paused at the hostility in your voice and he glanced over at you, salty nervosity wafting over to you.

“I just figured we’ve been studying for a while, and I could do ice cream. Salt & Straw is the best ice cream place around but if you want-”

“I gotta go,” you suddenly said, your shoulders tight. Stiles’ nervosity suddenly changed, turning sour and you could tell he was upset, but really what the hell did he expect? You avoided looking at him as you collected your things, stuffing them in your backpack, while he was only watching from where he was sitting at his desk.

“Right,” he said flatly and when you looked up at him, his eyes were sad. Turning away, you were glad that he wasn’t privy to all the whirlwind of emotions you were feeling: sad, angry and resentful. Resentful at Stiles because he brought up the very same ice cream place that he was meeting Lydia at while ditching you; angry at yourself for still letting this affect you the way it did and sad, mostly because all of this just took you right back to your parents’ death.

“I’ll see you at school then.”

“Sure.”

Even as you said it, you both knew it was a lie. You barely looked at Stiles when you bid your good bye, holding your emotions at bay until you reached the safe confines of your car. You could feel your claws coming in slowly, pricking the inside of your palm. You were usually really good with your control, the only time you could feel it slipping is when you felt like you lost control over your emotions. Starting the car quickly, you just wanted to get as far away from Stiles as possible, hoping that some distance would help. You were driving around aimlessly before you slowly rolled to a stop. You didn’t even know where you’d gone until you looked out of the window, freezing. This was really the last place you had wanted to go. Justin has been here a couple of times since you were back in Beacon Hills and he’d asked you to come with every single time but you refused. With a deep breath. you slowly opened your car door, shutting it behind you before you walked towards the two gravestones. They were shiny and clean, almost like not a single day as passed since the last time you were here.

“Hey mom. Hey dad.”

You stared at their gravestones for a while, shifting on your feet before letting out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry for not coming sooner… I guess I still haven’t really dealt with losing you…” Clearing your throat, you stared into the distance. “I guess it’s not fair of me to associate him to with your death. And maybe I shouldn’t be holding onto things for so long… But it’s so hard being back here without you guys.” Your sentence broke off when a sob escaped your mouth and when you covered your face with your hands, you finally allowed yourself to cry, really cry and mourn for your parents, your brother and yourself. When the sobs slowly turned into small sniffles, you wiped your wet cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt, exhaling deeply. Weirdly, you felt better now that you let it all out, but it was still a bit embarrassing.

“I’m really lost, mom. This thing with Stiles… It’s so complicated. I don’t understand why I got so upset when he mentioned that ice cream shop… I mean. It’s been such a long time. Why did I get so defensive?”

The silence was deafening and logically, you knew that you weren’t going to get an answer. But it felt good to say things out loud so you could process it.

“Do you think I’m so upset because I might have feelings for him?” you then added quietly, picking at a leaf that was laying on the pavement. “That’s stupid, right? I mean, isn’t this where we left off the last time? Ugh,” you groaned, palming your forehead. Why couldn’t life be simpler. If your mom was actually here, she’d know what to do. But she wasn’t, alas, you had to figure it out yourself. Crushing the leaf in your hand like it had personally offended you, you dropped the crushed bits to the floor.

“I guess it’s possible that I have feelings for Stiles…”

While you felt like a stone had lifted off of your chest ever since you’d gone to your parents’ grave, it seemed like you had resorted to your old ways of shutting everyone out. Especially Stiles. You knew you were being unreasonable, and it wasn’t really Stiles’ fault. Well, mostly not his fault. Valentine’s Day was definitely his fault. But you had to get over yourself, had to learn how to deal with your feelings first before you could find a way to be friends with Stiles. But avoiding Stiles was harder than you anticipated, considering you were in the same pack. And apparently, you and Stiles had been spending a lot of time with each other, the others have noticed.

“Did something happen between you and Stiles?”

You would’ve jumped if you hadn’t known that Scott had been standing behind your open locker door for the past five minutes, waiting patiently until you had closed it.

“Define “something”,” you said, shoving your history book into your backpack, while Scott frowned at you.

“You’re avoiding him.”

You sighed, giving Scott a look. “I’m not avoiding Stiles. I mean, we were just studying for the test. Test is over. No more studying. It’s not like something happened,” you said, a tad too defensively. Scott didn’t look convinced, but you really were in no mood to deal with this right now, pushing yourself off the locker when you were done, so you could walk to your next class. Scott apparently, had other plans, as he continued to follow you.

“You were hanging out all the time and now you’re barely around anymore. You missed our last pack meeting,” Scott pointed out. “You know Stiles is my best friend. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

With a scoff, you turned around, making Scott almost run into you with the way he was following you. “Have you ever thought about the fact that it’s not Stiles that is getting hurt in this situation?”

For the first time, you had stunned Scott speechless. Which of course didn’t last long.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, rolling your eyes so hard you almost gave yourself whiplash. “For someone who prides himself on his detective skills, I can’t believe Stiles still hasn’t figured it out.” You only shook your head, continuing on your way, with Scott calling your name after you.

“What does that mean??”

You weren’t sure what exactly about your words had made Scott back off, but something must have worked, since no one in the pack has tried to bother you about the Stiles thing again. While you still kind of tried to hang out with them at school, you kept your distance from Stiles, who seemed weirdly okay with everything, which… Was fine. Kind of stung that he barely took a breather to check with you but it was fine. You were a big girl, you didn’t need him to take you by the hand.

“I’m going out for a run!” you said over your shoulder as you shut the door, plugging your headphones in. Muffled, you could hear some sort of answer but that was enough for you to start your run. You didn’t really have a set route as you liked to take different paths through Beacon Hills, re-acquainting yourself with the town. Today, you had decided to finally tackle the route through the park. It didn’t take you long until you block where the park was located, though you could feel yourself straining the moves to actually walk towards it, but you persisted, swallowing down the bile that seemed to be travelling up your throat.

The park was fairly busy by the time you reached the gates, too busy for you to walk through with a clear head. You contemplated whether you should jog through it or just cut your losses and turn back home, when you caught Stiles’ scent in the air. It was new, too. What was he doing at the park at nine in the morning? On a Saturday, on top of hat? You followed his scent through the park, trying to stay (mostly) on the path and keeping a low profile when you skidded to a stop. With furrowed brows, you tugged your headphones out of your ear, taking in the situation in front of you.

“What are you doing here?”

“Picnicking. I’m picnicking.”

Stiles spread out his arms and your eyes roamed over the picknick blanket where an assortment of snacks was laid out. It looked enough for a small army, and he was looking at you with a hopeful expression on his face, which… Really made it all worse, as angry tears started brimming in your eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” you snapped at him and his eyes widened, his smile dropping quickly “Is this some sick joke to you?”

“Wha-? No!” Stiles exclaimed, shaking his head. “I just thought-”

“No, Stiles, you weren’t thinking! This isn’t funny. At all. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

You had tried to keep your voice even, but it cracked so obviously, your cheeks were burning in embarassment. Turning away, you blinked the tears away, but before you could make any move to leave, Stiles grabbed you by the shoulder.

“Wait! Please…”

You knew it wouldn’t take a lot to unwind yourself from Stiles’ grip, but he sounded desperate, his heart beating so loudly it sounded like it was right next to your ear.

“Whatever you think this is, that’s not what I’m doing. I promise,” he said quickly, dropping his hand from your shoulder as you glared at it. Stiles fumbled nervously with his hands. “Shit,” he cursed breathlessly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought this would be so much easier…” Stiles took a deep breath, looking at you. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know doing this is like slapping me across the face?” you asked, bewildered.

“No!” Stiles exclaimed. “I didn’t… I didn’t know it was you… My secret admirer. In middle school.”

What?

You only stared at him, too shellshocked to say anything else.

“I thought it was Lydia. That’s why I took her out for ice cream, I didn’t know that it was you.”

“You said you knew who it was and looked straight at me while you said it.”

Stiles winced. “Yeah… Clearly my detective skills weren’t as sharp as I’d like to believe back then… I think got a suspicion when you remembered that I liked honeycomb. No one knows I like honeycomb. And when you reacted so hurt when I brought up that ice cream parlor… I didn’t put it all together myself. I asked Theo and he confirmed my suspicion…” he trailed off, his head low. “I’m sorry I hurt you and I’m sorry I brought up bad memories with the ice cream place… I know your parents passed away shortly after, it must have been pretty shitty. I just wanted to get to know you again. Be close. I missed you. I always thought we kind of lost touch when you moved away, but now I remember that you pulled away even before that… I’m really sorry.”

You gaped at him, your eyes furrowed. He was…. Sorry? Your anger slowly melted away, leaving you mostly confused. “Oh… Um… It’s okay, I guess. It was so long ago. It’s not your fault my parents died and everything related to Beacon Hills just reminded me of them… I’m still working on that…” you gave him a small smile. “It’s really nice that you did this,” you started, wincing when Stiles’ face fell yet again. “But I think I need some more time till I figure out how to be friends with you without all these confusing feelings.”

“Wait, what feelings?” Stiles interjected, frowning.

You flushed. “Oh come on, you have to know.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, watching your face for a minute before his face slackened, when he realized. His eyes widened a little and he stared at you, somehow, that made you flush even more.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh.

Stiles beamed at you, for some reason, he looked absolutely fucking pleased. Figured he’d act like an idiot about it. You only rolled your eyes at him.

“Don’t let it get to your head. I’ll get over it eventually.”

“Why would you-” Stiles paused, eyeing you in disbelief. “You don’t know. How don’t you know? You’re a were, how do you not know?”

“Know what?” You asked, getting irritated. You didn’t appreciate how Stiles was questioning your abilities. Stiles didn’t reply, he only took a step towards you. Instinctively, you took a step back, making him roll his eyes at you.

“What are you doing?” you asked hotly and he only grinned at you, curling his hand around your waist, pulling you close. Your eyebrows rose a little when Stiles pressed his lips against yours, before you grabbed him by the nape of his neck, kissing him back.

Holy shit.

After a while, you pulled away, a little breathless.

“You all caught up now?” Stiles asked, like the little shit he was, and you frowned at him, poking his chest.

“You like me?”

“Oh great, you are all caught up now.”

“How was I supposed to know??”

Stiles gave you an incredulous look. “Hello? Werewolf? Heightened senses? There’s no way you didn’t smell my affection for you or how nervous I was when I was around you. I thought my heart was beating out of my chest half of the time!”

You were stumped. “I thought you just liked me as a friend.”

Stiles leaned his forehead against yours, muttering obscenities under his breath, but you weren’t listening to him, instead you were listening to his erratic heartbeat, which you had always interpreted normal for him, but apparently, it wasn’t. How did you read all of this so wrong?

“You are never going to let me live this down, are you?” you finally realized, exasperated and Stiles only shook his head, pursing his lips.

“Nope, never. I will forever remind you of this.”

As you looked at Stiles, his eyes twinkling with glee, you realized that maybe forever didn’t sound half as bad.

#stiles stilinski #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles stilinski fanfic

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justburningdaylight · 2 years

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The Art and the Aesthete

Eddie Munson x Fem Henderson!Reader, Best Friend Steve x Fem Henderson!Reader

Summary: The first time reader meets Eddie is also the first time she truly appreciates art.

Warnings: fluff, slight paul mccartney idolization, a LOT of art comparisons, ted bundy reference, no real ending at all (sorry guys), like one f-bomb i think, no spoilers!

Word count: 1.4k

a/n: i finished stranger things and naturally i wanted to write a lil something for eddie so here we are. p.s. requests are open come talk to me!

You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom with your back pressed contently against your bed, silently willing your best friend to stop talking. Steve had come over to complain after what you could only hyperbolically guess was his hundredth date this month.

“And it’s like okay, it’s cool if we have similar opinions! But there’s no way you actually agree with every single thing I say! I mean seriously (y/n), I said the Beatles were better than the Rolling Stones just to see what she’d say and she agreed!”

“That’s because the Beatles are better, inordinately better actually-”

“Woah, hey, I just wanted to make sure you were listening! Please don’t give me the Paul McCartney is a god speech again.”

“I was listening, I just wasn’t sure how to reply. You don’t want to go out with her again because she agreed with you? You really dodged a bullet Harrington. I mean imagine if you had gotten serious with this girl? ‘Hey honey do you want to go out to dinner tonight?’ ‘Yes Steve, that sounds nice.’ I mean seriously? What a psycho!” You quip, making sure to use a vocal impression of him that you know Steve hates.

“You’re not funny, Henderson, anybody ever tell you that?” He exclaims, flopping backwards onto the plush fabric of your duvet.

“I do! Tell her all the time actually.” Dustin suddenly appears in your room without knocking you can’t help but notice.

Steve lets out a diminutive chuckle, unsubtly attempting to cover it with a cough.

“You know what I tell you all the time? To knock, like on my door, before you just walk in. Does that sound familiar?”

“Hmmm. No, no not really.”

“Oh? Do you want me to tell you again in a way that you won’t forget?” You threaten, trying less than gracefully to pull yourself off the floor while conjuring up the most menacing look you can and aiming it toward your little brother.

“Ooh I’m real scared. I shouldn’t have to knock anyway cause you were supposed to drop me and Mike off at Hellfire Club like five minutes ago.”

“So because I forgot, the basic concept of privacy is thrown out the window?”

“Yep! Let’s go, chop-chop! I’ve got a campaign to win.” Dustin throws haphazardly over his shoulder as he walks out of your room, knowing you already agreed to drive him and wouldn’t want to chance getting another lecture from your mother about the importance of being there for each other.

“Hey how much do you know about this Eddie guy? Dustin hasn’t shut up about him for weeks,” Steve says as you start your walk to the driveway.

“Well I’ve never actually met him, I just drop the boys off for their club sometimes.”

“You’ve never met him? And you just leave them there? That sounds right to you? What if he’s some Ted Bundy type?”

The look you give him is the middle ground between amusement and confusion. Though you’re sure a small part of him could be worried for your brother’s safety, it seems far more likely that he’s jealous Dustin has another older friend to hang out with.

“Please! If you were a killer, would you let Dustin live this long?” You’re joking, but you’re completely convinced that your little brother is far too annoying for someone with murderous tendencies to keep around long-term.

“Ha! And I said you weren’t funny,” Dustin’s voice sounds again, dripping with sarcasm, “Seriously (y/n)! If I’m late to this thing you’re gonna have to explain it to Eddie.” He’s bordering on whining now and you resist the urge to roll your eyes and take twice as long just to spite him.

“Alright!” You shout and turn back to Steve “See you later. Oh hey! Watch out for agreeable girls on your way home! You can never be too careful.”

“Alright, okay, point taken. Maybe I’m being a little too picky.”

“I’m glad you picked up on that.” You say getting into your car.

“See you later Hendersons!”

“Bye Steve!” Dustin’s impatient form calls out waving goodbye from the passenger seat.

“Finally!” Mike and Dustin chorus in unison as your car pulls into the parking lot. You silently praise yourself for mustering up the strength not to fling an insult or two at the boys after what was one of the more infuriating car rides in your recent memory.

“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up! Glad you boys found the time to fit me into your busy schedule.” An unfamiliar voice weaves its way through the crisp evening air.

“We’re sorry!” “So sorry! My sister doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the words I don’t want to be late so y’know here we are, late.” Mike and Dustin sound as they promptly scramble to get unbuckled and out of the car.

“What was that Dusty?” You question sarcastically, “Thank you for driving me even though I’ve been a proverbial thorn in your side for the entire night? Oh you are just so welcome!”

Unappreciative little-

Your internal strife is short-lived as you hear a chuckle sounding from the unfamiliar boy, who you’re now certain must be Eddie. You finally look over at him and your eyes widen emphatically at the sight you behold.

You’d heard tales of Eddie Munson. Word of mouth told you that he’s a Hawkins aberration, an unwelcome presence in a town with an already less than stellar reputation. Hearing what you have, you weren’t entirely sure what to expect. What you hadn’t expected, however, was for him to look so entirely beautiful.

His face was comparable to a work of art, an ancient roman statue permitted to be standing in a museum somewhere, as though his cheekbones could have been carved out by Michelangelo himself, dimples and all. His eyes were the purest shade of brown, tantamount to a jar of honey, warm and saccharine. Sinuous dark brown hair lay lustrously on his head, winding its way toward his broad shoulders. Perhaps he was a recently stolen work from a modern museum.

You were staring, taking in his statuesque form nearly unabashedly until you realized how impolitely it could be perceived.

You found yourself lifting your gaze back to his eyes, only to find them already looking into your own.

“Forget about it.” He’s talking to the boys but his caramel eyes haven’t moved from yours.

Dustin furrowed his eyebrows at the interaction but muttered a quick ‘bye’ to you as he and Mike hastily dashed inside.

“So. You’re the sister huh? (y/n) right?” He asks, the beginnings of a smile leisurely forming on his delicate lips; a true masterpiece in the making.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes and, though you can’t discern what it is precisely, you don’t mind it for a second. Surely there was an art gallery somewhere itching to put him on display.

“Yeah, mmhmm, yep, that’s me.” Okay. That’s definitely something you just said. Cool. “You must be Eddie.” He nods, that same ghost of a smile still perfectly haunting his graceful lips. You’re pulling it together, a coherent sentence and everything! “I feel like I should thank you or something,” He furrows his eyebrows together in a winsome display of confusion, and you hurry to continue before you make yourself appear nervous again.

“Y’know for looking out for Dustin. All of the boys, really. They’re good kids but high school can be hell and they’re insistent that it would be if it weren’t for you. So thank you, really.” You smile widely, visibly pleased that you haven’t made a complete fool of yourself in front of the perfectly composed work of art before you.

He’s smiling now. An expertly crafted smile. A smile that makes it feel as though the sun itself is rising higher into the sky. How does he do that?

“They’re good kids you know? And high school is a fuckin’ nightmare, I would have wanted somebody to do the same for me.” He’s downplaying his kindness, but you can see straight through the display.

The two of you stay like that for a while, gentle small talk flowing between you like a river through a secluded valley. His caramel eyes locked on yours and both of your faces adorned by unwavering smiles.

Reluctantly he releases a soft sigh and straightens his form out “I should probably get in there, give ‘em a little hell.”

“Yeah, go on. Have fun! Preferably kick Dustin’s ass.”

“Always do.” He smirks at you, bowing his head in a near imperceptible nod before turning his back and walking off.

And without a moments notice, you were an aesthete.

#stranger things

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criminalskies · 7 months

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Rome I love your work and I’m super sorry people are being rude to you, I was wondering if you would do an Aaron hotch X reader where reader comes out as nonbinary and Aaron maybe comforting them while on their period and having dysphoria (if your comfortable with that) thanks! ❤️❤️❤️ -anon

I am so so so so so so so honoured to have written this for you anon. I am so sorry for the wait, I can only hope after all this time I’ve done your request some justice.

Pairing: Aaron hotchner x afab!nonbinary!reader.

Word count: 7.7k

Warnings & A/N: Mentions of gross bathroom stalls. Mentions of menstrual blood. People address reader with she/her pronouns before they come out. Mentions of injected drugs and other canon-typical grossness. Mentions of assault/violence/murder and druggings at nightclubs. Inadequately proofread. That should be all! Please enjoy <;3

No one on the team could have expected this, for a simple opportunistic killer in the nightclub scene of New Orleans could have stretched on for five days and left the BAU without a lead to follow. Everyone was already irritable enough just given the sweaty, humid air that had blanketed around you all the moment you stepped off the jet. Every team member is now on edge, some five days later, having canvassed every club, hostel and backpacking destination in the city on foot.

For Prentiss, Morgan, Reid and Hotch, this has sent them into profiling overdrive. They’re throwing out complicated theory after complicated theory trying to think so far outside the box they’re almost losing sight of the facts. Annoyingly, it seems like you just need to wait for more bodies to drop, hoping the killer will slip up, that they’ll do something of any meaning.

JJ, Rossi and yourself appear to be the only ones willing to accept the fact that this unsub is actually managing to evade all your efforts, with probably no knowledge you’re even looking for them.

It’s 1:15 in the morning now, if the unsub is at the clubs again, you’ll have a body showing up by 7am. You’ve already tried bargaining with Hotch for the team to just get some rest and hope some evidence arises, but he won’t quit. You’re exhausted. Your back aches, there’s a dull pain behind your temples, pulling at your last resolve as you bury your head in your hands, unable to listen to Reid presenting yet another theory that this unsub is using drugs that are completely undetectable to take down their victims.

“Spencer! Stop it. There’s no sign of needle pricks, tox screens showed NO sign of any drugs remaining in the victim’s systems despite their time of death being as little as four hours prior to the bodies being found. The only thing in their systems was alcohol! That’s it.” You snap, tired of hearing him circle around the same idea for over an hour now, knowing his specialties are in physics and engineering. Not human physiology and pharmacokinetics. Because those are your background.

“Actually, the bodies have all been found at least four hours and thirty minutes later, so-” The boy genius leans forward, gesticulating with his hands, clearly preparing to lecture you in your own area of expertise and that does it. Without a word you push yourself up out of your seat, leaning over the desk to make sure he can see how little patience you have left for him constantly trying to correct you.

“Reid. Correct me based off of something you read in the textbook I wrote one more goddamn time and I will see how far that giant brain of yours really is from your skull.” You point an accusatory finger at him as in the corner of your eye, Hotch and Morgan each rise from their seats, moving towards you, clearly both at least a little intimidated by the set of your brows. You mean business.

“Woah, woah, woah. Mama. Let’s just calm dow-” Morgan grabs your wrist pointing at Reid and brings it down to your side where you tear it from his grasp.

“Would you stop calling me mama?! And do not tell me to calm down.” You try to level Derek with another glare that could burn holes in his head if you tried any harder. A hand lands on your shoulder, gentle, from behind you. Pulling you back ever so softly away from the table. You follow the direction of the hand you recognise as Hotch’s, letting him direct you out of the room, where you’re met with the alarmed faces of the local police department’s entire night crew. They all return to their work, and you’re reminded of how sternly your face is still set. You make an effort to relax your jaw as Hotch leads you into an empty office without a word, closing the door. You stand still, eyes on the ground, expecting to be yelled at as you realize how exhausted you are, every muscle in your body providing almost no resistance to the force that wants you to lay down on the linoleum floor and cry yourself to sleep.

“Are you okay?” is all Hotch can string together to ask you right now, you’re clearly very volatile and on edge. He just can’t figure out why. His mind is reeling with a thousand scenarios of you having been drugged or assaulted in some way in a nightclub just like these, and the thought makes his heart sink.

You finally look at him, noting the genuine concern and a hint of confusion behind his dark eyes. His thumb skating across his knuckles at his side seems to confirm your theory that he’s worried about you, not upset. The tenderness of his voice asking you the question is enough to make your chin wobble, your eyes welling up seemingly out of nowhere as you note that you definitely are not okay. You just don’t know why.

“I’m, I don’t know, Hotch, I’m so tired, I feel like gravity is working against me, my back hurts, my head is throbbing and my-” That’s when it hits you, your stomach has been churning for hours, a thrilling mix of starvation and nausea despite you eating the same order of food that’s sustained you a thousand times before. Oh. Oh. Your period. God. This is so embarrassing, you’ve just threatened two of your coworkers for being even more dedicated than yourself at solving this case, and you’ve completely made a fool of yourself now, crying in front of your boss like a victim of some terrible thing.

“Your..?” Hotch offers, trying to get you to finish your statement.

“I, um. I think I know what’s wrong. I just, I just need like fifteen minutes to go… wash my face and get some air. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry, Hotch.” You wipe your tears with your sleeve and try to offer him a reassuring smile, but his face is nothing short of perplexed. You’ve gone from screaming to crying to comforting him in under four minutes without any prompting at all. He decides that he’s just going to have to keep you by his side for the rest of this case, to make sure you really are just overworked, and that this isn’t something more personal.

“Alright, Y/N. I’ll head back to the briefing room, please, take your time. I think Reid’s going to want to apologize in no fewer than a thousand words. Morgan will be okay, but. Just, don’t come back until you’re ready… If you need the night off-”

“No, Hotch, really, I don’t. I just need a moment. It’s okay.” You don’t want to be that weak, someone who gets their period and is suddenly unable to help do your job, when there are people being killed, slaughtered, and you can’t find their killer because you’ve got some cramping? No.

You can see Hotch doesn’t really seem one hundred percent convinced you’re fine after your sudden outburst, but it’s late and he probably doesn’t have the energy to fight you on this. At this point, he just hopes you haven’t been freaky fridayed with some much less tolerant individual, you really weren’t acting yourself tonight.

“I’ll be right outside if you need… anything.” He gives a wave of his hand on ‘anything’, trying to really drive home the notion he’s here for you in whatever circumstances you’ve found yourself in.

“Actually, do you think you could send Emily in here for a second?” You realized your go-bag is at the hotel and you have exactly nothing to help you with the imminent bleeding. You subconsciously give Hotch the biggest, most watery puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen, and his heart melts. Of course, of course he’ll get her for you.

“Emily? No problem. I’ll grab her now.” He offers you a small smile, only sparing a moment’s thought as he walks out the door as to why you need her help, not his. He decides once again that you’re more than capable of knowing what you need. He’s offered his help, that’s all he can do.

When the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone for the first time all day, your shoulders fall. You shift from one foot to the other feeling your back yelling at you to just lay down. You hate this part. It’s the worst part of all. The anticipation, your monthly reminder of who you are forced to be, looming right in front of you. When you can feel your grasp on your emotions slip away just a little bit and those little voices in your head gain a little too much power. The thoughts of how your body doesn’t look anything close to who you feel you are. Your chest is even more prominent in your life, aching each time you move too quickly, or worse, when you put on the kevlar vest, and your already tender chest becomes a constant reminder of how people see you. As a woman. Your stomach bloats no matter what you eat, and you feel even curvier than normal, wanting nothing more than to put on your baggiest clothes and crawl into a dark bed and just sleep.

You can deal with the usual levels of dysphoria well enough, you’re known as just not being particularly effeminate. You wear looser clothes and the tiniest bit of makeup, and you feel like yourself. Each time Derek treats you like you’re not made of glass, smacking a hand into your arm like he would with a guy friend. Each time rossi invites you to taste his new whiskey with himself and Hotch, knowing you’re not as much of a wine person like Penelope and Emily. Whenever Spencer is confident and open enough to freely be himself with you, knowing how nervous and closed off he tends to get with women. In those moments, you don’t need any labels, you don’t need to feel like you’re some kind of imposter, or in the wrong body, it doesn’t matter. You’re just, you.

But every month or so, nature sends you the most blinding reminder of who you are, of what you were made for.

A knock on the door brings your head back out of the clouds, as Emily gently pushes the door open.

“Hi, Em. How’s spencer? And Derek?” you ask, cringing at how you sound like the one who just got yelled at for trying to do your job. Like you’re owed an apology.

“They’ll live. They really do need to learn to give you a bit more space. I think everyone’s tired, I can’t blame you for snapping.” You love Emily’s honesty. Knowing she’d only ever sugarcoat it for you if you really needed it. “Hotch said you needed me?”

“Yeah, god. I just had to ask if you have any tampons, a pad or anything?” You try not to sound so embarrassed. You know this is a perfectly normal biological function. It just feels like a cruel touch of fate to always drag you back to an identity that never fit you.

“Sure do. Here, I’ll get it from my bag, it’s on the way to the bathrooms.” Emily opens the door for you to walk with her back through the room the team’s set up in. You feel too many eyes following you as you enter the room. You keep your head down, trying not to have to look at any of the prying eyes or leveling stares you’d find looking back at you. Emily passes you the plastic package from her bag without a word, and you pocket it, padding down the hall to the bathrooms where you start taking deep breaths.

Looking at your face in the mirror, you can’t stand the sight. You put makeup on this morning, in some attempt to keep up a facade with the team, you were overcompensating for a tackle you’d made yesterday, you’d seen the look on Rossi’s and Morgan’s faces when you took down a runner during canvassing. Their eyebrows were raised as Morgan put his hands in the air, signaling his surrender. Rossi made some halfhearted comment in the SUV about your true calling being in the NFL.So here you are, playing a part. It’s really just some mascara and blush, but it feels like a thick mask over your face as your breathing comes more and more ragged. It’s 2am and your makeup is smudged anyway, the stray mascara making your eyes look darker and even more exhausted than you really are.

You groan, turning the water on in the sink as you start scrubbing the masquerade off of your face. If you’re already going to be hot and temperamental, you should at least be able to freely rub your eyes without worrying about your precious mascara smudging.

You finally manage to clean the black stains from your face when the cramping starts. You feel a hundred twisting knots inside of your uterus begin pulling you to curl into a ball. You put the toilet lid down, sitting down on it with a groan as you let the tears slip, bringing your shoes onto the rim so you can bury your face in your knees. The waves of pain start to come closer and closer together, each spike in your abdomen joining together until it feels like a mass of barbed wire has lodged itself inside of you.

You’re sure you’re reaching the worst of it when you start hearing whimpers escape your mouth at the stabbing sensations. You’re freely crying now, partly due to the pain and partly due to the embarrassment of this whole situation. How desperately you don’t want this to be happening, this isn’t you. This isn’t your body. This isn’t right. Your shoulders are shaking now with the momentum of your crying.

You barely have time to lift your head up when a hand against the door cautiously opens it, large strides through the small staff bathroom before a tall figure crosses the open doorway of your stall. You almost miss them, your tears clouding your vision as the figure pivots, taking a step back into the doorway.

“Y/N?” You’ve never heard Hotch’s voice so delicate, so laced with concern as the figure shrinks in front of you. You rub at your eyes, trying to clear the pooling tears so you can see him better. He’s crouched down to your eye level, his thumbs moving over his knuckles as his jaw clenches and unclenches, his eyes scanning your entire body for any signs of injury. “What’s the matter?” His hands fall around your shins where your feet rest on the lid. His thumbs begin rubbing over your legs so carefully you feel like you could just melt into his touch. Warm hands reminding you of where you are, of who you are.

“It’s s-stupid, Hotch.” You sputter out, a cry tearing through you as your eyes squeeze shut, another wave of pain in your stomach clawing at your insides.

“I don’t care if this is because a tellytubby died, it isn’t stupid to me if it upsets you.” The genuine care in his voice, the pools of concern in his eyes drawing you in, you don’t know what did it, but the next thing you know you’re pulling him up by his shoulders towards you.

Your boss finds himself kneeling either side of a toilet, in a unisex police station bathroom. A puddle of unknown origin soaking into the knees off his $300 slacks, his arms wrapping around you while your hands find purchase on his dress shirt and you bury your forehead in the crook of his neck. He’s shocked to find that he couldn’t care less about the surroundings, his hand finding the back of your head to hold you close to his aching heart. He’s desperate to know what’s happened to you, but he will kneel here until his knees lock if it means you’ll tell him when you’re comfortable. If it means you’ll stop crying. He feels a part of him physically ache every time a cry escapes your lips.

“It’s gonna be okay, Y/N. You have my help, through whatever this is.” You tug at his shirt harder, a shaky breath escaping you as his hand rubbing up and down your back soothes your mind. You don’t know why Hotch has such a comforting effect on you, but his presence has always been so calming to you. Even now, you’re hysterically crying in a bathroom and he’s the only thing able to draw you out of your own mind, making you able to see past the pain.

Your breaths start to come easier with each swipe of his hand up and down your spine. You let go of his shirt, smoothing it with your palms and he pulls back to look at you, finally seeing the pink paper package rustling in your hand. Oh. The penny finally drops, and he can understand why you were so volatile earlier. What he doesn’t yet understand is what’s changed, why are you so upset now? He resigns to the fact that he really can’t judge how you’re feeling, having never felt it himself. He refuses to draw a line in the sand as to what kind of response is appropriate for the level of pain you’re in. His hand keeps rubbing at your back, even as you sniffle and he pats at his breast pocket, finding there’s no handkerchief there because he discarded his jacket hours ago. He instead uses his free hand to tear off some toilet paper from the dispenser, offering it to you as a tissue.

You take it rather bashfully, wiping at your eyes and nose as you look down at the floor. This situation is so embarrassing, and the waves of pain are still making you well up.

“Hotch?” You keep your eyes glued to your shoes, almost digging into the flesh of his stomach where he still leans in close to you, right where you had held him.

“Yes.” He doesn’t skip a beat before responding.

“D-do you think you could take me back to the hotel?” Your chin wobbles as you feel just ridiculous asking, but another bolt of pain through your insides reminds you why you had to.

“Of course. I’ll just go pack up my things, did you just have your coat and your satchel with you today?” You nod, unable to respond. “Okay, I’ll be back in five minutes, just, hang tight.” He untangles himself from you, letting out a tiny groan as he stands up, straightening his soaked knees under him and closing the stall door for you this time, striding out of the bathroom.

You make quick work of putting the pad in your underwear, wincing through the pain of standing up and maneuvering your pants off and back on, but once you’re seated back on the closed lid of the toilet, you can breathe easier, still teary eyed from the pain but hopeful that you’ll soon be able to get some rest. Hopefully the exhaustion you can feel sinking into your bones will outweigh the pain and allow you some rest. You’ll have to buy more pads, though, the one won’t last you long. You know how heavy the flow is on the first few days, you’ll need more supplies to even make it through the night.

God, and now your male boss is driving you home. You’re going to have to ask him to let you out at a convenience store so you can grab some. Hopefully he doesn’t ask too many unnecessary questions, you guess that’s one reason Hotch will be the perfect companion for this. He won’t try to talk just to fill the stretches of silence, badgering you with questions about work or about the nitty gritty details of your apparent breakdown. You cannot even imagine having to have this conversation with Spencer or Derek, even Penelope tonight. As much as you love them all, they would either ask a hundred senseless questions, or try to make some jokes about periods to lift your mood. This isn’t really something you want to be reminded of.

Not that that’s their fault, it’s really yours for not telling them the truth about what you’ve been feeling for a long time. You’ve been sure of who you are for a while now, and you just haven’t been able to find the words to spit it out. You’re sure it’s been less than a perfect secret, after all, a team of highly skilled behavioral analysts from a range of backgrounds and training styles ought to be able to piece it together, even a little, right?

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when the external door opens with a creak, a light knock on the bathroom stall as you see a familiar pair of oxfords plant themselves on the opposite side of the stall. You pull the door open, standing with a wince, trying to stand as humanly as possible, but you can’t quite straighten your back without tearing up again. You actually see the moment Hotch’s expression falls, any morsel of hope he had that you’d no longer be in pain melting away before his eyes as he places an arm across your shoulders, helping you walk beside him slowly back into the precinct. You once again expect to face your entire team but your brows draw together seeing that they’ve vanished already.

“They were pretty excited to get a few hours sleep when I said we’re calling it a night. I think they’ll be very grateful to you for changing my mind.” You turn to look at him as he speaks, only now taking notice of how close your face is to his own. From this distance, your tearful eyes are able to see the hint of hazel in his as they search your face.

“I’m glad this is helping someone, I guess.” You say, still regretting the fact that you’re slowing down the investigation of a serial killer over a little cramping. But as you two start slowly walking out of the precinct, ignoring the sideways glances from all the deputies on the night shift, you’re hit with more waves of sharp, twisting pain and you let it go.

Hotch’s hands keep reaching out to catch you as you insist on heaving yourself into the SUV alone. You try to ignore the hot feeling that spreads over your skin each time his hands move to guide you. He closes the door, careful to make sure your legs are safely tucked inside the car before rounding the hood to the driver’s seat.

Aaron wastes no time getting the car in motion towards the hotel, eyes on the road only flicking to you each time you shift in your seat or let out a quief huff of air as the pain simmers in your stomach.

“Hotch?” You hate how small your voice sounds tonight. Hotch feels it slicing right through his sternum each time your voice cracks with the pain.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could just make a stop at a gas station or convenience store? Just anything that’s on the way.” Hotch throws the blinker on immediately, preparing to turn left. With your head down you hadn’t seen the glowing sign of the 24 hour service station you were about to pass right by.

“Of course.” The car is in park in no time, Hotch leaving the keys in the ignition as he undoes his seatbelt. “What can I get for you?” He asks, grabbing his phone and his wallet.

“No. Oh, no, I can go in. It’s fine.” “Y/N, I found you sobbing in a filthy police station bathroom less than an hour ago. I don’t really fancy sending you into a seven eleven at 2:30 in the morning alone just to see what’ll happen. So either we both go, or you can sit here in the nice cool air conditioning and relax, and I’ll get you what you need.” You sigh, realizing you do feel much less like crying now you’re cooled down, out of the sticky, humid air.

“I need some tampons and ibuprofen, please.” You avert your eyes, trying to ignore the creeping feeling that you’d very much like to crawl into a hole and wither away rather than to ask your very kindhearted boss to go buy your period supplies.

“Perfect. I won’t be a moment. Lock the doors if anyone comes within thirty feet of you.” He slides out of his seat and strides into the service station.

His senses are greeted with the ice cold, dry air, and the faint smell of hotdogs as he grabs a basket, making his way to the back corner of the store where the freezers are. He grabs a pint of cookie dough ice cream, and some mint choc chip. He’s seen you accept the offering of both of those at Derek’s game nights before. He grabs a bottle of blue electrolyte water, having quite honestly no clue how that’ll help your period symptoms, but at least you’ll stay well hydrated. Especially if you keep crying, god, he can’t stand the dragging feeling of his chest thinking about how much pain you’re in to cry that much.

He throws in a bag of chips here and some m&ms there as he makes his way to the health products. He finds some fast-acting ibuprofen and chooses that without a moment’s thought for the price. He’d give anything to make you feel better faster right about now. He stops in front of the sanitary products, and he looks for the tampons.

His eyes are reading a million miles a minute as he mutters to himself “Light, ultra light, regular, overnight, sport, active, everyday, heavy, ultra max… shit.” Why would there be different tampons for night time?? Is field work considered ‘sport’? It’s definitely active, but how different can that be to everyday? His mind casts back to Haley asking him to pick up the orange pearl ones. Okay, orange is regular. But what if your periods aren’t regular? Is it regular to be so bad you’re crying in a police station bathroom? You can’t even stand up straight, that definitely doesn’t seem regular. But there’s still ‘everyday’ and ‘overnight’? Don’t the two of those alone cover all times of day? Why are there times, weights and activities? This can’t be a build-your-own type situation… right?

His hand drops to the outside of his pants pocket, feeling the weight of his phone there as he looks out the window to the SUV. You look like you might be asleep. Oh god. He can’t wake you if you’re finally feeling calm enough to sleep. Or, no. Maybe you’re crying. It’s hard to see, but either way he doesn’t want to disturb you further by prodding you with questions. The overnight employee is stocking the shelves with baby powder behind him, but he doubts the surly man with a braided beard is going to be of much help here. Crap. He’s taking too long. All you want is to go to sleep and he’s agonizing over sticks of cotton that frankly all look the same to him, but he’s sure it’d be a world of hurt if he handed you some ultralight tampons and you’re more of an ultramax type girl. Aaron. Just choose. Just make a choice. Come on.

He stares at the boxes before him a moment longer before reaching out a hand to drag it across the shelf, dropping an ultralight, regular, heavy, ultramax, sport and overnight into the basket. He sends his curses to the all-boys boarding school he was in throughout most of puberty, having missed many a talk on the monthly goings-on of someone with a uterus. He feels stupid, really, at how quickly his IQ was slashed to a single digit when he was given such a simple task. He’s a father, after all. He’s witnessed every stage of the human life cycle. He knows how reproduction works, he just didn’t anticipate that there are more categories of menstrual bleeding than there are of hurricanes.

He drops a few extra chocolate bars into the bag at the register, ignoring the strange look from the cashier as they scan his six boxes of tampons with a laugh, noticing he has just about every period supply under the sun.

“Y’know, you’re a stronger man than me, I always just avoid my lady that time of the month. They call it shark week for a reason, champ.” He mutters, manually entering the code on one of the ice cream tubs that wouldn’t scan. Hotch feels his face shift into what you call his ‘cyclops glare’, telling him he reminds you of the x-men character that can turn men to sludge with just one withering look. He makes no attempt to hide his sour face when the cashier looks up at him, giving him his total. Aaron pays and collects his bags in his hands before turning to leave with one last look in the man’s direction.

“Funny. Sharks rather like eating invertebrates.” He barks over his shoulder towards the counter.

“Invertey-what?” Hotch smiles as he walks towards the door.

“Invertebrates. Spineless creatures.” He says, watching the glass doors part as he strides towards the car.

Your head lifts from the cool glass window at the sound of the car door closing, Hotch rifling through three grocery bags in his lap. He finds the gatorade, ibuprofen and a kitkat bar, handing you the items before dropping the rest onto the floor behind his seat.

You try to bite down another bout of tears at the sweetness of the action, gulping down some ibuprofen with the cool liquid soothing your throat, chilling you from the inside out. You wear a shy smile as you unwrap the chocolate bar, offering Hotch a row for his troubles.

“No, thank you.” He waves a hand for his troubles but you refuse to take the piece back, holding it out to him until he relents, taking it from your hand gently. You smile wide as you both share the chocolate bar on the short ride back to the hotel.

Once you two arrive, he insists on carrying all the bags for you, and now that you’re feeling even the tiniest bit more human and less like a pincushion, you feel the exhaustion radiating through you. The magnetic pull of the concrete ground on all your bones is almost irresistible at this point, but you know if you walk just a little further to your room, you can collapse in a soft, cushioned, non-concrete bed. With your head lulling towards the ground, Hotch walking just a step in front of you, your eyes land on the bags in his hands. You notice one bag is about to tear a hole, overstuffed with the four, five, SIX boxes inside all trying to poke through. Another bag looks rather colorful, chips, chocolates and your favorite drink inside. The third bag is covered in condensation. It’s clear Hotch has gone very far overboard on your supply requests, or, he’s a diabetic at risk of a blood sugar crash.

“Hotch, did you need some groceries back there?” You ask innocently, hoping he hasn’t blown $70 of his hard earned money on trying to get you to stop crying.

“Um, no. I. Well, I uh, didn’t really know what you might need at the hotel so I just got some of everything. I’m sure Prentiss and Morgan would help you finish off anything you don’t eat.” He’s stopped dead in his tracks, looking rather embarrassed as you rush to assure him he did nothing wrong.

“Thank you, Hotchner. I’m actually kind of dying to pig out and have a picnic on my hotel bed tonight. But, you’ll have to let me repay you for it all. Please.” You try this time to muster up all of the tears you have left, pouting to make your eyes look all puppy-like, hoping he’ll cave and let you get away with anything.

“I can allow no such thing. I feel bad. As your boss I should’ve known that working a nineteen hour day is just unreasonable. I feel kind of like it might be a human rights violation to deny a menstruating woman her sleep.” He tries for a self-deprecating joke, but the last four words hit you like a punch in the gut. He must see your mouth fall into a hard line because he steps closer to you. “Hey, are you okay?” His hand reaches out towards your arm, holding both of your briefcases in mid air, just hovering there in case you need him. Instinct.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just. Well if you aren’t going to let me pay you back, would you at least join me for the picnic in bed?” A breath of relief leaves him as he starts to smile at you.

“Sure. I’d Love to.” Damnit. He instantly regrets throwing the L word at you, you’re his employee, he is being nothing short of unprofessional right now. But he just can’t help but want to reassure you when you’re like this. He’s never seen you cry until today, and he has seen you take a four inch blade to the shoulder before in the field. You’re one seriously tough cookie, which is why he’s so worried having seen you break down earlier.

You both start walking again, you take your room key from your satchel as Hotch holds it out for you. Entering the room, you’re suddenly ashamed to see you left yesterday’s clothes scattered at the foot of the bed. You shuffle in to scoop them up, shoving them into your go-bag as Hotch unloads the ice cream into the minibar. The pain in your abdomen making itself very known as you stand back up and move to pull some clean sweatpants out of your bag, before slipping into the bathroom to change out of your work pants.

“Just one second.”, a nod from Hotch and you close the door. Flicking on the light and fan in the bathroom, you turn to the vanity. Your glazed, bloodshot eyes stare back at you. You can’t help but notice how miserable the stranger in the mirror looks. You try to divert your attention away from the features you most dislike as you slide off your work pants, not wasting a second before pulling the sweatpants up your legs, tugging harder as they stretch to accommodate your thighs and hips. You try to bite down the resentment for how tightly they hug your curves, every inch of flesh there is a reminder of who you are. Of who you’re sick of pretending to be. You drop your face into your hands, willing yourself not to be caught crying in yet another bathroom by your boss.

You flick the light off, opening the door to greet Aaron who’s sitting on the bed. A tray from the kitchenette now filled with bags of all your favorite snacks, and a small mountain of tampon boxes stacked next to your go-bag on the chair in the corner. You see his face fall from relaxed into profiler mode in the blink of an eye.

“What’s wrong?” He sits up straighter, making sure there’s room for you to come fall onto the other side of the bed. You oblige, tumbling onto the mattress with a sigh as you move the pillows to support your already aching back.

“I, just cramps.” you stare at your hands a moment while Hotch cracks open the bag of m&m’s, offering you first pick.

“Y/N, you do realize I taught you how to profile, right? How to read people?” You nod your head, eyes now focused on the colorful beads of chocolate in your palm. “Then you must know I can tell when you’re lying. I can tell when one moment you’re completely fine and the next it’s like you’re forty feet from your own body. Now, I won’t even pretend to know why that is, or what it is that you go thinking about, which forces you into the darkest recess of your own mind. But, I do know that whatever it is, I have your back. If you’re in danger or if it’s stress, anxiety from our work. Whatever it is, I have you…” A flash of worry crosses his intentionally softened features as you meet his stare, his hand freezing in mid air where it was reaching between the two of you. “I mean to say the whole team does. Of course” Hotch says, redirecting his hand into the bag of candies, rattling them in his palm, turning them over with his thumb while he struggles to bring his eyes back to you.

He finds you staring back at him with such a troubling intensity that he thinks you might have something seriously incriminating to ask of him. Then your chin wobbles once more, you close your eyes tight. Taking a deep breath in and out. You steel yourself. Hotch has only seen this look on your face before when you’re about to face an unsub. It’s your armor. It’s the kind of look that will conceal almost any wars waging behind your eyes. He knows it well because he uses it himself. He silently prays you aren’t about to begin an interrogation.

“I feel. Different. To the way people see me. To the way they always have, I guess… I don’t feel like my labels or my clothes or my… pronouns, fit me. I don’t really know if the bureau allows, changes, like that, to be made. But. I don’t think my identity fits me very well. At all. I’m not a woman, Hotch. I don’t feel like a man, either. I think I sort of fall someplace in the middle there, in the grey area. I um… I hope that doesn’t, like, compromise how you see-” A larger pair of hands flies across the space between you on the bed, both encompassing your shaking one. His warmth causes your cold hand to clam up as he carefully relaxes his face, offering you a loose smile.

“That doesn’t compromise any single thing I have ever known about you. You’re still my bravest agent, maybe even more so now.” He squeezes your hand tighter, making sure you can feel his genuine joy radiating through him. “I am so, so happy that I’m someone you’re comfortable to talk about this with. Now. I just want to check I’m grasping this correctly before I go make any incorrect assumptions and, well, you know what they say about when you assume things. So, you feel you best align with ‘they/them’ pronouns? Or they/he? they/she? he/she? I mean you, you don’t have to feel exactly the same way every day of your life, so I could totally arrange a sort of system if you have some more feminine or more masculine days?” Your eyes flood with tears as Hotch talks about making arrangements to accommodate you at work, and you can’t stop them from falling as you try to find the words to answer him.

“Did I say something wrong?” He shifts closer, worry rising like bile in his throat that he might have misunderstood what you were saying.

“No. Not at all! You, you’re just being so sweet to me and I was really ready for like, an argument or I don’t know, maybe more a patient debate because I know you understand these things but I just thought you wouldn’t want to change things at work, or-” “Y/N. I will go and call every Section Chief in all fifty states tomorrow morning if you want me to adjust our M and F tickboxes on every piece of bureau paperwork to a, to fill in the blank or a slider for goodness’ sake. I want you to feel as comfortable as I’m able to accommodate.”

“The tickboxes are okay, they’re just for medical stuff, anyways. And they//them, to answer your last question.” You wipe your eye with the sleeve of your free hand. “I’m not sure I want you to go petitioning the whole FBI just yet. Maybe just the BAU is fine, for now. I at least know all of you are respecting of other identities.” You sniffle as Hotch smiles widely again.

“Well, we can do that. Start small, take on the world later, right?”

“Right” you giggle. Feeling a whole lot better about this whole ordeal. A moment of silence passes as you both just take in what’s just happened. You reel at how well Hotch took the news, how he still looks at you with the same twinkle of amazement in his eye. He still thinks you’re his bravest agent. Although, you’re not sure how the man who stared down the barrel of a gun, took 16 stab wounds to the chest fully conscious, and took down countless unsubs with his bare hands or even a piece of string is saying you’re brave, and he sounds like he really believes it.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp stabbing pain through your insides, that tuft of barbed wire twisting inside of you. A corner of your mind sees the irony of you thinking of Hotch’s real stab wounds and then feeling some of your own, but you push that down. You curl over, trying to assume the fetal position against the stack of pillows behind you as Hotch sits up, moving the tray of snacks out of the way and giving you a pitiful look.

“Ice cream?” He offers, you feel bad he’s so helpless, you know how he hates feeling that way in situations.

“I’d normally use my heat pad but I didn’t bring it.” You wince, feeling the mattress shift around you. You open your eyes as your boss peels the duvet and sheets back, opening the bed to you.

“Slide in. Under the blankets. In the middle, there.” You move yourself slowly, trying not to further twist your stomach. “I want to try something, okay? Do you trust me?” He pushes the blankets over you where you sit stranded, an island in the large bed.

“Of course.” You don’t hesitate, knowing you’d trust Hotch with your life in any situation. He begins climbing into the bed behind you, pulling you back onto his torso where his legs part around your own. You feel his heat encompassing you underneath the blankets, forcing out the cold, dry air conditioning of the room. Your back flush against his front as your head lays perfectly on his chest, and he rubs his hands together tightly in the air in front of you both, the friction between them audible where it sizzles your ears.

“I run really hot so, you tell me if this does anything to help the pain, okay?” He races his hands under the blankets, wrapping his arms around your middle, interlocking his fingers of both hands over your front as you feel the near-steam rising off of him all around you. Much to your surprise, his hands really do feel a little like your heating pad from home as they rest over you gently. A moment passes as his warmth wrapping around your body like silk and the dull thrum of his heartbeat behind your head begin to lull you towards sleep. The only sound in the room is the metallic whirring of the minibar in the corner, and Hotch’s tentative breathing, trying not to rock your head where it lays cradled in his chest.

You begin to drift off, the exhaustion of a nineteen hour work day, the stress on your body from shedding your insides in as a violent bout of cramping and nausea and emotion. You couldn’t even begin to chart the journey you’ve taken across the entire wheel of human emotions in the last three hours alone. It has been such a long day, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it even one bit as your hands come up to wrap around the strong forearm framing your body, and sleep overtakes you.

Hotch lies awake almost an hour longer, his mind reeling with the events of today. He thinks it over and the penny drops in his mind as to why you despise your period so much. Aside from the associated side-effects, he understands why you didn’t just run to Emily or JJ today. Why you refrained from seeking comfort from other women, as a woman. You aren’t one. He can’t imagine getting a scheduled monthly reminder that you’re living in a body different from the one you belong in. Let alone with the added bloodshed and havoc on your emotions, all other bodily functions giving way to the one thing you wish you could live without. He wonders how long you’ve wanted to tell him this about yourself, how many times he’s seen you retreating into your mind, could he have pulled you out sooner? Showed you that there’s safety in the light, with him? In any case, he swears he can feel specks of glitter appearing all over his skin with how ecstatic he feels that you were able to tell him. That you trust him. That he’s the one person you allowed to hold you at your lowest and to support you through the hardest thing he can imagine an agent like yourself having to go through. Subjecting yourself to the scrutiny of your boss, of your peers, is so difficult. He’s never been good at it. But you wear your heart on your sleeve. You are able to be so vulnerable, so honest and so ready for whatever comes your way.

When sleep finally does find Aaron Hotchner that night, he really does believe you are the most admirable agent he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. Of course, it’s normal for this admiration to taste sweet in his mouth, like honey. It’s normal for this admiration to feel as if it’s warming him from the inside out. It’s normal for this admiration to make his heart skip a beat whenever he looks down and finds this admiration wrapped tightly around his arm, their short breaths fanning over his bicep as his eyes flutter closed. Right?

Taglist: @ssaaaronmontgomery , @pastanoodles11 , @ssamorganhotchner , @hotchnerbau , @hotchs-babygirl, @ssa-tahlia-obsessions , @p0ssywhippedcream , @14buddy22 , @elenamoncada-ibarra , @supercriminalbean , @ssaspenceswife , @levithestripper , @wearenumberonebutitsaurl , @hotchs-big-hands

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underoossss · 2 years

Text

I’m here – s.h

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

summary: when you have an accident, steve comes to the rescue, bathing you in comfort and soothing your worries without a second thought. in other words good old hurt/comfort goodness.

warnings: mention of injury though nothing is descriptive. maybe the cheesy title needed a warning too.

an: im on my knees begging that this shows up in the tags, i’ve tried everything. Anyways, im back after my writers blog to deliver softness and cute fics again. Enjoy! and let me know if you like this, reblogs are always helpful🥺

Masterlist

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Sock-clad feet glide on the hardwood floor of the hallway as the Saturday sunlight streams through the windows. You turn up the volume of your radio, dancing and bobbing your head to your Duran Duran cassette. It is a universal truth that listening to music while you do chores will not only make you productive, but it will make the tasks more bearable. So Girls on Film floods the first floor of the house as you take the newly dry clothes to the kitchen to fold later. You sing along to the lyrics while you do the dishes and proceed to make something to eat. There are fresh groceries in the fridge, which you got yesterday, and you take out everything you need to make a club sandwich.

You’re so distracted while preparing and eating your food, that you don’t realize time has escaped you suddenly. The clock says its 1:15pm, and you promised Max you’d go skateboarding with her that afternoon –she’s supposed to be here in 30 minutes and you’re still not ready. “Shit.” You say, chewing the rest of your sandwich as fast as you can.

You rush through everything after that: shoving things back in the fridge, leaving your dish to wash later, and running upstairs with armfuls of unfolded clothes to throw on your parents’ bed to be folded later. They’re away for the next five days, so they won’t mind –if you remember to fold them before they get back. You spot your favorite tank top, a lovely deep green one, in the middle of the pile and grab it before you go to your bedroom. Some light washed jeans, the tank top, new socks, and converse and you’re ready to go.

A second later, the doorbell rings, announcing Max’s arrival. “Coming!” You yell over the music, which you then turn off.

Max stands on your porch, her skateboard under her arm. She has her hair braided into two pigtails and her freckles are standing out more than ever with the fierce sunlight outside. “Hey.” She says, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, I just need my skateboard.” You tell her, then go back inside to search the living room’s closet for it. “Aha! Now I’m ready.”

Locking the front door behind you, the two of you skate down the road to the old Hawkins skate park. It is near your house –roughly five blocks– and because Max says the new one is always crowded, the two of you have made it a habit to use the old one instead. It’s not old perse, it just not as fancy as the new one.

“I learned this new trick I have to show you.” Max says proudly, a grin lighting up her features.

“A new trick? Where?” You ask her, pushing at the ground with your foot to gain more speed.

“I saw some boys do it the other day, and I think I got it down now.” She explains, glancing at you for a second before chuckling. “I think I can do it even better than them.”

“Oh, I bet.” You smile, “I need to learn it then, so we can outskate them.”

Sure enough Max starts to teach you the new trick immediately after you reach the skate park. She mentions it might be called a heelflip but she’s unsure, the boys she copied from were far enough that she couldn’t catch everything they said.

“Basically,” Max says. “You jump and use your right foot to flip the board, and land on it once it turns back around.”

The redhead demonstrates, failing at the first try but getting it right by the second. You watch her do the trick five more times, trying to memorize the way she moves her feet before and after she jumps. Once you’re sure you understand what you have to do, you begin to practice, which leads you to one, two, three, and several other failed attempts.

With your frustration beginning to increase, you huff and nod to yourself in determination. “This time for sure.” You tell no one in particular.

You push the ground with your foot and skate a few feet before you try to flip the board again, only to make a terrible mistake immediately after. Just as you think you managed to successfully flip and land on your skateboard, your left foot lands too close to the rear-edge of the board and you fall backwards. The weight of your body falls on your left arm, and thankfully not your head, but an intense pain overwhelms you for a second, making your ears ring. The ache doesn’t pass and instead stays in your arm, and you lie on the ground, your left side touching the hot cement. You try to move it, so you can sit up, but you find that you can’t; it only makes more pain shoot up from your arm to the rest of your body.

“Fuck!” You curse out from gritted teeth, your face contorted in pain as you roll to your back and sit up. You clutch your left arm close to your body as best as you can without injuring it more. “Fuck, shit, ouch, dammit.”

Max rushes to your side in a second, kneeling in front of you to see what happened. “What happened?” Her blue eyes are wide with worry as she sees you hold your arm and squeeze your eyes shut. “Your arm?”

“I think I broke it, Max. I can’t move it.” You say, taking deep breaths and looking into her eyes. The distress in her own is obvious, so you swallow back the pain and say in a calm voice. “We have to go back home.”

Max nods but still glances worriedly at your arm, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

You whimper in pain and nod even though the very thought of going to the hospital makes you nauseous. You hate hospitals, you’re terrified of doctors and any sort of procedure. “I know. Just help me stand up, we need to call Steve.”

The redhead holds the back of your right elbow gently and wraps her arm around your waist to hoist you up. You exhale shakily as another shock of pain shoots up your arm while Max grabs both of your skateboards –she holds one under each arm and walks next to you. The walk to the house is silent, with you focusing on everything else around you besides the pain, and Max burning a hole in your skin as she looks at you.

“I’m so sorry, this is my fault.” She says.

“Max, it’s not your fault. No one could have known that I would fall, I didn’t think I’d fall.” You shake your head instantly, then look at her worried face. “Please, don’t beat yourself up about this.”

She nods silently, worrying at her bottom lip nervously. “We’re almost back.”

You look up ahead and notice she’s right. Your house can be seen in the distance, and it makes relief wash over your features. Shade, water, and a phone to call your boyfriend. They’re all so close but the last feet to reach the house feel like insurmountable task. It’s like each step breaks your arm again and again; by the time you give Max your keys and step through the front door, your forehead is covered in sweat and tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

“Call Steve, I’ll get you some water.” Max tells you, leaving the skateboards out of the way and disappearing into the kitchen.

You walk to the yellow phone that’s propped in the hallway’s wall –an inconvenience every day but you can’t bring yourself to complain now– and dial the number you memorized two years ago, picking up the headset with your right hand. Your body aches, and you feel exhaustion creep up on you as the phone rings.

Steve picks up the phone on the third ring, his voice a soothing sound to your ears. “Hello?”

“Hey Stevie.” You say into the headset; your face is a grimace, but your voice is light as air. “How are you, baby?”

“Missing you,” Steve grumbles on the other line. “And jealous that Mayfield has a whole day with you. Wait, aren’t you supposed to be skating?”

“Yeah….” You chuckle but the movement makes you flinch and whimper. “About that.”

Max, who returned with the glass of water, sighs exasperated. She fights you momentarily for the headset, with an unfair advantage of not being in pain, and uses it to deliver the news to Steve. “Yeah, she broke her arm.”

You imagine Steve is asking What?! In a tone of disbelief and worry.

“Y/N broke her arm, we’re at her house and need to get to the hospital.” She says, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head at you when you frown at her bluntness. It seems like the initial shock from your injury has worn off, and now she has a resolute look in her face. “You have to come pick us up.”

“Tell him not to speed. If he does, I’m walking to the hospital. We don’t need another accident.” You tell her even as another wave of pain washes over you. You didn’t want to get Steve so worried he’ll go over the speeding limit, but with the way Max dumped the news on him… he’s more than likely to.

You hear Max tell him this and nod her head and whatever Steve says on the other line before she passes the headset back to you. “He’s coming.” She tells you as you press the headset into your ear.

“Baby.” Steve says, so softly and comforting to your ears that you fight back tears. Your eyes squeeze shut to keep from crying; the next breath you take is shaky.

“I need you.” You mumble, taking another deep breath to keep your voice steady. “Drive safely.”

“I’ll be there in 10. Hang on, okay?” You can hear Steve’s keys jingle on the other end of the line, and you nod. You know he can’t see you but who cares.

“Okay.”

You hang up a second later and accept the glass of water Max hands you. “Thank you.” You tell her, leaning your head against the wall.

Max nods as her eyes scan your face and her eyebrows meet in the middle. “You’ll be okay soon, let’s go wait on the porch.”

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Steve gets there in 8 minutes, leaves the car on, and rushes to the front door where you and Max wait already. He frowns when he sees you clutch your arm and notices that it’s beginning to bruise. Steve wipes the light sheen of sweat that covers your forehead once he’s in front of you and cradles your cheeks softly in his hands. “Hey, babygirl.”

You exhale shakily when he presses his forehead against yours. His presence is a comfort, his words even more so. “Let’s get you fixed up, okay? You’ll be better in no time.”

“Stevie, I’m scared. I hate hospitals.” You confess to him in a whisper as a rogue tear escapes you. Though you don’t know if it’s from pain, fear, or relief of seeing him. “I don’t want to go.”

“You’re in pain, you have to go. I know it scares you but you got us, okay?.” Steve motions over his shoulder to his car. “Let’s get in the car, beautiful.”

He places a soft kiss to your temple when you nod, before leading you towards his car –left hand on the low of your back. Max opens the door for you, and you slide in while Steve shuts the door close and runs over the drivers’ side. You press the side of your head to the window, the cold glass soothing as you close your eyes.

“Pass me the Flock of Seagulls cassette; they’re all in the pocket in front of you.” Steve asks Max as he pulls away from the driveway. “The colourful one.”

“Yeah, I know which one.” Max says, you can hear the eyeroll in her tone –it makes you smile briefly.

Steve fiddles with the cassette before inserting it into the car’s player. A few seconds later, the first chords of I Ran begin to play, filling the car with music. “There you go, baby.” Steve says, putting his right hand on your thigh and rubbing your skin softly with his thumb. “You love their songs.”

You move to look at him— he’s got that worried pinch between his brows despite the smile he’s giving you. The sun makes his hair turn a honey colour, and his white t-shirt turns a shade of yellow as sunlight reflects off the dashboard and onto him. You’re in so much pain you can’t even appreciate how well this outfit look on him. He’s so handsome, he’s also trying very hard to keep it together for you, and you love him so much.

“I do.” You mumble, smiling softly at him. “Thank you, Stevie.”

Minutes later you’re being led to the emergency room by Steve and Max, where nurses take over despite their protests. You can’t help but feel anxious, and in more pain, as you’re pulled away from them. Your heartbeat picks up every time the nurse touches you, and your eyes tear up when she checks your arm –her touch is careful but your arm hurts so much that it feels like she’s pressing hard on your skin. She takes your vital signs and tells you to sit down in a bed until the doctor arrives.

You nod and try to swallow but your throat keeps tightening. “Can my boyfriend come keep me company, please?” Your voice sounds breathless as you speak. “I’m feeling very anxious and he’s the one who always knows what to do.”

Maybe it’s the tone in which you speak, or your anxiousness written too plainly on your face, but the nurse nods silently and leaves. You hear hurried footsteps immediately after. Steve’s hair is a mess as he steps through the door, and you’re so glad to see him you slouch where you sit. Though the movement makes you knock your elbow with your thigh, and you wince in pain.

“Careful, baby.” Steve tells you quietly, approaching you and holding your free hand. “I’m here, the nurse said you asked for me.”

“Stevie,” You shake your head. “I got anxious and lonely. I–I needed you.”

“And I’m here.” Steve reassures you, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m staying right here, okay?”

“Thank you.” You nod weakly, looking into the lovely brown color of his eyes as he kisses your knuckles repeatedly. “The nurse said a doctor is coming soon.”

As if summoned by your words, the doctor arrives and crosses the threshold of the room to stand by your bed. He’s a short man with black rimmed glasses, greying buzz-cut hair, and deep frown lines on his forehead. The tag on his white coat says doctor Dennison, and he introduces himself by the same name a second later.

“I’ve just talked to the nurse. From what she tells me, we need to take an x-ray of your arm.” He says, talking your injured arm gently in his hands and examining it by touch. “You can’t move it?”

“No, it hurts too much if I try.” You say as you wince when he touches the muscle below your elbow. Your fingers squeeze Steve’s hand tightly; you worry whether you’re hurting him.

“Looks like the fracture is here.” He says, touching the place with two careful fingers. “The x-ray will tell us if we’ll need to operate or not.”

You squeeze Steve’s hand in fear this time, and he squeezes right back in reassurance. “Surgery?” Steve asks the doctor, frowning down at your arm. He knows your fear of doctors and knows needing surgery would send you into a nervous frenzy.

“It looks like only one of the forearm bones is broken but I need to see just how much. If the fracture is at two places, we need to stabilize them with surgery, so they heal correctly.” The doctor tells you and Steve. “The good thing is, your arm hasn’t swelled much, so if you don’t need surgery, we can put your arm in a cast today.”

You nod your head, though you feel numb and more anxious than ever; surgery had never crossed your mind. Why did you have to break your arm.

“I’ll have the nurse prep the x-ray room.” The doctor says before he leaves.

“Thank you, doctor.” Steve tells him, then turns back to you. “I’m sure you won’t need surgery baby.”

“What if I do, Stevie.” You whisper, feeling fear try to take you into its clutches. “I’ve never had surgery before… it scares me.”

Steve lets go of your hand for a moment to slide a chair over to your bed, where he sits and offers his hand again. “If you do, you’ll be more than okay, babygirl.”

“How can you be sure?” You ask him as you look into his eyes though tears are threatening to fall down your cheeks and it makes him look blurry.

Your boyfriend kisses you hand again, his lips soft on your skin as he pecks it repeatedly. “Because you’re strong, Y/N. I know this is scary, but I also know you’ve been very brave despite of your fear before.”

Your eyes squeeze shut at his words, and you nod trying to summon that bravery he claims you have. You both survived the upside down, surely that’s scarier than this. “I’ll be okay.” You say more to yourself than to Steve.

“You will.” He reaches up and wipes your tears away with a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right here, and I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?”

You nod again and just then the nurse is back to take you to the x-ray room so you can find out how serious your injury is.

“Go tell Max I’m okay.” You tell Steve before you leave the room. “I’m sure she’s worried.”

Steve nods, and the soft look in his eyes reassures your frantic heart that things will be okay.

✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶

It turns out, that your injury won’t require surgery, like Steve had reassured you.

There’s a nurse putting pain medication into an IV that’s attached to your right arm, while Doctor Dennison looks over your x-ray.

“You’ve got one clean fracture right here.” The doctor points at the broken bone below your elbow. “So once the medication kicks in, I’m going to set it and we’ll place a cast on your arm.”

You nod in understanding and look away from the x-ray, looking at the fracture makes a shiver go down your spine. “Will I get to go home today?” You ask.

The doctor smiles, “Of course. Once you get the cast, we’ll immobilize your arm with a sling and you’re ready to go.”

“Thank God.” Steve says, rubbing his face with his hands –the first time since you talked to him earlier that he’s shown worry. All the tension in his body leaves him at once when he smiles at you. “Told you.”

Now in less pain than before, and calmer, you smile back at him. He’s reassured you all afternoon, it’s your turn. “I know.”

Though the process is painless and simple, you cling to Steve’s hand when the doctor makes sure your bone is in the right place and proceeds to put the cast on your arm. It goes from your wrist to just above your elbow, immobilizing your left for the next 8 weeks. You smile down at it once you’re given the all-clear by the nurse, knowing the kids, Robin, and Eddie will doodle all over it once they find out what happened. Then, there’s paperwork to sign and pain medication to get for the next five days as prescribed by the doctor –which Steve insists on getting (and you insist on paying back, to no avail). But soon enough you’re reuniting with Max in the waiting room, Steve’s left hand on the small of your back and his right holding a white plastic bag.

“All done.” You tell Max with a reassuring smile. “Sorry for making you wait so long.”

The redhead glances out the automatic doors to see the sky turn orange as the sun begins to set, –it was high in the sky when you first arrived. “I didn’t notice.” She shakes her head. “Are you feeling better now?”

You nod your head. “I’m just tired.”

“Come on let’s get you home then.” Steve mutters against your temple before placing a kiss there.

“Can I drive?” Max asks Steve, sounding hopeful.

“Absolutely not.” Steve tells her and you smile.

Their bickering and the rest of the Flock of Seagulls cassette fill the car on the drive away from the hospital. The air feels calmer with everyone less anxious than before, and you’re in between falling asleep and looking at the pretty pink sky out of the window. Steve drops Max off at her place, and she promises to visit you tomorrow morning, to which you nod with a smile and tell her you’ll be waiting. A short ride later, you’re back at your house, with Steve opening the door for you and leading you inside.

“Finally.” You sigh, moving so you’re standing in front of Steve and can lean your forehead against his shoulder. “I hate hospitals.”

“I know.” Steve whispers, his arms going around your waist carefully.

“Stevie…”

“Yeah, baby?” He takes one step back to look at you, dipping his chin to his chest to meet your eyes.

“Don’t go.” You whisper, eyes glancing at your feet then back to his face. “I don’t want you to go.”

Your heartbeat is drumming loudly in your ears as your right hand holds Steve’s forearm. You have five more days alone in your house, now with a broken arm, and though your parents have left in other occasions, it feels different this time. It makes you anxious at the thought of being alone, after a day at the hospital you feel on edge.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” Steve smiles, bringing one of his hands to hold your cheek. You melt with his touch, head tipping to the side to get more of it. “I was going to ask you if I could stay the rest of the week.”

You think about how there’s already enough of his clothes in your drawers for him to stay over and nod your head. Your eyes open and focus on his. “Of course, you can.”

“Let me take care of you, okay?” He drops his forehead against yours while he whispers. “What do you need baby, name it.”

You hum and close your already heavy eyes. “A shower, the leftovers in the fridge, and 10 hours of cuddling.”

Steve smiles, bringing his smile over your lips as he dips his head. “I can do that.” His lips brush against yours as he speaks, and you smile.

“And a kiss?” You add moving your hand from his forearm to the back of his neck slowly.

“Always. All of them, anytime you want.” He says before closing the gap small gap between you.

You’re unable to hold back the sigh that leaves your lips at the kiss and you’re mindful of your arm as you lean your body closer to Steve’s. He is warm against you, gentle in the way he holds your face but not as much as he kisses you. His kisses are needy, a firm pressure against yours, and you can relate to what he’s feeling. It’s been a long and stressful day, one that’s taken a toll on you and, on top of keeping you from sharing a single kiss, most likely worried Steve more than he let show. You feel your body humming with love, your fingertips tingling with it; the wholesome feeling of Steve’s affection, soothing and curing every worry and discomfort you shoved back throughout the day. He pulls back after a few minutes and presses his nose to the side of yours while he keeps you close.

“I love you.” He whispers. “You were so brave today.”

“I love you.” You mumble against this lips, unable to stop yourself from placing a couple of kisses over his bottom lip. “I was terrified, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“I always got you, babygirl.” Steve says kissing you softly one more time.

“Can you help me shower?” You ask him even though you know he’ll say yes. “I don’t know how I’ll manage to wash my hair with one arm like this.”

Steve follows your eyes down to your cast before he looks back at you. “You don’t even have to ask. Besides, I gotta make sure you don’t get your cast wet.”

You nod your head. “There’s plastic bags in the kitchen, I think that’ll help?”

“I’ll grab them. You head over to the shower okay, beautiful? I’ll be right there.” Steve leaves a lingering kiss on your lips before disappearing into the kitchen while you stare at his retreating figure, wondering how you got so lucky.

✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶✫✶

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington hurt/comfort #stranger things #joe keery #joe keery x reader #steve harrington story #steve harrington blurb #boyfriend steve harrington

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wandering-winchesters · 1 year

Text

Premonitions

Pairing: Dean x Reader, implied feelings. Word Count: 2,239 Summary: The reader has always had visions, but now they're changing and causing her physical harm. Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, implied vomiting and pain. Requested: Yes, by anonymous. The reader has visions of future events since her childhood, but since the last hunt and burn of a witch her visions are getting more powerful and begin to affect her health condition. The visions weakening her, she suffers from heavy migraine and also dizzy spells and nausea. She tries to hide it from the Winchesters but as observing as they are, they instantly recognize her pale and sick appearance. A/N: Requests are open! I hope you enjoy my take on this request, please let me know!

Masterlist

Visions are something I’m very familiar with, I’ve had them since I was a child. They felt like dreams, mostly peaceful and serine. Predicting the things that were to come, always happy occasions. I knew the days to come that I would enjoy, the places we’d visit and joys I’d experience before they ever happened. It was a good thing, I was thankful for it. It brought reassurance in times of doubt, joy in times of sadness and it didn’t really affect my day to day life. Dean would try to use it to their advantage, running lottery ticket numbers by me in hopes of me having a vision of him winning, he hadn’t been successful yet. Sam always rolled his eyes at Dean’s childishness, but would listen intently to whatever I recounted for them.

Since the last hunt that we been on my visions had changed, they were no longer predicting joyful occurrences, they were dark. Foreshadowing death and torture, often continuing on for twenty or thirty minutes. The amount of time a drastic change to the maybe five minute long visions that I was used to having. They caused me to get sick almost every time, a wave of nausea taking over the second the vision ended. My body felt weak, muscles ached and I had a headache that had taken up permanent residence since these new visions had started. I was doing my best to keep it from the boys, not wanting them to worry about me anymore than they already did. They already watched me closely, concerned that I would get hurt while on a hunt. If they knew about this, well, I don’t know what they would do. Probably bench me, if we are being honest. I had managed to keep it to myself, thankful that most of the visions seemed to appear at night, to the point where I could almost call them nightmares. Yet I knew better, I know that they’re predictions, some of the things I have already confirmed to be true. A train derailing in Michigan, a bus crash in Ohio, the list goes on. Every time I have one, I search the news headlines, praying that I won’t find what I am looking for. However, it’s always there, a day or two after it happens.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why my visions had changed, the only plausible explanation was the witch that had escaped on our last hunt. Despite our every effort, she had fled moments before we would have killed her. My guess is a spell, what spell you might ask? No clue. All of the research I had been doing, has been turning up empty. No explanation for the full body symptoms I had been having in response to the visions.

Which is how I wound up here, hugging the toilet in the bathroom connected to my room. My head is spinning and throbbing, the pit in my stomach nauseating and unbearable. My body was aching from the constant shivers running through my body. There was nothing I could do but sit and wait, and hope that it faded overtime. This was by far the worst one, it had pulled me in and completely overcome my every thought and action. Flashes of red and orange flames, the screams of innocent people trapped within the building, being burned alive or smothered by smoke. All of it so real and vivid, forcing tears to fall from my eyes as I laid there paralyzed, unable to snap out of it, until it was over. Just as abruptly as it had begun, it was gone. I was back in my room at the bunker, sick from fear. I had painstakingly made my way to the bathroom, my eyes closed and my feet shuffling. Avoiding any sudden movements due to fear of passing out or throwing up. Judging by the time on my phone, it had lasted nearly an hour, fifty-three minutes to be exact, the longest vision I had ever had. I remain on the floor of the bathroom for almost an additional hour, taking slow, even breaths, waiting out the nausea. Which eventually faded, I had hoped that the migraine would fade too, however no luck. I opened my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the harsh light in the bathroom, a light that I didn’t recall turning on. I stand slowly and turn to head towards my bed, hopeful that the rest of my sleep would be uninterrupted and dreamless.

I am awoken by a knock on my door, followed by a voice calling out my name. I ignore it, hoping they’ll go away. I am tired, so tired. The thought of getting out of bed felt like the most insurmountable task, I was already being lulled back to sleep by the warmth of my blankets.

“Y/N, it’s almost noon, are you okay?” Sam enters the room, his voice much louder than I would prefer. I would rather he not be here at all and to just leave me to my sleep.

“‘M fine, Sam. Go away, tired.” I mumble, throwing my arm back behind me and motioning for him to leave, not bothering to open my eyes. I hear light shuffling and I assume that he is leaving, but I am proven wrong when I feel the bed next to me dip down. Sam has not left, but come to sit beside me. I open one eye to glance at him, but close it again quickly, the lights flooding my senses with searing pain. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder and when I still don’t stir to look at him again, he speaks.

“What’s going on with you? You might think you’re doing a good job at hiding whatever it is, but you’re really not. Dean and I both know that something is going on that you’re not telling us about and its getting concerning. You’ve been sleeping a lot, in constant pain when you’re awake and you’re pale as a ghost, Y/N.” I know he isn’t going to leave me be without an answer of some sort. So I do my best to come up with one, something that sounds believable but not too concerning.

“Just haven’t been feeling the best, must be food poisoning or something.” I whisper, again willing that he will leave me alone to sleep. My body physically exhausted, head throbbing, pain pulsating through my every nerve. He shifts again and I rejoice, hoping he’s headed for the door. But instead, his hand comes to rest on my forehead, a hiss leaving his lips as he makes contact.

“Shit, Y/N, you’re burning up.” He says, tugging back the blankets that I have pulled up around my face, revealing my sweat soaked t-shirt. “How bad?” I hear Dean mutter from the doorway, the sound of his foot steps indicating that he has crossed the room to stand next to my bed as well. I hesitantly open my eyes, squinting to try and lower the amount of light that is allowed to enter.

“Feel for yourself, Dean.” Sam says, standing up and letting Dean take his place on the bed next to me. Dean rests his hand against my forehead, grimacing. It must be bad judging by the look on both of their faces. I push myself up into a sitting position, tugging the blankets up to cover my bear legs. Painfully aware of how little clothing I have on compared to them, not that they hadn’t seen me dressed like this before, it just made me feel weak in this moment.

“I’m fine, just need a shower.” I mumble, I throw my legs over the edge of my bed and begin the short walk to my bathroom, ignoring both of Sam and Dean’s protests and offers of help. I barely make it three feet before my world is spinning, darkening at the edges and crumbling around me.

My body collapses, colliding with the hard wood of the floor and I can faintly hear my name being yelled, but it is all drowned out by the vision dancing before my eyes. This time it is different, it’s not strangers in a different state, it’s Bobby, Ellen and Jo. They’re surrounded by vampires and it doesn’t look good. All of them injured in some way, Bobby worse than the girls. They stand in a circle, their backs together and weapons raised in front of them. I know what is about to happen and I try to scream, try to warn them in some way, to move faster to run! But nothing comes out, my voice but a silent whisper in my throat. I am forced to watch as the vampires kill them, their bodies falling to the ground and, and then it is gone.

My eyes fly open a scream bubbling out of my throat, terror filling my every nerve ending. Dean’s above me, his voice shushing me, telling me that I am safe, nothing happened and that everything is okay, but nothing is okay. Bobby, Ellen and Jo, They’re all in danger.

“Sam, call Bobby right now, tell him not to go on that vampire hunt.” Sam hesitates, his eyes trained on me and filled with questions. But there’s no time. “Now, please! I had a vision!” I snap, putting all of the emotion I can into those words, trying to convey just how urgent they really are. Sam nods, still silent, but pulls out his phone and leaves the room to call Bobby. I take a couple of breaths, trying to focus on my surroundings once again. I am on the floor, Dean cradling me in his arms, his eyes trained on my face concern and confusion written through every inch of his skin.

“How did you know about that hunt, Y/N? Bobby just told us about it five minutes before we came in to wake you.” He says, his hand brushing a strand of hair out of my face, his touch comforting me slightly.

“I-I, promise not to be angry with me?” I ask, letting out a rather large sigh. He hesitates, but nods in agreement and I begin to explain. “You know about the visions that I have, they’re normally happy predictions. But ever since the last hunt, with that damn witch that got away, my visions have changed. All of them are now predicting death and tragedy. I’ve had one everyday this last week, all of them have come true. I’ve seen it on the news or in an article online. Before today, they were all strangers, but now, today, it was Bobby, Ellen and Jo. I couldn’t bear to let anything happen to them Dean, God what if I wasn’t in time?” I ask, tears beginning to form in my eyes. He hushes me, reassuring me through his touch, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. Sam comes back into the room, his phone still clutched in his hand. His face slightly pale and concern etched throughout his features.

“I got through to Bobby, he’s okay. So are Ellen and Jo. They were about to leave when I called, but they stopped when I told them you had a vision. Bobby wants to talk to you about it all when you are feeling up to it, Y/N.” He says, I nod in response, relief washing over me, they’re okay. They’re not going, which means they won’t die.

Dean takes a minute to repeat what I had told him to Sam, the tension in the room growing every second. Sam is angry, Dean is angry and I am tired, oh so tired. These premonitions have really started to take it out of me physically and mentally. I listen to the boys discuss the steps that need to be taken, the witch has to burn. Sam volunteers to go and Dean agrees to stay behind with me.

“You should both go, I’ll be fine here on my own.” I argue, trying to offer them a reassuring smile, but neither of them buy it. Sam shakes his head, his mouth parting to answer but Dean beats him to it.

“In your dreams sweetheart, there’s no way in hell that we’re leaving you here alone. You fainted, you could’ve smacked your head if I hadn’t caught you as you fell. One of us is going to stay with you until this witch is dead. Don’t even bother arguing, you’re not going to win.” He adds on the last part as he notices my enthusiasm towards disagreeing with him. I close my mouth, exhaustion sweeping back over me. Dean notices and carefully carries me back to my bed, again ignoring my protests. He sets me gently on the mattress and I eagerly roll onto my side, resting my aching head onto the cool, soft surface of my pillow. He tugs the blanket over my body, pressing another kiss to my forehead. He makes up some excuse about it being the best way to check my temperature, but I don’t mind. He plants himself in the chair by my bed, pulling out his laptop. His presence enough comfort and safety to lull me into a peaceful sleep. They’ve got me. Sam is going to go take care of the witch and I will be okay. Those were my last thoughts before I was pulled into the blanket of sleep.

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shimmerwindow · 2 months

Text

I Never Really

Part Eighteen

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Angst, alcohol use, smut

Sexual content: Fingering n' fuckin. (it's a quick one)

Playlist | Masterlist

Tag List: @jazzyfigz @dont-go-home-without-me @poochiesworld @stardustcatcher @83rkblogs @jaketsguitar @dannys-dream @gretavanfan @do-it-jakey-baby @gvfpal @ignite-my-fire @gardensgatekeeper @torniturntomyarrow

“Are you busy tonight?” Josh’s voice was cheery on the other end of the phone you held to your ear. “You should come out with me and Danny!”

You had no desire to leave your dorm whatsoever. You hadn’t felt the need to leave, except for classes, for the past two weeks straight. Most of your free time was consumed with sleeping, to avoid the aches in your heart. “I really shouldn't. I’ve got some homework I should catch up on,” you lied.

“That’s what you said last time,” Josh said, sounding a little whiny. “Just come out. You won’t regret it.”

“I can’t. Have a good night, Josh.”

“Wait! Listen, you’ve been cooped up in there for weeks, haven’t you? That’s so terrible for the mind. Just a few drinks, nothing ridiculous, it’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

He’d called you a week ago asking the same thing, but he hadn’t alluded to knowing anything about the situation. You figured he must know, but he was giving you the space to only ask for support if you wanted it. And you didn’t feel like you deserved anything of the sort. “I feel fine.”

“You sound like you’ve spent the whole day fuckin’ crying. Just come out with us. Just for an hour, that’s all I’ll ask.”

He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer, stubborn as he was. You wouldn’t be surprised if you said no, he would come knocking at your door within minutes. “Fine. One hour. Then I’m going home.” You figured that was as long as you could hold it together for, anyway.

“Be there soon.” You could hear the smile in his voice as he hung up.

You pulled on something halfway decent-looking, trying your best in the mirror to cover up the dark circles under your eyes. You still looked a mess, but in the dark lighting of a bar, nobody would be able to tell you’d spent the last two weeks crying your eyes out nightly.

You met the two outside, Danny pulling the car around with Josh riding shotgun. You slid into the back, your mind in a daze, still unable to pull yourself out of the fog you’d been in.

“Hey, how ya doing?” Danny asked, turning around to give you a smile before he drove off.

“I’m alright.”

“You sure don’t look it. No offense,” Josh said, turning to face you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “None taken. Life’s been a bit hard lately.”

“I hear that,” Danny replied. “Sounds like you need a drink. Or five.”

“Not too much, now,” Josh said.

“I’m guessing...you guys know…” just attempting to say the words wracked your body with indescribable pain. The two of them stiffened, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. You wished you’d never brought it up at all.

“I mean, we don’t really want to…” Danny started.

Josh picked up where he left off. “If you want to talk about it, we’re here to listen. And help. If you want it, of course.”

“I don’t want to trouble you with all of that.” You waved a hand and offered a weak smile.

“It’s no trouble at all.” Danny flashed a grin at you through the rear view mirror.

“We can talk about it later,” you replied.

Later came quickly, several drinks in, as you and Josh slurred your words and spoke far too loudly over Danny, the only sober man in the room. One hour turned into many, and your heart finally opened, and you began to pour out all of the words you’d let linger inside of you. Voices drowned out most of your ramblings, as did the droning country-pop blaring from the radio.

“They’re both just fucking assholes,” you said with a flourish of your drink, nearly knocking a bystander in the head with it. “Both of them.”

“I don’t think you mean that.” Danny had been attempting to be the voice of reason, though it was difficult while caught between you and Josh.

“This whole situation is fucked up. I don’t get it, why didn’t you just tell Sam?” Josh asked.

“Because I knew he was fucking around with that other girl!”

“So what?” Josh gave an exaggerated shrug. “Fuck her. You deserve him more.”

“I think she was trying not to be a homewrecker, Josh,” Danny said.

“Exactly.” You set your drink down a bit too hard, sending droplets splattering onto your arm. “I really like him, I– I love him, so I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“You didn’t want to hurt him,” Danny began. “So you slept with his brother. Right.”

“Listen, I just thought…” You stopped in your tracks, the weight of your actions washing over you like waves of mercury once again. He had a point you couldn't refute.

“Those two, they’re always, like…” Josh snapped his fingers a few times, his eyes to the ceiling, searching for words. “They’ve got the same taste in women, I think. Causes problems sometimes.”

“Has anything like this happened before?” You asked.

“Not quite this severe.” Danny rested the toes of his shoes against the bar, leaning his chair back a bit. “You’ve got both of them all shook up like I haven’t seen before.”

“They don’t usually fight like that,” Josh added.

“Jake, he had a–” you gestured to your cheek, motioning in the shape of the bruise you’d seen. “Sam didn’t do that, did he?” You weren’t sure whether you actually wanted to know the answer.

The two exchanged glances, and Josh nodded, slowly.

You groaned, running a hand across your face. “Don’t tell me Jake busted Sam’s pretty face, too.”

Josh squinted at you, holding up two fingers in a pinching motion. “A little.”

“Jesus, I’m gonna kill both of them. Fighting over me like fucking cavemen.”

“It’s par for the sibling course, darling. Don’t worry about it too much,” Josh said. “We’ve all taken and given our fair share of ass-kickings.”

“Still doesn't make it right,” you sighed. “I wonder if Sam ever even liked me the way he said he did. Maybe he was just messing around so he could fuck.”

Josh blinked at you. “What on god’s green earth would make you think that?”

“Well, he just…he was able to move on so fast–”

“First of all,” Josh began, “All he’s talked to me about was you for the past fucking month. Also, he didn’t move on.”

“He didn't?”

“Of course not,” Danny chimed in before Josh could speak. “I don’t even think he’s seen anybody else since you. Not that we’ve heard, at least.”

“But I haven't seen him…not even once. Clearly he doesn’t care that much if–”

Josh cut you off with a loud, exaggerated groan. “Why are you arguing?”

“Josh,” Danny urged. “Be gentle.”

“Gentle? I don't need to be gentle. You–” he grabbed your shoulders, his light touch contrasting the edge to his words. “Need to realize that he loves you.”

“We never said that,” you said, struck suddenly by how Josh and Sam shared the same eyes. So kind, and inviting. “We never said I love you.”

“Then maybe you should. Because he's said it about you. Maybe not to your face, but he's made it plenty clear.”

“You just need to talk to him, honestly,” Danny said, gently lifting Josh’s hands from your shoulders. “Have you tried reaching out?”

“I haven’t,” you said, a bit guilty. “I thought that if he wanted anything to do with me, he’d have texted me first.”

“Then that’s exactly what you need to do. Call him, text him, hell – go knock on his door. Talk to him in person.” Danny watched you as your lip began to quiver, thinking about the anxiety of having to address your wrongs straight in the face. “It’s not gonna be easy. But you can’t just let this…fester. You two were made for each other.”

“Jesus, you really think so?”

“Everyone thinks so,” Josh said with a wide smile.

"Even Jake?" Just the act of letting his name grace your lips brought forth an entirely new wave of anxiety.

The two men paused, glancing at their drinks, though the silence was not awkward. "I think Jake..." Josh started, finding the right words. "I think he just wants you to be happy. He didn't really understand what was going on between you and Sam."

"Clearly," you mumbled.

"Jake is a bit territorial," Danny added, spreading his arms wide. "When Jake thinks a girl is his, he takes it seriously. More seriously than he probably should."

"Especially when he's not trying to date anyone." Josh's words betrayed a deeper annoyance, like this exact situation had played out far more than once. "It's partially on Sam for not mentioning how serious the two of you were sooner. But Jake won't sabotage you now that he knows," he shrugged. "But you still need to talk to Sam."

“Fine, then.” You took another deep swig from your drink. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him everything. Tomorrow.”

“Atta girl!” Josh exclaimed, giving you a pat on the back.

“I need a fucking cigarette,” you mumbled.

Outside, the sound from the crowd drained away, only the loudest of shouts and heaviest of glasses clinking audible behind the glass doors to the patio. You were too drunk at this point to keep a steady conversation going, but it was pleasurable nonetheless. Josh and Danny were an incredibly funny duo, and just a few minutes of casual talking had your sides in stitches from laughing.

You felt, dare you say, better. You did seem to have a terrible knack for avoiding talks you didn’t want to have. But Danny and Josh had assuaged those worries that kept you from saying what needed to be said. It was likely mostly the alcohol speaking, but you were feeling confident in your ability to finally speak to Sam. It needed to be done, no matter what. If nothing else, he deserved closure from you. An admission of the truth, straight from your lips.

The three of you couldn’t last long in the cold, huddling together to shield yourselves from the wind that whipped past the nearby buildings. Josh and Danny cracked first, and with a “fuck this,” they headed back into the bar, with you in tow. The two of them had just barely passed through the hallway back into the main section of the bar when they stopped dead in their tracks, so quickly you ran into Danny’s back, bumping your glass on him and sending an ice cube tumbling over the leather.

“Shit, sorry,” you mumbled, peering around both of them to see what had stopped them so suddenly.

It all seemed to happen so fast. Both of them turned around at the same time, stepping towards you, blabbing nonsense about how you should go back outside. But not before you caught a glimpse of the bar, straight ahead. Many unfamiliar faces, among them two you knew. One of which you knew well.

Sam sat at the bar, a drink in his hand, his arm around a girl, who was resting herself against him. A girl you recognized from your worst nightmares, some of which were waking. He was talking to her, a smile on his lips. In an instant, his eyes caught yours through the gap between Josh and Danny’s shoulders. His smile faded, turned into something you’d never seen. Like his lips would never know the sweet feeling of a smile again. And he turned away.

Josh and Danny had to nearly drag you back to Danny’s car, as your legs threatened to give out with every step with the force of your sobs. People stared, whispered at each other under their breath, but you didn’t care. You wished you’d gone blind. Your stomach churned on the ride home as you prayed to any god to turn back time just a few months.

Everything was a blur. You barely processed anything as Josh rubbed your back through your heaving cries, or kind words were offered from Danny when you screamed that Sam never cared about you at all. You wished you were being dramatic, you wished this was all not as serious as you were taking it. You wished you’d never thought of your future with him, that you’d never given yourself the space to hope and dream. The walls he’d broken down would be replaced swiftly, and sturdier than ever, you thought.

Danny, ever the caregiver, sat with you as Josh stumbled his way to bed. He gave you all the blankets you needed to quell the shaking your body refused to quit, as many tissues as you needed to dry your eyes. He listened as you rambled, drunkenly, about the same topics over and over. Rehashing the events of the past months, trying to make sense of it all, trying to find a solution, though there was none.

You'd taken Danny for some kind of frat-boy-type, player, seducer. But sitting in the living room with him, letting him hold your hand for support while he told you everything would be alright, you realized you’d painted him as far too one-dimensional. He was kind, and only wanted the best for you, even though he didn’t know you all that well.

You insisted you didn’t want to be a bother, and that you’d walk yourself home. He physically held you back as you tried to get up from the couch. “Absolutely the fuck not,” he said.

You’d pushed, saying you needed to be alone, you didn’t want to keep anyone up with your crying. “I should just go,” you insisted. “I can't–”

“Shush.” He placed a hand on top of your head, ruffling your hair a bit. “I didn’t bring down all those blankets and pillows for fun. Use them. Go to sleep.”

Sleep seemed like an impossible, far-away pipe dream right now, even through your exhaustion. Still, you were thankful he'd given you a warm place to rest your head, where you wouldn’t be entirely alone. “Thanks Danny,” you said, almost able to force a smile onto your face. “I’m sure I’m being a lot right now. I–”

“Don’t even think about apologizing. You needed a friend, that’s alright. Now go to bed.”

You did as he said, resting your head on the pillows. “Is…is he coming back tonight?” You glanced at the front door.

Danny followed your gaze to the door, looking at you plaintively. “Probably not. And Jake’s gone for at least the weekend. Don’t worry about that right now, though. You’ve been through enough tonight.”

You nodded in agreement, letting your swollen eyes slip shut as Danny turned off the lights. “Sleep well. We can talk in the morning.”

In the darkness, alone, your mind wanted you to think it all over again. You were exhausted, drained beyond belief, unable to even comprehend the events laid out in front of you. It took great effort, but you were finally able to relax just enough to drift into something resembling sleep.

That is, until you heard keys rattling in the front door. You shot up, staring at the door, your heart pounding immediately. Someone was out there. Someone was about to walk in. You prayed it was Jake, prayed he would simply walk right past you with nothing more than a half-smile and a nod. The door opened quietly, and you watched closely at the way the person swung it quickly past the points where it would creak.

Sam stood in the doorway, motionless, the door still open behind him, cold air pooling over you. He said your name, questioning, just barely loud enough for you to hear. You said nothing – what was there to say? You wished he would just ignore you, walk past you, go up to his room and slam the door. Instead, you watched, captivated, as he took his coat and shoes off, locked the door behind him, and sat down on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, facing you.

“Hey,” he said. A forced casualness tainted the word.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” You meant that. There was no saving what you’d had.

“I know.” He let out a shaky sigh. “I don’t…know what to say.”

You could just barely see him, his features only dimly lit from a light in the kitchen. You pointed to his temple, where the remnants of a bruise darkened his skin. “Jake did that to you. Didn’t he?”

Sam nodded. “Does it look cool?” There was not an ounce of humor in the words.

“Why did you fight over me?”

“Because I thought I deserved you more.”

“You deserve far better than me.”

He tsked his tongue, shaking his head. “I don’t want anything but you.”

“But you were with that girl tonight.”

“Because you’re not mine anymore. Or, I guess, you never were.”

“Fair enough.”

“We never fucking talk,” he hissed. You were sure he would have shouted, if he could. “This is our problem. What we're doing right now. We never just fucking talk to each other. I’ve said it before, and neither of us change it.”

“I thought we were doing alright.”

“But you didn’t tell me you had been fucking my brother on the side.”

“It was twice. And I wanted to tell you, I was planning on it, I just–”

“Why? After everything I told you, why him?” You could see tears in his eyes, glistening against the glow from the streetlights peeking through the curtains.

You took a long pause. You wished there was a better answer, something more concrete or absolute, but the truth was all you wanted to say. “I don’t know. You weren’t there, and he was. It was fucking stupid of me. It wasn’t to hurt you, though. Not consciously. I saw you with her, and I figured there was no way you could want me more than someone who looks like that.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “Sure.”

“I’m trying to talk to you.” Another batch of tears was lining up behind your eyes, though you couldn’t fathom having any more left to cry. “I just want you to know the truth.”

“How am I supposed to trust you? Now, or ever?”

You could only shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s been so hard,” he said, his hand coming to idly rest on yours, splayed out on the couch between the two of you. The simple touch felt like grabbing a fistful of snow with bare fingers, icy and shocking. “I don’t know…I’m just not me without you.”

“I know.” Tears started to fall again, and you didn’t bother wiping them away. Your eyes were already irritated enough from the hours you’d spent sobbing in this very spot. “I can’t bring myself to do anything.”

“What are we supposed to do now?”

“I think we have to answer that ourselves.”

“I just can’t survive without you.” His fingers walked up the back of your hand, wrapping gently around your forearm. “But we’re killing each other. I can’t…” He pulled his hand away, and hesitated. Stillness filled the air when his fingers ran across your cheek, wiping away a tear there. “I can’t see you like this. I can’t do this to you.”

“I can’t do this to you, either.” You mirrored his gesture, your thumb running trails over the tracks of tears on his face.

“Can I…” he shifted, gesturing to you to come closer. Despite your better judgment, you fell heavy into his arms, resting your cheek against his collarbone. That scent again, it hit you like waves, dredging up every hope and every wish you’d fought so hard to bury over the past two weeks. You wished you could lay this way forever, a familiar position you used to adopt when the two of you would lounge in bed together.

“Can we just pretend everything is normal?” You said, with the lightest hint of a forced laugh.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Please.” The word was choked, nearly a sob. “Just give me this one night with you.”

“We can’t.” His motions contradicted his words as his hands pulled you closer to his chest.

“Just tonight and then we can both forget.” It stung to say it, like a papercut. “We can forget about each other. I’ll forget about your whole family. It can be like we never happened.”

You heard him suck in a hitched breath through his teeth. With hands that trembled, he cupped the sides of your face and drew you in, stopping short of a kiss. You wanted nothing more than to break past his hands, meet your lips with his, feel every inch of him under your mouth. You needed him more than could be expressed in words or actions, it was far deeper, something soul-crushing and gut-wrenching.

He felt it too. And he was not strong enough to resist. He pulled you in, kissing you, with the fervor of a man who has waited his entire life for this moment. He tasted salty, the taste of your mutual tears collected on the corners of your lips; a reminder of that night at the bar with him, the salt of his neck.

You tried to hold yourself back. You knew you shouldn’t let this go any further, but your hands moved on their own to wrap around his neck. “We shouldn't do this,” you mumbled, peppering kisses along his jaw.

“Then stop.”

You couldn’t, and neither could he. It was so unceremonious, but there was something sacred about your movements. The way he ripped the blankets off of you, the way his hands slipped under your shirt, the way you pulled at his hair and fumbled with the button on his pants. Neither of you needed to ask – you were far past that point. It was all unsaid, as many things tended to be between the two of you. He only needed to give you that look he’d given you however many dozen times in the past, the one that you’d reply to with a nod and dewy doe-eyes.

Things were a blur, hands grasping and fingers trailing over flesh, lips colliding with fervor in dead silence and darkness. You could just barely see his face, but you didn’t need to see much. The sound of his breathing, the scent of his skin, it all led you back home.

He shoved your pants down to your knees, dragging you into his lap, his lips never leaving yours. He shifted your bodies, leaning his back against the couch, straddling your knees on either side of his.

“You always smell so good,” he whispered into the side of your neck. “I dream about it.” He slid a hand between the two of you, running a finger through the wetness already drenching your thighs. “I wake up sometimes and I could swear you’re right there next to me.”

You’d done the same, thought you were crazy for being surprised at the other half of your bed being cold and empty every morning. You couldn’t vocalize it, not when he slid a finger into you and you had to bite down on his shoulder to keep yourself silent. But he could feel it from you, the subtle agreement present in how your nails scratched thin lines into his biceps.

“Is that good?” He asked, his breath warming the shell of your ear.

You let out a muffled mhm, your teeth still sunk into his shoulder. If you hadn’t already broken the skin, you would leave a bruise for certain. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

You trailed your hands over the fabric of his shirt, down to where you'd managed to haphazardly undo the fly of his jeans. You hadn’t realized your fingers were cold until they settled on the warmth of his cock, making him suck a breath in through his teeth and jump back a bit. The two of you stifled muted laughs at the exchange, and even if it was only a glimpse, it was heartwarming to feel a brief moment of humor.

Your bodies moved in time quickly, your hand moving in languid strokes along his cock as he worked you open with his fingers. You didn’t want to wait, having waited long enough, having suffered more than enough lately. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes before you were begging him for it.

He slipped himself into you with little grace or fanfare, desperate for it. You let out a strained breath, watching what little of him you could see in the dark. You weren’t prepped quite enough, the stretch of him knocking the wind out of you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word coming out shaky. “You feel better than I remember.”

You let out a downright pathetic whimper, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, your legs already trembling.

“Move.” It was a command, not a request.

It was difficult, trying to force your body to move when each drag of your hips threatened to pull a moan from your lips.

Words piled up behind your teeth when he pulled you closer, his lips dragging across the skin of your neck. Your face buried in his hair, you tried to take all of this in. The silk of his hair against your cheek, the smell of sweat and cologne, the way his shoulders rose and fell with each shaking breath. It was so beautiful, so bittersweet, a gorgeous agony you’d never be able to forget.

“Just say it,” he said lowly. “I can tell you want to say it so just fucking say it.”

“I love you.” It spilled from your lips brutally, the sound crashing against the walls of the room like thrown fine china.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Sam.”

“More.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you, you’re everything to me, you’re my stars, my sky, my universe–”

He wrapped his hands tighter around you, tight enough that you could barely breathe. But you didn’t feel the need to breathe, not when you were filled with him, surrounded by him. Your mind started to unravel, giving in to sheer, untethered bliss. Your eyes slipped shut and in the darkness you could see gold.

“I love you too,” he said, softly, casually, like he’d said it a hundred times. Maybe, in his head, he had.

This couldn't be it. This couldn’t be the last time you’d feel him this way. He broke into a steady rhythm, keeping himself buried inside you for the most part, grinding his hips against you.

You mumbled sweet nonsense against his neck, planting kisses between every word, chanting his name like a mantra in the hopes you might stay this way forever. “I never want you to let me go.” Both physically and emotionally, you meant it both ways.

“I can’t,” he breathed. “I can’t imagine me without you. I can’t imagine the sky with no moon and no sun.”

You exhaled a breathy laugh against his skin. “Still so corny.”

“I know how much you love it.”

You had to fight desperately to keep quiet when his hands wrapped around the bottoms of your thighs, lifting and dropping you slightly with each thrust of his hips.

“Stay quiet, baby. You’re doing such a good job.”

He’d never talked to you like this before, never during sex. This was more than just sex, though. What you were doing was something intimate, something deeper, something you both desperately needed. Some kind of closure, or the opening of another door, you couldn’t tell which one quite yet.

A quiet moan slipped past your lips when his hand dropped down beneath you to press against your clit, the perfect amount of pressure, just the way you liked it. His free hand clasped over your mouth, gentle but forceful.

“Quiet, my love.”

My love.

You were getting close to a peak you knew you couldn't keep silent, waves of it washing over your body and sending sparks down your spine, into the tip of every limb. He pulled his hand away at just the right time for you to warn him.

“Sammy, I’m–”

“I know. I can feel it.” You could faintly hear the rumble of his own groans that he caught in his throat, keeping himself quiet with what seemed like great effort.

“Is it better?” He asked.

“What?” You gasped, your focus faltering.

“Do I fuck you better than he does?”

There was no hesitation. “Much better.”

He pulled back a bit, searching for your face in the darkness, finding it and catching your lips in a kiss. There were so many words unsaid that passed through that kiss, every confession, every lie you’d ever told, it was all so glaringly obvious in the way your lips met.

His fingers were digging in tighter against you, his legs starting to shake with effort. He was just as close as you were, fighting, struggling to hold himself back.

“I don’t think I can– oh, god, Sammy, I can’t keep this a quiet one,” you warned him.

“Me neither,” he laughed, breathlessly.

His hand shot up to cover your mouth as you let out a sound that was far too loud. He, too, grit his teeth against whatever noise threatened to make itself known as both of you tipped over the cliffside of your peaks, together. A groan like a sob tore itself out of his chest and he had to cover his own mouth, his head falling back against the couch.

You held onto his shoulders for dear life as he plunged you down into a world of untethered pleasure, his name falling from your lips even though it didn’t make a sound. Stars exploded across your vision, your legs failing you as all you could do was grind helplessly against him. Your hips moved of their own accord, chasing the remnants of bliss.

His fingers gripped your waist after a moment, stilling your movements. “Stop, stop, oh my god,” he whispered, a desperate edge to his voice from the overstimulation.

There was no rush to separate. Neither of you wanted this moment to end. It was clear this was not something you could stop. Your love was an unstoppable force, and you both were incapable of living without it.

“Did you mean it?” His tone was nonchalant, as if he didn’t care what your answer would be one way or the other.

“Of course I did.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

The question caught you off guard, diving in so deep so quickly as you were still dripping into his lap. Gazing into his eyes, and the profound sadness you found there, you spoke a thousand words all at once. Wanted you, got lonely, took the next best thing. You could see it in his face; he understood.

“We need distance,” he sighed. An ironic thing to say, given where he was mere minutes ago. “If we’re not going to date. If we don’t trust each other.”

“But tonight…?” you didn’t finish the sentence, letting it play out in each of your heads.

He didn’t reply, only lifting you off of him, the two of you haphazardly pulling yourselves back together, and he lead you by the hand up to his room.

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