#but that grief is still there and the wound is still fresh and sometimes it just feels like its growing and it will never stop

[caffeinatedopossum]

I'm still grieving the dreams I lost due to my disability and I just added another one

[ki-yomii]

baby, don't go | myg

➥pairing | ex!min yoongi x f!reader, mentioned f!reader x omc ➥word count | 5.1k ➥warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, squirting, hand job, finger fucking, porn w/ plot, angst w/ a happy ending, alcohol, exes to lovers, implied cheating (omc is a fuckboy), implied getting back together (reader & yoongi still low key love each other), idol!yoongi ➥summary | "hii can I request for an exes to lovers trope with yoongi 😭💖 lovee your ficss" you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you. thankfully your ex Yoongi is more than happy to distract you. ➥notes | hope you enjoy this anon 😘💚 omc & ofc are named after characters from one of my favourite k-dramas (personal taste iykyk)

💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Standing beside you, your friend Kae-In takes a swig of whatever's in her cup - a sickly sweet concoction of fruity soju and Chilsung, most likely - and coolly surveys the backyard.

Small groups of people dot the manicured lawn, others lounging by the fire as they catch up with one another. It's been far too long since everyone's schedules aligned like this.

Years in fact, and there are several who came in from out of town.

Ordinarily you'd be over the moon, but as it were you can barely drum up enough false excitement for your best friend. Let alone others you haven't seen in forever.

Cocking her hip, Kae-In puckers her mouth. "The alcohol isn't even that good." She sighs, pretty face scrunching in disappointment. "Some party this is turning out to be."

Your hard cider, still more than half-full, hides an awkward, ill-fitting smile.

Having nursed your own drink for the last hour, whatever might've been enjoyable about it is long gone. Any refreshing coolness and bright, punchy taste replaced by amber liquid far past room temperature in your clammy palm.

In fact, the fizzy warmth and tart aftertaste of moldering apples turns your stomach with every half-hearted sip.

"At least there's cute guys here - some of them have really grown up."

Her breath ruffles the fringe of her bangs when she huffs, casting an eye to the glass bottle strangled in your grip.

"Are you sure you don't want something a little stronger?"

You shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine - gotta be the DD just in case, y'know?"

"Girl, you're ALWAYS the DD. C'mon, you gotta live a little sometimes."

The nonchalant scolding stings, even if it's meant almost entirely in jest but it's not Kae-In's fault. She doesn't know. No one does. You couldn't muster up the courage to tell her the truth.

Not yet.

It's still too fresh. The wound too raw to go poking around with clumsy fingers.

"Don't be like that," you say with a faltering smile. "I'm having fun."

LIAR.

In actuality, you're a few frayed threads away from snapping. Stuck clinging to the edge of sanity by the fingernails as you battle back tides of crippling grief and blinding rage.

Have been since the first few messages came rolling in; questions with videos attached. There's a part of you grateful they reached out, while another altogether wishes you hadn't seen.

At least not until morning.

Would one more night spent in ignorant bliss have been too much to ask for?

Now you're riding a corkscrew of emotion, one that roils and chafes as ceaseless images parade past your eyelids with every blink. Each one as crisp and clear as the first time you pressed play.

The swirling lights, the heady thrum of bodies. A darkened corner. Your boyfriend of three years who said he couldn't make it. His hand sneaking beneath the hem of a cheap, glittery skirt. The dip of his head as he tucks into the curve of a neck, mouth open and smiling against bare skin.

You shudder, stomach rebelling. When you swallow, it's like trying to down buckets of sand.

Kae-In, none the wiser, flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Well, that makes one of us. I guess." Shrugging, she turns to you and asks with a furrowed brow, "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... a little off."

Panic grabs you by the throat.

This was supposed to be a night full of fun and laughter. You're not supposed to be suffocating in a crowded backyard. On the brink of tears and trying to act like your life hasn't imploded.

Alone - by your own doing, which is even worse - to deal with the crushing weight of an inevitable breakup. The painful extrication of two lives entwined.

How a relationship three years in the making can be shattered in a minute and forty-five seconds is mind boggling. You had it all, and now...

You thought you were going to marry him.

The whiplash of it all almost makes you laugh but only so you don't break down in great, heaving sobs. A heartbreak you're not sure you'll ever recover from. Not for the loss of him but rather the decimation of your trust.

"I'm okay, promise! No need to worry."

The lie weighs heavy on your tongue. Tastes of ash as the words you really want to say hover in the back of your throat, a breath away. Only they can't make it past your lips, stuck to your teeth like hard candy.

"It's just been one of those days."

Your shoulders shoot towards your ears when she hums in response. Fingernails picking at the corner of the sweating cider label so you don't have to meet Kae-In's piercing gaze. You know she can see right through you, and you hate it.

What started as a fun night of planned mayhem turned into desperate distractions though this party has done very little in terms of brightening your mood.

Instead, watching everyone you know have a good time while you stand on the side lines, a stranger in a sea of people, feels more akin to rubbing salt in an open wound.

Miserable but acting like you’re not; waves of bitter loneliness threatening to pull you under because you don’t want to ruin the night.

“Is this because Chang-ryul couldn’t make it?” Kae-In pats your back sympathetically. “What bullshit excuse did he give you this time? I swear, he always does this. Just wait. I’m gonna hit him next time I see him.”

Oh, you don’t even know, you think. You’ll definitely want to do more than hit him.

Your heart throbs at the sound of his name, and isn’t that funny? Such a simple thing - nothing but syllables and letters strung together - and yet it has the power to unmake you completely.

Your tongue swells as you struggle to swallow. Words burn like bile as you force out a laugh; brittle, scraped up from the depths of your chest

“I’d pay to see that,” you croak. Your knuckles ache from how tightly you’re gripping the bottle. “But - no. C-Chang-ryul has nothing to do with it.”

You hate that you stutter over his name.

And perhaps that’s why you don’t want to tell Kae-In just yet.

She’s always hated him.

Always said he was no good. Just another fuckboy looking for beds to warm and hearts to break. And she’s right.

God, why does she have to be right?

You know she’d never hold it over you, but the thought of admitting it - out loud - makes you want to vomit all over your shoes. You need time to stitch your edges back together. Too raw and ragged.

You only just found out.

Your pride can’t handle any more hits right now.

She thumbs her nose with an inelegant snort. “Whatever you say. I could take him in a fight. That boy ain’t shit.”

Your laugh startles you - the first genuine one of the evening - and you shake your head fondly. A soft smile tugs at your lips.

“Oh, no doubt. But really, I’ve just been in a weird mood.”

The twist of her lips shows she doesn’t believe a word you’re saying, but she’s kind enough not to press. Instead, she spends the next while distracting you with tales of her various escapades of the week.

And it helps for a time, truly.

But then you feel a buzz against your thigh, a ding echoing up from your pocket. Your stomach turns to lead, drops to your feet. Without looking at the screen, you pull the cell out of your pocket with shaky hands and quickly flick the ringer off.

Meanwhile, Kae-In watches silently with sharp eyes, and an even sharper frown though she declines to comment on your behavior.

“Anyway,” she continues once she has your attention, “as I was saying, did you see little Ji-Seok? Dude shot up like a tree! Last time I saw him he was as big as a bean sprout.”

You hum, worlds away.

“You could at least act like you’re paying attention,” she sucks her teeth before a smirk starts to slowly tug at her lips, “How about we talk about something - or someone - I know you’ll be interested in?”

Guilt sparks but slowly gives way to dread. You know that expression. Have gotten into trouble more times than you can count because of it.

Heart tattooing a rhythm against your rib cage, you sputter, “Oh no. No! Do not look at me like that.”

“C’mo-on!” she wheedles. “You’re absolutely right. We should be talking about,” she points at someone across the yard with her cup, “Yoongi instead.”

Currently leaning back against a stone wall making up part of the fence, Yoongi nurses a beer. Sticking out like a sore thumb now that he’s making it big as an idol, no longer as mundane as the rest of them.

Hushed whispers follow his every move, his bleached hair and flashy outfit commanding all sorts of covert attention.

The sharp cut of his shirt flatters his lean frame, the black leather jacket over top emphasizing the width of his shoulders. Dark jeans cling to his legs, as tight as a second skin, and causing your attention to stray where it shouldn’t.

And his eyes - oh, how you ever forgot is beyond you.

Dark, hooded, deep, and hungry; intense as they drag over the planes of your face like the caress of his fingers.

Shit.

You shove Kae-In’s hand down with a loud smack before she makes an even bigger fool out of you in front of another ex.

“What the hell are you doing?” You hiss. “That’s so rude!”

Not to mention embarrassing as fuck.

“Y’know,” she pauses to wiggle her brows and shoot you an impish grin, “I bet Yoongi would be more than happy to remind you of how rude he can be.”

You smother a groan in your hands, heartache temporarily forgotten. “I can’t believe you. Seriously. We’re no longer friends.”

“Bitch, you love me. And anyway, you know what I can’t believe?” She asks. “You!”

She gestures towards him again amid your flailing attempts to stop her. “Look at him. Like goddamn, you had it good.”

You take a sip of cider to give your hands something to do, nearly blanching at the warm liquid. Refusing to respond or look up as the topic of conversation watches like a hawk, gaze heavy.

How can he still make you weak-kneed after all this time?

He wasn’t even touching you and you still feel his presence down to your toes, setting your teeth on edge.

You hear your own heartbeat, your breathing shaky, sparks of awareness dancing along your spine. Heat creeps into the apples of your cheeks.

“Knock it off, I’m serious.”

“No, when are you going to get that Chang-ryul isn’t good for you?”

You swallow roughly, all the moisture leaving your mouth.

“Yoongi was the best boyfriend you ever had and treated you the way you deserve. And you know he’s never been interested in anyone but you. Hell, he’s barely looked away from you since he got here and the break-up was years ago.”

You shift, perspiration breaking out on your brow. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

“When will you give it up?” She blows a raspberry, shaking her head. “I know you regret how it went down between you guys. Now that he’s here - when you finally have a chance to make it right you just - just - ugh!”

Shooting her a weak half-smile and a shrug, you turn your attention to the small glowing fire pit.

Other’s are gathered around it, relishing in the glow of warmth that wars against the balmy summer breeze cutting through the air. Focusing on the dance and flicker of the flames is a needed moment of peace in entropy.

Though you know it isn’t going to last - not with a motormouth for a friend.

“So-o, what are you waiting for?”

“Sorry?”

She nods towards Yoongi subtly.

He’s finally busy with his own conversation, his gummy smile a quick flash of brightness. “When are you going to stick it to Chang-ryul and hop on that dick?”

“Oh my god!”

Kae-In shrugs. “What.”

“Don’t 'what' me. Seriously?”

A bony elbow digs between your ribs. You wheeze.

“C’mon,” she says, “You already know it’s good with him, and you deserve someone who’s there for you 110%. Someone who will treat you right. You know I worry about you.”

A wave of emotions threatens to completely drown you in that moment, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Her tender concern - her care - feels altogether too much and not enough.

As overwhelming as a tsunami; your heart a raw, exposed nerve.

All you’ve ever wanted was to be loved.

To feel like someone’s first and only choice.

You used to think Chang-ryul was someone who could provide that. What a fool you’ve been. Men like him don’t fall in love, they only pretend to.

They sneak inside your heart and take what they want from your bed. To him, you’re nothing but a fun little stop; a footnote, read and forgotten.

Your heart squeezes, shuddering from a pain your palm can’t soothe away.

It’s a terrible idea.

But maybe…

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to lick your wounds with someone you know cares about you. Has always cared about you, and probably always will.

Clearing your throat, you consider his profile from beneath your lashes.

Yoongi's always made you feel wanted. Looked after you as though you were something rare and precious.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt that.

Somehow, some way, he senses you looking because he pauses mid-sentence.

Turns to meet you head-on, tracing your face with what can only be called greed. Stopping short when they catch on the lip trapped between your teeth.

Something akin to hunger cuts across his face.

His brows dip low, a palpable heat flooding the inky depths of his eyes. Shadows deepen the lines of his face, the shifting firelight highlighting the flex of a jawline for days, burning halo gold in his hair.

It’s a look you’re intimately familiar with.

Usually preceding a hand-shaking, mind-numbing fuck session where his cock gets as deep as it can, rutting hard and fast, bringing you over the edge again and again until you’re left a wrecked mess. 

Your heart jumps, gallops headlong into a rapid beat.

You feel the rush of blood in your chest, every breath stuttered, stomach lurching. Shaking. Jittery. Tongue tied in a thousand knots and you haven’t even said a word.

It was much easier to pretend you weren’t so magnetically drawn to Yoongi when you weren’t riding the single’s train. When he was away in Seoul chasing after his dreams.

Now that he’s got downtime and your relationship has hit a brick wall? His mere presence sears you to the bone. Drags you in like a black hole.

And that?

So not good.

Swallowing roughly, you tear your attention away. You’d forgotten how intense and blindly bright he can be.

There’s a throb developing in your temple, sharp little darts of pain lancing through your skull. An impending headache if you don’t get some air that doesn’t taste like wood-smoke and cheap alcohol.

“I think I’m gonna head in for a bit. Need to get away.”

You shake your head and toss your bottle into the bin on the way inside, Kae-In shouting her acknowledgement with a thumbs up. Makes you promise to contact her in case of any change in plans.

Nearly everyone’s outside so it should be less crowded, more quiet. Most importantly, away from Yoongi and that penetrating stare which makes you more flustered than you care to admit.

Alas, the kitchen isn’t empty not for long.

You’re lounging against the counter, elbows bent, head rolled back and stinging eyes closed when the back door creaks open. Biting off a groan, you swivel your head to the side.

When you see it’s Yoongi who follows you in, you almost slip and brain yourself on the tile. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, heart beating out of control; scrambling into a more flattering posture while patting down your hair.

He chuckles, his nose scrunched and smile coy.

Seeing him happy always makes you tender, weak.

It seems that hasn’t changed a bit.

No amount of pictures or videos do it justice. Granted, Yoongi looks good any time, any day. But seeing his whole face light up like that in person? Utterly priceless.

It’s a struggle to breathe properly around the lump forming in your throat.

Of course, it has to be him.

Wiping your palms off on your thighs, you greet him with an awkward wave, “Uhhh, hey - hey there, Yoongi.”

Oh my god. Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission.

“Y’know what,” you say, “I was just about to head back outside…”

As you pass by, he catches your arm.

Long fingers curl around your wrist, callouses dragging across your pulse. Your gut clenches, an unexpected bloom of warmth shooting through your core at the sight of his broad palm holding you captive.

His grip is firm but loose enough that you could pull away.

All it serves to do is remind you of nights spent beneath his body, the slide of sweat-slick skin, the taste of him heavy on your tongue, pussy filled to the brim with cock. His rough voice music to your ears, prideful as he gloats about how well you’re taking him.

"Leaving so soon?” He asks silkily.

A hard tug sends you slamming into the wall of his chest.

Air rushes from your lungs, your hands trapped against his collarbones. Firm muscles contract beneath your palms, his body shoving into your touch.

Twisting your fingers in the soft cotton of his shirt, you look at him from beneath your lashes. Your voice whisper soft when you say, “Yoongi…”

His dark eyes, the colour of a rich espresso, track the path of your tongue as you wet your lips. Fingers drag over the soft line of your neck, tracing your fluttering pulse.

Touch feather light as it stops by the corner of your mouth, pressing down on the swell of your lip.

“I haven’t said hello yet.”

Eyes wide, all you do is watch and wait with baited breath. Stunned into silence at his proximity. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close, the smell of his expensive cologne nostalgic.

Your body recognizes his, responding all the same. The connection between you electric, overwhelmingly so.

His head bows, bleached strands brushing your forehead. The tip of his nose rubs yours. You get lost in counting his eyelashes, tracing the bridge of his nose to the carved slope of his cheeks.

Surrounded by him, the urge to resist what’s happening is nearly non-existent. Though you wish it wasn’t so easy to be caught by him.

“One of the guys said something interesting,” he says, his breath ghosting across your face; mint and beer. “It's about you actually.”

He flashes the smile that sends your heart soaring, your stomach flipping.

The slightest peek of a metal chain resting in the crook of his neck, surrounded by a very tempting patch of skin you want to taste, has you a little dumbfounded, absentminded.

“Oh?”

You really hope you don’t sound as frazzled as you feel but the haughty superiority of his slow appraisal of your body, the cocksure smirk on his lips states otherwise.

You really wish you could knock him down a peg but confidence looks amazing on him.

Always has.

“They said you have a boyfriend now. Is that true?”

You manage the slightest shake of your head in the negative - no, not anymore - your heart thundering in your ears.

Your breath catches in anticipation just before Yoongi closes the remaining inches between you with a hum of approval.

His head tilts to the side as he slots your mouths together in a kiss that’s got your toes curling. A filthy wet slide of lips, his the slightest bit chapped, send you under, liquid warmth filling your belly.

You inhale sharply, a moan vibrating against his lips.

Melting into the cage of his arms as his hands clamp down on your hips possessively, tugging you closer. Pressed stem to stern like this there’s no hiding the evidence of his desire.

He’s already half-hard in his jeans, his erection pressing against the zipper.

His eyes are hooded when he pulls away.

“Wanna take this somewhere a little more private, baby?” Yoongi asks, running his nose up the length of your neck and inhaling.

How is this my life, you think, dazed.

His hips grind forward against you so there’s no mistaking what you’re dealing with. “It’ll be just like old times.”

After an awkward fumble and an elbow to the side, you settle on the downstairs bathroom. He follows, quickly pinning you to the door while struggling to toss his leather jacket over the sink.

With a flick of the lock, you’re finally alone without any possible interruption. The door muffles most of the ruckus outside, leaving you hyper aware of every hurried breath, every low-throated murmur.

For a long while it’s nothing but a mess of lips, his body molding to yours. Easy to fall back into the old rhythms of your relationship as though you never left it.

He holds you down.

His fingers in your hair, on your jaw. His tongue gliding over your lip, sucking it into his mouth and letting it slide back out through his teeth.

You meet him kiss for kiss, your hands finding their way into his back pockets, tugging, groping, loving how he bucks up into the cradle of your hips in response.

A sweet ache settles low and deep.

“Yoongi,” you sigh. “Fuck, I forgot how much you like to tease.”

His thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing it into a sensitive, stiff peak that shows through the thin fabric.

The caresses send soft pulses straight to your clit, the intensity getting stronger and stronger the rougher he is.

Before long, you’re aware of how achingly empty you are.

Yoongi nips the corner of your jaw.

“Never forgot how fun teasing you is,” he murmurs into the silk of your skin. “How wet you get for me.”

“Shit, you can’t just say something like that.”

“Can’t I?” His laugh, genuine and vibrant, sounds through his chest and into yours. “You can bitch all you want, but I know you love it.”

A smile, all teeth.

“Isn’t that right, baby?”

You glare at him weakly through half lidded eyes.

Two can play that game.

“Fuck!” Yoongi bites out, those impossibly dark eyes sliding shut when you reach down to palm him through his jeans.

His breath whooshes from him in a loud exhale, his jaw working back and forth. “That’s cheating.”

You smirk, feeling him throb in your hand.

”What were you saying, Yoongs?” Humming, you rub your chest against his, using a fingertip to trace the outline of his shaft. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Spearing you with a weighted look, Yoongi shoves you back into the door harder than before, the wood creaking under the pressure. Fist resting on the frame next to your head, his body cages you in.

Every shuddered inhale has the planes of his firm chest pressing into yours with the expansion of his lungs. His hips buck up into the softness of your palm with a grunt.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, pretty girl,” he cautions.

Competitiveness is a gift and a curse.

Not one to be outdone, you brush away any lingering reservations - which being honest, there weren’t many left. His relieved groan when you tug out his cock reverberates through you.

Shit, that’s so unfair.

Yoongi already sounds wrecked yet you’ve barely touched him. How the fuck are you going to get through this without completely combusting when he actually cums?

Thinking that maybe focusing on what you’re doing will help, you look down.

Big mistake.

Dark designer jeans circle his thighs, low enough for his cock to spring free.

Flushed, curved towards his belly, the head swollen and sticky with pre-cum. The shaft a decent handful that pulses when your palm skims the side.

Feminine appreciation at the sight has velvet heat pooling between your thighs, pussy clenching at the thought of him inside you.

Sex with him was always stupidly good.

All those veiled lyrics about his skill in the bedroom far too accurate for comfort.

Since you broke up, you haven’t been with anyone that comes close to his ability in getting you off.

He’s ruined you.

His face burrows into the crook of your neck with a low groan. His breath puffs across your skin, shivers racing down your spine.

Low voice full of grit, he says, “Shit, baby, that feels…”

Hot palms anchor themselves to your hips.

“Wait a sec,” he says, body twitching with aborted thrusts, strong fingers kneading. “Wanna do you too.”

Heart jumping, you let go of him long enough to yank your shirt over your head and kick off your pants before returning your hand to his cock.

In the meantime, he rucks his shirt up under his armpits. You can’t help but make a noise in the back of your throat as the length of his torso is exposed.

All that soft, smooth skin stretching over his stomach as he flexes. You have to fight down the urge to run your tongue along the outline of his hip.

Mouth slack, Yoongi pushes up the cups of your bra. Watches laser-focused on the bounce of your tits as they drop free, subtly swaying with every jerk of your wrist.

His hips fuck up into the circle of your hand while one of his own inches down to brush the crease of your thigh. Your hips tilt towards his touch, desperate for friction.

“Oh god.” He moans, calloused fingers dipping between your folds. “You’re so wet for me.”

You wiggle, whining against his lips as you meet in a messy kiss. His touch is light, gentle, barely there as he traces the length of your slit.

You’re trembling, skin too tight, body feverish. “Stop teasing, I want you inside me.”

Those seem to be the magic words because Yoongi gives a rumble of approval, using his thumb to spread slick over your swollen clit in tight circles.

Heat coils in your belly, electricity racing down your spine. Your thighs splay as wide as they can, making room for his hand.

His knuckles brush your skin.

Dipping down to your entrance, Yoongi works on spreading you open with shallow thrusts until you take three fingers comfortably.

Your needy sighs and soft moans bounce off the walls.

His low murmurs right in your ear as the pads stroke your walls, his wrist flexing. He’s hitting all the right spots, still remembering how to get you off years after the fact.

You’re quickly turning weak-kneed and wet eyed.

“Fuck, Yoongs, right there,” you keen, baring down on the digits nudging your g-spot, your grip tightening around his shaft.

You grind your palm over the swollen tip, gathering beads of pre-cum.

He hisses, thrusts off beat.

Fingers nudge up suddenly, pressing deep and holding in retaliation. White lightening crackles behind your eyelids, thighs twitching, mouth dropping open.

“Yeah, just like that, pretty girl.”

Your world narrows down to every filthy slide of his cock in your hand, every gush of slick as he stuffs fingers into you over and over again until you’re a writhing mess against the door.

Your nerve endings are alive with pleasure, the stimulation too much and not enough.

“Please, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, doubling his efforts, wrist working faster.

Dapples of sweat litter his brow, his eyes staring into yours, glazed over and lusting.

Fuck, he’s handsome like this.

It’s a little embarrassing how bad he’s got you but between the blissed-out expression he’s wearing, the weight of him in your hand, and how full you are, you know this orgasm is going to be quick, messy.

The pace of his hips pick up, his breath hitching in his throat, length twitching and thickening in your grip.

He’s getting close, his touch rougher, more force behind the snapping thrusts of his hips, teeth nipping at the side of your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you say, breathless, twisting your hand on the upstroke. He smothers a grunt in your shoulder. “Give it to me.”

It doesn’t take much more to bring him to the edge.

A particular spread of his fingers has you jolting, a sudden, intense spike of pleasure shooting right to your clit.

In turn, you unintentionally massage his cock, knuckles bumping the underside of the swollen head.

He’s a goner.

Cumming with a low, wounded whine and a shuttered thrust, Yoongi smacks the door with his free hand. Thick spurts of jizz make an absolute mess of his stomach and your knuckles.

Sagging forward like a doll with cut strings, all his dead weight bears down on you.

He pants, small tremors wrack his frame. “Baby,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, “I missed you s’much.”

“Missed you too,” you reply, using nice, languid strokes to wring the last of his orgasm out of him. “More than I thought I did.”

In lieu of a response, Yoongi wiggles his fingers inside you, rebuilding the rhythm he lost. He flutters them, curls up against your walls, peppering kisses along the length of your jaw with a hum.

Slick drips down his wrist, the sloppy sound of him finger fucking your cunt blending with a surge of desperate moans.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Yoongi says against your chin. “So fucking hot, wanna see you cum.”

Your back arches, your fingers digging into the width of his shoulders, head smacking the door with a dull thud.

“Can you do that for me?”

Nodding frantically, you fall apart with a broken gasp. Clamping down so hard he can’t move, the cramps softened by the throbbing heat washing over you. Blood rushes in your ears as your pussy gushes around his fingers.

“Good girl,” he praises, tone heated. “You did so well for me.”

By the time your brain comes back online, you’ve forgotten all about Chang-ryul and the constant vibration of your phone where it’s shoved - forgotten - into your pocket.

The only thing that matters is Yoongi with his tender kisses and greedy hands.

[uranometrias]

wait for your love, spencer reid (pt. 2)

this is the second part to this. tysm for all the love on the first part, as well as all the new follows. this literally took so long, and i'm literally so sorry. i suck, but i hope you all enjoy it nonetheless. xx

you can read the alternate version for jj right here.

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau! reader | spencer reid x bau! reader | s7 team x bau! reader (platonic)

summary: following the dismissal of the case against the bureau, you're trying to get back into the swing of things. that moment of realization that comes with discovering the love you feel for someone else isn't reciprocates is never fun. but it's a truth you're meant to accept nonetheless, with a bit of help from your dearest friend spencer, you find that through a conversation about the realities of music and their hidden messages getting the courage to move on is not quite as difficult as you might have initially thought. especially when there's someone like spencer reid waiting on the other side. except of course, things always get difficult when it seems now as you're moving on, the past object of your desires is believed to feel the same way you always have.

content warnings: this is the sequel to angst lol. it's still very kind of angsty, but not as bad! it doesn't exactly end with spence/reader running off into the distance together, but i think it has a very bittersweet & sort of hopeful ending, which i felt made the most sense for a storyline like this. sometimes people have feelings for people that don't like them back, and sometimes it's just something we have to deal with.. sad but true. && i didn't want spence to seem like a rebound for reader, so i tried to go the route of her slowly putting the pieces together that maybe spence had romantic feelings for her && going from there. still spencer somewhat confesses his feelings for reader, hints that hotch might actually like reader, jj/reader reconciliation, because it needed to happen soz! she might have feelings for y/n too idk... she's kinda pulling everybody. this feels kinda melodramatic, but also idk i want epic romance vibes so i tried my best xx

i also love how hotch was such a focal part of this story and never physically showed up once... hmm.

tagged the people that asked for part 2 xx

@stvrlitsky , @cocopuff213 , @aaronhotchnerlover , @ofagathachristies , @blurpleuni-squid , @wolf-phoenix-lover , @babyspiderling , @queermaxwooo , @jihyowrrld , @minkyungseokie , @silentjudger , @btskzfav , @barbeddreams , @ah-blossom , @darker-december

It had been about a week since the court proceedings, you'd been more than a little surprised to find that you all managed to walk away scot free. You still hadn't managed to work up the courage to place your resignation papers on Hotch's desk, probably because you still hadn't gotten up the strength to face him or anyone else for that matter. You weren't outwardly abrasive, you'd offer small nods of greeting when you showed up in the morning, waves as you left.

But everyone knew that it wasn't the same.

Penelope had been trying to get you out for a night of bonding with her, Emily, and JJ, and you'd been keen on turning her down. You don't think you were quite there yet, the wound however surface level was still fresh. Looking at Emily, only reminded you of your grief, how much you had missed her. Looking at JJ only reminded you of how she hadn't had the courage necessary to tell you the truth. You'd tried to take their positions into account, look at things through a different view, but it hardly worked. You just wanted to be left alone.

Spencer was still the only one privy to the thoughts you had about ending your career at the FBI, and everyday he seemed to be holding his breath. It had become a habit to catch him staring at you with his face pinched up like he was deep in thought. It was partially why, even as your eyes skimmed over a file, you knew that he was looking in your direction. "Spence." you mutter quietly, eyes not quite meeting his as you highlighted something of importance in blue.

He sits at attention, back straight, eyes wide. He looked like a puppy that'd been caught doing something bad and was waiting for punishment. "You're doing it again." you exhale, and then you finally manage to peel your eyes from your work, eyebrow raising as you take him in tiredly. "Do you need something?" and he bares down on his bottom lip, almost as if he was thinking over his next move. He stands tall, grabbing hold of his chair and tugging it until it was planted on the other side of yours, before he sat down politely.

"Are you okay?" he's talking quietly, likely to salvage a bit of your privacy. You'd become a bit of a walking attraction in the bullpen, everyone seemed to follow every one of your actions with their eyes. You tap your highlighter against your desk, head tipping to the side as you scrutinize the man. You didn't know exactly what was going on with Spencer, but you had a small inkling, it was nothing more than an internal feeling if you were completely honest about it.

Your sister had been asking about him quite constantly lately, and after learning that day in the courtroom that for some odd reason the duo spoke over the phone, it made you pay a bit more attention to the certified genius than before. "I'm fine, Spencer. Just like I was when you asked me yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that." you keep your tone light, not wanting him to think that you were by any means annoyed with him. "What's going on?"

"I guess I keep waiting for you to disappear." he admits, head nodding involuntarily. "You're here right now, and you look fine." he continues, and you like listening to him, even if he was breaking one of the rules, and choosing to profile you. "So shouldn't things feel different? Better at least, like before?" he asks, and you don't expect that. Maybe he wasn't profiling you at all, and instead was expressing himself to a friend. "At least a little bit?" he asks, and you think it over.

"I don't think it'll ever be like before, Spence." and you hate to be the Betty Buzzkill, but it's as true as you can be. "How can it?" and Spencer's eyes jump across the room, landing on Emily who was not so subtly watching the two of you speak. You follow his gaze, and blink harshly when Emily's eyes connect with your own. It forces you to look right back at Spencer. He looks pensive, and you wonder how long he's been working up the courage to say more than 'Are you alright?'

"She was dead... and now suddenly she's not. That's great, but I grieved my friend, and maybe I'm not done grieving the Emily I knew before." and it's the first time you're admitting this aloud. "Our Emily, not the- Interpol Superspy." and you huff. "And look, I know I should be grateful, how many people get back the people they love after death?" and Spencer doesn't answer. "But is she really back? Is she really still our Emily? And how long before she's ready to pack up her stuff and take off? I'm not opening myself up to that again."

Spencer thinks your point is valid, he at one point had insisted that he had the worse abandonment issues on the team, but you had been right there through most of it. You were, in your own way protecting yourself from being hurt again. He couldn't fault you for that, none of them should. "I understand." and truthfully he does, and he's glad that at least you trust him enough to be upfront about it. "There's nothing wrong with shielding yourself from heartache, I just don't want you to close off completely... not from all of us."

You falter, and Spencer hates that he can't just say that he doesn't want you to close off from him. He didn't want this situation to change the way you behaved with him, he couldn't handle losing you.

"I won't." you promise. "And I won't do anything to jeopardize what we do here, I've got enough self control to be civil." you add with a small smile. "I haven't quite decided what a future at the bureau will look like, but I am willing to give things here a chance to get better." and you do love your work, Profiling was something you enjoyed doing, you wouldn't toss it away, unless you absolutely had no other choice. "So you don't have to worry about losing me, Spence." and you hold your breath, mostly because it's a bit audacious on your part.

He offers you a half smile, and you notice the way he visibly relaxes. Still, he doesn't want you to feel obligated to stay somewhere just for his sake, so he feels the need to be honest with you. "I'm not worried." he promises you, and it's a tiny fib, one that could become true if he grew just a touch more confidence. "Even if you did decide to leave one day I would put in the work to keep you in my life." and his smile stretches across his face now, and reaches his eyes. "You're not someone anyone would want to lose." your stomach twists.

"You're not either, Spencer." and you say it firmly, mainly to show just how much you need him to believe it. "I'd just make it my job to take up all your free time outside of work." and his face feels incessantly warm, like he'd stuck his head directly in the stream of scalding shower water. The funny thing about you was that you were oftentimes one of the hardest on the team to read. He figured that because he spent so much time hyper focused on you that he'd get better at it. He still hadn't, and you still managed to leave him stuck.

Comments like the one you just made were common for you, but the meaning behind it always escaped him. Were you flirting with him or were you just being nice? Was it possible that you knew that he had feelings for you? Were you using him as a rebound after the mess you'd found yourself entangled into with Hotch just months ago? The thought of him merely being an emotional rebound made him sad, disappointed, and insecure. But then he's taking in your expression, how despite your confidence you still look shy, and reels it in.

You had never been that sort of person, maybe you were just as oblivious as he was. "I'd be okay with that now." and you look a bit surprised, but also pleased. You nod your head slightly, leaning forward just a little in your seat. Spencer isn't sure if he's moved too quickly, but he's got no room to second guess it now.

"We should do something." it's not at all what he'd expected you to say, and he's surprised, it's more than evident on his face.

"Who? Us? Just the two of us?" he asks, and you find yourself offering him an amused sort of glance.

"Yeah, it could be fun." you insist, and you're not trying to play with his feelings, at least not in the traditional sense. Spencer Reid was no rebound. "It's not often we have days off, you know?" and you lean against your palm, head tipping slightly to the side. "Only if you want." you add, hoping that this addition would make him feel a touch more comfortable. It seems to work, because he untenses just a bit.

"Y-Yeah." he nods his head slightly, hair moving with the action just slightly. "Yeah, we should definitely do something." he agrees, and your smile is bright, clearly pleased at the turn of events. "When would you?" his eyes jump to his watch, and he shakes his head. "Obviously, not right now." he says and you're staring at him a bit bemused, because Spencer Reid was nothing if not a bit unserious.

"There's this music store I've been dying to check out." you say, and you witness Spencer's eyes seem to brighten. "It's sort of right on the strip, if you don't mind going with me to look at some vinyls and cd's for my collection, we could just go-" and you're eyebrows are raised, "And see what happens? There's a lot you could do..." you finish, and Spencer's already nodding his head in agreement.

"T-That's..." and he clears his throat, you think to keep you from acknowledging the fact his voice cracked in his nervousness. "Yeah, I don't mind that at all." he agrees politely. "Did you know that in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, record stores only sold gramophone records, but over time they've sold other formats like eight-track tapes, compact cassettes, and compact discs." his hands curl into one another as he relays this message and you snort.

"Did you know that there's a national record store day? It started back in 2008." and he's a bit surprised that you're shooting him a fact of your own, and one that he wasn't actually aware of.

"Really?" he questions, and your eyes sort of crinkle, smile broadening enough to show off both rows of your teeth.

"Don't tell me that I know something the brilliant Doctor Reid doesn't." you tease, and his eyes roll, though his entire demeanor remains lighthearted. "So, what's your poison?" you sidestep, but just barely, your work ignored as you focus all your efforts on keeping this conversation with Reid going.

"My poison?" and his mind of course drifts to alcohol, a bit of a confusing pivot in the conversation. "I don't really see myself as much of a drinker." he admits truthfully, and he's confused when you're laughing, hand flying up to cover your mouth as his face contorts.

"I meant your favorite music genre." you correct. "And I know you're partial to classical," and you try not to stretch your eyes. "It's great when I need to concentrate, but I wouldn't exactly say I'm dying to put on Bach and Tchaikovsky in a regular setting." you explain, both hands resting against your cheeks as you await the hopefully longwinded answer he'd have to give you.

"What if that's my only answer?" he asks, and you scoff.

"It's not." you deadpan, and he exhales through his nose. "I know you and Morgan have that understanding about music..." you explain, head cocked to the side. "He got you to listen to Nas." you remind him as he purses his lips at the reminder. "And Garcia's always sending music recommendations." you proceed as Spencer shoots you a look that clearly reads 'What's your point?'.

"Are you really telling me that out of every genre of music that's ever been released to the entire world, the only genre that's ever stood out to you is the one where old men sit behind a piano and twinkle the keys to their hearts content?" Spencer's releasing another one of those quiet laughs, this one is clearly full of exasperation though.

"I think they're doing a little bit more than twinkling keys." he corrects you, and you know that. You'd only said it to get under his skin just a little, he was fun to mess with. "Classical music is one of the only genres that seemingly does so little and is able to express the full spectrum of human emotion and life experience." he explains, and you fight your smile, leaning in just a bit more to show you were focused. You weren't sure what was happening or if anything was really happening at all, and it was all in your mind.

But you were finding that you didn't mind just listening to Spencer go on and on about whatever he wanted. You thought a lot about what had happened outside of that court room, how he'd listened to you. Really listened to you, and had never once made you feel like the emotional failure you'd imagined yourself to be. You couldn't say that in the span of a week all of your feelings for Hotch had vanished. That'd be bullshit, because deep down you knew it wasn't that easy.

And sometimes you wished it could be, sometimes you wondered why you had to fall for Hotch when Spencer was right there.

Still, whether or not you were being forced to come to grips with the fact that Hotch was not, and wouldn't ever love you the way you loved him, you couldn't deny that it was nice to have a friend there. Spencer wasn't coming to you with heavy confessions and tear-streaked cheeks begging you to look and see that he was perfect for you, which is why you think you like him even more. You knew a lot of times it was hard, rare even to find someone who would just care for you without expecting anything in return. That was Spence to a T.

"Go on." you instruct, and you find that despite the way you'd baited him into this conversation, it was well worth it. He didn't get a lot of time to just be Spencer, and with no clock over your heads, no rush for time to solve a case, you figured it was the least you could do. Especially after he'd spent the last week trying to show you how much he cared.

"I just mean that in classical music, it's actually very common to have one piece of music encompass an entire host of emotions, experiences, and subject matter." he expresses, and you hum, nodding along. "And it's all because most classical pieces use a similar formula that uses textures, dynamic colors and key modulations to express things certain words can't properly articulate." he proceeds. "That's why certain sounds and notes manage to adduce certain reactions." he seems finished.

"Oh, yeah?" you press and he nods limply, seemingly awaiting the moment you offer some jab regarding his oversharing. "I guess Mozart and Beethoven were really onto something." you mutter, and he snorts. "Still, I'd much rather listen to something a bit more obvious." you admit, not that you had a real problem with Classical Music.

"What do you mean?"

"Well I'm just saying... music's always sort of been the perfect tool for expressing everything you might need to say." you counter. "And while I agree that music in any form does a great job of invoking certain emotions, sometimes you don't want to guess what someone means." you admit, and it's partially (mostly) because you had never been good at reading in between the lines. Things always made the most sense when they were plainly spelled out.

"Or maybe that's just a me thing." you correct. "I've found that I always enjoy things when they're a little more laid out... there's no way to misunderstand when it's spelled out for you, right?" you ask and Spencer's lips curve down into a slight frown. He's not pitying you, mostly just sympathizing with how torn up you must have been about everything. Especially as your eyes instinctively are drawn to the shut doorway of Hotch's office. Spencer thinks that's when reality sets back in and hits him like a brick.

Because he knew something that you didn't. Something that would probably make everything better for you, but would undoubtedly double his heartache. In truth, he, much like everyone else on the team tried their hardest to ignore just how obvious you'd been about your feelings for hotch. spencer more than anyone.

He remembered how things had changed a few months back, how you'd started to move on all for the rug to be pulled from up under your feet. It had been outwardly cruel, undoubtedly. because while everyone else on the team seemed to be just fine with 'don't ask, don't tell', Spencer had been unable to not pay attention to the way Hotch had actually changed too. Did he hate him? Absolutely not... and he knew you didn't either, because despite how idiotic the plan was, he hadn't done much besides give you more attention.

And Spencer guessed the act of giving you more attention had unsurprisingly ended with Aaron Hotchner realizing it was something he actually enjoyed. Hence the sudden change their boss underwent.

He supposed that was the worst part about it all, the fact that everyone had the right to tell you that "nothing had happened", and there was nothing you could do about it. Because in the grand scheme of things nothing really had happened. Hotch was no heartless womanizer, Spencer couldn't even imagine the man flirting with anyone, let alone stringing someone along for kicks. Still, that didn't change the fact that you'd gotten your hopes up, and now you were back to your own harsh reality.

Not because it wasn't a real possibility, more so because Hotch was self destructive, and sabotaged himself and his happiness at every turn. Spencer wants to stay quiet, to bask in the fact that you were slowly on your own terms getting over Hotch, and paying more attention to him, but he can't do that. He'd hate it if someone did it to him. So instead he decides to throw you a bone, push you in the right direction. "Why haven't you just talked to him?" it's not what he had meant to say. He had meant to play the role of the supportive friend.

He'd wanted to pat you on the back, mumble some agreeance that would validate how you were feeling, and possibly give him cool points. Instead, here he was about to push you in the direction of someone else. He supposed that's how stupid love made you.

"What?" you exclaim, and Spencer doesn't know what's so exasperating about his question. It was obvious that you needed to, it wasn't fair that you were slowly deteriorating on the inside whilst trying to maintain some semblance of being a "team player". He said 'screw the team' if it wasn't genuine. And clearly, from the way you'd still been icing out JJ and Emily, it wasn't. Not fully anyway. He'd never rush you to get over it, mostly because it'd make him a hypocrite. He still cringes at the thought of the tears he'd shed to JJ.

But, that was his own problem.

"Hotch." he lowers his voice a little, because it's just now hitting him that the two of you have been slacking off for a while now. Emily wasn't exactly focused in on the both of you anymore, but every so often, he'd find that she still look up every few moments. JJ, Derek, and Rossi had made a habit of leaving their respective offices, eyes glued to what was apparently becoming unit news. "You should talk to him." he says simply as your eyes cross dramatically.

"What's there to talk about?" you ask suddenly distracted by a smudge on the corner of your desk.

"What happened." he says simply. "I mean, don't you think there might be some explanation you might be missing?" Spencer tries, and you curl into yourself just a little bit.

"It's still work hours and he's still Hotch." you deny, and Spencer's lips push to the side, an obvious sign of his slight discomfort about what he was going to say next. "He's not going to want to talk about it." you admit. "And what exactly do you say in a conversation like that? Oh by the way boss, I was in love with you, and it kinda felt like maybe you felt the same, except oh wait, it was just a ploy to keep me from realizing you were lying about Emily being alive?" you say sarcastically. Spencer huffs in retaliation.

"Yes actually, you could say exactly that. Maybe you'll learn something you didn't know before." he deadpans, and your nose curls. You cut your eyes over at the man, who's not amused.

"I kinda thought you'd be the last person pushing for this sort of confrontation, you know?' you admit before you can really help yourself. You watch as Spencer's face seems to set into one of surprise, his cheeks and neck slowly gaining a red sort of tint to them.

"What do you mean?" he questions, and your mouth parts just slightly. And you think the same way he's been gentle with you is the exact same way you need to be gentle with him, so you pivot, head shaking from side to side.

"Nothing." you say firmly. "Forget about it." you say quietly, and then you're looking back at your paperwork. Spencer, embarrassed finds himself fiddling with his fingers, trying to scold his heartbeat back into submission. It suddenly felt way too cramped sitting at your desk.

"You should go after work." he says, and your eyes snap back to him. "Talk to Hotch after work, I mean." he says and your stomach feels a bit tight. "I think it'll be best." he proceeds, and you frown.

"You do?" you question, and you try not to sound despondent.

"Y-Yeah, I do." he agrees despite his stutter. "Things like this don't go away on their own, you know?" and you chew on the inside of your lip, and feel that gloom cloud from earlier making its way back.

"I thought we were supposed to be hanging out today, Spencer." you start and he blinks owlishly, long lashes nearly caressing the tops of his cheekbones.

"We could always raincheck." he says, and you stare at him just a bit blankly. "It's not like it was a date or anything. They were just plans..." he adds, and your teeth chomp down on your bottom lip. He doesn't really know how to read the look on your face, but he knows that he feels like he's being noble.

"Just plans." you shrug your shoulders dismissively. "Right." and then you pick up your pen. "Well if that's what you want, I guess it's fine by me." you add, body curling into itself as you position yourself away from him.

"Isn't that what you want?" he questions, and you cut your eyes.

"Do you think I'd be sitting here if it was?" you keep your voice level, but your leg is bouncing. You're not quite sure why, maybe because Spencer was being Spencer. You supposed your comment that made it clear that you knew that he had feelings for you had scared him. Now, he was trying to protect himself, but you weren't so hungry for a relationship that you'd string him along for the sole purpose of getting over Hotch. You would've made this call had you figured it out or not, and you supposed the fact he didn't get that was what sucked. "I'm not that pathetic." you add with a quiet scoff.

"It's not about you being pathetic." he denies. "I don't think that about you., I just know that you're in a vulnerable place. You had real feelings for him, and I think it'd be best for you to get it all off your chest correctly, before you start projecting all those leftover feelings to the first person you can." and he doesn't mean it in the way it sounds. In fact the statistics about rebounds would sound a lot worse, but as usual, he's horrible at communicating exactly what he feels.

You blink. Once, twice, three times.

"I can't believe you just said that to me." you say, and you're abruptly standing up, mostly because you're about to cry like the fucking baby you were. Spencer's certain this is a new record for how quickly things could go left just because he couldn't shut the hell up. What he'd been trying to convey was that after a rejection, it was much easier to mistake platonic feelings for romantic ones. He had been a consistent shoulder for you to lean on since everything went south.

He didn't want you to think that he was being nice to you only because he had feelings for you, and convince yourself that you felt the same all because you refused to fully shut the door with Hotch. But he'd never actually meant to make it seem like you'd be so desperate, and especially not with him. "Y/N, wait. That's not what I meant-" except you're already leaving, taking in the shaky breath that told him he'd stupidly made you cry.

"L/N?" Emily's calling as you pass her, but you don't respond to her either. Instead you're rushing off in the direction of the bathroom, likely to calm yourself down. Emily's eyes are immediately snapping over to Spencer, and her eyebrows are furrowed. He instinctively looks away, internally cursing himself out.

────────────────────────

"Y/N/N?" you're surprised to hear JJ entering the bathroom, and you're hurriedly moving to splash at your face with water to keep it from looking so puffy. Still, JJ was as perceptive as she was pushy, so it's clear she's already put it together that you're crying. "Hey, is everything alright?" she takes on that motherly tone she uses with Henry, and the rest of the team when they're feeling down.

"I'm fine." you insist, and she doesn't look convinced. She takes a tentative step towards you, standing beside the sink you were occupying. "Seriously JJ, please just leave me alone." you partially beg.

"I know you're upset with me, but you're still my friend." she reminds you. "I'm not going to leave you in here when it's clear you're upset." she exclaims. "So you can talk to me or not, but I'm not going anywhere." she deadpans, and you sniffle, rubbing harshly at your cheeks. They're sensitive to the action, blood rushing to your face.

"You're so annoying." you mumble, but there's no bite. It makes JJ snicker, and it's a step in the right direction you're sure.

"It's my job." she retorts with a shrug, and she leans her back against the sink beside you, legs crossing slightly. "Is everything okay?" she tries again, much more gently as you frown. No, everything was not okay. You hadn't actually expected to be sitting here crying over Spencer's remark, but you supposed that the fact he believed you'd ever use him as a rebound had kind of hurt. You supposed it also didn't help that he'd so callously canceled your plans.

You'd actually started to look forward to hanging out with him.

"Do you think I'm desperate?" you question haughtily, and JJ's eyes widen, surprise overtaking her features as she turns to you fully.

"Of course not." she denies firmly, blonde ponytail bobbing with all her intense animation. "What would make you think that?" she pries, and you cut your eyes just slightly.

"You guys could have trusted me with the truth." you counter, and she falls silent. "And even if you couldn't there were so many other ways to keep me from finding out about Emily. Ways that didn't involve making me look like an idiot to the rest of the team." you mumble crossly, and you blink enough that you feel like your lashes are crumpling into your cornea. it forces you to drag a hand over them roughly, rubbing harshly at your eyes until the sensation left.

"That wasn't what we were trying to do." JJ tries, and it doesn't really matter what exactly she was trying to do. What mattered was what had happened. "You know that." she adds, and you think she's trying to appeal to the part of you that knew the type of people she and Hotch were. The ones that had proven their loyalty to the team for years and years. "Is this about Hotch?" she says and you wince because the problem wasn't that simple.

And you didn't understand why everyone seemed to think so.

You weren't some girl that couldn't handle rejection, what bothered you the most was that Hotch and JJ had felt like they couldn't trust you, and it bothered you that Hotch had felt like he had to play along to some stupid fantasy to ensure you'd play your role. And it especially bothered you that you'd mourned your friend Emily and everything you thought you knew about her, and all anyone could focus on was the fact that you liked Hotch and he didn't like you back. As if your entire world stopped all because of it.

"No, it's not about Hotch." you deadpan. "I wish you guys would just stop being so casual about it." you add on as JJ's mouth parts.

"Y/N... it's not really something that you'd ever really been subtle about. Everyone knows." and she's still trying to be gentle, despite the fact that the words still managed to slice at you.

"So that makes what you guys did, okay?" you shoot back. "Is that really the hill you want to die on?" and you're growing crosser. "This isn't about not being liked back by a guy, this is about me believing that the people I spend most of my days with have my back. How are we supposed to be a team when I can't trust you?" you press. "Because you never would have done that to Spence." you add, and JJ blinks, mostly because she doesn't know how to counter that.

"You didn't have to do it to Derek or Rossi or Penelope either." you remind her. "So what was it about me, about this that made your only course of action rubbing salt in a wound that I was doing a damn good job of healing all on my own?"

"I-I don't know." she admits, and you suppose it was an answer.

"Yeah, well I don't know if I have the patience to wait around for you all to figure that out." you mumble.

"What are you saying?" and JJ's blinking a bit more, eyes misty but not quite showing any signs of shed tears.

"I'm saying that before I didn't know if I wanted to stay here anymore. I love my job, but I don't love how it makes me feel now." you say plainly. "When Elle got like that and ignored her gut it got someone shot." you say, and it sounds melodramatic, but it doesn't feel that way at all. JJ gasps, though it's faint. "I just don't want to wait around for that to happen to me." and you inhale sharply, shuddered breath wracking through you as JJ stares at you clearly gobsmacked.

"But-" and she can't quite grasp the words. "You can't just leave." she exclaims, and it sounds like she's pleading. "Look-" and she's starting to sound just a little desperate. "Look we never wanted to hurt you, okay? And-and none of us..." and she stops to make sure she's staring you directly in your eyes. "None of us want to lose you, Y/N." she insists. "I-" and she's shaking her head again. "Please don't do this." and she sounds the same way Spencer did when he said it. Your nose twitches, "We just got the team back together." she mutters.

"JJ, that's not fair." you huff at her, and she's not really trying to be fair. She just doesn't want you to leave.

"I'm so sorry that we hurt you." and while most apologies that start that way are usually rife with deceit, JJ sounds more sincere than she probably ever has before. "And I'm sorry if it feels a little flat, especially with you already having a foot out the door." she sighs, "It wasn't okay, but-but I know how Hotch feels about you. How the entire team feels about you." she reiterates. "We can't do this without you, we can't." she emphasizes sternly. "And maybe that's selfish to bring up, but we all care so much about you." she promises.

You want to cut her off, but she doesn't give you the chance.

Classic JJ.

"Do whatever you need to! Take as much time away as you need, hate us forever if you have to, but please don't- don't walk away from what you do here." she exhales shakily. "And-and for the record, whether it helps or not... we didn't sit around discussing your... feelings for Hotch." she tells you quietly. "It wasn't some master plan that we composed, and-and I don't know... it couldn't have all been fake." she whispers, and you wonder why she's changing her tune, because just last week she was telling you that 'it wasn't real'

"JJ-" you finally manage and she's shaking her head.

"I'm serious." she insists, and your nose crinkles up again.

"Stop." you deadpan. "You're being really mean." you huff, and you begin to click at your nails just slightly. JJ thinks you're a little bit exasperating. Too stubborn for your own good, but she wont push.

"Could you just listen for one second?" she exclaims, and you're pouting as she grows more overwhelmed at it all. "I wouldn't lie to you about this." she insists, and you wonder why she, and Spencer have taken this sort of stance with you. It should make you hopeful, right? Oh, there was some chance that Hotch felt the same way as you. Except you can't be happy about it, because he's not the one that was sitting here telling you this. It was JJ.

What had you told Spencer earlier? 'There's no way to misunderstand when it's spelled out for you, right', and emotionally exhausted or not, you meant it. Which meant you refused to do the work for him. If he couldn't say it, if he couldn't admit it, than it was as if it wasn't true at all. Which is why you exhale, blinking away whatever bleariness tried to keep itself latched to your eyes. "I love you for trying so hard, but I'd rather you didn't." you instruct sternly.

JJ inhales deeply, audibly expelling the breath from her nose. "That's what you're missing, Y/N." she begins, and she reaches out, hand cupping your shoulder. "I'm not trying to do anything. Everything I've said today I meant. You're important, and you're a lot to lose." she admits. "If you're going to leave, leave because you hate the job, do it because you don't feel fulfilled any longer. But don't let this be what makes you throw in the towel, Y/N." she says and you huff again.

You were doing a lot of that today. "We'll make up for it." she begins, and then she sighs. "I'll make up for it, however long it takes." and you think her pivot from sharing the blame to taking it all for herself makes you feel a little less like you were being ganged up on. She was no longer the spokesperson for everyone involved, and was back to just being JJ, your friend JJ. "Please?" she tries again, and it's not like her to beg, which tells you all you need to know about how serious she was.

"We should get back to work." you mumble, and it's not quite the answer she's expecting, but at the very least it was a promise that you both still had until the end of the day at the very least. She doesn't have the strength to fight her smile, arms looping around you in a move that's much too invasive for your still sour mood, but you don't slight her for it. You instead let her hug you, because obviously it meant a lot more to her than you knew. She'd missed you.

"Alright, alright. That's enough." you tease, moving to lightly push the blonde off of you as she exhales.

"Can you blame me? I thought you were gonna hate me forever." she admits honestly, and you crinkle your nose.

"Guess I'm softer than I thought." you reply, and she waves you off at the remark. Still, despite this slight turn in the direction of your relationship with JJ, you still couldn't feel all that settled. But, you know hiding out in the restroom was by no means the best choice. So when JJ moves to leave, you tail her, surprised when on the other side is a nearly pacing Reid.

"Spence?" JJ exclaims in surprise, the tawny haired man turns to you both. He's immediately looking past JJ to take you in. JJ follows hos gaze and whistles under her breath, deciding that her job was done. She offers you a hopeful sort of look before she continues on towards her desk, leaving you and Spencer mostly alone.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and you're subjectively alright, for the moment. You're better than you were, but not as good as you could be. You're not anywhere near where or who you were before, but you suppose after what the team endured there wasn't much that could be done about that last bit. "I'm so sorry." he's exclaiming, and of course, he means it. He always means it. "I didn't mean to-" and he doesn't really know how to articulate all his thoughts correctly.

He's good with words, knows facts and statistics and data, knows what runs through his mind when he thinks about you, and knows what he wants to say. It's when he opens his mouth that things go awry, because despite all his grand attempts, he always manages to screw up when it came to expressing the emotional side of things. His pep talks sometimes fell flat, and a lot of times he missed the mark when it came to cheering someone up. But, he'd never wanted to be a person who hurt you, so he needed to fix it.

Even if it ruined everything forever.

"I wasn't trying to insinuate that you'd-" and he motions between the both of you. "I don't think that you see me as a rebound." he finally vocalizes. "That would mean you'd have to see me in a potentially romantic way." Spencer's voice is as steady as it often was when he was giving a geographical profile or helping to relay some form of fact or evidence during a case. Which said a lot about his intentions, and how serious he was about you not misunderstanding him.

"I was merely trying to note that a lot of times in circumstances where we're faced rejection from someone we hold to a high regard, it's really easy to misinterpret our own feelings and latch onto people before we really mean to." he expresses, and your chewing on the inside of your cheek, albeit subtly. "For example, because you've established me as someone who you can trust during this time, it'd be really easy for you to misinterpret what you think you feel for me." he says, and your eyebrows furrow inwardly.

"How could I possibly do that? They're my own feelings." you retort.

"Because, the first thing people do after a breakup, is they seek validation, or a new way to boost their esteem and self worth." he doesn't quite lecture, but it's clear he's intent on your knowing all of this. "And that doesn't necessarily mean that you're vying for me as a potential person to bounce back with, but a lot of times when you don't process the end of a previous emotional bond, your view of the entire new dynamic can be warped." he proceeds, and you're still not really understanding his point, instead you're feeling more silly.

"What are you saying, Spencer?" you question quietly.

"All I'm trying to explain is that I don't want you to tell me that you want to go out and listen to me promenade facts unless it's what you really want to do." he says, "I don't want you to feel like you're obligated to play along, because you think we're in the same boat... where we- we love someone that we can't have?" he presses, and he winces once it's out, you think you may have started holding your breath. "Does that make sense to you?"

You nod your head limply, and you take in his words. You find that your little hunch about your dear Spencer was correct. You also note that it doesn't quite scare you the way you'd initially believed it would. "Spence, I wouldn't do that to you." you remind him, and he nods too.

"I know that." he promises. "At least not consciously, but our minds can play tricks on us. You could think that this is what's best, moving on... forgetting about- about everything that happened." he presses, and your lips form into a thin line. "And then wake up in three weeks and remember why you fell in love with Hotch to begin with."

"Or-" and his eyes widen.

"Or?"

"Or...I could choose to stop waiting around for someone to not be afraid to love me." you counter. "I could- I could choose to hang out with my friend, Spencer and be okay with whatever happens after that. I could- We could do that. And it could be okay." you purse your lips. "Because, it's what I want to do. Nobody's entitled to my feelings but me, and you know what that means, Spencer? It means that if you think that you might love me, you need to be okay with that." he looks a bit startled that you're saying it so bluntly, but stays quiet.

"And you need to know that sometimes your statistics are gonna be wrong, and sometimes the guy that's too scared to admit how they feel doesn't get the girl." it's a shock, you can't say that you've fallen out of love in a day, you can't say that you've fallen in love in a day. But you do know that Spencer Reid managed to invoke a hope inside of you that you hadn't managed to feel in a long time. He made you girlishly giddy, and you liked talking to him, you liked listening to him, you liked the way it felt when you'd made plans together.

And maybe there was no such thing as a happily ever after where everyone gets who they want, maybe in three weeks you would wake up and find that you and Spencer were better off as friends, but you weren't going to hold up your life in the hopes that maybe someday Aaron Hotchner would wake up and decide he was finally ready to love you out loud. Not when there was a chance to take your own life, your own emotions by the balls and do with them what you wanted.

"He doesn't?" Spencer asks, and you're not quite sure you can place what emotions are resting on his face and in his eyes.

"We can find out." you offer, and it's not some heady and heavy declaration of unyielding devotion, but wasn't that sort of how every relationship started? With some decision to take a chance. Maybe, you didn't really know. "There's this music store I've been dying to check out." you say, and for the second time that day Spencer seems to brighten right in front of your eyes. "It's sort of right on the strip, if you don't mind going with me... there's a lot we could do…" and the small change is almost everything. It's scary, causes a pit in your gut.

Still, it's a nicer feeling than uncertainty and the hollowness left behind by idleness. "Are you in?" you ask, and Spencer is already nodding his head, smile reaching his eyes as his pretty teeth reveal themselves to you, eyes twinkling in a way that's very very beautiful.

"Yes." he agrees with a simple nod. "I would-" and you think it's cute the way his smile refuses to leave, and sweet the way he's suddenly grown nervous all over again. "I'd like that-" and his voice cracks, and earns him a laugh, your own demeanor seeming to change as your excitement starts to brew in the depths of your chest.

"Good." you beam.

"Good." he repeats, and there's a small moment, a flicker where you're certain you both look nervous, frightful of what came next. But it only lasts a second, because you're both suddenly being called by Derek, a resounding 'Pretty Boy, Pretty Girl' forcing you out of your bubble and back into the fray. With another shared smile you find yourselves in step, making your way back towards the heart of the bullpen where the rest of the team is huddled. It's rare when work is so light, but you know as well as everyone else, you'll all take advantage of it.

When Penelope smiles at you, you smile back, and it's real.

When JJ plants herself on top of your desk, the two of you actually laugh, spilling secrets and trading gossip like nothing's ever changed.

When Rossi calls you Piccola, you relax even more into the familiarity of being surrounded by your teammates.

When Derek slings an arm around your shoulder and plants a kiss to the top of your head, you remember why you loved your job.

When Emily calls your name and waves you and JJ over to the group, you oblige, meeting Emily's eyes with no mirth left behind. When she calls you by your nickname, you feel that familiar swarm of familial adoration filling your chest, and recognize that things with her would be okay. You find that in the grand scheme she is still your Emily.

When you find yourself standing next to your boss, his usually stern and stoic persona shed in the presence of the team he considered family, you hardly bat an eye. When he smiles at a joke you make, you're pleased, but the anxiety, the panic that tormented you is all gone. The butterflies are too, replaced with the respect you remember.

And when you find yourself looking across the circle and meet the pretty brown eyes of one Spencer Reid, you feel it when your heart tremors, just a little bit.

And you think, in the end, you made the right decision.

[cuckette]

SLEIGH BALLS !

ft. leon s. kennedy x gn!reader

tags. GILF LEON!!! incest, big age gap he’s 60+ at the very least, voyeurism

note. ignore that this is sort of xmas themed and sorry if this does not live up to any expectations I think I hyped him up too much LMFAOO still getting out of my writing slump so forgive me if this is very clunky and boring! not edited whatsoever so begging u ignore mistakes i’m . really unhappy this fic but still gonna post it bc idk when i will be able to write ab him again 😭 trust this will be rewritten

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

You’re a good kid. Honest. You don’t do drugs, you don’t drink, you don’t stay out late, but what you do partake in is the act of sitting in your bedroom hunched over your desk and mindlessly scrolling. Dad says to let you be, mom is unable to stay out of your business, and she thinks you need to go outside more often. Fresh air is good for you! What she’s trying to say, essentially, stripped down to the simplest of terms, is that you’re a total loser. That her and dad were fucking, partying, shooting up in alleyways, all the shit that normal teenagers are supposed to be doing.

She forcibly packs your bags, all while you trail after her whining about how she can’t touch that— Don’t be so rough with that- No that’s not to throw out- No, Mom! I wear that all the time—

She threatens to take away Christmas presents, which at your age shouldn’t be so wounding, but you shut up right then and there. “Now,” Mom talks to you like you’re a baby still. You appreciate it sometimes, like now, when your body is wilting as she opens up the curtains, fragility is much appreciated. You fear the sunlight might turn your bones to dust. “Me and dad are going away.”

What— For Christmas, mom says. Where— A few states over, none that really concern you, might be a road trip for all you know. When— As soon as you’re gone. How, why, who— Mom doesn’t answer those, she’s exasperated by your rigorous questioning, by the way you wring your hands and slump when you sit. It’s awful, looks like you’ve got a hunchback forming.

“Why would you do this to me, mom?” You paw at her sleeve, she brushes you off. “Will you pick me up before Christmas? I don’t want to stay there, what if he doesn’t like me?”

“Grandpa’s fun,” She tells you, “He’s been asking about you.”

Liar. You’ve met grandpa a handful of times, and that was as a child. He doesn’t visit for any holidays and vice versa. Doesn’t even send a Christmas card, forgets to call his own daughter to wish her a happy birthday. Grandpa clearly enjoys his solitude and you firmly doubt he’d appreciate having a mopey teen around.

Grandpa’s nice. Grandpa’s sweet, he won’t bother you. Grandpa might need help in the mornings, I don’t want him to get hurt, he works too hard. Grandpa’s quiet, don’t worry about it, both of you are. You’ll get along fine!

No one told you grandpa was hot. Mom failed to mention he was a babe at, like, what? Seventy years old? Not quite, but you don’t remember him being this hot. Good grief. He’s not tall, but his bicep is the size of your face, and his hair is shaggy. A dull grey colour, shiny like gunmetal. When he takes your suitcase, his arm flexes and bulges outwards, you start to overheat, brain sizzling as you’re cooked under his cobalt gaze.

There’s an old pick-up outside his expansive farmhouse, a mailbox that’s in desperate need of another layer of paint, a wooden stable off in the distance that you doubt he uses - other than that it’s barren. This is true torture. Mom’s very own version of those camps they send out of control teens to. Your sneakers sink into the mud, as you walk the soles make that icky squishy sound, your socks are soaked for sure. He doesn’t take his boots off, tracks mud into the house and you recoil. Somebody needs to give grandpa etiquette lessons.

“Can you ask him for the wifi password?” You ask mom quietly, playing with your fingers as Grandpa Leon places your suitcase on the bottom step, grumbling about taking it up later, that you should’ve packed lighter.

“Dad, did you set up the router?”

“The what?”

“The router, broadband, so you can use the phone I sent you? For Christmas?” Mom’s frowning, hands on her hips as Leon waves her off.

“I got a landline.” He gestures to the telephone on the desk that sits pushed up against the wall of the entrance hall, you had to squeeze past it into the open-plan lounge. Rustic. Old. The ornaments that sit tucked between nooks and crannies remind you of the shit that gets sold for two cents in a yard sale.

“Dad, that’s not…” She shakes her head, pushes you forward, “Give grandpa a hug.”

Is this bitch serious? How old does she think you are? Nonetheless, you step forward, outstretched arms being met with hands that gently put them back by your side. Leon pats your head, his smile looks more like a grimace, a few of his teeth are fake - you can tell. Thank god they’re not dentures. You don’t know if you could deal with watching him popping them in and out, and what about kissing? The texture must be awful. Not that you’re going to kiss him. Your grandpa. It’s just the thought of course.

“Uh, you’re big now.” Leon notes, squints at you so hard the skin around his eyes gets wrinkled to the point where they sink into his face. Ew. You’re just lucky he doesn’t have that old person smell, and from what you’ve heard, grandpa’s capable of taking care of himself. No diapers, no IV tubes, no hourly medicine, nothing that you were afraid of happening. Putting you in charge of someone’s life would be a bad choice to put it simply. “How old are you? Twelve?”

“Dad, god,” Mom rubs her temples, “Nineteen, okay? Got that?”

“I was kidding,” Leon huffs, looking to the side in a brooding manner, he wasn’t kidding. He’s a bad liar like mom.

“Okay, just, please,” She has her fists clenched, biting the inside of her cheek, “I’ll be back for you before Christmas Eve, okay?”

“On Christmas Eve? That’s too late.” Grandpa has bad hearing it seems, or the inability to process whatever his child is saying as most men do.

“I said before, dad, before Christmas Eve,” Mom’s eyes almost pop out of her head, “Whatever, I have to go now, just behave for Grandpa, okay?” She does not have to go yet, she just wants to abandon you here, with no wifi— how will you be able to do anything, the panic hasn’t properly set in yet, you’re too busy pressing your hands to the glassy watching forlornly as mom gets into the car and speeds off so fast you hear her tires squeak. She really wanted to get rid of you. Dumping you with an old man who doesn’t even know your name. A hot old man, but you shouldn’t let your judgement be clouded so easily. And you shouldn’t talk about your grandpa like that.

“How you doing in school?” Grandpa’s question is said with so much disinterest you wonder why he tried to sound like he cares in the first place.

“I’m in college.” You say.

“Right.” Leon shrugs in a way that says worth a shot - at communicating with his basically estranged grandchild that is. “How’s college, good grades? Still gotta pay?”

“Yeah.” You nod, to all of it or none. And that’s that.

Staying with grandpa, you decide, is not the worst thing that could’ve happened to you. Going on vacation with your parents who are in desperate need of a fuck so they can stop arguing sounds worse now that you put it into perspective. The old man is quiet, mom was right about that, and he does his own thing. He let you set up the router, but in the middle of Bumfuck, USA, surrounded by flattened fields, connection isn’t the greatest.

Old photo albums end up being your main source of entertainment. Of your mom as a kid, of grandpa when he was sunflower blond and boyish, with all the beauty of a wild mare, long-faced and tow-headed, although not quite. Much softer, similar to that of raw linen, as if he was born from the rib of spring itself. From its newfound petals and holy lambs. You think it’s too poetic, pretentious even, that it gives grandpa too much credit for being blond and blue-eyed. Beneath Leon’s crushed nose you can see the former pretty boy that he once was. His eyes are the same, and his aged face is more rugged than it is handsome, that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. You think you like him better this way, as grandpa.

Among other things, you learn all sorts about grandpa, he doesn’t speak much, and when he does it’s hard to decipher - just kind of nonsensical grumbling that you can’t really make out. But you’ve done your own research. His bedroom door doesn’t shut fully, you noticed it one night on the way back from the bathroom and decided to take a peek. The setup of his bedroom mirrors the spare room you're sleeping in. His nighttime routine consists of taking a shot of whiskey and trying to get through a book that looks like it’s been sitting on his bedside cabinet for centuries. Leon gets through less than a single page and knocks out, mouth wide open as he snores. Loudly.

He never notices you. Or he pretends not to. Or he’s just senile. It might be wrong, that you know more than you’re letting on. Like what his dick looks like when it’s soft - heavy between his thighs, the skin is wrinkled but not to the point where his dick is unrecognisable. Still looks like a pretty solid dick. You know whether his nipples are pink or brown - brown obviously. Y’know, just the usual, what all grandkids should know about their grandads.

One night, you watch him silently through the gap, the only light that remains glowing is the lamp on his bedside. An ornate looking thing, beaded fringe that lines the shade, out of place in his otherwise barely furnished room. It bathes him in its warmth as he undresses, and you’re struck in the gut by this awful need. His body held up well, surprisingly firm for his age, god forbid he turns around you don’t want to catch sight of anything saggy and unholy. Firm muscle is softened by a layer of fat, making him thicker around the middle. The beer is finally catching up with him.

Grandpa sits back on his bed, with a soft groan he lifts his hips and takes off his boxers. There’s a terrible ache between your legs, throbbing and pulsing and downright nasty. His cock rests heavy on his thigh, the tip is fat and dark, uncut on the fat, you want to put your mouth on it. Never sucked dick before, never been inclined to suck one, but now you think it’s a matter of life and death. You need him down your throat or you’ll die due to neglect.

Why he wanders around the room naked and aimless for a good five minutes mystifies you, a sign of dementia maybe, great jerk off material though, so you don’t complain. Your hand rests on the doorframe as you rub yourself raw, he seems to remember what he was looking for and approaches the vintage chest of drawers, opening the first one to grab his pyjamas. They’re always in the same place, he’s forgetful and old you guess.

As your stomach lurches with the onset of your high, you make the mistake of stepping forward, clasping at the door knob to steady yourself as a wave of pleasure washes over you and leaves your legs shaky. Grandpa looks up, and he blinks at you standing there with your hand in your pants. He’s not quite as stunned as you expected him to be, and while you get ready to wing it back to your room - he half-smiles at you. Like he’s amused.

“You enjoy the show?” Grandpa raises a brow, he pats his lap, and you nod dumbly, legs working on their own as your brain tries to process the fact that he’s not reacting to this badly. “Think I didn’t see you, sweetheart?” Once you near him, he sits you down on his thigh, “You just gotta speak up and ask for things sometimes, then you’ll get ‘em.”

“I don’t… I’m sorry.” You don’t follow, clinging to his shoulders helplessly.

“Been a long time since I’ve done this, you gotta be nice to me, I can’t keep up with you.” Leon kisses the top of your head, that’s the most affectionate he's been since you’ve been here. The most you got out of him was a pat on the back so hard it knocked your organs out of place.

“Grandpa, wait,” The air is stolen from your lungs by a single sharp gasp as he takes your hand in his, the one that was previously down your pants, and sucks on your fingers. His tongue collects the slick that coats them, then he pulls off with a pop, lips wet with your pussy. “Wait, wait,” Your chest tightens, and you’re lightheaded.

“What?” Leon pays you no mind, he lifts your shirt over your head, there’s some struggle as you refuse to lift your arms for a moment. He gets his way, leaning down to take your peaked nipples into his hot mouth.

“It’s wrong.” You push at his head, resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair and bring him closer.

“Oh, ‘s wrong now?” Grandpa kisses you, his stubble scratches your cheeks and it feels so right. “Wasn’t wrong when you were getting off to me, was it?”

Spit trickles down your chin, he licks it up, kisses you once more, the excessive dribble finding its way back into your mouth. “That’s ’cause… Well, ‘cause I was…” You stammer, clasping at his chest, fingers tickled by the faint grey hairs that cover the expanse of it.

“‘Cause what?” He gives you more spit-slicked kisses till you shut up, growing dizzier by the second.

“Grandpa…”

His nose wrinkles, “That don’t sound right.” Leon mumbles, under his breath, but ‘cause he’s going deaf it's loud and you hear it. It’s more of an announcement.

“Papa,” You try as he thumbs your pout, the ghost of a smile lines his thin lips. He seems to like that.

Grandpa likes to kiss, he’s starved for affection probably, or he’s just a sentimental old man. You’re impatient and young, he knows that, so when he lays you down, caged by his big arms, Leon makes sure to slow it down even further. Watching you squirm brings him joy, you’ve never seen him smile like that. He kisses every inch of tender flesh, from the top of your head to your ankles.

When he finally parts your thighs to get to your centre, you let out a sigh of relief, body growing lax as he peels your underwear off. Practically glued to your cunt with how much you’ve leaked. Leon traces the shape of your puffy lips, his nose meets your clit first with a light bump. The touch has you reeling, hips lifting up in a jolty motion that makes him chuckle. He uses a single hand to pin you down, splayed over your stomach so he can eat you out without being bothered by your level of sensitivity.

A moment after the nudge of his nose comes his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen bud that has pleasure blooming in your gut. Then his tongue swipes along the seam of your cunt, catching on your clit, he parts your folds with his thumbs, catching every droplet that leaks from your drippy hole. Grandpa sucks on your clit like it’s a piece of hard candy, your thighs clamp shut around his head, he doesn’t seem to mind at all, taking the chance to nestle further into your pussy, tongue digging into your clenching hole all while his nose rubs against your clit.

He’s satisfied only when you are, when you cream on his tongue and he can taste it in the very back of his throat, only then does he pry your thighs apart. Emerging with the bottom half of his face covered in a sheen of your slick like he’s just been diving, you’re pretty sure he gave you carpet burn.

From then on, you begin to sleep in grandpa's room, you sit patiently on his lap while he watches black and white westerns dug up from the depths of who knows where. They’re slow paced and soon enough you find his hand cupping your pussy, grandpa gets you off on his fingers, he kisses your neck - but he doesn’t go any further, never gives you the dick that you crave so badly.

Mom calls a few times, not as many times as you would like her to call, but now that you and grandpa have bonded, it’s been easier to pass her off. You tell her there’s no need to pick you up, that you’re quite happy to stay with grandpa for the rest of the holidays, you don’t say that you’re ready to move in with grandpa and drop out of college to tend to his soft cock all day. Theoretically, if you did drop out of college, you think everything would be handled, surely by now he would’ve put his will in your name. It doesn’t sound all that bad. It sounds quite ideal actually. Sure, grandpa’s fussy about the thermostat, he might need dentures in a few years, but you’ve settled in so nicely. Like, all you’re trying to say is, grandpa’s a lonely guy - he could use your company till he’s sent off to a nursing home somewhere.

“I don’t want to go home,” You say into Leon’s neck, your hand sneaks downwards as the two of you lay in bed like you have been doing every night. “I wanna stay with you, grandpa.”

Leon’s brows knit together when you lift the waistband of his boxers, squeezing his soft dick in your warm palm. “Hey,” He warns lightly, there’s no real malice to it.

“Grandpa, I want you just once before I leave,” You palm him, he hardens albeit slowly, painfully slowly - he’s doing well though. No Viagra needed. You're so proud of him, he’s come a long way. The first few times you tried this his dick adamantly refuses to do more than hang limp.

“You can take me if you’ll have me.” Leon hums, and you don’t really know what that means. Feels like he speaks in tongues most of the time, that’s okay though. Not his fault, poor old man. You clamber onto his lap, dressed only in a sleep shirt for easy access, he guides his half-hard cock past your folds, the head stretching your little hole so well.

Your back arches so far he has to straighten your spine himself to keep you upright. Leon takes your wrists in one hand, bringing them behind your back and keeping you tied up like a rotisserie chicken. With some difficulty you manage to take him, both from the fact he’s still partly soft, slipping out more than a couple times, and ‘cause you’re so tense you keep pushing him out by mistake.

“Easy, sweetheart. Nice ‘n slow, don’t rush yourself.” Grandpa coos as your cunt stretches impossibly to accommodate his length. The tip rests snug in your cervix, jabbing at it painfully, and if it wasn’t for the thumb on your clit, soothing all discomfort, you’d be complaining. Grandpa’s cock doesn’t get any harder, but it doesn’t get any softer either. You start to think it might be his limit as you swivel your hips, grinding yourself down into him, the base of his cock splitting you open.

You ache to touch him, to lay against his chest and fuck your hips downwards onto him lazily. Grandpa insists on keeping you like this, he begins to rut into you from below, the thumb on your clit follows the same pace. “You’re too little, sweetheart,” Grandpa chides when he feels you tighten, “Going too fast for me.” The knot snaps, unravelling as warmth spreads through your limbs, makes your legs feel like jelly.

Grandpa takes longer, he doesn’t have much left in him, but you milk him dry till his cock is left sputtering. When he lets go of your arms, you allow yourself to slump down on his chest, kneading it with your hands. “That was okay.”

“Just okay?” Leon snorts, he pats your head like he did when you first met him.

“Just okay.” You confirm, hoping he can feel your smile, and that he knows it was more than okay.

[t-lostinworlds]

A Strange(r’s) Comfort | Peter Parker

A/N: had this idea right after i saw nwh which was...years ago now lol. rewatched it again recently so here’s me dusting off a wip that’s been sitting in my drafts. basically, this is just me giving peter some comfort in a way, bc that boy really needs one :((

》 PAIRING: peter parker x female!reader 》 TROPE/GENRE: strangers to lovers (mostly implied); soft angst; hurt/comfort 》 SUMMARY: Peter found a strange comfort in the graveyard, no less. But hearing about your day-to-day had been the highlight of his. And when one night led to the both you showing vulnerability, suddenly, Peter didn't feel so alone anymore. Maybe a stranger's comfort wasn't so bad. 》 WARNINGS: Spoilers? (i mean it’s been a while); bad jokes/puns (one about chicken & one about sex lmao); peter eavesdropping (sorta...ya know, enhanced hearing); it’s mostly set in the graveyard so...; mentions of: death, car accident, drunk drivers, being in jail for a moment, petty theft, peer pressure; and overall just dealing with grief and peter & reader bonding over their experience with grief. 》 WORD COUNT: 5.2k+ (issa baby fic)

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ P. PARKER MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

Some might consider it unhealthy, but was there really a 'right' way to deal with the loss of someone you hold near and dear to your heart? They might even say it was excessive, but who were they to police him? They didn't know what he was going through. They could never understand what he was going through.

A part of him had excused it with his wounds being fresh, that with time, he'd be able to learn not to dwell too long on the remnants of the people he loves. Maybe with time, he'd be able to move on, something that seemed so impossible at the moment. But he'll get there—well, he hoped so, at least.

Either way, there was no doubt that everyone handled grief differently.

For Peter Parker, that was visiting May's grave every day.

Once was enough.

That was what he limited himself to, at least.

But still, it was barely enough to settle the demons in his head. Barely enough to stop him from replaying the scene over and over.

Peter had been recalculating in utter desperation as to what else he could've done better, what else he could've done more to save her.

That was what it was like most nights.

Some nights, though, his mind would switch things up a bit, thinking that maybe he was going about it wrong. Maybe it was a case of what he shouldn't have done.

Those nights Peter sometimes found himself picking apart every choice he'd ever made before it led to that point.

Maybe if he hadn't chosen to go on that stupid school trip to Europe then this wouldn't have happened. Maybe his identity wouldn't have been revealed and it wouldn't have led for that first domino to tumble, knocking over the rest that made his life turn for the absolute worse.

Or maybe, he didn't need to go that far back in the past. Maybe he simply shouldn't have chosen to question Dr. Strange's decision to send those villains back to where they came from immediately.

But sadly, that was all there was to it.

Peter's thoughts were simply and only just a whole bunch of unanswerable maybes.

Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe he owed it to them to try his best and fix things, maybe he didn't owe them anything at all. Maybe it was the wrong choice to try and save everyone, maybe it was right.

Aunt May said he did the right thing.

But it didn't feel like it sometimes.

Hell, it didn't even feel like it was even worth it. And no matter how much he tried to tell himself that it was right, his thoughts still managed to convince him that every. single. choice he made was simply wrong.

It wasn't even difficult to come to that conclusion anymore. Because ever since he got bitten by that spider, his loss considerably outweighed all his wins. And from then onwards, it just felt like he kept losing, and losing, and losing, and losing.

Right now, the most mundane thing he'd been losing lately was sleep, at the very least.

He'd gotten a job as a delivery guy at this small chicken joint a couple of streets down his apartment. Some might call it cheating—in his opinion, it was simply taking a shortcut—but he'd leave the bicycle they'd lend him in an alleyway and just swing the chickens to their destination. Sure, changing in and out of his suit was a bit tiring but it was definitely far better than dealing with New York traffic.

Apart from that, he'd also begun with some freelance photography work, dusting off the old DSLR camera Ben and May got him. He got decent at it a while back. But it got long forgotten the minute they bought him his first video game console, two years later.

He was starting off small, from random birthday parties to taking photos of restaurants or any establishment that was looking to use the pictures for ads or whatever. He was up for anything, anyone who didn't mind getting an okay photo at best.

There wasn't much to it, though, since nobody was really keen on hiring someone who didn't have experience. As a matter of fact, he didn't even have a high school diploma. Which had now led to him sacrificing countless hours of studying for his GED tests.

So, it was safe to say that he was handling a lot, especially juggling it with his still ongoing nighttime patrols.

Yet all of that seemed so much easier compared to what he had to deal with once he was lying in bed, wide awake even if it was past midnight. What went on in his day-to-day was only a fraction of the reason why he was losing sleep because his damning thoughts just had a habit of being so loud once everything else had quieted down.

It was hard as it was dealing with grief, even though he for sure had dealt with it more times than needed in such a short amount of time.

But what was more difficult about it this time around, was dealing with alone.

And Peter Parker was truly and utterly, alone.

No fellow Avenger to advise on ways to deal with this. After all, they were the only people who could understand even the slightest bit of what he was going through.

Saving the rest only to fail at saving one, losing someone in the midst of fighting for the rest of the world.

No Happy to offer some guidance on dealing with the loss of someone near and dear to you. Or for him to just be there as someone Peter could relate to, just like when Tony had died.

No Ned and MJ to give him company, offer their different ways of comfort as best as they could. They weren't there to simply make him laugh, offer that tiniest moment of reprieve, distract him with their theories and arguments about anything and everything to help him escape from, well, everything.

Right now, Peter had no one.

Going from having the people he truly cared about be only one call away, to suddenly being someone labeled as 'unknown number' in their contact lists, it was difficult.

But maybe he would just learn to live with it.

And maybe the first step to being able to live with his grief was to visit May frequently.

It didn't matter what time of the day it was. Whether it was early morning or just a few minutes after lunch, or when the sky started tinting orange as the sun slowly set. Midday or midnight, dusk or dawn, it didn't matter as long as he could visit her just once.

Maybe a part of him was hoping that by some miracle he'd hear her voice again, telling him, even if it was the last time, that you're going to be okay.

Peter needed it, so badly. He needed to be told that things would turn out alright because him being fine? It seemed like a far-off dream at this point.

He'd been to space, been to the mirror dimension, fought villains from other universes, been the center of a spell that erased people's memories and made them forget who he was.

Surely hearing the voice of a loved one that had passed wasn't too much to ask?

Yet every day, every moment he ventured into the graveyard, he was met by silence.

Well, aside from the distant hum of New York as life moved on. There was also the deep howl of the wind at night, a few cracking branches accompanied by the soft coo of crows.

Some would probably find peace from all the white noise, but Peter couldn't say he found any comfort in it. He'd only grown accustomed to it, used to tuning out the rest of the world to avoid being reminded of a life he once had.

Still, quietness had always been typical during his visits.

That, until one Saturday afternoon.

•••

Peter sensed another person approaching before he could even see them.

The soft crunch of fallen leaves was what he heard first, followed by a soft humming of some holiday song.

He looked up from the book he was reading, curious eyes landing on someone carrying flowers, a slight pep in her step which was unusual given the location.

Still, there was something about you that Peter couldn't help but be drawn to.

"There we go, all nice and clean," he heard you say, rustling of dried leaves and the soft brushing of clothes following suit. "And flowers well hydrated with bottled spring water."

You were talking to yourself.

It was a habit, he assumed. You just seemed comfortable doing it, as if you were having a mundane conversation with someone else.

Peter found it oddly endearing.

"I brought your favorite this time Dad because I am sure you're complaining to Mom why I always bring her favorite flowers," you explained with a soft laugh. "I sometimes forget you're a flowers type of guy, too."

No—you weren't talking to yourself.

You were talking to the gravestone.

His curiosity piqued even more.

It wasn't that you were being loud, either. Not at all. You were speaking softly as you typically would if you were by yourself in a graveyard, no less.

But because of his enhanced hearing, he simply couldn't help but listen.

"Sorry I haven't been here for a little while, just been busy with you know, moving, college, finding a job with a minimum wage that will not cover rent alone so what even is the point? We look for a job to survive but when we do find a job it doesn't even pay you enough to get by? Some people don't even hire you because 'not enough experience' and I'm like, duh? I'm trying to gain experience hence why I'm applying? Who even invented this shithole?"

Peter found himself nodding along, unable to argue with your claims when they were filled with nothing but the truth.

"Sorry, sorry, it just doesn't make a damn sense," you sighed. He could almost hear you rolling your eyes. "Anyway, I then have other adult things I really don't want to deal with like learning how to deal with taxes and stuff which is so dumb given I'm close to broke and—where does my tax go, anyway? Some politician's tenth vacation to the Bahamas, probably."

For the first time in a long while, Peter cracked a smile.

"Ugh, I am sorry, I promise I don't come here only to complain to you guys," you said, "But I am doing okay…"

He couldn't really explain the 'why,' but the soft tug in his heartstrings was definitely real when he heard the melancholia in your voice.

"The holidays are coming up," you said softly, the slight shake in your tone unmistakable. Yet as it rushed to the surface, it was just as quickly replaced with a chipper one.

"They always tell me how you both are watching over me now. But I don't know if I really want that," you sighed exaggeratedly. "Not because I hate you guys. But imagine if I was having sex? I really don't want to think about you 'watching over me' because it's really uncomfortable."

Peter couldn't stop his snort, his eyes widening as he spared you a glance. He was as grateful that you didn't seem to hear him.

The last thing he wanted was for you to think he was eavesdropping—well, maliciously, at least.

"It's a joke, Mom. See, Dad gets it."

Silence hung in the air after that, a sudden gust of wind blowing away the leaves that littered the snow-covered grass.

But he had a feeling the shake in your voice wasn't because of the cold.

"I really miss you guys…"

Peter left at that.

He didn't see you again for the next few days, probably because he never did visit at the same hour of the day. He never actively tried to see what time you were there, either—if you went every day at all. He'd just become a stalker at that point.

So, every time you did cross paths, it was entirely by chance.

The next encounter was when he brought his lunch with him to the graveyard. He'd caught sight of you sitting on a pink blanket that was laid out on the grass, legs crossed with a box of pizza to your right.

Instinctively, you looked up and over your shoulder when you heard his footsteps.

Your eyes immediately locked with his.

Pretty was the first word that came to his mind.

Beautiful, when you offered him a sweet and warm smile.

"Hello," you greeted.

Peter couldn't help but smile in return.

"Hi."

Nothing else was said after that.

You both respectively ate your lunches in your little corners, your soft humming bringing a comforting peace, one he still couldn't quite explain.

And from there on out, Peter learned that you did go there every day, but it was only either at lunchtime or late in the afternoon.

Because whenever Peter went during those times, you were always there.

As he said, he never actively tried to be there whenever you were. He didn't change anything with his routine. He still went there at random times of the day.

You and him crossing paths simply happened.

And most of those moments, Peter couldn't help but listen in on your rambles.

It might have been wrong, otherwise, creepy, but it wasn't like you were unaware of his presence. You weren't being loud, but you weren't exactly whispering into nothing either. If it were an unenhanced being, they would still hear you, but maybe only slightly inaudible. Peter just had the ability to make out your words a little clearer than the average person.

Besides, all your stories had been mundane at most, quite adorable at best.

Like that one time you ran into a post because you saw a cat wearing some boots and a clear raincoat across the road. Or that time you missed your stop in the subway because you kept talking to a Corgi who was lounging comfortably in their owner's backpack.

"His little legs were so cute!"

Like he said, adorable.

But if it was something personal, though, he'd learned to tune it out. He made sure to keep those matters out of his ear, leaving your private conversations, well, private.

Yet your silly and terrible jokes, your gripes about society and the unfairness of the world, to your little story times and mundane gossip of what you'd heard on the street, Peter couldn't help but tune in as if he was listening to the morning radio.

It made Peter feel lighter somewhat, a feeling he never once associated when being in a graveyard.

He didn't know if it was your stories, or if it was simply hearing that soft tone of your voice. Either way, he found it comforting, which was so strange.

Never had he ever thought he would find comfort from a stranger, no less.

A strange comfort.

•••

"People always ask why did the chicken cross the road. They never ask why the chicken didn't cross the road."

Peter perked up in curiosity, ready to hear another of the many jokes you'd completely ruined.

He found it absolutely hilarious how you were churning typical and old punchlines into horrible ones.

The funniest part was, it seemed like you were doing it on purpose.

"Why, you ask? Because they physically can't anymore," you said, pausing for added effect. "People enjoy eating chicken legs way too much."

Peter's eyes grew wide, gaze landing on the chicken leg he just finished. He couldn't stop the sound that escaped his lips.

It was a mix between a wheeze, a laugh, and a cough.

Loud enough to get your attention.

"Hey," you called, voice sounding closer. "Are you okay?"

"Oh—uhm, hi," he stammered, caught off guard when you were now suddenly in front of him. Clearing his throat, he nodded. "And yeah, I'm good,"

"Do you need some water?" You offered him a bottle.

"No, no, I've got my own," he declined, lifting his bottle. "But thank you."

"Oh okay," you said, smiling sweetly. "It just sounded like you were choking or something so I wanted to make sure if you were alright."

Peter blushed.

"No, I was…uhm—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I was holding back my laugh."

You tilted your head, bottom lip jutted out and Peter found himself thinking of ways to smooth out the little crinkled on your forehead, maybe kiss—wait what?

"Why would you do that?" you asked.

Shit.

Did I say that out loud?

"Sorry?" He blinked at you.

"Why would you hold back your laugh?"

"Oh," he sighed, mostly in relief. "Just didn't want to seem creepy and I wasn't…eavesdropping or anything but I uhm—heard your joke." Chuckling shyly, he smiled. "It was pretty funny."

"Funny because it was bad?" You raised a knowing brow. "If you say it was good then I'm really going to question your sense of humor."

"It was really bad," he admitted, breathing out a laugh.

The way your smile brightened made Peter's heart do a funny thing.

"Thanks," you giggled. "I pride myself in my bad jokes."

"Yeah," he breathed out, willing his heart to stop being so goddamn weird, what is going on with you? "And sorry for not helping the chickens cross the road."

You stared at him confused.

That was until he pointed towards the bag on the ground that had the logo of a chicken on it.

Your hearty laugh rang in the air.

Peter found himself growing warmer at the sound, the burn starting right in his chest and spreading to the whole expanse of his body.

"I—whew, sorry, wow," you heaved after a moment. "Haven't laughed like that in a while."

Both of you fell silent after that—not an awkward one. If anything, it was pleasant, like there was an unspoken understanding being exchanged with a simple look.

"This may seem like weird advice but try and talk to them," you softly said.

Peter looked at you, confused.

You gestured toward the tombstone with a sympathetic smile.

"They might hear it, they might not, there's really no way of knowing," you explained. "But what more could you lose if you try? Plus, you'll get it off your chest and that's always progress."

"I—" Peter nodded, the corner of his lips curling up. "Thank you. I'll keep it in mind."

You smiled at that. "I'll see you around."

"See you around," he hummed, gaze never leaving your figure even as you left, his eyes steady on the path you walked on as he mulled over your words.

It was kind of weird advice, but at the same time, it made perfect sense.

Peter didn't question it nor did he judge—who was he to judge? After all, everyone handled grief differently.

But as he sat down on the ground, eyes steady on the lettering of May's name, he found the words flowing out so easily.

"Hi, May I—" Peter took a sharp breath, blinking away the sting that started to settle in his eyes. "Wow. It's been a while since I've talked to you, huh?"

It started out simple, filling her up with what was new with his life recently—the job, his education, all those mundane stuff.

But then as he shifted from one topic to another, he inevitably started talking about all the things that felt so wrong. And once that train left the station, it was so difficult to stop.

It wasn't a complaint. It was an unloading of the baggage he'd been carrying around alone for quite some time now.

All the loneliness and grief, the boiling anger and consuming regret, the love and the love lost, to the bleak look of what his future held.

Peter didn't realize he was crying until a soft gush of wind brushed his cheeks, the coldness making him catch his breath with a shiver.

And then, a small white butterfly flew right in front of him, stopping momentarily before disappearing into the now setting sky.

Peter let out a breath.

Lighter and relieved.

It could've been a coincidence, or maybe it wasn't at all.

But what more could he lose if he took that as a sign that she heard him?

So with a small, tearful smile, he sighed,

"Thanks for always hearing me out, May."

Since then, he'd grown to tell May about his day. Some were tougher than others, while some were snippets of his new life—mundane and simple but starting to become fulfilling the more he looked at it from different perspectives.

As the weeks passed by, Peter's everyday visits became every other day. At first, the guilt of missing a day was heavily consuming. But it didn't take long for it slowly turn into a soft lull—still there, but not as bad as it used to be.

There was one other thing he hoped for whenever he wandered into the graveyard, though.

To see you again.

If it was one last time just so he could say thank you, then he'd take it.

That didn't mean he wasn't wishing for it to be more.

•••

The hair on every inch of Peter's body stood up when he heard it.

It was definitely not his spider sense going awry. This was very much a human reaction.

Well, he could imagine that when the first thing a person would hear as they venture into a graveyard in the dead of the night was crying, even the toughest men would get spooked.

But as soon as Peter located the source of the sound, his heart broke.

He wasn't expecting to find you, sat on the cold ground alone, hugging your knees to your chest, body shaking with sobs.

His first instinct was to fight whoever it was that made you cry because how fucking dare they?

But with a controlled breath, Peter walked over to you, making sure to step on dried leaves so you'd be aware of his presence.

Your head snapped up at the sound, puffy red eyes landing on him.

His frown could only deepen as he slowly sat beside you, offering you a tender smile with his arms wide open.

You stared at him with furrowed brows, eyes switching between his face and his open arms, downright confused.

Peter couldn't blame you. After all, you didn't know him.

He was ready for you to yell at him for being a creep, to scream at him to get lost. He was prepared for you to push him away—hell, punch him in the face—and run as fast as you could.

But instead, your lips quivered, a broken sob following suit. With your head hung low, you fell into his embrace.

And Peter hugged you as tightly as he could.

He didn't say anything, didn't feel like it was needed. He simply held you close, rubbing circles over your back as he gently rocked you from side to side.

Crying it all out until you couldn't anymore was, most of the time, the best thing you could do at the moment.

So he let you.

Only when your sobs turned to sniffles to soft shaky breaths did you pull away. 

"Your shirt," you gasped shakily, bottom lip jutting out as your eyes began to water again. "Oh no, I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," he reassured, squeezing your shoulders before reluctantly letting you go. "I wouldn't have offered you a hug if I minded."

"Thank you," you whispered. "I really needed that."

"No worries." He nodded with a small smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's just—" you sighed, wiping your face with the sleeves of your coat. "It's my first holiday alone so it's been kinda tough."

"Me too," he hummed, smiling sadly when you looked at him, a mixture of surprise and understanding crossing your face. "My parents have been gone since I was a kid, and I was left with my uncle and aunt. My uncle died a few years ago so all I had left was her but now she's…"

"I'm sorry," you softly said, your hand finding his.

You gave it a squeeze.

Peter squeezed back.

"I only had my parents growing up," you started, gesturing at the tombstone. "Didn't get to meet my grandparents, never really met many of my relatives because they're all halfway across the world, so now it's just me."

Peter didn't know what it was, exactly. Maybe it was the warmth of your hand still holding his and your kind eyes bearing no judgment or pity. Maybe it was the sheer comfort you provided, one that he still couldn't quite explain.

Either way, he found himself sharing what it had been like for him. Sure, he left out details to keep his deepest secret uncovered, and to come and think about it, it was mostly things connected to Aunt May. But Peter definitely spilled way too much to someone he barely even knew.

He did not regret it one bit.

"I promised to protect her and I—"

"I'm sure you gave it your all," you assured.

"Not enough to keep her alive," he scoffed, tone far more bitter than he intended to. He caught himself, shaking his head. "Sorry, sorry—"

"Never apologize for how you feel," you said firmly.

Peter nodded, his attention caught by your thumb that was absentmindedly running circles over the back of his hand. You'd been holding onto it as you listened to his story, and he found himself not minding it at all.

If anything, a part of him wanted you to never let go.

"But I get it," you breathed out. "The whole 'this is my fault' thing."

"Was it an accident?" he asked softly.

You nodded. "Car crash. Some drunk frat boys thought it was a good idea to test out how fast they could go in their new truck into an open road."

He frowned. "That's not your fault."

"It is," you insisted. "They wouldn't have been out on the road in the first place if they weren't coming to pick me up in the dead of the night." Shaking your head, you scoffed, "I wish I could say I was at a friend's house but they were coming to bail me out of jail."

Attempting to lighten up the mood, Peter softly bumped his shoulder with yours. "Am I in the midst of a troublemaker?"

That earned him a teary chuckle.

He took it as a win.

"Not quite," you sighed, your smile fading. "Got hung up with the wrong crowd. They kept teasing me that I was too much of a miss goody two shoes and that I should live a little."

"Peer pressure is one nasty thing."

"Yeah well, I still did it." You shrugged, anxiously gnawing on your bottom lip. "A group of us were walking home from a party and we passed by this random minimart on the way. My so-called friends thought it was a good idea to dare me to steal one thing from the store, to break my 'good girl' streak as they put it.

"They all gave me ultimatums, one of them was either I steal something or they'll tell the whole school that I was the real definition of 'The freaks in bed are always the quiet ones' so my loser reputation is no more. They said they can't hang around me anymore if I kept being the loser of the group. It was tough because they were all the friends I had."

Peter couldn't stop the surge of pure anger that ran through him. "They sound fucking horrible."

"Yeah, and I was stupid enough to go along with it." Shaking your head, you chuckled, tone void of humor. "It wasn't even the owner who saw me, it was some random white woman yelling bloody murder as if I was burning the goddamn place down. And the second my friends saw the security guards? Oh, they ran, left me there to fend for myself."

Peter unclenched his fist, settling to rub circles on your back instead.

"It was one candy," you choked back a sob, gesturing towards the tombstone. "But the punishment feels—"

Peter wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a side hug when you started crying again.

"And you know what hurts most?" you whimpered, fisting his jacket as you laid your head on his shoulder. "Knowing that the last memory they had of me was just filled with disappointment."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said softly, squeezing you close. "They loved you."

"I know they did I just—"

"Wish you could go back and change every decision you made?"

You lifted your head off his shoulder and looked at him, eyes glossy yet he saw the flicker of gratefulness in them.

Peter felt it in himself too, an appreciation to finding someone who could understand even the littlest bit of what he was going through.

"Yeah," you shakily breathed out, letting out a soft laugh as you wiped your nose. "God, what a way to celebrate the holidays, huh?"

He chuckled at that, nodding.

It was definitely something, crying your heart out, spilling all your trauma to a stranger in the dead of night at a graveyard.

But there was only one thought that stayed at the forefront of his mind.

Peter didn't feel so alone anymore.

"Yeah," he hummed, a shy smile playing on his lips. "But I'm glad I'm not alone."

Your whole face brightened, your fingers interlacing with his.

"Me too," you said, smiling. "We're going to be okay."

Peter felt some weight lift off his entire back at those simple words of reassurance.

"We're going to be okay."

Teasingly bumping his shoulder with yours, you hummed, "I'm Y/N, by the way."

You both laughed at the absurdity of it, getting to know each other's pain, regret, hurt and grief before even getting the chance to know a name.

"Peter," he sighed, squeezing your hand. "Peter Parker."

Later that night, he somehow gathered up the courage to ask if you wanted to get some hot cocoa with him. And when you said yes with that smile he'd grown to adore so much, Peter had an inkling that you wouldn't stay a stranger to him in the long run.

But for now, as you laid your head on his shoulder, your soft breaths visible in the cold air, tiny snowflakes on your lashes, face glowing underneath the moonlight, warmth and contentment bloomed in his chest.

Peter was smiling.

Genuine and pure, and perhaps a sign of a new beginning.

A stranger's comfort wasn't so bad, after all.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

↬ thank you for reading hun! reblog & leave a comment if you enjoyed, feedback is always appreciated <3

✉ NO TAGLIST: go follow @t-lostinlibrary​​​​​​​ and turn on notifications to get updated on my work!

© t-lostinworlds, 2023 ✘ I do NOT give any permission to repost, translate, & use any of my works (writings, gifs, dividers, etc.) on any platform, with credit or otherwise. Please respect that. Thank you.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Nine

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): toxic/abusive relationship, PTSD themes, gun and blood mention, death mention, strong language

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: sorry for the delay, I was feeling uninspired :')

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Eye To Eye

The cabin was noiseless as if the walls themselves held their breath.

Only the gentle rustle of his papers, or the occasional call of an animal pierced through the quietude. The air hung thick with unspoken emotions as if the weight of their shared experience had rendered words inadequate to convey the depth of their feelings.

Your voice, an expressive instrument, was now reduced to mere whispers that barely escaped your lips. Not only was your throat still healing, but you couldn’t speak from the weight of it—the weight of the ordeal you went through. He’s dead, but the pressure of his hands strangling you is like a constant second round of it.

Then Simon, the one holding the smoking gun. The day it happened, he longed to say something, anything, to offer comfort to your turmoil, but the magnitude of his actions left him just as tongue-tied. Even in Cal’s death, even as the wounds healed, his ghost was an overbearing presence, always seeming like he was still looming over your shoulders.

The cabin wasn’t a hiding spot anymore, with no one to hide from. It was only a place to dwell, to remind you of the very reason you were there at first—yet, Simon had no clue how to bring it to your attention, how you were free to return to your life now.

It seemed once your initial shock of the situation wore off, so did your interest.

This contract was supposed to be over. You were supposed to send him on his way with the last of his pay, but there hadn’t been any moves.

Most days, you spent them by the window, looking out at the depressing wintery scape. Though the blizzards had cleared, the iciness persisted, both in its temperature and its barren appearance. You couldn’t free the images from your head; the grip he had on you, how he looked lifeless on the ground, how his blood rushed all over you like a faucet.

The clothes had since been burned, and Cal’s body was staged somewhere by Simon. It should be over, but it wasn’t.

Sometimes you would peer down at yourself and swear you could see the blood on you, feel the warmth of it, your nostrils remembering the metallic smell of it—a tortuous, daily replay.

It felt like you were yet again betraying yourself, that your grief somehow validated or forgave him, that it was a forbidden feeling for a victim to have. The half connected to him, still stuck in the past, felt like it was left behind in the same spot you looked death in the eyes. You were supposed to hate him, and only hate him, but you didn’t.

Bitterness, too, rears its head amid the grief.

You did everything you were supposed to do; you left, and you kept leaving, but still ended up here. Sooner or later, you would have to answer for that. All the things you didn’t get to say to him, all the things you want to say to Simon now, but your troubles bind you so tightly.

Each time you pass by a mirror, your appearance says all the words for you. The sunken expression of one without sleep, the purple contuses around your throat, both healed and fresh slices littering you.

They faded day by day, soon turning into small, morbid reminders. Now, you have no excuse but to speak again.

Simon stirs out of his focus, maintaining a neutral expression, though inside he was startled to hear you speak for the first time in weeks.

“I’d like to go home.” Your voice, no longer a weak rasp—currently the only part of you reverted back to normal. Still, your head hangs and your hands are chewed from nerves.

But he doesn’t speak. He gives a nod, and only a nod, to show his acknowledgment. What more could he say to you? After everything?

—

An insurmountable wall of silence stood between the two seats.

Your gaze was fixed on the passing scenery outside the window, avoiding any eye contact with the deadpan driver. The snowy mountains stretched for the first hour until they turned to grassy hills still covered in a blanket of frost. Further and further from the cabin, miles different from the person you were when you arrived there.

Your luggage was paltry when you arrived, and now it was even smaller; less clothing, fewer possessions, and most of all, very few artifacts that reminded you of genuine happiness in your life.  When this journey was over, when you two parted ways, you were going to build yourself from the ground up.

The way his eyes stayed glued to the road, the elbow he rested on the driver’s windowsill, it was a familiar picture. He gave no insight to his thoughts, like a drawing that feels stiff—no light behind the eyes, no clue what the true story is.

Stops were quick, and just as void as the trip; he would pull into a rest area and parks, both separating off to the restroom, or to drink from one of the fountains, and then it's back to the endless unpaved road—which was soon to turn into highway.

Miles passed, and the sun slowly sank on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, which you hadn’t seen much by the mountains.

The scenery changed, but the silence remained unchanged, stretching like an infinite chasm between the two souls confined within the car.

Somewhere, an hour ago, you’d passed the city where his apartment was located. You recognized some of the signs since you had no choice but to stare intently out the car window during the entirety of the ride.

At least seeing the building, you knew your apartment was only a few hours away. You would be free to move on from this alone. No more eyes watching you, no guard by your side, just the ghost of his presence, and all that happened after hiring him.

The city transformed into an intricate web of highways, stretching endlessly into the horizon. Then, the urban landscape gradually gave way to quaint passing towns, like the one you were first ambushed in; your first time looking death in the face.

Soon, as the miles persisted, a familiar city reappeared on the horizon—where this all started.

His truck entered the city, first finding the busy shopping plaza where you’d had your first meet—the table you sat at was now filled with a family, two parents, and two children, making tender memories with one another at the café.

Past the plaza; spacey affluent suburbs and businesses soon turned to squished middle-class homes and strip malls, and soon you were back in your neighborhood.

He followed each turn, taking the backroads until he reached the projects. For the first time, nearing a year apart, you’d laid eyes on your apartment in all its outdated, slummy building.

It wasn’t home, but it was the closest to one you would have for a while. You were already stretched thin enough coming up with the cash for Simon—moving was not in the cards for you, yet.

Instead of Simon’s usual routine; parking and getting out first, carrying your luggage for you, he waited until you got out and grabbed it first. If one was reading the fine print, his contact with you was technically over, he was only here to collect payment.

But, inside he wasn’t only there for his salary. He was there with you—distantly—but there. Inside, he was unsure how else to help you other than give you space, so if that meant letting you carry your own luggage, so be it.

His footsteps overshadowed yours, showing no attempt at stealth as you both trekked up the flights of stairs. As you fumbled with your bag, searching for the key hidden at the bottom of your bag, he remained blank but observant.

Normally, he would be eager to leave—the job is done. Though, a piece of him didn’t want to believe, that he would be leaving you in this state of sorrow.

He was supposed to help you, to keep you safe, yet he only managed to keep your body out of harm’s way. When this started, the state of your mind was just an afterthought. Your brows furrow in frustration, your lips curl into a pout, the way they’ve been for weeks—all paired with eyes full of dejection.

You were aching with detest for him, for Cal, and most of all, yourself.

Simon only moved when you did, tailing you as you entered the once-vacant apartment. When you flicked on the lights, it was all the same; the light above the dining table still flickered, the water damage still stained the windowsills, and the pollution of rowdy neighbors still unfixed.

With a scan of the place, you set down all that remained of your possessions, before approaching the kitchen. You flicked through the junk box, to find your envelopes. The crinkling of the papers, as well as your focused breaths, filled the tense air.

Then, you were at it again, tearing through your bags for the last of your cash. In the pocket you kept your cards and checks, you found the remainder of the bills, which was only enough to cover the months leading up to this one.

You hissed a curse to yourself, finding it just in your luck to be a month short right before his send-off.

He remained in the living space, arms crossed over his chest impatiently as he waited. In true fashion, he noticed your frustration before you even expressed it, seeing bits and pieces of your searching through the archway bridging the gaps between the two rooms.

Six envelopes, not seven—one for each month, but all but one; that’s all you could get.

You hurried back to the living space, reaching out the lump of pouches stuffed with bills. Even if you hadn’t purchased the taxi or the train ticket, you would’ve been a few hundred short.

“This is all I could get.” He grabbed them, stuffing them into the pocket of his bomber jacket. “I’ll get to the bank tomorrow if you can pick it up then.”

It wasn’t a question on your end, he was either coming back to get it, or you weren’t going to pay him. 

“Fine.” His expression was difficult enough to read, but now you could swear he was irritated by the inconvenience. You should’ve let him walk out of there a few hundred light, hoping he wouldn’t notice until he was hours away from here.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.” He huffed, making you second guess even telling him. 

He wasn’t irritated, he was being attentive. It wasn’t his fault he carried it in his squinted eyes, clenched fists, or his clenched jaw. Simon had no other way of showing it.

That same feeling he had when you went mute, he had again, as if he was plagued with more loss for words. He was horrible at providing comfort, at least that’s how he saw it. He didn’t have the appearance of one you would run to when in need of an embrace, and he once wanted to keep it that way.

But, he’d given up fighting himself with that long ago; more when he nearly didn’t find you in time. Simon already had enough regrets, he wasn’t going to allow you to be another.

He wanted you to talk to him, to run to him, to scream at him, even.

You had turned to begin unpacking, but there was no close of the door behind him. He remained in the middle of the living room as if gathering the courage to say something.

With an edgy lean against the bookshelf behind you, you turned around again to face him.

“Why did you go after Cal?” His words nearly appalled you, how late in the conversation he decided to bring it up. It wasn’t something he needed to consider himself with, in your opinion, considering he had his money, his protectee alive, and the target dead.

You gave a chew to your bottom lip, attempting to contain the ill feeling talking about it gave you. “We don’t need to talk about this, Simon.”

He ignores your deflection, shifting his weight from one hip to another before taking a step closer, “why didn’t you let me handle it?”

You’re already stunned into silence, having no defenses or explanations for him.

He left you there, expecting you to stay at the cabin, and found you on the brink of death. Was he not allowed some frustration?

The prospect of walking away now, without letting them out drove him mad. How could he take the last of your money and drive away without a word? Well, he couldn’t.

A year ago, he was naive, thinking this would be an uneventful protection job, where he spends little time clouded by feelings.

But, whether he, or you, liked it, you both shared a bond now.

He spent nearly a year, alone with you, observing every little detail—feelings and attachments found themself in there. They attached themselves, they got their claws in him before he could object—before his selfish need to isolate could fight it.

“Do you have any idea what that was like for me?”

Simon’s question made your blood run cold.

Your muscles tensed, just like they did when Cal said those words. The once defensive, blank feeling you had, now turned into vulnerability—like you’d just been cornered by him again.

“Do you have any idea what it was like… cops at my door on Christmas Eve?” His line replayed in your head, this time in Cal’s voice instead of Simon’s. It was a vivid memory; standing before him in that office, while his fists clenched at his side with each word, and most of all, how it ended.

He couldn’t have known; he wasn’t in the office when his words were cutting you deep, how loudly you were screaming at yourself to run away.

Cal wasn’t the one standing in front of you, part of you knew that. That’s what made your hairs stand—the fact that it was Simon. For the first time, something he did froze you in time; not a bottle of cherry wine, not a ring, not even his deadly build—it was his words.

“I can’t talk about this.” Your now trembling fingers reached up to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, as the tight grip on it would rid the thoughts, “please.”

He studied the tense of your shoulders, the subtle gloss over your eyes when he spoke. You were backed as far as you could be, pressing yourself against the shelf behind you—so hastily it nearly knocked down some of the clutter.

The ��please’ you uttered softened his demeanor, but he couldn’t leave things like this, especially not now.

What had he done?

Though you had convinced yourself it was a slip-up, your body remembered what to do when faced with a threat, even one like a careless word choice. When you peeked through the hand covering your face, he was the same distance but softened his stance a bit.

Regret was taunting him—the only feeling he could never hide, even from you.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Simon—” Your pained words started again, but fell short when he cut you off.

“—Understand?” He interjected, then muttered something under his breath.

He repeated it to himself.

“Understand…” Simon murmured as if discreetly scoffing at your words. Of course, he understood, that was his main problem, also the reason for this mess in the first place.

The vital mistake he made was evident now, not long after being uncovered.

He’d landed himself too deep in your problems. They reminded him too much of his own past, and not only that, the blood on his hands tied you to him.

Simon stepped forward again, but his presence wasn’t as harsh. “Everything I did… was for you.” You scanned him again, the tense air at its capacity now. His raw intensity of their emotions left you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

In that moment, it wasn't just about the current clash; it was about all the unresolved issues you both had been carrying, building up like a dam ready to burst.

All the things he’s done, then and up until now—all had a different meaning. Something different, something so foreign to Simon; he couldn’t figure it out, but he could feel it aching.

“I don’t understand you, maybe you’re right about that.” He takes another breath, eyes darting to the side at the somber tone of his own sentence.

“But I did exactly what you asked me to.” His words became less about proving his point or speaking in spite of your distaste. He was reassuring you, in the only way he knew how.

For so long, you had felt like a spectator in your own life, unable to influence the events unfolding around you. And now, to feel like that again, it was riling.

“You’ve done enough.” Your frustration stemmed from that familiar sense of powerlessness. “Don’t come back tomorrow.”

The words that reached his ears should have been just that—words. But this time, they were different. They pierced through his once impenetrable facade, hitting it when he was already down and exposed to you.

His arms, held onto each side of the bookshelf, with you in the middle of them.

He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten, faces only a few inches apart, eyes staring through yours with intensity—and yours the same.

This had gone wrong. He didn’t mean to get so close or make things worse.

Simon eased up his stance, pulling away his frame as he gave a disappointed head shake. Whether it was toward himself, or you or everyone else involved in this mess, he didn’t know either.

With a shake of his head, a softened gaze, he removed himself from the close proximity. How were you supposed to feel? After what he’d said and done, and the same for you.

You could tell; he wasn’t enraged, he wasn’t impatient, he wasn’t even frustrated anymore. For the first time, he looked defeated.

Simon reaches up and rubs his chin, letting what you said simmer before he reaches into the pockets of his coat. From one of his holsters, he held out a pistol, outstretching it to you. “Keep it.” He says, setting it on the coffee table when you don’t reach out for it. If he was going to leave you, he wasn’t going to leave you unarmed.

Your eyes are the only part of you at attention until the closing of the front door behind him snaps you out of it. Could that really have been it? Those words, and you never see him again?

The regret clashed with conviction, creating an emotional tug-of-war inside yourself. You were supposed to be so sure of the anger you carried, yet you felt remorseful for telling him off. When you were married to Cal, dishonesty painted the walls—filled the room. But now, when in the face of raw honesty, you were tied into knots trying to understand it.

If anything, Simon was proof that both bitterness and mercy can coexist.

—

The sun rose lazily, casting a pale glow over the mundane following day.

Time had gone slower, and the life you had just gotten back for yourself had lost its luster. Unpacking your bags, and cleaning up the place—it only became about distracting yourself. Yet, the argument replayed like a broken record. Simon could’ve been across the country already, you were just a memory in the distance.

Breakfast was a bland affair, a tasteless meal and lukewarm caffeine—trying, but failing to wake your senses. Often you would find your gaze wandering aimlessly out the foggy windows, barely registering the passing cars and people hurrying to their destinations. You felt trapped in a fog of their own making, unable to shake off the weight of the unresolved conversation.

The television hummed in the background, but the words spoken on the screen seemed distant and unimportant. You were dissecting each word, each inflection, over and over again—when you sat on the rooftop of his apartment that night and told him that thinking was your problem rather than a lack of it—that sentiment was ringing true more than ever.

Now, you were tackling the living room. Each bag of yours is laid out in the middle of the rug, waiting to be gone through and sorted. Most of them had been rotting in your closet, unopened since you hurriedly packed them on Christmas Eve.

The first two, were clothes you stuffed inside without care and accessories you swiped off the top of your vanity when you were sure he would be home any minute. Last in it, the contents of your old nightstand, now mostly useless to you.

Overall, it was more about throwing out your old things rather than finding spots for them in the apartment. You had less to your name than you initially thought, both materially and financially now, after paying him.

The last bag—an old tote with a boxy shape because of its contents.

For the life of you, you couldn’t remember what you put in here, or why you packed it at all. If it wasn’t clothes, toiletries, or personal documents, why did you bring them?

You resisted the urge to just dump it in the trash, or without care on the ground. It was the final one to go through, and with your luck, you would accidentally throw away your birth certificate if you tossed it in the trash now.

You reached inside, feeling nothing but hardcovers and flimsy, rectangular poster board. With furrowed brows, you pulled the contents out one by one—photos; some ripped and bent from how forcefully they were piled into the bag.

The first row of them you set out, photos of your family, your younger self, etc… All a collection of the simpler times you still yearned for. A hint of a smile played on your lips, barely noticeable but undeniable against your sour mood. You lined them up in a brick pattern, able to observe them all from your squatted position.

When you’d made it through all the personal photographs, you shifted to be on just one knee, dumping out the last of them. They fluttered out like snowflakes, pilling messily in front of you. As you scanned them, the small simper written on your face was erased, spotting his face in the pile.

When your fingers brushed the overlapping ones away, Cal’s full face emerged—one of the first work parties you attended with him, before the relationship turned sour.

Two smiles—one genuine and hopeful, the other forged and hiding his true intent. His arm hooked around your shoulder, another with a drink in his hand.

The next couple, a string of holiday memories that you begin laying out in a line, just like the family photos. Each one, his smile is an uncanny replica of the other, no change in his expression, while yours is naive in all.

Most of the photos with Cal were pictures of you two, still enjoying the viridity of a new relationship.

The last in the pile, the last photo ever taken together, was the most painful of them all—the night he proposed.

He sent a bottle of that expensive cherry wine—the same one he bought on the first date—then waited until dessert, before sliding the ring across the table. Looking back, the gesture dripped with sweetness, but with your new wisdom, you realized he didn’t even do the decency of getting on one knee. He just stared, head resting on his fist, while the other continued tossing back sips of the alcohol.

You had a pit in your stomach, recollecting bits and pieces of each snapshot, most of all in the final one. It was the last pleasant evening you had with him, before his true colors bled onto you.

Your fingertip brushed over the creases in it, expecting to set it down with the rest. But you were stuck staring at it, hoping it would be the last time you come across physical memories like this. Your body gave you enough reminders.

Three delicate knocks stirred you out of the trance, making you set the photo down in haste.

It was good no tears made the surface, because with how foggy your mind was, you wouldn’t have bothered to wipe them.

Your hand wrapped around the knob after releasing the deadbolt, slowly cracking the door open. 

Through the small gap, you spotted a familiar tattooed forearm—and he’s standing as still as ever. You told him not to come for the last of the money, perhaps you weren’t clear enough, or he really was that bleak.

You opened it the rest of the way, hesitantly meeting his gaze. He remains still, but he’s scanning the frazzled expression etched on your face.

“I’m not here for the money.” He says, tone low and straightforward, nearing the complete opposite of the previous night.

His tiptoeing was both frustrating and baffling. “I don’t have time for this, Simon.” You sighed, about to shut the door entirely.

Simon shoots out his hand, stopping the slow close. You’re forced to move aside because he’s invited himself in, a manila envelope filled to its capacity. Whatever he’s here for, not having to do with the money, it’s obviously not important enough for proper words.

With a huff, you return to the living room and begin cleaning up the mess of photographs. His boots follow, scanning the scene in front of him. It’s obvious you’ve been organizing, and even more obvious that something is wrong.

The way you’re scrambling to put the memories away, but you’re still staring at the engagement photo, as if in that aching trance again.

He reaches out the yellow envelope, blocking your view of the photograph, “you need it more than me.” His voice is an awkward murmur.

The photo remains in between your two fingers, but you grab the envelope, taking a peek inside at the lightweight contents—all of the cash you paid him yesterday, back in your hands. You close the flap as quickly as you opened it, setting the wads down on the coffee table.

At first, you’re expecting to tell him he didn’t have to, that he should have taken the money and ran. But, instead, you’re breaking all over again.

The mix between how things ended yesterday, the harrowing walk down memory lane, and now being refunded so suddenly—it releases all the pent up feelings of today. The flimsy snapshot is flopped around a few times, an attempt by you to conceal your emotions.

Still, he is idle at your side, merely watching your attempts at holding yourself together.

“I hated him so much.” You bawl, looking down at it instead of him.

“Why am I so fucking sad?” Your words become less sorrowful, now more frustrated at yourself for feeling this way—and most of all, breaking down in front of Simon.

For several seconds, all is quiet excluding your cries and the loud city outside. When you looked over your shoulder again, you half expected Simon to be gone, leaving you to mourn. But he wasn’t. He was there, unsure of how to handle what he was seeing.

He wrapped his hands around your frame, taking the photograph from between your fingers. Just like the night on the rooftop, or when he shielded you from the bodies, your head was buried deep in his chest, allowing you to grieve without judgment.

“It’s okay.” He murmured, keeping a firm but tender hold. Perhaps the guilt was those he couldn’t save, or what he’d said to you, or even his own projection—it didn’t matter to him.

You were safe, in pain or not, he hadn’t failed you.

When the wailing turned into short breaths, he let go, allowing you to reflect on these feelings yourself. He had no more words, he could offer you nothing but his presence.

You expected to pull away, to apologize for being vulnerable, to scream at him again—but you hadn’t. Unlike the previous night, you now didn’t want to move either. When he was there, it meant he was safe, no matter the awful things he did to change your mind on that.

Whether you liked it or not, he was your only ally. It was either him and you, or just you.

“None of this is your problem, Simon… I’m not your problem.” You whispered, drying your eyes with your sleeve. One last attempt at pushing him away, to bat him away like a hungry stray animal.

His arm remained in close proximity, but it hovered. Simon’s masked expression was undetectable, but his eyes didn’t lie.

Simon leaned down, resting his clothed chin against the top of your head as if to silence your anxieties wordlessly. That hovering arm took a few seconds, but it kept you close again, this time with a firmer hold. “Just keep still for once, yeah?” He muttered, savoring the moment, though if one were to see the look on his face, they would think he detested you.

If he could force himself to say it, he would. Not yet. You weren’t his problem—he practically lived and breathed for you. For as long as air still filled his lungs, he was going to make sure the same went for you.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery @ramadiiiisme

[seineko]

it's fluff and angst but, minors still do not interact!

i still can't get over that official genshin art i posted a few hours ago so here's my brain rot lmao. it isn't really anything particular or meaningful, i guess, but i wanted to write something for the art. my brain was practically itching so i'm probably going to make it up as i go :) also my writing style is probably going to be weird in this.

warning(s): character death mentioned briefly, very light angst.

it's not that diluc likes to make you worried. but he had his reasons as to why his heart fluttered when you dashed towards his cupboard to bring out the first aid kit after manhandling him into sitting down on his bed, scolding him a bit as you pulled out the antiseptic and cotton.

he doesn't remember his mother well. actually, he doesn't remember his mother at all. the closest person to a mother for him was adelinde.

who also happens to be the first person he remembers being worried for him. he was chasing after a few crystalflies in the winery yard and, just when he was about to catch one, he tripped over his own feet and fell into the ground.

adelinde rushed to him mere seconds after that, worry written in the most clear handwriting across her face as she picked him up and rushed inside the winery to treat the scrape across his knee and a few smaller wounds on his hands.

he doesn't remember much after that other than being bribed by a glass of grape juice to stop crying and waiting for his father to finish his work to get back home.

his father and kaeya were the other two who he remembered being worried for him. at least when they were kids for the latter.

one instance that stood out particularly for him was when kaeya had lost the coin crepus had given to him. their father told kaeya to keep it safe and that it was a gift from someone special. diluc does not know to what extent it was true but thinking about it as an adult made him realize that crepus was probably trying to ease kaeya's insecurities and fear.

they visited jean that day and kaeya refused to play anything with them and did not part with the coin even for a second until they finally lured him in to collecting flowers to make flower crowns for adelinde.

kaeya had only realized that he lost the coin after they reached home. diluc saw his little brother visually become smaller and more frigid the moment he realized that. he left dinner midway and dragged himself to their room pulling up the curtains around his bed.

diluc remembered trying all the tricks he knew to get him out but none of them worked. he even offered to let kaeya braid his hair! the only thing remaining was going and finding the coin.

so he sneaked out after making sure that adelinde had slept and did exactly that.

their father had never looked older than at the moment when he returned home with kaeya's coin in his right pocket. his brother's face was completely swollen and blotched, tears still leaking out of his eyes.

he practically felt the worry radiating off of his father's body as soon as he was pulled into a bone crushing hug. kaeya sneaked his hand into one of his own sometime during it and did not leave it until the next morning.

adelinde had banned him from leaving his room days after that. his adopted brother stayed with him the entire time. (well, at least kaeya still seems to have that coin, it wasn't all for naught).

after the death of his father, it felt as though there was no one really left to worry about him anymore. adelinde was still there for him, he knew that, but that still didn't help dissipate the feeling.

it was especially rough during his visit - for the lack of a better term - to snezhnaya. the fresh grief made everything feel more painful than it actually was. an amalgamation of varying emotions; everything from anger, frustration, sadness, emptiness, guilt, the need for revenge, a sense of loss and many more that he couldn't even name muddled his head and stuck with him until years to come.

so yes. diluc doesn't really like making you worry, but he also can't help falling in love just a bit more everytime you treat his would with such worry and pain reflecting in your eyes as though it was you that had gotten hurt. it almost numbs his own pain and all he can thinking about is caging you in his arms and never letting you go.

the tenderness with which you kiss all his scars everytime he gets a new one has his heart pounding into his chest with such speed that he was sure it wasn't actually good for his health, especially when you put extra time and care into caressing that big gash across his back.

he can't help melting into spot when you cuddle his head into your neck and caress his scalp with your fingers, after taking care of all of his wounds, old and new.

he can't be more grateful than at the moment when you hum a soft tune into his ear to help him sleep better, hand still entangled with his hair and body wrapped around him, hiding him away from the entire world.

you are his home.

©2023 by seineko @ tumblr

[south-of-heaven]

Can I request a Rhea Ripley x reader x Dominik Mysterio in which they help reader to go through grief for the second death anniversary of her dad? I'm going through that and nobody's there to comfort me...

Torn open || Rhea Ripley x Reader x Dominik Mysterio

Summary: On the second anniversary of your father's death you're overcome with grief. That wound you thought you had healed felt like it was getting torn open again.

The weight of the day hangs heavily in the air as you quietly sit by yourself, lost in memories of your father on the second anniversary of his passing. The pain feels fresh, as though the wound you thought had healed was suddenly torn open again. Grief overwhelms you, and you're not quite sure how to navigate through this sea of emotions.

Just as the sadness threatens to consume you, a knock on the door breaks the silence. You look up to see Rhea and Dominik standing there, their expressions a mix of concern and empathy. Without a word, they step into your space, understanding that sometimes words aren't necessary in moments like these.

Rhea wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. Her presence alone is a comfort, a reminder that you're not alone in your pain. She holds you gently, letting you lean into her for support. And in that moment, you realize how lucky you are to have her in your life.

Dominik stands nearby, his presence a steady anchor. He reaches out and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, offering his silent solidarity. You glance up at him, meeting his gaze, and the understanding you see there is enough to bring a small sense of solace to your heart.

As Rhea and Dominik remain by your side, you begin to feel a sense of release, as though the weight of your grief is shared among the three of you. They understand that sometimes, on days like these, all you need is someone to be there, to acknowledge your pain, and to offer their unwavering support.

With their gentle encouragement, you find the strength to share stories of your father, memories that bring both smiles and tears. They listen attentively, offering their own anecdotes and memories of loved ones they've lost, creating a space where your grief is understood and honored.

As the day draws to a close, Rhea and Dominik don't let you retreat into the shadows of your sorrow. Instead, they gently guide you outside, where the evening sky is painted with hues of orange and pink. The beauty of the sunset is a reminder that even in the midst of darkness, there is still light.

You stand together, hand in hand, a small circle of support that wraps around you like a protective shield. Rhea squeezes your hand, her eyes filled with compassion. "You're never alone in this, okay?" she whispers, her words a soothing balm to your wounded heart.

Dominik adds his voice, his tone soft and sincere. "We're here for you, no matter what."

And in that moment, as you stand together under the canvas of the sky, you realize that healing doesn't mean forgetting or moving on. It means finding the strength to keep going, to honor the memories of those you've lost, and to lean on the people who care about you.

With Rhea and Dominik by your side, you begin to feel a glimmer of hope. The pain of loss may never completely fade, but you know that with their love and support, you have the resilience to face each day and continue living a life that would make your father proud.

[fire-bay]

My condolences, loosing someone that close to you is hard. I lost both of my parents fairly young. Some unsolicited advice: The tendency to beat yourself up over “shoulda coulda” is easy, but don’t do it. It makes the depression worse, im speaking from experience. Give yourself time to feel your feelings, seek professional help if you can and don’t close yourself off from friends/family, but set boundaries while the wound is fresh so you can limit the depressive episodes and pain from clumsy but well meaning interactions. And if you can find support groups for your specific type of grief you should try and join. It helps hearing others stories and experiences, sometimes just having someone to talk too who knows what you’re dealing with helps too, even if they are just there to listen. I know how hard it is where you are right now but it gets bearable, i promise, the world still turns even if yours has stopped. Catch up when you are ready. The ache never goes away but thats ok, you learn to understand it and live with it and it will ache less frequently eventually. If you need to talk, though im on anon, im more than willing to lend a supporting ear in pms/ims. All you need do is ask. - JAnon

Anon I... I just saw and this smacked me right in the head that this is the kindest thing anyone has said to me about grief thank you, I don't have enough words to convey my gratitude helped from not taking a stupid decision lol

[heavens-bookshop]

They don't quite make it to China in the end.

The Pacific Ocean, it turns out, is both quite large and quite a trek from the Caribbean. The Revenge tries to make it all the way down to Cape Horn, but Ed grows impatient by the time they reach Brazil, so they settle for somewhere outside Sao Luis.

The crew doesn't stay. Most are still hungry for a life at sea, or ready to move on to other ventures. Ed hands over control of his flotilla to Izzy, and Stede happily bestows the Revenge to Oluwande. It's not the last they see of any of them, of course. The Revenge comes through port every so often to stock up on supplies, bringing Madeira wine and spiced rum, a rotating cast of fresh faces and always new stories to share. Wee John makes a point of bringing Stede a crate of oranges the first time they visit, a long running joke that turns into the crew's traditional reunion gift.

It's a simple life they carve out for themselves here. They build a small house by the beach - Ed finds he can't stray too far from the water, and even heading into the nearby town feels claustrophobic after a while. He takes odd jobs where he can, chopping wood or putting up fences, sometimes even ferrying people along the coast in a small dinghy, while Stede helps local dignitaries translate documents into English. After a lifetime of violent death constantly at his heels, Ed finds the gentle pace is exactly what his soul needs.

Years pass and the pace becomes gentler still. Time catches up with his joints, seizes up his knee further. The salt and pepper of his hair becomes a little saltier. He notices it in Stede too, the lines in his face deeper, his hands not quite able to hold a pen like they once did. It's both a blessing and a curse, Ed realises - he simply never imagined he would live this long.

They get thirteen years together.

With the decades of smoking and drinking and festering gunshot wounds, Ed really thought he'd be the first to go. And then one afternoon, while they're on their way back from the market with fresh clams for dinner, Stede collapses to the ground clutching at his stomach. Ed gets him home and keeps a bedside vigil in some twisted backwards version of their first meeting all those years ago. He sits there, holding Stede's hand for a week, until Stede's grip falls slack for the final time.

Ed buries him on the cliff that overlooks their beach. He writes a letter to Mary in shaky handwriting, at the same desk where Stede taught him to read. The grief is a tidal wave, pounding into his lungs, burning with every breath, until the water pulls back and leaves nothing but a yawning cavern in his chest. Ed doesn't know how he can ever fill it.

He tries to lose himself in physical labour, in the mindless lift-drop-chop of cutting wood, but his body can't keep up with it anymore. His home makes him sick. Stede's ghost is everywhere - it's there in the empty space in their bed, the extra chair at the table, in the faces of all their friends and acquaintances in town.

When the Revenge next comes through port, Ed breaks the news to the few remaining original crew members. Roach and Oluwande take some oranges to his grave before they set sail - and Ed goes with them.

He doesn't stay on the ship for long. There are ghosts here too - the notch on the mast from a duel, the bookshelves no one's had the heart to get rid of, the lingering smell of marmalade in the crew's mess. The Revenge heads north, all the way up to Charlestown where Lucius has been working as a clerk at an inn, and it's here that Ed alights.

He gets his own room at the inn, in return for taking on a job as Lucius' assistant. It's work his old joints can manage, organizing ledgers and double checking numbers, but the smell of parchment and ink makes him miss Stede terribly.

He travels when he can, hopping onto merchant ships that take him up the coastline to Dover, Baltimore, New York, even as far as Boston, and god there are so many people. The cities sprawl in every direction, and with each passing year Ed finds them ever harder to navigate until finally his knee gives out completely.

Six years after leaving Sao Luis, Ed feels his body winding down. Days start blurring into one another, as do his memories. Sometimes he realises that he can't even place the faces of the people around him, and he panics. He finds himself increasingly in bed, unsure of the time or where he's supposed to be, but there's always a bowl of soup or a jug of water on the bedside table. Someone's looking after him, he can remember that much. He remembers that he's loved.

Ed starts awake one evening (or is it the early morning?) to a sharp pain in his chest. There's a light above him, and a voice. He had thought it was Lucius holding a lantern, except now he's not so sure. It's become harder to breathe, harder to see, and he is so very very tired.

The rest of the world fades, but the light remains, and Ed can see now that of course it's not a lantern - it's a lighthouse. The voice becomes clearer and then there's Stede, golden hair and dashing smile, holding out his hand.

"One more adventure, love?" he says, and Ed grabs his arm with both hands.

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Set Me Free Part 4/15

Part 5 and 6 are already out on my Patreon for Free!

Ruben and Carla have grown apart. With Rubens career taking off he leaves Portugal to live the life of his dreams, breaking Carla's heart doing so. Years later, upon his return home, Ruben learns that Carla has moved on, happily engaged to another man, but not any man, Ruben's childhood bully João Mendes.

Enjoy!

Carla trudged through the cemetery, the weight of her grief heavy on her shoulders. It had been three years since her father's passing, and yet the pain still felt as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. As she reached the grave, she knelt down and gently placed the flowers she had brought on the headstone.

"I miss you, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I wish you were here."

"We all do, querida."

Carla stood and was immediately wrapped up in her mother's embrace. She couldn't fathom the weight of her mother's grief. Seeing her tears almost made Carla regret her decision to meet with Ruben behind her back. However, it had to be done. She had to break their promise.

"Should I pick you up later?" Maria asked, who was kind enough to drive Carla to the gymnasium where she agreed to meet Ruben.

"No." Carla sniffled, wiping away the last of her tears. "And don't wait up for me either."

"But..."

"I'm serious Maria. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."

"Fine."

Carla leaned forward to hug her cousin. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't do anything you'll regret."

Carla stepped out of the car, Maria's words haunting her as she made way towards the stadium around back. The gymnasium was the local sports center for kids. Carla used to come there to play tennis. She wasn't any good but continued to show interest in the sport well into her teenage years. It was mostly due to the fact that Ruben would accompany her there every week. He had football training in the stadium located behind the gymnasium. At first Ruben was shy to let Carla watch him play, but after sometime, as their friendship grew, as well as their feelings for each other, it became their thing, hanging around the stadium after training. They'd talk for hours about everything and anything. Those were some of Carla's most cherished memories from her childhood. Funny how Ruben was included in the majority of them.

"Carla?"

She arrived to the stadium assuming that she was early. However, as she walked through the gates she noticed a figure puttering around on the football pitch.

"Ruben?"

He made his way towards her. Carla gasped as she had yet collected herself from her visit to the cemetery.

"Carla, you came." Ruben marched with big steps. He crossed the field within seconds and before she could flee he was standing in front of her, happy to see her.

"Ruben I..." She wasn't prepared for the wave of emotions that hit. The close up sight of him, even the smell of him, made Carla lose her trail of thought. "I shouldn't have come." She whispered and made the motion to return to the gates. Ruben's hand caught her wrist however, making her spin back around and face his furrowed expression. "Carla, what's wrong?" His dark eyes searched her face, perhaps noticing her stained eyes and runny nose.

"Nothing I..." Ruben wasn't supposed to see her like this. He was supposed to see how well she was doing without him. How happy she was to have moved on. Carla had to redeem herself. Fast.

"Why are you crying?" Ruben was pulling her towards him. Carla was too numb by his touch to fight. He was reaching for her face, his fingertips bracing her skin.

"Ruben?" she gasped. But he ignored her, his palm cupping the side of her face, his eyes inspecting the outlines of her head, hoping to find a wound, something, to explain why she was already so upset.

"Ruben I'm not...."

He stopped to look at her.

"I'm not hurt." She nodded. "I'm just....my family just...."

"Yes?"

"We were just at the cemetery."

"Oh."

Ruben's shoulders withered, however his hand remained on her cheek.

"Yeah."

The openness of the stadium enclosed around them and so did the darkness of the night. If only the clouds would scatter to reveal the hidden stars in the sky.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Carla." Ruben's hand left her cheek and suddenly reality hit. "I know how much your father meant to you."

Carla was taken aback by his kind words. But it also made her remember why she was there in the first place. "He's been gone a long time, Ruben. "

"Three years, no?"

"Exactly, a long time."

Three years was also how long it was since Carla last saw Ruben. After their last rendezvous on Christmas eve he left the country and made it clear that Carla was nothing but a bump in the road to him, a taste of home which Ruben felt that he needed at the time.

"How have you been?" He asked, hands shoved into his pockets.

Carla shrugged. "I've been alright. How have you been?"

Ruben mimicked the shrug of her shoulders, a sly grin on his lips. "I've been alright."

Carla realized that she wasn't in any type of mood to be playful with Ruben, turning the charm bracelet on her wrist. She was prepared to get straight to her point in meeting him. However, Ruben ruined everything by talking.

"Look, I know I haven't exactly been there for you during this time."

"You didn't have to Ruben, we weren't together."

"Yeah, I know that. But you are still my friend Carla, I still care about you and your family."

"Do you?" She said, not Carla's intention to snap at him. Ruben stepped back, a skeptical expression on his face. "Like I said Ruben, three years is a long time. I would never let a friend wonder why I haven't been in touch with them for so long."

"Here we go again." Ruben scratched the bridge of his nose, sensing the start of a fight. "Haven't we been over this Carla? It's not like I didn't want to see you for the past three years, but after Christmas Eve your family made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me."

It was true. Christmas Eve three years ago was the start of Carla's one year depression. Since Ruben was the blame for it her family did everything in their power to keep him away from her, mainly lying about Carla's whereabouts whenever Ruben's family would ask of her. Carla felt bad. She loved Ruben's family, but it was all for the best to cut ties with them too, at least in order for her to truly heal.

"They are right Ruben, I want nothing to do with you." Carla said, hoping that Ruben didn't noticed the strain in her voice.

"Then why are you here?" He said, looking truly defeated.

Carla removed the ring from her bracelet and held it out in the palm of her hand. "To give you this." She said, failing to meet Ruben's eyes, although she imagined that they were looking down at the palm of her hand, at the ring.

He stepped forward, hands out of his pockets. Carla flinched at the touch of him, of Ruben, closing the palm of her hand with his own. The ring was left buried beneath.

"What are you doing,  take it." She said, looking up at him. His expression was hard to read but he was far from angry with her. "I gave it to you, it's yours." He said.

"Well, I don't want it anymore."

Ruben's lips parted with her words, a silent gasp leaving his mouth.

Carla almost wanted to take back what she said, the expression on his face striking her heart.

"So it's true then?" He said.

"What is?"

They were still holding hands, Ruben's enclosed over Carla's. If he would just take back the stupid thing and set her free, she thought.

"You're marrying João Mendes."

Carla's eyes widened. "Who.. ?"

"Your mother was happy to tell me when we stopped by her salon the other day."

"Right. Ruben, it's not...."

"It's okay, Carla. I'm not angry."

She frowned. He should be. Ruben had every right to be angry with her for being promised to another man, breaking theirs in the process. How come he wasn't, Carla frowned.

"I'm not taking back the ring." Ruben said, letting go of her hand.

"But..." Carla stomped her feet. Very childish indeed. "You can't do this to me."

Ruben stepped back, but kept his eyes on her. "I'm winning you back, Carla, whether you like it or not."

"What?" She couldn't believe her ears. "Ruben?"

He hesitated, but allowed himself to step up to her again, this time with less distance between them. "I'm not letting you break our promise Carla, do you hear me?" He put a finger to her chest, just above where her heart would be. A touch that made Carla's knees buckle. "I'm winning you back. Whether you like it or not."

Part 5 and 6 are already out on my Patreon for Free!

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Fractured [Part Two]

Fandom: Elvis Presley, American Musician

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Addison Goodwin, Elvis Presley x Priscilla Presley

Characters: Elvis Presley, Addison Goodwin, Gladys Presley, Vernon Presley, Colonel Tom Parker, Priscilla Presley, Jerry Schilling, Marci Cunningham, Mary Jenkins, Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6840

Summary: Moving on and letting go are two different things.

Tags/Warnings:   Heartache, Angst, Elvis and Priscilla Wedding, Anger, Crying, Jealousy, Love, Weddings, Kissing, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Germany, Army Elvis, Non-Canon Time Line, Engagement Rings, Grief, Grieving,

Notes: This took a while because it wasn't hitting right.But it means ya get two addie/elvis fics in one week and some elvis smut! Enjoy xx

PART ONE // ELVIS & ADDIE MASTERPOST

August 1958

The Bible was sitting on his nightstand, waiting for Elvis to reach out and grab it. Waiting for him to open it and find something, anything, that would bring him comfort and peace. And yet he didn’t, he couldn't, because at that moment the book resting on his nightstand wasn’t anything more than just a book. It didn’t bring him comfort, it didn’t bring him peace because nothing would, nothing could, not even his faith because at the moment he wasn’t sure he had any. And that was because he didn’t understand. All his life he had seen a plan; he had understood that God sometimes had to be unfair to make provisions for something ahead, but this didn’t make sense. No, his God wouldn’t be this unfair or this heartless.

It was one thing to take his mother cruelly early, but it was another to take away his only source of comfort, the only person he loved as much or more than her.

His mama. Addison. His mama. Addison. Addison. Addison.

Both of them had been swirling around in his brain making his heart feel as though it had been broken into fragments, their names etched on the pieces, taking turns to slice at his insides but now, alone here in the dark, it was just her.

Up here it was just Addison because he didn’t have to think of anything but her. For the past few days he hadn't had time to focus on her absence. He couldn't focus on how her being missing at a time hurt him because the grief of watching his mother fade from existence was more consuming. He had been by her side until the end and then after that, when all he wanted was to lay by her side and cry he had been forced to carry on. To comfort his father, his family, and even his fans at what they had lost as if he hadn't lost it himself. And now he was here, alone in his room looking for his own source of comfort and it wasn't there. She wasn't holding him as he wept or stroking his hair as he clung to her. No, all he had was the thought of her.

And the more he thought about her the more he failed to understand. He’d asked the Colonel of course, when he’d gotten a moment to breathe he’d asked for him to look into Addison just disappearing only to be told that he’d already asked around and no one knew where she had gone. He’d even questioned Jerry, cornering him at his mother’s wake and begging him to phone Marci so he could ask her what she knew, only to find out from the dejected teenager that she had unceremoniously dumped him stating that there wasn’t much point of them continuing given she was headed to college and he was still in Memphis. And even if he wanted to make the kid feel worse than he did, force him to pick at his own fresh wound, there wasn’t much point as Jerry informed him the last thing Marci had said about Addison was that she had stopped returning her phone calls.

And that if he was being honest was a tiny comfort. At least if she had chosen to run away it wasn’t just him she had left behind without so much as a see you later. Yet that was why it didn’t make sense, because Addison had lived that life, a life where she was left and forgotten about time after time and he couldn’t see her doing that to anyone she loved. And she did love him, despite everything he knew that.So why hadn’t she come back?

At first he had given her the benefit of the doubt because he could understand that given the way her life had panned out how she could think that two years apart was just too big of an obstacle to face, but once his mother died, once she had seen that he was alone he’d expected her to come back. To come home.

And yet she hadn’t.

Elvis reached for the bible, flicking it open to the page he had last been reading. It was a passage about grief, the words spread across the page bringing no comfort, and nestled in between them was a picture of Addison. Looking at it brought with it a pain in his chest, one that threatened to stop his heart cold, and yet he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop looking at her hazel eyes sparkling at him behind the camera, her soft brown locks curled around her face, her lips turned up in a smile at whatever he had been saying. And as he stared at the picture he couldn’t stop from wishing with all the pieces of his broken heart that she was there in front of him right now, watching him with that same smile.

But she wasn’t and for all he knew she was never going to be again, just like his mother.

And with that he got angry because his mother hadn’t chosen to leave him. She hadn’t wanted to go and yet she had been forced to but Addison had the choice and she was choosing wrong.

As anger flooded through him he threw the bible to the ground and he yanked the drawer of his nightstand open rummaging around inside for what he wanted. It didn’t take long for his hand to clasp around a rusty old tin box that he tipped the contents of back into the drawer before he placed it on the bed. Then he moved to the stack of books on his nightstand. He was frantic now, plucking each and every picture of them that were woven into the pages as bookmarks out and throwing them angrily into the box. Once they were tucked inside he moved back to the drawer digging for another reminder of her. He found it, his fingers brushing over the velvet until his hand was clasped around it tight enough so that he could pull it from the junk.

It was only then he slowed, opening the box until the ring was staring back at him, showing him his own heartbroken face in its glittering reflection. He pulled it out, inspecting it like he had the first minute he’d clapped eyes on it. The moment he had known he was going to ask her to marry him.

Yet they wouldn’t have that now. That promise was broken, ripped from him as his mother had been. Still, as he eyed the exquisite white gold ring in his hand he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it because to do that would be to admit it was never going to happen. To get rid of the ring, the pictures, the memory of her would be forcing it to just be a memory. And he couldn’t do that. So he did the only thing he could and threw it on the pile of pictures, closing the lid of the box over the top of them, until he had a reason to open it again.

September 1959

‘So that’s when Daddy got moved here, to the base I mean, meant I had to leave mid semester,’ she said her words lingering in the air as Elvis failed to respond. He hadn’t been listening but as she fell quiet his brain kicked into gear telling him that now might be the time to offer an answer.

‘Oh that’s too bad,’ Elvis said and though his words were non-committal they seemed to be enough to keep her happy as she carried on telling him about him about her first few weeks in Germany. He looked at her, staring just above her eyebrow in an effort to appear as though he was remotely paying attention. Yet no part of her conversation had caught his interest because it wasn’t the conversation he was here for.

He was here because just for a moment when she’d walked through the door, facing just slightly away from him as she’d taken off her snow-covered coat, he’d thought she was Addison. And in that moment he hadn’t  had a thought. He didn’t wonder how it might come to be she’d be here, in Germany, at his rented house. He didn’t wonder how she’d be brazen enough to walk in with the rest of the joining party – unbothered and casual. He hadn’t thought about any of it and instead he’d leapt from his chair barrelling past his party guests until he was standing in front of her only to find it wasn’t Addison but someone else. Once he’d realised it wasn’t her he should’ve just left her alone and gone back to his seat to wallow but foolishly he’d hoped that being similar to her in looks would make him feel as though she was here with him like he needed her to be. And for a brief moment it had, well, until he’d invited her upstairs and they’d gotten to talking.

It wasn’t that she was unlikable, in fact, she was actually quite sweet from the bits he’d bothered to listen to, it was just that she was well lacking. Their conversation was pleasant but there was nothing biting, nothing edgy to it. She didn’t keep him on his toes. She didn’t cut him with a razor-sharp wit that left his ego wounded and that fire in his belly stoked. She couldn’t even handle him being suggestive without a flush of deep crimson christening her cheeks and neck. No, he’d been a fool to think he’d find a comparison to her.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked yanking him out of his thoughts once more. She was looking at him, familiar hazel eyes boring into his face.

‘Uh yeah fine,’ he lied standing up off the bed as he mumbled, ‘I was just thinking maybe we should get back to the party.’

‘Oh do we have to?’ she asked forlornly and for a second he was going to come up with some excuse about how it wasn’t really fair to leave his guests in the lurch though that was a lie. Everyone in attendance knew that there was a chance they’d come and not see him at all as he holed himself away in his room with whatever pretty face he’d chosen for the night. Chosen to make him feel something. But then she scrambled towards him and slipped her hand into his which forced him to look at her.

Except it didn’t feel like her hand. Her pouty lips and disappointed gaze didn't look like hers, it looked like Addison’s and whatever excuse he had thought of flew out of his brain. He didn’t respond, instead, he moved in to kiss her roughly hoping that would feel like Addison too. She squealed as he did so making him smirk. She might have not had the wit and charm of his ex-love but the way she could have the wind knocked out of her by Elvis’ advances was uncanny. He could picture her now, pretend that she’d just said something that would make him run his tongue along his teeth, unable to think of any comeback other than to kiss the shit-eating grin off of her face.

‘Elvis,’ she murmured as his lips migrated down her neck eliciting a whimper.

‘I’mma make you feel good baby,’ he said hoping she’d stop talking. He didn’t want her voice. He didn’t want to be pulled back to reality.

He pushed her back towards the dresser, his hands moving up under her dress until he got enough purchase to hoist her up onto the dark wood his hand moving between her legs until he was touching her covered sex, his fingers brushing against the material and earning another moan. If she’d been less accommodating he would probably have taken his time and used his well-honed skills to make her come undone before he got to what he needed but she was pliant and eager to please and so he didn’t hold back. He barely bothered to get his pants down, the fabric gathering around his thighs, before he was tugging his dick to attention his fingers teasing along her folds.

‘Oh God,’ she whimpered as he pushed two inside of her, his thumb rubbing against her clit earning another moan. He had to admit she looked pretty like this, her chest heaving as she panted because of his touch, yet watching her brought him back to reality. It made him remember that she wasn’t who he wanted and that was something he needed to change.

‘That feel good baby? Want me to make ya feel real good?’ he asked earning a strangled yes in reply. She was giving him the green light and that was all he needed. In one fell swoop he replaced his fingers with his cock burying himself in her to the hilt and though she gasped at the fullness of him he didn’t slow down because he couldn’t. He didn’t slow down because now he had an excuse to bury himself in her neck, pretending that the way her fingers knotted in his hair was Addison’s touch. Now he wasn’t watching her he found he could let go. Every moan, every whimper, every touch became Addison’s.

He could feel himself hitting a good rhythm, his climax coming like a freight train speeding down a track, and it was spurred on as her whimpers became more frequent her own fingers moving to do the work he should have done. He could see her in his mind, splayed beneath him her pouty lips open to allow her whimpers to slip out, her eyes closed as she rode through the bliss. Whether the idea of fucking her on top of a dresser was a memory or a fantasy he didn’t know at this point but it was enough to get him to the edge and as he teetered over it, not thinking about pulling out, he found he was calling her name, his words falling out of his mouth without him allowing them too.

He stayed still for a moment, reality crashing down on him as he felt her stiffen beneath him and when he pulled out she was looking at him, her hazel gaze less welcoming than it had been five minutes ago. She didn’t say anything to address it but Elvis felt as though his skin was on fire from the way she was looking at him alone, and in that moment he became angry. Irrationally angry as if it was her fault that she’d had the audacity not to be the woman he longed to be with and rather the woman he’d just fucked.

‘Elvis,’ she said hesitantly, placing a hand on his still-clothed bicep though he shook it off. He moved away, refusing to look at her as he tucked his softening cock back into his pants, zipping them up and ignoring how tight they felt against his tender skin.

‘You should go back downstairs,’ he said. She was still on the dresser, her legs splayed open and panties pushed to the side doing nothing to stop his expenditure from seeping onto the mahogany beneath but he refused to look at her. He refused to look at her because it would only make him angry once more. Except this time he wouldn’t be angry at just her. He’d be angry at himself for thinking she would make him feel any less empty than he did.

‘Elvis,’ she whispered.

‘Are you deaf?’ he grunted, finally staring at her with annoyance. At that, she seemed to realise that the situation was beyond repair and so she quickly scrambled from the dresser, smoothing her dress out before she dashed from the room, closing the door behind her rather harshly.

As the door slammed shut Elvis sighed and sunk down on the bed a wave of sadness engulfing him. He flopped onto his back, trying to ignore the way tears had gathered in his eyes, slipping down his face and getting lost in his hair. He was a fool. Not only because he had managed to make himself look like a prize asshole in front of a girl who had been nothing but nice to him but because he’d done it by convincing himself he could change reality. He had allowed himself to believe that he could make himself feel she was there with him. That it was her he was holding, loving, in all the ways he yearned to do. He should’ve known that wouldn’t happen. He’d never been able to make it happen with any of the girls he’d met so far and yet he’d been stupid enough to hope. He’d been stupid enough to think that because someone looked a bit like her it’d be like she was there. When how could that be true? He’d never met a soul like her. He’d never met a soul that matched him so well in all his life. No, she was a rarity, one he’d no doubt never find again.

As that thought struck him he sat up. The question was, did he want to find that again? Of course they’d been well-matched but there were things about her that he couldn’t stand. Her stubbornness, her pride, her refusal to let him help at any turn. They were qualities he hated, qualities that riled him up. Hell, those qualities were probably the reason he was sitting here alone. So why was he looking for them in other? Maybe he needed something different from that. Maybe he needed someone a little easier to love, someone who wouldn’t run away at the first sign of trouble. It would sure as hell be easier.

For the past year he’d been trying to replace the memory of her and failing. Maybe it was time to forget all that. Maybe it was time to think about moving on, to someone who wouldn’t leave him, to someone that would love him and care for him. Surely he could find someone like that around here somewhere. After all, it wasn’t as though he was lacking suitors. When he finally felt well enough to head downstairs he thought about it. In fact he was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even notice he’d walked straight into someone, a party of people arriving late.

The girl he’d walked into whipped around, awestruck blue eyes finding his. She was pretty in a cute sort of way. Her blue eyes shone against her pale skin, enhanced by the white and blue striped dress she was wearing. Her hair was up and she was wearing a thin layer of makeup though Elvis suspected that was to make her look older than she was.

‘Well, what have we here?’ Elvis asked waiting for her to speak. She didn’t though but her blue eyes never left his as Currie said, ‘Elvis this is Priscilla Beaulieu. The girl I told you about.’

‘Hi, I’m Elvis Presley,’ he said offering a hand out to Priscilla who still seemed hesitant but shook it anyway. He only vaguely remembered what Currie had told him, some young girl on the base stuck here because of her father’s job. It was nothing new but what had intrigued him was the fact she’d only just landed from the States a couple of months ago which meant that he’d finally have an ear to the ground about what was happening back home, more to the point if he’d been forgotten.

‘So,’ Elvis said hoping she’d loosen up enough to talk to him, ‘do you go to school?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘What are you, about a junior or senior in high school?’ he asked making a flush dance across her face even her makeup couldn’t hide. When she didn’t respond he felt the irritation from before creeping back in and so he pressed, ‘Well?’

‘Ninth.’

‘Ninth what?’ he asked confused.

‘Grade,’ she said in a voice so quiet Elvis wouldn’t have known she'd even responded if he hadn't seen her lips move. Again his thoughts flew to Addison. He thought of the first time he had seen her at the fair, how even knowing who he was hadn’t stopped her from rolling out that smart mouth of hers.

‘Ninth grade,’ he said. He had thought she’d been young but he hadn’t guessed she’d be that young. It made him chuckle; no wonder she was nervous she was just a little girl. A thought he made immediately clear as he said, ‘Why you’re just a baby.’

‘Thanks,’ she said curtly. So curt in fact it stopped him in his tracks. He hadn’t expected it, such tartness to come from a face so young and innocent and yet it made his heart flutter for the first time in over a year.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘seems the little girl’s got spunk.’

At that she faltered, her reply of ‘seems so’ falling flat on its face as he gave her his dazzling smile. They talked for a bit longer and once again Elvis found that he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation yet it wasn’t because he was bored. It was because he was thinking of her.

She was sweet, flirtatious even once she relaxed a little around him and once again he felt that flutter in his heart accompanied this time by a warmth in his lower belly. Though as she talked to him about meeting Currie he found his mind wandering to Addison again. He could see similarities between them and yet there was something more to Priscilla. Something different. As he shifted on the couch, his arm going behind her she stiffened and that’s when he clicked what it was. Innocence. She was like Addison in the way they were both beyond their years and yet she had this innocence to her, something Addison had been forced to lose prematurely, and though he knew it shouldn’t that idea excited him.

She had the basics of what he liked and yet she was unfinished. Like she’d been waiting for someone to mould her into who she should be and the thought of being the person to do that excited him. Maybe he didn’t have to search for what he wanted. Maybe he could create it himself. 

March 1965

As Elvis stepped out of the car he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day at the studio but at least he was home now, his feet touching down on familiar soil as he made his way through to the kitchen. Mary was standing by the counter, wiping it down with a cloth, but she turned when she heard movement at the door, a kind smile on her face as she said, ‘hey.’

‘Hey,’ Elvis greeted.

‘Good day?’ she smiled and though it had been anything but Elvis didn’t have the heart to knock his kind faced cook down and so he shrugged and said, ‘had worse.’

‘Well how about I fix ya sumthin’ to eat?’ she asked earning the first genuine smile from him he’d had all day. It never failed to amaze him how food could turn his mood from foul to elated at its mere mention. Then again considering he’d no doubt be living on a regime of rabbit food and diet pills once he headed out to California to film it didn’t surprise him the prospect of good food was appealing even if it was only for the next couple of weeks.

‘Thanks,’ he said though he paused as he reached the stairs, turning to look at her as he said, ‘actually can ya leave it like a half hour? Let me get showered and changed?’

‘Sure thing honey,’ Mary smiled turning away from him and allowing him to leave.

He headed up the stairs excited to get under the scalding hot water and wash the remnants of today off. It was his own fault he supposed. When the Colonel had told him about his upcoming flicks he had hoped beyond hope that they’d be good. Yet as he’d poured over the scripts his heart had sank. They weren’t good, they weren’t even decent. Once again he found the plots lacking, the production cheap and the soundtracks well they were painful in their own way. He tried to like them and even though they weren’t the kind of music he wanted to record that hadn’t meant he’d put less effort in them and yet they still sounded stale. His voice was perfect, his delivery of the lyrics well timed and artistic and yet it did nothing to improve them. He wished the Colonel would see what it was doing to him. How the recycled plots of Elvis being a lovable rogue torn between too lovers was getting old but he didn’t. No, the Colonel never saw anything but dollar signs and so long as Elvis kept the money rolling in, which no matter the quality of the film he seemed to, he would never steer away from a tried and trusted thing.

It was just a shame it made him so goddamn miserable.

He was almost at his bedroom door, the prospect of wiping all traces of the day away so close he could almost feel it, but as he pushed the door open he stopped noticing Priscilla was already inside, sitting on his bed. She didn’t notice him in the doorway and for a moment he smiled, thinking about the laugh that would pour out of him when he made her jump out of her skin, her bright blue eyes going wide before she chastised him for scaring her. Yet as he looked at her properly he realised there was a reason she hadn’t noticed him. She hadn’t noticed him because her eyes were transfixed on the ring she was holding between her delicate fingers. Addison’s ring.

And strewn around her was every letter, picture and memory of the girl he’d once loved.

It made the blood in his veins turn to ice and before he could even contemplate what he was going to say he found the words falling out his mouth automatically, his voice gravelly and serious as he asked, ‘'What are you doing?'

As he spoke Priscilla’s head snapped up, her blue eyes going wide the way he had anticipated but instead of falling to amusement as he’d planned they stayed wide and embarrassed. Elvis felt embarrassment inside him, the idea of her seeing the outpourings of pathetic longing making him want the ground to swallow him up. Yet just a quick as the feelings of embarrassment had come they were gone replaced only by anger. Anger at her for snooping. Anger at himself for being so thoughtless as to keep the stupid thing lying around. And anger at Addison for making him unable to let it go in the first place. It had been years since she’d left him and yet he’d never managed to part with the damn thing, always clinging to the hope of one day.

'I was just looking for something,' she said meekly, 'I didn't mean to-'

'What snoop?' he said moving forward in three quick paces.

'It was caught at the back of the drawer,' she said in an attempt to explain but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t listening because he couldn’t focus on anything else but getting every scrap of Addison back into the box. If she was in the box he wouldn’t have to think about her. If she was in the box he could pretend that pain in his chest wasn’t there. Which is why he snatched the ring from her hand and tossed it back into the box followed in quick succession by the stacks of letters strewn around her. She watched every moment, concern in her blue eyes that he pretended not to see.

'Yeah well you should've put it back where you found it,' he snapped tossing the box into the drawer and kicking it close. He could breathe now. Now that she was out of the way, banished from view he could pretend his heart wasn’t hurting and yet as he looked at Priscilla, watching him with sympathy in her eyes he felt his heart hurt all the same.

'Elvis,' she said but he didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let her come out with whatever pity or understanding she was going to because to do that was even worse. And so he clung to the anger that had been brewing in him from the moment he had walked through the door.

'Get your kicks huh? Snooping through shit that ain't yours?' he spat looking at her with fury in his eyes.

'I just...you've never mentioned her before. Addison,’ she said. Her words were quiet, as if she was prodding enough so that he’d feel comfortable enough to explain himself, but he didn’t want to talk to her about this, about her, because talking about her hurt just as much now as it did years ago. And to talk about her would mean he’d have to explain how she’d hurt him.

'Don't,' he said venomously, 'don't you dare say her name.'

'But-'

'Get out,' he said cutting her off.

'Elvis,' she protested.

'What are you fuckin' stupid as well as nosy?' he asked prying her off the bed with a grip so tight he could've sworn bruises were already forming the moment he let her go pushing her towards the door, 'get the fuck out of my room.'

Priscilla scrambled towards the exit turning back to look at him as he took a seat on the bed his fists clenched where they rested on his knees making the skin of his knuckles turn white. The anger was bubbling inside him though it was accompanied by an ounce of guilt caused by the way she was watching him now, stunned by his behaviour, and too scared to ask anything. Not that he’d tell her he was feeling guilty because that might risk her wanting to talk about it. At least this way she’d been too scared to. Even so when he elected to say her name he uttered it softly so that she knew she wasn’t in trouble.

'Cilla?' he said. He knew she was still in the room, hesitating by the door, though he refused to lift his head from where it hung, his gaze transfixed on his shoes for fear he’d start crying. She’d already seen his pathetic ramblings on tearstained army stationary she didn’t need to see him cry over a girl he’d lost more than half a decade ago. She didn’t say anything, no doubt close to tears over herself over the way he’d manhandled her, but she didn’t flee, instead she waited for whatever he was going to say. And he found the only words coming a plea rather than a command as he said, 'don't you ever bring her up again.'

He didn’t look up as she left, slipping from the room and closing the door behind her gently, no, he was too busy trying to force the tears that were blurring his vision back in his eyes. Though as the anger continued to rage on through him he found it was easier to do so. As he felt his gut churn with bile, his insides rotting at the fact she could have him so churned up nearly a decade later he found it was easy not to get upset. In fact it was easier to do than it ever had been before. He didn’t need Addison now. He didn’t need to cling to the heartache and pain of her memory. He couldn’t let her rule his life, no, if he was going to move on he needed to push her out of his mind, the way he had asked Cilla to, and so he moved from the bed to the drawer pulling the old, battered tin from where it had been thrown.

He was going to throw it in the trash can, finally putting the memory of her where he needed it to be, and yet as he stood next to it, the tin feeling like an anchor in his hand he couldn’t find the strength to. He couldn’t let it fall into wicker basket below. Instead he found himself walking through to the next bedroom until he was stood in front of a wardrobe. It was jammed with stuff, clothes he hadn’t even worn yet, but there was still a spot up top that the box nestled in perfectly. As the door swung shut and obscured it from view he sighed. He might not have been able to get rid of her completely but he could tuck her away, force the love he still felt for her to lie dormant instead of tearing at him like it did every day. He could move on.

May 1967

‘I can’t do it,’ Elvis said as he fixated his gaze on the vast expanse of desert outside the window, not daring to look back at the Colonel whose eyes he could now feel boring into the back of his head.

‘My boy,’ the Colonel sighed, moving towards where Elvis was standing. Elvis didn’t dare turn. He didn’t want to look back because it had taken him all his courage to get the words he’d been longing to say out of his mouth and he knew that with some cajoling the Colonel would be able to talk him around after all it’d been him that had talked the happy couple into having it in Vegas rather than at home. It’d had been him who’d convinced Elvis a slimmed down wedding party would probably be better, though he wasn’t sure entirely what that meant, though he assumed it was a way of not inviting most of his family or ‘hangers on’ as the Colonel called them. It’d been him that had informed him that after being shrouded in marital bliss he and his new bride were expected to sit in front of the cameras and answer every stupid question each reporter offered up. If anything that revelation had been the start of Elvis’ nerves.

‘I cant do it Colonel,’ Elvis said again flatly hoping he’d hear the plea in his voice.

‘Everyone feels like that on their wedding day,’ the Colonel said, his words finally making Elvis glance at the man who offered him a smile, ‘everyone has cold feet. It’s nothing new.’

‘What if it’s a mistake?’ Elvis asked.

‘It’s just the nerves talking,’ the Colonel said as Elvis finally turned to look at him. Yet when their eyes met Elvis didn’t feel any reassurance because he could see in them that the Colonel wasn’t here for that. This wasn’t going to be a fatherly chat, no reassurances were going to be offered, no worries listened to. No, the Colonel was here to seal the deal, this was business, not their lives. And so he played the game, as the Colonel had taught him to, and reasoned, ‘I thought you said I needed to be available.’

‘In your twenties sure,’ the Colonel said moving away from him, ‘but your fans, like you, are growing up. They’re no longer the screaming teenagers they once were and they won’t want you to be the same. They’ll want to see you as a husband, a father, a family man. It’s a good avenue to explore.’

‘With Cilla?’ Elvis challenged, the knot in his stomach tightening.

‘She’s a nice enough girl,’ the Colonel said as he made himself a whiskey, ‘though I won’t deny that there hasn’t been a few issues what with her being, well you know, but we’ve done well keeping her out of the papers. This is a good thing my boy. Running around with models and starlets is all very well until you’re being slandered across the newspapers-’

‘Like with Ann you mean?’ Elvis challenged. At that the Colonel looked at him, taking a swig of whiskey as he got his thoughts into order. It was a good comeback. If it was about publicity why not have him pick Ann to be his bride? If it was about love why not let him and Priscilla do it their way? The way he’d been thinking about when he’d proposed to her.

‘Pretty girls like her might be alright for a night but how many times could you take being second billed before the cracks began to show?’ the Colonel asked raising an eyebrow. Elvis’ jaw tightened. The Colonel had a point. He loved Ann but their lives didn’t align enough both of them knew that. But Priscilla’s did. Hell, to her Elvis was her life. He’d moulded her into his perfect woman, to be what he needed at every turn. So why was this so hard?

‘C’mon,’ the Colonel said when he didn’t reply, ‘you love her don’t you.’

‘Of course I do,’ Elvis answered and when his words came out he didn’t find any ounce of a lie in them. He loved Priscilla of course he did. He’d loved her from those first little rendezvous’ in Germany, when she’d been the only thing that made him feel less broken, he’d just hadn’t wanted to let her in until he was sure he could trust her, until he was sure that she could be what she needed him to be. And she had been what he needed. She was a good girlfriend and the Colonel had a point, even without all the showmanship, she would make a great wife and that was probably something he could do with. It was just that now he was here, with the prospect of sealing their fate with something as substantial as paper and ink, it felt all too much.

‘And it’s not as though you’ve not thought about marriage before,’ the Colonel said casually which made Elvis head snap up taking the older man by surprise though he didn’t hesitate to explain, ‘Miss Paget? Miss Juanico? You’ve even commented about Miss Beaulieu before now am I wrong?’

‘Right,’ Elvis said though that hadn’t been what had gotten his attention. No, what had gotten his attention was the flash of a pretty face behind his eyes. Addison.

He hadn’t thought about her in a least a couple of years but now she was front a centre in his brain. Of course he had talked about marriage before whenever he’d fallen head over heels in love in a matter of weeks which had happened to him more times than he had cared to count. But all of it had been just that, talk. It’d had been muttered dreams and whispered promises as they’d gone through their ultimately fizzling romance. None of them he had planned to marry. None of them he had gone out a bought a ring for except her.

Well, not until Priscilla. That had to mean something, right?

‘Well then,’ the Colonel said, failing to notice how his mind was swimming with the memory of her.

‘What if we’re not meant to be?’ Elvis said, his worries spilling out without him allowing them to. He couldn’t help it because rationalising everything about Priscilla didn’t mean anything if he didn’t feel the same way about her that he did Addison right? Yes he’d bought them both a ring but it hadn’t been the same. With her he’d seen it and bought it without question. With her he’d wanted to ask her to marry him after three weeks, he’d probably even known he’d wanted to marry her the moment she’d walked back into his life. It was like a rope, pulling them together, which is why he’d never doubted it. If he felt like that with her how could he possibly marry someone else. Unfortunately for him the Colonel’s answer seemed to make sense.

‘Fate can only get you so far my boy,’ he said coming to place a pudgy hand on Elvis’ shoulder, ‘it was luck that got you in the recording studio at the same time as Sam Phillips it was talent that took your career where it ought to have been. Same goes for marriage, people meet they fall in love and the next fifty years are work. It doesn’t have to be kismet or fate.’

Elvis hesitated. He could understand what he meant besides what was the point in clinging on to a ghost? He’d always resigned himself to the thought of one day and yet the last time he had even seen Addison had been a decade ago. No, he needed to focus on here and now. He loved Priscilla and she loved him, that was what he needed to focus on.

‘So,’ the Colonel said snapping him from his thoughts once again, ‘are you ready?’

‘Yeah,’ Elvis said, ‘let’s do this.’

ELVIS TAGS

@girlblogger2002 @sania562 @caitlin1996 @literally-just-elvis-fics @notstefaniepresley @artlesson8892 @18lkpeters @velvetelvis @jaqueline19997 @elvispresleyxoxo @amydarcimarie @presleyenterprise @everythingelvispresley @elvispresleywife @lillypink @richardslady121 @lettersfromvenus @louisejoy86 @ccab

[xxlady-lunaxx]

Nectar love | {HakuYuki}

Theme: Floofy angst

Note: I have only written these two once it's practically illegal atp (and technically it was AkaYuki not HakuYuki...)

so i must write them more

×××

It was a mistake. A big one. But what would go wrong? What, when her health was improving so perfectly, when his strength was growing, when...

Then she was better, she was well. She could stand, she could run, she would do whatever she minded. For a moment then, Hakuji wondered. He wondered if, now that he had no use, they would throw him out. Tell him to go find a life for himself, by himself. He was nearing eighteen, after all. 

Yet they welcomed him. They allowed him to stay, they encouraged it. They wanted him there. 

Wanted. It was a strange word. To be wanted. Nobody had ever wanted Hakuji before. He was troublesome, he stole things and helped with nothing. He inflicted fights, was explosive, nobody had ever wanted that. But Koyuki, Keizo. They... wanted him.

So he stayed. He got engaged with her, with Koyuki. He loved her. He truly did, with all his being. He promised to be at her side always, to hold her hand, to bring her flowers. He would be there for her, he would protect her from anything that would try to hurt her, he would do anything for her. 

His father's grave sat in a desolate graveyard. It was the only one in the town, people rarely cared much to bury the dead. They were tossed aside, left out to rot. But Hakuji had dug this one himself, used his own hands and lifted his father slowly into the hole, patting down the dirt. He had carved the rock he had set there painstakingly, had nestled it above his father's head, bringing flowers for him from time to time. 

Sometimes he would bring the flowers he'd gotten for Koyuki, once they had wilted slightly. He didn't like putting things to waste, liked using everything until it was no more. So he put the flowers on his father's grave, letting them mix with the dirt, freshening it. 

He brought fresh flowers this time. White and red, ceremonial colors of a wedding. He placed the bundle neatly on the grave, sitting down in front of it. He clasped his hands together in a quick prayer before speaking, telling his father of his upcoming marriage. He was ecstatic, feeling like he could finally, truly be content with his life. He felt like he could live, now. And be happy about it.

He rose as the sun set, intending to find more flowers for Koyuki. He found a field, picked the prettiest of the flowers. But even the most beautiful, most precious of the roses lost their petals and wilted eventually. Even angels like Koyuki died.

The flowers were no longer newly picked, but he still gave them to Koyuki. He had spent hours carving out hers and Keizo's grave markers, redoing them if he made even the slightest mistake. It was his fault, after all. It didn't matter how many times it took, this had to be perfect for them. It was the least he could've done.

He wound the flower's stems around each other, creating a crown. He placed it on top of the stone, on top of the grave which held his dear Koyuki's body, nestled in the earth. Tears blurred his vision and he couldn't think. Couldn't fathom what he had done wrong, why the world kept taking from him. If he was destined to be alone. 

Rage overtook his grief as suddenly as one could express and he sought to find those who had taken the last two people he could ever care for. He fought blindly, letting the hot, red, boiling anger guide him. Until he stood admist the bodies of those who had wronged Koyuki, those who used jealousy as a justification, those who had killed the two most perfect people in the world. They were selfish people. But then again, so was Hakuji. Despite somehow avoiding the consequences of his own stupidity, he still cursed the world as if he was the one being hurt. 

He alone should've been killed. He should've left Koyuki and Keizo alone, should've respected his father's wishes to not steal. All of it was his own fault. All of it.

×××

« Word count: 1239 »

well that took a lovely turn (i loved writing this a lot oml)

[hoshiyoshis]

i think the older i get, the better i understand grief. and the more willing i am to accept that it will never fully go away, and that’s okay. that’s good. it’s a sign that i care and love, even if it’s a hard feeling to move past. accepting grief as what it is, i think, is an important part of growing older.

i think it happens regardless of how close to a person i am. sometimes it can be this undying feeling of missing my grandpa, or sometimes it can be thinking of him when i see ducks because i know how much he loved him. or it can be something as simple as listening to a song from an artist who has passed, and appreciating them for what they gave while they were alive.

i think it’s normal, upon hearing about a death, to struggle with it at first. to have that sense of denial, to wish that it wasn’t true. i think it’s normal to think about the fact that they’re gone. that it’s an endpoint. it’s important to move on from this to appreciate a life that was lived and the things that were encompassed within it, but it’s far easier said than done especially when the wound is fresh. it took me a while to accept my own grandpa’s death a few years ago as what it was, and learn to accept the good things like the time he and my grandma took me and my brother to ride horses, or the saturdays i used to spend at his house, or the way he used to call me suzy for some reason because that was simply just his sense of humor. its the same sense of humor my dad has sometimes, too. it’s hard to look back on those still, but they’re good times. its listening to music from someone who has passed and appreciating the love and hard work they put into it, or watching old videos of them with their group, or appreciating how much joy they put into the world.

i think it’s normal to struggle with this, but i think it’s part of the acceptance process when experiencing grief. it’s hard, and everyone processes differently, but i think it’s important to one day be able to move past the when and why of their passing and to accept those good parts. the smiles and the laughs and the silly things they did, their passions and what those meant for both them and the people around them.

accepting grief, i think, is learning to accept that death is not the full end of a life. their memory lives on, and it’s important to honor their memory by remembering a life that was lived instead of just the endpoint of it.

it’s okay to grieve. it’s okay to struggle with looking back: that’s normal. it’s important to not rush the grieving process to find acceptance, but to let it naturally come to you when you’re ready (no matter how long that can take).

but i hope one day we can move forward and remember not just the end of a life, but everything that came before that. we remember their birthdays, we remember the places they loved, the food they liked, the colors they liked to wear or looked best in: those are all things done in living. we do it out of love.

i think to grieve a death is to continue loving in the present tense, no matter how hard it can be. and to accept grief one day is to make the choice to keep loving, even though it can be painful. and i think that’s important for living life and growing older.

[maelstroms-blog]

@tringstar

Your piece was so amazing, i couldn’t get the scenario out of my head. I focused on the floating scene, I might do the other scenes, we’ll see, but i hope @tringstar likes it

In this piece, Hob is a widowed tailor, trying to re-join the world, he’s heard the rumours of the wizard, Dream. A beautiful man who eats hearts, Hob isnt worried, he wouldn’t want his broken heart....

Hob bit his lip, scanning the address once more. He shouldn’t have gone down the alley, but he couldn’t cope with the noise. A parade was under way and he just barely managed to squeeze his way out of his shop. He wouldn’t be getting any customers today, not with the festivities, so he promised his friend, Johanna, he’d meet her at her new job. He wasn’t entirely looking forward to it, he knew the real reason she wanted to meet. It was the same thing every time they met.

To get him out of his shop. He couldn’t remember the last time he set foot outside, not after…Eleanor. Even now, after all this time, the grief still brought a lump to his throat. Her absence still a fresh wound, a wound that made him shut himself off from the world, hiding amongst his clothes. The sensation of cloth, silk and wool were the only sensations he knew, that and the constant stitching, mirroring his clumsy heart. When he first lost Eleanor, he couldn’t fathom how his heart could still beat so loud, not without its other half to beat for. Sometimes he rued the day he fell in love. Especially at night, when he lay in bed, alone, and the very thought of his wife made him want to claw out his stupid heart. Squeeze it until it stopped beating, until he no longer felt this pain. Then, the sun would rise, and so would he, ignoring his pain and plastering on a fake smile. He couldn’t let his customers know how hurt he was, they wouldn’t understand.  

Hob sighed, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. He had been growing it out since Eleanor died, her favourite thing was to run her fingers through his hair, even braiding it while he worked. He wore those braids with pride, eyeing up any man who would dare belittle him for it. He got even more stares now with his long hair, it reached the middle of his back, tamed only by the knotted ribbon, another memento of Eleanor’s. Hob sighed again, forcing the thoughts from his mind. If he let them take root now, his mood would be so dour he would just turn round and head home, locking himself once again from the outside world. The cheering on the streets increased, Hob didn’t bother looking. The fresh air felt foreign to him, his hands broke out in clammy sweat. He pulled his straw hat down lower, shielding his eyes from the harsh light. How he longed for the dank, dusty air of his workshop. Deep in thought, he walked face first into something hard. His hat fell from his head and Hob glanced up. He was face to face with the army general, Sturridge he thinks, a large, lout of a man with a wandering eye and hands to match. Said wandering eye looked Hob up and down, slowly,

‘Hey now, watch yourself,’ he wasn’t chiding, even so, his slimy voice sent a shiver up his spine. Hob stammered, keeping his eyes to the ground,

‘Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ even his voice sounded strange. Being in the shop he had no need to speak, even with his customers he only gave one-word answers.

‘Yeah, you better watch where you’re going,’ another voice added. The owner was a second man, Kingsley, smaller than the first but just as creepy,

‘This guy here is a war hero,’ Kingsley said, devilish smile on his face, ‘You ought to show some respect,’

Hob just kept his eyes down, but his heart was racing,

‘Again, I’m sorry, I was in a hurry,’

Kingsley tutted, ‘Hey, now, no need for all that,’

A hand was suddenly on Hob’s chin, yanking his head up. He was forced to make eye contact with the second man,

‘Pretty thing like you, where are you off to in such a hurry anyway?’

Hob frowned, batting away the hand without thinking,

‘That’s none of your concern,’ he wished his voice was stronger, the obvious wobble made him wince.

The first man, Sturridge, laughed, a deep, mocking laugh that was somehow not swallowed up by the crowd,

‘Ah now, Kingsley,’ he addressed the younger man, ‘You’ve gone and offended him,’

Kingsley just smiled, ‘You started it, that big goblin laugh of yours,’ he turned back to Hob,

‘He should come with us to the parade,’ his hand shot out again, clamping on Hob’s wrist. The touch almost burned his skin, no amount of pulling would free him,

‘Let me go!’ his voice broke again, the other men just laughed,

‘Imagine me, with a feisty thing like this on my arm,’ Kingsley reached out his free hand, Hob cringed.

Then, a deep voice broke through their interaction, ‘There you are, dear,’ another hand clasped Hob’s shoulder, their touch gentle, ‘I was looking everywhere for you.’

Hob glanced down to see a pale, white hand, adorned in shiny rings.

Kingsley snapped, ‘Hey, move it, pal, we’re in the middle of something here,’

‘Yes, you were in the middle of leaving,’ and with that, the stranger waved his other pale hand, like a king dismissing his subjects. In response, the two army men stiffened, their eyes widened but they couldn’t do anything. Then, like a couple of marionette puppets, they marched away until they were swallowed up by the crowd. Hob could only stare after them, too stunned to even breathe. The air around him buzzed with energy, confirming one thing.

He had just witnessed magic.

‘Now then,’ the voice started again, Hob stiffened and turned to meet his supposed saviour. The first thing he noticed was a pair of icy, blue eyes, their gaze seemed to penetrate right through to Hob’s soul. Hob shivered, a chill coming out of nowhere. The stranger tilted his head, pursing his lips as if in thought.

‘How about I escort you to where you need to be?’ his lips, standing out like rubies against his alabaster skin, twitched up into, what he guessed, was a friendly smile.

‘Um…,’ Hob said, eloquently, ‘I-I have to-have to meet a friend,’

The stranger suddenly leaned in close, close enough to touch noses, Hob’s cheeks flushed. This close, he could smell lavender and chamomile, calming scents that did nothing for Hob’s racing heart.

‘Do not react but I am being followed.’

The words echoed through Hob’s mind, by the time he processed them, the stranger was already pulling him forward. Hob stumbled over his own feet but his stranger kept him upright, effortlessly so.

‘Follow my lead,’ his arm looped through Hob’s, he could feel the stranger’s solid, lean form, his entire body was cold, and yet, Hob didn’t feel chilled.

As they walked, playing the role of two courting lovers, Hob thought he heard something behind them. The scuff of footsteps, not even trying to be sneaky. Hob ached to turn around and look, instead, he focused on the stranger. His attire was unusual, well-made but unusual. A pink and blue checked coat, tied around his neck with a thin, gold chain, underneath it, a billowy white shirt, buttoned only at his naval, revealing smooth skin, white as snow. Hob averted his eyes, only to find himself staring at his trousers, black, leather, and tight as anything. Hob gulped. Strong cheekbones stood out like crafted marble, long, glossy black hair cascaded down his back, shinier than the most expensive silk in Hob’s shop. Hanging from his ear, sat a ruby earring, dancing when it caught the light. Hob, not looking where he was going, tripped, and it was only the stranger’s strong grip that stopped him from falling.

‘Careful,’ he quietly warned, he gestured to something over his shoulder. Risking a glance, Hob spotted something dark and writhing, coming their way. It was like shadows personified. At his stranger’s urging, they turned, down a side street, only to find another shadow blocking their way. It towered over them, swaying where he stood. It reached out with long, clawed fingers, dripping like viscous oil.

‘Hang on tight,’ the stranger’s arm snaked its way around Hob’s waist. His blush finally escaped. Before Hob could say anything, his stomach lurched, the feeling that came right before a big fall, or being lifted into the air. It was the latter. Hob was rising, rising above the cottages and shops, until he could make out their thatched roofs. When he finally risked looking down, all he could do was stare. At the spot he stood, not moments before, sat a writhing mass of black tendrils. Flailing and searching for the pair, but they were high in the air, well out of reach. The hand moved from Hob’s waist, fear surged through him and he found himself reaching out, holding onto his stranger like a terrified child.

‘Are you mad?!’ he exclaimed, wind whipped at his face, ‘Listen pal, you may be light as feather but I’m not, you want to see me fall like humpty dumpty?’ At the back of his mind, over his internal screaming, he found himself thinking, that was the most I had spoken in months.

His stranger let out a huff, Hob instinctively knew it was a laugh. He turned to find his stranger looking at him, his ruby lips twitching,

‘Calm yourself,’ he said, his pale hands found Hob’s and held on, Hob held on just as tight, if not more so, ‘With me, you will not fall.’

‘Now, follow my lead,’ his stranger gently instructed. Hob, despite his fear, looked down. His stranger’s heeled boots, finer than any king’s, began to move. Moving as if he was merely walking down a street. Swallowing back his fear, Hob copied, gasping when he did the same, mirroring his stranger’s actions. They walked through the air, high above the noise and lights, far from the people and whatever those creatures were. Hob no longer cared about them. He had achieved every human’s dream, the power of flight, or more accurately, floating. He could feel his stranger’s eyes on him, feel them watching, the way a teacher would watch over a student.

‘That’s it,’ the baritone voice was right by his ear, ‘You are a natural,’ a shiver went up Hob’s spine for an entirely different reason. He even found himself smiling back. He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. A flicker passed over his stranger’s face at the sight, his perfectly arched brows twitching together, it only lasted a second, Hob didn’t notice. They air walked a bit more, a couple of curious birds fluttered around their heads. Hob held out his palm, laughing in surprised delight when it landed. The bird was warm and soft in his palm. The stranger’s pale hand came into view, scratching at the bird’s head. It happily cooed.

Finally, they were hovering towards a familiar looking building, Hob couldn’t stop himself from shouting,

‘That’s my stop!’ a quiet hum was his only answer. The pair hopped onto a pole, effortlessly like the birds around them, and with another hop, they were on the balcony. Hob floated down, with grace he didn’t know he had, and he turned to his stranger, a thank you ready on his lips, but one more look at those blue eyes made him freeze. The stranger just looked, the small smile still on his lips. He still held onto Hob’s hand; he couldn’t help noting the differences. Hob’s own scarred hand dwarfed his stranger’s lithe fingers, there wasn’t a blemish on his skin. The stranger obviously hadn’t worked a day in his life, despite this, he had strength that belied his appearance.

‘Now, I am going to lead away my stalkers, I think it would be a good idea if you didn’t travel home alone,’

Hob could have listened to that voice all day, better than any music he played in his workshop,

‘Alright,’ was all Hob could say, he smiled again, hoping the stranger knew just how thankful he was.

‘Very well,’ and then, as if Hob hadn’t had enough excitement for one day, his stranger leaned down and pressed his lips to Hob’s hand, his skin hummed in response.

‘Until we meet again, Robert Gadling.’ Hob blinked; he never gave his name. With those parting words, his stranger took a step backward, off the balcony and fell from sight. Hob gasped, rushing to the railing. There was nothing, the stranger was nowhere to be seen, and there was no way someone like him could blend into a crowd. With his heart still racing and blood pumping hard, he didn’t hear Johanna coming up behind him,

‘Hob?! How did you get up here?’

Hob didn’t answer right away, memorising every inch of his stranger’s face, embedding it into his brain and, hopefully, his dreams. He finally turned to Johanna, trying and failing to hide his goofy smile,

‘I think I just met the wizard Dream.’

Hope you enjoyed reading, thank you again for @tringstar for granting me permission to write this, i hope it met your expectations and i hope i captured the magic of the scene.

i love Dreamling and Studio Ghibli <3

[spoofymcgee]

ohhhhhh

the doctor with bill is a doctor who hasn't lost anyone

not recently, anyway

he's the doctor with his grief for his last companion surgically removed, who last remembers feeling grief... 800-1000 years ago

with every other companion, the doctor is an open wound–for the worse, sometimes, when he still hasn't gotten over them, when he closes his eyes and remembers taking donna's memories, the angels, every person he's loved with his whole soul and lost anyway

but with bill, the doctor's started to harden. the wound has started to scar over, and with the memories not as fresh, he can't understand why bill is upset.

he doesn't take death and mourning and grief as seriously because it's a memory for him

he's had the time, from his perspective, to seal it all up, and he thinks he's better for it, that he's healed, that he's finally gotten over everything and learned to live with it

but he hasn't. he's just shoved it far enough under the bed that he can't reach it. he can't use it as a rope to connect and understand.

he's supposed to be the doctor who remembers

only he went too far with that and clara took his memories, and now he thinks he's achieved a balance when the opposite is true.

twelve in season ten is the doctor with his grief buried deep enough that he doesn't remember it, and that's not good