#how to lose weight fast by summer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sanguineterrain · 1 year

Text

it's a feeling that's fine - s.h.

Summary: You accidentally climb the wrong fence on the hottest day of May. It turns out to be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings/tags: no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, etc. reader is in a toxic friendship; she's slightly bullied in that indirect mean girl way, but the toxic friendship ends. reader cuts her finger by accident. drinking and drug mentions. fluff, humor, strangers to friends to lovers, summer vibes, so many princess bride references. steve is super duper sweet!!! post s4 volume 2.

A/N: so if you wondered where i've been for the last two months.... it was in a cave writing this fic. i'm really proud of this one; the reader is a little different than how i usually write, but i hope you'll like her all the same :) if you enjoy this fic, please please let me know through comments/reblogs!

divider by firefly-graphics

Today is hot.

Weatherman Dale had said this morning that today is a record high for May. It’s so hot, in fact, that Debbie Wellerman had called you this morning asking if you wanted to come swim in her pool.

You’d asked if you could dig for worms in her yard. She’d sighed and hung up. You hope that means yes. Joan has been in need of some company. Worms would be good for her.

You go around Debbie’s house and stop at the back gate. The Wellermans are kind of mean and they don’t like it when you take too many cucumber sandwiches. To avoid them, you’ve taken to going through the back gate whenever Debbie invites you over. It works pretty well.

Except today, the gate is locked. Which is weird, because Debbie usually leaves it open. It’s how her boyfriend, Brett, sneaks in during the day, and how Brett’s brother, Chet, sneaks in at night.

You’d asked once why the brothers come over separately. Debbie had gotten mad and kicked you out without giving you any ice cream. You don’t ask about Brett and Chet anymore.

The problem is that you’re wearing flip flops, which are not ideal for climbing fences. Or anything, really. You once climbed a jungle gym in flip flops and skinned both knees.

You slip off your flip flops and fling them over the fence. They land a second later, clapping against the ground. The fence is covered in climbing ivy and tiny red flowers you’ve never seen before. You wonder how Debbie made them grow so fast.

The street is empty, which is nice. Sometimes people in Loch Nora like to yell at people who don’t also live in Loch Nora.

The fence wood is hot but not so hot that you can’t touch it. You stick your feet in the little grooves and start to climb. It’s not too high of a fence, but it’s high enough to warn people who don’t belong here.

That’s never stopped you, though.

Getting over is trickier. You expect Debbie to see you by now, but there’s no sound. She must be inside, or maybe she’s out and forgot she’s invited you. She does that sometimes.

Wood dust clings to your fingers and the soles of your feet. When you’re a foot from the ground, you hop down. Then you turn.

There’s no sign of Debbie. There is, however, a boy.

He’s reclined on an inflatable blue ring floaty in the middle of the pool. He wears sunglasses and red board shorts with little white anchors on them.

He has very pretty hair, both on his head and chest. He also has pretty lips. And arms. All of him is pretty, really. You wish you could see his face properly. He probably has a nice face too. Symmetrical and kind.

The area around the pool is paved just like at Debbie’s—only it’s a lot larger than you remember. There's a patch of dirt next to the gate. You go and crouch at the edge. You don't see any worms. Probably because it's so hot. You'd stay underground too if you were a worm.

You stand and turn to look at the boy again. He looks like he might be asleep.

“Did Debbie invite you?” you ask.

The boy shoots up from the floaty. The shift in weight makes him lose his balance and he topples into the water a moment later. The floaty flips with him.

He resurfaces almost immediately, spitting water and rubbing chlorine from his eyes. You squint.

Yes, you were right. He does have a very nice face.

The water comes up to his waist. He pushes his hair back in handfuls, blinking. Then he fishes his sunglasses out with his foot and sets them on his head.

“Can you swim?” you ask.

He stares at you, blinking.

“What?” he says after a beat.

“Can you swim?” you repeat.

“Uh, yeah? Yes, of course I can swim.”

"It would be bad luck if you couldn’t.”

His brows furrow.

“Because I can't swim,” you clarify.

“I wouldn’t be in the pool if I couldn’t swim,” he says.

“That’s good thinking.”

You sit at the edge of the pool and dip your calves in. He wades closer until he’s about three feet away.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“I walked.”

“I mean, how did you get in my backyard?”

“Oh. I climbed the fence.”

You peer closer. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him.

“Are you Brett and Chet’s triplet?” you ask. “You’re a lot prettier than them. Did their mother feed you extra vitamins?"

His eyes go wide. “Uh… Brett and Chet Kingsley?”

“Uh-huh. Debbie invites both of them over, but never at the same time.”

“Who's—they don’t have a triplet.”

“That’s good. Three’s bad luck.”

“My house number has a three in it,” he says.

“Don’t step on any sidewalk cracks,” you warn.

He tilts his head, tongue poking out like he’s sizing you up. You let him, focusing on his face instead. He has dark, warm eyes the color of black tea. His shoulders are toned with lots of freckles on them. He looks like a boy who’d like Debbie, not you.

“Is Debbie going to be back soon?” you ask. You don’t want to get attached to a boy who’ll just end up wanting Debbie instead. You've made that mistake before.

“Um… if you’re talking about Debbie Wellerman, she lives on the next block over. I’m Steve Harrington.”

“Oh. You’re the guy who fought the monsters.”

He eyes you warily. “Wh—how do you know about the monsters?”

"Who doesn't?"

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You can’t tell anyone," he finally says.

You shrug and kick at the water gently.

“I have no one to tell. Debbie doesn’t believe in monsters.”

“She doesn’t believe in giving you a key either, huh?”

“She doesn’t usually lock her gate,” you say.

“Well, this isn’t her gate.”

“Yeah. I like your shorts.”

Steve’s cheeks flush pink.

“Are you getting sunstroke?” you ask.

That turns his cheeks pinker.

“No, no." He coughs. "I’m fine.”

“It’s a record high temperature for May,” you say. “That’s what Weatherman Dale said. The highest it's ever been since 1923."

“Yeah, I heard." He nods. "I didn’t wanna run the AC the whole day so, here I am. My friend Robin was supposed to come over, but I guess she bailed.”

“Robin is a nice name. Is she a bird?”

Steve smiles. “No, she’s a girl.”

“Oh. I thought maybe she was a bird you’d made friends with while fighting monsters.”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. “I did sort of make friends with her while fighting monsters.”

“Robins are good omens. They bring luck."

“Huh.”

You swallow. You’re probably talking too much. That’s what Debbie would say. That’s why boys sneak into her yard and not yours.

"So." Steve puts a hand over his forehead to block the sun. "Debbie Wellerman, huh? You don't seem like the type to be her friend."

"Friends can come from the most unusual places," you say. "Like under a tree or at the bottom of the ocean."

"Have you made many friends at the bottom of the ocean?" Steve asks with a smile.

You hesitate. Is he making fun of you? Sometimes, you can't tell. The people in Loch Nora are good at making fun of you without you knowing.

Steve’s hair has already begun to dry, a little crunchy from the chlorine. He doesn’t look like he’s making fun of you.

"Not many. But that's where I found Joan," you say.

"Joan was at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Kind of. I found her in a pond. Then I found her sister, but I lost her at sea and I couldn't swim out to rescue her. It was a sad day. Joan didn't handle it well."

Steve's brows rise. "Wow. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Joan has been on the incline. I think she's finally ready to get back out there. I wanted to find her company, but I didn't want to disturb your dirt."

“My dirt?”

“Mmhm. I'm trying to make a social club for her."

"Out of dirt?"

"Out of worms."

"Huh."

Steve rests his chin on his arm that's perched on the ledge.

"Your hair is wavy," you observe.

"What? Oh, yeah. I didn't put anything in it."

"Like what? Secrets?"

"No, like, gel. Product."

You nod in realization. "Your hair was so big in school.”

Steve winces. "Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't the best guy back then."

"You were in your chrysalis. You needed time to grow. But then you turned into a butterfly. Or a moth, if you prefer."

"Moths are spooky," says Steve. "They look like they have eyes on their wings."

"Yes. But they're actually friendly. Unless you eat them. Some are poisonous." You lean in, deadly serious. "Don't eat moths."

"Will do."

"No, don't. And warn your Robin too. She might think one looks delicious and meet her doom."

A smile creeps onto Steve's face.

"You're kind of strange," he says. "In the best way possible."

"Thank you."

"Do you want some lemonade?"

"Is it poisoned?"

"What?" Steve startles. "No, of course not."

"No, I suppose not," you say thoughtfully. "You hadn't expected me to climb over your gate, so you wouldn't have had time to poison the lemonade."

Steve stacks one arm atop his other, looking up at you. The ends of his hair have begun to curl. You like it so much.

"What if I pour from the pitcher right in front of you? Will that make you feel better?" he asks.

"You can still put something in my glass," you say. "Or you might have built a tolerance to the poison for this exact moment. Like in The Princess Bride."

"I'm only twenty-one. I would've had to start very young to build a tolerance. Besides, what would be my motivation to poison you?"

You shake your head. "There's no need for motivation. Violent delights. But you've fought monsters, and Lucas Sinclair says you're a good guy. So, yes, I will have some lemonade."

Steve pushes himself out of the pool with ease, dripping water all over the concrete. You stare at the rivulets that hurry down his legs and chest. He has a lot of hair everywhere. You like that too.

He offers his hand and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. Your shoulder bumps his. Steve's skin is warm. He smells like chlorine and something sweeter. Pineapple, maybe.

"You would do very well as a knight," you say. "If I were a princess, I'd want you to commit yourself to me."

Steve makes a weird noise in his throat.

"Uh, th-thanks," he says.

"You're welcome."

"So you, uh, know Lucas?"

"Yes. He lives on my block. His mom gives me rides sometimes."

You step in through the sliding glass door, which puts you directly in the kitchen. The house is at least twenty degrees cooler. You shiver at the sudden temperature change.

"You don't have a car?" Steve asks.

"No."

"You walked from your house to Loch Nora?"

"I took the bus part of the way. Then I walked."

Steve takes two glasses down from the shelf. Then he opens the refrigerator. You sit at the large kitchen island while he pours.

"Debbie Wellerman has a car," Steve says.

"Uh-huh. A Porsche."

A money car, she'd called it when she got it for her sixteenth birthday. Boys love girls with money cars. Maybe that's why boys don't love you.

Steve hands you a glass. You take a long sip. Your mouth puckers and you scrunch your eyes shut as the acid coats your tongue.

"Shit. Not enough sugar?"

You swallow and open your eyes.

"It's wonderful, Steve," you say earnestly.

"You don't have to lie. I saw your mouth screw up."

"I'm not lying. It's the right amount of sour."

Steve takes his own sip. His lips pucker, and he shakes his head.

"Nope. Definitely needs more sugar."

You cradle your glass in your hands. "Don't take mine. She's perfect."

Steve breathes a laugh, returning the pitcher to the fridge. He sits beside you on the island. He's already developing a slight tan. You wonder if more freckles appear the longer he's in the sun.

"Why doesn't Debbie pick you up?" he asks.

"Why would she pick me up?"

"Because that's what nice friends do. And it's unfair to expect you to come all the way here when the buses don't go through Loch Nora."

"Debbie always expects me to come over," you say. "So I do. She doesn't like my house."

Steve frowns deeply.

"I don't mind the walk," you offer, trying to make him smile again.

It doesn't work. Steve takes another sip. His lips purse, red like cherry candy and shiny with lemonade.

"She should meet you halfway more often," he says, dumping his lemonade into the sink.

You trace shapes into the condensation of your glass.

"I wanted to go rollerblading," you say. "But…"

"But what?" he prompts.

"She didn't. Neither did Brett. They wanted to make out in the pool.”

Steve grimaces. “Sounds like a drag.”

“They make weird noises. Like goats at the zoo.”

Steve snorts. You smile and kick your legs, pleased.

“My friends go rollerblading,” he says. “The kids love to skate at the park. You could come with us one day.”

“You have kids?”

“No, I—” Steve shakes his head, chuckling. “Definitely not. No, they’re only a few years younger than me, but me and the other people our age call them kids. They’re part of our little monster-fighting group. Anyway, uh, y'know. Open invite. If you're ever tired of goat noises."

You stare at him for a minute. He seems nervous, and you can't make out why. Nobody's ever nervous around you.

"Okay," you say. "I'd like to meet your kids."

"Cool. Well, um, I can give you my number. We usually meet up on weekends, but once school ends, any day is game."

Your heart rate picks up. You know this part. Only from a distance, of course. But you know what it means when a boy gives a girl his number.

“You want me to call you?” you ask.

“Yeah. I mean, if you want to. I feel like it’s a little forward for me to ask the girl who climbed my fence for her number. So, um, you can call me. Is that cool?”

Steve looks at you and waits. You chew your lip and nod.

“That’s okay.”

He smiles. “Great! I think I have a pen around here somewhere…”

Steve walks around the table to a stationary caddy on the counter and takes out a blue Sharpie. You stick out your arm, palm up.

"Uh…" He looks at you. "I can find a notepad."

"This helps me memorize things better," you say and wiggle your fingers.

"I don't wanna give you ink poisoning."

"You didn't poison me before. You're not very good at it."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

You shrug. "Depends on your aspirations."

Steve hesitates for another second. Then he takes the top of your forearm and begins to write on the soft underside. He writes slowly, which tickles, but you remain still.

He's so close. You're reminded all over again of his hands and warmth and pineapple scent.

Steve caps the marker. You inspect the writing.

"Good penmanship," you say.

"Think so? Robin says it's chicken scratch. But she can't talk—hers is ten times worse."

"It's neat," you say. "But not serial-killer neat. If I were a graphologist, I would give you the all clear."

"Graphologist?"

"A handwriting expert. I would write in my report, 'not a murderer.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Steve says. "I try to keep the murdering to a minimum."

You hum and finish your lemonade in one gulp.

“Thank you for not poisoning me."

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Steve replies through a smile.

His smile makes you nervous. A good nervous, though, like you're about to sled down a big hill.

You push yourself off the stool. Steve gets up with you and opens the sliding glass door for you.

“A very stalwart knight,” you say, and walk over to where your flip flops are.

You throw them back over the gate. They land with a clack on the sidewalk.

You find your footholds on the gate and turn to look at Steve.

“It was nice to meet you, Steve Harrington. Don’t fight any monsters by yourself.”

“Whoa, hang on!” He jogs over and lightly touches your arm. It sears your skin like you've been kissed by the sun himself. “I’ll unlock the gate. You don’t need to… climb again.”

Steve pulls the latch next to you. The gate creaks open. You hop off and walk through.

Steve leans against the gate, elbow bent. His bicep bulges. You've never been this close to a shirtless boy. Your stomach flips.

“Are you sure you know where Debbie lives?” he asks.

Your eyes dart from his chest to his face.

“Yes.”

“Really? ‘Cause you didn’t exactly find it the first time.”

“Second time’s the charm,” you say.

“I thought it was the third time.”

“No. Three’s bad luck, remember?”

Steve runs his tongue under his molars, once again staring at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. You slip into your sandals while he figures you out.

“Well, um. You can come back if you get lost. Or you need help. Or you wanna look for rocks."

You tilt your head. “You’d look for rocks with me?”

“I don’t know how helpful I’d be—all rocks look the same to me. My friends would probably be better at it than me. But, yeah, I would.”

“Okay. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He grins. “Sure thing.”

You take his hand and shake it. It’s warm and slightly calloused. You wonder if he holds girls’ hands often.

"I hope Robin finds your house," you say. "Goodbye, Steve Harrington."

Then you go.

You do find Debbie’s house on the second try. You hide your Sharpie'd arm behind your back when you enter. Debbie doesn’t ask why you’re late. Brett doesn’t acknowledge you, and you wonder how you mistook Steve for his brother.

“There’s lemonade,” Debbie says as she heads in, Brett at her heels.

You don’t drink any. You know it won’t be the right amount of sour.

Movies are better in the summer. This is a fact you've learned to accept.

There's no dread of the cold after you finish a movie in the summer. The tape ends and you can go outside and still love the real world.

Sorry, we're on a break! the sign on the store window reads in loopy script. You sit on the hot curb in front of Family Video, your yellow shorts bunched around your thighs. Sweat sticks to the back of your neck, and you drag a hand across, then wipe your fingers on your shirt.

From here, you can just see the cement-filled cracks in the asphalt, where the earthquake split the main road two years ago. Because of the cracks, the bus stops three blocks from the plaza, so you'd walked three blocks in the heat.

You hadn't been lying to Steve, though. You really don't mind the walk.

Beads of sweat drip down your forehead. One slips into your eye and burns. You make a fist and press it into your eyelid.

Okay. Maybe you mind a little.

"Hey, neighbor!"

You look up, squinting through the sun. Lucas Sinclair waves at you. You wave back. A girl with two red braids is next to him.

"Hi, Lucas," you say, standing as they approach you on the curb.

"This is my girlfriend, Max," he introduces proudly.

"My congratulations. Getting a girlfriend is no easy feat."

Max studies you for a moment. "I think I should get the credit, considering I said yes."

"Undoubtedly," you say.

"Are you his neighbor?" she asks.

"Yes. Lucas is an outstanding neighbor. You should be very proud of him."

"I believe it," says Max.

"What are you doing?" Lucas asks.

"Lots of things," you say. "Breathing, digesting. But presently, I'm waiting for the video store to reopen. I want to rent The Princess Bride.”

Max snorts. "Good luck with that. Those two take five hour lunch breaks now, ever since Keith moved away. It's barely a business anymore."

"There must be a lot of courses in their lunch," you muse.

"Yeah… uh, we're going to get ice cream. Wanna join?" asks Lucas.

"Okay." You turn to Max. "Will my presence impede your special plans?"

Max squints. "Special plans? Like what?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you've written Lucas a series of sonnets to profess your love."

"A series of what?"

"Poems."

"Love poems are corny," she says.

You wonder if Steve would agree.

"Sometimes corny things are good. When they come from the right person," you say.

Max acquiesces with a hum.

"No love poems today," she says. "You should join us."

So you follow a couple steps behind them to the Baskin-Robbins down the block.

The AC whooshes as you step inside, drying your sweat to your forehead.

“Wow,” Max says with a scoff. “It’s like Starcourt all over again.”

You follow her gaze and spot Steve.

Oh. Steve.

He's in a green Family Video vest. A girl sits across from him, wearing a matching vest. She has cropped hair and a bandaid on one knee.

“Hey, losers!” Max calls. “This isn’t a lunch break.”

The girl flips her off. “The sign says we’re taking a break. It doesn’t specify how long of a break.”

Lucas orders a scoop of strawberry ice cream for himself and a scoop of cookies and cream for Max.

“Yeah, plus, we’ve had a grand total of one customer today,” Steve adds.

“Well, you would’ve had two if you hadn’t been here on your seventeen hour break,” Max shoots back.

He scoffs. “Oh, really? Who?”

“Can I get one scoop of rocky road ice cream with oreo crumble and gummy worms in a cup?” you ask the cashier.

She goes to scoop the ice cream. Max proudly points at you.

“Her,” she says with a smirk. “She wanted to rent The Princess Bride, and now she’s not gonna be a paying customer ‘cause you two are lazy.”

“I would still be a paying customer,” you say.

Max shakes her head at you.

“I’m trying to make a point,” she whispers.

“Oh. You’re doing great."

“Your total is three twenty-four,” the cashier says, sticking a spoon into your cup.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor draws your attention. Steve is up, trying to free his leg from under the table. He finally wiggles free and jogs to the counter, wallet in hand.

"Hi,” he says. "I can pay."

“But I have money,” you say, brows knitting.

“No, I know. I—now you can save your money. Do you–do you mind if I pay for you?”

“Will I have to pay you back?” you ask.

“Oh my God,” the cashier mutters under her breath.

You shrink at her tone. You've missed something, evidently. You have no clue what.

Steve glances at her, mouth pinching.

“No,” he says gently, turning back to you. “You don’t have to pay me back. It’s a gesture. As a friend.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Steve gives her the money. You take your ice cream.

“Smooth,” you hear Max say to Steve. He bumps her arm with his elbow.

Steve pulls a chair from another table for you. You all sit down.

"This is, uh…" Steve trails off, turning to you. "I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"You kept calling her Buttercup," the girl says.

Steve whips his head around to hiss at her.

"Robin."

"She's my neighbor," Lucas says.

"We know," Max tells him.

"I don't." Robin raises her hand briefly, shooing Steve away. "I'm Robin Buckley."

"Hi, Robin. Watch out for moths," you say.

She tilts her head and smiles. You look at Steve, who's already looking at you.

"Princess Buttercup?" you ask.

"Well." He rubs the back of his neck. "Y-Yeah, kinda. You mentioned The Princess Bride and, uh, I don’t know your name, so…”

You mull that over.

"If I'm Buttercup, you must be Westley."

Steve's eyes widen. "Uh…"

Robin snickers. Max smirks.

"Interesting shade of red you're turning, Westley," Robin says.

"Shut—"

He kicks her chair leg. She yelps and shoves him in retaliation. Max rolls her eyes.

"Have some class, will you?" she says.

"I'm classy!" Steve insists.

"Not anymore," Lucas says gravely. "Now you're a glorified babysitter."

"Childcare is dutiful work," you say.

Steve grins at you. Your stomach flutters.

“Is that a mud pie?” he asks.

You nod.

“Gummy worms?”

You tilt your head. “How did you know?”

Steve chuckles. “Lucky guess.”

Across the table, the others argue about the classiest ice cream flavors.

“It’s obviously mango sorbet.”

“Sorbet isn’t ice cream!”

“Are they your kids?” you ask.

Steve leans in so you can talk in his ear. His arm is on the back of your chair. If you shift the slightest inch, you’d feel him.

“Minus Robin. Though, sometimes…” He rolls his eyes playfully. “But, um, yeah. Two of them.”

“How many kids do you have?” you ask.

“Let’s see…” Steve counts on his fingers. “Six?”

“Wow. You must be some babysitter.”

“I’m alright.”

You lean in. Steve blinks.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“You have an eyelash.”

You swipe the hair off his cheek and hold your finger in front of his mouth.

“You have to make a wish.”

Steve’s eyes slide to you. He gently holds your hand in place. Your heart beats faster.

“‘Kay.” He blows the eyelash away, but doesn't release your hand. “Let’s see if it comes true.”

The numbers stare at you. Taunt you, really.

You practically have them memorized. You’d written them thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. Then you’d shoved that under your bed.

Now you have it taped to your dresser mirror.

You wish you could talk to Joan about it, but she’s bathing in the sink after an unfortunate encounter with a paint can.

The Sharpie is gone from your arm, has been gone for several days now. But if you concentrate, you can see its silhouette on your skin.

You get up and peel the paper off the mirror. Then you go down the hall to your phone.

Carefully, you dial, making sure not to press any wrong buttons.

The phone rings. You rock on your toes.

“Hello?” Steve says.

You freeze.

“Hellooo…?”

“Hi,” you finally say. “It’s Buttercup.”

“Oh!” He sounds so happy. “Hey! Hey, how are you?”

“Good.” You chew on a cuticle. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, right! Did you wanna go rollerblading?”

Relief floods you. He remembers.

“Yes. If you’re planning it.”

“I haven’t talked to the kids, but I’m sure they’d be down.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “I can pick you up in twenty?"

“I can walk.”

“C’mon, in the sun? You live on the same street as Lucas anyway, don’t worry about it.”

“Well.” You twirl the telephone cord around your finger so tightly, it threatens to cut off your circulation. “Okay… if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Steve promises. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

You hang up and run to your room to dig for your skates. They’re stuffed under your bed next to a mini gumball machine. You shove two green gumballs in your mouth and race to the bathroom to check on Joan, nearly slipping on the wood.

“I’m going out, Joan. I think he might… he might like me.” You crunch on the gumball shells and shudder. “What a terrifying thought.”

You pull out the drain stopper and set Joan on a washcloth to dry. Then you go down the hall to put on your sneakers.

Steve arrives five minutes early. You only know that because you spend the whole time watching the road from your curtained window. You shake your hands out, overwhelmed with nerves.

It’s just a boy. He’s only a boy.

The two of you meet halfway. Steve jogs backwards, unusually skillful, and opens the passenger door for you.

“Hey. Does Joan want to come?” Steve asks.

You shake your head. “She’s having a spa day. It’s just me.”

“Well, I’m happy to have you,” he says, sweet and earnest.

You duck inside the car and shake your hands a little, trying to fend off the returning nerves. Just a boy.

“So, that’s El,” Steve says as he gets into the driver’s seat, pointing to a girl with short curls. “And you know Max and Lucas.”

Max nods at you with a smile. Lucas waves.

“Hi, El,” you say. “Cool hair.”

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. “I like your skates.”

“I found them at a yard sale. You can find anything in a yard.”

"Okay," Steve says. "Everybody buckled?"

“Yes, Mom,” Max mumbles.

Steve catches your gaze and rolls his eyes. You smile.

Briefly, you worry you’ll have to fill the silence and talk about yourself, like people expect you to. But Steve and the kids hold conversation easily. They talk about anything and everything.

They're more energetic than you're used to; Debbie always prefers it to be quiet.

But you don't mind it. You don’t feel lonely like you do when you’re with Debbie.

“Alright, please stay within this area,” Steve says when he parks and everyone gets out. “Within—”

“Shouting distance!” Max yells. “Yeah, we know!”

The park isn't crowded. Most of the paths are clear, so skating will be no problem.

Max gets out two skateboards from the trunk.

“Max is going to teach me how to do an ollie,” El informs you. “Would you like to join us?”

“Maybe later,” you say. “I want to master my yard skates.”

She nods and follows the others to the small skate park on the other side of the trees.

You bring your skates to a bench and sit, lacing them up your feet. Steve is a few feet away, swinging his arms slightly.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” you ask.

“Oh, uh, no. I brought my own skates… I thought maybe we could skate together, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, I would like that,” you say.

Steve beams. “Alright, cool. I’ll go get mine.”

You stand, about to take a step forward—and immediately slip.

Steve reacts instantly, lunging to catch you. One hand grabs your elbow, the other on your stomach. You squeal and cling to his shirt.

“Are you okay?” he asks, helping you stand upright.

“I’m okay,” you say, breath caught in your throat.

You take a step but your foot wobbles. Steve grabs you again. You don’t try to take another step.

“I thought skating would be intuitive,” you say, rolling one skate to test.

“What?”

You look up. Steve’s face is inches from yours. His hair is golden in the sunshine. His eyes lock on your own; his focus sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“You know, like how babies are able to swim for the first six months of their lives?”

“Uh…” Steve tilts his head. “No?”

“Oh. Because they were in the womb, they have that ability. ‘Cause they float around in there for nine months, you know? But then they lose it. That’s why we have to learn how to swim.”

“Wow. That’s a cool fact.”

Nobody ever thinks your facts are cool. But Steve does.

“Well, I thought skating would be similar,” you say. “I’ve watched other people skate, so I thought I’d just… do it. I guess I lost that at six months too.”

Steve’s smiling. It’s a gentle smile, though. Not a teasing smile.

“I see,” he says. “I’m sorry for your disappointment.”

“It’s alright. Life is far more than disappointment. No use getting hung up on it.”

“Do you want me to teach you how to skate?” he asks. “I promise I’m good at it. Coach Collins said I could’ve seriously pursued it.”

“So skating for you is like avoiding death for Westley,” you say.

“Actually, I’m pretty good at avoiding death too,” Steve says. “And making grilled cheeses.”

“Triple threat.”

He ducks his head with a laugh, and you feel the warmth of it flow through your own body.

“Sure. Can’t make lemonade for shit, though.”

“I think your lemonade is perfect, Steve Harrington.”

His cheeks are scarlet again. It’s quickly becoming your favorite color.

“I would like it if you taught me,” you say.

“Okay. I’ll get my skates after you get the hang of it. Put your hand on my arm, right here.”

Steve pats his forearm. Carefully, you do as he says.

“I’m nervous,” you confess.

“I got you,” Steve says, cheek brushing your head. “I won’t let you fall, Buttercup.”

Saint Aloysius’ parking lot has the best rocks.

You've never told anybody as much because you imagine the lot would get busy, and you like it empty.

Today, you're searching for a brother for Joan. Ever since that tragic day at Macinaw Island, Joan's been very lonely. It‘s hard being a sisterless sister.

Joan is smooth and round, so you look for an equally smooth and round brother. Commonality is important.

Your knees hurt from squatting, so you sit. The rocks poke your butt.

You hear a car rolling up the hill, engine a soft purr. You stop and turn.

The car is maroon and shiny, with only a couple slight scratches you can't notice unless you look really hard. You don't recognize the license plate, although you have yet to start your record of Hawkins plates.

It putters to a stop in front of Giovanni's Bakery across the street. The car doors open.

"I'm losing my edge, Robs! I made a damn fool of myself. I can't even—"

"Okay, first of all, I feel like we're glossing over the fact that you don't even know this girl. And what she did was technically trespassing."

"Do you know her name?" another voice pipes up.

"No, Dustin, I don't know her name. I don't even know if she lives in Hawkins!"

Their voices disappear as they go inside the bakery. You find Joan a brother, Jack, and Jack finds a wife named Gwen. Gwen isn't smooth and round; she's sharp-edged and will be harder to clean, but she's a muted salmon color and you think she's pretty. You hope Jack will find her pretty too.

As you dig through the pile of rocks, your finger catches on the edge of a broken bottle. It slices your finger. Blood swells immediately.

You put your new rocks in your plastic red pail with your other hand. Then you stand, joints popping as you do so. You stick your ribs out and bend your spine in a stretch.

You cross the street to the bakery, pail in hand. The bell jingles as you enter. You hum the ding-dong under your breath.

"Can I help you?" the man behind the counter asks.

"Hello. Can I have five baci di dama and five of the raspberry sandwich cookies?"

He goes to the display case with a paper bag. You rest your elbows on the counter, pail handles over your arm.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Do you have a bandaid? I'm bleeding."

The man purses his lips. "No bandaid, sorry."

"That's okay. Just the cookies, then."

"Buttercup?"

You turn. Steve stands before you, wearing his Family Video vest. Robin is beside him, her hair piled into a windblown bun on her head. Another boy, shorter than both, younger, is with them. He waves at you, curls bouncing.

You wave back. Robin squeals.

"Oh my God, what happened to your finger?" she asks, horrified.

"There was a broken bottle in the parking lot."

"Jesus," Steve says. He takes your hand and inspects it. He's so close and warm. All you can do is stare at the freckles on his neck.

“Why were you in the parking lot?” he asks.

“I was looking for rocks. This is the best rock spot in all of Hawkins. Well, after Lover’s Lake. But the pH has been abnormally high there. Probably because of the monsters. So I came here.”

"Hi, I'm Dustin," the boy introduces. “Is your finger okay?”

"Hi, Dustin. I think I’ll survive,” you say. “Dustin means brave warrior in Norse.”

Dustin beams. “Yup. I was named after my grandfather. He served in World War Two.”

"Names are important,” you say. “Joan agonized for days deciding what I should call her. Eventually, I decided for her. A name says a lot about a person. Steve has a warrior and good luck at his side."

"Yep, Steve-o here is pretty blessed to have us. And," he gestures to you, "You are?"

"Hungry," you say, taking your bag of cookies with your free hand.

The bag crinkles as you open it. You hold it out to Steve.

"Do you want one? I promise they’re blood-free.”

"Uh…” He glances at your hand. “Are you sure your finger is okay?”

“She’s a trooper. Survived ink poisoning and everything.” You wave the bag again. “Cookie?”

Steve takes a baci di dama out and pops it into his mouth. He hums as he chews, nodding.

"'S good," he says after he swallows.

"Baci di dama means lady's kisses in Italian," you say.

His cheeks turn pink again.

"You should drink more water," you add. "You turn pink easily."

Robin snorts. Steve holds a hand to his cheek.

"Uh, thanks."

“You’re welcome. Robin, would you like a cookie?"

"No, thanks,” she says. “I'm picking up a tiramisu for my mom's birthday."

"I want a cookie!" Dustin says.

"Dude," Steve hisses.

You hold the bag open to Dustin. He takes a raspberry sandwich cookie.

"So," Dustin says, mouth full. "Are you Steve’s girlfriend or something?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you say.

“Du-ude!” Steve says too loudly, voice climbing in pitch.

“What? You talk about her all the freakin’ time. I needed to know.”

You look at Steve. He rubs the back of his neck and half-smiles.

“Anyway,” continues Dustin. “How do you know Steve?”

"I climbed over his gate by accident on the hottest day of May,” you say.

"By accident?"

"Yes. All the gates in Loch Nora look the same. Except Steve's gate has climbing ivy and little red flowers. It's much nicer than the other houses. It looks like a person lives there. I mistook it for Debbie's gate."

Robin tilts her head at you. You don't care what Steve says; she's a one hundred percent bonafide bird.

Dustin points to your pail, crumbs all over his chin. "Why do you have rocks?"

"They're for Joan," you say.

"Joan? Is she your friend?"

"She's more like my confidante. She doesn't talk much, so I think it'd be presumptuous of me to call her a friend when I have no idea where we stand."

"Navigating friendships can be hard," Steve offers.

"Yes," you say. "They can be."

"Being straightforward can help a lot," he continues. "It, uh, at least helped me. That way the other person knows what you mean. No room for miscommunication."

You nod. "That's good advice. I'll have to try that with Joan. Sometimes she can be kind of hard-headed."

You roll up your bag of cookies and reposition your pail on your arm so the metal doesn't dig into your skin.

"It was nice to meet you, Dustin," you say. "Goodbye, Steve and Robin."

"Wait!"

Steve holds the door for you and follows you out. He still smells sweet, like pineapple, and also a little woody. He touches the small of your back, sending a bolt of electricity down your spine.

"I have a first aid kit in my car. Let me wrap your cut."

"Oh." You'd forgotten about it. "Okay."

You follow Steve to his car. He pops the trunk and rummages. You spot a bat with nails.

"Very inventive," you say, pointing at the bat.

Steve laughs shyly. "Yeah, uh, the monsters."

"I definitely wouldn't want to fight you if I were a multi-dimensional monster."

He smiles and takes out a small spray bottle of disinfectant.

"This is gonna sting, okay? But we need to make sure nothing gets infected."

"An infection would be unfortunate," you say. "I'm quite attached to this finger."

He sprays and cleans your finger. You wince and Steve squeezes your wrist in apology. Then he pulls out bandaids.

"Any preference? I have rainbow, Star Wars, 'cause they're all a bunch of nerds, cats… oh, I have flowers! ‘Cause you’re, uh, Buttercup, you know?"

"Flowers," you say, because Steve's so excited about it.

He nods and opens the bandaid. You hold out your finger and Steve carefully wraps it. He rubs your knuckle.

"Thank you," you say.

"You're welcome. Be careful, okay?"

"I will."

He closes the trunk, swinging his keys on his finger.

"Sorry if that was awkward, by the way," he says. "Dustin, I mean. He can be… blunt."

"It wasn't awkward."

“It wasn’t?”

“No,” you say. “I’m happy you tell people about me. I tell Joan about you all the time.”

"Oh." He nods. "That—that’s good. So… we’re both… uh—”

"Do you want another lady's kiss?"

"What? Oh—" Steve clears his throat. "N-no, that's okay. Thanks."

You take out a raspberry cookie and bite into it.

"Your hair has product," you observe.

"Yeah. No secrets, though."

"Everybody's hair has secrets."

"Even yours?" he asks.

"Especially mine."

Steve rubs the back of his neck. You open your bag and take out another cookie. He looks like he's trying to find the right words to say. You don't mind waiting.

"Hey, do you like barbecue?" he asks.

"I like it as well as anybody else."

"Well, um, I'm having a barbecue this Saturday. Lucas won a big championship game and so we're celebrating his win."

"That's nice," you say. "Congratulations to Lucas."

"Yeah! So, um, did you maybe want to come too? It'll be at my house. You could bring a friend if you wanted. Like Joan."

"Joan is a vegetarian," you say. "But I'm sure she'd enjoy the company."

Steve smiles. He has such a pretty smile.

"We're ordering pizza too, so Joan can have some of that."

"You're a very thoughtful host.”

Then you have a terrible thought. But you have to ask it because if you don't, you might be breaking some kind of invisible expectation. You do that a lot.

"Does Debbie have to come?" you ask.

Steve blinks. "Uh, no? It's not a requirement."

"Some people ask me to parties because they want Debbie to come."

Steve frowns. "That's rude. I wouldn't do that."

"Okay. What time does the barbecue begin?"

"You can stop by anytime. But we'll probably start eating around six."

You nod. "Joan and I will be there at five thirty."

Steve's answering grin is blinding. He must be really excited to meet Joan. You get it; Joan's the life of any party she attends.

"Great, that's great. I'll see you then."

"Bye, Steve," you say.

"Bye," he answers like he's out of breath.

Even the way he breathes is pretty.

Every month, Miles Stanwick throws a party.

Miles is a celebrity in Hawkins, his father being a state senator, and Miles is, according to a drunk Debbie, “the Gatsby to her Daisy.”

You're pretty sure Debbie hasn't read the book. Or maybe she's a living tragedy. Either is possible.

It had been just you two in her room, without the Other Debbie she pretends to be to impress the people of Loch Nora, when she'd told you what it meant to be in love.

"You just know," she'd said, her breath reeking of tequila.

You'd turned your head. Tequila made your nose itch.

"But you love Brett," you'd said.

"Brett is who I'll marry," she'd corrected. She’d sounded so sad. "Miles is all I've got."

Then she'd thrown up all over her carpet. You'd helped her into bed and made a mental note to find her a friend like Joan to keep her company, for when you weren't around.

You don't like parties. They're loud and smelly and usually filled with people you don't like or don't know. And at a party, people you don't like and people you don't know are one and the same.

You would leave, but Debbie is your ride tonight. So you're stuck here until midnight, maybe even later.

Someone plugs in a karaoke machine and that gets most of the party's attention. The music is horribly loud and is the kind that’s just a lot of synthesizer.

A guy jumps onto the Stanwicks' coffee table and knocks over the potpourri dish. Dried petals and orange peels scatter across the carpet.

Debbie appears in front of you, a red Solo cup in her hand.

"What did I bring you here for?" she asks, mouth curled. "To slump on the couch?"

"No one here wants to talk," you say.

Debbie rolls her eyes. "Parties aren't for talking. They're for drinking and making out. Someone's rolling a blunt in the den. Go suck on that, will you?"

The people in Loch Nora are so good at making you feel two inches tall. You wish you'd brought Joan. She'd know what to do.

You've tried alcohol before. Champagne at a wedding. A sip of rum from the Wellermans' liquor cabinet, back when Debbie wasn't so caught up in being just like everyone else.

Maybe it's your fault, too. Maybe you're too good at standing out.

You go to the kitchen. It's already trashed. You step over a spill on the floor. Then you turn around and lay down some paper towels so no one will slip.

There are various bottles of strong liquor strewn across the counters. You decide to try the punch and fill your cup to the top. You sniff it and your nose wrinkles at the whiff of alcohol.

You so badly want to have fun. You want to know what makes all of this worth it. You want your friendship with Debbie to be worth it.

You down the punch in one go. It makes you cough and you scramble for water at the sink. You wonder if the punch is poisoned.

You wobble out of the kitchen a couple minutes later, head already woozy. A girl stands with a drink, one arm folded.

"Where's Debbie?" you ask. The girl winces and steps away from you.

"She went with Miles and some other people to the lake."

Your eyes widen. "No, they can't. There's monsters."

She looks at you like you might be an insect splattered on her dashboard.

"You're Debbie's weird friend, aren't you?"

Weird doesn't make you feel good, like Steve calling you strange did. Weird makes you feel like when a boy in sixth grade stepped on your heels while going up the stairs because he thought it was funny.

"Debbie would've told me," you say.

The girl shrugs. "Guess she ditched you. She can't score with Miles if you're killing the vibe."

Weird tastes like poison in your mouth.

"Debbie was my ride," you say, but she’s already gone.

Your head aches. You try to think on what to do next. It's nearly midnight. No one is awake, and you have no idea how to call a cab.

You find the Stanwicks' phone in the hall and dial the only number you know, besides your own, and the local pizzeria.

"Hello?"

You lean against the wall, phone in both hands.

"Uh, hello? Who is this?"

"H-hi, Westley." Your voice cracks.

"Hey," Steve says, unbearably gentle. "My favorite rock girl. Jesus, it's… midnight."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm just—is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"Debbie ditched me."

Silence. For a moment, you panic that the line's dropped.

"Steve?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm, um, at Miles Stanwick's. The address is… well, I don't remember, but I'll go outside and look for the house number—"

"I know it," Steve says. "Stay right there. I'm coming to get you. Don't drink any more."

Your lip wobbles. "'Kay."

"It's okay," he soothes. "Drink some water. Don't take anything from anybody."

"I just wanted to be fun," you blurt.

"You are fun, Buttercup. Way more fun than anybody at that house, I guarantee it. I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Steve," you say, no longer feeling so small.

You hang up and go to the kitchen to get more water from the sink. Then you return to the hallway and sit, back against the wall, knees tucked into your chest.

You doze, lids heavy from the alcohol. The next thing you know are two hands on your arms.

You jolt awake. One hand cradles the back of your head so you don't thump it against the wall.

"Hey, hey." Steve kneels in front of you. He brushes your cheek with a cool knuckle. "It's me, it's Steve. Are you okay?"

His hands are cool against your overheated skin. He smells like lemon shampoo.

"My knight," you say.

"I thought Westley was a pirate."

“He was only pretending."

You let Steve ease you up. His car keys dig into your hip.

"Ow," you say dazedly.

"What? What hurts?"

"Keys."

"Oh." Steve shifts you to his opposite side, hand on your back. "Sorry, honey."

"Honey never spoils," you say. "Did you know that? You could dig up honey from a tomb that's thousands of years old and as long as it was stored in an airtight container, it's good to eat."

"I love that you know that."

"Do you really?"

"I really do," Steve says. "C’mon, let's get you home."

Outside, the moon is a dot of cream in the purple sky. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the houses are also dark.

"I'm sorry for calling you so late," you say.

"Don't be. I'm glad you called me. These parties can get out of hand."

"Debbie left. She went to Lover's Lake with Miles—"

The panic returns, flooding your body. You squirm and Steve tries to keep you steady.

"Whoa, what's—"

"The monsters! There's monsters down there, Steve. I don't like Miles, but I don't want him to be eaten!"

"No, no, no more monsters," Steve assures you. "They can't come through there anymore."

You still. "Promise?"

"I promise."

He helps you into the passenger seat of his car. Steve leans in and pulls the seat belt over you.

"Comfy?" he asks.

"I like you so much, Steve Harrington."

It's too dark to tell, but you suspect he's got another case of sunstroke.

"I, um, like you too, Buttercup. You're really cool."

"Me?" You wave your hand. "No."

"Really," he insists. "You are. The coolest."

If you were Debbie, if you weren't weird in the wrong way, if you didn't go to parties to talk, and if you fit a million other criteria you never will, Steve would kiss you right now. Or maybe you'd kiss him.

But you don't know how to go about that. You don't think it's your right to do such a thing.

So Steve shuts the door and walks around to the driver's seat. You stare at your flower bandaid.

"Four three's," Steve says as he turns the ignition.

You turn your head. "Hmm?"

"The house number. Four three's. That's gotta be, like, astronomically bad luck, right?"

"Without a doubt."

Except you're here with Steve Harrington, and he calls you honey and thinks you're cool. And that doesn't seem like bad luck at all.

"I'm going to a barbecue," you call out.

There's no reply. You close the door behind you.

Joan sits in your pocket. You've tied a purple ribbon around her head, right above her googly eyes. You don't know what the dress code is for a barbecue, but you hope she's not underdressed.

You haven’t spoken to Steve since Miles’ party. You’re not sure what you should say, and you can’t bear the thought of calling him to hear silence.

Even if he doesn’t like you the way you like him, you hope he’ll still be friends with you. Steve and his kids have grown on you. You don’t know if you can go back to who you were before the hottest day of May.

“Material Girl” plays from inside Steve's backyard. You mouth the words as you fling your flip flops over the gate.

"What the fuck?" someone says from the other side.

You climb the gate and shimmy down. It's a good thing you're wearing shorts under your dress.

A boy, lanky and tall but probably Lucas's age, holds one of your flip flops. He stares at you and shakes the shoe.

"Is this yours?"

"Both of them are," you say. "Does Steve like Madonna?"

He grimaces. "Unfortunately."

"Cool."

You spot Steve sitting on one of the deck chairs with Robin and a boy your age with big, curly hair and a Led Zeppelin shirt with cropped sleeves.

"Venus" plays next and you wobble in time with the music as you walk over to Steve.

"Her weapons were her crystal eyes," you whisper. The pavement is warm under your toes.

"Making every man mad."

Steve turns just as you reach him. He stands so fast he shakes the chair.

"Hey!" he says. He sounds out of breath again. "Hey, you came."

"You invited me," you say.

"Yeah, yes." Steve nods. "I did. I'm glad you're here."

"You play good music."

"Ha!" Steve whips his head to look at the curly haired boy. "Suck it, Munson."

"She's obviously biased."

"Munson," you say. "Eddie Munson?"

Eddie freezes under your gaze. Robin and Steve glance at you.

"Yeah, uh, that's me." Eddie smiles weakly. "Look, you might've heard some stuff abou—"

"You helped fight the monsters," you interrupt. "You're very brave."

Eddie's eyes widen. "I—"

"Most people just like to ignore monsters. It takes a really good person to fight them." You turn to Steve. "Do you have orange Fanta?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll get you a can. Feel free to sit… where are your shoes?"

You point behind you. "Your bodyguard had to screen them after I climbed your gate. You have very tight security."

"After you climbed my… wait, Mike? God, I’m sorry about him. I'll get your shoes back."

"It's okay. Flip flops are dangerous weapons. It's only a matter of time before the airport bans them."

Steve tilts his head, eyes warm. "Right. I'll be back. That's Eddie and Robin… you know them."

"I know their names, and that's about all you can know about anybody."

Eddie giggles. You look at him. He doesn't seem to be laughing at you, so you sit where Steve was sitting, across from Eddie's chair. You point at his shirt.

"I like Kashmir."

"Thank God! Somebody with decent tastes."

"I'll listen to anything," you say. "It's important to be a good listener."

Eddie grins. "Words of the wise."

"Where's Joan?" Robin asks.

"Right here." You take Joan out of your pocket and set her down on the edge of the pool chair.

"Sick," Eddie says.

You nod. "The ribbon was my pick."

"I like it," Robin says.

"Thank you."

Steve returns with an orange Fanta for you and a root beer for Robin.

Robin points to Joan. "Steve, this is the famous Joan we've heard so much about."

"That's a rock," says Steve.

"Yep."

"Oh." He nods in understanding. "Joan is your pet rock?"

"Confidante," you correct. "’Pet’ is demeaning."

"Got it. And was Joan's sister also your confidante?"

"No. Joan's sister didn't like me much. She thought I was a bad influence on Joan. But we shouldn't talk about it now. Joan gets very sad when I bring it up."

You open your can. The carbonation hisses. It's itchy and sweet on your tongue.

"I like your hair," you say. "It's fluffy. Like it was on the hottest day of May."

Steve pushes a couple strands behind his ear.

"Thanks. The gel is too much on hot days like these. Weighs me down."

"At least you won't float away." You look at Eddie. "Is your hair full of secrets too?"

Eddie ruffles his hair. "Not as many as Steve's, but I've got a couple in here. 'S what gives my curls volume."

"Hm. Just as I suspected," you say.

"Ste-eve!" Dustin whines from across the yard. "You promised burgers!"

Steve rolls his eyes. "You'd think he's never been fed in his life."

Eddie pats his shoulder. "You've got this, Harrington."

"Oh, no. You wanna eat, you've gotta earn your keep. Come on."

Eddie groans, flinging himself off the chair. "Save me, Buckley!"

"Already did that," she says, pulling her sunglasses onto her eyes. "Never again."

"You should tie up your hair so it doesn't catch fire," you suggest.

"Well, at least somebody cares about me," Eddie declares, pulling his hair into a ponytail.

Steve turns to you and smiles softly.

"Are you hungry? You can have the first pick of the burgers."

"Won't Dustin be annoyed?"

Steve shrugs. "Kid could use some manners. Besides, pretty girls always get the first pick. It's the law."

You follow Steve and Eddie to the grill, pretty girl echoing in your brain the whole time.

Eddie's hair doesn't catch on fire and Steve makes you a perfect burger. The sun sparkles on the pool surface. The kids come out to eat and, predictably, Dustin complains about not getting the first burger.

"Not fair. Just 'cause she's your girlfriend," he mumbles as he goes off to search for the mustard.

You check to see if Steve had heard the comment. He doesn't seem to have; you can't decide if you're relieved or not.

The chairs are all taken by the time you finish fixing up your burger. Steve stands immediately as you approach.

“Here, take my seat,” he says.

“We can share,” you offer.

Steve lets you take the back of the chair, settling at the foot. “You Make My Dreams Come True” plays on the speakers.

“Whoever made this mixtape is a genius,” you announce.

“You like it?” says Steve. “I actually made this one. Robin and Eddie think my taste sucks, but—”

“It’s spectacular.”

He hums, ducking his head shyly. “Well, speaking of spectacular: I made more lemonade, if you want to test it before I unleash it upon the masses.”

“I’ll happily drink your lemonade,” you say. “It’ll build my iocane tolerance.”

Steve grins. “I rented The Princess Bride, by the way. I know you meant to get it a few weeks ago. We can watch it tonight, if you want.”

“You remembered I wanted to watch it,” you say.

He nods. “Well, uh, yeah. Do you still want to? If you don’t, I can—”

“I do,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve stands, hand outstretched so you’ll give him your empty plate. “I’m going inside. Anybody want anything?”

“Doritos!” Robin shouts.

“Napkins, please,” El says.

“Cherry Coke!” Mike calls.

“Beer!” Eddie whoops.

“Doritos, napkins, got it. The cooler is right there, Wheeler, and are you kidding, Eddie? No drinking by the pool. Have we not learned our lesson from the last four years?”

“Bold of you to assume I’ve learned anything, Steven.”

“Can you bring us popsicles?” Max asks. “Lemon and grape.”

“Ooh, popsicles sound good,” says Robin. “Bring me one too. Fruit punch.”

Steve sighs, lifting his arms.

“Two hands, guys. Only got two.”

“I can help,” you offer.

“Now that’s a great idea,” Robin says. “The two of you in the kitchen, alone. Really brilliant, don’t you think, Steve?”

Steve glares at her. Then he turns to you, expression softening.

“That’d be great, thank you.”

You follow him into the kitchen. It looks exactly like the last time you were here, except for the food. Steve opens the freezer and digs through the box of popsicles. Then he takes the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and sets it on the counter.

“Can you get the Doritos?” he asks. “They’re up there.”

You open a shelf over the stove. The chips are at the very top. You try jumping; all that does is bang your ribs into the counter.

"Whoa, whoa.”

Steve’s hand rests on your back. Your stomach swoops.

"Easy, Buttercup. I’ll get it, sorry ‘bout that."

You frown. "The Doritos have eluded me."

"They’re a tricky bunch," he says, reaching and successfully grabbing the chips.

"I knew you’d best me and succeed."

"Best you?"

"Yes," you say. "Like in a duel."

Steve tilts his head, a tiny crinkle forming in the center of his brows.

"Are we going to duel? Like Inigo and Westley?"

"Not if I can help it," you say. "I'm terrible with a sword."

"I would never try to sword fight you."

"I appreciate that."

His hand slips from your back. You watch it fall to his side.

“Feel free to help yourself to whatever you want,” Steve says as he takes a glass out of the cupboard. “You can also take food home.”

You exhale through your nose and wiggle your fingers a little, trying to stave off the nerves. You wish Joan was in your pocket right now, but you left her on the deck chair.

“Buttercup?”

You look up. Steve has a glass of lemonade in one hand. The top button of his polo shirt is undone. Was it always undone? You can’t remember.

Anyway, he’s beautiful. And you’re so damn strange.

“Yes, Westley?”

Steve smiles. You don’t think anyone has ever smiled at you as much as Steve does.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

He puts the glass in front of you. You glance at it, then back at him.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I won’t force you to drink my crappy lemonade if you don’t want to, y’know.”

“You called me strange,” you blurt. “When we first met.”

Steve’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he says softly. “But I won’t call you that anymore if you don’t like it.”

“No, I–I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way. But…”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m not like Debbie,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’ll probably never be like Debbie.”

“I much prefer you as yourself,” he says.

“Oh.”

You sip your lemonade. Your lips pucker but you smile all the same.

“Damn,” Steve says with a chuckle. “I really can’t nail that lemonade, huh?”

“It’s wonderful,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward. You set the glass on the counter.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“I would very much like that.”

Steve’s lips are slightly chapped. You taste like lemonade and he tastes like Coke and God, you like it so much.

You loop your arms around his neck like you’ve wanted to do for weeks. He returns in kind, both hands slipping to your waist.

It’s not just a boy kissing you. It’s Steve.

The sliding glass door whooshes open and you jerk your head back in surprise. Max and Dustin trod in.

Dustin shrieks.

“Seriously? This is what was taking you so long?”

“If you were gonna do that, we would’ve gotten the popsicles ourselves,” Max says with a huff, grabbing the popsicles and chips from the counter.

“Told ya they were making out!” comes Eddie’s voice from outside. “I warned you, kiddies!”

They clear out, with one last stink eye from Dustin. Steve shakes his head, nose pressed to your cheek.

“Again, very sorry about them.”

“They wanted to check in on their favorite babysitter,” you say.

Steve lifts his head and rolls his eyes. “I need a padlock or something.”

You hum and lean over to unwrap a popsicle.

“Oh,” you say. “Three left.”

“Three popsicles?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well, that explains it. Astronomical bad luck, right?”

“Actually,” you say, leaning in for another kiss. “I think my theory was wrong.”

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x yn #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things

1K notes · View notes

blueparadis · 1 year

Text

╰┈➤ ULTRAVIOLENCE ✦ SUGURU GETO.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢ On Christmas evening of 2009 Geto Suguru receives an unexpected gift, a cure to his loneliness, and a curse to his mission of creating his "new world".

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ fem!reader, cult leader!geto suguru, canon divergent, profanity, prostitution, yandere!getou suguru, possessive behavior,smut, f1ngering, hand job, mutual masturbation, nipple stimulation, mutual pining, heavy angst, angst and tragedy, canon-typical violence; 4,7k word count + this this for @nagumoan's collab: 'dance with the dead'

| blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. + cross-posted to ao3.|

30th of September, 2007.

The warmth and the humidity in the air have been settling on Geto’s skin for a while. The shrill cry of cicadas has been ringing in his ears. Even now, he can hear it amidst the sound of running water, washing dishes, and the table fan.

“Otou-san will be home soon, Sugu. You don’t have to wait for him to come back. Nowadays, he works till late at night.” The elderly woman puts the poached egg in the ramen bowl and places it in front of her son. Suguru stares at the food with plain slate eyes. “Your father thinks he can help you with your higher studies.” —his mother wipes her frail, slightly wrinkled hands in her apron before dragging the chair and sitting in front of her son, face to face— “But actually, he just misses having you around the house since you moved in the dorms last month. Is the food there okay? Are you eating well?”

Suguru does not speak. He gulps remembering the taste of curses. He has been doing his job like a robot all this summer— exorcise, absorb, digest. exorcise, absorb, digest, exorcise, absorb, digest, absorb, digest— “How is Satoru?” his mother asks pulling him back into reality. Her smile was so soft smile that Suguru thought it could make lilies bloom. He just listens to his mother like he usually does whenever he visits her. His eyes fall onto the ramen bowl again, there are hot fumes emerging from it. They must smell delicious like he remembers. But unfortunately, it failed to thrum the strings of Geto Suguru’s heart.

“Okaa-san, it’s okay. I’m not that hungry. I can wait for Otou-san to come home.” he remarks, smiling at his mother letting the food get cold. He has done this so many times, engaging his mother in talk so that she does not notice how hard it is for him to chew, swallow & eat without experiencing the taste and smell of it. All he can feel on his tongue is the rotten taste of curses, the aroma of dying corpses of his fellow jujutsu sorcerers. Maybe this is why he is losing weight so fast, not because of the heat. The more he tried to cling onto the mundanity of humans the farther it slipped away from him; like sand spilling through the gaps of his fingers.

“But why aren’t you in your school dress, my dear?” His mother asks, noticing him in normal black trousers and shirt.

“Oh! It got too much dirt.” He responds, looking at the clock in the kitchen.

This time will be the last time he sees his mother’s smile, hears her voice, sees her cook food for him, and the last time he welcomes his father to home.

3rd of February, 2008

“Oka-san. Otou-san. I’m turning 18 today.” Suguru jocked down to sit in front of his parents' graveyard. He places a few incense sticks with the fragrance of chrysanthemum, two bowls full of ramen, and some sake in front of the graveyard. He looks at the poached eggs, and the lump in his throat bobs once. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come on your funeral day.”

“Neeh—Oka-san, are you listening?” His eyes perk up. “Is it bad that I don’t regret any of this?” There is a pause before he stands up again. He finishes his last bit of cigarette and burns the butt with his cursed energy. “But you know what? I’m now less angry and more guilty. Guilty of so many things—”

“Geto-sama, we don’t have much time. They will tail us soon if we are here any longer than this.” Manami speaks with worry carefully buried under her commanding tone. His phone vibrates. He checks the caller ID. Shui Kong it read. A salacious curve appears at one corner of his lip. Disbanding the star religious group was a piece of cake for him. And, now with the help of Shui Kong, he will get an endless influx of money and curses in no time yet it would not be enough to defeat ‘the strongest’; he thinks. nope, that’s wrong, deep down, he knows that.

“Yeah, you are right. Nanako and Mimiko will get scared if they wake up and find none of us.” Geto smiles before turning on his feet to walk. As he starts to walk Manami waits till he goes ahead of her, at least eight feet from her and then she follows Geto Suguru. Geto's shadow does not even touch Manami’s, never does, she makes sure of that. She does not belong to his shadow, nor as his comrade but perhaps a part of the ‘family’ that Geto-sama keeps talking about.

“I won’t be here next year,” Suguru murmurs to himself before stepping out of the graveyard. He never looked back that day not while walking, not while getting in the car, and not even through the mirror. He did not feel the need to look back.

24th of December 2009

Geto Suguru skims through the thick crowd in the front lounge of one of the most expensive brothels in the city like the bow of a ship through the waves. There are men on couches, beautiful women over them, and the blended aroma of strong cologne and burning tobacco fills the air. Not only that, the tingling music mixed with waves of laughter of women and men makes Geto slaver at the thought of killing them all. He could do it now. He has both, power and confidence. But he is not here to create a massacre.

“Getou-sama,” a familiar low hum reaches his ears making him turn his head. At first, he thought he was just imagining it then he felt a tug in his baggy pants. He lowers his eyes to the ground.

“Ahhhhh! Nanako—Suguru takes her in his arms and clears his throat before speaking making it tart at every stretch of his words— “Didn’t I tell you to wait for me at the car? It's not safe for you here.” Not only it is unsafe but also inappropriate. A girl of her age should not witness the path that could also been her if he had not saved Nanako and her twin sister two years ago. Geto strolls back towards his car. “Negi, make sure she does not follow me. ” He instructs this young lad who drove Geto today keeping a sleeping Nanako inside the car.

“Well, she wouldn't have been here if she didn't fight with her sister,” Negi responds before bowing down. Geto watches the car go inside the parking area and then he vanishes into the thick crowd like a pebble in the wind of lust, power, money, and scandal. He earns a few curious stares and with such enormously handsome features and elegantly electrifying personality who would miss? It dawns on his mind that he killed the Yakuza who owned this brothel a week ago. The crowd is bearable, well, penetrable at least. Walking amongst non-sorcerers makes him nauseous at times but now he has reached the point where a part of him is willing to abolish this useless crowd in a snap. But he does not need to, not now. Now is not the time, nor the place.

Geto Suguru should have been at his new home with his new family spending this fine Christmas evening drinking. In all honesty, he did not even have to cut through this lustrous mob if Shui Kong kept his word, that is, delivering the money in the proper place and time. The only reason why he came in person to collect the money was because Shui Kong was the one who helped him to get a grasp on the star religious group. Not only that, he kept giving Geto information about such groups, and with his cursed manipulation technique he gobbled them up in no time. It was a walk in the park for him.

There was a steady flow of curses and money. Even certain small yakuza gangs, the smart ones but with lower manpower, started to send favors to appease him. He is like a god of the underworld now. But some dumb power-hungry yakuza men refused to retort to such steps and hence, they fell prey to his curses. He is going to eventually kill all these foxes but not now. He needs them now, he needs them to dilute his presence and make himself untraceable in the hands of jujutsu sorcerers. Killing the lions has already been a huge loss.

“There you are, Mr.Kong.” Geto remarked walking into the room. He does not take a sit rather stands against the door almost covering the entrance.

“Forgive me—” Shui starts with a brilliant smile that has cracked more deals than existed. He is not a pawn but a rook. “I would have gone to your place but I am needed to resolve an issue here.”

Geto chuckles. “Maybe it's your need that brought you here.” He quipped as Shui kept two briefcases on the bed.

Shui Kong gives him an assertive look before smiling. He lights up a cigarette and says, “ Would have been a happier man if that were the case but— ” There is a ridge between Geto’s eyebrows as he refuses to finish his thoughts. Blowing a puff into the air he turns his head to the other side of the room, towards another door, and yells from the bottom of his lungs. “Princess, I don't have all day.” Geto’s eyebrows do not let go of the tension. His arms are now crossed tightly across his chest, lower lip gleaming since he swiped his tongue across it. He just needs to see this princess, just for once.

“You see, someone asked for her, a fox from a rival gang.” Kong starts to explain. The cigarette in between his index and middle finger keeps sizzling in scarlet red. “he is saying he is gonna pay full for her— you know — but she was attacked while working —”

Geto’s dark eyes are now stuck on the doorknob. It starts to rotate. He registers Shui’s words who is scrolling through his phone to call them. The click of the doorknob makes Geto release the breath he was holding back, slowly. Before the slightest part between the door and the frame, Geto’s lips part exclaiming, “Shhhhhhh!” with a hiss at the end.

You unlock the door and wait for an opening to interrupt their conversation.

Shui Kong looks at Geto and then he follows those dark drunk eyes of Geto Suguru that took him to the other side of the room. There you stood, in a translucent white dress covering you from head to toe. There is a rose around your neck and rose leaves on the hem of your full-sleeved dress but beneath the dress, anyone could easily see the bandages around certain parts of your body — scattered and ripped. Your nipples are visible too. They are perked. Geto maintains his stance, hands inside his pocket and standing by supporting his shoulder against the door frame. Only his lips move, growling and raging underneath. “So, there are still those who don't obey me,” His eyes drink in your appearance so shamelessly; utterly shamelessly.

You rake away your eyes from this man of Six feet and some inches, clamping your palms around your upper arms. Geto walks inside the room. “There will be no exchange of anything from here, Shui Kong-san.” He does not take any of the suitcases just your cell phone from the dressing table.

“Passcode?”

You exchange glances with Shui Kong before opening your mouth. He nods. You answer him, “4444.” Geto's eyes flash onto you checking if you are mocking him or not. You are not. He unlocks your phone checks the search history.

“There’s a lot of porn here.”

You rub your upper arms slowly and say, “It’s not like my clients are interested in my pleasure— or my well-being.”

“You need to check her phone to tell? Can't you tell just by looking at her?” That earns Shui Kong a momentary glare.

“Yet you are willing to sell her,” Geto prompts sarcastically with a smile plastered on his face. There is an edge in his voice. Shui does not protest. He knows what he is doing. “You can stay with me,” He offers, without thinking about the consequences of it. “Of course, you’ll keep working, then.” It takes you a moment to decipher his words but it is not something unexpected.

“Oh, I don’t mind, whatever you want.” You say quickly. “I can follow orders.” Embarrassment seeps into your skin as you realize how rushed those words were that came out of your mouth. Scanning him through the corner of your eye, you find him smirking still checking your phone.

“Get her things in the car. She will be staying with me from now on.” Geto remarks slipping the phone in his pocket before leaving.

Shui Kong sits on the bed, soft and pink with a thud. “Do you realize what you are doing, Y/N?”

“You heard him.” You say getting out of those high heels and changing into flats. Even though you are bruised you managed to get your trolley. It is a good thing that you wore a long coat to cover yourself up. People are already staring, what would they have done if you turned up in such scantily dressed attire? Your Madame has already been summoned. Getting out of the building you look around and find Geto Suguru talking to your Madame. Shui Kong is also there. The moment you open the door of the car you spot a kid sleeping on the back seat. This must be Nanako. You adjust the kid's head on your lap. She's gonna get her neck sprained if she sleeps like that. Through the window, you see Geto still talking to your Madame, as he keeps jerking his leg impatiently and occasionally scratching his forehead with his thumb.

“We can't afford to do that — her regulars — they will complain. ” she tartly remarks.

“Well, give them a discount. You know how the system works, so figure something out with Shui Kong-san.”

“Have it your way then. She was a jinx anyways ” She remarks letting all the disappointment out. It piques Geto’s interest because when he saw you, you were not looking at him, you were looking behind him. A feeble curse not visible to normal people but visible to people with enough cursed energy to become a sorcerer or an exorcist. He specifically customized this curse after digesting it to pick up ‘talents’ like you who are considered as ‘freaks’ by those idiots. Just like Nanako and Mimiko.

“What do you mean?” He tries to sound curious hiding his disgust underneath the question because he has seen all the gore behind the glory of it all.

“People say that she is a witch. She kills men and takes their money. She’s got a black cat, a big one. Can talk to birds. I’ve seen her—” Suddenly the street lights, the honking of the cars, and the sound of footsteps of passersby became loud. Geto could not hear her properly anymore. Damn filthy monkeys.

“Excuse me, I’ve got to make a call.” One more minute of her blabbering nonsense he would have killed her. Geto calls Manami stepping aside in the dark shade of the alley. He talks for about five minutes before looking your way. You do not look away, rather give him a warm smile and bow your head to appreciate his kind gesture. He immediately turns around. You think he did not see you or maybe looking at someone else or somewhere else but all he could do is stumble on his words while talking to Manami. It’s distracting. You’re distracting.

Geto Suguru walks towards the car and you fold Nanako’s legs a little to make space for him but he disappoints you thoroughly. He sits beside the driver, the barrier is up so you can not see his face. Disappointment and hurt sedimenting at the bottom of your heart you arch your head and close your eyes. It feels like, after a long time, you have closed your eyes and not for the pretense of pleasure.

January, 2010.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Geto drawls lazily as he sits on the sofa, still in his kasaya freshly finishing after seeing his visitors. He was out of town for almost a week and hence today's session was longer than usual. He needs a bath, a nice warm bath, not some scum to show up at his doorstep begging for you.

There are a bunch of men standing behind the older man, who seems to be the leader of the group; all armed, and Geto sits alone at the opposite. At times like these, he feels a little closer to the god. A middle-aged man, speaks keeping his gun on the center table, perhaps to assert dominance Geto thinks too but it makes him nothing but widen his smile. “You have something that belongs to me. And I have something that would interest you more so why don't we—”

Splotches of blood fall on his gun, warmth settling on his cheeks too like drops of oil. He turns his head to find that one of his men is sliced into two. Geto clears his throat gaining his attention again. “What a mess you have made, Toshiro-san. ” He gets up from his seat and before leaving he remarks huskily, “Please clean this up before you leave, Toshiro-san” The man, dumbfounded by what just happened, nods in agreement watching the man disappear into the inner quarters.

The dawn dies, painting the blue sky with its blood-red, agony welcoming the full moon and her bevy of stars. At night, Geto Suguru is not a monk anymore. He is much more than that — a father figure to two homeless orphans, an idol to a few who believe in his dream of creating a ‘new world’ and a savior to you.

It has been almost a month since Geto Suguru brought you to his home. At the dawn of the 25th of December 2009, when you woke up, Manami was there to help you with the chores and show you around. You have spotted Negi a few times while roaming and exploring the house, but there was no sign of that man, your so-called ‘savior’. When you asked Manami, she was rather cold while answering, “Geto-sama will be home around New Year's.”

It was not hard to pinpoint her jealousy for you. “Whore”, “Slut”, “Homebreaker”, “Witch” — the list continues. Her jealousy is just the tip of ice-berg. Maybe she had to sacrifice something greater when Geto took her in, something more important than freedom. Apart from her cold demeanor, everything was just fine; it was more than you could ask for. The wounds and bruises have started to fade. They are barely pinnable now. Nanako has a twin sister, Mimiko. They have warmed up to you more quickly than you imagined and a part of you was grateful to them since Manami became humbler in her gestures.

This fine morning, you noticed a new pair of shoes near the doormat. You knew it had to be his, Geto Suguru. He is home. Today might be the first time you get to talk to him, pay off his debts, or maybe keep working while staying here just like he said or whatever he decides to do with you. It was odd that he did not suspect you at all, or maybe he told someone to do a background check. He seems like the kind of person who would hold such powers. You have heard about him even if they reached out to you in the form of rustling rumors.

“Are you comfortable here?”

Losing your balance you topple on your feet and eventually fall on the ground. Nanako and Mimiko peeks by his legs. They are not even at his knee length, so small, so fragile and so full of life. They laugh and so do you. Geto Suguru is unimpressed. He crouches down pulling the girls in front of him. “Go and play in my room but don’t fight, alright?” The shift in his demeanor amazes you. He has changed. He is nothing like you have been warned about.

As soon as the twins leave, giggles and voices filling the corridor Geto’s eyes shift on you. You are still on the ground, legs half-folded. He extends his hand towards you to help you get up but you flinch away, sliding against the wall. In the middle of this long corridor, Geto Suguru is on his knees before you watching as if something fell from the sky, a boon, an angel.

His lips extended from ear to ear, flashing his teeth. “What's up with this coy act of yours?” He wets his bottom lip.“Too timid for a whore. I know you can see things.” Your eyebrows grew closer as you got up and formed a response in your head.

“It's hard to break years of habit,” you speak, “Sir.” you quip, seeing him still on his knees. Why isn’t he standing up? Does he need a hand?

“Not gonna complain that I called you a ‘whore’ ?” He taunts, standing up and facing you.

“Too timid for that sir,” you say keeping up the eye contact. But that does not last long. Geto’s dark globules follow your behind. You notice too that there is a shadow on the wall of the corridor of a lady. He sighs heavily exclaiming, “Manami. You can come out now,”

Timidly she walks out of the room exclaiming in a firm tone after clearing her throat, “Getou-sama, your bath has been prepared.”

“Have you prepared my clothes too?” He narrows the gulf in between the two of you and grabs a few strands of your hair smelling it, letting his lips graze over a little, and checking your reactions as Manami answers.

“No. Not yet. I’ll do it right—“Actually, prepare two sets of clothes.” Geto interrupts. The way your chest heaves, up and down, frantically tempts him to tease you more. “Hers too. She will be joining me.”

Geto was kind not to ask you to strip in front of him. It was not like you would not be used to that; you had practiced enough still you thought his eyes would alone eat you away if you were to undress in front of him. Curling up your braided hair in a bun and securing it with a clip you enter the bathroom. He is already in the bathtub, head arched, eyes closed, chest heaving up and down. You walk slowly trying not to make any sound. “You know, of all the curses I’ve swallowed—” you gasp loudly palming your face.

“Can you not do that, please? Every time i feel like my heart is gonna jump out of my chest.” So many words in one sentence; a question; a request; a demand; a plea. Suguru blinks: once, twice, and thrice. “Yours have a very distinct sweet smell.” His words slurred, inaudible at the end. This is the first time he has seen you speak so much and that too, only to him but that is not what warms his heart. ‘Sir.’ you did not add sir. He hated the honorifics with you. “And . . . I’m not a curse.” You mutter before dipping yourself in the bathtub sitting against the wall of the bathtub facing him.

You notice the huge X-shaped scar over his chest. “How did you get that?” you ask playing with the water not meeting his eye. His toes touch the side of your hips, hands resting on the white of the bathtub but when he does not answer you look up to him and see his hands near your ankles. There is a brief eye contact of realization about what’s he up to and in the next blink you are close to him.

“Do you wanna feel it?” He asks touching his forehead against yours.

“The pain?” You say, running his hands over his chest careful enough not to touch his nipple. “Or just the scar.”

“How did you get this?” He rubs the mark of one of your wounds on your arm. “And this?” he asks, a little concerned by the number and place of the wounds you have all over the body. They have faded but not totally. The agony on his face is clear but you remind yourself it is not because of you. It must be because he is reminded of how he got his scar.

“Mostly clients.” You answer noticing his hands trailing up to your breasts. Your mouth parts, eager moan willing to escape. “But some men like them. Some men don’t. So, they pay to heal them in a way like they were never there,”

“What kind do you think I’m?” Suguru asks but you fail to answer since his hands have started to massage your breasts, nice and slow. Your moans have started to weigh more, the bottom and lower lip parting with each other more. Your vision turns black as his mouth latches on the column of your neck but that is not where it is needed now. Your taut nipples need desperate attention. Moving closer to him, your palm is over his cock. He is hard, leaking even. A gran escapes from his mouth, edgy and elongated. One of his fingers dips inside your vagina. Woah. You’re wet, so very wet. Even under the water, he can feel your arousal, even smell it. You buck your hips a bit giving him an invitation. The sloshing sound of water feels more embarrassing than your moans. He does not take it but when you start to pump his cock in long, deep, and fast strokes he leans towards you taking one of your nipples in his mouth. You should have known how strong he is when he dragged you closer to himself because the way he is sucking and biting you think you will cum soon. He starts to rub your clit in rough, rigorous movements as his mouth works on your nipples. For a moment your hands feel lithe; your hands pause working his cock.

“You smell so good,” He murmurs unlatching his mouth and licking up to your collarbone from the base of your cleavage. You twist and tilt your head as his lips explore your neck while pushing his fingers up and down inside your vagina, nudging your sweet spot. Your hands start to pump his cock again, harder and faster this time, reverting him the favor with the same intensity and emotion. You feel him smirk against your skin before he bites your earlobes making you jolt. Another arm that rested on the valley of your waist tugs you closer, again; you think he is going to pull you onto his lap, fuck you deep, nice, and full. “Fuck” he mutters feeling his cock tense up. The sloshing of water now gets mixed with your loud moans mixed with his low grunts. Geto looks at your face, your eyes meeting his and occasionally landing on his lips and one of your hands gripping too hard on the whites of the bathtub. Both of your hands pick up the pace, matching the intensity and the ragged breathing. Eyes rolling white, jaw clenching hard, head arching back as the wave of orgasm approaches both of you.

“You’re close,” you huff and pant in between feeling his warm ejaculated fluid onto your hand.

“So are you,” he murmurs cumming as you keep pumping his cock till it stops. Geto pulls his fingers out of your messy aching cunt and shamelessly puts them in his mouth, licking and sucking it to the base of his fingers. You watch him as if he is the man to take your first time. The loneliness, the affection, the desire— all hit Suguru in a flash like a downpour as he notices you looking. He gets out of the bathtub and steps into the shower zone. When you hear the water running, you step out of the bathtub too but do not join him in the shower instead grab your phone with a towel that was in the pocket of his previous attire. Typing a number, you hit the send button and immediately delete it from the history.

The message read: [“I’m in.”]

note: special thanks to my dearest fumi aka dom ( @akiniku ) for constantly listening to my ideas, talking me through them, and beta-reading this when I finished it. I finished writing this today and it was so rushed by Dom talked me through it and gave me the course I needed. hope you enjoyed reading it. thank you for making it this far. i do want to continue this but will see if i can manage time to write after october.

also tagging @orchid3a @semisgroupie

542 notes · View notes

justkending · 4 months

Text

Mr. & Mrs. Hunt (7/7)

Mini-Series Summary: Two of the most stubborn people in the group partnered together for an undercover mission are also the two people with the most hatred for each other, so what could go wrong? Or is it, what COULDN’T go wrong?…

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger Reader (Enemies to Lovers) (Fake Marriage Trope)

Word Count: 1800+ (shorter but sweet;)

A/N: This is the last chapter of the mini-series! I've loved a break from all my other WIPs and am surprised that I was able to complete this even if I wasn't sure where it was going 🥲 Thank you all again for the support, comments, and sweet love you've sent my way, and I hope to have more free time to write this summer now that I'm on break!🥳💞

Next Chapter

Y/N’s POV:

Four months have gone by since our mission. And to say things are different would be an understatement.

We kept the game of hating each other going on long enough for Steve and Nat to both lose their bets. And then we each did a little betting on the side with the two on how fast we could make the other reconcile. Bucky and I both were $200 richer after that.

The team was shocked at the new friendship, but after some consideration and after coming clean to Bucky about my reasoning for how I treated him, I felt a weight off my chest. That weight grew lighter and lighter with each person I confided in, making our explanation of no longer having a feud unimportant.

My story was a reason for how I acted the last almost five years with Bucky, but it wasn’t a valid one. I was happy to have moved past it and frustrated that it took me this long.

Comfort in having Bucky as a genuine friend was a gift I starved myself of for so long, and I’m happy to know that I’ll have it from here on out.

“If Sam asks, I didn’t do it,” Bucky sped walked into the room and tried to act casual as if he had been in the space the whole time, standing next to me at the kitchen island as I cut up fruit for my snack I'd become hyper fixated on recently.

God bless the billionaire who could keep all fruits, in season or not, on hand.

“Got it,” I nodded unphased, never taking my eyes from the cutting board before me.

“Have I told you thank you for never questioning my antics with Sam?” The smile in his voice is evident, and I turn to see the proof of it stretched across his features as he looks down at me.

“You've established your appreciation once or twice since we’ve become friends,” I laugh, looking back at my work. “Grab me some blueberries from the fridge, will ya?”

As he moved and started opening the fridge, perfect timing, Sam turned into the kitchen with steam practically blowing out of his ears.

“What did you do?” he grunted as he stomped in, fists at his sides.

Bucky turned from halfway in the fridge and gave him a confused look. If there was one thing I learned about him while on the mission, he was a great actor.

“Y/N or me?” he asked, pointing between us with the carton of blueberries in his hand. “Do you want an apple too?” he asked casually, one already in his hand as if Sam wasn’t seconds from shooting him from existence with Redwing.

“Sure, why not?” I hummed, dropping the knife and wiping my hands as I turned to Sam. “What are you going on about?”

“I know it wasn’t Y/N, Barnes. She’s been on a mission the last two days and just got back this morning. This was a premeditated hate crime.”

“Whoa. I’m intrigued now,” I laugh, and start placing the cut strawberries into a bowl I had out and take the apple Bucky hands off to me.

“You want to tell her about your fun, little prank?” Sam turns his annoyance to Bucky with crossed arms, and Bucky flips on the water to wash the berries in hand.

“I would have to know what you’re talking about in order to tell her.”

“Don’t play coy, Barnes,” he points a finger his way, and his eyes could laser through vibranium if they wanted.

“Help us out. Give us context,” I carry on, very intrigued with what it is Bucky had done, and start cutting the apple up.

“As if he doesn’t already know,” Sam grumbled, walking in further. “You know how I had to buy all new long sleeve thermals because my clothes don’t fit anymore?”

I hummed and smiled down at the fruit. “Getting too swole in the gym, as I heard you tell Steve. Trying to match his bench press will do that, trust me. I know,” I raised an arm and flexed for extra measure, and he rolled his eyes as Bucky laughed and placed the cleaned blueberries on the counter.

“Tell me why all my new shirts don’t work…” Sam looked to Bucky with a cold, calculated stare.

“Would work be the correct term?” Bucky poked. “Would you say shirts ‘work’ or ‘fit’?” He looks at me with the tiniest smirk on his lips. I shook my head, trying to soften the smile growing on my own.

“You sewed the end of my sleeves shut so my arm wouldn’t go all the way through!” Sam shouted, pulling the shirt from his back pocket and holding it up.

Bucky let out a ‘pft’ sound and leaned against the counter by me. “Who’s to say I even know how to sew?” In truth, I knew he was using me as a barrier when Sam eventually fell over the edge and gave into his fantasy of choking him out.

“Shut up!” Sam growled. “You stitch yourself up on missions half that time because you hate having the nurses do it. Obviously, you know how to work a needle and thread.”

“Needle and floss most of the time, actually,” he shrugs, and that does it for Sam.

“I’m gonna beat your ass!” Sam stomps hurridly to the counter, but Bucky goes on the other side, estimating his moves.

“Have to catch me first!” he said with a wicked grin, and Sam wasted no time running after him.

As Bucky escaped the room and Sam followed behind him, I heard a “That’s what you get for hiding all the remotes in my room while I was gone, dick!”

_______________________

A few days later, after I got a stitch ripper and helped Sam get his thermal shirts ‘working,’ I asked Nat and Wanda to join me on a girls' trip to buy a new winter wardrobe now that the seasons had officially started turning in New York.

When we returned, Nat was called to talk with Fury, and Banner asked Wanda to be a second set of eyes for something in the lab.

I was left grabbing my bags by myself in the den, and just as I was about to tumble to the side with the last overstuffed brown sack, Bucky came around and caught me. His hand wrapped around my waist as the other grabbed the bag that would have been my doom.

“Thanks,” I groaned as the weight of them pressed into my wrist from the handles.

“What happened to all those gains you got matching Steve’s bench press?” he laughed, taking at least three bags before I waved him off, taking the others myself.

“I gave up on that challenge a long time ago. I’ve lost the muscle mass, unfortunately.”

“You didn’t lose it. Just transferred it,” he winked, curling the fourth bag I fought him taking.

I rolled my eyes and nodded my head toward the hall with our apartments. “You do have a vibranium arm. That gives you more of an advantage than you give credit for.”

“Just be happy this advantage is working for you and not against you,” he kicked the back of my knee as he followed behind me. “Find anything good?”

I turn back and see him glancing in the bag like the snoop he is.

“If I tell you, are you going to sew my sleeves shut?” I hum, turning a corner down the hall from my door.

“Only if you hide all my remotes and then log out of all my streaming services, so I have to put them all in one by one,” he whistles a jazzy tune. “Stear clear of that, and I’ll be nice.”

“Ooo,” I cringe, turning and looking at him as I put my thumbprint on the door to unlock it. “He got you with the minor inconvenience prank. Those are the worst.”

“Minor was an understatement. Hence the retaliation.”

We both go inside, and Bucky places his bags on the couch while I dump the remaining ones on my bed.

“Thanks for the help,” I smile, stretching from the long day out, and shrug off my coat as I settle.

“No problem,” he replies, but I don’t hear him move to leave, so once I throw my coat off completely, I turn and give him a look. He’s watching me intently, and I feel almost bare under his gaze.

“Was there something-”

“Can I ask you something?” he cuts me off, and his mood shifts.

“Um, yeah. Sure. What’s up?” I turn to him and give him my full attention cause it seems serious.

He hesitates at first and almost looks nervous as he contemplates how to ask me whatever it is.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” he looks around my room towards the living space.

I follow his gaze, trying to see if I’m missing something. “Plans that I can think of... No. Why?”

“I was wonder- well. I was- I was wondering if you’d want to maybe- I mean, if you’re up for it, of course, possibly maybe, watch a movie or something?” he gets out, and oh my God. I’ve never seen him fumble over his words like this before.

“Watch a movie?” I recap as I blink out of the idea that Bucky is 100% nervous. “You and me or with the rest of the team?”

He lets out a small chuckle and rubs the back of his neck.

“You and me. If you’re ok with that,” he answers, looking at me bashfully.

“I’d be up for that,” I smile and my stomach does a little flip even if I’m not sure where he’s going with this. But the teenage girl who never got to experience this before is doing cartwheels. “What movie were you thinking?”

He seems to have a permanent smile now because of my answer, and I can’t lie and say the one on my face doesn’t hurt a little from how wide it is.

“Lady's choice. I’ll bring one of those fruit bowls you like to make and maybe-”

“I made some cookies this morning. I hid them in the pantry because we all know Tony and Sam would have finished them off before I had a chance even to smell them from the oven,” I rush out.

“You’re baking tends to have that effect on many people around here. I kind of miss when I was the one and only recipient of it,” he laughs. “Even if I wasn’t lying about gaining a few pounds.”

I roll my eyes at that and start to walk to the door, stopping to put a hand on his shoulder. “We both know that your metabolism is far too magical for that to be a long-term problem.”

“True, but I’m not against testing that theory,” he shrugs, bumping my shoulder with his own as he walks with me.

I stop right before reaching the door and turn to him with a grin and blush I cannot control.

“Bucky, is this a date?”

As if he’s so sure of himself now, the nerves melt off him; he says, “I was hoping we could count it as one this time. Considering all the others were fake, even if I don't count most of them that way...”

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx @death-unbecomes-you @mythos-writes @srrymydood @xa-dia @redhairedfeistynerd @morganclaire4 @connie326 @captain-asguard @mollygetssherlockcoffee @teenagedreams-bucky @shower-me-with-roses @livstilinski @basicallylool @starryeyeseunbyul

My Lovelies Forever:

@natura1phenomenon @lauravicente @kakakatey @traceyaudette @notyourtypicalrose @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sandlee44 @thorne93 @thefaithfulwriter1 @essie1876 @greyeyedsmile14 @capsiclehan @xostephanie @averyrogers83 @awesomenursingstudent @gh0stgurl @cs-please @jjlevin @rainbowkisses31 @deannotmoose @their-bibliophile @kitkatd7 @willowbleedsonpaper @mariaenchanted @snffbeebee @couldabeenamermaid @rebekahdawkins @alyispunk @billyseye @hallecarey1

Bucky Barnes Tags:

@chloe-skywalker @charmedbysarge @jbarness @bellamy-barnes @katiaw2 @aikeia @stopjustlovethemcu @enchantedbarnes

Mr. & Mrs. Hunt Series:

@jackiehollanderr @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @theroyalmanatee @wintrsoldrluvr @alexakeyloveloki @bxckybxrnes24 @lillianacristina @selella @heletsmelovehim @lovelybaka @julvrs @mostlymarvelgirl @heletsmelovehim @learisa @bubblegumbeautyqueen @that-d-bitch @rabbitrabbit12321

#bucky barnes mini series #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader insert #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x mini series #justkending #marvel mini series #bucky barnes x avenger reader

154 notes · View notes

fashionably-forgetful · 10 months

Text

Exotic "rice method" liquifies fat cells

Did you hear about the unusual rice method that liquifies fat cells as you sleep? Clinical studies confirm just 30 secs of this simple rice technique boosts calorie burning and fat-dissolving by over 326%, that’s more calories than 45 mins running! Unlock the Power of Nature for a Healthier, Happier You In a world inundated with fad diets and quick fixes, the search for a natural, sustainable…

View On WordPress

#how to lose weight #lose 20 pounds fast #lose 50 pounds fast #lose weight fast #lose weight for summer #lose weight for wedding #lose weight for winter #lose weight quickly #lose winter weight #natural weight loss #puravibe #trending weight loss #weight loss program #weight loss tips #weight loss tricks #wellness journey

0 notes

strange-dreams-are-made-of-these · 19 days

Text

Playing Games With This Old Heart

Summary: You need to make cash fast after losing your job. After stumbling on a job, you can't help but to think about your first customer. And he can't get you out of his head.

Warnings: no smut, no fluff, still MDNI as this will be a planned series, canon typical violence, hints of death of a loved one (prior to story), animal death (bear), angst, Female Mutant!Reader with regenerative healing factor.

A/N: It's been two years since ive poste dont his account, so i hope you guys wont hold that against me. Please take this sample of a fic with our favorite X-Man.

Word Count: 4.7 k words

The days were shifting between the long summer heat and a cooler breeze as the leaves started to change from their usual green and full thick coverings to reds, yellows, and browns before leaving their life-sustaining tree and falling to the ground. There was something subtle about the sound of leaves crunching under ones footstep that somehow felt calming. The ground around your home was littered with the fine needles of the Douglas Fir trees that had a very distinct pine smell to them. It was a welcoming smell for you, having lived the majority of your life in rural Montana, the fresh smell of pine felt like home.

The colorful coat of the Maine Coon cat you owned stood out against the green throw blanket placed on the couch, the place he dubbed his spot. His name was Felix and he had been your fury best friend of nearly six years now. He showed up one day on your doorstep when it was raining with his mother. Not knowing much about cats, but knowing they were hungry, you couldn't help but open the last can of tuna you had in your pantry, draining it of its liquid before setting it out for the mother and son cats to eat. His mother trusted you enough to leave her son with you before leaving, never to be seen again. You often wondered what happened to the little minx of a feline, though you were happy to assure her you could take care of her baby.

"Okay, Felix. I'm going into town. Don't miss me too bad while I'm gone, okay?" You chuckle a little watching him as he stretches out, adjusting your jacket in the process. With keys in hand, wallet in your warm coat, and a fully charged phone, you left your home. Your next-door neighbor was only five miles away, as was his other neighbor. The only thing you had to worry about here were bears, mountain lions, and wolves showing up unannounced during meal times. Thankfully the only time you spotted any of the three was during their migration journeys at quite the distance from your porch to the open land headed out toward the lake where they could get their fill of fresh fish and other small creatures that dwelled there.

You kept your distance, you respected their space, and in turn, they stayed away from you. Just how it should have been.

Hoping into your truck, an old one of your father's, you kick it into gear and leave your driveway. The roads were bumpy as the broken rock and dirt shifted under the weight of the truck, bouncing you a little as you made the drive into town. There were a few things you needed to make it through the week: gasoline, and a refill of your water containers. One was used for cooking and drinking, one was used for bathing, and the third was the backup. Being out in these parts, you had to prepare for the unthinkable. Trees block major routes to give supplies, unpredictable weather, and supply shortages.

Another thing you would have liked to get was a fresh cut of meat for dinner. Depending on what was at the store would determine the dinner in store for you. Grilled fish? sounded nice. A steak could have been as equally nice to eat.

Though, there was another reason for your outing today. Since Mr. Kirkwood had sold his farm, you had been out of a job and had been running low on funds. You had to find a job today, any job. Anything that would provide you cash for hard work to continue to provide for yourself and Felix. Stocking shelves at the only grocery store in town? Perfect! Cutting down trees for the logging company? You're the girl for the job, nevermind you have never cut a vertical tree before, only when they were already grounded.

You just needed any job, one that you can continue to live your life.

Parking the truck, you walked to the bed, picking up the water containers, two in one hand and the third in the other. Thankfully there had been a man coming out of the store, seeing your hands full he held it open for you. You thanked him, recognizing him as one of your father's old co-workers. You nodded to each other, letting him go back to his day as you entered the door.

"There she is, I was wondering when you would be coming back. I hadn't seen you in a few days," came the beckoning voice of the store's owner, Mr. Morgan. He was almost like an uncle to all of the younger people in town, being about thirty-five and younger. You were toward the older end of his infinite nieces and nephews, though he would swear you were his favorite.

"I was able to get an extra day or two in on my stock. I call that quite the accomplishment."

"Did you make it last longer, or did you go without longer than usual?" He questioned you, peering over his glass at you as you set the water containers down. He knew what your current situation was, but at the end of the day, he still had a business to run. "I can't do anything for you today until you pay your tab." He was serious, but he had a little glint in his eye as if letting a loved one down.

You looked at him, your once welcoming face now placid. "Mr. Morgan, please. You know I'm good for the money." you fished around in your jacket, pulling out the last thirty-seven dollars and change you had. You knew it wouldn't cover your tab plus what you needed, but you also knew he had a business to run. "I just need a little more time. And some supplies. Please."

It was a plea, a simple one. Though you knew he was the holder behind how the rest of your week was going to go. "I'll stock shelves for you to pay the rest of my tab. I'll scrub the floors with a toothbrush. I'm willing to work."

He took his glasses off, looking at the cash in front of him. He didn't want to see anybody struggling, but he couldn't ignore his debts. He shuffled the money around, taking thirty dollars for himself and handing you the seven dollars and change back. "I can't afford to add anybody else to my payroll, or else I would. You can have one water refill, a full tank of gas, and some cat food. Nothing more."

You stared at him, lips parted as if to protest the money exchange, but the sound of the bells chiming against the door flooded those thoughts. You reached for the cash, scooping the change into your hand. All you could muster was a simple "Thank you." Moving the water containers to the side, you placed two of the containers into the designated area, then took one to the refill station, and filled the water container.

You had to figure something out and fast.

A newly filled water container was placed in the truck bed, a full tank of gas in your truck, and a sack of wet and dry cat food sat on the passenger floorboard. Looking around the small main street of the town where ninety percent of the town's businesses resided, you decided to leave your truck where it was. You were on the hunt for a job, and you were damn determined to find employment by the end of the day.

You used your side view mirror to make sure your hair looked fine, adjusting the collar of your jacket and shirt, you straightened up peering back at the main street. The best way to start job hunting was to start at the end of the street and work your way back down, entering every business you spotted. The good thing about small towns was all you needed was to name-drop a couple of people, resumes didn't hold up well.

The bad thing about small towns was that everybody needed work. Store owner after store owner denied your requests. The pawn shop wasn't looking for new employees, the liquor store had too many employees as is, and the antiquities store only hired their family members. The options were dwindling down, and soon you were nervous you were going to have to find a creative way to make money or even worse, entertain the thought of being a lot lizard.

The only two businesses left were the diner on the right side of the street and the motel at the end of the road. Either of them could have positions open, yet they could also deny you a job opening. You had to hope they had an opening somewhere, knowing you were not creative enough to make and sell items for cash. You didn't own many items to sell, beyond the couch, a cot you used to sleep on, and the few little trinkets you received when her father died. The most expensive item you owned was more than likely the truck, and selling it would mean nearly desertion at your home.

Without another thought, you crossed the street as a logging truck passed in front of you. You made some eye contact with the driver, making sure you waited until he drove in front of you before crossing the street.

As you pushed open the doors of the diner, a woman ten years your senior greeted you. "Have a seat wherever you want, sweetheart."

You crossed the room, taking a seat in front of her as she cleaned the counter space. "I know you are busy, and I don't want to take up too much of your time. I'm looking for a job. Mr. Morgan told me you might have something open here?"

The woman looked up from her work, eyeing you down after you mentioned Mr. Morgan. Her ginger curly hair cascaded down her shoulders as she shifted her weight. "Mr. Morgan, huh?" It was hard to tell by her expression, but she seemed to be thinking about something.

The door opened again, and a young blonde woman entered appearing slightly disheveled as if she had just woken up. "I'm here, Rebecca."

The woman in front of you, Rebecca as you read the name tag, turned her body toward the younger woman, then looked to the clock. She placed one hand on her hip. "Only two hours late." She looked between you and the woman, a mischievous look in her eyes. "I told you, show up on time or don't show up at all."

The blonde woman huffed a little, crossing her arms. "It's not like anybody else wants this job."

Rebecca smirked, walking around the counter toward the woman. "Actually she does." She was quick to snatch the apron from the blonde woman. "Clean your uniform and have it dropped by the end of the week, then you will get your check." She then tossed the apron to you, catching it effortlessly.

The blonde huffed, storming out of the diner and throwing a couple of curses in the air. "Your shift starts now. Take a menu, and study it between customers. Orders go to Big Ben. Don't ask us why we call him that and don't make any eye contact. Burgers are made to order, the soup of the day is Italian wedding, and you can give me your jacket."

Her orders came quickly as you stood up, removing your jacket and tying the apron around your waist. There had been a little notebook in the apron and a pen, thankfully saving your ass as you wrote down the notes she gave you. The doorbell rang again, the older woman looked at you with a questionable look. That was your cue, time to work. "Take a seat wherever you want." You nodded, taking a menu in your hands and walking up to your first-ever customer.

As his boots made contact with the ground below him, the man took a moment to adjust his shoulders, rolling them a couple of times as he stretched. He could have sworn the truck cabs were getting smaller and smaller, almost feeling his head touch the rooftop. At least he could rest comfortably during his lunch break. He had contemplated having a liquid diet for lunch paired with a cigar, but the smell of greasy burgers filled his nostrils. Tucking the keys of the truck in his vest pocket, Logan walked toward to diner.

He passed by an unruly blonde woman, muttering under her breath about being fired barely filling his ears. He persisted in, entering the diner. Not looking up, he heard the greeting offered to him, hearing two different footsteps filling the diner. One was the small heels clicking against the tile floors. The other was boots muffled against the tile. A small pair of hands moved to set a menu down in front of him, along with what looked like one single-ply napkin and a fork. "What can I get started for you?"

Logan still hadn't looked up yet, looking at the laminated two-sided menu in front of him. "Coffee." He blurted, though wishing he could have an iced beer with his food. The woman left his table, rounding the counter and finding the coffee pot and cups. A minute may have passed by as he scanned the menu. He wasn't that much of a picky eater, as long as it used to have a heartbeat, he was fine.

The mug was set down in front of him, steam rolling off the black liquid. "I'll have the cheeseburger and fries." He picked up the menu, handing it back to the waitress. That was when he finally turned to look at her, remembering her as the woman who crossed the street behind him. She didn't seem to be dressed for work, not like the other woman who was behind the counter now fiddling with some dishes.

"You got it." She left the table, and walked over to the window, setting a ticket in the designated space that the other woman told her about. His hand wrapped around the mug in front of him, looking outside as he silently observed the town. He was in this stretch of land only long enough to get him enough cash to figure out his next move. He didn't like to stay in the same place too long, maybe a year or two at most. He didn't mind the small circles running in this part of the state, but he knew that if he wanted to go somewhere else he would have to figure it out soon before the snow moved in.

What felt like ten minutes had passed before the woman came back, setting his plate in front of him. "Can I get you anything else?"

He shook his head, brushing her off. As she left, she could smell a strong scent of pine around her, as if she herself was a pine tree. It wasn't a disheartening smell, something he actually liked.

Another set of diners came in, sitting a few booths behind Logan. As he ate his food all he could hear was her voice, despite there being a total of seven beings in the diner he could hear. Somehow her voice was the loudest in his mind. Not the heartbeats of the seven people, not his heartbeat, not her heartbeat. Her voice.

As he finished the food in front of him, she walked over to him, leaving his ticket and grabbing the empty plate. "Do you want a cup for the road?"

He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a billfold. "Yeah, sounds good."

She returned with his to-go coffee, handing it over to him as he left cash on the table, adjusting his shirt collar. "Here, let me get your change."

"Keep it." He walked out of the diner, making a bee-line for his truck, fighting everything in him to talk to her again. Little did he know, that wasn't going to be their only interaction for the day.

The daylight began to dissipate, street lights were turning on and the neon signs from the only bar in town began to glow. Rebecca presented to you with a powder blue uniform dress. The diner and the employees looked as if they hadn't left the fifties, just as the regular customers liked to relive. "You did good, peanut. The job is yours. Your next shift is tomorrow, Nine to five, be here no less than ten minutes before clocking in tomorrow. I'll have some shoes for you. Can't have my girls in boots for service."

You took the uniform and hanger, nodding. "Yes ma'am."

Rebecca giggled a little. "Oh darlin', I'm no ma'am. You can call me Becky."

Parting ways with your new manager, you left the diner, uniform in hand and some tips in your apron. You couldn't help but think about the first customer you had that day, a man appearing around your age, how quick your interactions were, but how he almost seemed disinterested in interacting with you. Was it possible he was a regular of the blonde woman? He paid his bill, he tipped you, and you went on about your day. That was all you could ask for.

Returning to your truck still parked in front of the grocery store, you set your items down in the cab. Peering to the bed of the truck, you huff as you realize your water container is missing. At least the thief had the balls to leave your empty gas container. Mr. Morgan's place was closed for the night, so you would have to swing by the store after work. "Cowards." you hum to yourself, getting in the truck and turning over the engine.

Returning home, you fed Felix with the food you acquired today. Becky made sure you had something to eat as well before you left the diner, though Big Ben had made a comment about it. This only solved three of your problems for the day. You still needed to wash up, and without the water container, you only had one choice.

The easiest thing would be to take a bucket to the lake and boil the water before using it to wash up. Not thinking clearly either, you left the house without any type of protection, knowing you were just getting water and heading back to the house. The only light you had to help you was the half-moon above you.

Unknown to you, the man from the diner had followed you home, wondering what you were up to. He wished he could understand what was happening, but your voice was all he could hear and focus on the rest of the day. His truck was parked in the woods opposite your home, and he stood in the tree line listening to the orchestra of insects and animals around the both of you. Foxes howled in the far distance, deer were settling in for the night. But there was another predator within the vicinity, one unbeknownst to you.

You kneeled down to fill the metal bucket with water, you were being watched by a wolverine and a black bear. A bear looking for its next meal, and a wolverine searching for answers, only to find more problems in his way.

The grunt of the bear finally caught your attention. It had been nearly twenty feet in front of you, standing on a rock as it discarded the fish carcass in its claws. He smelled bigger game, and his blood lust was all he could focus on.

Leaving the bucket still in the water, you slowly stood up, keeping your hands to your sides. It stayed on its rock, turning toward you. It must have been fully grown, which spelled danger for you. Black bears did not care and would defend themselves to the death, even if it was not threatened.

Seconds felt like minutes as the bear finally stood up, roaring before falling to all fours and darting toward you. There was no way you could outrun a bear, let alone rely on your home to defend you. Laying down now meant instant death for you. Climbing trees was out of the question.

Your heart pounded in your chest with every footfall, knowing the longer you thought about survival, the more your chances diminished.

The bear caught up to you, pinning you down and tossing you around. Your screams filled the space of the open field around you. Claws tore into your skin and clothes as you felt warm blood escape your body.

Snikt

The bear roared out, turning its attention away from you to something else, attacking it. The sounds of two animals tousling with each other filled the air, but after one minute, the bear grew quiet, a distinct thud was heard as its body fell to the ground.

Something rushed up to you, and before you could react, you felt human hands touching your body. "No, no, no."

You looked up to see the man from the diner hovering over you as his knees collided with the ground next to you. His face was bleeding, but as you watched him, you saw his wounds close and heal within seconds. Almost just like...

He observed you, looking at where your wounds were.

Or used to be.

You sat up, scooting away from him a little. Breathing heavily, the both of, you looked at his tattered clothes and blood stains. yet there was an absence of wounds. "What are you?" You asked hurriedly.

He stared at you, his eyes dancing the same tango where your wounds used to be. "I could ask you the same." He ran a hand over his hair before standing up. He offered you a hand, however you didn't take it. Brushing yourself off from the dirt.

"Nothing happened here, okay?"

Logan turned toward you as he watched you walk back to the lake, picking up the bucket of water.

You realized what you said sounded harsh, and that wasn't your nature. Closing your eyes briefly, you look back at the man. "I have some clothes in my house. I can at least give you something to replace those."

He watched you begin walking toward the cabin you called home. Taking a moment, he decided to follow in your footsteps, quickly matching your pace to walk with you. "I saw you get attacked by that bear. I can see the blood." His eyes scan over your back, where layers of clothes are torn. Not just your jacket, but your shirt, and an undershirt.

You swung open the door of your cabin after walking up the little set of stairs on your porch. "Not to sound like a broken record, but, I can ask you the same."

After both of you were in the cabin, you set the bucket down next to the woodfire stove, pulled some of the water into a pot, then set it on the surface of the stove to boil the water. You then opened up a door, the only closet space in your cabin. There was a box labeled Dad's clothes written in neat handwriting. You pushed it out to the side, then grabbed two jackets. "Here, pick out what you want."

He looked at you, unsure of the idea. There was more to ask now, and he wasn't so sure where to start. He watched as you moved around in the cabin, picking up a little bowl and scooping its contents into a bowl. He could smell the cat, but not see it. He looked around, wondering where it was.

You observed his behavior, wondering what he was doing. Clearing your throat, you took a stab in the dark. "His name is Felix. He doesn't like strangers. If I had to guess, he is on my bed, or under it."

He smirked a little, knowing his suspicion had been confirmed. He approached the box, opening it to look at the different shirts and pants inside.

You observed him, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the wall. "Why are you out here?" You were thankful he showed up when he did, knowing you didn't have many defenses against the bear beyond how you healed.

Instead of giving a bullshit answer or response, he turned to look at you, a gray flannel in hand. "I was just passing through." He lied.

You shook your head, eyeing him as you lowered an eyebrow. "No, you didn't. Nobody passes through this place." Sighing a little, you felt a tug in your back. "Look, I've had a somewhat normal life here, have my entire life. I don't really have anything else to go to, or the drive to go anywhere else. I'll tell you what I can do, and I can answer any questions you have. Then we can part our separate ways. Sound like a deal?"

Logan stood up, tossing the flannel over his shoulder. He held his hands up to his sides, shrugging his shoulders. "I won't complain." He didn't know where this would lead him, but the thought of getting some answers meant his trip wouldn't be wasted.

Nodding, you rolled the sleeve of your torn jacket up, exposing the lower part of your arm to him. you pulled one of the logs out of the stove, holding the unburned end in your hand. The other side was on fire. You held your arm out in front of you, then pressed the fire to your skin, doing your best to stifle the groans from the injury. Pulling the log away, the third-degree burn healed almost instantly as tissue, muscles, and skin grew back together. After showing him the display of your power, you put the log back in the stove. "I was never sick as a child. injured that should have resulted in broken bones never bothered me."

Logan watched you burn yourself and then heal almost instantly. He hadn't met anyone before who had the same healing rate as he did. What were the odds of meeting another mutant out in the middle of nowhere Montana?

"Can I show you what I can do?" He asked, watching your every moment with precision. As he watched you nod, he moved his right hand to cross in front of him. Slowly, the sound of moving metal filled the air as three long knife-like appendages emerged between his knuckles. You stared in a mix of awe and confusion. He smirked, then sliced the pad of his left hand, showing you his own healing rate.

What caught him off guard was how you began to approach him, though it was a slow approach. On instinct, he retracted his claws, the spaces where they had once been healing up. "Does it hurt?" You ask him, rubbing your own knuckles where the blades would have been.

He didn't know how to feel, knowing that the two of you were just strangers passing in the night. "Every damn time." His voice was above a whisper, as if afraid the tone of his voice would break the sound barrier.

Silent moments passed between the two of you, tension filling the air. He couldn't stand it anymore as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I should really get going," he spoke, stepping around you. Dazed little you finally felt you weren't the only one anymore.

You turned around to face him as he approached your door. "You know, I have a shift at the diner tomorrow. Maybe you'll happen to forget your lunch and have to stop by the diner?"

He should say no. He should be grabbing his things and heading out of town as quickly as possible. He should put this place in his rearview mirror and forget anything that happened there. But the drum of your heartbeat spoke bigger volumes than his brain did.

"We'll see." He nodded, thanking you silently with a gesture of the shirt before leaving your cabin, and walking toward his truck. He needed out of there as quickly as possible. Another moment with you could have sent him into a coma. How beautiful you smelled, how kind you were. Even though you were quick to block him earlier and run away, you still let him into your home and offered him a simple reward for saving your life.

It was almost too intoxicating to think about. And the promise of tomorrow could never come any sooner.

#x men #logan howlett imagine #logan x reader #logan xmen #logan wolverine #logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #james logan howlett imagine #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fic #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #wolverine

126 notes · View notes

piastrisun · 15 hours

Text

let me go.

pairings: charles leclerc x fem!reader.

summary: when love becomes a battleground of dreams and unfulfilled desires, sometimes letting go is the only way to find yourself.

genre: angst.

word count: 2.6k.

warning: none.

notes: inspired by s1, ep22 of how i met your mother, ‘come on’. no use of y/n or any names at all. enjoy !! (maybe you won’t).

charles is at the desk you two share in your office, casually typing on the laptop you both share from time to time, when his face tightens in confusion. his eyes scan the screen, eyebrows furrowing as he scrolls through an email. the realization hits him like a wave. your name is in the subject line, followed by the words ‘congratulations’ and ‘art program.’ his heart pounds as he reads further: three months, starting this summer, in new york.

you, unaware of the storm about to hit, stand in the kitchen. the hum of the kettle rising to a boil fills the air, and you mindlessly pour yourself a cup of coffee. your fingers absently trace the rim of the cup, lost in thought. you don’t notice him stand up, the air between you shifting with tension.

“did you apply to an art program? in new york?” his voice is controlled, but you can feel the edge to it, like he's trying to stay calm.

you freeze, the water nearly spilling over the rim of the cup. turning slowly, you meet his gaze. “i just wanted to see if i’d get in, that’s all. i wasn’t going to go.”

he shakes his head, pacing towards you. “but... in new york?” his tone is incredulous, staring straight at you.

“i wasn’t going to take it, anyway,” you respond quickly, the words rushing out, as if saying them fast enough will make them true. you set the cup down on the counter, the clink of ceramic sounding louder than it should.

he takes a step closer, voice softening. “that’s always been your dream, and you’re not taking it, mhm.”

“but there’s a lot of things i’ve wanted to do… and i haven’t done any of them, so” you reply, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter as if grounding yourself.

his eyes search yours, frustration laced in his next words. “and now? you decide to do it now? with everything we have lined up in the future? we’re about to get married.” his voice lowers, pausing for a moment. “no, you can’t.”

the mention of the wedding makes your chest tighten, a wave of guilt creeping in. “are you forbidding me from going?” your voice is calm, but the hurt is beginning to break through the surface.

he rubs his hand over his face, exasperation clear in his posture. “i never said that,” he mutters, pacing a little, his footsteps heavy on the floor. “but i don’t know, we have a wedding in a few weeks, and i was hoping you would be free that day."

silence stretches between you, the weight of his words sinking in. you feel the heaviness in your chest, like you're stuck between what you owe yourself and what you owe him. finally, you look up, your voice steady. “i’m not asking you to understand. or to be happy about it. i’m just asking for your support.”

his gaze sharpens, and he shakes his head again, frustration mounting. “support you? how can i support you when it feels like i’m losing you?”

your heart skips a beat, and for a second, you’re unsure of how to respond. “you’re not losing me,” you say quietly, but there’s a tremor in your voice, betraying the uncertainty you feel. “i’m still here.”

he lets out a bitter laugh, running his hands through his hair. “you’re still here? you’ve been accepted into a program in new york, for three months. that’s a whole summer. and you didn’t even tell me. you applied without saying a word.”

you bite your lip, guilt flooding through you. “i didn’t want to say anything because i told you, i wasn’t planning on taking it.”

he looks at you incredulously. “then why apply? why even put yourself through the process if you weren’t going to follow through?”

you look away, feeling the pressure of his gaze on you. “i don’t know. maybe i wanted to see if i was still good enough. if i could still be the person i used to be.”

“the person you used to be?” he repeats, his tone a little softer now, but still confused.

you rub your arms, trying to ease the tension in your muscles. “it means... i feel like i’ve built my life around you. around what we’ve built together. i haven’t chased any of the dreams i had when we first met.”

“i never stood in your way,” he counters, his voice quieter now, almost pleading for you to see things from his side.

you take a deep breath, the truth burning on your tongue. “i know. but i’ve settled for the fact that we have a home, and that i got a stable job—one that’s almost mediocre. it sucks, but that’s what i’ve been going through.”

his brow furrows, his voice strained. “i want to understand. i swear i want to understand. but i don’t.”

your throat tightens. you remember the younger version of yourself, eighteen and full of hopes. “do you remember when we met? i wanted to travel the world, study in different countries, learn everything i could. i wanted to be someone, charles. i haven’t been able to be that person anymore.”

“i love you, no matter what. you know that, right? i’ve always loved you.” his hand finds yours, holding it tightly.

you pull your hand away gently, shaking your head. “it’s not about that. i know you love me. i just— i don’t love myself. and i hate that i haven’t done anything for me.”

the silence is crushing until he speaks, his voice small, vulnerable. “but what if you decide that you want to keep pursuing art? and you realise i don’t fit into that world anymore? what if those three months turn into forever?”

you stare at him, your heart sinking. “charles...”

his gaze hardens as he leans forward. “because if you can’t promise that we’ll still be us after this, then maybe we should end it now. i’m not waiting three months just to have my heart ripped out.”

you feel the sting of tears in your eyes, your breath catching. “charles, i love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the tears finally fall.

he’s silent for a moment, his expression softening as he watches you, but the pain is still there, clear in his eyes. “can you promise me that won’t happen?”

you freeze. everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. your chest tightens as the words catch in your throat. “pause,” you plead, needing to stop, needing a moment to think.

he closes his eyes, shaking his head. “no.”

“pause!” you cry out, louder this time, desperate to hold onto something, anything.

he looks at you, hurt and frustration etched in his features. “why do you want us to pause?” before you can answer, you pull him in, kissing him with all the desperation, fear, and love you’ve been holding back. for a second, he hesitates, but then his arms wrap around you tightly, holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go. he kisses you back, but there’s a sadness in the way his lips move against yours—like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his fingers.

as he pulls away from the kiss, your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps. you don’t let go of him, your forehead resting against his. his hands stay on your waist, fingers digging in lightly. his eyes are closed, and there’s a tension in his jaw that you can feel, even in this closeness. the silence between you is heavy, filled with things neither of you know how to say.

“unpause,” he whispers, voice rough, his breath warm against your lips. “you can’t just kiss me and expect this to go away,” he murmurs, his voice low but firm, as if he’s forcing himself to break the fragile silence.

you pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. the desperation in them mirrors your own, but beneath it, you see the fear too—the fear of losing what you’ve built together, the life you’ve shared, the future you’ve imagined. the moment feels unbearably fragile.

“okay.” you nod, wiping away a tear that has slipped down your cheek. “what makes this different from your job, charles? you travel every week for training, races, events. you’re gone a lot. and i’m with you almost every single time.”

he opens his mouth to respond but hesitates, the weight of your question settling heavily. “that’s different. that’s my career, i’m chasing my dreams.”

“and i’m not?” you counter, your voice rising with frustration. “you think i’m just working at a kindergarten because i want to? i love kids, yes, and i love teaching. but i have dreams too. art has always been my passion.”

his eyes flash with uncertainty, but he presses on. “but that’s a commitment. you would be living in another country for three months. we have our lives planned together. our wedding.”

“exactly,” you respond, feeling your heart pound. “you’re pursuing your career while i’m stuck here in a job that doesn’t fulfill me. i wasn’t even going to take the program, but now... it feels like i need to.”

he shakes his head, anger flaring again. “so you’re saying you would rather leave everything behind, including us?”

you take a step back, the pain of his words cutting deep. “i’m not leaving you, charles.”

he runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “and if it changes everything between us? what if you decide you want to stay in new york?”

“i wouldn’t know until i try,” you argue, desperation creeping into your voice. “you’re not giving me a chance to explore who i am outside of our life together.”

his expression hardens, and you feel the air thicken with tension. “then maybe we shouldn’t get married,” he says, his voice cold, an edge of betrayal slicing through the words.

the words strike you like a blow, and you stare at him. “maybe we shouldn’t,” you reply in a firm voice, as if you were sure of what you were saying when in reality you are not. both of you realise what you said and fall into a deep silence, staring into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds.

he clenches his jaw, anger burning in his eyes. “you want to throw everything away just like that? when i’m willing to build a life with you?”

“willing? you’re saying it like you’d do it out of pity!” your voice rises. what at first started as confusion had turned into rage. any word made them both burn inside. “you act like you’re doing me a favor, like my dreams don’t matter unless they fit into your plans.”

“it’s not pity! it’s because i fucking love you.” his fists clench at his sides, desperation flickering in his gaze as he tries to bridge the chasm forming between you.

“love shouldn’t feel like a compromise,” you snap, the heat of the moment fueling your anger. “you’re treating this like a transaction instead of what it really is—a partnership.”

“because it feels like you’re choosing this over reality!” he shouts back, the words slicing through the air. “i can’t stand by and watch you run away when we’ve fought so hard for what we have!”

“fought for what? a life where i can’t even be myself?” you retort, tears of frustration welling in your eyes. “we’ve been together for nine years, and we got together when we were eighteen. of course i don’t know anything but you!”

his eyes narrow, hurt mixed with fury. “so because of that you’d rather chase your move kilometres away than build a life with me?”

“building a life with you doesn’t mean i have to give up mine!” your voice rises, the fear and frustration spilling out. “i want both!”

silence hangs between you, charged with emotion, and the reality of your words feels like a dagger in your chest. the weight of what’s unsaid presses heavily on your shoulders. both of you just stand still there.

“you know you can’t,” he says finally, his voice trembling but full of raw intensity. he takes a step back, the hurt in his expression deepening. “and i know i can’t understand how you want to risk everything we’ve built, everything we are.”

“charles, i’m not risking it! i just wanted to reclaim myself before i lose everything, including you!” the desperation in your voice feels palpable, the stakes higher than ever.

he stares at you, pain twisting his features. “you think this is easy for me? seeing how you can’t choose me the one time i’m asking you to. you think i’m just going to accept that?”

“i didn’t choose it over you! i just want a chance to be myself again. is that so wrong?” you’re pleading now, your heart racing as you see his resolve falter.

his expression hardens again, a wall slamming down between you. “maybe you should have thought about that before you applied. you think it’s all just a game?”

the discussion was taking place in every room, until finally you reached yours. the one you cuddled in, slept in, where you told each other your dreams and talked about how wonderful your life would be when you finally got married.

“don’t you dare put this on me!” you shout, your voice breaking. “you’re the one making me feel like i have to choose! i can’t keep living for you while losing myself!”

“if you’re having these doubts, maybe you don’t really want this life with me at all.” he snaps, each word dripping with anger and betrayal.

the words hang in the air, a finality that feels suffocating. your heart shatters at the thought, and you can feel the walls closing in around you. “i didn’t have any trouble with this engagement until now,” you whisper, the weight of the decision crushing you.

he shakes his head, disappointment etched on his face. “i won’t pretend everything will be okay when you’re clearly not sure about us.”

without thinking, you start to gather your things—clothes, sketches, the remnants of a life shared. each item feels heavier in your hands, a tangible reminder of everything you’re about to leave behind.

tears spill down your cheeks as you try to grasp the reality of the situation. “i love you, charles. but come on.” but even as you say it, you know the truth: you need to find out who you are without him. the realization makes each movement feel like a betrayal, yet you can’t stop packing, each item a piece of your heart that you’re reluctantly setting aside.

“i love you, but—” his expression hardens, anger and hurt merging. “but if you walk out of that door, and we’re done. no second chances. you’ll have everything, but not me.”

“then this is where we end.” you nod slowly, feeling the gravity of his words. “i just needed to figure out who i am outside of our relationship. i’m really sorry you couldn’t even bother to understand it.” you add, voice steady but filled with pain.

as you zip up your suitcase, you turn to take one last look at your flat, your gaze lingering on the photos of the two of you that decorate the walls. smiling faces frozen in time serve as bittersweet reminders of what had just a couple of hours ago.

he doesn’t look at you, unable to meet your gaze, the silence between you heavy with unspoken feelings. you open the door, the cool air rushing in to meet you, a stark contrast to the warmth of what you’re leaving behind. with one last look at the man you thought you’d spend your life with, you step outside, the door closing behind you with a finality that echoes in your heart. as you walk away, the emptiness he leaves behind feels like a gaping wound. you stand in the hallway, your heart heavy, knowing everything has changed in a heartbeat. the future you once envisioned together now hangs by a thread, and all you can do is hope that, in time, both of you will find your way back to each other—or at least to the pieces of yourselves that have been lost along the way.

#piastrisun: work #piastrisun: drabbles #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc x female oc #charles leclerc angst #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

55 notes · View notes

manifestingenius · 8 months

Text

Why it's important not to always rely on void and putting your life on hold.

I haven't written posts for a very long time because I decided to focus on my present life. But I wanted to write this specific post.

After knowing about the void state I put my life on hold so much. I stopped doing 85% of the things I was doing before I learned about the void. It's embarrassing how I stopped caring about everything and was hoping and telling myself that I'm gonna enter the void this week anyway. Nothing really matters, right? I didn't answer to any of my seminars and colloquiums and barely studied for exams which lead me to losing my scholarship. I cried so so hard because I was angry at myself. I thought that I would enter the void in the summer so the exams and the results didn't matter to me. But I was so broken afterwards.

I never bought myself the things I wanted because I thought "I'm gonna manifest it all for free in the void anyway, why bother now?". I never went to places I wanted because I thought "I will have a lot of money to afford everything I want so why bother now?". I put all my focus and time on reading about void, reading posts on tumblr, trying all the methods and just hoping.

I planned to put videos on Youtube but was so shy and every day I was improving all the skills that were needed for me to be successful. I read a lot, I watched a lot of self improvement content, I watched lots of law of assumption videos, I took classes, in other words I was passionate. I was living. I put everything aside and became so lazy "Why even waste time doing all of this when I can have it all after the void?".

I stopped even trying to improve myself because I thought that I'm gonna manifest being my best self anyway. I was eating fast food 3-4 times a week and gained a lot of weight which made me insecure even more but I consoled myself that it's only for now, that I'm gonna manifest my dream body and everything will be fine.

I wanted to buy some makeup but didn't. I wanted to get laser hair removal for a long time and didn't. I wanted to hit the gym and didn't. I wanted to draw and make money out of it and didn't. And so much more. I missed out on so much and I regret it.

After I lost my scholarship I realized that I messed up a lot. Now I have some problems with a subject I failed and my mom has to pay money so that I can take the classes again. Now I can't afford anything because I don't have my own money, I can't go to work, my parents give me some money but it's not enough for my needs and wants.

I realized that my life became so miserable. 2023 was so wasted. One day I was asked what did I learn from 2023 and I couldn't answer because I didn't know. In 2023 I have only degraded tbh.

The saddest thing is that I was warned. I was warned by other people on tumblr to not put void on the pedestal and to not put my life on the hold. I ignored them all thinking that I'm not gonna be like them, I'm not gonna struggle as long as them. It's gonna take me much less time and everything will be fine. But turns out they were right and I made many mistakes. Turns out I'm still on my void journey even after 1 year and 2 months. I really thought it's gonna take me 1 month or smth. Funny.

After realizing that I need to change my life, I put void aside and focused on the present. I bought some things I wanted and I don't waste money on fast food anymore, I went to the gym, I finally got laser hair removal, I started eating healthier and lost 3 kg, I returned to watching self improvement videos on youtube and now I plan to draw and sell my drawings to make more money. I worked hard to pass all my exams successfully so that I can get my scholarship back.

From the outside it may seem that I forgot about the void or even lost hope but I didn't and I never will. I believe and know that one day I will become a success story myself. I even have a new upcoming post about my mini success (?) not sure if I can call it success yet 🤭

But anyway if you read all of this thank you. If my situation resonates with you I hope it helps you to not make these mistakes like I did and to not put your life on hold. Enjoy the present as much as you can, don't purposely make your life even more miserable. I love you all🫂💕🫶

#void state #the void state #i am state #law of assumption #loassumption #voidstate

263 notes · View notes

thirtysomethingloser92 · 2 months

Text

Salvation (Rewrite)

You are the avalanche One world away My make believing While I'm wide awake Just a trick of light To bring me back around again Those wild eyes A psychedelic silhouette I never meant to fall for you, but I Was buried underneath And all that I could see was white

Then

The sun was setting, casting a crimson hue over the horizon, as you sprinted through the hardened clay dirt. You didn’t think you had ever run so far or so fast in your entire life. The burning in your chest was excruciating, and the sting in your throat felt like fire. The world around you blurred, your surroundings becoming a mere backdrop to the only thing that mattered: finding your sister. <><>

Three years with the BAU had taught you to remain composed under pressure, but this was different. This was personal. The lessons you'd learned in managing stress, keeping a clear head, and compartmentalizing your emotions were all crumbling in the face of this nightmare. Your mother’s tearful voice echoed in your ears, each sob a dagger to your heart. She had recounted, in a broken voice, how your fifteen-year-old sister had run away once again, the frustration and helplessness palpable through the phone. You felt a familiar mix of anger and worry; your sister always believed she knew better, always rejecting any attempts to guide or protect her. Yet, beneath the frustration lay a deep, aching love and a fierce protective instinct. The way it always had been.

The image of your sister’s rebellious spirit flashed through your mind: her defiant green eyes, her confident stride as she waved off your concerns whenever you brought them up. She thought she knew best, thought she was invincible, but now those thoughts were replaced by terror. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer, shattering the facade of control you had carefully maintained over the years. She was taken by a monster.

Fear coursed through your veins, mingling with the guilt that was chewing away at your insides. Guilt for not being there, for not preventing this, for every argument where you couldn’t reach her. The helplessness was suffocating, a black hole in your chest weighing it down. Rage simmered beneath the surface, a barely contained storm, directed at the unknown predator who had shattered your family’s fragile peace. The knowledge that this was beyond the realm of your usual cases, that this was your flesh and blood, made the stakes unbearably high.

Every step, every breath, was infused with the overwhelming need to find her, to save her. The training, the protocols, the experience—none of it felt like it was enough against the raw, visceral terror of potentially losing your sister. This was a new kind of hell, where every second counted, and the weight of your responsibility pressed down like never before. The pain of it was almost physical, an ache that radiated through your entire being. This wasn’t just another case. This was your life unravelling, your worst fear brought to life, and the desperation to find her, to hold her safe once more, was the only thing keeping you moving.

Returning to your hometown felt surreal. The familiar streets and landmarks from your youth were now overshadowed by the grim reality of your sister’s abduction. The quaint charm of the old main street, with its small shops and cafes, seemed dulled by the reason you were there. Every corner, every alleyway, held memories that once brought a smile to your face but now only added to the weight of dread you carried.

The park where you spent countless summer days, laughing with friends, now felt eerie and silent. You remembered the bench where you and your sister used to sit, feeding the ducks and planning your futures. That memory, once a source of warmth and comfort, was now tinged with fear.

Walking past the high school, you couldn't help but recall the mischievous pranks and adventures of your teenage years. The thrill of sneaking out after dark, the exhilaration of late-night joyrides, and the camaraderie of your tight-knit group of friends—these memories now seemed distant and almost non-existent compared to the present crisis.

The diner on the corner, where you used to hang out after school, was a place of laughter and endless conversations over milkshakes and fries. The booth by the window, where you carved your initials with a pocketknife, was still there, a silent witness to your teenage rebellion and dreams. But now, as you looked through the window, the vibrant scenes of your youth were replaced by the stark reality of your sister’s disappearance. The laughter of your friends was drowned out by the echo of your mother’s sobs.

Every memory, every familiar sight, was now overshadowed by the grim reality of what had happened. The carefree weekends spent exploring the back streets and hidden corners of your hometown were now tainted by the darkest moment of your life. The streets you once roamed freely, feeling invincible and full of life, now seemed to close in on you, the walls of your past pressing down with an unbearable weight.

The alleyway where you had your first kiss, the park bench where you and your sister dreamed of the future, the diner booth with your carved initials—all these places, once filled with happiness and hope, now served as haunting reminders of the fragility of life and the urgent need to find your sister. The memories that once brought joy were now eclipsed by a growing dread, each step through your hometown a painful reminder of what was at stake. <><>

The team’s arrival was swift. As soon as the BAU’s black SUVs rolled up, Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner’s commanding presence was unmistakable. He took charge immediately, issuing orders and coordinating with local law enforcement. You, however, stood off to the side, unable to shake the anxiety gnawing at your insides.

Hotch’s stern gaze met yours as he approached. His voice, usually calm and authoritative, held a note of steel that brooked no argument. “Stay back at the station,” he instructed, his eyes conveying a firm resolve. “We’ll find her. I’ll keep you updated.”

His words were meant to reassure, but they fell flat against the backdrop of your rising panic. The thought of sitting idly while your sister’s fate hung in the balance was unbearable. “No,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I need to be out there. She’s my sister.”

Hotch’s expression hardened. “We need you to be at your best. The last thing we need is for you to compromise the operation by being too close. It’s too dangerous.”

The words felt like a physical blow, a reminder of the harsh reality that your personal connection to the case made you vulnerable. But this was your family, and the idea of staying behind felt like an insurmountable betrayal. “I’m not going to sit back and let others search for her,” you argued, frustration seeping through your calm façade. “This is my responsibility too. I need to be there.”

Hotch’s eyes softened, but only slightly. “You’re too emotionally involved. Your judgment might be clouded. We’re working to get her back. We’ve got the best people on it.”

The mention of your emotional involvement struck a nerve. The last thing you wanted was to be sidelined because of your connection in the case. You took a deep breath, trying to control the tumult of emotions surging through you. “I understand the risks,” you said, your voice steadying with each word. “But if you leave me behind, I’ll be a wreck, unable to focus on anything but what’s happening out there. I can’t just wait here. Not knowing what’s happening.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his gaze piercing. You could see the internal struggle warring behind his eyes. He knew how important this case was to you, and he also knew how crucial it was to keep you focused and functional. The silence between you was thick, filled with the weight of your unspoken fears and the stakes of the situation.

Finally, Hotch sighed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Fine,” he said, the word coming out with a reluctant acceptance. “You can come. But you stay by me. No wandering off, no taking unnecessary risks. Understood?”

Relief washed over you, though it was tinged with the continued dread of the situation. “Understood,” you replied, your voice a whisper of gratitude. “Thank you.”

Hotch nodded, the sternness in his demeanour softening just enough to convey a sliver of understanding. “Let’s get going then. We need to find her.”

As the two of you moved towards the field operations, the rest of the team fell into place, coordinating with the local authorities and strategizing their next steps. The intensity of the mission was palpable, every second stretching into eternity. You stayed close to Hotch, your focus sharpened by the urgency of the situation and the need to stay grounded.

Each step you took alongside him was a small victory in the battle against your own fears and the mission’s overwhelming weight. The familiar blend of hope and anxiety churned inside you, but with Hotch’s presence, you felt a sense of purpose guiding you through the storm. <><>

The dirt of the large farmyard clung stubbornly to your jeans, each step kicking up clouds of dust that settled into the creases of your clothing. Your hair, damp with sweat, stuck to your forehead, the heat of the day making every breath feel heavy and laboured. You had managed to keep up with Hotch and the rest of the team despite the oppressive heat and the weight of the situation bearing down on you.

The drive to the farm had been tense. You had been in the back of the SUV, your hands gripping the seat as your mind raced through every possible outcome. You had tried to steady your breathing, to force yourself to think rationally, but the dread that gripped you was almost overwhelming.

When the vehicle finally stopped at the edge of the sprawling farmyard, you barely waited for the doors to open before you were out, following Hotch and the others as they disembarked. The large, open space of the farmyard was daunting, its expanse stretching out before you like a vast, oppressive landscape. The once familiar smell of hay and earth was now tinged with the scent of fear and urgency.

Hotch moved with his usual decisiveness, his posture commanding as he began issuing orders to the team. You stayed close, your mind racing as you tried to process every detail of the surroundings. The large brick house loomed in the distance, its windows dark and unwelcoming. Outbuildings scattered around the property created ominous silhouettes against the sky.

As you approached the house with Hotch, the weight of your gun in your hand felt both reassuring and heavy. You could hear the team working around you—footsteps crunching on gravel, radios crackling with intermittent updates. The tension was palpable, a collective focus that seemed to tighten with every passing second.

Hotch’s sleeves were rolled up, his own weapon drawn, ready for whatever lay ahead. His movements were precise and calculated, each step taken with the practiced ease of someone who had seen the worst of what humanity had to offer. His brown eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of concern as he glanced over at you. It was a silent question, a check to see if you were truly prepared for the grim task at hand.

You met his gaze, trying to convey your resolve through the intensity of your stare. The uncertainty you felt was almost suffocating, but you couldn’t afford to let it show. Not now. Not with so much at stake. The fear of what you might find, combined with the desperate hope that you might still save your sister, fuelled your determination.

Hotch’s sympathetic smile, brief but genuine, was a small comfort. It was a rare sign of warmth from the usually stoic leader, a reminder that despite the severity of the situation, he understood the depth of your personal stake in this case. It was a fleeting moment of connection, one that reminded you that you weren’t alone in this.

As you moved in sync with Hotch, every sound seemed amplified—the creak of the door hinges, the rustle of the wind through the fields. Your focus was razor-sharp, each sense heightened as you approached the house. You had prepared yourself for the worst, steeling your resolve against the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

In this moment, amid the dust and the heat, the urgency of the search, and the looming presence of the house, there was only one thing you could hold onto: the hope that you would find your sister before it was too late. The determination in your steps, the steady grip on your weapon, and the silent promise you had made to yourself and to Hotch—to stay focused and to find her—were all that kept you moving forward into the unknown.

Twenty minutes felt like an eternity as you combed through the house. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound set your nerves on edge. And then, you found her.

The sight was something that would forever be etched into your mind. Your sister, her makeup smeared from tears, a gun pressed to her temple. Her eyes, wide with fear, locked onto yours. The unsub, a deranged man with a wild look in his eyes, was saying something, but you couldn’t make out the words. All you could see was your sister, her bruised face, her torn stockings revealing bloodied scrapes.

The team was behind you, Spencer Reid’s calm voice trying to negotiate, urging the man to drop his weapon. But all you could think about was ending this nightmare. One clean shot, and it would be over. Your sister would be safe. You could already envision the aftermath: taking her to dinner, getting her the best therapy, telling your mother she was safe, and taking time off to help her heal.

She would never be truly okay again, but she would be alive. Your grip tightened on your gun, finger hovering over the trigger. The unsub’s head was in your sights. Every muscle in your body screamed to pull the trigger. Then a gunshot rang out.

It wasn’t yours.

In an automatic reflex, you fired anyway. The sound of the gunshot was almost a delayed echo in your ears, and the unsub fell backward, a bullet hole now marring his forehead. The world around you seemed to collapse into a strange, dreamlike slowness. Time itself seemed to stretch, elongating every sound and motion into a distorted, surreal haze.

The impact of the shot reverberated through you with a force that felt almost physical. The ringing in your ears was deafening, a relentless high-pitched whine that drowned out all other sounds. It was as though the sound of the gunfire had set off a chain reaction, leaving you suspended in a bubble where everything else was muffled and distant. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, mixing with the overpowering stench of fear and sweat. The once-familiar scene—the shouts of your team, the frantic scurrying of the unsub—was now a muted backdrop to the chaos unfolding within you.

Everything around you became a blur of colour and movement. Shapes twisted and morphed, the stark contrast of light and shadow playing tricks on your eyes. You tried to focus, but your vision swam, turning the scene into a disorienting smudge of greys and blacks. Your heart pounded in your chest with a force that seemed to echo in your skull, each beat a reminder of the high stakes and the desperate urgency of the situation.

Amid this sensory overload, someone’s hand was on your shoulder. The touch was grounding, a fleeting connection to reality, but it was also foreign, detached from the context of your disoriented state. You couldn’t tell who it was, their presence both comforting and confusing. The touch was a lifeline in the storm of your emotions, a tether that pulled you back from the precipice of panic, yet it felt distant, as though you were viewing it through a thick fog.

Your mind raced, scrambling to process what had just happened. The adrenaline that had once fuelled your every move now seemed to drain from your body, leaving you feeling hollow and numb.

As you tried to make sense of the situation, the emotional weight of it all began to crash over you. The horror of seeing the unsub fall, the fleeting hope that it might mean your sister’s safety, and the crushing reality of the situation all mingled into a chaotic torrent of feelings. The image of your sister’s frightened face flashed through your mind, her green eyes wide with fear, and the sight of her suffering mingled with the violence you had just witnessed.

The sensation of the hand on your shoulder grew more defined, but the person’s presence remained a distant comfort. You felt their grip tighten slightly, as if trying to anchor you amidst the turmoil. Slowly, you became aware of the voices calling out to you, the urgency in their tones trying to reach through the fog that had enveloped you. Their words were distorted, their meanings elusive, but the repeated call of your name began to cut through the din, a faint beacon guiding you back to reality.

Your gaze fixed on your sister, and time seemed to stand still. The scene before you were both nightmarish and hauntingly vivid. Blood pooled around her, a dark crimson contrast against the stark white of her school uniform. Her blonde hair, usually so vibrant and full of life, was now matted with blood, the colour a stark reminder of the violence that had just transpired.

The bullet wound in her neck was a cruel and grotesque punctuation to the horror. It was a single, jagged mark, surrounded by a halo of red, and it seemed almost unreal against her pale skin. The sight of it sent a shiver down your spine, a visceral reaction to the brutality that had taken her life. Her once lively green eyes, which had sparkled with mischief and youth, were now glassy and vacant, staring unseeing at the ceiling above. The light that had once danced in them was extinguished, leaving behind only the cold, harsh reality of her absence.

You felt as if your entire world had shattered in an instant. Your breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale filled with the acrid scent of blood and gunpowder. Your chest tightened, a crushing weight of grief and despair pressing down on you with unbearable force. The pain was physical, almost tangible, and it radiated from your core outward, a deep and hollow ache that seemed to consume every part of you.

Without warning, your legs gave way, and you collapsed to your knees. The rough texture of the dirt and gravel beneath you was a stark contrast to the softness of your sister’s hair, and the ground felt like the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth as your emotions spiralled. Tears streamed down your face, each drop mingling with the dirt on your cheeks, leaving tracks of raw anguish in their wake. You could barely see through the blur of your tears, the world around you becoming an indistinct smear of colour and movement.

The sounds of the world continued to swirl around you, distant and muffled, as you were enveloped in a cocoon of grief. The muffled voices of your team, the urgent commands and reassurances, seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by the profound silence of your personal despair. In this moment, everything else was a distant echo, irrelevant compared to the overwhelming reality of your sister’s death.

Strong, comforting arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace. The touch was grounding, a lifeline amidst the storm of your emotions. The warmth of the body holding you was a stark contrast to the cold, lifeless scene before you. The arms around you tightened, offering solace and strength as you sank into the embrace, your sobs wracking your body with violent, uncontrollable shakes. The scent of the person holding you—faintly familiar, mingled with the sharp, clean scent of sweat and gunpowder—was a small comfort in the midst of your turmoil.

Hotch’s voice was a distant murmur. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

The pain in your chest was unbearable. You sobbed, the raw, primal sound tearing from your throat. You were vaguely aware of being turned away from the sight of your sister, held tightly as you screamed out your anguish. The world had become a dark, cruel place, and all you could do was cry.

Now

In the months following your sister's death, you found yourself navigating a labyrinth of sorrow and self-recrimination. The loss had etched a permanent scar on your soul, and it was reflected in every aspect of your life, especially in the relentless drive you exhibited at work. The BAU, once a source of purpose and achievement, had become a refuge from the haunting void left by her absence. You threw yourself into your cases with an almost manic intensity, as though by solving one more crime, you could somehow balance the scales of justice that had so cruelly tipped against you.

Aaron Hotchner, with his customary decisiveness, had placed you on mandatory leave. The instructions were clear: no returning to the building until a minimum of six weeks had passed. When that period ended, you would face a psychiatric assessment to determine whether you were fit to resume your duties or if an extended leave would be necessary. The bureaucratic formality of it all seemed almost cruel in its impersonal nature, a stark contrast to the raw, personal pain you were experiencing. Yet, deep down, you understood the necessity of the measure; even if you resented it, it was a protective boundary imposed for your own well-being.

The enforced separation from your professional world felt like a double-edged sword. On one hand, it was a forced pause in the relentless momentum of your work life, a chance to confront the emotional wreckage left in the wake of your sister’s death. On the other hand, it left you with too much time to dwell on your pain and guilt. The quiet of your home, once a place of solace, became an echo chamber for your torment. The absence of the constant hum of casework and the buzz of office activity only amplified the silence of your grief.

The undercurrent of blame from your family was an invisible burden you carried with you. Though no one ever voiced it explicitly, the unspoken questions hung in the air like a heavy fog. Their silence spoke volumes, a constant reminder of the perceived failure—why hadn’t you been able to protect her? Why couldn’t you have done more? The weight of these unasked questions and the unspoken accusations gnawed at you, deepening the hole of your self-blame. It felt as though every mention of her name was a gentle, yet insistent reminder of your inadequacy, further isolating you in your grief.

Caught in this spiral of guilt and sorrow, your nights were consumed by a restless, numbing haze. Sleep failed you, a cruel irony given the exhaustion that permeated your every waking moment. You sought refuge in alcohol, a temporary anaesthetic that dulled the sharp edges of your thoughts. Bottles of whatever was available became your companions in the dark hours, their contents providing fleeting moments of escape from the relentless barrage of self-reproach. You would drink until the room spun and your mind quieted, if only for a short while.

During the day, you slept almost incessantly, your body trying to recover from the toll of sleepless nights and emotional strain. The cycle of drinking and sleeping created a disorienting blur, where days merged into nights and time lost its meaning. You would wake only to find yourself enveloped in the same crushing despair, your solitude amplifying the weight of your grief and guilt. The sunlight that filtered through your curtains seemed almost mocking, a reminder of the world continuing while you remained mired in your own personal darkness.

The grief was all-consuming, a relentless tide that swept through every corner of your being. Anger simmered beneath the surface, a fiery, uncontrollable force that seemed to fuel your every thought. You were angry at everyone—at the team, at the world, at yourself. Why hadn't they been faster? Why hadn't they seen the signs sooner? The questions haunted you, each one a sharp, accusing whisper in the back of your mind. The raw, intense anger was a way to cope with the unbearable reality of losing your sister. It was as if directing your rage outward could somehow shield you from the true depth of your pain.

You found yourself replaying the events over and over in your mind, each replay filled with fury. Why hadn’t they put a bullet in him sooner? Why had they let him escalate to this point, to the point where he took your sister's life? You knew, on some rational level, that this anger was misplaced. It was an irrational response to the unbearable loss, a way to direct the helplessness and frustration you felt. But knowing this didn’t make it any easier to control. The anger burned bright and fierce, consuming your thoughts and colouring every interaction you had with those around you.

The team had tried to reach out in their own ways, each gesture a testament to their support and care. Penelope had brought you a gift basket, a colourful assortment of comforting items meant to offer solace. Yet the basket remained unopened on your kitchen counter, its contents a symbol of the love and sympathy that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to appreciate now. Rossi had extended an offer to pay for the funeral, a generous and heartfelt gesture, but the thought of accepting it felt overwhelming and almost intrusive. Spencer had come to your home, bringing with him a pot of tea, a small comfort during your turmoil. He sat silently on your couch, his presence a quiet anchor as you cried, his own eyes reflecting the depth of his empathy and sorrow.

It was your Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner, who surprised you the most during this period. Four weeks had passed since the tragedy, and you hadn’t expected to see him in your home. His visit was unexpected and deeply unsettling in its own way. He arrived with two grocery bags in hand, a small, tentative smile on his face that seemed almost out of place against the backdrop of your grief. The groceries were a mundane detail, yet they carried with them an unexpected gesture of care.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, his usual stern demeanour softened by a warmth you hadn’t seen before. “I thought I’d stop by and bring you some dinner,” he said, his voice gentle and unassuming. “Jacks at his aunt’s house tonight, so I was just passing through.” The simplicity of the offer was striking—no grand gestures, no elaborate plans, just the quiet, unspoken message that he was there for you.

Hotch’s presence was a quiet balm, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that went beyond words. He didn’t push for conversation, didn’t insist on probing your feelings or offering empty platitudes. Instead, he simply stood there, his gaze steady and compassionate. It was as if he was giving you space to breathe, to process your grief in your own time, while still providing a reminder that you were not alone.

As he unpacked the grocery bags and began setting out the contents—simple, comforting foods that seemed almost mundane in their normalcy—there was a sense of normalcy and routine being reintroduced into your fractured world. The act of preparing dinner together, however small, became a moment of connection, a brief respite from the relentless storm of your emotions. The mundane nature of the task, combined with Hotch’s quiet support, offered a fleeting sense of calm amidst the chaos. A part of you couldn’t shake the thought that Hotch’s presence was more than just a gesture of support; it felt like a form of surveillance. As if he was keeping a watchful eye on you, ensuring that in the depths of your despair, you didn’t make any rash decisions or succumb to self-destructive impulses. It was a thought that gnawed at you, mingling with your existing anger and frustration, making you feel like a burden or a responsibility rather than a grieving colleague. You couldn’t quite decide if it was comforting or infuriating to have him there.

Hotch settled next to you on the couch, his movements measured and deliberate. He placed a plate of food in front of you, the steam rising from it a stark contrast to the cold numbness you felt inside. His own plate rested on his lap, a small, almost domestic detail that felt oddly out of place amidst the chaos of your emotions. As he began to speak, he recounted the events of his day, his voice steady and calm. He talked about Jack—his son, a beacon normalcy in his life—how he’d been spending time with his aunt, and how Hotch had taken on a new role as coach of the local soccer team.

You watched him as he spoke, the sight of him in his loosened tie and suit jacket draped casually over the back of the couch adding to the sense of dissonance. This was so horribly domestic and ordinary, and it made you uneasy. The stark contrast between his casual demeanour and the turmoil roiling inside you only heightened your sense of disconnection. You found yourself staring at him, struggling to reconcile the image of your Unit Chief—the authoritative figure you had always respected—with the man who was now seated next to you, sharing mundane details of his life.

The presence of the plate, the simple act of sharing a meal, felt almost intrusive. You continued to drink from the bottle you had been clutching, each sip a feeble attempt to numb the relentless ache in your chest. You didn’t offer him any of the alcohol, the thought of sharing it with him feeling inappropriate and out of place. It was as if the alcohol was your own solace, a temporary escape that you weren’t ready to extend to anyone else.

Hotch’s apology for not visiting earlier was an unexpected twist. He explained that he had been buried under a mountain of paperwork, his voice tinged with an almost apologetic sincerity. It was a mundane excuse, but there was something in the way he said it—a glimpse of the burden he carried as the Unit Chief, the relentless demands of his job that had kept him away. Yet, his apology seemed inadequate in the face of your pain, a well-intentioned but insufficient gesture against the depth of your sorrow.

You were wrapped in a cocoon of your own misery, almost resenting the intrusion of this small act of normalcy. You were deeply entrenched in your own suffering, punishing yourself for not being able to protect the one person who had meant the world to you. The thought of Hotch’s visit, with its ordinary trappings, felt like an unwelcome intrusion into your carefully constructed world of grief.

When Hotch looked at you, you saw the understanding in his eyes—an acknowledgment of your pain and the self-imposed guilt that seemed to define your every moment. His jaw tightened, a subtle sign of his own internal struggle as he placed his fork down on his plate and set the plate aside. The gesture was deliberate, a silent acknowledgment of the emotional distance between you and the world. It was as if he was trying to bridge that gap with his presence, offering you a semblance of normalcy in the face of your overwhelming despair. His eyes blazed with an intensity that seemed to penetrate beyond your surface, reaching into the deepest recesses of your soul. There was an unspoken empathy in his gaze, a quiet understanding that spoke volumes about the weight of the grief he saw reflected in you. It was as if he was seeing not just your present anguish, but the underlying despair that had taken root in your life.

Hotch began to speak, recounting the painful chapter of his own life. He talked about his wife, about how she had been taken from him by a man known as The Reaper. The words were heavy, laden with the memories of a past that had been marked by violence and loss. He described the events that had unfolded, the sense of helplessness that had consumed him in those dark days. There was a raw honesty in his recounting, a willingness to lay bare his own struggles with guilt and self-recrimination.

He admitted that it had taken him a long time to stop living with the crushing weight of her death, and even now, many years later, he still grappled with it. There was a vulnerability in his voice as he spoke of the ongoing battle to come to terms with her loss. The guilt, he explained, was an ever-present shadow, a burden he carried with him each day. But through it all, he had come to a crucial realization—that her death was the result of the actions of the man who had pulled the trigger, not his own. It was a hard-earned lesson, one that he had struggled to accept but had eventually embraced as a means of finding some semblance of peace.

As he spoke, Hotch’s gaze swept around your apartment, taking in the untidiness that mirrored the turmoil within you. His eyes lingered on the dust accumulating on the shelves, the washing strewn carelessly across the floor, the empty bottles cluttering the kitchen bench, and the almost bare fridge. Each detail seemed to underscore the neglect you had allowed yourself to fall into, a physical manifestation of the emotional wreckage you had become.

The observation was not a judgment but a quiet acknowledgment of your current state. Hotch understood that you were not taking care of yourself, that you were wallowing in your grief and punishing yourself for circumstances beyond your control. His eyes, while firm, carried a softness that spoke to his understanding of the depth of your pain and the struggle you faced in navigating it.

The scene was both intimate and revealing, Hotch’s candid sharing of his own experiences acting as a mirror to your own suffering. It was a raw, unfiltered moment of connection, a reminder that even those who seem strongest have their own battles to fight. The contrast between his organized recounting of his own tragic experiences and the disarray of your surroundings highlighted the chasm between the world you had once inhabited and the one you were now trapped in.

Hotch’s presence was both a stark reminder of your own isolation and a beacon of understanding. His willingness to share his personal struggles, coupled with his silent observations of your living conditions, created a tender contrast. It was a moment of stark honesty, where the unspoken truths of grief and self-blame were laid bare, and where the possibility of healing was gently offered through the shared understanding of loss. Tears streamed down your cheeks, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold numbness that had enveloped you. Hotch wrapped his arms around your shoulders with a gentle firmness, his embrace a rare moment of solace amid your suffering. The gesture was simple but profound, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that words could never fully capture. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck, seeking refuge in the intimate space he offered. His cologne enveloped you—a soothing blend of sandalwood and citrus that carried a faint, comforting aroma. It was a scent that seemed to wrap around you like a warm blanket, a small but significant reprieve from the darkness that had been your constant companion.

After a moment, Hotch made his way to your linen closet with a purposeful stride, pulling out a green towel. The act was so mundane, yet it felt infused with a quiet kindness. He handed the towel to you with a soft but unspoken insistence, his gaze steady as he gestured toward your bathroom. The gesture was clear—a silent demand for you to take a step towards normalcy, to care for yourself in the simplest way.

You accepted the towel slowly, a weak attempt at humour slipping from your lips. You made a joke about smelling bad, an effort to inject some semblance of normalcy into the situation. Hotch’s lips curled into a smirk, the brief flicker of amusement a small comfort during your tears. He pointed again toward the bathroom, his demeanour patient but resolute. The unspoken command was to wash away the remnants of your grief, to engage in a ritual of self-care that you had long neglected.

It was in this simple act of kindness that a new chapter began—one marked by Hotch’s unexpected yet steadfast presence in your life. What started as a seemingly ordinary afternoon visit soon became a routine of support and companionship. Each day after work, Hotch would come to your house, his visits a constant thread of stability in your fractured world. Sometimes he would cook for you, his culinary efforts a tangible expression of his care. Other times, he would tidy up, the act of organizing your space a metaphor for the sense of order he sought to bring back into your life.

His visits were not just practical; they were also a gentle reminder of the life outside your grief. There was one day when Hotch brought his son, Jack, along. The three of you sat together on the couch, sharing a moment of uncomplicated pleasure as you watched cartoons. The sight of Jack, his youthful energy and innocent laughter, was a touching contrast to the heaviness that had settled over you. It was a moment of lightness, a brief respite from the shadows that had dominated your days.

Hotch’s involvement went beyond mere presence; it was an ongoing gesture of support and a testament to his understanding of your needs. His daily visits became a routine that helped anchor you, a steadying force in a sea of uncertainty. The act of caring, whether through cooking, cleaning, or simply spending time together, was a silent yet powerful reminder that you were not alone. It was through these small, consistent acts of kindness that Hotch began to help you rebuild, one day at a time, offering not just a physical presence but a lifeline to the possibility of healing and recovery. Over the course of the next few weeks, Hotch took on the role of an unexpected but essential fixture in your daily life. His influence extended beyond mere companionship; he became a catalyst for change, systematically removing the alcohol that had been your crutch. Each empty bottle was a silent victory in his mission to help you confront the harsh reality of your grief. The process was gradual but relentless, and with each passing day, you were stripped of your escape routes, forced to face the painful truths you had been avoiding.

There were days when he would hold you as you cried, offering a comforting presence that provided solace in your most vulnerable moments. His embrace was steady and reassuring, a silent promise that you were not alone in your suffering. On other days, he would sit with you and discuss work, gently steering the conversation toward normalcy and structure. These discussions, while professional, were filled with a warmth that suggested a deeper level of care. It was through these interactions that Hotch slowly but surely became an integral part of your life, his presence a constant source of stability.

It was ten weeks after the death of your sister, during a quiet evening spent on the couch with Hotch and his son, Jack, that you began to realize the depth of your feelings for him. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the television, the light casting gentle shadows that flickered across the walls. Jack was nestled between you and Hotch, his small frame adding a touch of innocence to the scene. The lights were off, creating an atmosphere of intimacy that felt both comforting and surreal.

As you glanced over at Hotch, you found him already looking at you. His gaze met yours with a softness that spoke of understanding and compassion. He offered you a smile, a small, genuine expression that seemed to light up the dim room. It was a fleeting moment, but it carried a weight of significance that you couldn't ignore. As he turned his attention back to the TV, you couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through you, an undeniable connection that seemed to pulse in time with your own heartbeat.

A smile began to spread across your face, the first genuine smile you had experienced in what felt like a lifetime. It was a smile that felt both foreign and familiar, a sign of healing that you hadn’t realized was possible. The simple act of smiling in response to Hotch’s presence was a testament to the impact he had on your life, a small but significant step toward rediscovering joy amid the pain.

Every time you saw him standing at your front door, your stomach would erupt in butterflies. The anticipation of his arrival, the quickening of your heart, and the fluttering in your chest became a physical manifestation of the emotions you had been trying to suppress. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling the same way, if he too was experiencing the subtle shift in your relationship.

The realization of your feelings brought with it a mix of hope and uncertainty. Hotch had become a pillar of support in your life, and as you navigated through your grief, you found yourself increasingly drawn to him. The difficulty of your emotions left you both excited and apprehensive. It was a new dimension to your relationship, one that was intertwined with the healing process and the gradual emergence of a new sense of normalcy.

The evolution of your feelings for Hotch was a poignant reminder of the delicate interplay between pain and healing, grief and hope. As you faced each day, the presence of Hotch became a symbol of the possibility of moving forward, of finding new beginnings amidst the remnants of your sorrow. As the weeks progressed, the frequency of Hotch's visits began to decrease. What had once been a daily presence in your life transformed into an every-other-day occurrence. The shift was subtle at first but became more pronounced as you neared your return to work. It was as though he was gradually withdrawing, moving from the role of a close friend and confidant back into the professional realm of your Unit Chief.

The change was jarring. You had grown accustomed to his presence, to the way he had become an integral part of your daily routine. His visits had been a source of comfort, a steadying force amid your grief. His gradual absence left a void that was both palpable and disorienting. It was only in his absence that you fully realized how much he had come to mean to you. His support had been a lifeline, and now, as he pulled away, you felt as though you were losing a part of yourself. <><>

Returning to work was an odd experience. The familiar surroundings of the BAU office, the glass doors that once symbolized the start of your workday, now seemed foreign. You were acutely aware of the transformation within yourself—how the person who re-entered those doors was fundamentally different from the one who had left three months prior. The weight of your experiences had reshaped you, leaving you both vulnerable and stronger in ways you hadn't anticipated.

As you made your way through the office, you spotted Hotch seated behind his desk. He looked up from his work as you approached, his gaze meeting yours with a nod of acknowledgment. The gesture was polite but distant, a stark contrast to the warmth and familiarity that had characterized your interactions just weeks before. You returned the nod, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

Your heart ached as you took in the sight of him. The emotional distance that had begun to manifest was palpable, a reminder of the boundaries that now defined your relationship. You longed for the comfort and support he had once offered so freely, but now, in the context of the office, he was your boss—an individual with whom a more personal connection was not only impractical but also inappropriate.

The shift from close confidant to formal superior was a painful adjustment. The professional veneer that now separated you felt like an insurmountable barrier, one that served as a constant reminder of the boundaries imposed by your work environment. The familiarity and comfort you had once derived from his presence were replaced by a sense of loss and longing. <><>

As you settled into your workspace, the ache in your chest persisted. It was a complex mixture of sadness for the personal connection that had faded and the realization that, despite your longing, the nature of your relationship with Hotch had to shift back to its professional bounds. The transition was challenging, both emotionally and psychologically, and it underscored the depth of the bond that had developed during your time of grief.

In this new phase, you grappled with the tension between your personal feelings and the professional constraints that governed your interactions. It was a delicate balancing act, one that required you to navigate your emotions while adhering to the expectations of your role within the BAU. The process of acclimating to this new dynamic was fraught with difficulty, but it was also a necessary step in reconciling the past with the present. <><> You greeted your teammates with a warmth you hadn’t felt in months, their genuine joy at your return wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. They were more than just colleagues; they were your family, and their presence was a comfort to the wounds you had carried with you. You had missed them more than you’d realized, and their enthusiasm to have you back was a reminder of the supportive network you had, even when you were at your lowest.

For the most part, you convinced yourself that you were okay. The daily grind of cases, the pressure to perform—these were manageable now. You were able to dive into work without feeling the crushing weight of despair, able to handle the demands of your role without hesitation. You could fire your weapon with the precision and resolve you had always prided yourself on. On the surface, you appeared functional and resilient.

Yet beneath that veneer of normalcy, there was an ache that remained unaddressed. What you missed most acutely was Hotch. His regular visits had become a source of comfort and a lifeline during the darkest days of your grief. His absence created a void that no amount of professional success or personal recovery could fill. When he showed up at your door on a late Friday night, just hours after you had disembarked from a plane, you were caught off guard. The exhaustion from travel weighed heavily on you, but the sight of him stirred a complex mix of emotions.

You greeted him with an enthusiasm that felt almost forced. There was a semblance of normalcy in inviting him in and offering him a seat, but it was overshadowed by the unspoken desire for something more profound. Hotch, however, remained standing, his presence imposing yet gentle. He expressed his concern about how you handled the case, citing his worry about the emotional toll it might have taken on you.

His words were well-intentioned, but they only served to amplify your disappointment. You had hoped for something more than a professional check-in. You wanted him to see you for who you were beyond the facade of competence and resilience. You wanted him to be there for you in a way that went beyond duty—to hold you, to comfort you, to bridge the emotional gap that had widened since he began withdrawing.

A tight smile pulled at your lips as you reassured him that you were fine. You were fine in the context of the case, in the immediate aftermath of work. But on a deeper level, the truth was that you were struggling. The case itself was manageable, but the lingering ache in your chest, the gnawing sense of loss and longing—those were far more challenging to confront.

Hotch’s eyes, sharp and perceptive, reflected his doubt. He had always been a skilled profiler, adept at reading people and situations with uncanny accuracy. His gaze bore into you, revealing a concern that went beyond mere professional obligation. He asked if you wanted to talk about it, a question that opened the door to a conversation you were both eager and reluctant to have. You wanted to talk, to share the depths of your feelings, but the idea of exposing that vulnerability to him, especially in a context so laden with professional boundaries, was daunting.

You hesitated, torn between the desire to confide in him and the fear of overstepping the boundaries that had been so carefully constructed. The offer to talk was both a lifeline and a challenge, a chance to bridge the emotional gap that had formed but also a potential risk of further complicating your already fraught relationship.

As he stood there, waiting for your response, you felt the weight of your emotions pressing down on you. The ache in your chest, the yearning for his comfort, and the lingering sadness that had become a part of your daily existence all seemed to coalesce into a single, poignant moment. You knew you needed to confront these feelings, to find a way to reconcile your emotions with the reality of your professional relationship.

In that moment, the personal and professional blurred, and you were left grappling with the complex interplay of longing, grief, and the desire for connection. Instead, you shook your head and forced a brittle smile, insisting that you would manage on your own. You would be okay. You had convinced yourself that you could handle everything, that you were capable of navigating this turbulent emotional landscape alone. It was a mantra you clung to, a shield against the raw vulnerability that threatened to consume you.

Hotch’s expression grew more concerned, his eyes reflecting a depth of empathy that was both comforting and unsettling. He pressed further; his voice tinged with genuine worry. He didn't want to leave you alone if there was a chance you were struggling with something. The memories of your darkest hours, the times he had seen you at your most vulnerable, were fresh in his mind. He had watched you through tears and frustration, had been there when you reached the point of passing out from alcohol, and had even stayed up late to help you when you were so inebriated that you needed a shower to sober up. His presence had been a constant in those moments, a steadying force that had helped keep you from falling further into self-destruction.

Hotch’s concern was palpable, his fear of seeing you spiral back into those destructive patterns evident in the lines etched into his face. He didn’t want to watch you deteriorate again, didn’t want to see the pain and loss drive you into a place where you could no longer see a way out. His protective instinct was clear, and it was matched by a resolve to support you, even if it meant facing uncomfortable truths.

But you were not ready to confront those truths. The storm of emotions swirling within you was overwhelming. The anger, the frustration, the hurt—it all bubbled beneath the surface, threatening to erupt. And there was something else, a deeper, more troubling realization you were not prepared to voice: your growing feelings for him. The intensity of your emotions, the way your heart fluttered whenever he was near, was both a source of comfort and turmoil. You knew it was a terrible idea, that allowing these feelings to take root could only lead to complications, but the truth remained undeniable.

As he stood there, watching you with a look of deep concern, you felt a sharp pang of frustration. You didn’t want to reveal the depth of your struggle, didn’t want to admit to the complexity of your feelings. The idea of opening up about your emotions, about the way you were falling for him, felt like an insurmountable burden. You were already grappling with so much, and the thought of adding this to the mix was both terrifying and confusing.

With a heavy heart, you shook your head once more and gently asked him to leave. You couldn’t face the conversation that was threatening to unfold. You didn’t want to delve into the painful truths that lay beneath the surface, didn’t want to acknowledge the romantic feelings that had surfaced amidst your grief. The thought of articulating these emotions, of laying bare your vulnerability, was more than you could bear at that moment.

Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, filled with a mixture of sadness and reluctance. He hesitated, clearly wanting to offer more support, to be there for you in a way that extended beyond the professional boundaries. He stood resolutely by your front door, his posture tense but unwavering. The worry in his eyes was unmistakable, a deep, unspoken concern that was almost palpable. He took a cautious step closer to the couch, his gaze never leaving you. His voice was gentle but firm as he asked once more if you wanted to talk about what was on your mind. It was clear he could see that there was something weighing heavily on you, something that needed to be released.

In a surge of frustration and raw emotion, you marched towards him. The space between you seemed to shrink with each determined step until you were standing toe to toe, your nose just brushing against his chin. You looked up at him, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. Without warning, you shoved him, the force of the motion a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside you.

"Why did you come over tonight?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a mixture of accusation and confusion. "Why do you keep coming back? I was doing fine. I was managing my grief the best way I knew how. But then you came along and showed me something I didn’t want to see. You made me feel what it’s like to fall in love with someone. You made me rely on someone else for the first time in my life."

The anger in your voice was laced with pain, the kind of pain that only deepened with each passing day. You felt betrayed by the way he had subtly infiltrated your life, making you question everything you had built around yourself. You hated him for it. Hated him for making you vulnerable, for making you feel things you weren’t prepared to handle.

Aaron took your emotional assault with a calm, almost stoic demeanour. He didn’t flinch or recoil at your harsh words or the physical shove. The fact that he didn’t retaliate, that he stood there with unwavering patience, only fuelled your anger further. It was as if his silence and restraint were another form of torment, an emotional barrier that kept you from reaching the resolution you desperately sought.

In a sudden, unexpected motion, Aaron reached down and pressed his lips to yours, cutting off your next sentence. The kiss was both shocking and electrifying. Your heart skipped a beat, and the anger that had been building within you began to dissipate. You felt a wave of relief and an undeniable sense of calm as you relaxed into his embrace. It was as if, in that single moment, all the pain and confusion were swept away, leaving only the intense connection between you.

You moved your hands to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against your lips, his hands gripping your hips with a firm yet gentle pressure. The sensation was overwhelming, a heady mix of tenderness and passion that made you forget the turmoil you had been feeling. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be lost in the kiss; to savour the way his presence made you feel both cherished and desired.

But as quickly as it began, the kiss ended. Aaron pulled away, taking a step back and leaving you breathless and disoriented. The sudden distance between you was jarring, a stark contrast to the intimacy you had just shared. You stood there, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your mind racing to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions.

Aaron’s eyes were filled with a mixture of regret and determination. He had broken through your walls, but the aftermath left you both grappling with the implications of what had just happened. The kiss had been a revelation, an undeniable expression of feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface. And now, as you stood facing each other in the charged silence that followed, you were left to confront the reality of those feelings and the changes they would bring to your relationship.

A mix of hurt and frustration surged through you as Aaron stepped back, his eyes downcast. The kiss had left you feeling vulnerable and confused, and his sudden retreat only intensified the storm of emotions swirling within you. What was he playing at? Was this just some elaborate game to him, a manifestation of his so-called ‘White Knight Syndrome’?

You were well aware of what that term meant—someone who seeks to rescue others to fulfill their own needs for validation or control. You knew you weren’t naive, and you resented the implication that your feelings were merely a project or a means for him to feel noble. This wasn’t about his saviour complex; it was about your raw, unfiltered emotions.

You took a determined step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hand reached up, fingers trembling slightly as you grasped his collar and drew him back to you. The kiss was fierce and demanding, an expression of your need for him to acknowledge that what was happening between you was real, and not just a fleeting moment of misplaced pity.

As your lips met his again, the world around you seemed to blur into insignificance. His tongue met yours with an intensity that matched your own, a silent battle for dominance that only fuelled the heat between you. A small, involuntary moan escaped your lips, the sound muffled against his mouth as you felt his hands guiding you backward.

Aaron carefully maneuverered you toward the couch, his movements deliberate yet urgent. His body pressed against yours as he lowered you onto the cushions, his lips never once detaching from yours. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist; it was just the two of you, locked in a passionate embrace that felt both overwhelming and intoxicating.

His hands roamed up the side of your leg, the touch sending shivers down your spine. When he reached the waistband of your leggings, he paused, his eyes meeting yours with a question that needed no words. You nodded once, a simple gesture of consent that spoke volumes.

With that, Aaron swiftly removed the black fabric, his actions guided by a blend of urgency and reverence. The sensation of the cool air against your skin contrasted sharply with the heat of his body pressing down on you. The intimacy of the moment was both electrifying and comforting, a stark reminder of the connection that had been growing between you.

As he continued to explore your body with a tenderness that belied his earlier intensity, you found solace in the fact that this was not just about physicality. It was about the profound emotions and unspoken words that had been building up between you. The kisses, the touches—they were all part of a deeper dialogue, a way of expressing the feelings that words alone could not convey.

The morning after was shrouded in a fog of confusion and regret. You awoke alone, the cool sheets tangled around your legs, and the absence of Aaron Hotchner felt like a heavy weight on your chest. The memory of the previous night was still fresh, and a mixture of emotions swirled inside you—guilt, desire, and an unsettling uncertainty about what it all meant.

The faint aroma of coffee and the low hum of the city outside your window were the only indicators of the new day. You lingered in bed for a while, grappling with the reality of what had happened and the implications it might have on your professional relationship with Aaron.

When you finally gathered the strength to get up, you prepared yourself for the day with mechanical efficiency, though your mind was a chaotic whirl. The BAU headquarters awaited you, and despite your resolve to face the day with professionalism, you couldn’t shake the residual anxiety from last night.

Arriving at the office, you were met with the usual bustle of activity. Colleagues exchanged greetings and shared quick jokes, but you felt detached from the lively atmosphere. The familiar layout of the BAU, with its buzzing energy and focused intensity, seemed foreign and surreal. As you made your way to your desk, your gaze briefly flickered to Aaron’s office. The blinds were partially open, and for a moment, you caught sight of him through the glass. His eyes locked onto yours, and a myriad of emotions flashed across his face—concern, perhaps, or something deeper that you couldn’t quite decipher.

You quickly turned away, a pang of awkwardness hitting you as you joined Emily and JJ at their desk. They were deep in conversation about the latest case details, but you found it difficult to fully engage. The weight of last night hung heavily between you and Aaron, a silent tension that seemed to linger in the air.

Emily, perceptive as ever, noticed your distraction. “Everything okay?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

You managed a tight smile, nodding. “Yeah, just a bit tired.”

JJ gave you a reassuring smile, though there was a glint of concern in her eyes. “Long night?”

You hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. “You could say that.”

The conversation shifted back to the case, but your mind was elsewhere. You could feel Aaron’s gaze on you through the office window, and every now and then, you would catch him watching you. The awkwardness was palpable, and it was clear that neither of you was ready to address the complexity of what had transpired.

As the day progressed, you forced yourself to focus on the case, pushing aside the emotional turmoil. But the reality of your situation weighed on you. You were navigating a minefield of unspoken words and unresolved feelings, trying to maintain your composure and professionalism amidst the quiet chaos within you.

When you had a moment alone, you glanced back at Aaron’s office. He was seated at his desk, engrossed in paperwork, his demeanour impassive and professional. It was clear that he was trying to return to normalcy, but the undercurrent of tension was impossible to ignore.

You knew that things would have to be addressed eventually. The night you shared had complicated your relationship, intertwining your professional and personal lives in ways that were both thrilling and precarious. For now, you chose to keep your focus on the case and your duties, but the unspoken reality of last night loomed large, waiting for its moment to be confronted.

The office was quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound as you and Aaron Hotchner stood in his office, the door closed behind you.

Aaron's expression was a mix of determination and regret as he finally broke the silence. “We need to talk about what happened,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with an underlying sadness.

You nodded, feeling a knot tighten in your chest. “Yeah, we do.”

He gestured to the chairs across from his desk, and you both sat down. His gaze was focused on his hands, clasped together on the desk, as he spoke. “What happened was intense I can’t deny that it was real for both of us.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your emotions in check. “It was,” you said simply.

Aaron sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I care about you, more than I probably should. But this… we work together. It’s not just about our personal feelings; it’s about maintaining professionalism and protecting our team.”

You looked away, struggling with the hurt and confusion swirling inside you. “I know. I understand why it can’t continue.”

Aaron leaned forward, his eyes meeting yours with a pained look. “You’re an incredible person and an invaluable part of this team. I don’t want to jeopardize that. I’ve seen what happens when personal feelings affect professional relationships, and it never ends well.”

You nodded, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “I get it. It’s just. I don’t want to lose what we have here because of this.”

I’m glad you understand. I want you to know that this doesn’t change how much I care about you. It’s just that our relationship has to be defined by respect and professionalism.”

You withdrew your hand, taking a deep breath. “I appreciate you being honest with me”

Aaron stood up, and you followed suit. He extended a hand to you, a gesture of mutual respect and understanding. You shook it firmly, both of you acknowledging the unspoken agreement.

The echoes of your conversation with Aaron Hotchner lingered long after you left his office. As you walked back to your desk, you tried to push the emotions aside, but the hurt and disappointment were too overwhelming. The reality of the situation was settling in, and it felt like a heavy weight on your chest.

You slumped into your chair; your gaze unfocused on the cluttered desk in front of you. The familiar buzz of the office seemed distant and muffled. The usual chatter of your teammates, which had once been comforting, now felt like an intrusion into your personal turmoil.

The ache in your chest grew sharper as you thought about the intense connection you had shared with Aaron, only to realize it had to be severed for the sake of professionalism. You’d built up a dream of what could have been, only to have it abruptly and painfully dismantled. You felt a sense of betrayal, not from Aaron, but from the situation itself. The promise of something more was gone, leaving you grappling with a profound sense of loss.

You tried to focus on your work, but every keystroke felt mechanical and devoid of meaning. Your eyes kept drifting to the photos on your desk, reminders of the happier times and the support of your teammates. You wished you could escape from the suffocating atmosphere of the office, but you were trapped by duty and a desire to maintain your professionalism.

As you glanced up, you noticed Emily and JJ sharing a light moment, their laughter a stark contrast to the turmoil inside you. You forced a smile, trying to participate in their conversation, but your heart wasn’t in it. The effort to appear normal felt exhausting.

When the day finally came to an end, you packed up your things with an almost robotic efficiency. You couldn’t wait to escape the office and find some solace in the solitude of your home. The quiet of your apartment would be a welcome relief, even if it meant being alone with your thoughts and your grief.

The drive home was a blur, the streets passing by in a haze. As you pulled into your driveway, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. You were glad to be home, but the emptiness of your apartment seemed to magnify the ache in your heart. You sank into your couch, staring blankly at the television as it played to an empty room.

The pain of the conversation with Aaron Hotchner was raw and fresh. It felt like you were mourning not just the potential of a relationship, but also the loss of an emotional connection that had provided comfort and hope. The night stretched out before you, each hour a reminder of the distance that had grown between you and Aaron, and the new reality you had to face.

The emptiness of your apartment mirrored the emptiness you felt inside, and as you drifted into a restless sleep, you knew that it would take time to heal and adjust. The journey ahead was uncertain, but you resolved to face it with the strength and resilience that had always defined you. <><>

The sun was setting on a warm Saturday evening as the BAU team gathered at the local soccer field for Jack Hotchner’s game. The field was alive with the sounds of excited children, the cheers of parents, and the occasional whistle of the referee. It was a stark contrast to the intense, high-stakes environment of their usual work. Over the weeks since your conversation with Aaron Hotchner, you both made a conscious effort to maintain professionalism at work. The dynamic within the BAU remained unchanged to the outside observer, with each of you performing your roles with the same dedication and skill as always. You engaged in discussions, briefings, and case analyses with the team, keeping your personal feelings carefully compartmentalized. It wasn’t easy, but you were both determined to preserve the integrity of the unit and your professional relationship.

Yet, as you stood with the team on this sunny afternoon, your mind kept drifting back to Aaron. The sidelines of Jack’s soccer game provided a rare glimpse into his personal life, a side of him that was warm and proud as he cheered for his son. He seemed more relaxed.

You tried to focus on the game, but the sight of Aaron in this context stirred feelings you had been trying to bury. The jealousy you felt wasn’t just about seeing him enjoy this moment without you, but also about the emotional distance that had grown between you since your conversation. Despite your professional facade, your heart ached for the connection you once shared.

“Isn’t he adorable out there?” Penelope Garcia’s voice broke through your reverie. She was standing beside you, her eyes twinkling with delight as she watched Jack play.

You forced a smile, nodding in agreement. “He’s really good. Takes after his dad, I suppose.”

Penelope chuckled. “He sure does. Hotch is so proud of him.”

You stole a glance at Aaron, who was clapping and calling out encouragements to Jack. His smile was genuine, and it tugged at something deep within you. You looked away, trying to push down the feelings threatening to surface.

The game ended, and Jack’s team celebrated their victory. Aaron walked over to congratulate his son, ruffling his hair affectionately. The team began to disperse, and you found yourself standing alone for a moment, lost in thought.

“Hey, you okay?” JJ’s voice pulled you back to reality. She had a keen sense for picking up on the emotions of those around her.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind,” you replied, giving her a reassuring smile.

JJ studied you for a moment before nodding. “Well, if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, JJ. I appreciate it.”

As the crowd thinned out, you noticed Aaron walking towards you. Your heart skipped a beat, but you maintained your composure. He stopped a few feet away, giving you a nod of acknowledgment.

“Good game, right?” he said, his tone casual.

“Yeah, Jack did great,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Aaron’s eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the professional mask slipped, revealing a flicker of the unresolved emotions between you. He quickly regained his composure, offering a small smile.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he said.

“Me too,” you replied, forcing another smile.

The conversation was brief, but the unspoken words hung heavy in the air. You both knew there was more to say, but this wasn’t the time or place. As Aaron turned to join Jack, you felt a pang of sadness. The distance between you felt insurmountable, but you also knew that maintaining your professionalism was crucial.

As you watched, Aaron’s attention was suddenly drawn to a woman approaching from the stands. She was dressed casually in a summer dress, her brown hair flowing over her shoulders. Aaron’s face lit up with a genuine smile, and you felt your heart sink.

The woman was Beth. Aaron introduced her to the team, his gestures warm and welcoming. She greeted everyone with a friendly smile, but your focus was solely on the way Aaron’s eyes softened when he looked at her. You tried to mask your feelings of envy as you shook her hand, offering a polite smile.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Beth said, her voice friendly and warm.

“Nice to meet you too,” you replied, forcing a smile.

Beth was charming, effortlessly engaging with the team. She and Aaron seemed at ease together, their interactions full of familiarity and comfort. They shared inside jokes and exchanged knowing glances; their connection palpable. You couldn’t help but notice how easily they slipped into a rhythm together, their chemistry undeniable.

As the team chatted with Beth, you found it increasingly difficult to remain composed. The sight of Aaron with her, so natural and happy, was a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you. You took a step back, trying to give yourself some space to breathe.

The meeting with Beth was supposed to be a casual introduction, a friendly encounter at Jack's soccer game. However, the moment you met her, you felt a surge of jealousy and discomfort that was hard to shake. Beth seemed to embody everything you wished you could have had with Aaron—her easy smile, the way she interacted with Jack, the effortless way she seemed to fit into Aaron's life.

You tried to focus on what was being said to you, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Aaron and Beth. The way he looked at her, the warmth in his eyes, made your heart ache. You wanted to be happy for him, but it was difficult when all you could think about was the possibility that you could never have that kind of connection with him.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you made an excuse to leave quickly, needing to get away from the painful reminder of what you couldn't have. You said your goodbyes to the team and hurried to your car, tears stinging your eyes. <><>

Back at work, you and Aaron maintained a professional distance. The tension between you was palpable, but neither of you acknowledged it. You buried yourself in case files, hoping that the workload would help you forget your feelings. Aaron, for his part, remained courteous but distant, a constant reminder of the boundary between your personal and professional lives.

One late evening, after everyone else had left, you found yourself in the bullpen, finishing up some paperwork. Aaron was still in his office, the light on, his silhouette visible through the glass walls. You could feel his eyes on you occasionally, but you didn't look up, determined to keep your focus on the task at hand.

You glanced up toward Aaron's office again, catching a glimpse of him leaning back in his chair, his gaze momentarily meeting yours before you quickly looked away. Your heart pounded in your chest, the unspoken feelings swirling inside you like a storm.

The memories of your conversation with Hotch replayed in your mind. It had been brief, professional, but the underlying tension was palpable. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, to maintain the facade of calm and control that was expected of you. But every glance, every exchange with him seemed to chip away at the walls you had so carefully constructed. Suddenly, you heard a knock on your desk. Looking up, you saw Rossi standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

You nodded, setting your pen down. Rossi pulled up a chair and sat across from you, his eyes searching your face.

"You look tired," he said gently.

You shrugged. "It's been a long week."

Rossi leaned in slightly, his tone softening. "I've noticed you've been a bit distant lately. Is everything okay?"

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Just...dealing with some personal stuff."

He nodded, as if he already knew. "I heard about your conversation with Hotch."

Your heart skipped a beat. "What about it?"

"He's worried about you," Rossi said. "We all are."

You looked away, the pain in your chest intensifying. "I'm fine."

Rossi sighed, reaching out to place a comforting hand on yours. "Listen, if you ever need to talk, I'm here. We've all been through rough patches, and sometimes it helps to have someone to lean on."

You nodded, grateful for his support but not ready to open up. "Thanks, Rossi. I appreciate it."

He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before standing up. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

As Rossi started to leave, his gaze fell on the paperwork scattered on your desk—documents regarding your potential transfer to Atlanta. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he paused before speaking again.

"What's this about?" Rossi asked, his tone more curious than accusatory.

You felt your heart race, knowing you couldn’t easily brush off the topic. "Just considering some options," you said, trying to sound casual. "A change of scenery might be good."

Rossi studied you for a moment, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Look, if this is about wanting to get away from something or someone here, I want you to know you're not alone. Running away might not solve the problem. Sometimes, facing it head-on is what really helps."

You sighed, the decision weighing heavily on you. "I just... I need some space, I think. A chance to figure things out."

Rossi nodded slowly, understanding but still worried. "Well, if you're set on making a move, I respect that. Just know that we’ll miss you around here. And remember, the door’s always open if you need to talk."

You managed a small smile, appreciative of his genuine concern. "Thanks, Rossi. I'll keep that in mind."

As he walked away, you returned your gaze to the paperwork. The thought of transferring to Atlanta now felt more tangible, but also more daunting. The decision to leave wasn't just about changing locations; it was about escaping the emotional entanglements and facing the reality of what you were leaving behind. The empty bullpen seemed more desolate, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer, as if reflecting the uncertainty of your future.

As you gathered your things to leave, you felt a pang of regret. The idea of transferring to the Atlanta field office, while practical, felt like a desperate measure to escape the emotional turmoil that had been weighing on you. The thought of starting fresh in a new city, away from the constant reminders of Aaron and the life you had built here, was both enticing and daunting. Maybe one day you would muster the courage to confront your emotions and the reality of what you felt for him. But for now, the possibility of a transfer seemed like a refuge from the aching loneliness of unspoken words and unfulfilled desires that clung to you with every step you took away from the bullpen.

The Atlanta field office offered a chance to redefine yourself, to create a new routine and immerse yourself in different challenges. It was an opportunity to distance yourself from the memories and feelings that had become almost too heavy to bear. Yet, this potential escape came with its own set of uncertainties—leaving behind colleagues who had become like family, the comfort of familiar routines, and the underlying fear of whether running away from your feelings would truly bring you peace or merely prolong the inevitable confrontation with your heart.

You knew that transferring to Atlanta could be a way to avoid dealing with the painful truth of your feelings for Aaron, but it also represented a fresh start, a chance to rebuild without the constant reminder of a love that could never be. As you walked away from the bullpen, the weight of your decision loomed large, the future uncertain and the path ahead shrouded in both hope and apprehension. <><> Aaron was immersed in his paperwork when he noticed a memo slip across his desk. With a practiced hand, he opened it, expecting routine updates. But as he scanned the contents, his focus sharpened on a line about a personnel transfer request—specifically, a transfer to the Atlanta field office.

His heart sank as he recognized the name at the top of the memo. It was yours.

Aaron’s mind raced, the room around him suddenly feeling constricting. He’d sensed that something had been off lately, your distance and the quiet struggles you’d been grappling with, but this news hit him harder than he anticipated. He couldn't shake the feeling that this transfer was more than just a career move for you—it was an escape.

He tried to focus on the details of the memo, but his thoughts kept returning to you. The idea of you leaving, especially under these circumstances, stirred a mix of regret and frustration within him. He knew he hadn't been the most communicative or open, but the thought of you leaving without any real resolution gnawed at him.

Determined to understand more, he set the memo aside and made a mental note to talk to you. He had to address this before any decision was finalized. The idea of you transferring to Atlanta wasn't just a professional change; it was a personal one that affected him deeply.

Later that day, as you were about to leave for the day, Aaron found himself standing by your desk, trying to keep his voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within him.

"Hey, got a minute?" he asked, his tone more urgent than he intended.

You looked up, clearly surprised by the request. "Sure, Hotch. What’s up?"

He gestured for you to follow him to a quieter part of the office. Once there, he held up the memo. "I saw this on my desk. Can you explain what’s going on?"

You glanced at the memo and then back at him, a mixture of surprise and apprehension in your eyes. "It’s just a transfer request. I thought it might be a good idea to consider some new opportunities."

Aaron’s expression softened, but his concern was evident. "Is this about what’s been going on lately? If you need to talk or if there’s something specific you’re trying to escape, we need to address it."

You hesitated, feeling the weight of the unspoken emotions hanging between you. "It’s not just about escaping. I just need a change, Aaron. It’s been a lot to handle."

Aaron’s gaze was intense, filled with a mix of frustration and a deep, unresolved care. "I understand that things have been difficult, but running away might not be the solution. We can work through this. I want to understand what’s been going on with you."

You felt the sting of his words, realizing that your decision to transfer was more than just about a new job—it was about the distance you needed from unresolved feelings and the challenges you faced. You knew you needed to be honest but struggled with finding the right words.

"I appreciate that, Aaron. But right now, I think I need this distance to figure things out."

He nodded, though his frustration was palpable. "If you decide to go through with this, just know that I’ll support you. But before you make any final decisions, please consider talking things out. It’s important."

You nodded, feeling a mix of gratitude and sadness. "I’ll think about it. Thanks for understanding."

As you walked away, Aaron felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The prospect of you leaving was a stark reminder of the unresolved feelings and the impact of not addressing them. He knew he needed to act before it was too late, but for now, all he could do was hope that you would reconsider and find a way to confront the challenges together. <><> After a lively team outing at a local restaurant, everyone was in high spirits. The night had been filled with laughter and camaraderie, but Beth couldn’t help but notice Aaron’s lingering glances toward you. The smiles he shared with you were different, more genuine and soft compared to the usual reserved expression he wore. It wasn’t lost on her that this was not the first time she had seen this subtle, but telling, shift in his demeanour around you.

As the evening wound down and the team started to disperse, Beth knew it was time to have a conversation that had been weighing on her for some time. She decided to wait until they were back at Aaron’s apartment, where they could talk privately without interruptions.

Once inside, Beth’s eyes were sharp with concern as she locked the door behind them. Aaron was in the kitchen, setting down a few leftovers. She took a deep breath and approached him, her voice firm but caring.

“Aaron, we need to talk,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Aaron looked up, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “About what?”

Beth’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “About how you look at her. The smiles you only seem to reserve for her, the way your eyes follow her around. I’ve noticed it tonight, and it’s been building for a while.”

Aaron’s expression shifted, a mix of guilt and apprehension crossing his face. “Beth, I—”

Beth cut him off gently but decisively. “Don’t try to brush this off. I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I know there’s something more there. More then what you have for me. It’s clear you have feelings for her, and you need to address that before it’s too late.”

Aaron’s shoulders slumped slightly. “It’s complicated. With everything that’s happened, and the grief from losing her sister, it feels like the timing is all wrong.”

Beth’s expression softened with understanding, but her resolve remained strong. “I get that it’s complicated. We’ve both faced our own share of challenges. But sometimes, things that are rare and special are too valuable to let slip through your fingers just because the timing isn’t perfect. If you really care about her, you need to be honest with her.” “I care about you too Beth,” Aaron looked away, struggling with his emotions. “I don’t want to make things more difficult for her. She’s been through so much already.”

Beth stepped closer; her voice gentle but insistent. “I know, Aaron. But by not telling her how you feel, you’re only adding to her confusion and uncertainty. The risk of waiting too long is that you might lose the chance to ever have what could be something truly meaningful. Don’t let your hesitation keep you from being honest.”

Aaron’s gaze met hers, and for a moment, the weight of his unspoken feelings seemed to lift slightly. “You’re right. I’ve been afraid of complicating things further, but maybe it’s time I faced that fear.”

Finally, she took a deep breath and faced Aaron, her eyes brimming with a mix of determination and sadness. "Aaron, there’s something else I need to tell you."

Aaron looked at her with concern, sensing the gravity in her tone. "What is it?"

Beth took a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. "I’ve made a decision. I’m moving to Milan."

Aaron’s eyes widened in shock. "Milan? When? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?"

Beth’s gaze was steady, but her voice carried a note of finality. "It’s been in the works for a while now. I didn’t want to bring it up until everything was finalized. I’ve accepted a position there and will be leaving in a few weeks."

Aaron’s heart sank, a mix of surprise and hurt crossing his face. "Beth, I… I don’t know what to say."

Beth reached out, gently placing a hand on his. "Aaron, this is important. I need you to listen. I’m breaking things off between us. It’s not just because of the move, but because I’ve realized something. Your feelings for her are clear, and it’s not fair to either of us to ignore them."

Aaron’s expression turned pained. "Beth, I never meant for things to be like this. I’ve been struggling with my feelings for her, and now..."

Beth interrupted softly but firmly. "I know, Aaron. And that’s why I’m telling you this now. I don’t want you to waste any more time. If you truly care about her, you need to be honest and act on your feelings. Don’t let your hesitation or our relationship keep you from being with someone you care about." Aaron’s eyes were filled with regret and confusion. "Are you sure about this? I never wanted to hurt you."

Beth nodded, her resolve unwavering. "Yes, I’m sure. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s time for both of us to move on and find what we truly want. I hope you’ll take this chance with her before it’s too late."

Aaron swallowed hard, trying to process the sudden shift in his life. "I… I understand. I’ll talk to her. Thank you for being honest with me."

Beth offered him a sad but sincere smile. "Good. I hope everything works out for both of you. And for me, too. Sometimes, moving forward means letting go."

With that, Beth turned and began to gather her things, her movements methodical but tinged with a deep sadness. Aaron watched her, his mind racing with the implications of her words and the urgency of the situation.

As Beth left his apartment to prepare for her new chapter in Milan, Aaron was left alone with his thoughts. The weight of the conversation pressed heavily on him, but the clarity it provided was both a burden and a blessing. He knew that now, more than ever, he needed to confront his feelings for you and act before the opportunity slipped away. <><> The room was filled with the soft rustle of fabric as you packed your large suitcase, preparing for your imminent move to the Atlanta field office. The decision to transfer had been difficult, but the need for a fresh start had felt urgent. As you methodically folded clothes and packed away your belongings, your mind wandered to the whirlwind of emotions and changes that had led you here.

Suddenly, a knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. You paused, glancing at the clock and wondering who it could be at this hour. With a sigh, you wiped your hands on a nearby towel and walked to the door, your heart unexpectedly racing.

When you opened it, you were met with the sight of Aaron Hotchner standing on the other side. His usual composed demeanour was softened by an intense look of vulnerability. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken emotions.

Aaron’s gaze held yours with a depth that seemed to pierce through the very core of your being. He took a deep breath, his voice barely more than a whisper, but unmistakably earnest.

“I love you,” he said, the simplicity and sincerity of his words cutting through the noise of the past few days.

The words hung in the air, their weight settling over you as you processed their impact. Your heart skipped a beat, and a mixture of surprise, relief, and overwhelming emotion flooded through you. The baggage of your impending move, the unresolved feelings, and the complicated paths you had both navigated seemed to converge in that single moment of confession.

“Oh”. You had hoped for this, longed for it even, but never expected it to come so suddenly or so poignantly.

“Aaron…” you started, your voice trembling with the weight of everything unspoken between you.

He stepped closer, his expression pleading, as if willing you to understand the depth of his feelings despite the circumstances. “I know this might be too late, but I couldn’t let you leave without telling you how I feel.”

You took a step back, your suitcase forgotten for the moment, as you tried to grasp the enormity of his declaration. The room seemed smaller, filled with the echoes of his words and the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you.

Aaron continued, his voice steady despite the vulnerability. “I should have told you sooner. I’ve been struggling with my feelings, with the timing, and with everything going on. But I can’t let you go without you knowing how I truly feel.”

Tears streamed down your face as you looked at him, the man you cared for deeply standing there with a sincerity that made your heart ache. The prospect of leaving now felt even more complicated, but his confession gave you a glimmer of hope that perhaps there was still a chance for something more.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his, feeling the connection that had always been there but was now heightened by his words. “Aaron, I… I didn’t think this would happen.”

He gently cupped your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours with a mix of hope and apology. “I know it’s complicated, but I needed you to know. I love you, and I want to work through this, whatever it takes.”

In that moment, the weight of your decision to leave seemed to lift, replaced by the possibility of exploring what might come next. Your heart was still torn, but Aaron’s words gave you a reason to pause and reconsider, to see if there was a way to navigate the future together.

You took a deep breath, your emotions still raw but now infused with a sense of possibility. “I need to think, Aaron. But thank you for telling me.”

He nodded, a look of understanding and hope on his face. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

As Aaron stepped back, you closed the door, the silence in the room now filled with the echo of his confession. The future remained uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope that things might turn out differently than you had anticipated. The room fell silent after Aaron left, the weight of his confession hanging heavily in the air. You stared at the closed door, your heart racing with conflicting emotions. The echo of his words, "I love you," resonated within you, but the decision to leave still loomed large in your mind.

You took a moment to compose yourself, wiping away the tears that had blurred your vision. The truth was, despite the profound revelation from Aaron, you couldn't shake the deeper issues at play. The grief from losing your sister, the violence of her death, and the way it had coloured your perception of everything around you had become overwhelming. Your once-familiar environment, your safe space, had become tainted by the shadows of that loss.

As you turned back to your suitcase, your resolve solidified. The decision to transfer to the Atlanta field office had seemed like the only way to escape the haunting memories and to start anew. The loss of your sister had made everything familiar feel foreign, and despite Aaron’s heartfelt confession, the environment you were leaving behind was still too painful.

With a determined sigh, you resumed packing your belongings. The act of organizing your things, the physical motion of moving forward, became a form of therapy—a way to assert control over the chaos that had become your life. Each item you folded and placed into your suitcase felt like a step towards reclaiming your sense of self.

You couldn’t deny the gravity of Aaron’s feelings, but the reality was that the grief and the scars from your sister’s death had irrevocably changed your perspective. The office, once a place of camaraderie and comfort, now seemed overshadowed by the violence that had touched your life so profoundly.

As the final items were packed away, you took one last look around your apartment, a mix of nostalgia and melancholy filling your heart. You had made a life here, built connections, and found solace, but now, it was time to find a new path where the past didn’t weigh so heavily on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath, feeling a sense of finality as you closed your suitcase. It wasn’t just about moving to a new place; it was about finding a way to heal and rebuild. The decision to leave was not a rejection of Aaron’s feelings, but a necessary step for you to address your own needs and find a space where you could begin to process and heal from the grief that had consumed you. As you left your apartment with your suitcase in tow, a profound sense of resolution settled over you. The grief from losing your sister had irrevocably changed you, and the decision to move forward with your transfer was not just about leaving a place but also about finding yourself again. However, there was one final step you needed to take before embarking on this new chapter.

You knew in your heart that you couldn’t leave without speaking to Aaron one last time. His confession earlier had touched a part of you that you had kept locked away, and although you had made the decision to leave, you needed him to understand the depth of your feelings and the reasons behind your departure.

You found Aaron at the edge of the parking lot; his silhouette framed by the dim streetlights. He stood there, looking lost and weary, as if waiting for something he couldn’t quite name. When he saw you approaching, his expression shifted from confusion to a glimmer of hope.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. “Aaron, I need to talk to you. Before I go.”

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for answers. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

You paused, gathering your thoughts as you looked at him. “I need you to know that I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. Your words tonight were everything I’ve ever wanted to hear. But…”

Aaron stepped closer, his face a mixture of hope and anxiety. “But what?”

“I have to leave,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve lost myself over the past few months. The grief from losing my sister and everything that has happened has changed me in ways I can’t ignore. I need to find out who I am again, both as a person and as an Agent. I need to figure out what I want and who I want to be.”

Aaron’s eyes softened with understanding and pain. “I get it. I really do. But you should know that you’ve always been someone special to me, and that hasn’t changed. I just wish there was something more I could do.”

You shook your head gently, your tears falling freely now. “This isn’t about you, Aaron. It’s about me. I need to do this for myself. I need to find a way to heal and to rediscover my purpose. I can’t do that while I’m still surrounded by reminders of what I’ve lost.”

Aaron reached out, his hand brushing against yours. “If you need time and space, I understand. But please, don’t let this be goodbye forever.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch and the depth of his feelings. “I don’t want it to be. I’m not closing the door on us entirely. I’m just stepping away for now to find my own path.”

He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll be here, waiting for when you’re ready. I’ll be patient.”

You offered him a sad, yet hopeful smile. “Thank you, Aaron. For understanding and for being there. I hope that one day, when I’ve figured things out, we can see where we stand.”

Aaron pulled you into a gentle embrace, holding you close as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t put into words. The embrace was a mixture of comfort and farewell, filled with the promise of what might come in the future.

As you finally pulled away, you felt a bittersweet sense of closure. With one last look at Aaron, you turned and walked toward your car, the weight of your decision and the uncertainty of the future ahead of you.

The drive to your new life in Atlanta felt both daunting and liberating. The road stretched out before you, and with each mile, you hoped to find the clarity and healing you so desperately needed. And while the future was uncertain, you carried with you the knowledge that, despite everything, you had made the right decision for yourself.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner #Thomas Gibson #Rewrite

85 notes · View notes