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itneverendshere · 19 hours

Note

the first relapse being the most scariest thing you’ve seen. sarah’s even calling you about him like “dads trying to get his doctor on the line just in case he od’s”

added this to what i'd already summarized in this ask!! hope everyone enjoys the angst 😔🫂 it’s a little long (around 7.1k)

death by a thousand cuts - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) warnings: substance abuse.

Ward’s sitting at the dining table, barely glancing up from his phone when Rafe walks in. His jaw clenches. That look—so cold, so dismissive—always sets something off in him.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks, already knowing this isn’t just a normal night.

Ward doesn’t answer right away, just sighs like Rafe being here is another weight on his shoulders. “Your mother called today.”

Rafe freezes.

He doesn’t have to ask which mother. Ward’s new wife has nothing to do with this. His real mom. The one who left.

He tries to stay calm, but he can feel his blood pumping, “What’d she want?”

“She says she wants to see you. You and your sisters.”

Rafe’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding harder now. The audacity of it. She always did this—popped back in when it was convenient for her, like they were just part of her life she could pick up and drop whenever she felt like it.

When was the last time? A couple of years? Before that? It doesn’t matter.

“No. I’m not doing this again.”

“Rafe—”

“No, I said no.” The anger wells up fast, a familiar burn in his chest. He stands there, fists clenched. “She’s full of shit, dad. She doesn't give a fuck about us. So, no. I’m not seeing her.”

Ward looks up, calm as ever, but there's that edge in his eyes—the one that always makes Rafe feel like a little kid who’s stepped out of line. “You’re overreacting. She’s still your mother.”

“My mother?” He lets out a bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fists tighten at his sides. “She left. She fucking left us. She’s not my mother. She’s just some lady who couldn’t handle shit.”

Ward stands up now. “Watch your mouth.”

“Watch my mouth?” Rafe barks back, stepping forward, his anger boiling over. “I watched her leave me every time she got bored or freaked out. And you—you didn’t do shit!.You just let it happen. Let her walk out over and over.”

“That’s enough, Rafe.”

But he's not done.

He’s too pissed to think straight. “What? You gonna defend her? You’re the one who let her fuck me up like this! You—”

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems,” Ward snaps, his voice rising. "Grow up. She left. And you’re still standing here acting like a child over it.”

Something inside Rafe cracks. His chest tightens like someone’s squeezing the air out of him. "A child? You don't get it. You never got it. She fucked me up. She fucked all of us up, and you're still acting like it's nothing." His mind is spinning, flashing back to all those nights he was too high to breathe, too strung out to care if he woke up the next day. He feels like he’s suffocating, the anger burning too fast. “I’m not doing this again, dad. I’m not.”

Ward’s gaze turns cold. “She’s trying now. That has to count for something.”

“Trying? Trying?!” Rafe grits out, stepping forward. All those years, all those broken promises, all the times he was left wondering what the hell he did wrong to make her leave—and now Ward wants him to sit down like it’s a fucking family reunion.

“I don’t care what you think about it, Rafe. This isn’t up for discussion. You will see her, and that’s final.”

“No. No fucking way!” He shouts, his voice shaking as he steps closer to Ward, fists clenched. “You can’t make me do this. I’m not going to sit there and pretend like everything’s okay when she’s the reason I turned into the mess I was. And you—” His chest heaves as he fights to find the words, his throat tight. “You’re just as bad as she is.”

Ward’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he continues, “Every time she left, you didn’t do a goddamn thing. You let her walk all over us. You let her leave me, leave us, and you never said a word. You’re a shitty father, just as bad as her."

Ward’s face darkens, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you however the hell I want,” Rafe fires back, stepping even closer, eyes blazing. “You didn’t stop her. You never protected me. You sat there and watched her fuck me up and then turned around and blamed me for it. Like I was the problem.”

“You were the problem,” Ward snaps, “She didn’t know how to handle you, and neither did I. You were a fucking disaster, Rafe. And that’s on you.”

“No. You two were and are the fucking problem because you can’t let go of her.”

Ward takes a step forward, “This isn’t about you. It’s about your sisters. Sarah wants this. Weezie deserves a chance to know her mother. It’s not all about your issues, Rafe. Grow up.”

“Grow up?” He feels like he’s suffocating, “You think I’m the one who needs to grow up?

“Enough. You will meet her, or you can leave this house right now.”

All the work he's put in, all the shit he's tried to fix, feels like it’s slipping right through his fingers. He can’t be here. Not like this. He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing. That itch beneath his skin is back after years, that’s how much control his parents have over him.

Rafe’s hands are still shaking as he gets into his truck, slamming the door harder than he means to. It feels like he can’t get enough air in his lungs, and his thoughts are spinning, they’re all crashing into each other at once. The fight with his father keeps replaying in his head, louder and louder, until he can’t hear anything else.

He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. His dad’s voice, cold and cutting, telling him he’s the problem. That he’s always been the problem. His hands are shaking worse now, trembling like he’s about to snap, and there’s only one thought pounding through his mind: He can’t go to you like this.

The thought of walking through your door, this messed up, makes him feel sick. You’ve seen him at his worst before, but this… this feels different. He can’t let you see him like this—not the old Rafe. Not the one who almost lost everything.

You don’t need to see that. You don’t deserve it.

He knows where he can go instead. Somewhere he shouldn’t, somewhere he swore he’d never go again. But right now, it feels like the only place that makes sense. His head’s spinning, his body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and anger, and he just needs it to stop.

So, he turns the key in the ignition and drives. It doesn’t take long to get to Barry’s. He knows the back roads by heart, even though it’s been years. He pulls up to the small shack Barry calls home, the lights still on, music thumping faintly from inside. It’s like nothing’s changed. The same rundown place, the same shitty cars parked out front, the same smell of smoke and spilled liquor lingering in the air.

Rafe sits there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, breathing heavy. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that.

He climbs out of the truck, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, and heads toward the door. The second he steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and weed hits him like a wave, bringing back memories he thought he’d buried.

Barry’s lounging on the couch, a joint hanging from his mouth, lazily flipping through channels on the TV.

“Country Club!”, Barry drawls when he notices him, smirking around the joint. “Now this is a surprise. Didn’t think I’d ever see you walk through that door again. Thought you were all clean now, with your pretty little girlfriend.”

He tenses at the mention of you. But he can’t walk out now. Not after what just happened with Ward. Not when everything inside him feels like it’s about to blow.

“I just need something,” Rafe mutters, avoiding Barry’s eyes, already regretting this but not enough to stop.

Barry raises an eyebrow, amused. “Something, huh? You know, you’ve got a real habit of showing up here when you’re all fucked up.” He laughs, low and mocking. “What’s the matter this time? Daddy issues again?”

His jaw tightens. “Just give me what I want.”

Barry leans back, flicking ash onto the floor. “You sure you wanna go down that road again, man? Thought you were past this shit.”

“I don’t care,” Rafe snaps, his voice low, shaking with frustration and something darker. “You know what I want. Go get it.”

There’s a pause, and for a second, Barry just looks at him, sizing him up. Then, with a shrug, he gets up, disappearing into the back room. Rafe waits, heart pounding in his ears, staring at the floor, trying not to think about what he’s doing. About what this means.

Barry comes back a minute later, a small bag of coke in his hand. He tosses it onto the table in front of Rafe, “Knock yourself out.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bag, his fingers already moving on autopilot as he pulls out his wallet and shoves a roll of cash toward Barry. He knows this is stupid, reckless. He knows this is going to hurt you, more than anything else. But ll he wants is to forget. Just for a little while.

His hands stop shaking the second he takes that first line.

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You’re already drained when you step through the front door of the house, kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag onto the couch. The sticky summer air is clinging to your skin, and all you want is a cold shower and to crash in bed.

The day’s been dragging—work was a shitshow, and all you’ve been thinking about is Rafe. You haven’t heard from him since this morning, which isn’t weird, but there’s been this nagging feeling in your chest, like something’s off.

“Hey,” Monica calls from the kitchen as you grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. She’s scrolling through her phone, half-distracted. Milo’s at kindergarten.

“Hey,” you mumble back. “Everything alright?”

She shrugs, not looking up. “Yeah, mostly.” She pauses, frowning slightly, like she’s trying to piece something together. “I think I saw Rafe’s truck earlier. Over by Barry’s place.”

You blink, trying to process what she just said. “Barry’s?”

“Yeah, you know. The guy who used to sell—Whatever.” Monica shrugs again, more casual than you feel. “I was driving back from work, and I swear it was Rafe’s truck parked outside Barry’s house.”

Your stomach drops. Instantly.

“You’re sure?”

“Looked like his truck,” your sister says, “Thought it was weird. Figured maybe he was helping someone out or something.”

But you know better.

A cold sweat breaks out over your skin. You’ve heard Rafe talk about Barry. Back when things were bad—really bad—he was the one who kept him hooked, who kept pulling him deeper. He told you everything about those years when he was drowning in addication and Barry’s name came up more than once.

And if his truck’s outside Barry’s, you know something’s wrong.

It’s like a pit in your stomach, this gnawing feeling that’s been sitting with you all day.

“What? Why’s that such a big deal?”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s impossible. “Rafe doesn’t… he doesn’t go there anymore. He hasn’t in years.”

Monica frowns, finally understanding. “Oh. Shit. You think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, already pulling out your phone, fingers wobbly as you open your messages. You scroll through the last few texts from Rafe, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Except the silence. He’s usually better at checking in, especially when he knows you’ve had a long day. But today? Nothing.

You stare at your screen, debating if you should call him. But deep down, you already know something’s happened. He wouldn’t go to Barry’s unless things were really bad.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” your sister offers, but her voice is hesitant, like she’s not sure. “Maybe he was just stopping by. It doesn’t mean—”

But she doesn’t finish, and you don’t need her to. You know what it means. You feel it in your bones. He’s back in that dark place—And he didn’t come to you. He went to Barry instead.

Why didn’t he come to you?

“I need to go,” you say, your voice coming out more panicked than you’d like, but you can’t help it. Your heart’s racing, your mind is spinning, and the only thing you can focus on is Rafe. You’re grabbing your keys off the counter before your sister can even answer.

“Wait, what? Where are you going?” Monica asks, a bit alarmed now, but you don’t have time to explain.

“I need to find Rafe.”

Your sister steps forward, “Is it really that serious? I mean, maybe he’s just—”

“He’s not just anything,” you cut her off, shaking your head. “If he’s at Barry’s, it’s bad.”

Rafe had told you everything about his past—every ugly detail about the years he spent losing himself, the drugs, the fights, the constant mess of it all. He had opened up to you after your first time together. And for the past two years you’d seen him, the real Rafe, the one who tried so damn hard to be better.

And now? He’s slipping. And you weren’t there.

Your mind is racing as you drive. You think about how good things have been with him—how far he’s come. He’s not the guy he used to be. He doesn’t party like he used to, doesn’t need to numb everything with lines of coke or bottles of whiskey.

He told you about his time in rehab, how scared he was of becoming that version of himself again. But something must’ve happened.

Something big.

Why didn’t he tell you?

The thought is suffocating. You know him—he’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, but he’s been so careful with you, always making sure you never had to see the side of him that scared him the most. He’s opened up about his struggles with anxiety, about how he sometimes still smokes weed to take the edge off, but this… this is different.

This is worse.

It had to be Ward. He’s has always had this chokehold on him, making him feel like he’s never good enough. And whenever his mom gets brought up—whenever she’s even mentioned—it messes with him in ways you can barely understand. She’s the one person who could make him spiral, and Ward is the one person who could push him over that edge.

You slam your fist against the steering wheel, frustrated.

He’s dealing with this alone, and now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to his place, your stomach churning. You can see Rafe’s truck parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat. He’s here.

He’s here, and he didn’t come to you.

You sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, trying to calm yourself down, trying to figure out what the hell you’re even going to say when you see him.

You get out of the car and practically run toward Barry’s door. You know this place, know the people who come here and what they’re looking for. You’re pretty sure your dad spent half his life here, when Barry’s dad still ran the business.

You don’t even knock. You push the door open. Barry’s on the couch, looking up lazily when you walk in, and you see Rafe—sitting in the corner, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.

He looks like a ghost.

Barry snickers from the couch, taking a drag from his joint. “Well, well, look who it is. Didn’t think I’d see the two of you here together.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barry,” you snap, glaring at him before turning your full attention to Rafe. “What are you doing here?”

“W-What?”

“Baby, look at you.”

He tries to stand, his movements slow, like his body isn’t responding the way he wants it to. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, his pupils blown wide, and he’s swaying slightly, barely able to keep his balance.

“I just... I needed to clear my head,” he mumbles, the words slurring together. His hand goes to his hair, but it’s shaking, and he can’t even look at you. “It’s not—”

“It’s not what?” You feel your heart breaking with every word, the cracks widening as you take in the mess of him, his clothes disheveled, his face pale, his hands twitching.

He stumbles again, trying to step toward you, but he’s so high he can barely stand. “I didn’t want... I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he rasps out, finally meeting your eyes for just a second before looking away. “Didn’t want you to... think I was still... still that guy.”

“You’re not that guy anymore,” you say softly, even though right now, he looks too much like that guy. “But you’re acting like him.”

His head drops, and he looks down at the floor, his shoulders sagging, defeated. “Didn’t know...what else to do.”

“And you didn’t think to come to me?” Your voice breaks on the last word, “You went to Barry instead of me?”

“Hey now—"

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” You almost scream in Barry's face, your chest rising with each breath you take. Rafe can't stand to look you in the eyes right now. He can't see the disappointment.

“You always know what to do. You call me. You come to me. Why would you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance at Barry, who’s watching the whole scene with a smirk on his face like he’s enjoying every second of your heartbreak. “You’re better than this. Get in the car. We can talk about this.”

But he shakes his head, his breath shaky. “Can’t… can’t be with you right now.”

“Why?”

“Just… too much. Hurts too much.” He looks down, guilt washing over him. “Didn’t want you to see... this.”

“Then get in the car. We can figure this out together.” Your voice cracks, the hurt pouring out.

He hesitates, shaking his head again. “I… can’t.”

It pushes something inside you.

Maybe you’ll regret it later but now it’s all you can think about. If he doesn’t want your help, he doesn’t want you. And if he doesn’t want you right now he doesn’t deserve to want you when he’s better.

“You can either get in this car and fight with me, or you can stay here. But if you stay—”

“Y-You’ll leave?” He’s looking at you despite the fog in his brain, not sure if he’s hearing you correctly, “Leave me?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“E-everyon leaves right?"

He’s never said anything like that to you before.

“I’m not leaving you, but if you stay here, with him,” you jerk your head in Barry’s direction, “I can’t help you. I can’t pull you out of this if you don’t want to get out.”

You know you can’t fix this for him. He has to make the choice. His eyes dart toward Barry for a second, and Barry just shrugs, clearly not giving a damn about anything but his next hit.

“I love you, but I can’t watch you destroy yourself.”

For a second, you think maybe you’ve gotten through to him, because his eyes soften behind all that darkness. But then he shakes his head again, looking at the floor like he’s already made his decision.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “But I don’t know how to stop.”

Your heart breaks a little more at that. “Yes you do, baby. You do. You just need to believe it.”

If he doesn’t come with you, you’re not sure where this ends for him. He’s stuck, frozen in place, trapped by whatever’s going on in his head, and you realize that no matter how much you love him, no matter how much you want to save him, you can’t force him to choose you. You can’t make him get in the car.

“You have to decide,” you say quietly, voice breaking. “Me or this. You can’t have both.”

Rafe looks up at you, eyes glossy, and for a second, you think he might actually say something — something that will make this all okay, something that will bring him back to you. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, torn apart by his demons, his lips pressed into a line. You feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper.

“Okay,” you nod, barely holding back tears. “I guess that’s my answer.”

You turn and walk out the door, your heart shattering with every inch of distance you put between you and him. You don't look back, because if you do, you know you’ll drag him out yourself, and you can’t do that. Not now. But as you get into your car and grip the steering wheel with your entire strength, the sobs come anyway.

You don’t want to leave him. God, you don’t want to. But he didn’t choose you. Not this time.

Rafe doesn’t even register the sound of the door slamming behind you. It’s like he’s watching everything happen from somewhere far away, his body numb, his mind completely blank. You said something, you were upset—he knows that much—but the words never really hit him. They just floated around. He sinks back down into the chair, staring at the floor, heart racing but completely detached. The room is spinning a little, his chest tight, but he can’t feel anything. Can’t let himself feel anything. It’s better this way. Safer.

You left.

He knows that happened, but it doesn’t mean anything right now. He can’t process it. Not in this state. Not when the drugs are still in his system, making everything feel like it’s underwater. He blinks a few times, trying to get his brain to catch up, but it’s not working. It’s just static.

Barry’s voice is somewhere in the background, laughing about something, but he doesn’t hear him either. It’s like the world’s on mute. His body’s still buzzing from the high, fingers twitching, muscles tense, but inside? Inside he’s empty.

Hours pass, maybe. Time doesn’t exist here, not when he’s this far gone. The light changes through the window, but it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He drifts in and out, his head heavy, eyes closing, but sleep never comes. Just darkness. Maybe he did too many lines.

At some point, he wakes up—if you can call it that. His body feels like it weights two hundred pounds, his head is spinning, his mouth dry and sour. He blinks against the light, his vision blurry, trying to figure out where the hell he is.

It takes a second for everything to catch up. To realize he’s at Barry’s.

And then, it hits him all at once. You.

You were here. You were mad. And then you were gone.

His chest tightens, a sick, sinking feeling crawling up his throat. He sits up too fast, his head swimming. Fuck.He rubs his hands over his face, trying to calm his breathing. His thoughts are still sluggish. You left. You walked out, and he… he didn’t stop you. Didn’t even try.

Why didn’t he stop you?

Before he can think too much about it, Barry saunters in, a smug grin on his face, holding a beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He takes one look at Rafe, slouched and disoriented, and lets out a low, mocking laugh.

“Well, well, well,” Barry drawls, leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Look who’s finally awake. You done fucked it up, Country Club.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything. Can’t.

Barry raises an eyebrow, taking a drag from the joint, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Thought you were smarter than that.”

Rafe just stares at the floor, his stomach twisting. He can’t remember exactly what he said to you. But the look on your face… he can’t forget that. The disappointment. The hurt.

Barry chuckles, settling down on the couch across from him. “What was it? You running your mouth again, or did she just get tired of you being a fuckup?”

The shame is settling in now, creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to hear anything. But Barry just keeps going, like he’s enjoying watching him fall apart.

“Should’ve seen it coming, man,” Barry continues, “Girl like that? She was bound to leave eventually.”

If he felt strong enough he would’ve punched that joint out of his mouth, his teeth following next. Who the fuck did he think he was to talk about you like he knew you.

He knows Barry’s just trying to get under his skin, but it’s working. He feels sick. He presses his hands against his eyes, trying to push it all away, but it’s no use.

“You done fucked it up, Country Club,” Barry repeats, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “And now you’re right back here. Same old Rafe.”

Same old Rafe. He told himself he’d never end up here again. He swore he was done with this. Done with Barry, done with the drugs, done with the guy he used to be.

But now? Now he’s right back where he started. And the worst part? He let you see it. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he even can fix this. But the one thing he does know? He should’ve crawled after you.

Rafe doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to. His hands are already moving, reaching for the small bag of coke on the table. His fingers tremble as they close around it, the weight of the plastic barely registering in his hand.

Barry watches him, that same smug grin never leaving his face, taking another drag of his joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a low chuckle. He’s not surprised. Not at all.

"Of course," Barry mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Of course, you're takin’ that shit with you.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight him. He can feel Barry’s eyes on him, feel the judgment radiating off him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not anymore.

Not after everything he’s already fucked up. He stuffs the bag in his jacket pocket, standing up on shaky legs, the room still spinning a little as he stumbles toward the door. His mind is on autopilot, moving without him, as if the drugs are the only thing holding him together.

"Attaboy, Country Club," Barry calls after him, voice dripping with condescension, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just keep runnin’. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

Rafe’s hand tightens on the doorknob, his teeth grinding together, but he doesn’t turn back. He can’t look at Barry—he can’t look at any of this—so he does what he always does.

He walks away. He doesn’t think. He just keeps moving, out of the door, out into the night, the bag burning a hole in his pocket.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw Rafe.

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Two weeks of silence, of unanswered calls and texts that sit there on your screen and make you cry every time you look at them. You told him you’d leave, but you didn’t mean it. You never meant it.

You just needed him to fight. For himself. But he didn’t.

And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. It physically hurts.

Every morning you wake up with this heavy impossible ache in your chest, and it only gets worse as the day goes on. You keep wondering where he is, if he’s okay, if he’s even thinking about you or if he’s too far gone to care.

You miss him. God, you miss him.

Now you don’t even know where he is. If he’s still spiraling or if he’s hit rock bottom.

You’ve barely been able to keep it together at work. Every time you try to focus, that image of Rafe in his absolute worst slips in, and you never get anything done. You’ve called in sick twice, just to stay in bed and cry, because you can barely breathe.

You’ve reached out to Sarah a few times, trying to understand what’s going on, but she doesn’t know much either. "He’s off the grid," she’d told you last time, "Doesn’t want to talk to anyone."

That was a week ago.

And now you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone, debating if you should try one more time. One more call. One more text.

Because this can’t possibly end this way.

He’s the love of your life.

Sarah’s name flashes on the screen, and you nearly drop the damn thing. “Sarah?”

“Hey,” You can hear it immediately—something’s wrong. “Are you home right now?”

Your stomach drops, “Yeah. Why? What’s going on?”

You can hear her take a shaky breath. “It’s Rafe. He’s, shit, it’s bad. Like, really bad.”

“What do you mean, bad? Sarah, what happened?”

“Dad’s trying to get his doctor on the line,” she says, her voice cracking. “Just in case he ODs.”

Your blood turns ice cold.

“He’s not picking up,” she continues, her words spilling out in a rush, like she’s trying to keep herself from breaking down. “Dad’s freaking out, and Rafe—he’s not making sense. He’s been on a bender for days, and now he’s just... he’s not there. I don’t know what to do. I thought maybe you could—”

“I’m coming,” you say, cutting her off, already standing, your body moving on autopilot.

You hang up before she can say anything else, grabbing your keys and rushing out the door. The drive to Tannyhill feels like it takes forever as your mind comes up with worst-case scenarios. You’ve seen Rafe struggle before—you’ve seen the dark places he’s been—but if Sarah’s calling you, if Ward’s getting a doctor involved….

You barely notice you’ve already parked the car, barely notice the front door swinging open as you run inside. The house is quiet, too quiet.

Sarah’s standing by the staircase, her eyes red and puffy. She doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the living room.

And that’s when you see him.

He’s slumped on the couch, his body limp, his eyes half-open but glazed over, like he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. His skin is pale, clammy, his hands twitching every few seconds, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looks like half a version of himself, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Ward’s pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if he’s busy, get him here now. He’s going to fucking die.”

“Rafe?” you call, stepping toward him. But he doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. He just stares ahead, eyes unfocused, like he’s not even aware you’re there.

Sarah’s standing behind you now, her voice low, “He won’t talk to us. He’s too far gone.”

You sink down beside him, your heart breaking at the sight of him like this. You reach out, hesitating for a second before gently placing your hand on his arm.

“Rafe,” your voice wavers. “Baby, it’s me. Please… please talk to me.”

But there’s nothing. Just silence.

His head lolls to the side, and his eyes meet yours—but it’s like looking at a ghost. The person you know, the person you love, isn’t there. Not right now. Not in this moment. And it kills you.

You keep whispering his name, pleading for him to wake up, to do something, but nothing works.

Ward's still on the phone, pacing like a caged animal, his voice a angry hum in the background. His eyes flick over to you every few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. Sarah’s standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes red and puffy from crying. You can see how scared she is, and you’re glad they got Weezie out of the house before she could see this.

After what feels like an eternity, the front door bursts open, and a doctor rushes in, followed by a paramedic with a bag of medical equipment. The doctor, some guy Ward must have on speed dial for situations like this, doesn’t waste any time. He kneels down beside Rafe, checking his pulse, his pupils, his breathing.

“This is bad,” the doctor mutters, shaking his head. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”

Lucky.

The paramedic moves in, setting up an oxygen mask, checking Rafe’s vitals, and it feels like the room is spinning. You try to stay calm, try to keep your hand on Rafe.

Ward finally hangs up the phone and stands there, watching as the doctor works. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asks, his voice strained because god forbid he shows more emotion.

The doctor glances up, his expression grim. “We need to take him in. I’m stabilizing him, but if this had gone on any longer, we’d be having a different conversation right now.”

You feel like you're going to be sick.

The paramedic starts prepping him for transport, and you stand there, helpless, watching as they move him onto a stretcher. His body looks so limp, so fragile. They’re talking about taking him to the hospital for observation, but all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears.

Ward steps forward, he watches his son being carried away. For the first time, you see it—real fear in his eyes.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” Ward says, his voice shaking. “I should’ve stopped it. This is my fault.”

You feel something snap inside of you. “I’m sure it fucking is.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there like a fucking idiot. Sarah is beside you now, her hand on your arm, gently pulling you back. “Let’s go,” she mutters,“We should go with him.”

You nod, swallowing as you follow her out of the house, leaving Ward standing there alone.

You climb into your car, Sarah beside you, and you both sit there for a moment in silence, watching as the ambulance pulls away, taking Rafe with it.

“I’m scared,” Sarah admits.

You close your eyes, and nod. “So am I.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe. She sits beside you, staring straight ahead and neither of you says another word.

The hospital is quiet when you arrive, eerily so. You both rush in, Sarah at your side, searching for the emergency room and after a bunch of paperwork and hurried conversations, you’re finally led to the waiting room. The doctor said they’d keep you updated, and you sit down on those stiff, uncomfortable chairs, the waiting begins.

Minutes drag by like hours. You try to text or scroll through your phone, anything to distract yourself, but you can’t focus. Every time you close your eyes, all you can see is Rafe. It’s like your brain is stuck on replay, and you can’t shut it off. Sarah’s over there biting her lip until it’s bleeding. Every now and then, she looks at you, like she’s about to say something, but then she doesn’t. And you don’t either. You can’t. What the hell would you even say? It feels like you’re both waiting for the worst possible news and just pretending you’re not.

After what feels like forever, the doctor finally comes through the doors, and Sarah and you jump up at the same time.

The doctor sighs, and he looks tired, like this isn’t the first time he’s delivered news like this today.

“We stabilized him,” he says, “He was really close to an overdose, but we got to him in time. He’s still unconscious, but his vitals are stable for now. We’ll keep him under observation for at least 24 hours.”

You finally take a deep breath, but it’s shaky, and it doesn’t feel real.

Sarah doesn’t even hesitate. The second the doctor says Rafe’s stable, she’s heading towards his room, like she needs to see him, to make sure for herself that he’s really still here. You don’t follow her, though. Your legs feel like they’re made of concrete, if you move, you’ll just collapse right there in the hallway.

As much as you want to be with him, to hold his hand or just… see him breathing, you know you can’t handle it. Not right now. You’ve spent the last two weeks trying to hold it together, and this is the first time you feel like you can finally breathe. Like you’re not suffocating with worry.

What you need more than anything is to get out of here. To just breathe, to close your eyes for more than a minute without the image of him passed out, strung out, burned into your brain. You need sleep. You need to feel something other than panic. He’s gonna be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe not healed, but for now, he’s alive.

The next day, you finally gather the courage to see him. You feel like you might throw up at any second. You stop outside his room, staring at the door for what feels like forever, trying to convince yourself to go inside.

He’s lying in bed, looking like he barely walked out of this one alive, but he’s awake. His eyes meet yours the second you step inside, and you feel like you’re going to start crying at any given second.

“Hey,” You manage to say, You don’t trust your voice to be strong enough to say something more.

Rafe blinks, like he’s surprised to see you. His voice is rough when he speaks, cracked from everything his body’s been through. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” He’s genuinely shocked. As if he thought you’d just walk away from all of this. From him. You swallow hard, taking a step closer to the bed. “Of course I came, Rafe.” Your voice is soft, barely holding together. “Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes flicker away from yours, settling on the IV in his arm, like he can’t stand to look at you.

“Sarah called me. She was scared. She didn’t know what to do.”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he still won’t meet your eyes. “She shouldn’t have,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, barely there.

“She shouldn’t have had to, Rafe. You scared the shit out of her—out of everyone. And I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you just—” You stop yourself, your throat closing up, and you bite your lip to keep from crying. “You almost died.”

You can see his chest rising and falling slowly, and for a split second, you think he’s not going to answer at all. That he’s just going to keep shutting you out.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.”

Your heart breaks all over again because you’ve already seen it. You’ve seen every part of him—the good, the bad, the absolute worst. And you’re still here. You’re still standing in this stupid hospital room because you love him. He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the blanket like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You step closer to the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe. Just a little bit.

“Don’t say that,” you reach for his hand. He flinches at first but doesn’t pull away when you lace your fingers with his. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this. But you can’t keep pushing me away. I need you to let me help you.”

He closes his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “Ward wanted us to meet mom and I just—”

You’ve never fully understood what his mom meant to him, or maybe what losing her did to him, now you do. That deep-rooted pain that always seems to haunt him when he talks about her is stronger than you’ve ever seen before.

“I didn’t want you to see this mess. I don’t want anyone to. I’m a fucking disaster. Every time I try to fix something, I just make it worse. I just—” He breaks off, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to swallow down the rest of his words, the ones he can’t say out loud.

“You spent years sober, that’s not easy,” You scoot closer, wrapping your arms around him carefully, not caring if he feels like a mess or if you’re being too much. You just want him to feel like he’s not alone. “Baby, I know you’re hurting,” you murmur into his shoulder, “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should,” He confesses, “I hurt you.”

“You have,” you admit, “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not gonna give up on you.”

He looks away, like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s waiting for you to just walk out of that hospital room and never look back. But you don’t.

You tighten your grip on his hand, "You don’t get to decide that for me. I’m still here because I love you. Even when you push me away.”

“You shouldn’t love me,” he whispers, like it’s some kind of fact, like it’s already been decided.

You shake your head, leaning in closer, your hand resting on his cheek. “But I do, Rafe. I always will. Even when you don’t think you deserve it, we’ll figure it out, together, okay? One step at a time.”

He nods, barely, but it's something. It’s a start.

245 notes · View notes

guess-my-next-obsession · 2 days

Text

the alchemy | iv. the real thing

pairing: no outbreak!dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

chapter rating: Explicit [18+ only, minors dni, dbf/secret relationship, age gap (joel is 34, reader is 24), oral (f!rec), unprotected piv, talks of birth control, sarah's mom sucks so bad, angst, insecurity, joel being both boyfriend and father of the year, not proofread—may contain some typos but i can’t be bothered to check]

summary: you begin to worry that joel's having second thoughts about your relationship, but he makes sure to clear all of that right up.

wc: 5.5k

the masterlist

You woke up to the feeling of stubble grazing your inner thigh and soft, warm lips soothing the gentle burn it left. Peeling your eyes open, you smiled down at the mess of bed head nestled between your open thighs and lifted a sleep-heavy hand down to comb some of it back. Joel’s head tilted up, nuzzling into your touch as he locked eyes with you.

“Mornin’,” he said with a smile, his voice deeper than usual.

“Morning to you too,” you said, chuckling. “What are you up to down there?”

“Havin’ my breakfast,” he replied, lowering his mouth to your bare seam to press a soft whisper of a kiss against your clit. Your laugh was stifled, a moan taking its place as he slid his hot tongue into you, taking his time in savoring your taste with a low hum.

He’d stayed over after fucking you against the wall last night, even after you told him you wouldn’t take it personally if he wanted to sleep in his own bed instead. But Joel insisted that there was no place he’d rather be than with you, and you were more than happy to welcome him upstairs to your room.

Now, in the golden morning light, you couldn’t be more grateful for his insistence.

Joel unraveled you with his mouth, then once again with his fingers before finally satiating his need to please—to make up for all the time you’d spent being unsatisfied by your exes. Now it was your turn to feed into your desire to give.

“Come here,” you beckoned, curling your finger at him to guide him up the expanse of your body for a kiss. Joel’s mouth took just as much care of you there, slowly coaxing your tongue to mingle with his as he ground his hips into your still throbbing cunt. You pulled away with a dazed sigh, your hand splayed across the side of his face. “Want you on your back.”

He grinned at that, turning to kiss your palm. “You gonna ride me, honey?”

“Til the wheels fall off,” you promised, earning the deep rumble of a laugh.

Joel fell into position with a smirk, folding his arms behind his head as he watched you swing one leg over his hips to mount him. “G’on then, ride my cock, baby.”

You shook your head, pressing your hands against his chest as you started to rock along the underside of his cock as it lay sandwiched between your cunt and his stomach. “I’m gonna make you beg this time.”

Joel’s brow arched, his smirk widening to a grin. “I ain’t too proud to beg for it, I hope you know that.”

“I’m counting on it,” you quipped, bringing your thumb to his nipple to circle it in time with your hips. Joel reacted to that as you’d hoped, although it seemed to shock him.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman play with my nipples before,” he chuckled, though that all ceased when you brought your tongue down to flick over it. Joel groaned, slipping his hands from beneath his head to grab at your ass, guiding your hips to move faster. “Fuck, I like it, though.”

You gave the stiff peak a nibble, earning a hiss and a buck of his hips.

“I really fuckin’ like that,” he added, his voice deep and dark and rough. “God, baby.”

“Mm, what is it?” you asked, toying with him. “You want something?”

“Want that pussy wrapped ‘round me,” he said, unabashed in his desire. “Want to see you bouncin’ on it.”

Your walls fluttered at the idea of claiming him like that. So much so that you may have intentionally rocked a bit further forward than before to notch his tip into your entrance. The two of you gasped in unison as it slipped inside, not enough to satiate, but enough to tease. After all, he still hadn’t used his manners.

“Please,” he added, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched you remain firmly in place, keeping just the tip of him inside you.

You grinned and brought your hips down to sheath him completely inside of you, sighs escaping from both your lips as he nestled in deep. But you weren’t done with him yet.

You kept yourself there, oh so slightly grinding into him. Joel’s hands tightened on your ass before planting a smack to it, biting his bottom lip. “Fuck, you gotta move, baby.”

“I’m not hearing any begging,” you said, smiling as the stimulation from his coarse hair against your clit began to send chills down the inside of your thighs.

“Please move,” he amended, his smile long gone and a wanton look of need replacing it. “Feels so fuckin’ good inside you like this, baby. Need more.”

You rewarded him by lifting your hips up and gliding back down on his length, starting a rhythmic bounce on top of him. Joel’s head pressed back into the pillows, his eyebrows lacing together as his bottom lip slipped free. His lips parted to let out a drawn out moan, the sound causing your hips to stutter and walls to twitch. “Fuck, I love your dick, Joel. So fucking good.”

“Yeah?” His hands roamed up to your breasts, cupping the weight of them before focusing in on the stiff peaks of your nipples. He swiped the rough pads of his thumbs over them before giving them a pinch that sent a spike of pleasure down your spine. “Your pussy feels like it was made for me, baby.”

Joel’s words made you keen, your hips rolling to graze your clit against the coarse hair at the base of him. His hands gripped your hips, keeping you there and urging you to grind against him deep and slow.

“Keep goin’,” he groaned, his brows furrowed and cheeks flushed. “Keep ridin’ it just like that, baby. Want you to come on it, just like that.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, shivering and lust-drunk. You swirled your hips until you were on the edge. Until you couldn’t take any more. Leaning forward, you clung to his sweat-soaked chest, tucking your face in the warm crook of his neck. “Want you to fuck me hard, Joel. Make me come.”

Joel growled at that, his greedy hands palming the flesh of your ass as he started to fuck up into you at a devastating and harsh pace. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ wet, baby. You feel that?”

A soft whine was your only response. You were too fucked-out and lost in your pleasure to manage even a single word.

“Wanna stay buried in this fuckin’ pussy ‘til I die,” he said, turning his face to nip at your earlobe. “That what you want, baby? Want me deep inside like this?”

“Yes, fuck!” Your entire body shook as his words sent you over the edge, your walls contracting around him like a vice grip. Joel groaned, loud and proud, and rolled you over onto your back with his dick still buried deep inside you.

“Look at you,” he growled, folding you like a pretzel and marveling at the sight of where you were joined, the slick glide of his cock in and out of your cunt. “Fuck me, this pussy’s gonna make me come, baby.”

“Inside,” you managed in a choked plea, your hands kneading at your breasts as every stroke prolonged your orgasm. “Fill me up.”

Joel’s hips stuttered at your command, his knuckles turning white as he pressed your thighs to your chest. “Alright, baby. Gonna fill this pussy up just like you want.”

He leaned forward, slinging the back of your knees over his bent arms as he nestled his face into your neck. Letting out a slew of moans and curses meant only for you to hear, he pressed deep inside of you and gave you exactly what you’d been begging for. “Fuck me. You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You laughed, smoothing your hands across the warm expanse of his back as you tried to catch your breath, your heartbeats pounding in unison. “I told you I like you alive, Miller.”

You felt him smile against your shoulder, the brush of his stubble tickling you as he pressed a kiss there. “This might be a little late, but…you are on the pill, right?”

Laughing again, you gave his ass a playful swat. “I might like you, Joel, but not enough to have any little Millers running around.”

Joel finally gained the strength to lift himself up, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face as he peered down at you. “You’d make pretty babies, though. If the time ever comes.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, or how to feel about the butterflies swarming in your stomach because of his words. So, you chose to ignore it. “You’re awfully handsome in the morning, you know that?”

Joel rolled his eyes and let out a chuckle before rolling onto his side with a long, satiated sigh. “You sure know how to make a man blush.”

Not wanting to part from Joel just quite yet, you decided to take him up on his invitation to come help him out with his renovations. You had no real intention of getting your hands dirty, obviously, but you’d gladly stand around and supervise. Especially when your reward was a sweaty, focused, competent Joel Miller.

You watched as he tore out his old vanity, his gray t-shirt soaked with a stripe of sweat down his spine, turning the material darker. His biceps flexed with every knock of his hammer, every forceful tug to rip the nailed-in wood from the wall. It was as delicious as it was absolutely torturous.

You were reaching your breaking point, ready to steal him away from his work just to break in his bed just as he’d done with yours this morning, but as always, an interruption ruined all of your sinful plans.

He’d gotten a call from his ex-wife, which was unusual judging by the confused scowl on his face as he stared down at his phone. When he picked it up, he was breathless from all of his hard work, though it did little to soften his biting tone. You couldn’t hear much of the conversation, but you heard enough to understand the fury washing over Joel’s face.

When he hung up and filled you in, you were just as furious.

Sarah’s shitty excuse for a mom wanted Joel to pick Sarah up because she was having a “friend” over later on, and didn’t want her daughter around to prevent any “interruptions”.

What a fucking loser.

She tried to make it better, telling him she’d be happy to have Sarah back in a few days once her guest had left, but Joel only told her to fuck off and forget it.

“That’s the last fuckin’ time I let Sarah stay with her,” he grumbled, swiping a hand towel across his face. “What kind of mother chooses a goddamn hookup over their daughter?”

“A shitty one,” you said, shaking your head. “A really fucking shitty one.”

“I gotta go pick her up,” he sighed. “She’s probably fuckin’ devastated. She was so excited to spend the summer with her, and that lasted all of…what? A week?”

You weren’t a violent person, not really. But god, you’d love to beat some sense into Joel’s ex-wife. Maybe then she’d realize what a cunt she was.

“I’ll text you later,” he said, stepping into your space to rest his hands on your face. He tipped your chin up, pressing a gentle but dizzying kiss to your lips. “We’ll figure things out, alright? Sarah bein’ back home will make things a bit more complicated, but—“

“But nothing,” you said, slipping your hands around his waist. “Sarah being back home is exactly where she needs to be. Don’t worry about us, we’ll make it work.”

He didn’t look so convinced.

“I’ll walk you home,” he promised, slipping his hand into yours as he led you out of his bathroom and down the stairs.

He was silent on the way over to your house. Thinking, stewing, trying to figure out the logistics of this thing between the two of you now that Sarah was going to be back with him full-time. You tried not to worry, but deep down, there was this nagging voice that told you that this was where he’d start to pull away and distance himself.

Joel was nothing if not a good father, and no matter how much he’d like to choose you, he’d never put this relationship above his daughter. And you wouldn’t like him if he did. One of the most endearing things about him was how good of a man he was, even if right now, it felt as though that same goodness would be the thing to lead him away from you.

In a bid to distract yourself, you called up Maria and asked her if she was free for lunch. You didn’t need to sit at home alone wondering what was going through Joel’s mind and how things might change going forward, and there was no one better at taking your mind off things than Maria.

“So…” Maria started, a smile playing at her lips as she folded her menu. “Wanna tell me why you ran off last night?”

You sighed, slouching your shoulders. The weight of your secret was beginning to become too much for you to bear, especially with what had happened earlier. You needed to tell someone about the shit going on in your head, and you trusted Maria like a sister. She wouldn’t spill your juicy secret even if her life depended on it. That’s just how she was.

“If I tell you, you have to promise it stays between us,” you said, just in case. Maria held up her pinky in a silent vow to keep her promise. “Alright, so…you know the guy I was telling you about?”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s Joel,” you said, biting your lip as you gauged her response. There was no judgment there, just a bit of shock.

“Tommy’s brother, Joel?” she gasped. “No fucking wonder you left! Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I was flirting with him—well, not actually flirting, but still!”

“You’re fine,” you assured, chuckling. “You didn’t know.”

“I promise I was just using him to get under Tommy’s skin,” she said, her tone earnest.

“No, I know,” you replied. “Joel told me when he showed up to my place last night.”

“Romantic,” she gushed, swooning. “Tell me all about it. Did you two…you know?”

“Yeah,” you said, biting your lip. “A few times.”

“Fuck yeah,” she said, grinning. “And how was it?”

“So good,” you groaned, hanging your head.

“Why do you look all sad, then? Did he bail or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” you said, sighing. “It’s just that his daughter’s coming back to stay with him after her mom basically kicked her out so that she could fuck in peace. Now I feel like he’s going to distance himself for her sake, and he should. I get why he’d be spooked, you know. But…”

“But it sucks that you’re the one on the receiving end,” she guessed, frowning.

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head. “But he hasn’t said anything, so I’m just going to hope for the best.”

“Yeah, don’t get yourself worked up over what could be nothing,” she said. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to fuck you and then bail, even over something like that.”

You didn’t want to think about that. It had been so long since you trusted your heart and body with another person. If Joel broke that trust, even for Sarah, you weren’t sure how long it would take you to recover.

“Enough about me, tell me about you and Tommy.”

It was Maria’s turn to look lovestruck, which was a rare sight to see. She was never the type to open up to guys, let alone get mushy over them. But here she was, straight up mush. “We spent the night together.”

You gasped, a grin spreading across your face. “You fucked Tommy?”

“And boy, was it good,” she gushed. “I’m not the type to fall quickly, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna marry that boy.”

“Ew, he said the same thing about you,” you teased, chuckling. “So does this mean you’re official?”

“I told him he needs to take me on a real date first,” she said, a confident smirk on her face. “So we’re going out this weekend.”

“I’ll start planning the wedding.”

A day had passed since Joel left to bring Sarah home. A day full of waiting, a day full of dreading. He’d texted you last night to let you know they were back home and that Sarah was pretty down about the whole thing, but he didn’t say much more than that. The status of your relationship seemed up in the air, at least to you, but you assumed that since he hadn’t said anything about calling things off, the two of you were fine.

At least for the time being.

Your dad had come back home in the afternoon, bringing Vic along to stay for the week. And in an attempt to ease the awkwardness that came along with meeting your dad’s new girlfriend, he decided to throw a little cookout on the deck out back that he finally completed. He invited both of the Miller boys over, and though you were a bit on edge about seeing Joel again in that kind of setting, it beat having to sit around the table and make conversation with a stranger.

You chose a simple outfit for the barbecue—a sundress and some flip-flops—and tried to keep your primping to a minimum, even when the insecure part of your mind told you to overcompensate in order to impress Joel. But you didn’t want to listen to that small voice, especially not when Joel has already seen you in your barest state.

When the Millers arrived at your house, they both brought guests—Joel brought Sarah, obviously, and Tommy brought Maria. You felt a bit of the tension weighing on you lift at the sight of your best friend and the sunshine of a girl that was Sarah Miller. But even they couldn’t help the way your heart seemed to still at the sight of Joel.

He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. A completely normal and bland outfit, and yet he managed to make it look criminally extraordinary. But maybe that was just the energy radiating off of him.

He greeted you at the door with a small smile when he and Sarah arrived, one that looked far too sheepish and polite for your taste. Especially now that you’d experienced the unabashed version.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft. “Brought some corn on the cob.”

“Thanks,” you said, giving him a timid look. “My, uh, my dad’s in the backyard.”

He pursed his lips, staring into your eyes for a few more seconds before giving you a small nod. “I’ll go say hi, then.”

“Yeah,” you managed, your throat constricting under the effort it took to not voice your insecurities. Joel grazed his hand along your arm as he stepped past you to head into the house, the simple touch almost enough to burn you alive.

“Hey,” Sarah said, drawing your eyes down to where she stood. She sounded sadder than you were used to, her bubbly joy dulled to something more akin to her father’s personality. It made your heart break. It made your worries over your relationship with her father seem insignificant.

“Hey, Sarah,” you said, giving her a genuine smile. She didn’t deserve anything less than that. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve missed you.”

She shrugged, toying with the ribbon that was sewn onto her summer dress. “Wasn’t gone that long.”

God, you hated the fact that her mother had hurt her this badly.

“Still,” you said, guiding her into the house. “It’s been boring here without you.”

She remained quiet, lost in thought. And that wouldn’t do.

“Do you want to help me decorate the cake I made?” You asked, leading her into the kitchen where Tommy and Maria stood chatting with Joel. You ignored his presence entirely, as you normally would’ve before you entered into this situationship with him.

“What kind of cake?” she asked, seeming to perk up a bit.

“Carrot, my dad’s favorite,” you said, helping her into one of the stools that sat at the kitchen island.

“My dad likes carrot cake, too,” she said, turning to her father. “Don’t you, dad?”

“I do,” Joel said, his voice a soothing rasp.

“Guess it’s a dad thing,” you said, giving him a quick glance. Joel was already looking at you, watching as you set the chilled carrot cake onto the counter.

There seemed to be a million unspoken things lingering in that gaze of his, things you desperately wanted him to tell you. Even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

You quickly turned your attention back to Sarah. “I, uh, have chocolate and buttercream frosting. What do you think? Should we do half and half?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, leaning onto the counter. “Do you have sprinkles?”

“I do!” You turned around to rummage through the cabinet for the sprinkles that you’d bought last Christmas, praying that they weren’t out of date. “Looks like we’ve got a few colors, but I’ll let you choose all that while I go wash my hands.”

“Okay,” she said, already looking a bit more like her normal self.

You headed upstairs to your bathroom, mostly just to take a breather from being in such close proximity to Joel, but stopped halfway up the stairs as you heard the sound of a pair of heavy boots following you. You turned, finding Joel standing at the bottom of the staircase, his eyes trained on you. He nudged his chin forward, a silent request for you to continue on, and you quickly obeyed.

Once you were in the privacy of the second story, he slipped into the guest room and waved for you to join him.

“What’s up?” you asked once he’d closed the door. Joel turned to you, shaking his head before closing the distance between the two of you in two large steps. His hands settled on your face, guiding you to his lips for a deep, bruising kiss.

“Sorry,” he panted as he pulled back enough to rest his forehead against yours. “I just missed you.”

You let out a sigh of relief. All that worrying faded into thin air as he pressed his lips against yours again, softer this time. “I was worried you’d…I don’t know.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I told you I was committed, and I meant it.”

“I’m not used to guys meaning what they tell me during sex,” you said. It was a blunt thing to say, but it was the truth. You might’ve hoped Joel had meant the things he said, but you certainly weren’t counting on them being true. You’d experienced too many let-downs to ever buy into something like that so easily.

“Well, I did,” he said, kissing you to seal his promise. “But we’re gonna have to work harder to keep this between us now that Sarah’s around. Unless you want to tell her.”

You furrowed your brows and pulled back to look at him, to see if he was joking, but he looked dead serious. “You want to tell her?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’d prefer not to lie to her, but I don’t wanna rush you into doin’ somethin’ you’re not ready to do.”

“What if she lets it slip around my dad?” She was a child, after all, and they had a tendency to speak without thinking.

“Honestly?” He let out a soft chuckle. “I’m startin’ not to give a shit about that, either. But I know I’m not the one who’s gonna have to deal with the aftermath of all that. Not really, anyway.”

You lowered your eyes to his chest as you thought about what he’d said, about the choice he was laying at your feet. Telling Sarah was one thing, but telling your dad? You weren’t sure you were ready for that.

“Listen t’me, honey,” Joel said, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “This thing between you and I is the real thing, alright? It’s the real thing when it’s just between us, and it’s the real thing if we choose to let everybody know. My feelings for you aren’t gonna change, and I want you to know that it’s your choice whether we tell them or not. Alright?”

You took a deep breath and gave him a soft smile, one that was born of feeling nothing but safe and respected by the man you’d chosen. It was new and foreign and would take some getting used to, but god, it felt good to be seen and cared for the way Joel saw and cared for you.

“Alright,” you whispered, too emotional to say anything else.

Joel stroked his thumb over your cheek and smiled, pecking your lips softly once more. “We need to get back down there before people start wonderin’ where we went.”

“I’ll be down in a second,” you said, urging him on. “Go make sure Sarah hasn’t devoured all the frosting.”

Joel chuckled as he turned to head downstairs, shooting you a quick smile over his shoulder. “No promises on that front.”

“There you are,” Maria said, grinning as she slid the sliding glass patio door shut behind her, finding you in the kitchen scrubbing away at the sink full of dirty dishes. “What are you doing hiding away in here?”

“Not hiding,” you replied with a smile. “Just…we’ll, yeah. I guess I am hiding.”

“From Joel?” she teased.

“From my dad and his girlfriend,” you corrected. “It’s awkward, and I’m awkward. Better to just hide out and wait for them to go to bed.”

“She seems nice enough.”

“Yeah, she is,” you agreed. “But I’m not good with change, I guess. And I can tell she’s looking to bond with me, and I’m not ready for all of that, you know?”

“I get that,” she said, coming to join you at the sink. A moment of peaceful silence fell over the two of you as you washed the dishes and she dried them. “Joel’s daughter’s cute.”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling.

“Does she know about you and him?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head as you turned the tap off and dried your hands. “Why?”

“She was just talking about you,” she said, shrugging. “She told Tommy and I that she likes you, and that she wishes you were her mom instead.”

Your eyes went wide, your heart skipping a beat. “She said that?”

“Mmhm,” Maria hummed. “Tommy sort of filled me in on the situation, and I don’t blame her for wanting you as a mom instead. Her mom sounds like a cunt.”

“Yeah, she’s…horrible.”

“I think Joel might’ve overheard it,” she said, biting her lip. “I can’t read the guy for shit, though, so I have no idea what he thought about it.”

Neither did you, if you were being honest. He definitely wouldn’t be upset by it, but he was probably more saddened than anything. Sarah shouldn't have to wish for a mother who made her happy, she should just have it.

“I, uh, pulled him aside and let him know I knew,” she continued. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” you said, smiling at the thought of at least one person knowing that the two of you were together. It made it feel more real, somehow. “What did he say?”

“He just smiled and nodded,” she said. “It’s cute how just the sound of your name makes him smile.”

It was cute, you thought. Cute enough to make your heart clench.

“He told me that he was alright with everyone knowing,” you confessed, hugging yourself. “But I’m not sure if I’m ready to let everyone in on it just yet.”

“You can take it one step at a time,” she said. “You already told me, so that’s one step. Tommy and Sarah could be another.”

“Yeah,” you said, nibbling on your bottom lip. “We’ll get around to it.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “You just like the thrill of a secret romance, you sicko.”

You laughed, too, because a part of you did. It wouldn’t last forever, but you liked the fact that the two of you could just be together for a while without the input of everyone else. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

“Maybe you do, what?” Joel’s voice made you jump as he waltzed in from outside, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he looked at you.

“Do y’all need me to stick around as a chaperone?” she said, giving you a playful smile.

“No, fuck off,” you said with a laugh, swatting the dishcloth in your hand at her. She gave you a wink before making her way back onto the deck, leaving you and Joel alone.

“I like her,” he said, coming to sit at one of the stools at the island. “Well, as much as I like anybody that isn’t you or Sarah.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” you said, coming to stand across from him. “She, uh, told me about something Sarah said.”

He nodded, his smile fading into something more somber.

“Broke my heart to hear her say that,” he said, sighing. “Not because of you, just…I don’t know. I just don’t get how her mother can treat her like an afterthought. I hate that she makes her feel like this, like she doesn’t have a mom.”

“I know it’s not the same, and I’d never try to make it seem that way, but I’m here, you know?” you said, shrugging your shoulders and offering him a sympathetic smile. “I’d love her the way she deserves, the way every little girl deserves, if she wanted. If…if you wanted.”

He softened at that, his shoulders relaxing as he tilted his head at you. “Everytime I see y’all together, she’s smilin’. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. How much it’s always meant.”

You long to walk over to him and run your hands through his hair, to kiss him and show him how grateful you are to get to see this side of him, to let him know that he’s a good man—far better than any you’d ever met before—but you could see your father right outside, serving as a reminder of why you had to stay put. Even when it hurt to have to do so.

“So thank you,” Joel added, suddenly turning bashful. “Thank you for bein’ good to her.”

“I want to kiss you so badly right now,” you said, frowning and smiling at the same time.

He smiled, a dimpled, boyish thing that had you ready to climb across this island just to feel that smile against your lips. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“No, but my dad might,” you said, chuckling.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at your father, watching him as he sat at the patio table with Vic, Tommy, and Maria. Each of them able to hold each other, to claim each other as theirs. “It doesn’t feel fair.”

You frowned, nodding. “No, it doesn’t.”

With a sigh, he stood up and stretched, feigning exhaustion. “I should take Sarah home. She’s out there sleepin’ in her chair.”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft.

“You think your dad would be opposed to you babysittin’ her while I go sneak off with this beautiful woman I’ve been seein’?”

You reared back, your brows drawing together. “Excuse me?”

Joel only laughed. “Least that’s the story I plan on givin’ him to buy you and me a couple hours together.”

Your confusion was replaced with a mischievous grin. “Yeah, I think he’d buy that. Might even be able to spend the night at your place, especially if you’re planning on spending the whole night with this beautiful woman of yours.”

“Oh, I plan on it, alright,” he husked, his drawl doing things to you it had no right to do. “I’ll grab Sarah and let him know, you go on upstairs and pack a bag.”

Biting your lip, you turned to obey his command, only to be stopped by him again.

“Don’t worry ‘bout packin’ any pajamas,” he said, eyeing your frame from head to toe. “We won’t be gettin’ much sleep tonight.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal smut #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller story #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #tlou joel #joel miller series #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #the alchemy

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lovecla · 3 days

Text

TAKE YOUR PAIN AWAY | quinn hughes.

00.1. the first time you saw quinn hughes.

➴ warnings: mentions of shitty family.

➴ word count: 1.08k

➴ author’s note: this has been sitting on my drafts for days because i wasn’t brave enough to post it. but this story is very important to me and i promised myself i’d stop doubting what i write and just go for it. i hope with all my heart u guys like this ♡

౨��

2013, SEPTEMBER.

THE first time you saw Quinn Hughes you were eleven years old.

Your family had just bought the house next to his, a beautiful four bedroom house with lots of space and a beautiful backyard— the perfect house for a family of four.

It was a week after you all settled in, your Dad as a Sports Medicine Physician working for a Hockey Canadian team, the Toronto Maple Leafs— the whole reason why you moved in the first place— your Mom as a Editor-in-Chief for the Fashion magazine, one of Canada's leading fashion publications, featuring content related to fashion, beauty, culture, and modeling and your brother, Peter, in High School as a freshman.

You were sitting on your porch, while you waited for Peter to be back so you could convince him to play football with you. He always said no, but you didn't give up. A few minutes later, Peter got out of your neighbor’s house, alongside another boy, who was slightly shorter than Peter.

You watched as they both walked towards your house, talking about something you couldn’t hear. You remember being so enamored with the sight of the boy that you couldn’t stop fidgeting your hands.

They stopped right in front of you, and while Peter was ready to ignore you and move on with his day— he’d been doing that more and more since he started High School— the other boy stopped and looked right at you.

“You didn’t tell me you have a sister.” The boy said, looking at your brother for a second before turning back at you.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter shrugged. “That’s Madison. She’s ten.”

“I’m eleven,” you corrected, voice soft and quiet.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, grabbing his keys so he could open the front door.

“Can you play with me now?” You asked, getting up from your seat, finally noticing how tall this other boy was. “I have the ball with me already.” You pointed at the ball that sat on the same couch you were also sitting not a minute ago.

“No, Madison. I’m with Quinn now.” Peter said, pointing at the boy beside him, who was now frowning at your brother.

Quinn. That’s a funny name, you remember thinking.

“We can play with her, I don’t mind—” the boy, Quinn, said, already reaching for the ball.

“Nah, bro. She’s annoying as hell. Once you pick that ball up, you won’t be able to let it go for like, three hours.” Peter replied, already opening the door.

You felt yourself tearing up and even though you hated crying in front of your brother, you couldn’t help it. Growing up, he was your best friend. Your hero even, when your parents decided that arguing during dinner, in front of their children, was a nice thing to do and he would make funny faces at you across the table just so you could laugh. When he pretended to yell at the monster under your bed or when he let you paint his nails with your pink nail polish.

But somewhere between turning fifteen and entering High School, he changed. And you hated every inch of this new Peter Carter.

He entered the house, shouting something, probably announcing to your mom that he was home. And you stood there, looking at your hands.

“Next time, I’ll play with you, okay?” Quinn, who was still standing in front of you, hesitated, looking as devastated as ever.

You felt embarrassed and you got out of there as fast as you could, running back inside and nestling yourself between your covers and plushies.

౨ৎ

YOU didn’t think Quinn had meant what he had said the other day, so you were surprised to see that he showed up the next morning, when both of your parents were at work and Peter was asleep in his bedroom upstairs.

“Hey,” he greeted you, stepping on your backyard patio and looking around. “Nice place you got here. We can play for a long time without risking throwing the ball in Mrs. Wright window.”

You giggled, remembering Mrs. Wright's funny wig.

“I’m Quinn Hughes.” He introduced himself after a while.

“I know that,” you whispered, watching as he laughed. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen, but I turn fourteen on October 14th,” he said. “You’re eleven, right?”

“Yes. My birthday was in May. I got this ball,” you raised the ball you were holding so he could see it better. It had your name on it. “And I also got new clothes for my plushies.”

“That sounds nice,” he nodded. “I’ll probably get a new stick on my birthday.”

“Why would you need a stick?” You asked, not sure what he could do with a stick. A tree’s stick. At least that’s what you thought a stick was.

Maybe he wants to put it on his fireplace.

“I play Hockey,” he answered and you still didn’t understand. The only thing you knew about Hockey was that it was the reason you and your family moved to Toronto. So it probably wasn’t a good thing. “And I need a new one.”

“Well, if it makes you happy, then I guess it’s fine,” you shrugged, poking your ball. “But that will probably be boring. You should ask for something cooler.”

He laughed again, sitting on the grass beside you. “I’ll think about that. Thank you for your advice.”

You puffed your chest a little, happy to feel useful for once.

That morning, you and Quinn didn’t end up playing; instead, you talked for hours, with you both asking each other questions about literally everything. From what’s your favorite color to what you wanna be when you grow up.

You could feel your heart racing in your chest every time you stared into his blue eyes that sometimes morphed into a light green shade, but you didn’t understand why. Quinn was being nice, he was treating you just like Peter did before you moved to Toronto and it felt so, so nice.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” You asked, right before he left for lunch at his house.

“I think so.” He smiled, quickly patting you on the head. He gave you a short wave before moving back to his home.

And you just stood there, counting the seconds so that maybe tomorrow would come faster, and you’d finally have a friend again.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x fem!reader #quinn hughes x model!fmc #nhl hockey #nhl players #nhl x reader #quinn hughes smut

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chaosduckies · 3 days

Note

Congratulations on 100 Followers!!! Big achievement!!!!

Gonna take you up on your open commissions so I’d love to see your take on a tiny being forced to ask a giant for help.

Your choice of characters but I’m a sucker for hurt comfort so go wild ❤️

Congrats again!!!

Thank you! :D

I'm sorry that this took so long to get out! I was having a minor writing slump but I'm back at it! I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you do to! (classic borrower asking a human for help)

Word Count: 4.2k

CW: Minor blood

Snow Fall

———Forest———

Everything was going great. I set off on my own, leaving my parents behind and starting my new life. Of course I was scared. Who wouldn’t be when you were two inches tall and leaving everyone you know and love? It was terrifying, but I had to. Borrower children, even though some were some-what good at borrowing from humans, were supposed to leave their parents as soon as they turned fourteen since it was a liability for their parents. I was just lucky and extended my stay for 3 more years. What could I say? I loved my parents just as much as they loved me, and no matter how many times my mom pleaded for me to stay, I knew I wasn’t that good at borrowing. I would eventually get us all in trouble. Which was why I decided to find a new home when I turned seventeen. It didn’t sit right with me that I was still leeching off my parents.

Humans were scary. The horror stories, the pets, the kids. Almost everything about them scared me half to death. Just thinking about getting caught in one of those huge hands has me shuddering. I couldn’t think about myself getting caught, or what would happen to me, and to be honest, leaving my parents was the worst decision of my life.

I wasn’t a good borrower to say in the least. I could barely hurdle over the counters without somehow hurting myself or becoming so sore the next day that I could barely move, I wasn’t the best at hiding. I had no idea how my parents did this at such a young age, but I wasn’t like them at all. How did they end up with such a failure like me? I laughed at the thought.

My new home was nice. The human here had a schedule that I could work around. They left for work every morning, giving me plenty of time to get a little bit of food that they leave out sometimes, get some other things, and head back. They weren’t very observant of anything in particular, perfect for grabbing a few extra paperclips since my hook usually breaks from my own misuse. This house was perfect… or so I thought.

After a while, the person stopped laying out food everywhere, they had started packing up their things in huge boxes, people in strange uniforms came by and dragged out anything heavy. I had no idea what was going on, but it wasn’t good. I stayed hidden in my home in the walls, scared of what was happening. I was too scared to go out at night and get my daily necessities, like food and water. Humans were terrifying. If I was seen by even one of them, who knows what might happen? I didn’t care if I was so hungry that my stomach was digesting itself, there was no way I was going to get caught and placed in some weird science lab. Testing me everyday, killing me slowly. I shuddered at the thought, wrapping myself in the thin cloth I managed to snag before any of this moving was happening.

Lately the seasons have been changing, and the human that I thought was still living here hasn’t bothered to turn on the heater. This only made things a million times worse for me. I was already hungry, practically starving from not having eaten anything for the past three days, and now it was freezing cold. There was nothing I could do about it though. I was terrified. Scared. Too paranoid about what would happen if I stepped outside the comforts of my dingy home in the walls. No matter how much I wanted to go back with my parents, I couldn’t. More because I barely even remember the way back home, but also because it was already dangerous enough getting to this new home. I had no choice but to stay here in hopes that I could get over this fear of being seen and that the human had left some kind of food out. But there was no such luck. The house was empty. Furniture moved, heater off, no sign of food in the cabinets. Just nothing. My hope diminished as I sluggishly walked back home in defeat. There was no way I was going to survive.

The human that I found so easy to maneuver around without being seen, that left food out, was now gone. Who knew when another one would just move back in? Most days I would walk around out in the open because there was nothing to do. I mean, without a human there was no chance of me surviving. I was too afraid to go outside because I knew there were animals that wouldn’t hesitate to mistake me for food. So staying inside was really my only option. Plus, it was just the slightest bit warmer here than outside.

Sometimes I’d go sit on the windowsill, stay there for hours watching these tiny white balls fall from the sky and cover the ground. People passed by wearing thick coats that protected them from the harsh cold, and I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I looked back at the thin piece of cloth wrapped around me, barely giving any warmth while humans were able to be so warm, get food without having to worry about anyone seeing them (or in my case get food at all), heck, they weren’t even scared of anything.

I sat alone, in a quiet house just waiting for anything to happen. I didn’t care if it was good or bad. I didn’t know how I was surviving for so long, nor how I was still moving despite searching the top shelves and countertops desperately for something. But of course it was always the same way it was. Empty. Nothing was changing, but in a bad way.

My legs were sore from the amount of climbing I’ve done the past few days, my body was getting even weaker than it already was. I guess I really was going to starve to death, huh? All of that talking with my parents about making sure I would have enough to last me and it’s just wasted. How was I supposed to know that only a week after I found a new livable home that the human I was just barely getting used to was going to move out? Life wasn’t fair.

Today was yet another sad, depressing day. I dragged myself along the floor, trying to at least be active while I was struggling to survive. Would another human be coming here soon? As much as they scared me and borrowers alike, most relied on them to help us survive. When they’re clumsy and forget easily, it’s easy to “borrow” a few things here and there. They leave food out or there’s an easy way to get into a cabinet, we can take a few things they wouldn’t notice. It was almost impossible to live without relying on a human in some way. Ironic how the thing I fear the most was the thing that was keeping me alive.

I hoisted myself up onto the windowsill, breathing heavily as soon as I was safely up. I groaned in pain, wrapping up my hook and sitting by the window, once again staring at the white scenery. Other houses just across that had a slight smoke coming from the top of their house. Must be warm… I rubbed my arms, watching as a few people walked by, possibly on their way to work. I shivered, regretting not taking my “blanket.”

Life wasn’t fair. I knew that much, but I forced myself to stay alive for whatever reason. My figure was getting slimmer from the lack of food, but I somehow kept moving. It was cold, but I gathered up any cloth I could find and wrapped myself up at night. My hook looked like it could break at any point in time, but it was hanging on just like me. If my hook did break, then there was basically no way for me to get anywhere but home and on the floor. I hoped that something would happen one day, but nothing ever did.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something gray scurry along the floor. I stared for a couple long seconds before shrugging it off and continuing to look out the window. It was probably just my imagination. Great, now I’m hallucinating. I sighed, watching as cars carefully passed by.

I don’t know how long I stayed on top of the windowsill, but eventually there was a change of scenery. At first I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but there it was. A car parked right in front of the house, headlights turning off and revealing a human, zipping up their jacket and looking down at something and back at the front of the house. I was too caught up in my fascination to realize that I was out in the open. The human slowly started making their way up to the front door, holding something that looked silver in their hands.

I scrambled for my hook, climbing down as fast as I could, which was very painful. At some point I lost my grip and fell, but to my luck it was only a couple feet. I hurried to my feet, pulling my hook from the ledge it was dangling from and ran as fast as I could to reach the extremely tiny hole I squeezed myself through. I took a few seconds to catch my breath before the front door opened. My eyes were wide, my heart pounding fast. Would my luck finally be turning around?

The human was taller than the last and looked much younger. I couldn’t really get a good look at their face, but I could make out his dirty-blonde hair. I could hear my own heartbeat. Is everything going to go back to normal? Would I be able to survive on my own again?

The human moved around the place, shivering and pressing some buttons on something. Soon enough, the house was slowly but surely being warmed up. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. It might not be much… but at least it was something. Better than the frigid cold that had been filling the house for who knows how long.

They moved around the house, checking everything out and smiling, their eyes a nice shade of light-brown. They looked… so nice. For a split second my mind wondered what would happen if he would ever see me. Would he keep me as a pet like I’m pretty sure most humans would? Or… nothing? No, why would I even be thinking about that? He would obviously want to hurt me even more than I already was.

My stomach rumbled quietly, I winced, but confused to watch as they came from outside and back in, carrying a few boxes, bags and a small case that had wheels on it. Was I finally… saved? If this human was moving back in then I could actually have a chance to survive? I silently cheered to myself. How long has it been? Almost a week maybe? How did I even manage to stay alive? Didn’t matter anymore I guess.

I continued to watch the human, putting up things in the boxes, setting up a few mini tables and placing picture frames of him and, who I was guessing, his parents. Of course occasionally taking breaks for a snack or two, leaving a plastic container filled with what looked like fresh fruit and vegetables. After most of the boxes were unpacked, a few still in their bedroom, he went back outside, most likely to fetch something else from his car. He usually took a while out there… so maybe it would be enough time to go and quickly grab something to eat? No, that was too risky. What if I was wrong and he came back early? I doubt I’d have enough time to find a hiding spot while out in the open since he didn’t exactly have any furniture or anything.

I slumped, making my way back to my bland home in the walls. I had always tried to decorate… but since there hadn’t been anyone living here for me to “borrow” a few things from, I haven’t been able to decorate. Only the small bed I made by gathering up a bunch of cloth that the human before had forgotten about. It wasn’t extremely comfy, but better than anything I could’ve asked for. Otherwise, boring room. But it’s not like I need to decorate it anyways. Surviving was my main focus right now, and now that there was someone actually living here now… maybe I’d have a chance to get back into things.

The wait was long, hearing the human talk to someone on what I think they call a phone, hang up, set up their house again and spend most of their time gathering up all of the blankets and pillows that he had brought with him and gathering them all up in what I think was going to be his room. As comfy as it looked, I knew I couldn’t just take a couple of minutes to get somewhat comfortable. Lately every night has been spent cold, hungry, filled with false hope. If I could just take a couple minutes to have some kind of sense of safety and security, that would be great. But I haven’t been able to, and I doubt that I’d be able to even now. I never realized just how hard it is to survive. Imagine what my parents went through while taking care of me…

I hugged my blanket close, my eyelids threatening to close at any second. I heard the sound of the door open once again, and the loud sounds of him dragging something across the floor. It was all fine for me though. My eyes shut close, I laid down, and soon enough my mind drifted off.

——————

When my eyes opened, there was a quiet noise of people talking outside. My heart had skipped a beat, thinking that there were more humans living here. That would make it impossible for someone like me to get past without being noticed, but as I groggily stepped outside, rubbing my eyes to wipe away the sleep, I realized that it was only the tv that wasn’t there a couple hours ago.

I looked around the dark room, seeing that there was now a singular couch in what was the living room, a tv, a table that held two more frames. How long had I been sleeping? Or better yet, just how exhausted was I? Obviously the sun had already set, so I guess it didn’t really matter. I headed back to my room, grabbed my hook, and took off, every now and then finding a hiding spot just in case the human was somewhere I couldn’t see him.

My head turned towards a dark shadow scamper right across from me, but I didn’t pay any mind. Probably just my imagination, right? Right now I was just trying to make sure that the human was asleep right now just before I go and see if he had any food out… or at least something edible in the cabinets.

I checked the living room first, hiding by one of the legs under the couch, peaking my head out just enough to see him having trouble keeping his eyes open. Good enough for me. I ran quietly back to the kitchen, throwing my hook as far up as I could before testing if it was safely secure. I started my trek up, my arms and legs begging in me to go back down. Despite my arms threatening to tear off from the lack of strength. I really wasn’t good at borrowing.

As soon as I reached the top of the counter, I took a few seconds to catch my breath. Once I get used to the human’s schedule I may finally be able to get back into things. No going hungry for that long, not worrying if I’ll make it to the end of the night. as soon as he turns on the heater things would be even better… I wouldn’t be shivering at night and struggle to find something that would act as a blanket. Yet another reason to be jewels of humans. They had everything borrowers didn’t. It wasn’t at all fair, but we all knew what would happen if a human found or saw us. The thought was pure torture to even think about. Literally.

On the counter, there really wasn’t anything for me to see except for the half-eaten sandwich just lying on the counter. I silently walked over, not really wanting to eat part of the sandwich that they had already bitten into but I had to unless I wanted him to already be suspicious when it hasn’t even been a full day.

I started cutting off pieces, making them fit inside my bag and taking a few more unnoticeable pieces for tomorrow, learning from past mistakes. As I was cutting, I realized that there was something off. The tv was still on in the other room, I figured that the human still hadn’t left the couch either, fighting off sleep. So why did it feel so off? I treaded carefully, watching every tiny movement that caught my eye. For a moment it was so quiet that I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest, and then too quiet.

My eyes searched around, taking my final piece into my hands since no more would fit in my bag. I might as well grab as much as I could. Better than having nothing. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful that I wasn’t dead, that I’d at least have some kind of way to survive. Out of curiosity, I took a small bite out of the sandwich, only really getting the bread part but it tasted so good. To be honest, a sandwich was a definite score for borrowers, now when you’ve been starving for days on end, it tastes amazing.

Two glasses hit each other behind me, I turned my head seeing them spin before returning to their still pose. My eyes widened, hurrying to my hook that was still hanging off the edge of the counter. I looked back, the light making it easier to see a rat chase me down, easily twice my size. I let out a yelp as I ran through several spice glasses in hopes of losing it, only to hear them all fall onto the counter with a loud thud! That was bad for two reasons, one because not only was it making a mess and trails that I’ve been here, and two, because I knew the human would want to come and investigate what was happening. Of course being the person that I am, I would never be able to run faster than this surprisingly malicious rat.

I struggled to keep up my balance, eventually tripping on thin air, dropping the small piece of sandwich a few feet away from me. I quickly rolled over, my chest heaving up and down as I faced the rat not even given a second before they scratched at my shirt. I winced, holding my stomach and seeing my hand covered in some blood. My breathing was getting more heavy as I saw a silhouette by the kitchen entrance. The lights turned on, blinding the rat for just a second as I quickly stood up and kept running towards my hook, holding my stomach. I knew what was happening, and there was no way I would be found the second a new human moves in, right? I blinked back the tears building up in my eyes, tripping once again. My vision was blurry from the tears, and judging by the small squeaks from the rat I thought was a good couple feet away, that meant that the human was here.

Forcing myself to sit up, I looked at the bowl that kept moving. The rat screeching to be released from their prison. The human placed some heavy books on top, sighing to himself as he muttered something under his breath I couldn’t catch, but I didn’t really care. I scrambled back onto my feet, trying to run yet again and slammed into something soft and squishy. I winced as I fell and soon my entire world was moving again, the soft surface now everywhere.

It settled in my mind slowly, realizing that I was in human hands. It hurt to breathe from my new wound, but I couldn’t help it. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to muffle the sounds of my quiet cries.

“Oh! U-um, I didn’t mean to…” Their voice sounded quiet and worried. I just continued crying, not even caring what would happen to me. Who was I kidding? I could never have survived on my own! I should’ve known when that first human moved out. Sure it was okay at first, but obviously them moving was a sign that I wasn’t meant to be on my own. I should’ve listened to my parents and stayed with them. This would’ve never happened, I would be alive and healthy instead of on the brink of death and in Death’s hands himself. Literally. Who knows what this human would do to me? It was scary to think about.

“P-Please don’t h-hurt me.” I mumbled most likely too quiet for his ears to hear, leaning against what I think was his thumb. He flinched slightly, but why did it feel so… comfortable?

“Aw little guy,” He smiled softly, “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” I leaned into the warmth from his hands, hugging what was his thumb closely, still crying to myself. What else was I supposed to do? Of course I was scared but… I also just wanted someone to hold me. Right now I didn’t care that it was a human and I’d face my consequences later, I just wanted to be promised that I wouldn’t have to try so hard anymore. That I could just live without thinking about what I could manage to get for dinner.

“You were just… hungry?” He asked as I picked my head up, seeing him looking straight at the piece I had dropped on the counter. I shakily nodded my head, hoping he would see. For now, I would just hide my fear. Right now this human was giving me everything I’ve wanted this past week. Comfort, warmth. Heck, I’m even crying in front of him. How embarrassing was that and he still hasn’t said or asked me anything.

“Hm, here little guy.” He tried tilting me back onto the counter, but I grabbed onto his sleeve and hung on tighter. I didn’t want to be let go already. I know humans are bad and I’d face the consequences eventually, but right now I’d like to think that not all of them were as horrifying as the stories make them out to be.

He softly laughed, cupping both hands around me again. I sniffled, “C-could you… h-help me? P-please.” I tried wiping away my tears, but they just kept coming. My eyes felt red and puffy, my legs felt like jello, heart racing. I was a mixture of emotions. Terrified, filled with hope, and most of all grateful that this human hadn’t decided to hurt me yet.

The human studied me, worried. I stood still for a moment, hoping I would get my answer. It seemed ridiculous to be asking a human this. One that probably had no idea that they had saved me in the first place. My heart thumped in my chest, waiting in the eerie silence, awaiting my answer. My stomach still burnt from the deep gash, but I've had to go through worse. There was still some blood that was getting on the humans’ shirt sleeve, but that was the least of my worries.

I felt something rub against my back, making me flinch, but lean into the gentle touch. Some part of me knew that this was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. I was sitting in a humans’ hand, talking to one, being seen by one. And for some reason, it all felt right. Everything felt right. That this was meant to happen. That it was alright for me to be vulnerable to this human.

They started moving their hand as I continued to cry, pressing my face into the fabric of his shirt. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a makeshift hug. I could hear his heartbeat in the background beating rhythmically, the slight rise and fall of his chest with every slow breath he took. I sniffled, shocked from the gesture but otherwise grateful. I wasn’t going to die. I was alive. I felt safe. There was no more suffering, no more false hope, no more anything. I would be fine. I smiled to myself, trying to wipe away the tears trailing down my face.

I guess sometimes it’s okay to ask for help.

——————

I hope you enjoyed! I don't know how to feel about this myself, but I think it's alright! Again, I had a lot of fun writing and thank you for the prompt!

Slowly getting out of my writing slump, hopefully get these prompts done plus something reallyyyy exciting (well at least it is to me)

Thank you for reading! :D

Taglist: @da3dm

#g/t #g/t writing #g/t community #g/t comfort #g/t fluff #giant/tiny #ahh I was torn between two ideas for this #so I just did the classic borrower asking human for help #i know it's not my best writing but i think it still came out decent #I hope you enjoyed!#idk if you would like a second part #if you do just please let me know!#my writing #but aghhh im a sucker for comfort #thank you for the prompt!#love you guys ❤️

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billys-pretty-babe · 2 days

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I'm Having His Baby

Pairing : Dad!Billy Hargrove x Mom!Fem!Reader

Summary : All of Billy's reactions to finding about the Hargrove family expanding.

Warnings : Swearing, teen pregnancy (once), lots of pregnancy (it's billy that we're talking about)

Word count : 780

A/N : Decided to expand on my Hargrove Family and add new babies that you guys haven't read about... yet

June 9, 1985

Billy sat with you on the floor of his bathroom. Three months, that's how long you two have been together officially, hell, he's only been in Hawkins for a little over six. He rubbed your thigh as the two of you waited for Susan's kitchen timer to go off.

"I'm scared." He nodded, "Me too." You knew he was; you didn't know how his dad would react and that's what scared you the most. It wasn't long before the kitchen timer went off and Billy picked up the stick carefully. He looked at it first, "I don't know how to read this."

You huffed and took it from him and everything in you sank as you saw the positive lines. The two of you were only eighteen, there was no way you could take care of a baby. "What is it," he asked, his voice soft. "Positive," you replied. He nodded, his face blank.

Internally he was freaking out but he remained calm for you, just in case you needed to cry. "What're we gonna do?" You shrugged, "I don't know, hell I don't even know when I could've gotten pregnant." It clicked for you, his birthday. "Your fucking birthday, B." His eyes widened a little. He had gone raw that night, but he had pulled out in time, or at least he thought he did.

In December, the two of you welcomed Hannah Willow Hargrove.

August 15, 1988

Billy and you waited with bated breath as the test loaded. The two of you wanted Hannah to have a younger sibling and the two of you had been trying and trying and trying. You knew you were fertile, and Billy wasn't one to be a quitter. The timer rang and the lines greeted you once again. Billy smiled as he kissed you, "Knew my swimmers still worked." You groaned, "Way to ruin the moment." He laughed and kissed the top of your head, patting your ass gently.

"If it's a boy I want a junior." You scoffed, "No." He nodded and you shook your head, "No, we don't need two Billys in this household, one is enough." He rolled his eyes and held onto your waist, gently patting your stomach. "Hargrove baby number two," he said, pumping his fist into the air making you laugh as his wedding band glimmered in the light of the bathroom.

In March 1989, the two of you welcomed baby boy William Austin Hargrove, three days before Billy's 22nd birthday.

February 19, 1992

Neither of you even needed a test to confirm that you were pregnant. Billy knew and so did you. Having been pregnant twice, you two knew the signs to look for. You took a test anyway so neither of you would have false hope and of course, it came out positive. William toddled in your guys' bedroom as Hannah walked behind him, helping him walk as she picked him up a few times so he wouldn't trip.

He looked at the test, smile on his face as he rubbed your stomach. "We're gonna have a fucking football team by the time we hit thirty." You laughed as you held onto him. You were happy, you never imagined yourself being a mother so early in life but you couldn't imagine your life without your high school sweetheart and your babies.

In October 1992, three days before Halloween, you guys welcomed Jaxon Hargrove.

November 20, 1994

Another positive test and you two agreed this would be your last baby. The two of you loved your kids and as of right now, they all needed to grow up a little before you two had more kids, if you decided to have more kids. Billy was a great father to all of the babies and it was a blessing being able to see him with them every single day and be present in their lives.

"Last Hargrove baby." You nodded and Billy swayed you two from side to side. "What do you think it'll be?" You shrugged, "Maybe a girl, but I'm happy with either." He nodded, "I want another girl." You smiled. Billy loved his baby girl, Hannah, he loved all of his babies but she was the biggest daddy's girl anyone had ever met.

"Four babies, damn. We started eighteen and ending at twenty-eight. Ten years of making Hargrove babies." You laughed at your husband as you held onto him before you held his face and kissed him. "Tons and tons of babies, our house is a breeding ground." He laughed as he pecked your lips over and over.

In May 1995, you welcomed your second baby girl, Adeline Grace Hargrove.

Tagging @missingbillyhargrove because I know you like dad!Billy 💙

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x female reader #billy stranger things #stranger things billy #william hargrove #billy hargrove x f!reader #stranger things fanfiction #billy hargove imagine #dad!billy hargrove

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closetcasefabray · 18 hours

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jesus saves (i spend)

i have been writing parts of an avatrice college au for two gd years now. the ideas & writing are scattered between here (one of the tags below should work), my whatsapp convos with @snowandwolves, on discord, my dinosaur laptop that crashes, & my email. it’s a fucking disaster but whatever so am i & not once in my life have i had my shit together so this is all unsurprising.

SO what i’m saying is, here’s the only part i have ‘formally’ written in fic form bc i posted that other ficlet. doing this made me almost throw my dino laptop & my phone out a window on several occasions—that’s why there isn’t more. but i just wanna share this.

more notes & rambles at the end.

You notice her because it's syllabus week of your freshman year, it's an 8 AM class, and you're fairly confident you're still drunk from the party you attended last night, but she raises her hand and correctly answers a question posed by your theology professor without hesitation. Your professor, Father Vincent, was likely hoping for a good guess at best, but there she is, exceeding expectations from the moment she speaks. You pickup on an accent, which you would find incredibly attractive if you weren't so thrown by her perfect and concise response, like a well-prepared speech is always readily accessible in the back of her mind—a girl with all the answers. A young woman, really.

You, however, are not—you're just a girl. You're just a girl who shows up to her morning classes smelling like the bar or the house party from the night before, like the weed you started smoking almost immediately upon arriving to university during orientation week, like the cigarettes you smoke because it affords you a little more quiet outside and an excuse to borrow a lighter and talk to a cute boy or a pretty girl.

You're just a girl who technically died, existed in nothingness for a whole minute before being ripped back into a reality of blank ceilings and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You're just a girl strangers prayed for after they heard about the American child pulled from the wreckage. You're just a girl who didn't get any credit for teaching herself to stand again, to walk again—and if you’re being completely honest, you’re a girl who’s incredibly bitter that a god you never saw in that one minute got all the credit and none of the blame—for taking your mother from you, for taking years from you that had to be spent healing from god’s grace or lack thereof.

You're just a girl who is tired of being told to look at her life as an expression of holiness, who thinks it is more so the consequence of indifferent stardust. But you still look for the beauty in that, in humanity and its flaws—these meaningless beings in a vast universe, creating and destroying their own little, myopic worlds on this spinning rock. Some will dream of poetry for their lovers, and some will dream of arsenals to level cities. You wonder how many lips were pressed together in a final kiss versus hands clasped together in prayer when fire fell from the sky in the name of God. You wonder what that says about faith.

You'd like to think if your mother could see you, she'd laugh at the irony because once you were baptized, she never took you to church. God finds a way, so you spent five miserable years in a Catholic orphanage before you were sent back to America. People said you were lucky to have two years in a foster family at your age, but it felt like living with strangers who were tasked with the minimum of keeping you alive. Then you were moved into a home for teen girls with a nun at the helm, and that’s where you actually felt fortunate for the first time in years. It was there that Mother Superion helped you with your studies and college applications. So here you are, tipping into a hangover in one of the oldest buildings on campus, learning theology from a priest.

But your mom would understand. (You don’t remember much of her, and you try not to think about that too deeply, or else you have to deal with the resulting ache that comes from reaching inside yourself for something that’s gone.) You have spliced together what you can recall into a short reel—you mom buckling into your car seat while humming a show tune, showing you how to fold a pizza slice and telling about a city famous for their pizza, and holding your hand in a museum in Spain, promising to take you to another big museum closer to home, the home you never saw again. So you promised yourself and the parts of her you carry that you’d make it here.

You would have had to pay almost full tuition if you wished to attend your reach, requiring immense debt, so you ended up at the school that offered you a ticket to the city and a hefty enough scholarship you could get through four years without requiring loans or a full-time job to afford it. (You first refused to use your mother’s death as a sob story in you application letter, but Mother Superion put her hand on yours and said, So rarely do these letters contain truth, but do not be afraid to tell yours. In telling your truth there is a sadness, yes—and I know you detest pity—but of all the things that have been taken from you, do not feel guilty for taking some of it back to live a better life.) You remember getting your acceptance letter, and looking up at the sky and flipping it off, praying whatever god hears you, No thanks to you!

But your bitterness temporarily takes a backseat in your mind as you look at your classmate, beautiful in the refracted light shining through the stained glass window, speaking so graciously of god you'd think Jesus were in the room, about to hand her his latest work. It's poetry, bordering on scripture in a new tongue, and you'd almost be a believer if it didn't sound as if she had repeated these words—practiced—enough times to believe them herself. You wonder what that says about her faith.

If the nuns at the orphanage had spoken the gospel as she does, maybe you'd be here for different reasons. You're fascinated.

Behold, you are beautiful…

i promise this fic gets lighter & has some silliness. so some notes/tangents:

this is 100% self-indulgence bc i heard ‘write what you know’ & ran with that shit. when i visited a friend at a state school in a college town i was so so confused bc it was just a diff campus culture entirely. then i was going to make this set in an ambiguous city, but i literally have saved places in google maps that would be great places to kiss someone sooooo you get NY avatrice.

likely setting this before instagram & smartphones bc i’m old/lazy & i can.

the title is from st. vincent who my friend introduced me to in college. “paris is burning” changed my brain chemistry & so i listened to her music on repeat for ages—“jesus saves, i spend” is on the same album.

father vincent will not be a bad man or evil professor. he will be as he was before adriel—a lost man who found himself through god & still a little broken but caring & devout.

also song of songs/song of solomon is like… the only part of the bible i fucked with in theology class so that’s the reference at the end. also another line used in another scene with JC, chanel, & ava written in v rough form. maybe will share that later.

this is meant to be a fic with a post-grad sequel as well. not much written of that but a lot of ideas everywhere.

once i figure out where i’m moving (hahahaha i’m so stressed), i’ll consider a ko-fi or something (i wish emails & names weren’t shown though). but mostly i will likely need a second job to save up for an actually good computer/macbook. once i have that i’ll be able to post on ao3.

anyway thanks for reading & being here :3

#avatrice #avatrice fanfic #avatrice college au #ccf fanfiction #ccf fanfic #ccf #closetcasefabray #warrior nun #warrior nun fanfic #warrior nun au #fic: jesus saves i spend #fic: jsis

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shekeepswriting · 2 days

Text

A Little More Heart (3)

[Syverson x Reader]

Word Count: 5310 (Someone got carried away. Me. It was me.)

Summary: Sy answers your grandmother's summons for dinner.

Warnings: None

A/N: I'm back from the dead hellooooo! Grad school has truly been kicking my ass. I hope this is a fun surprise for everyone

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Sy was standing three inches from an industrial box fan, sweating his ass off and questioning every last one of his life decisions when he heard his brother shouting for him from across the garage.

Easily as tall as Sy but two years younger and with a little less mass, Aaron was the second of three Syverson boys. Unlike Sy, he preferred his hair long and took great pride in caring for it, an abundant mass of dark curls that usually reached his shoulders. But at work, and during most of the summer, he kept it tied in a messy knot on the top of his head.

“Sy! Phone!”

Aaron moved fast across the floor, hand clamped around the bottom of a cordless landline to block the sound, two cheap blue popsicles still in their conjoined plastic tubes clenched between his teeth.

“By name?” Sy asked with a sigh as he approached.

Aaron shifted his grip on the phone to take the popsicles out of his mouth.

“Yep. It’s Ms. Bea. We expecting her in for something soon?”

“No, but I drove her granddaughter home last night, so - ”

Aaron’s eyes widened, and he frantically mashed at the button to put Ms. Bea on hold.

“You did what?” he asked, an obnoxious grin taking over his face.

“Settle down,” Sy mumbled, turning back towards the fan.

“My permanently single, grumpy-ass older brother drove a girl home last night. I’m not settling down.”

“Not a girl. She’s a woman.”

Aaron let out a wordless shout, jostling Sy’s shoulder and plopping down on the table beside the fan, grinning even wider than before.

“Oh, there’s no way in hell I’m letting this shit go now. A woman, you say.”

Sy rolled his eyes.

“You gonna give me one of those?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the slowly melting popsicles.

“Only as a bribe,” Aaron answered, ripping the perforated wrappers apart and holding one out tauntingly.

“For what?”

“Information, dumbass.”

Sy snatched the popsicle out of his hand, holding it behind his back when Aaron swatted at it.

“Saw her walking home in the dark. Stopped to drive her home. Simple as that.”

“Uh huh. And what earned her the distinction of ‘woman,’ I wonder.”

“She’s a grown-ass woman, that’s what,” Sy said bluntly, stepping out of Aaron’s reach to rip open the top of the popsicle wrapper.

“Noticed her ass, did ya?”

Sy shot him an unimpressed look, breaking the top inch of frozen blue sugar into his mouth with a harsh bite and holding his hand out.

“Just give me the fuckin phone.”

“Five questions first,” Aaron argued.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Go.”

Aaron clapped in delight, taking a moment to think before launching into his limited interrogation.

“Did you smile?”

“Yep.”

“Did she make you laugh?”

“Yep.”

Aaron smiled again, but this time there was no mischief tied up in it. He looked uncharacteristically sincere.

“Did you get her number?”

“Yes. Last one.”

He squinted thoughtfully.

“Butterflies?”

“Fuck off, Aaron.”

“Oh, shit, that’s a yes!” But still he wasn’t teasing. His eyes were wide with surprise, his smile still genuine, not mocking.

“Phone.”

“You could barely grow facial hair the last time you had butterflies! The good butterflies, anyway. Shit, I have so many more questions now.”

“I gave you four, and you asked four. Now, gimme the phone.”

Aaron slapped the phone into Sy’s open palm but kept a hold of the bottom.

“We’re talking about this later.”

“Fine. Don’t tell mom.”

“Fine.” And there was that familiar smile again, the one that rarely ended well for anyone. The little shit.

Sy retreated to his office in the back of the garage, phone and popsicle in hand, before taking Ms. Bea off of hold. There was little to no chance she’d be able to hear him out on the floor.

“Hello.”

“Hi! Busy day today? Staying cool out there, I hope.”

“Doing my best, Ms. Bea. How are ya? That car of yours still treatin you right?”

“Oh, I’m alright. I haven’t driven in a few days, but as far as I know, it’s just fine.”

“If that changes, you let me know, okay?”

“I will!” There was a brief pause. “So listen! I hear you’re the one to thank for seeing my grandbaby home safe last night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I didn’t get this far in life leaving my debts unpaid. So you just come on down to the house when you’re through with work, and we’ll treat you to a nice dinner. How does that sound?”

“That’s a very generous offer, but you don’t owe me a thing, Ms. Bea. I didn’t know who she was when I stopped. I would’ve done the same for anyone walking that road at night.”

“Oh, I trust you would have, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve some gratitude, now does it?”

Sy shook his head. If he didn’t make an appearance tonight, Ms. Bea would only show up tomorrow with the promised dinner wrapped up in foil and glass containers. He knew better than to expect this to go away on its own. And honestly, if it afforded him the possibility of seeing you again, he may not want it to.

“Well - ”

“Pardon me, dear. My phone is being stolen.”

Sy raised an eyebrow. There was a shuffling sound, a sigh, the closing of a door. Your voice came through, flustered and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to talk her out of it, but the woman will not be denied.”

He smiled a little, imagining the look on your face.

“That’s alright. I had a feelin’ something like this would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just what happens around here. You do someone a favor, they find a way to thank you for it.”

“Oh… I did say thank you though, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said through another smile. “That’s not what I meant though.”

“So you’re saying it really should be me offering you dinner?” you asked. “Did I accidentally cause a blood feud by not knowing that?”

“Just a short one. Couple decades, tops.”

Your laugh sounded muffled, like you’d moved the phone down to your chest in an attempt to hide it.

“So do I have your permission to come see you and Ms. Bea this evening?”

“Depends. Will there be a torch and pitchfork involved?”

“Nah. Lost ‘em both in a poker game.”

“What a shame.”

“That mean I’m in the clear?”

“Yeah, I guess you’d better come around. Especially considering I was sent on a separate grocery run specifically for this dinner.”

“I’d ask you not to go to too much trouble, but I have a feeling it’s not really up to you.”

“Rude but accurate. There’s a whole raw chicken out there. I’m mildly terrified.”

Just as he was opening his mouth to answer, the office door creaked open, letting in a flood of sound and one very stressed woman.

“Sy!”

“Hold on one sec,” he said to you quickly before lowering the phone to his chest and raising his eyebrows in question.

“Someone up front wants to talk to you.”

Sy grimaced.

“Me specifically or a manager?”

“Manager.”

He gestured her out of the office then followed, eyes sweeping over the collection of cars and people.

“Aaron!”

“Yeah?” he yelled from under a car Sy had been working on earlier.

Sy crossed the garage impatiently, reaching down to drag him out from under the car by the ankle.

“Pretty face up front.”

Aaron groaned.

“I was the pretty face last time!” he complained. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Never been pretty a day in my life.”

“Fuck you. You know there’s no good comeback for that.”

“And I’m on the phone still. Get.”

“God damn it.” But he was already reaching up for Sy’s hand to haul him up to his feet.

“Have fun,” Sy called after him before lifting the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that.”

“No, that’s okay! I should probably let you go. You seem busy.”

“You got me out of talking to a customer. Far as I’m concerned, we can stay on the phone all damn day.”

You laughed again, but this time you let him hear it.

“Does that mean you owe me a dinner now too?”

“We can talk about it,” Sy said with a smile, turning his back when one of his mechanics looked up curiously at his tone.

“Either way, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I bring anything?”

“Better not. We’ll be stuck in the thank you cycle forever.”

That really didn’t sound like the worst thing, but he didn’t want to push you farther than he already was with this dinner tonight.

“Alright. I’ll uh… I’ll text you when I’m on my way then.”

“You mean to tell me you have my number?” you gasped. “How did that happen?”

“Some troublemaker gave it to me at the bar last night.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. Haven’t had time to use it yet, but I was planning on it.”

“Very interesting… Well, I’ll let you go now. See you at dinner.”

“Lookin forward to it.”

Sy tried to keep himself occupied all day, tried not to leave his mind free to dwell on you or try to predict how this dinner would go. Tried not to let himself be cornered by Aaron. Again.

He took off a little early, running home for a shower and a change into something nicer than a stained t-shirt before heading your way. Though his warning text had prompted you to share your grandmother’s address, Sy didn’t need it. The town was small enough, and he’d been down to the house before, a couple of times, to drive Ms. Bea to church when her car had been out of commission. But he’d never been inside before, or even past the gate.

By the time Sy’s shoes hit the driveway pavement, you were rounding the corner of the house in a pale green sundress and a clunky pair of slippers several sizes too big for your feet. Confident, as you had every right to be despite the footwear, but maybe a little flustered too.

“Well, hello,” he said with a small smile. He let himself look you over, let you see him look you over, but only for a second. Before he could pay you an appropriately polite compliment, you blurted out,

“I didn’t wear this for you. Just so you know.”

Sy’s eyebrows rose along with his hands. It had honestly never occurred to him that you might have worn it for him. But three times was enough to pick up the pattern. Walls up at first greeting. He had to earn your ease again.

“I know you didn’t,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Known Ms. Bea long enough that I’d call her an ambulance if I ever saw her in a pair of jeans.”

The corner of your mouth twitched up for a second, and you took a breath, rolled your shoulders.

“Yeah… Sorry, I just…”

“You’re not used to this,” Sy offered with an easy shrug, lowering his hands again.

“I’m not,” you agreed. “I don’t introduce people to my grandmother. Ever. And definitely not…” You glanced over your shoulder towards the windows, lowering your voice slightly. “Definitely not a man I was flirting with the night before.”

“Did you flirt with me? Can’t recall. Where was I when all that was going on?

You rolled your eyes, more tension leaving your shoulders.

“You know I did.”

“Now, let’s see…” Sy said, running a hand over his beard in a way that earned him a real smile this time. “I remember you making fun of my handwriting. Making fun of my pickup lines. Threatening me with a knife.”

“I didn’t threaten you with a knife,” you laughed.

Sy smiled at the sound. Now he was getting somewhere.

“No? So that was you flirtin’ then?”

“Must have been. Couldn’t be when I asked for your number.”

“Nah, I asked first.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“In my own way.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile was still there. Like you knew what he was doing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed by it.

“Well, anyway,” Sy continued. “You’re not introducing me because I already know your grandma. And I’m well aware that I’m here on her invitation, not yours. So when I tell you that you look nice, it’s just an observation. No motive behind it beyond the fact that I think you ought to hear it.”

A couple of rapid blinks in surprise, a deep breath, a slow nod.

“Well… Thank you.”

Sy nodded back, and then you were turning in a pretty flutter of skirts, heading back towards the gate with a call for him to follow.

“Rules of the house. No cursing. No wandering unsupervised. And dinner guests don’t enter the kitchen for any reason ever,” you listed, closing the gate behind him.

“Got it.”

“One more thing. Nana takes hosting extremely seriously and therefore takes my hosting extremely seriously. A lot of pageantry went into this evening. But despite all of that, rest assured you are not being husband hunted.”

“Should’ve left the ring at home then, huh?”

“Don’t even let her hear that,” you warned with a grimace.

“Wouldn’t let me leave?”

“On the contrary. She’d light the house on fire just to get you out of it.”

“Well now you’re just hurtin my feelings.”

You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.

“Don’t go feeling special. She’d do that to anyone she thought was proposing to me.”

You spun around again, as graceful as you could manage to be in oversized slippers on pebbledash, and Sy smiled at the extra, intentional swish in your skirt as you led him to the back door.

“Ready?” you asked, hand pausing on the handle.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the dogs,” you said breezily as you opened the screen door.

You were ambushed the second you walked through the door. There was a small black terrier, hopping around on two feet, desperate for your attention, and following behind at a slower pace was the largest boxer that Sy had ever seen.

“Hi, Bertie. Go make a friend,” you said softly, ruffling the small dog’s ears and shooing her gently away from you as you stepped to the side to intercept the dog that was staring down Sy with laser focus.

Bertie came hopping up to Sy, bright pink tongue lolling out from her underbite as she braced her front feet on his shin.

“Pleased to meet ya, little miss,” he said with a smile, crouching slowly to give her the attention she was seeking. She was a sweet one, falling all over herself to love on him.

A sharp whistle drew both Sy and Bertie’s attention, but you remained focused on the boxer, who had been leaning around you to take a peek at him.

“Brass,” you said firmly when the dog’s attention was back on you. “He’s okay.”

Brass let out an unconvinced grumble, going back to monitor Sy until you snapped your fingers.

“Hey. Look at me,” you said firmly. “He’s okay. Be nice. And I promise you can help me run him off if he misbehaves.”

You held out your hand, and Brass sat just long enough to offer you her large paw. You shook it gently, laughing at the baleful eyes she was still giving you.

“Can she perform a routine inspection?” you asked over your shoulder.

“Of course,” Sy said, sitting all the way down on the kitchen floor.

“Be nice,” you reminded Brass as you stepped aside to let her pass.

Sy kept still, leaving his hands open and palm up as Brass made a slow circuit around him, sniffing diligently. Up close, she was even more impressive, one of the most solid and imposing dogs he’d ever seen, not yet softening with the age that had a few greys growing around her mouth and eyes. Brass completed her loop quickly, stopping in front of him to stare at him just a little longer.

“Ma’am,” he greeted quietly, and he saw you smiling as you called her back over to you.

“Got yourself a real guard dog, don’t you?” Sy asked, watching as Brass bumped your hand with her nose before retreating to lay in the archway between the kitchen and living room.

“Oh yes. The General takes her job very seriously. And she’s not a fan of men. Try not to take it personally.”

“Ms. Bea named her General Brass?” he asked with a smile. “Or do you just want a dog to outrank me to prove a point?”

“How dare you,” you gasped. “I’ll have you know we named her General Brass Knuckles together.”

“Well, now I know you’re lyin,” he laughed.

“I would never - Nana!” you called as your grandmother finally entered the kitchen. “Tell Sy what Brass’s full name is.”

“General Brass Knuckles. Why?” she said, holding a hand out to Sy as she approached with a welcoming smile.

“Your granddaughter likes to tease me,” he said, squeezing her hand gently in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Ms. Bea.”

“She’ll do that. But I happen to think it’s a wonderful name. Suits her. She’s tough like me and like my granddaughter.” Ms. Bea squeezed his hand back. “Did you come hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Good! Go on and sit. Table’s already set.”

Set very nicely too. Cloth napkins and the fancy salt and pepper shakers. Matching serving dishes. Ms. Bea didn’t do anything by half measures.

Sy took the seat you gestured to, hesitating just long enough for you and your grandmother to sit before he did.

The way you’d spoken on the phone made it sound like this was an unfamiliar process to you, but it didn’t show. You began serving and passing food smoothly, your expression pleasant but neutral as Ms. Bea took the lead on conversation.

“How’s your family? We’re getting lots of sun this summer. Your mama’s garden must be a vision.”

“She sends me pictures every day,” Sy said with a polite smile. “And she’s been doing her research, trying to figure out what to put in the greenhouse now it’s finished.”

“I think that woman could plant just about anything and make it grow. She has a real gift.”

“That was the plan. As long as she gets some use out of it, I’ll be happy.”

“Wait, did you build a greenhouse?” you cut in curiously, pausing with a forkful of roasted potatoes halfway to your mouth.

“Not as hard as it sounds,” Sy said, chancing a wink when you squinted skeptically at him.

“I doubt that very much,” Ms. Bea said mildly, making you laugh. “And your grandmother? She still living out there in the country on her own?”

“Nana, this is out there in the country.”

“Alright, city girl,” she said, patting your cheek as your mouth dropped open in surprise.

“You were literally born in Brooklyn.”

“Were you really?” Sy asked, surprised. She sure didn’t sound like it, never had to his memory. Her accent was soft, but it was there, syrupy and southern like every other elderly woman in town.

“A lifetime ago,” Ms. Bea said with a secretive little smile. “Wouldn’t recognize it now.”

“With how many pictures I sent you last month?” you challenged with a fond smile. “You know, you could come with me next time I go.”

“You don’t need an old lady slowing you down.” The look she gave you put an end to that conversation, and you raised your hands slightly in surrender. “Now, you still owe me news of my old friend.”

Sy nodded as her attention turned back on him.

“She’s doing alright. Gonna head up that way tomorrow to fix her air conditioner.”

“Okay, seriously? You can build a greenhouse and fix an air conditioner?”

You almost sounded irritated, and Sy tried not to smile.

“Oh this man can fix just about everything,” Ms. Bea said.

“Wow,” you said mildly, smiling around a sip of water. “Take that compliment and run. I’ve never heard her speak so highly of a man in my life.”

“Oh, hush. Yes, you have,” your grandmother said in a no-nonsense tone.

Hush, Sy mouthed at you with mock sternness when you glanced his way. Your eyes narrowed playfully, and you kicked at his shin under the table.

“How are those brothers of yours?”

“Oooo brothers. Now that’s interesting.” And that grin you were wearing was specifically designed to get a rise out of him. Sy eyed you, watching that smile widen just a touch before he turned his attention back to Ms. Bea.

“They’re doing good. Jimmy’s teaching summer school. Aaron’s just the same as always. But he has been eating instant potatoes for lunch every day if you want to have a word with him about it.”

Ms. Bea gave him a knowing look, her pursed lips relaxed into a smile that verged on mischievous.

“I certainly will. That boy get a haircut yet?”

“No, ma’am. Past his shoulders now when it’s not tied up.”

You hummed with interest.

“Did he steal all of yours?”

Ms. Bea let out half a surprised laugh before she pressed a napkin to her lips demurely, regaining her composure. You were staring at him, eyes bright with amusement and challenge as he shook his head slowly at you, huffing a laugh through his nose.

“Now don’t go giving him too hard a time,” Ms. Bea said before Sy could respond. “He did you a good turn last night.”

“He did,” you agreed.

“You should have seen it before he started cutting it all off. Just as soft and curly as anything.”

“Like a poodle,” you supplied, looking him over with a poorly-suppressed grin, as if trying to imagine it.

“You wicked thing,” Ms. Bea said with a little grin, nudging you with her elbow. “He looked just exactly like a porcelain doll when he was younger.”

Sy took a breath, wishing Ms. Bea would kindly stop digging his grave as your smile grew.

“Oh, really? Do you have any pictures?”

“I’m sure I do. Somewhere.” She squinted thoughtfully towards the living room. “In the old Christmas cards if nowhere else.”

“You’re really not giving up on that, are you?” he sighed.

“Absolutely not,” you answered. “I might have before, but a porcelain doll? Come on, now. I’m not walking away from that.”

Ms. Bea shot you a curious look but didn’t comment, guiding the three of you to a different subject with the confident ease of someone who had been navigating the passive aggressive waters of southern social life for decades.

Things carried on that way for quite a while: Ms. Bea asking polite questions and you finding ways to subtly or not-so-subtly tease him.

The plates had long been clear when Brass interrupted the conversation with a single, sharp warning bark, rising from her position in the doorway to bully her way behind the blinds on the nearest kitchen window. Sy heard it a few seconds later: a car making the turn onto the long driveway.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” you asked, glancing to your grandmother with a frown.

When Ms. Bea shook her head, Sy leaned back in his chair, moving his head to the side until he caught a glimpse through the window over the sink.

“Little blue Toyota, looks like.”

Ms. Bea rose quickly, her lips pursed to the point of disappearing.

“Darling, would you take our guest out to the pool house so he can pick a drink for the road? I’d like a private word with your cousin.”

Your eyebrows raised, but you nodded wordlessly, grabbing at Sy’s arm as you stood from the table. He followed your lead, letting you tug him along out the back door.

“Poor Kat,” you said once the door closed behind you.

“Well, she did leave you stranded,” Sy said quietly.

“Turned out okay,” you said with a shrug, dropping your hand back to your side when you caught his eyes.

Sy held your gaze with an easy nod, not pulling back or looking away until you took a flustered breath and tilted your head to the side.

“Let’s get out of here before the fireworks start, huh?”

You hopped off the porch steps, following the end of the driveway to a small carport that backed into an even smaller outbuilding. A later addition, it looked like. Several decades newer than the house.

“You gonna tell me why we’re calling this a pool house? Not seeing a pool anywhere.”

“Patience,” you huffed, skirting around the two cars that were squeezed together beneath the carport.

You paused at the door, bouncing lightly on your feet as if to gather some nerve.

“Alright, full disclosure, sometimes a lizard or a snake gets in here. And if I open this door and see a snake, I will either fully abandon you to deal with that shit by yourself or climb you like a tree.”

And there were all sorts of things he could say to that, but he chose to keep his damn mouth shut and nod instead.

You led the way into the tiny building, wading through air that somehow felt even hotter than it had outside. After a second of endearingly impatient flailing, you caught hold of the thin chain hanging from the light on the ceiling, turning it on with a swift tug.

It didn’t do much for the space, which remained dim and dusty. There was very little room to walk, a thin avenue of clear concrete circled a large tarped object in the center of the room. Boxes, folding chairs and tables, and a long abandoned workbench lined the back wall. To the left, nearly overlapping the door, was a refrigerator and large separate freezer.

“Pool table,” you said, lifting up a corner of the tarp to reveal a glossy wood corner.

Sy smiled a little.

“Pool house. Cute.”

“We’re unbearably adorable. We can’t help it,” you said breezily, turning away from him to open the refrigerator door. “Adorable and overstocked with beverages.”

Every Coke product known to man filled the fridge, accented by bottles of peach tea and cans of lemonade. And…

“Are those Capri-Suns?”

Your eyes widened when you followed his gaze to the three shiny pouches tucked away on the bottom shelf.

“Huh…” you said softly, turning one over in your hand to check the expiration date. “Why does she even have these?”

“Gotta have all the bases covered, I guess.”

You hummed, turning your head to look up at him. For half a second, you seemed a little startled at his proximity, blinking rapidly and taking a sharp breath. Sy was doing his best not to crowd you, but there honestly wasn’t enough room for personal space. When he tried to back off a little, all he really managed to do was hip check the pool table and throw off his balance, shrinking the distance even more when you grabbed a handful of his shirt in a quick attempt to steady him.

There was a pause, neither of you daring to take a breath. The hot, still air of the tiny outbuilding seemed to draw in a little closer, barely cut by the draft from the open refrigerator.

“Um…” You blinked hard, pulling your hand away like he’d burned you, shuffling to the side to earn a few precious inches of space.

“Sorry,” he said softly, belatedly.

“S’okay…” You shook your head a little. “Uh, do you want…?”

You lifted the little juice pouch still in your hand.

“Sure.”

It took further rearranging to get the refrigerator door closed again, and Sy tried not to feel too bad at the speed with which you rushed from the building.

The open air seemed to soothe you a little, the sight of you rolling your shoulders with a deep breath greeting Sy when his eyes readjusted to the bright sunlight.

That playful confidence crept back over you, a little more tentative but still a sight to see.

“Are you qualified to open one of these?” you asked, tossing Sy his juice. “Don’t know how much experience you’ve got.”

“Plenty,” Sy said, arching a brow at the smirk that set across your face. “Said what I said.”

You laughed, reaching to pull the plastic-wrapped straw from the back of the pouch.

“You sure? You can’t brute force it, ya know. You’ll just stab through both sides and end up with a mess. It takes finesse.”

“I can do finesse.”

He took the straw back from you, making smooth and efficient work of pushing it through the clear plastic circle at the top of the pouch. He took a smug sip, earning a grin from you as you raised your hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine. You have the dexterity of an eight year old. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“No winning with you, is there?”

“No, sir!” you said proudly, glancing quickly towards the back door at the sound of raised voices, your smile fading slightly. “Guess I should escort you to safety.”

You plucked lightly at his sleeve as you headed back towards the gate where his truck was parked. He followed, falling into step beside you.

“Sure you don’t need backup?”

Through a gap in the curtain, Sy caught sight of Kat, her face pinched, arms crossed.

“Oh, I’m not going back in there,” you scoffed. “I’ll walk a lap of the neighborhood or something. Go sit by the pond for a bit, maybe.”

Sy hesitated, his steps slowing.

“I could - We could go somewhere, if you want. Give them time to cool off a little.”

You glanced at him curiously.

“Go where?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Wherever. Get a drink or something.”

“Two nights in a row? The town would implode.”

He smiled a little, leaned against the door of his truck.

“That’s not a no.”

You shot him a look, mouth twisted up in something that looked very promisingly like indecision.

“Should be a no. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“What’s the wrong idea?”

You let out a slow breath.

“You know I’m only going to be around a couple weeks.”

He hummed, standing up straight again.

“Doesn’t have to be a drink. Could just go for a drive. No getting any wrong ideas about a drive.”

“No wrong ideas about sunset on a backroad?”

Sy cleared his throat.

“No ma’am. We’re in for a platonic sunset tonight. It told me so.”

You laughed, but there was something a little sad in it.

“Drink your juice and get outta here before I do something stupid, please.”

Sy knew better than to push, but damn if he didn’t like the sound of that.

“Yeah, alright.”

You made no attempt to mask the once-over you gave him as he got into the driver’s seat. He risked holding out his hand one last time, rolling down the window before closing the door.

“Mind if I use that number you gave me? Sometime.”

“I think you’d better.”

He smiled at that, let it be a full one, earned himself a smile back.

“I’ll do that then. Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sy lingered a moment longer, taking in the sight of you barefoot on the driveway, a late summer breeze making the hem of your dress dance lazily around your legs.

You shook your head at him, shooing him away with a smile.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he could see you still standing at the gate, watching him until the truck tail lights were out of sight.

*****

A/N: Thank you for reading! I've really missed this story. Would love, love, LOVE to hear what you think.

Tags: @firstcashheroathlete @melissareadsstuff @juliaorpll78 @mrsevans90 @kajjaka @kebabgirl67 @foxyjwls007 @luckydiorxoxo @just-chirpin @deandoesthingstome @mindingmyownbusiness @summersong69 @endofalldays01 @happydistraction @identity2212 @henryownsme @mysweetlittledesire @islacharlotte @cynic-spirit @mollymal @emily-roberts @mrs-degenerate @sweetandgentlecreature @paintlavillered @geralts-yenn @enchantedbytomandhenry @sillyrabbit81

#captain syverson x reader #syverson x reader #captain syverson fanfiction #syverson fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction

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getscaredhellyeah · 2 years

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I'm from Canada and when I saw Get Scared in the US my mom brought me to McDonald's cuz we were too tired to find any other restaurants and there was a mom group there with a bunch of kids and I heard the following interaction:

Kid's mom: You can sit over here.

Kid (maybe 8 years old): You can go to hell.

jkabdashs i swear kids are brutal and for no reason like they just wake up and choose violence

#this made me giggle thank you #i hope you and your mom still laugh about that #i know i would with my friends #last ask being answered for tonight because i’m getting ready to drink a white claw and i don’t wanna answer anything while tipsy #answered #anonymous

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call-memissbrightside · 4 months

Text

All I can think about is Katsuki dating someone with a baby—

His friends think it’s a bit odd since he’s in his early thirties and could still mess around before settling down but he’s not having it

You’re a bit nervous to tell him that you had a kid after a few dates, and you think he’s never going to hit you up again when he doesn’t really respond when you tell him, he just drops you off at your place with a emotionless look on his face.

You cry to yourself that night as you put your little girl to bed, and the two year old knows something’s wrong because she’s fussy through the whole night routine. You really liked Bakugou, he made you laugh and respect you but if he can’t accept your daughter than it's not going to work out.

Then the next morning he texts you that he got tickets for three to the local aquarium for the day. You call him, confused.

“That way we can take your daughter?” He’s confused by your question. “Why? Is she too little for the aquarium?”

You’re nervous as hell for him meeting Mai for the first time, but Katsuki is taken back at how your daughter looks just like you. She's adorable, and his stomach flipped taking in how you looked so beautiful in your jeans and simple shirt.

"Hi Mai, I'm Katsuki," He kneels down to the four year old's height but he's so big and the little girl immedietly burst into tears and hides behind your legs.

"Oh honey, it's okay," You coo at her, picking her up. Mai isn't convinced and hides away from Katsuki.

"I'm sorry, she'll warm up," You explain, but you weren't too sure. Mai had a shy personality, and was very attatched to you. You just hoped that Bakugou would be patient with her.

Mai started shedding her shy personality once you arrived at the aquarium.

"Mom, fish!" She yelled in excitement, tugging on your hand to get you to walk faster. Katsuki stands back and just watches you interact with your daughter. He knew he liked you, but seeing you be a mom did something to him and he imagined this being his life forever.

"What are you thinking about?" You asked when you noticed Katsuki seemed distracted.

He opens his mouth to answer but Mai interupts him when she squeals, "Mommy penguins!"

Katsuki was closer to her, and the little girl grabs his hand and drags him through to the penguin exhibit. Bakugou is taken aback, but quickly pushes back his fear of scaring her and kneels down to look at the penguins swimming as Mai squeals in excitement. She can’t pronounce his name correctly, so Mai just addresses him as ‘Suki which warms his heart.

It’s like a switch got flipped and Mai wouldn’t let go of Katsuki’s hand for the remainder of the tour through the aquarium. You stand back, smiling and snapping pictures, just watching as Bakugou showed a much softer side to him.

The day ended with Katsuki buying Mai the biggest stuffed penguin the aquarium store had, and the little girl could barely hold onto it as she fell asleep in her stroller.

“You didn’t have to get her that,” You said, feeling overwhelmed by his gesture.

Bakugou feels a string of anxiety pull in his stomach, wondering now if his actions were seemed as inappropriate.

“I-,” He tries to be truthful, “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked. Mai just seemed so happy and I wanted to get her something to remember me by.”

That melts your heart, and you kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for being so sweet to my baby.”

Katsuki is blushing so hard, his ears are ringing as he helps you by packing down the stroller and putting it in the trunk while you tuck Mai into her car seat. The little girl was out, but still hugging her penguin.

Katsuki keeps the radio low as to not wake Mai as he drives you two home, holding your hand and already planning the next outing.

#sorry this has been in my drafts for so long #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski #bnha bakugou #mha bakugou #dad!katsuki #dad!bakugou

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ssahotchnerr · 6 months

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omg could you maybe write something about reader going to one of jacks soccer games and all of the moms are jealous of her bc she’s with hotch

not so friendly competition

omg i absolutely can cw; fem!reader, jealous suburban moms, one tries to make a pass at aaron, established relationship, small angst?, pettiness, aaron being adorable <3 wc; 1.3k

from the moment you arrived - a hand clasped in aaron's, jack excitedly sprinting ahead the two of you - you could feel the target on your back.

the warm, refreshing morning suddenly felt quite stuffy. as if strangely enough, there wasn't enough air to go around. the feeling especially solidified when aaron gave you a sweet, parting kiss - him off to uphold his coaching duties, you off to find a spot on the grass to set up your chair.

you half expected it, the feeling out of place and self consciousness; this was jack's second season playing soccer, aaron's second season coaching, and most of the players had returned from last year. long story short, and entering a relationship with aaron only a few weeks after jack's season had concluded, you were the new face.

not only that, you were missing a common trait amongst the others. you weren't, by definition, jack's mom.

it was a silly, technical notion, and it was quite possible you weren't the only outlier, but you simply wanted to belong there just as much as the others. to feel as if you belonged.

and that's definitely not how you currently felt.

despite your perception - hoping you had falsely and quickly misjudged the atmosphere - you offered the moms a smile and a hello as you got settled. you got maybe one, two responses in return, before they resumed their ongoing conversation without you. any hopefulness that remained, deflated as you sat there silently.

and while you weren't exactly listening to them, you could still make out bits and pieces of their conversation. however, your ears fully perked up at the mention of aaron. which also brought you into the discussion.

"you're with the coach?"

her question wasn't based on genuine interest, a getting-to-know-type basis, a friendly conversation starter. but, it was rather accusatory, as if you'd done something detrimentally wrong.

you nodded, your eyebrows furrowing briefly in confusion. "yes?"

"like... with him?"

oh.

the standoffish environment wasn't due to you being unwelcome, or, at least not in the way you had previously anticipated. it was jealousy, plain jealousy. they must've spent all of last season ogling aaron, and here you were, getting in the way.

again, you nodded in confirmation. a few grimaces were produced amongst several faces, igniting something deep within you, suddenly feeling very protective of aaron and your relationship.

you casually shot back, relentlessly, "why, is that a problem?"

the mom shrugged, pulling her eyes from yours annoyingly, as if you'd done her an injustice.

she didn't stop there though, uttering something under her breath. while you didn't hear what it was exactly - the low tone definitely indicated she had just insulted you in one way or another.

and choosing to remain on the civil side, you held your tongue.

the whispers continued sparingly; as much as it stung, and as much as the red-hot feeling that had settled in your body was uncomfortable, why should you let it affect you? they weren't a threat, they were suburban moms - probably peaked in high school, probably relied off their husband's salary, probably thought they were better than each and every person they came across.

you could be annoyed, but you weren't worried. the bigger picture, you had what they wanted; you had aaron. you've already won, despite any fights they attempted to pick.

"i need to stretch my legs." the same woman abruptly said, loudly to gain your interest.

she promptly rose, walking towards the team's bench. or more specifically, right up to aaron.

she was quick to strike up a conversation with him - overdramatizing her already-shrill laugh, displaying open body language, the sweetest smile she could muster up.

what did you in, a 'friendly' touch to his arm before she retreated, whenever she finished saying whatever the hell was so important she had felt the need to interrupt his coaching for.

and throughout such, aaron appeared as his typical friendly self as he engaged with her, as expected. although a look of confusion did flash across his face when she graced his arm.

your jaw clenched in anger, but you kept reminding yourself: her actions were just to spite you, just to piss you off, and you refused to give her the reaction she seemingly so desperately craved.

so when she returned, with an awfully smug look plastered on her face and dropping into her chair with a sense of pure satisfaction, you kept your focus forward. you came to watch jack's game, and that's exactly what you were going to do.

but during the mid-game break, once aaron had finished talking with the kids and they sprinted back onto the field to practice some goals, did you approach him.

"hi sweetheart," aaron mumbled into your skin as he kissed your temple, one of his hands comfortably finding your back. "enjoying the game?"

you nodded, offering him a timid smile.

"what's wrong?"

"nothing." you lied, tucking yourself into his chest. you took a deep breath and sighed, smelling the traces of light sweat and grass clinging to him.

"you don't think i buy that, do you?" he asked, a gentle, almost comical tone to his words - all to lighten up your present tension. "what is it?"

you shook your head, "i don't want to talk about it..." your eyes shot over to your new best friends, whose eyes were glued to the two of you. "here."

aaron glanced over at them, profiling immediately. "are they giving you a hard time?"

after a moment's hesitation, an annoyed huff escaped you. "let's just say they're not too happy that the coach is taken."

"what?" aaron laughed breathlessly, his face scrunching the smallest amount in confusion. "half of them are married."

"clearly that doesn't matter, they're still over there undressing you with their eyes." you arched an eyebrow, the scowl on your face only deepening.

"c'mon, you're too pretty to make that face." aaron lightly teased, kissing your pout gently. at the touch, your face did relax, the ends of your lips itching to turn upwards into a smile.

"oh they're gonna hate that you did that."

aaron shrugged, kissing you again. "let them."

you surrendered yourself to your smile, but you still frustratedly crossed your arms in front of your chest. "it's ridiculous."

aaron was quick to untangle your hands, holding onto them and applying a gentle squeeze. "you know you don't have competition. you have me."

"i know. that's why i feel so stupid i'm letting it bother me." you gritted through your teeth. "what did that one woman even say to you?"

"truthfully, i couldn't tell you. i wasn't paying attention." he answered honestly, his eyebrows drawing into a line as he even attempted to mentally recall it.

you couldn't help but laugh, pressing yourself more into him. "you're insufferable."

"i try." aaron joked, but his expression switched tactics, to genuine concern as he moved in front of you, "in all seriousness, are you going to be okay?"

"yeah." you brought your hands to his chest, running your thumbs against his pecs affectionately. you already were. "i have you, don't i?"

"and you could always stay here with me." aaron playfully, but earnestly offered. "and be my beautiful, thoughtful, astounding, beautiful assistant coach."

"you drive a hard bargain," your eyebrows rose, feeling his chuckle underneath your fingers. "but it's okay. i'm not gonna let them think they're running the show, or that they can step on me like that." you shook your head. "and as needed, i might have to flaunt you around."

aaron grinned, proudly. "that's my girl."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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lilacgaby · 7 days

Text

6:21 a.m

husband!bakugo experiences one moment of what you deal with everyday with your kids.

you were currently cuddled into katsuki's chest, fast asleep.

in between taking care of your newborn son and your toddler daughter, he knew you were exhausted out of your mind. he already had to return to hero work since he took a month off for your last few weeks pregnant, but he wasn't home all day besides the weekends. like today.

speaking her into existence, his toddler daughter slowly waddled over to your side of the bed, about to pat you on the back and awaken you.

"tsk. hey, no." he whispered, making her pout. "i wanna play." she said, crossing her arms. she rubbed her eyes, obviously still a bit sleepy herself.

"mommy is sleeping, she can't play it's bedtime. go back to bed." he said, hoping to every single deity that'd hear him that she wouldn't start crying.

she pouted even more now, before stomping her feet over to his side of the bed and pulling on him. "nooo, i dont wanna sleep!" she said, her voice getting loud.

"don't yell at me missy, use your inside voice." he rolled his eyes, paying attention to your body that seemed to always be on high alert stirring slightly. he soothed you back to sleep, before untangling himself from you and sitting on the corner of your shared bed, now face to face with your daughter.

"we're going to your room and you're going to sleep, unless you want to be put in time out." her eyes widened, her crossed arms dropping as she decided to start negotiating.

"two bedtime stories, go fish, and uno."

"one bedtime story, one go fish game, and i won't tell your mom this happened."

"and pancakes for breakfast." she ordered.

she nodded to herself, seeming happy with the arrangement. she grabbed onto his sweatpants, trying to pull him off to her room already.

"i'm going, im going."

he was heading out, until he heard the whines of his son start sounding out from the baby monitor, making both him and his daughter freeze.

she tugged on his pants, "the baby's crying."

he sighed. "i know." he was squinting his eyes in the dark environment trying to see if you had woken up. after he saw no movement, he ran to go get your son.

he picked him up in his arm and then followed his daughter to her room across the hallway. he proceeded to play go fish one handed, occasionally asking his son, who was drinking a bottle of formula, for 'help', which made his daughter say "you're cheating!"

he read them 'goldilocks and the three bears', which he kept having to reread pages because he 'wasn't doing the voices good enough' in his daughter's opinion.

his voice, still husky because he was half-asleep, soothed his son to sleep in his arms, and his daughter back to sleep.

he layed his son down in the cot in your shared room, too lazy to go back to the nursery.

like puzzle pieces, you fit back into one another, your head back in his chest and his laid on top of yours. he was glad you got to sleep the entire time, even though he knew you had woken up because of your daughter's loud nature, you managed to go back to sleep.

a win was a win, he thought as he went back to sleep.

and woke up with his daughter hugging your back, sticking her toungue out at him when he asked why she was even there again. making you laugh when you woke up to his scrunched up face of annoyance.

as he made the chocolate chip pancakes, your daughter clung to your side as your son laid in your chest, he thought about how having kids was one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

"hurry up and give me more! you always give mommy the better pancakes!"

most of the time.

#continuing my agenda once again #lilac speaks꧂#dad!bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo #bakugo katuski #bakugo x you #bakugo fluff #katsuki x you #mha x you #bakugo drabble #bakugo oneshot #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x reader

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nightingale-prompts · 24 days

Text

Comforting Your Batboy

First | Previous | Next

Danny slept next to Dick for a few days after what happened. He no longer felt secure about his place here. No matter where you go you take yourself with you and Danny is the problem here yet again.

Danny didn't understand affection, at least not the kind that a parent gave. The moment Danny told Dick that his parents were scientists Richard understood. Gotham had seen dozens of scientists who pushed the boundaries of morality and there was no shortage of children used to fulfill their ambitions.

Danny still missed his parents. Regardless of how things ended, he had lived his entire life with a family unit that on paper meant life was stable. He had somewhere to go and people who at least acknowledged him as family. Parents that took care of him at least out of obligation.

This story sounded familiar. Like Jason who never stopped loving his mom despite everything or Tim who accepted his neglect as what it was. They didn't know what it was like to have parents that loved them like they should. Dick was lucky to have the parent he had.

Danny remembered quiet dinners as his parents rushed to finish the food that Jazz made or them going on long tirades about their research. For 12 years they devotedly worked on that portal. Every chance they got they'd run off to the basement. Because it was their life's work, the only thing that mattered.

When it was unveiled, Jazz only scoffed. She hated the portal. Dad looked to Danny for praise and Danny didn't know what to say.

"Isn't it just the greatest thing you've ever seen?" Dad put his hand around Danny's shoulder.

"Well...its definitely a thing." Danny laughed awkwardly.

Danny had hoped that when the portal finished it would mean he'd spend time with his parents. Maybe they'd give him more than a passing glance when he brought them his report card. He could share with them his dreams and plans to be an astronaut. Show them the stars and all his research. To prove to them that he was a scientist too.

But that didn't happen. None of that would ever happen.

Jazz warned him not to hope for too much.

"People don't change Danny." She said simply.

Danny still tried. He still hoped. That hope made him try.

That hope killed him.

Danny never told Dick the specifics, about the accident. Dick never pried, but he knew something wasn't right.

Danny would cry in his sleep some nights. Dreams of a life that was far away now. Dick couldn't do much, all he could do was hold Danny's hand and wait for the nightmare to pass in hopes that Danny would forget his dream when he opened his eyes.

Danny's body was scarred. Something he used his powers to cover but they were still there and appeared when the stress got too much. Dick only saw a small part of them.

Dick got a full view once of Danny's back once when Dick left him a change of clothes. Lichtenberg scars like feathered ferns ripped through Danny's left arm and back. Danny hated it when people saw his scars and the marks disappeared the moment he realized he was being watched.

Dick didn't mention it. Not even the faint green glow the marks gave off.

"Why does Batman hate me?" Danny asked peeking out from under his blanket. He was still shrunk down

Dick bundled the toddler up in the blanket.

"He doesn't hate you. He just...he doesn't like things he doesn't understand." Dick tried to not make that sound awful.

"He doesn't understand me." Danny sighed.

"And he doesn't have to. He won't do anything to you. Not with me around. I promise. I know you've been hurt before and you must have felt alone but you got me." Dick ruffled his little fuzzball's hair.

(Ignore small errors. Have bat picture.)

#dc x dp #dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #nightwing #batman #dick grayson #bruce wayne

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nereidprinc3ss · 1 month

Text

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him.

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened?

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop.

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him.

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was.

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again.

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again.

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world.

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms.

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 month

Text

some things are worth it

a/n: so, because i haven’t been able to stop thinking about this guy, especially in this au (literally had multiple dreams about him this past week) i rewatched the longest ride for the yeehaw vibes and this fantasy popped into my head.

summary: “oh, yes you do,” you tilted your head, “you flirt with me all the time, I know you do, I’m not some sheltered little virgin, I know what it looks like when someone likes me!” you felt the truck roll to a stop as you spoke.

warnings: farmhand!tyler owens x farmer’s daughter!reader, smut, farmer au, bull rider!tyler, takes place before the previous fic in this au, secret relationship, bull riding (except i'm a suropean who has no idea what she's talking about, so apologies for the errors), love confession, secret relationship, kissing, clothed sex, car sex, size kink, manhandling, dry humping, dirty talk, handjob, fingering, thighjob, pussyjob, just the tip, overstimulation, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, why do i keep writing for this dude in the middle of the night?

word count: 4238

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“Hey,” Tyler cast you a glance as you came bouncing towards where he still worked, tinkering with the tractor that had quit halfway down one of the farm’s golden fields.

“Hello,” you blinked down at him. A rusty toolbox was planted in the wheat by his kneeling form as he fiddled away at the machinery.

“You need help with something?” he kept on twisting a bolt.

“Oh, no,” a shy giggle bubbled out of you, “my mom just sent me down here to invite you to stay for dinner tonight. She made a pie for dessert and everything, or well, we did, I helped… it’s rhubarb, if that can help sway you.”

“Rhubarb, eh?” he puffed out a short chuckle.

“Yeah…”

Briefly glancing back over his shoulder at you and the way your flowy dress caught on the wind, he uttered, “I’d love to, Y/n, but–, uhm… I can’t tonight.”

“Right,” you exhaled, a nod swiftly accompanying your words, “you already have plans, of course…”

“Tell your mamma I’m sorry,” he tried to soften the blow, “next time, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you breathed, and as he returned his attention back to the machine, surely assuming that you’d bid him adieu and saunter back towards the main house, you instead shifted to lean against the tractor, “so… what are you doing tonight?”

Briefly glancing up at you, a soft smirk appeared on his lips as he purred, “you’re awfully nosy.”

“Just tell me what your plans are,” you rolled your eyes.

“Bull riding,” he informed you, “I ride on occasion, tonight being one of those times.”

Sucking in a breath, you uttered, “of course you do…”

Halting his tinkering with a chuckle, he pressed, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“No, you just got adrenalin junky written all over you, so it checks out,” you gestured towards him and he let out a small laugh, retroactively confirming your accusation. As he shifted to look for a different tool, you opened your mouth once more and asked, “can I come?”

“Come what?” his concentrated gaze didn’t meet yours.

“See you ride.”

Tyler’s eyes then snapped up to find yours, “you wanna come see me ride?” hesitation suddenly washed over his usually confident features, “uhm… I’m not sure your daddy would like that.”

“What? Me being around a bunch of rowdy and probably drunk strangers or going somewhere to see you?”

A warm chuckle then rumbled in his chest as a gentle shake found his head, “you’re trouble…”

“Is that a no?” you tilted your head in hope.

“No…” he slowly exhaled and met your eye once more, “no it is not.”

You cheered for him at first when his name was announced and you caught a glimpse of him behind the fence, he even found your eyes in the crowd a moment as you clapped in anticipation. But then when it actually began, you stopped breathing entirely. It didn’t matter that he only had to stay on the beast for a few seconds, your heart still wouldn’t start beating again even after his boots were back on the ground and a proud grin stretched his lips. The petrified expression plastered on your features didn’t fade even when he found you afterwards and offered you a ride back home.

“You okay?” his deep timbre ripped you out of your stormy thoughts.

Twisting your neck to blink over at him behind the wheel of his truck, you hummed, “huh?”

“You’re not usually this quiet,” he pointed out.

“Oh… I’m just tired, I guess…” you lied, averting your gaze before you then heard yourself utter, “hey, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he held his eyes on the road.

“How is it that you haven’t been hurt yet doing all of that?”

“Oh no, I have,” a soft chuckle bubbled out of the daredevil, “just not hard enough to stop me from getting back up.”

A murmur then escaped your lips, just beneath your breath, “either that or you’re just too determined for your own good…”

“Maybe,” he cast you a glance and smirked slightly at the embarrassment that washed over your features at the realisation that he’d heard you, “but then again, determination isn’t always a bad quality to have.”

“It is if it could get you killed.”

“Oh, how unromantic of you,” he puffed, “I could think of a handful of ways dying would be worth whatever goal you were going for,” his eyes momentarily flickered back to you in the passenger seat beside him.

Holding his gaze a second before he redirected it back upon the dark road, you felt goosebumps tingle your flesh.

“Hey Tyler?” you breathed, unsure if you were able to stop the words about to flow out your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Are you ever actually gonna do anything?” your vulnerable question was barely audible.

Not yet catching onto your subtext, he inquired, “about what?”

Staring over at him, you uttered, “me.”

His eyes immediately fluttered back to find yours, gazing back at you a second before it faltered, “I–… I don’t know what you mean...”

“Oh, yes you do,” you tilted your head, “you flirt with me all the time, I know you do, I’m not some sheltered little virgin, I know what it looks like when someone likes me!” you felt the truck roll to a stop as you spoke.

His firm grip stayed on the wheel long after the car had halted.

“Y/n, I–…” he tried, though gave up in a soft sigh.

As he refused to meet your stare, you felt your stomach begin to flip.

“Oh…” you then breathed, blinking down at your hands as they fiddled with the fabric of the sundress that you wore, “unless I apparently don’t, I–… you know what? Forget it, I’m sorry,” your eyes squeezed shut at the mortification, “let’s just go back to the farm and pretend I didn’t say anything…”

Though his grip didn’t shift away from the wheel, didn’t drift down to twist the key and restart the engine. Instead, to your surprise, you saw him in your periphery twist towards you before you felt his hands come up to cup the sides of your face and pluck it out of hiding.

Pulling you towards him, he then pressed his lips to your own, rendering you reeling to claw your way out of the stunned pit his bold actions had cast you into.

As one of your palms slowly floated up to rest against the back of one of his, a soft sigh flowed from your form as you melted into his warmth.

However, before you sank in and lost yourself completely, you felt him withdraw, though still remained close, letting his nose ghost against your own as he exhaled, “this is a really bad idea… we shouldn’t… I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Why would you think you’d lose it?” your fingers curled around the back of his hand in a plea to keep his touch glued to your heated cheek.

“Have you met your father?” he scoffed softly, “I should be grateful if he only fires me and doesn’t outright kill me.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“You sure about that?” Tyler half-joked before slowly retracting even further.

Blinking back at him, your lips still tingled from his kiss as you quietly said, “…I thought you were the one who just insisted that some things are worth dying for… I guess you just have to decide whether or not I could be worth that kind of risk…”

A gentle chuckle then bubbled out of him as he gazed back at you in amazement, “you sound like a fair maiden 500 years ago,” twisting his fingers and tangling them in your own.

Puffing out a laugh of your own, you defended, “well you started it!” before you felt one of his palms slide to the nape of your neck and tug you back in for another kiss. His lips felt like fire, though the slow smouldering kind that licked you up and ignited your entire soul, “if you don’t think it’s worth it,” you breathlessly uttered against his kiss, “then you should probably stop kissing me like that…”

As a gentle smirk tugged at his mouth, he answered you not in the form of words, but instead drifted his hands down your frame and scooped you closer, plucking you up and lifting you into his lap, wasting no time at all to claim your lips again.

It didn’t take long after you settled above him, the wheel of the truck poking the lower part of your spine, that the slow peck evolved into something more, something else. Something that had muffled whines crawling up from the depth of your lungs and vibrating against his tongue as yours desperately danced against his own. Something that had you rolling your hips and grinding down against the hardness poking your panties so perfectly beneath the billowy fabric of your dress, the material of which had begun to ride up as Tyler’s wild touch began to wander over the curves of your frame.

Panting into his mouth, your head started to lull slightly as you rocked down against him, the sensation being nearly too much to stand in the way it was both overwhelming yet also not at all enough. Nevertheless, if he gave you the chance, you’d surely be able to cum just like this if he let you, if he told you to desperately rut against him like some animal in heat, then you would, because that was just the effect he seemed to have on you. He was always able to turn your brain off with but a glance and nearly cause you to faint if he ever flashed you a dazzling smile.

To say you had it bad was the understatement of the century, but evidently, and thankfully, you weren’t alone in the predicament.

Snaking a hand down in the non-existent space between your frames, you found the bulky buckle of his belt and began to undo it.

“Please,” you panted, your tone sounding downright pathetic, “I wanna–, can I touch you?”

And before you could fumble to do it, Tyler didn’t hesitate to undo his jeans and seize your hand, stuffing it into his pants and guiding your fingers to engulf his girth, squeezing them lightly around himself for but a moment before his touch then faded and he left you to your own devices.

“Oh, fuck–,” he growled, his hot breath fanning against your skin, “just like that.”

His cock throbbed in your palm as he kissed you once again and let his wide hands raked down to your ass, kneading your softness as he groaned against your lips.

But he didn’t let your zealous touch stretch out for that long before you heard him crack the door directly to his left open. His grip on your bottom locked securely as he got out of the truck, effortlessly carrying you with him as he made his way around towards the back.

His hold on you stayed fast as he flipped open the bed of the truck and plopped you down on the ledge. A soft giggle bubbled out of you, even as your hands came up to cup his jaw and he slotted himself in between your parted thighs.

“Shit…” he exhaled as his gaze fluttered down to spot the damp spot decorating your underwear, neatly on show as your sundress had ridden up even further. Your legs dangled slightly off the edge as his touch then reached down to trace the mark of desperation, your bottom lip swiftly getting trapped betwixt your teeth as he rubbed you through the soaked cotton, “guess you really do have a thing for me, sweetheart,” his teasing touch traced your core as the sodden fabric clung to you, “I mean, not that I didn’t already have my suspensions…”

“You knew?”

“You’re not exactly subtle when it comes to these things,” he chuckled before letting his fingers dip into your waistband, “it’s cute,” he smiled as your eyes fluttered when his digits swept through your folds, scooping back up to your puffy pearl as it buzzed beneath his caress, “I always enjoyed all the random little reasons you came up with just to have an excuse to talk to me.”

“Okay, I know they weren’t always that smooth,” an embarrassed heat sparked in your cheeks, “but it’s a lot harder than you’d think it is.”

“Oh, I know,” he stated casually, grinning at the way your eyes suddenly grew, “what? Did you really think I just happened to always have some work in the barn whenever you went for a ride?” one of his long fingers then eased into you, causing your mouth to fall open in a silent gasp.

“Wait, seriously?”

“And the time I needed your help learning the system in the tool shed?” another one of his digits found its way inside of your cunt, rendering you a panting mess in his grasp as he leisurely pumped his fingers in and out, stretching you till your pussy sang out for him, “I already knew where everything was.”

The reply that was ready on your tongue swiftly fizzled out and became a forgotten relic as his touch then dissipated and instead floated down to where his jeans were already half undone. Tugging it the rest of the way open, he then stuffed his hand inside and freed his cock. Like a moth to a flame, your eyes couldn’t help but stare, yearning as you watched his cock throb in his tight fist.

“O-oh, fuck…” the curse flowed out your lungs as your gaze stayed glued, nearly drooling as he suddenly hooked his grasp behind one of your legs and yanked you closer, causing you to tumble back onto your forearms as he manoeuvred your core that much closer to him. Hooking his fingers in the material of your panties, he slid them down your legs and, to your amazement, stuffed them into his pocket. As he then began to tap the hefty weight of his length down against your puffy petals, causing glossy strings of your desire to cling onto him and keep you ethereally attached, your eyes snapped back up to find his and the same whimper left your body once again, “oh, f-fuck…”

Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, he teasingly nudged the head against your swollen clit fiercely enough to make your whole frame twitch beneath him.

“God… you feel so good…” he groaned, staring down at how his fat cock slid through and parted your glistening folds.

“Uh, Tyler–,” you begged hazily, your little hole winking every time he denied it any attention, “p-please–”

“What is it, baby?” he cooed smugly, “you want me to fuck you?”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded foggily, your gaze flickering back down to watch his teasing.

“You wanna know what my cock feels like inside your pretty little pussy, huh?” his touch then dented your thighs, pressing both of your legs together, enclosing them around his girth and resting your ankles atop one of his broad shoulders.

“P-please–”

“Is it all you’ve been thinking about?” the softness of your thighs interlocked around him lend him to snap his hips against yours and freely fuck your folds, the underside of him sliding against the seem of your cunt, “what’s been occupying that brilliant brain of yours?” he smirked and you couldn’t help but rock back against his efforts, “because it’s all I’ve been thinking about… how warm you must feel around me, how tight, how fucking wet, how–, fuck!” he then moaned as the way you’d needily tilted your hips up towards him lend his length to accidentally catch your leaking hole and sink in just the slightest bit till he halted his movements.

A shuttering gasp escaped you as well at the sensation as he’d nearly caused tears to roll down your cheeks from how badly you wanted him.

As he caught your eye, his grip digging into your legs in order to hold on to his last strand of self-control, you panted up at him just as he was about to pull back out, “don’t stop.”

Staring down at you, absorbing your every reaction, he slid the tip back out, but so painstakingly slow that it caused your eyes to roll in your skull.

“But what if I did though? What if I just stopped, right here, right now? Just drove you back to the farm and left you a needy little puddle just like this?”

“No, don’t stop! Don’t–, I–…” your walls clung around his girth, “please just keep going, it can just be the tip, I just–, don’t stop…”

When just the memory of him kissed your entrance, he gently sank back in and stuffed the bulbous head inside your cunt, “you sure you just want the tip?” he slowly found a pattern, fucking you with just the essence of him, “you sure you don’t wanna feel me so deep inside of you that you won’t be able to walk afterwards? That you’ll still be able to feel what we did for days and days?”

Blinking up at him, your legs trembling against his chest, you breathed, “I–…” till your dizzy head began to rock in a nod.

“Yeah?” he cocked his head and flashed you a smug smile, “then beg for it.”

“Please fuck me–”

“What was that?”

“F-fuck me–”

“What, like I am right now?” he rolled his hips to just shyly plug you up.

“No, fuck me for real,” your words felt not your own as they desperately flowed out of you, “fuck me exactly like you’ve been dreaming of since we first met, since you first–, ah!” all of the air was then forced out of your lungs as he slammed the remainder of himself all the way inside, stretching you wide of him and letting the tip, the very part of him that had been driving you mad, kiss the deepest part of you and cause your eyes to flutter shut.

Your knees bent and crumbled down to curl up beside your chest as he meticulously slid halfway out, only to jam his dick back inside.

He was practically growling above you, sinful grunts rhythmically flowing from his lips at every one of his frantic thrusts.

“Oh my god,” you cried beneath him as your cunt swiftly began to flutter around him, “you f-feel so–, so–, g-good!”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked and then perceptively asked, “are you gonna cum?” leaning down over you as he kept up his efforts.

You tried to offer him an answer, but in the blissful abyss he’d cast you down in, you could only nod and squeeze your eyes further shut.

“Then look at me, baby,” you sensed his fingers curl around your cheek, his reach dipping into your hairline, “be a good girl and look at me when you cum around my cock,” and when you managed to force your hazy eyes to blink back open, he stared back down at you as your cunt clenched down around him so fiercely that you nearly forced his girth out entirely, “there you go, fuck…”

But as your high began to melt away into sensitivity, the blonde farmhand didn’t slow his efforts in the slightest, moaning above you as he also was too close to cum to simply stop.

“Tyler, it’s too–,” you whimpered, your thighs shaking on either side of his frame as the creamy aftermath of your orgasm created a ring around the base of his cock and aided his erratic efforts, lending the entirety of his length to plunge back into you with such ease, even as your walls quaked and squeezed tightly around him.

“Shh, you can take it,” he uttered hazily, “fucking take it, fucking–, ahh!” his hips then shuttered as he tumbled over the edge and pumped you full of his hot load.

When Tyler one day had an errand to run, some thingy he had to pick up at a neighbouring farm, you hadn’t really paid attention to that part, you had kinda just stopped listening after the discovery that you would get to tag along simply because the neighbour knew you better than him.

So, once you were both waiting on the ground for the farmer to return with the item, just a curious look to make the time pass by morphed into the pair of you full-on wandering around and being more nosy than what was good for you.

Though the snooping halted once you pushed open the door to the westernmost barn and discovered a DIY contraption that tickled Tyler’s nostalgia.

It was a tin barrel, strung up with ropes and tied to a few beams, though he still had to open his mouth for you to fully understand how it was a homemade training tool for when you first began learning how to ride a bull.

By then, some of the fear you’d felt the night you had watched him ride had overflowed and spilt out, which surely also was the reason behind why he suddenly insisted on you hopping on and letting him try to teach the terror out of you.

“So, like that?” you asked, one of your hands hovering above the one you clutched around the makeshift loop tied around the uppermost quadrant of the barrel you straddled.

“Almost, you’re only allowed to hold on with the one hand,” he pointed out and you swiftly adjusted, raising your left hand up high just as you remembered he’d done, “yeah, there you go.”

“So, just eight seconds like this?” your thighs squeezed around the drum as Tyler gently tugged on one of the ropes, only making you sway slightly.

“Yeah,” he nodded as you glanced over at him, “and then there are other things that can get you more points, like how well you hold your balance and if you’re able to control the bull or not, those kinds of things.”

He then caught you off guard by pulling on the rope a little rougher and offering you a much harsher and more realistic buck of the barrel, though, to your shock, you reacted to it surprisingly well, clenching your thighs and tightening your grip.

“Atta girl,” he grinned at the startled chuckle that bubbled out of you, “see? It’s not so scary. You’re a natural.”

“Or maybe you’re just going easy on me…” you pointed out, reflecting on how the love you’d had for riding horses since a very young age surely kicked in and aided you in this skill as well.

“You’re doing great,” he stated, his stare staying glued to how your body and hips swayed borderline sensually to the rhythm he kept up, “relax, give in to the movements more.”

“How?”

“Just–…” he sucked in a breath, “pretend that you’re on something else…” a sly smirk then spread across his features before he uttered, “pretend that it’s me you’re riding.”

You then promptly felt heat begin to rise in your cheeks, as it became impossible to keep up your concentration on the task at hand and swiftly heard yourself shriek, “oh my god, Tyler Owens!”

Letting go of the rope, he stepped closer to you and enjoyed your flustered visage, “or better yet, maybe I should just let you hop on and teach you that way,” he let his palm slide up your leg as he came to stand beside you.

“You’re ridiculous!” you laughed.

Snaking his hands around your waist, he then effortlessly lifted you back down onto the ground and uttered, “you love it.”

As you felt his breath fan across your features, your giggle got caught in your throat and faded away as you gazed back at him.

“Yeah, I think I might…” you then whispered before he crashed his lips against yours.

His boots then began to shuffle as yours did as well, letting him shift you till your spine collided with the gate to one of the empty stalls in the dusty barn. Pushing you up against it as he ravenously kissed you, one of his wide palms then swooped up from his fast hold on your waist to caress the soft peak of your boob through the thin layer of your tanktop.

A breathy moan couldn’t help but slip up from your lungs when his kisses then faded from your lips and began to dance down the side of your neck.

“Okay, easy there, tiger,” you caught his head in your hands as his sloppy pecks fluttered against your rapid pulse, “we can’t do anything here.”

“Oh yeah?” he cocked an eyebrow as he peeked up at you, “is that a dare?”

“No,” you chuckled, then reminded him of your neighbour, “he’ll be back any second.”

A groan then seeped through his grin before he pushed himself off of you, “fine…” yet still held his burly arms stretched out and fast on either side of you, supporting his weight against the half wall behind you and doing his very best to stop himself from diving back in.

But then you slowly let yourself float back into his space, “hey,” and tilted your chin to catch his gaze, “I said not here, not that we shouldn’t give it a try…”

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