#these have been in my drafts for over a year... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alwaysanangelneverag0d · 12 hours ago

Text

Everything starts here

based off this prompt(thank u anon)

masterlist

a/n:sorry this is late y’all my life got crazy busy and extremely stressful i had no free time to sit down and write:(.THIS IS FREAKY AF THO).Might be some mistakes as well,didn’t do a huge proof read

content:Fluff then straight FILTH,sub!pxdom!a,mommy kink(i’m ovulating),fingering,oral sex,scissoring,faceriding,choking,spitting,edging,overstimulation,hair pulling..i think that’s it if i missed anything lmk

Wc:8.0k

————————————————————————-

Paige Bueckers might have been the luckiest woman on earth.

Not because of the cameras flashing in her direction.

No it’s because she was here—on Azzi’s night—as her girlfriend.

Draft night. The accumulation of Azzi’s hard work. Her blood,sweat,tears and damn near everything else. Paige had watched her grind for this moment with a quiet intensity few people understood—and now the payoff was soon to come. The Valkyries had the number one pick.And everyone knew who’s name they were calling

And Paige?Well..she looked great tonight. But more importantly she looked like she belonged next to greatness.

Brittany had chosen a simple sleek suit for Paige. Deep navy with cream piping at the edges,the kind that whispered power-it had been tailored to frame her shoulders,nipped in at the waist as if it had been perfectly made for her. The jacket produced a slight shine under the lights,just enough to catch the eye,but not enough to outshine Azzi.

She’d skipped the tie as Brittany suggested. Too stiff. Instead,she left the first two buttons of her shirt undone. Not enough to be obvious but enough to relax,just enough to make Azzi look twice. Her pants were cropped a fraction above her ankles—hugging her hips without clinging. The matte black Louis Vuitton loafers were her silent flex—not that Paige cared about labels,but damn..they made her walk different.

She decided to keep her hair in a classic slickback bun. Nothing too complex. Just simple. It was Azzi’s night

Her jewelry was another story though.

She had chosen small gold hoops—light,flashy,and clean.

She wore two rings. On her index finger sat another promise ring she and Azzi had picked out together—small but heavy with meaning. A 14k gold band with a slim row of topaz—Azzi’s birthstone—resting flush against metal as if it had always belonged there. She hadn’t taken it off since the day they bought them.

The second ring chosen by Brittany weeks before—minimalist perfection .A plain,gold band brushed with titanium. It was bare except for the words engraved on the inside proof not promise

And lastly the necklace.

The silver chain rested beneath her collar,barely visible unless you looked for it. But Azzi would look. The silver chain sat right over her neck—the same one azzi had given to her as a “good luck charm” the summer before her first year in college. Paige had never stopped wearing it outside of basketball. Not really. Not when she left for Connecticut. Not when they were trying to pretend they were just friends who occasionally slept together. And especially not now,on the night Azzi was finally stepping foot into the league.

She’d seen glimpses here and there of Azzi’s outfit in the group chat they shared. A cream coloured dress meant to match the dark navy of Paige's suit

When she opened the door to the room,She saw Azzi before Azzi saw her—Posing for photos as they were taken by the photographer in the lit room.

Which was good—-hell maybe even necessary. Because if Azzi had looked at her in that moment,Paige knew she would’ve cracked. Right there on the carpeted floor,cameras lingering in the room,the chaos of getting draft ready humming around them—Paige would’ve folded under the weight of her. Probably would have crossed the room and kissed her so passionately that it would make even the most hopeless romantic gag.

Azzi’s dress was cream.

Not exactly stark white. But soft and warm like sunlit silk. It wrapped around her frame in a way that made Paige forget her own name for a mere second. The dress gave her power and presence,but everything else about it was quiet yet deliberate—cinched at the waist ,fabric catching just enough light to glow like it was lit from within. The hem of the dress hit midcalf. Showing just enough skin to make Paige choke on a breath—caramel skin contrasting the color in a way that made her want to do things she couldn’t do in public. And the gold button accents down one side? Yeah. The image was gonna live rent free in her mind for a long,long time.

She wasn’t covered in jewelry—simplicity had always been her style. Just a pair of gold droop earrings that danced when she moved,and a matching cuff around one wrist. Minimal. But elegant. Deadly to paige

She turned slightly adjusting her clutch,and Paige caught a glimpse of her back—defined yet soft muscle dipped clean down her spine. Paige’s jaw tightened. She stared

God how was this the same girl she used to watch fall asleep on her shoulder with a hoodie over her face?

She looked grown.

She looked like everything Paige had spent years trying to not want loudly.

Like a woman who was born to play in the league.

Like the kind of woman you rewatched interviews of time and time again—-just to hear her voice.

Like everything Paige used to dream about when they were stuck between almost and never.

The moment she had dreamed about since she and Azzi were on the same team in a U16 tournament. It was here.

And then Azzi turned fully—as if she sensed Paige watching. Looked past the assistants smoothing down the hem of her dress

And she smiled

Soft—almost shy.

But Paige caught it—the real one,the smile only reserved for just her. She thought she couldn’t fall even more in love then she already was—but in that moment she did.

Azzi made her way towards Paige ,heels clicking softly against carpet. Her smile grew,Paige’s chest tightened at the sight. She took in a moment to admire Azzi’s hair for the night.

Azzi had worn it down—long stunning goddess braids cascading over her shoulders and down her back like ink poured in slow motion. The braids framed her face like a halo,highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbones,the softness of her lips,the strength of her jaw.

Paige’s knees suddenly felt weaker than they ever have.

She had seen Azzi sweaty in a practice shirt,bare faced and sleepy on long flights,laughing in oversized t-shirts over FaceTime. Even seen her with the same hairstyle. But she had never seen her like this—elevated,radiant,ethereal.

There was power in it. In the way Azzi wore her beauty through pride.

And yet she still looked at Paige like she was the one who hung the stars.

She nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You clean up nice Bueckers”Azzi whispered when she neared close enough for her to hear it,eyes flicking down to the navy suit Paige wore,the undone buttons,the chain peaking out of the collar.

Paige gave her a slow once over in return—not caring who was watching “You think so?”

Azzi smirked”You wore that suit on purpose” her voice was soft—but it carried an undertone that was only shared in moments of lust.

“I wore it just for you.”

Then Azzi moved

She stepped forward slowly and slid her arms around Paige’s neck-not rushed, just real,as if it was second nature. Her fingertips grazed the hair along Paige’s nape,warm and soft,then settled there.

The press of her body was grounding. Paige froze for half a second—like she was 17 again and Azzi Fudd had just wrapped her arms around her. Then instincts kicked in and her hands moved towards Azzi’s waist,settling just above the curve of her ass. Fingers brushing the edge of the dress where fabric met skin.

She felt the rise and fall of Azzi’s chest.

In that moment everything else disappeared. The makeup artists kept moving in the background. The camera clicked with a shutter again. Brittany murmured something to Azzi’s assistant. But Paige heard none of it.

Azzi was close enough now that her breath was right over her ear,light and steady. Her cheek lightly brushed Paige’s temple—and Paige closed her eyes at the familiar sensation. The scent of her,the way her nails lightly pressed at the back of her neck like she needed to be touching her there.

“Are you trying to kill me before the draft even starts?”Paige whispered— loud enough for only the two of them to pick up on.

She felt Azzi’s lips curve against her skin.

“No,I’m trying to make sure you remember what’s waiting for you after this.”

Paige squeezed her waist tightly at this,letting her thumbs rub along the exposed skin on her back.

She leaned in and whispered with a low sultry tone

“If you keep talking like that…”She paused her voice dragging with heat “I’ma make you regret wearing something I can’t rip clean off.”

She felt Azzi’s breath hitch at this,nails pressing hard into the pale skin of her neck.

They stood in silence after that longer than they should've.Long enough for a makeup artist to clear their throat.But neither of them pulled away quite yet.Azzi leaned back far enough to look her in the eyes

“I’d say we look pretty coordinated tonight” she said softly, fingers still brushing the skin of Paige’s neck.

“We do” she paused”Brittany did her thing”

Azzi just gave her a smile—dimples on full display.

Azzi sighed “I would kiss you right now if it didn’t smudge my lipstick.”

Paige just laughed at this “Lipstick can always be reapplied ma” she moved a hand towards Azzi’s face,cupping her cheek bone “Come here.”

Azzi unwrapped her arms around Paige’s neck and shoved her playfully

“I had to sit in that chair for hours getting this done no way im letting you mess it up”

Paige groaned mumbling under her breath “I’ve been banned from kissing..what kind of girlfriend would so such a cruel thing”

Azzi just rolled her eyes at this and grabbed Paige’s arm

“Let’s get our photos taken together before someone drags us over there”

And Paige just followed behind her.Eyes lingering maybe a little too long on the curve of Azzi’s ass

Yeah.She was definitely the luckiest woman on earth.

————————————————————————

She was seated at Azzi’s draft table,tucked between her parents and Geno,half—listening to Tim chat about the upcoming WNBA season.Paige nodded at the right moments ,but her eyes kept drifting—drawn like a magnet to the woman beside her.

Azzi sat nearly still,but Paige caught the way her teeth tugged anxiously at the soft skin of her bottom lip.

Without a word Paige slipped her hand under the table,resting it gently on Azzi’s upper thigh.She squeezed

Without a word Paoge slipped her hand under the table,resting it gently on Azzi’s upper thigh.She squeezed

Azzi didn’t speak just t turned her head and gave her that look.

The one that made Paige feel like her chest would split open from how much love it was holding.The one she’d spend the rest of her life chasing.No cameras.Just Azzi and those eyes,full of everything they’d survived to get to this point.

Then the commissioner stepped up to the mic.The entire arena hushed as she greeted the crowd.

Paige didn’t look at the stage.She just looked at Azzi.

“With the number one pick in the WNBA draft” the commissioners voice echoed off the walls. “The Golden State Valkyries select…Azzi Fudd, University of Connecticut"

A wave of cheers and applause broke out.Accompanied by the shuttering of cameras.The sounds felt distant to Paige like she was underwater

Azzi rose slowly from her seat,braids slipping back over her shoulders as she stood.

And them,without hesitation she turned to Paige first

She didn’t think.Just wrapped her arms around her tightly and held on.

Azzi’s arms wove tightly around her back.Paige felt the silk dress against her chest,the slight tremble of Azzi’s breath,the heat of the skin where her hand met her bare back.For a second nothing else mattered but them.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Paige whispered into her ear

Azzi didn’t say anything, just nodded into her shoulder,silent but soft.

Then she turned to hug Tim,Katie,then Geno—who was definitely crying,and definitely getting teased for it later.

And then was walking towards the stage.

Paige sat down and watched as Azzi took the crisp Valkyries jersey with her name in bold print—holding it with the quiet grace she always carried.The quiet grace Paige had fallen in love with the moment they met.The crowd roared and Azzi smiled—wide,with those dimples anyone could fall in love with.

Paige had to bite the inside of her cheek hard—-almost enough to draw blood.

Because at that moment?

She wanted to run up there.She wanted to kiss her stupid.She wanted to press her forhead to Azzi’s head and tell her how much she deserved this,how much she earned this.She wanted to rewind every second of this night just to feel it again.

Instead she just sat perfectly still.Eyes burning with tears

She had dreamed of this night more than her own.Dreamed of watching the woman she loved—after injury,after doubt ,after the world kept asking if she would come back—finally step into the light that was meant for her.

She was sure she had never felt more proud in her life

Azzi Fudd.Number one pick

The love of her life.

Her Valk.

——————————————————————-

A week later Azzi had been invited to a private tour of the Valkyries Facility.She had insisted Paige accompany her.Even though Paige would soon be an opponent.She still wanted her moral support to steady her nerves(which she would never tell Paige was the reason).

The Valkyries facility was pristene—new wood,new glass,new history waiting to be made.Azzi tried to act unphased as she walked through the wide double doors,but her chest was tight with nerves she hadn’t expected.The last few days had been a blur—the draft,press,fittings,cameras,and now here she was,officially part of the W.

She glanced beside her as Paige followed her in,sunglasses tucked into her collar, a relaxed half smirk on her face like she owned the place,even though it wasn’t her team’s practice court.

“You’re not gonna like it too much right?” Azzi teased under her breath.”I still have to play against you.”

Paige just grinned “Im just here to be a supportive girlfriend.Totally neutral”

Azzi gave her a look

“Fine” Paige added.”I’ll clap quietly when you get you in a shot.Maybe”.

They didn’t get much further before a familiar voice called out from across the hallway.

“Well,well,well.Look who brought her ex-teamate-slash rival to work”

Azzi turned to see Kate Martin Jogging over, a wide grin stretched across her face.Tiffany Hayes and Veronica Burton weren’t far behind,looking equally amused

“I didn’t bring a rival” Azzi said,trying to steady her voice.

Tiffany raised an eyebrow “That looks like Paige Bueckers to me.Pretty sure she cooked us last season”

“She had 24” Kate added,helpful yet annoying”We lost in OT”

Azzi groaned

“She’s not here to spy” she said “She’s here for moral support.And i wanted her to see the facility.”

“Mhmmm” Tiffany said,eyeing Paige”And how moral is that support,exactly?”

Paige stepped forward,hand on Azzi’s hip,a spark of mischief bouncing in her eyes”You know i offered to keep it professional.But someone begged me to come”

Azzi shot her a glare “I did not beg.”

She’s not here to spy” she said “She’s here for moral support.And i want her to see the facility.”

Kate whistled”Damn its like that”

Azzi just shook her head in annoyance

Veronica nudged her “They’re just saying—bold move bringing in your former backcourt partner info enemy territory.Not sure Coach would approve”

“I already cleared it” Azzi said and turned,starting down towards another hallway”Tours happening anyways.If anyone wants to act normal for 5 minutes”

Behind her Veronica whispered loud enough for everyone to hear,”Act normal?Girl that was us being polite”

Paige laughed,low and pleased,jogging to catch up with her agitated girlfriend.

“I think they already love you” she said as she fell into stride with Azzi.

“I don’t know.They seemed kind of standoffish” Azzi muttered,biting her lip.

Paige bumped her shoulder lightly “They were teasing.Everyone loves you” She paused smiling “Though no way they will love you as much as I do”

Azzi laughed,mumbling a returned I love you.She reached over enclosing her hand in Paige’s

It was a new court.A new team.

Yet Paige still felt like her home

——————————————————————

Paige hated to admit it but the Valks facility was immaculate.High ceilings,sleek floors—a clear sign of a new building.Azzi was practically glowing as she walked through it all—the hardwood court stretching beneath her feet,the rafters where banners filled with accomplishments would be hung in the future.Watched as she introduced herself to team staff—a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

Paige stood a little to the side,on the edge of these moments,trying her best to not look too obvious.But she couldn’t help it.Azzi was radiant,her energy infected as she toured the facility like it was made for her.She’d always been so calm,so composed on the court,but in this moment,in this space—her new space—she looked giddy.

Paige’s eyes traced every movement,every flicker of excitement on her face.When Azzi reached the locker room,she ran her fingers over the new locked with her name embroidered on it,the plaque catching the light.Azzi’s fingers lingered for a moment,brushing across the surface, like she couldn’t believe it was real.Paige had seen her confident,focused,driven, and excited.But now she was amazed…She was seeing it,living it,all for the first time.

Azzi grinned at the nameplate shaking her head slightly,”This is crazy” she whispered to herself,but Paige caught it—and something in her chest swelled. Azzi was so genuine in this moment.So unguarded.Her excitement was as bright as her smile,and Paige was lost in it.

When Azzi turned and caught Paige looking she blinked for a second—as if she had just realized Paige was watching her.There was no embarrassment,no hesitation,it felt for a second like the whole room disappeared.The way her lips parted, just enough to speak.The way her eyes softened,in the the way they only did when she looked at Paige.

“You okay baby?” Azzi asked,the spark still in her eyes,her voice still laced with excitement.

Paige swallowed,forcing herself to breathe again.”Yeah” she said,but a tear escaped the corner of her eye

Her emotions were a traitor

“Im just so fucking proud of you” she choked

Azzi’s smile widened,and her heart skipped a beat,smiling knowing she was this loved.

“Thanks P” she said softly,eyes never leaving Paige “It still feels like a dream.”

Paige’s chest tightened,as she looked at Azzi standing there,so full of life,so full of hope in this moment.Her heart was full of something that somehow felt stronger then love,it almost hurt.

Azzi turned back to the locker for a minute,then shot a look over her shoulder,meeting Paige’s gaze again.”I’m just…I never thought I'd be here.You know?After everything.”

Paige didn’t say anything for a couple seconds,too caught up in the rawness. of it all,but she shook her head,her smile softening

“I know” she said quietly”I know exactly how you feel”

Azzi smiled—turning back in the direction of the court she would soon call hers.”I can’t wait to get out there”

Paige didn’t move.She didn’t need to.Just watched,her heart swelled with something so deep and soft for Azzi that it made everything else blur.

It was the same feeling Paige had when they were together,back at UConn .But here in this moment,Paige bathed in it—Azzi was living her dream right here,and it was something Paige would never grow tired of watching.

Azzi walked back towards her new home court with that same quiet confidence,but there was something different about her today.She was more than just a rookie.She was home.And Paige standing in the background,was once again reminded that she was already in love with the way Azzi moved through the world,the way she embraced her victories,no matter how small.And Paige vowed in that moment to be there for every single victory—always watching in awe.Proud.Always in Azzi’s corner

——————————————————————

A few weeks later,Azzi found herself in the depply cursed ritual known as moving.

Boxes were stacked like a skyline around her brand new apartment,the scent of fresh paint still lingering in the air.Sweat clung to her temple,her hair hung low and clinging to her back in the effort.She’d forgotten how much she loathed this process.The hauling.The lifting.The chaos of unpacking cardboard.

Good thing she had a tall,annoyingly helpful hot blonde girlfriend who made a sport out of it.

“Bet you wish you had guns like these” Paige teased,attempting to lift a heavy box with one arm like she was in a strongman competition.Her biceps flexed under the strain,and she flashed Azzi that cocky smile—the one that always walked the fine line between charming and maddening.

Azzi raised an eyebrow,failing to bite back the smile at her lips.”Less flexing,more unpacking,Captain Biceps”

The taller girl chuckled,clearly undeterred and shot her a wink.”The sooner we finish the sooner we can break in your new bed.”

Azzi rolled her eyes,turning away so Paige wouldn’t catch the way her cheeks flushed—embarrassed that a groan worthy line was so effective.

They settled into a silent rhythm,the kind that came with knowing each other for years,Unpacking turned into a simple waltz of lifting,folding,and tossing memories into new places.Occasionally they’d bump hips,exhange a heavy glance, and maybe sneak a few makeout sessions during breaks that were definitely longer then necessary.

At one point Azzi left to grab her water bottle from the kitchen.But when she returned to the living room and caught sight of Paige her knees buckled.

Paige had peeled off her white t-shirt and slipped on the brand new Valkyries jersey Azzi had intended on giving her.It hung on her frame,brushing the tops of her black corduroy shorts.She stood in the middle of the room doing a dramatic pose in front of the mirror they left propped against the wall,flexing again.This time in Valkyries purple

Azzi froze,throat dry.Paige glanced up at the sound of her footstep,grinning like a fool.

What ya think princess” Paige paused,spinning on socked feet “Purples my colour huh”

Azzi rolled her eyes “Wearing the opposition's colors is a bold move. Even for you.”

Paige just laughed and closed the distance between them,wrapping her arms low above Azzi’s waist.Her hands—predictably,found Azzi’s ass,and Azzi didn’t even bother swatting them away this time.Instead she braced herself against Paige’s solid bicep,her fingers digging into the muscle with intent.

“You like me wearing your jersey baby?” Paige whispered,her tone suddenly gone of playfulness.

“ Does it make you wet?”.Azzi nearly collapsed at this.She didn’t answer,just grabbed Paige’s face aggressively before smashing their lips together.The kiss started off slowly at first,molten and unhurried —-as if their mouths had forgotten they weren’t starving.But it quickly grew heated as her tongue forced its way past Paige’s lips.She couldn't help but let out a moan,moving her hands to grip Paige's skin under the fabric of the jersey.

Paige broke the kiss and moved towards Azzi’s neck,lips biting into caramel skin—-then tracing gentle strokes of her tongue to contrast the harshness.Azzi surrendered to the sensation a breathless moan of Paige’s name leaving her lips.

Paige grinned against her skin.In that moment clarity struck Azzi.Tonight she wanted to be in charge

With sudden strength Azzi grabbed Paige’s bun and tugged hard,pulling her girlfriend’s mouth away from her neck.Paige whimpered but quickly shifted gears,her voice dropping into a low tone

“C’mon mama,quit playing.Let me take care of you” she whined,gripping Azzi’s ass tighter,trying to prove a point.Azzi’s breath hitched but her resolve hardened.

“No.”she remarked,low and final.

Paige’s eyes widened in confusion “What?”

“I’m in charge tonight” Azzi declared,one hand gripping Paige’s jaw,the other still tangled in her hair.Paige let out a soft frustrated whine.

“Youre gonna let me do whatever I want,and you’re gonna listen.Does that sound good baby?”

Paige nodded,suddenly too desperate for words.And Azzi hadn’t even really touched her yet

Azzi crushed their lips together again—no hesitation this time.The kiss was fierce.Hard.Messy hungry.She guided them toward the black leather couch,still gripping Paige’s bun.When they reached the couch,she released her grip,their mouths wet with shared lust.

“Take you clothes off.”

Paige didn’t respond.She just followed instruction.Fingers clutching the waistband of her shorts,sliding them slowly down to her ankles,Her boxers followed,legs trembling under Azzi’s stare.She reached for the hem of the Valkyries jersey but Azzi quickly stopped her.

“Keep it on” she commanded,voice thick and rough “I want you to wear it while I ruin you”

Paige nesrly collapsed backwards onto the couch.Azzi chuckled,loving Paige’s desperation.She pushed Paige onto the cushions,watching with heated eyes as she shed her croptop,revealing black lace that barely contained her curves.

Her hands slipped into the waistband of her own shorts,peeling them off until she stood before Paige in nothing but a matching dark set.

Straddling Paige’s lap,Azzi crushed their lips together again

Paige’s hands instinctively moved towards Azzi’s hips but Azzi slapped them away with a playful tut.

“Who said you could touch?

“But—“

Azzi silenced her with a hand over her mouth.”Can you be a good girl for me?”

Her fingers danced Paige’s scalp,the power of dominance humming through her veins.The rare kind Paige rarely let her hold.

Azzi’s lips found Paoge’s neck with a deep hunger,seeking a pulse point.Her teeth bit hard on pale skin.Then slow and calculated,she traced the mark with her tongue,licking up the entire length of her throat—teasing,claiming and owning.

She quickly sat up—effectively no longer straddling Paige.

Azzi rolled her eyes “Wearing the opposition's colors is a bold move. Even for you.”

“You like me wearing your jersey baby?” Paige whispered,her tone suddenly gone of playfulness.

Paige broke the kiss and moved towards Azzi’s neck,lips biting into caramel skin—-then tracing gentle strokes of her tongue to contrast the harsh harshness.Azzi surrendered to the sensation a breathless moan of Paige’s name leaving her lips.

Paige grinned against her skin.In that moment clarity struck Azzi.Tonight she wanted to be in charge

With sudden strength Azzi grabbed Paige’s bun and tugged hard,pulling her girlfriend’s mouth away from her neck.Paige whimpered but quickly shifted gears,her voice dropping into a low tone

“C’mon mama,quit playing.Let me take care of you” she whined,gripping Azzi’s ass tighter,trying to prove a point.Azzi’s breath hitched but her resolve hardened.

“No.”she remarked,low and final.

Paige’s eyes widened in confusion “What?”

“I’m in charge tonight” Azzi declared,one hand gripping Paige’s jaw,the other still tangled in her hair.Paige let out a soft frustrated whine.

“Youre gonna let me do whatever I want,and you’re gonna listen.Does that sound good baby?”

Paige nodded,suddenly too desperate for words.And Azzi hadn’t even really touched her yet

“Take you clothes off.”

“Keep it on” she commanded,voice thick and rough “I want you to wear it while I ruin you”

Paige nearly collapsed backwards onto the couch.Azzi chuckled,loving Paige’s desperation.She pushed Paige onto the cushions,watching with heated eyes as she shed her croptop,revealing black lace that barely contained her curves.

Her hands slipped into the waistband of her own shorts,peeling them off until she stood before Paige in nothing but a matching dark set.

Straddling Paige’s lap,Azzi crushed their lips together again

Paige’s hands instinctively moved towards Azzi’s hips but Azzi slapped them away with a playful tut.

“Who said you could touch?

“But—“

Azzi silenced her with a hand over her mouth.”Can you be a good girl for me?”

Her fingers danced Paige’s scalp,the power of dominance humming through her veins.The rare kind Paige rarely let her hold.

She quickly sat up—effectively no longer straddling Paige.

She quickly settled on her knees between Paige’s legs.Paige was already trembling for her,thighs parted,folds glistening in the light of the room.The Valkyries jersey was ridden up to her hips.Leaving her cunt in perfect view

“Fuck baby…” azzi murmured,fingers grazing the pale skin of Paige’s thighs “This pussy is so soaked for me”.Paige whimpered clawing her fingers imto the leather of the couch.Azzi leaned in pressing a soft kiss just abive her mound.Then another.Then a third one much closer now.She dragged her tongue slowly through Paige’s folds,groaning as she tasted her—tangy and warm,just for her.

“God,you taste like heaven”Azzi rasped,nose brushing against Paige’s clit. Paige let out a choked noise,hips twitcjing into Azzi’s mouth

“Baby please”she whined,voice thin and needy.”Stop teasing me”

But Azzi didn’t respond with words.Instead,she tightened her grip on her thighs and spread them wider—staring up at her like she was about to destroy her.Which she was

“Beg.” Azzi stated simply

Paige’s head fell back,frustration evident in her tone”Please…fuck,Az,I need your mouth.I need you inside me—dont make me wait anymore”

“Good girl”

She dove in with no warning.Just her mouth devouring Paige’s pussy,tongue parting her folds in slow deliberate strokes.Paige gasped,arching up,but Azzi was ready—she flattened her tongue and licked up over and around her clit in tight circles before closing her lips around it and sucking hard.

Paige cried out

Her hands shot to Azzi’s head,fingers twisting into her hair,but Azzi caught her wrists and pinned them to the couch.

“Stay still”

Paige nodded frantically,panting as her legs quivered.Azzi released her wrists but didn’t break her rhythm—she licked paige with a steady intensity,tongue dragging slow then quick,relentless and then tender,building Paige’s orgasm with every motion.

She didn’t relent.She didn’t stop.She just stared up at Paige,pupils blown wide,as if this is what she was made for.

“Fuck,fuck Azzi your—tongue—“ Paige babbled,eyes fluttering,voice catching with each moan

Azzi growled low against her,causing Paige’s hips to twitch up in response.She switched her angle,tongue fucking deep into Paige’s entrance now,slow and watm—whilst her thumb circled her clit with maddened precision.

“You look so pretty when you’re falling apart for me” Azzi whsipered pulling back to speak—her mouth covered in Paige’s arousal.

“G-god fuck baby—“ Paige let out a wanton moan tilitiing her head back and closing her eyes..

“Keep those eyes open for me baby.I want to see you”.Azzi let go of Paige’s thigh in favour of spreading Paige’s folds open with her fingers—- allowing her tongue to go deeper inside her gummy walls.

Paige bit her lip hard—nearly drawing blood as she felt the coil in her stomach tighten.

“Fuck Azzi…just like that” she whimpered”Im so close baby”.She shook her head into Paige’s core as she fucked her with her tongue.Paige’s breaths started to quicken .Then Azzi hit a particularly spongey spot inside Paige—making her let out a guttural moan in response.

“Im so close Az,please dont stop—fuck,I’m gonna—-”

But Azzi pulled away.Completely

Paige let out an animalistic noise—somewhere between a sob and scream.Her whole body tensed—desperate,soaked and feral

“Why—“ she panted voice wrecked “Why’d you stop”

Azzi rose up slowly,abs tensing with the effort

“Because i want to watch you cum with my name on your back”.Paige just nodded—still panting from her stolen orgasm.

She grabbed Paige by the throat to force her into a sloppy kiss—Paigr moaned at the taste of her own arousal.Tongue darting outside to taste herself as much as she could. Azzi pulled back—a string of saliva connecting their mouths.

“Get up baby and bend over the couch for me”Azzi stroked her cheek.Paige’s lips were bitten and swollen—eyes glossy.

She rose,shaky on her legs,and bent over the arm of the couch,her breaths shallow.The Valkyries jersey clung to her back,sweat soaked and twisted enough for “FUDD” to stand out across her back in bold purple letters.

Azzi quickly followed,standing behind Paige.Azzi took a moment—maybe too long—just to stare.

The jersey,the curve of Paige’s spine,her ass perched perfectly,thighs trembling with anticipation.She was dripping down her legs.Waiting.Submitting.

Azzi hummed in approval,stepping forward to run her palms up Paige’s thighs,slow and reverent.”You wearing my name like this?Baby…you’re asking to get ruined.”

Paige whimpered pressing her forhead into the leather cushion “Please.Azzi.I need you.”

Azzi tucked paige’s jersey higher,folding it into Paige’s sports bra to keep the view clear.Then she spread Paige’s legs wider with a nudge of her thigh,biting her lip at the sight of her soaked,twitching cunt.

She hummed in satisfaction,thumb stroking along Paige’s ass before pulling back to give it a quick slap.Paige’s hips pressed back at the action—a whimper falling from her lips

“Arch more for me baby” Paige pressed her body further down into the couch at Azzi’s request—recieving another slap to the ass in response.

“Look at this pussy..” Azzi breathed.She dragged two fingers through Paige’s folds,fluid coating her fingers instantly.” So fucking wet.Is that all for me?”

Paige nodded furiously,gasping as Azzi teased her entrance with the pad of her fingers.

Azzi smirked then thrust inside—two fingers driving deep into her in one fluid motion.

Paige cried out,hands clawing into the leather.

Azzi didn’t give her time to adjust.She set a punishing rhythm right away,knuckle-deep strokes curling upward with each thrust,fingers fucking into Paige with intent,her palm brushing her clit on every pass.

“God,Mommy—fuck—“Paige sobbed,the words tumbling out as her hips rocked back against her hand “S-so deep”

Azzi leaned over,chest brushing Paige’s back,lips ghosting over her ear”You’re taking me so well baby,so tight for me.”

Paige had long since given up on being quiet— letting out loud guttural whines and babbling nonsensically.With every thrust she met Paige’s clit—red swollen and throbbing from the denial of the previous orgasm.With her other hand she traced the letters of her last name on Paige’s back—her name on full display as she ruined Paige.

She reached up and grabbed a handful of Paige’s now messy bun,yanking her head back so their eyes could meet in the reflection of the mirror left leaning on the wall across the room.

“Look at yourself. wearing my name like a slut.Are you my slut baby?”Paige’s eyes darkened at this she tried to get the words out but nothing came—-it was if she was too fucked out to speak.She moved her hand to roughly grip Paige’s cheekbones at this—-fingers still destroying Paige’s walls.

“I asked you a question baby” Paige moaned—eyes watering

“Y-yes fuck mommy I’m such a slut for you.” Paige moaned,gaze glassy,breath’s coming out in stutters.Her thighs were shaking,knees buckling between the pleasure.

The sounds in the room were absolutely filthy.Nothing but the sound of Paige’s slick filled the space—the creek of the couch as Azzi's fingers pounded into her.

“You close?” Azzi asked,voice low,almost teasing,she slid in a third finger without warning.

Paige screamed.

Her body jerked,hips grinding back frantically as her walls clenched around Azzi’s hand.She couldn’t answer.Just nodded over and over,face flushed eyes rolling back.

Azzi’s free hand came around to harshly circle her clit,quick and relentless.”Come for me.Now” she growled into Paige’s neck “Soak my fucking fingers.”

Paige shattered.

Her whole body convulsed,legs giving out as her orgasm hit her like a freight train.She cried Azzi’s name over and over,walls pulsing around her fingers,slick gushing down her thighs.

Azzi didn’t stop.

She kept fucking her through it relentless and deep,even as Paige whined,trembled—attempting to twist away from the overstimulation.Azzi’s hand reached back up and tighted around her hair.She yanked sharply,forcing her head back so their eyes locked—wild,desperate and starving.

Paige whimpered her mouth parting as Azzi leaned down and spat deliberately into her waiting mouth.The taste was raw,possesive

“Swallow” Azzi growled.

Paige obeyed without hesitation,swallowing the spit with a shaky gulp,eyes wide and completely undone.

Good girl” she pushed paige’s face into the couch cushion—muffling her loud moans.She felt Paige’s walls tighten around her—curling her fingers into Paige’s gummy spot.She drove harder—fighting the resistance of Paige's walls sucking her in.

“Stop mommy its too much” Paige gasped,desperation and want battling for control in her voice.But her hips betrayed her,chasing Azz’s fingers with frantic desperation.

Azzi just smirked “No baby.one more.You’re begging arent you?She’s still begging for me”

Paige nodded shakily letting out a breathless” Ok”

Azzi pulled back and removed her fingers out—slow and slick,strings of arousal clinging between her hand’s and Paige’s pulsing heat.

Paige groaned at the stark emptiness.Pushing her hips back and meeting Azzi’s eyes

“God” Azzi whimpered,bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking them clean.Paige whimpered at the slurping noise,at the look in Azzi's eyes—ravenous and in control.

Azzi dropped to her knees behind her,hands spreading Paige’s cheeks apart.She could see her twitching,the aftermath of the overstimulation written all over her body.The wetness had accumulated down to her thighs.

And yet she was still wet.Still throbbing

“She’s not done” Azzi murmured almost to herself “This pussy’s crying for me.”

Without warning she drove back in.

Her tongue licked through Paige’s folds with a purpose that was almost brutal.She flattened it against her entrance and dragged up in one long stroke before wrapping her lips around her clir and sucking.Hard

Paige shrieked.

Her hands clawed at the cushions,nails digging in desperately

“A-Azzi fuck,please,I can’t” she sobbed hips jerking in attempt to move away.

Instead Azzi held her down.Moving a muscled arm around her waist,the other gripping her thigh.

“You can” Azzi growled into her “You will.”

Her tongue flicked against Paige’s clit in tight,rushed strokes,her rhythm merciless.Then she dipped down again,thrusting her tongue into Paige’s cunt like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—like she’d die without it.

The blonde’s body twitched with overstimulation.Her head shook side to side in denial,but her hips still pushed back again—chasing every lick,every breath.She was unraveling.

“I’m gonna cum again” Paige gasped,voice high pitched and frantic.”I c-cant stop—Az,baby please—“

Azzi just hummed as a response.The vibrations pushing Paige over.

Her orgasm tore through her body like a tidal wave.She came hard,shaking,sobbing,gasping for air as her thighs clamped around Azzi’s head.Azzi held her through it,tongue still lapping through her folds,face and neck now entirely covered in Paige’s arousal.

When she finally collapsed,limp over the armrest,Azzi eased back,face soaked,shining with Paige’s release.She wiped Paige’s arousal off her face with her fingers and stared at her girlfriend— absolutely wrecked,body glistening.

Azzi leaned over and pulled her gently off the armrest,her touch a shocking contrast to how ruthless she had just been to her.Paige landed in a messy sprawl on the cushions,legs still trembling,lips parted and wet with spit.

She sat next to Paige and pulled her head gently into her lap and forced her mouth open

Paige knew exactly what to do

She sucked Azzi’s fingers clean,her tongue tracing every ridge and dip with eager devotion,swallowing every drop.Azzi slid her fingers deeper into Paige’s mouth,watching the way she gagged and drooled over them.

When satisfied she pulled her fingers free with a loud pop and with her other hand stroked Paige’s sweat damp hair.Whispering praise and sweet i love you’s into her ear as Paige settled,tears still streaking down her flushed face.

Paige closed her eyes.Finally feeling her soul come back into her body.

“Holy fuck,ma” Paige murmured after a long moment,voice hoarse “I should’ve worn that Jersey sooner if I knew i’d get your like that.”

Azzi laughed softly,pressing a tender kiss to Paige’s damp hair

“You did so good for me baby” she cooed,fingers still threading through Paige’s hair.

She helped Paige up,peeling the sweat soaked Valkryies jersey and bra from her glistening frame.

“Lets go clean up” Azzi murmured, voice tender,but low and steady.

Paige shook her head “I need to taste you” she pausied to lick her lips and lock eyes with Azzi.”Please”

Azzi hummed a slow approving sound,then nodded

“You want me to sit on that pretty face of yours? Azzi teased

Paige moaned softly in response,nodding eagerly as she sank back into the couch,skin meeting cold leather.Azzi straddled Paige’s hips first,then shifted forward,letting her wet heat brush against Paige’s defined abs.Her thighs trembled slightly at this,her arousal sticking to Paige’ skin.

“Take off the bra”Paige murmured

Azzi obliged,unclasping the delicate black lace and tossing it aside.Paige stared openly at her breasts,the way they moved slightly with the rise and fall of Azzi’s chest—the way her nipples peaked in the cold air of the room.

“You’re unreal” Paige whispered,like she didn’t even mean to say it outloud

Azzi then leaned down and kissed her.Not rough like before.This time slowing.Lingering,tongues brushing and lips catching

Azzi ground down against Paige’s abdomen,letting out soft whimpers muffled by their locked mouths.Then she pulled away, breath short.

Azzi hovered her slick,heated core above Paige’s eager mouth

Paige stuck out her tongue,teasing the damp fabric of Azzi’s thong before Azzi pushed the lace aside snd settled fully onto Paige’s waiting mouth.She let out a strangled groan at the firm contact of her girlfriend’s tongue.

Paige moaned like she was the one being ate.

Without hesitation she dove in,tongue swirling through Azzi’s folds like she was starved.Her moans of pleasure mixed in with the salty sweetness—hands finding Azzi’s ass,digging in,pulling her down deeper.Azzi didn’t protest—just this once—and began to rock her hips,riding Paige’s mouth in grinding circles.

Azzi’s fingers gripped Paige’s messy hair harshly,steadying her as she rocked back and forth slowly,riding the rhythm of Paige’s tongue. Paige took Azzi’s swollen clit into her mouth,nibbling then soothing it with lazy,sensuous swirls of her tongue.

Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s hair harder,moaning and fighting to hold onto the dominant power she claimed in their tangled heat.

“Does my pussy taste good baby?” Azzi’s voice broke with a teasing whine just as Paige’s tongue slipped deeper,flicking inside her slick canal.

Muffled by her girlfriend,Paige nodded eagerly and let out a low hum.Sending vibrations through Azzi’s core that that twisted the coil building in her stomach.

She loosened her hold on Paige’s hair and began teasing her own nipples—pinching and rolling them in time with the grinding of her hips against Paige’s face.

Paige groaned and slapped Azzi’s ass,making her let out a sharp,breathy gasp—fighting to keep control as Paige’s tongue didn’t miss a single inch,lapping and savouring every drop of her essence.

Azzi’s breath hitched as she neared the edge.

“Fuck keep eating my pussy like that,p” she gasped,rolling her nipples between her fingertips.Her hips bucked greedily against Paige’s face.

“I’m gonna fucking come for you.”

Paige didn’t relent,her movement fierce and eager,coaxing Azz over the edge with mounting moans that bounced off the walls.

Azzi crumbled with a loud,ragged moan,grinding through the peak of her orgasm before collapsing down onto Paige’s chest,attempting to gather her stuttered breathing.

Paige lay beneath her,thumb stroking Azzi’s bare back.Mouth parted in a dazed out haze,her pale skin gleaming in the soft glow of the room’s light

She couldn’t resist.Azzi stuck out her tongue and carefully cleaned every inch of Paige’s face,not missing a single drop of her own arousal.

Paige bucked her hips at this,and Azzi grinned,pressing a teasing kiss to the column of her neck

They lay there for a few minutes in silence,coming down from the intensity.

Then Azzi looked up at Paige—eyes still full of hunger

“Can you give me another baby?”Azzi smirked wickedly,her fingers tweaking Paige’s hardened nipples.Her voice dipped low and needy,dripping in lust.”I wanna cum on your pussy.”

Paige threw her head back at the filthy promise,breath hitching and eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Azzi took this as a yes

With slow deliberate movements,Azzi shifted her hips,sliding one of Paige’s legs up and resting it firmly on her shoulder,angling herself perfectly.The heat of Azzi’s core pressed hard against Paige’s,slick with their shared arousal.The contact sent an immediate shock through them ,and a loud primal moan tore from their lips simultaneously.

Azzi started off slow,grinding in calculated circles,letting the friction build and tease.But as time passed,she quickened the pace,hips rocking with growing urgency. Their puffy clits collided repeatedly in a maddening tempo—each brush sending goosebumps of pleasure riveting through their bodies.The air around them thickened with the scent of arousal.Heavy breaths and wet sounds,the relentless friction creating a symphony of choked moans and ragged gasps.

Paige’s hands stayed firmly planted on the leather,hands gripping the edges so tight her knuckles whitened. She wasn’t sure if she had permission to touch Azzi yet—so she restrained herself,eyes locked on the way Azzi’s breasts bounced with every passionate grind.

Azzi’s voice pierced through the silence,breathless and light “You wanna feel them baby?”

Paige whispered a trembling “Yes.”

Azzi grinned cunningly,pulling Paige up slightly just enough to force her mouth onto her hardened nipples.Paige’s teeth grazed the sensitive peaks,biting and tugging with growing desperation.Azzi moaned,her fingers digging deeper into Paige’s shoulders as she pushed her deeper into pleasure

“Do you love making mommy feel good?” Azzi purred ,her hand suddenly closing around Paige’s throat,applying just enough pressure to elicit a shuddering whimper.

She pushed Paige’s head back down and guided her hands towards her ass.Paige caught the hint in an instant,wrapping her fingers around the softness and helping the curly headed girl grind harder and faster against her.

Paige let out a loud broken whine,tears streaking down her flushed cheeks again as the band inside her stomach snapped tighter and tighter.

“Mommy,I’m gonna come” she groaned,hands gripping Azzi’s ass with enough force to leave half moon marks.

Azzi responded,voice equally thick with need and desire “Me too baby.Hold it for me—I’m almost there.”

Their bodies moved in perfected sync,driving against each other with wild,unfiltered abandon.

“Hmmpphh—I’m cumming on this pussy” Azzi whimpered,her voice cracking with raw emotion.”Come with me honey.”

Their orgasms crashed into each other like tidal waves—moans mixing in breathless harmony as their control shattered.Azzi collapsed fully knto Paige’s chest,both girls shaking and gasping,sweat slick and mingling om their skin.

For a long moment neither of them spoke—just the sound of steadying breaths and the warmth of skin pressed to skin

Azzi finally sighed,voice low and amused “I might need a new couch after this.”

Paige let out a hoarse laugh “Totally worth it though.”She leaned down and kissed at the skin of Azzi’s temple,a tender comparison to the wildness moments before.

“We need to get up and shower.We can’t sleep like this baby” Azzi murmured,yet nuzzled deeper into the crook of Paige’s neck.

“I know” Paige whisperd back,palm rubbing slowly against Azzi’s bare skin.”Let’s just chill here a little longer.”

Paige wanted to imprint this moment deep into her memory—the feel of Azzi’s skin,the taste of her mouth,the comfort of her voice.Nights like this would soon be rare,separated by miles and clashing schedules.But no matter where it took them,they were chasing the same dream.

Together.

Just like Paige had imagined ever since that first day they met.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi smut #paige bueckers smut

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bckybrnss · 2 days ago

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let me put my arms around you // bucky barnes x reader

summary • it’s never not exciting to come home from a mission to your two beautiful kids pairing • bucky barnes x thunderbolts!fem!reader warnings • soft!dad!husband!bucky, bucky has so much love for reader & their kids, set after the last scene in thunderbolts but way before the post-credits scene (they need a break before the world ends), may cause chest clutching & feet kicking, thunderbolts mentioned, brief callbacks to tfatws (aka how long bucky & reader have been together/married), bucky & his wife love lying genre • fluff word count • 1.5k notes • so i love the secret marriage/family trope for bucky but then i thought ‘what if bucky & his wife were both thunderbolts and came home from a mission to their very excited kids who are up way past their bedtime’ and i also tried to keep the kids’ descriptions as vague as possible + keep it up to reader interpretation so there’s no names or identifiers outside of their ages (when i was writing i visualized them having a son and a daughter but other readers may visualize bucky with 2 girls & others may visualize him with 2 boys yk)

Exhausted was an understatement.

Fresh off the jet from a mission your body was screaming for your bed, your husband Bucky in unspoken agreement. Any stranger could catch a glimpse of you in passing and see, possibly even feel, the exhaustion radiating from the both of you. The rest of the team saw it right before you all went your separate ways, with the rest of them making their way to the Watchtower and the two of you coming up with separate, yet very creative lies about needing to make some personal pit stops, promising to be back at the tower by the next team briefing.

Bucky came up with something along the lines of ‘making sure I still have a job in congress after all of this’ and you brought up a fake promise to your mom that ‘she’s been begging to see me outside of news reports for months’, both of you seasoned liars at this point. You were convinced that Yelena or Ava could read you both like books, immediately pushing past the excuses to grill the truth out of you two, but never once did she ask a question or bat an eyelash. The rest of the team? Oblivious beyond belief.

It’s not like keeping secrets from the team was an intentional act nor was it personal, but how exactly do you explain to them that you and Bucky have been married for the past three years and you two only just had two kids within three years. It’s not a topic that could easily be brought up over coffee and breakfast considering that the wedding was right after your first was born, but you really loved the idea of your family being something that only belonged to you and Bucky, something precious that didn’t need to be shared with everyone.

It was Bucky’s idea to keep things private, really; He didn’t want to put more pressure on you as you were now thrust into the spotlight as an Avenger, and knowing how the media is he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his kids were in the spotlight at their young ages, with them only being two and one. It was for the best, despite Valentina’s many protests that it would help his presentation to the voters, to keep the kids and your marriage out of the spotlight. The two of you wanted for them more than anything was to have a normal childhood; Bucky had to grow up before he was ready and eventually got drafted — it’ll be fun to explain to your kids that their dad is over one-hundred years old when they get older, and it’d make one hell of a career day — and you moved around so much as a kid it was hard to define what ‘Home’ was, but as soon as you met Bucky (after accidentally ending up on the same mission back in Berlin) there was no denying that feeling.

Three years, a wedding ring, and two kids later you wouldn’t trade your life for anything. The two of you would give up the Avengers title in a heartbeat if it meant your kids got to live a peaceful life. Nothing beat the sound of your toddler’s feet as they ran to meet you at the door and the excited coos of your baby when they first caught sight of you, and that’s exactly what happened the minute the key hit the door. Grandma — your mother — was rounding the corner with your baby on her hip. The older of the two practically barreled into Bucky’s legs and his exhaustion became nonexistent, dropping his bag so he could let himself be tackled. The younger of the two waddled over after Grandma had set them down, watching in awe.

“Hope they didn’t give you too much trouble Ma.” You leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek as the one-year-old clung to your neck. Bucky carried your oldest like a backpack as he gave his mother-in-law a half hug, leaning in to blow a raspberry to the youngest’s cheek.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Your mother reassured you with a warm smile. “I know they both missed you a lot. They wanted to wait up for you guys but they’re so tuckered out after today.”

“They were all we could think about. Couldn’t wait to get off the plane.” Bucky maneuvered your oldest to where they were settled on his hip, both kids obviously fighting sleep through their slow blinks. “That means they’ll sleep through the night.”

Gratitude and goodbyes were exchanged as your mom headed home for the night, also earning a well earned break. It was almost a week away from home that was a week too long and you were so happy to be home. At some point it dawned on you that the two of you were still in your tactical gear, your husband picking up on how the realization crossed your face.

“Go wash up. I’ll put them to bed.” Bucky scoops the youngest out of your arms and into his, your heart warm at the sight of your sleepy kids clinging to their dad. “We can deal with our bags in the morning.”

Too tired to protest you simply nod and make your way upstairs with Bucky and the kids in tow, you headed towards your shared bedroom and your husband headed in the opposite direction towards the kids’ room.

The youngest was already fast asleep by the time Bucky had tucked them into bed, replacing the thumb in their mouth with a pacifier before kissing the top of their head. He then shifted his attention to the oldest, holding the blanket open for them to settle into bed.

“Daddy, Gamma tol’ us that you and Mommy are superheroes.” They blinked up at him with sleepy eyes and a sleepy voice to match, Bucky making sure they were fully tucked in.

“Something like that. We make sure outside is safe so by the time the both of you get big, there’s no more bad guys.” Bucky says, huge grin on his face. “Mommy and I will teach you guys how to fight off the bad guys one day.”

“One day?” They ask.

“One day. Pinky promise.” Bucky holds up his pinky and the two-year-old links pinkies with them before kissing their forehead. “Get some rest Peanut.”

Bucky takes one last look at the kids before turning off the big light, the nightlight dimly illuminating the room and warding off any nightmares. Once the door is closed he takes what feels like the longest sigh of his life before heading to the bedroom, a small smile on his face as he hears the shower running. Stripping out of his tactical gear he slowly makes his way into the bathroom, stepping under the warm water as he wraps his flesh arm around your waist, dipping his head to rest in the crook of your neck.

“Mm, kids asleep?” You ask, leaning your head back against his chest. Bucky nods and mumbles something along the lines of a “mhmm”, exhaustion radiating from his body. The two of you stood as the warm water relaxed sore muscles and washed the dirt and stressors of today down the drain.

Turning around in his arms you look up to meet his tired eyes, exchanging sleepy smiles as you reach for the shampoo. Squeezing it into your hand as you lather it in your hands, running your fingers through Bucky’s hair, a content look taking over his face as you start to scratch his scalp. He turns you around so he can return the favor, squeezing your body wash — his favorite scent on the planet — into a towel before half-washing, half-massaging the tension out of your body with one hand. There was nothing innately sexual about the moment, just an intimate moment shared by two people who were absolutely perfect for each other.

As the last of the soap runs down the drain you shut the water off, your husband stepping out first and holding a hand out so you don’t slip. He grabs your towel and wraps it around you before wrapping his own towel around his waist, gently pulling you into him before kissing the top of your head.

The both of you dried off and moisturized, Bucky heading to the bedroom after brushing his teeth. After washing your face you shut off the light and headed to the bathroom, unable to keep the smile off your face as Bucky reached for you with grabby hands.

“You can be just as bad as our kids sometimes, you know that?” You tease as you climb into bed, settling into his arms as he held you close to his chest.

“Am I not allowed to just hold my wife after a long, exhausting, tough mission?” Bucky teased you in return before pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me a simple life. For being my wife. For bringing our kids into this world. For saving my ass way too many times to count out in the field. For just being you.”

Your face lit up but the soothing sound of Bucky’s voice was lulling you to sleep, as all you could muster was a lazy kiss to his jaw before you dozed off for the night.

#✏️ — 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fluff

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deerdoegone · 3 days ago

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stop caring about how you will get your desires.

hello hello. still alive and on the same bullshit. i have to share a realization i had ages ago with someone, and i've decided to share with the audience of angels (you guys), so please bear with me for how messy this will get because i am clustered, disorganized, and feel like i've been in the rain for a day and a week.

so, what is the point of this? i'm not really recounting a shift—though i will later—why am i frantically typing at 2AM wednesday and poorly proofreading at 9PM a week later? my published archive and the reason to no longer hold onto the realism of your shifts and manifestations.

think 2005 in los angeles at the oscars. i am the youngest to ever receive the award for best director, best original screenplay, and best cinematography at only twenty-two; papers are saying it will never be done again in this lifetime. i am not a nepo baby or some illuminati thinkpiece playset that comes with the aaliyah doll included. i am me. think 2011, and now think harder about a california loft decorated in pink and girly accents with a fluency in ivory and lace. i’m going through boxes from old productions.

photographs on and off set, email copies, receipts from budgeting, everything i’ve stored over the years that’s taking up a suffocating amount of space. wine glass in hand, i'm going through all these overwhelming examples of "have i gone too far?" i mean, how realistic is it for the oscars to let a twenty-two-year-old black woman on the stage and hold an award for merit in three categories? it'll overwhelm you, tying yourself up to realism within idealism. manifestation has to have a pathway, something to click for it to make sense to you. there has to be a step-by-step plan to get that desire. you need to tell yourself that the only way you will get this thing is by finishing your 12-step plan that makes the most sense of how you will get it.

none of that matters. none of your intricate, well-thought-out plan of how you can get a text back matters. you want something? it's already yours. stop thinking that the universe is emotionally disconnected from your relationship with it. it'll happen on it's own, and you do not need realism or to play connect the dots to get the pretty picture.

you set the standard for yourself and push your limits as far as they can go because you fucking can. push your limits until the invisible wall breaks and you fall off the edge of the simulation.

stop worrying about how you will come across money, you do not need to be detailed. "mom will me $5, dad will give me $10, my boss will give me $350" stop it. you could find that money on the sidewalk in a black duffle bag. you could find it neatly wrapped up in a birthday card from your nonna.

just let it go and let it happen as it happens.

so i stopped worrying. it took a crisis induced 25 minutes of "am i doing too much?" before i realized "who literally fucking cares" was my best answer. i took all those photos, emails, reciepts, script drafts, backstage costume prep, i took every last little thing and published my archive in sofia coppola fashion because who literally fucking cares.

being realistic in your idealistic life is gonna get you nowhere because you'll end up spending more time on the details instead of the end result. nobody fucking cares how you got there. you shouldn't care, either.

apply to this shifting , if you want. the second you stop caring it all kind of clicks? that's how i shift, anyways. i think of nothing and nobody. i live out a day and wander aimlessly with no intention. i don't have to feel dizzy, i don't have to feel numb, i don't have to go step by step.

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sweetheartsocks · 2 days ago

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QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE.

Aaron Hotchner x law student!reader

genre : case fic, borderline embarrassing amount of pinning, unfunny jokes, set in season 3

summary : If you want fun, then listen to this. Georgetown's hottest story is "Law and Flounder". You're back with an all-new hot case that finally answers the question : "What happens when your thesis turns into a murder investigation… and maybe something more?" This story has everything : 1970s crime files, creepy copycats, legal jargon used incorrectly, and a very sexy and stern FBI agent who might actually smile more than frown. And just when you think the fun is over. Knock, knock, what's there ? It's cannoli time. What's cannoli time you ask ? It's that thing of when you're trying to help solve a case and you keep fantasizing about Hotch's indecently thick fingers.

notes : i included a couple of appendices (with like reports and stuff), you don’t have to read them, the story still makes sense without, i just thought it’d be fun. also, this is literally my first time ever posting my writing on the internet so i’m really nervous lol, please be nice to me…!!

word count : 13.0k

'The Profiler's Dilemma : The role and reliability of early behavioral profiling in shaping investigative and legal outcomes'

A thesis presented in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of

JURIS DOCTOR

(draft 3)

The emergence of behavioral profiling in the 1970s opened a new avenue to criminal investigations. Pioneered by the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit (BSU), now Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), this approach relies on behavioral and psychological science, to identify offender traits and markers from crime scene evidence. Thus, this technique has been widely viewed as a pivotal tool in order to narrow suspect pools, particularly in complex and violent cases. However, points of contention remain in regards to the reliability, investigative value and legal admissibility of behavioral profiles. One early example of such case, is a 1978 unsolved homicide in Lexington, Virginia. BSU profilers provided a psychological profile of the perpetrator, but no arrests were made, and the case remains unsolved to this day. Consequently, this outcome raises critical questions regarding the justification of such interventions.

This thesis aims to examine the legal implications and evidentiary challenges posed by the integration of behavioral profiling in criminal investigations, particularly during its formative years.

The words on your screen are starting to not make sense anymore. At this point, you've seen the word 'behavioral' so many times that it's starting to look wrong. Maybe it's 'behavioural' ? Who even cares about any of this? You do, obviously, and way too much at that. You're just having a bad day because : 1. your thesis advisor has been MIA for the past 5 weeks 2. they were out of strawberry shortcake at the bakery 3. the Freedom of Information Act request you made to the FBI came back with so many 'REDACTED' parts that you're thinking that maybe that's the only word they're allowed to print.

But hey, on the bright side, you managed to get an interview with Agent REDACTED to talk about the profile he made for the case. They take the time to redact his name to protect his privacy, just for him to go and publish several books detailing his entire profiling career. Thanks Agent Rossi!

The trip from Georgetown to Quantico takes about 1 hour and 30 minutes. When embarking on this treacherous and arduous journey through DC public transportation, one must a) come prepared (cash, water bottle, sunscreen, little snack, blue ink pen and paper to take notes, headphones, pepper spray, and any other provisions), b) relinquish any and all hope of comfortable and decent travel conditions and c) adhere scrupulously to the following instructions to avoid any unnecessary detours (totally not speaking from experience.)

Step 1 : get on the DC Circulator from Georgetown (at M street or Wisconsin Avenue) towards Union Station, 20-25 minutes, $1.00 for the fare

Step 2 : from Union Station, transfer to the Virginia Railway Express Fredericksburg Line towards Quantico Station Zone 6, 50-60 minutes, $12.00

Step 3 : board the shuttle from Quantico Station to the FBI Academy, 15-20 minutes, free

During this voyage, do not make eye contact with suspicious looking men in uniform and do not think too hard about how you're going to the literal FBI headquarters.

The Quantico FBI building looks… like a badly-engineered game of Tetris. You're sure architecture aficionados would find something to say about brutalism, and how raw concrete is meant to show power and be imposing. To be honest, it looks plain ugly. But you're so nervous that you might not even be seeing it correctly. Perhaps it looks warped because you're shaking so much that your eyeballs themselves have become unsteady.

You've been waiting for the past 24 minutes for the lady at the desk to give you back your ID and let you in to meet Agent Rossi. You couldn't possibly be on any lists… right ? How do people even get on a list ? It's not like you're googling anything too nefarious, and��no, looking for 'hot older man hugs you and tells you you're pretty' videos isn't illegal.

"Alright, everything seems to be in order. Here's your ID and visitor's badge. Please make sure to clip it to your clothing in a visible spot and do not remove it during your visit. The BAU is on the 6th floor, someone will accompany you," desk-lady finally says, like you weren't about to ask for a lawyer (wait, aren't you supposed to be a lawyer ?)

The visitor's badge looks cool. You're an 'AUTHORIZED VISITOR', at least until 5:00 PM today. Weirdly strict that they specify the hour. What if you're still here at 5:01 ? Do they neutralize you on sight ?

You'd ask your chaperone, (Mr. Tojamura, or is it Agent Tojamura ?) who's accompanying you for this highly sensitive elevator ride from the reception desk to the 6th floor, but he doesn't particularly look the chatty type.

Agent Rossi's office looks as boring as the rest of the building. You'd think someone so flamboyant would have an equally flashy office, but no. There's a few framed pictures here and there, one from where he was in the Marines (so that's how he got to 3 ex-wives…) Hidden in one of the drawers, you spot a very expensive bottle of scotch. Agent Rossi definitely knows how to drink, though it does make you wonder if this is how he's using tax payer money… There's a bunch of shiny awards, military medals you know nothing about, and plaques, several plaques : 'FBI Medal of Meritorious Achievement’, 'Director's Award for Excellence', 'FBI Shield of Bravery', damn. The awards do make up for the lack of bling-bling.

"I suppose you're my 3:30 appointment ?"

"I'm, uh, yes. Hello. Agent Rossi. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Most people start with the desk, I see you've went straight to the ego wall," he points out immediately. You're not sure if he's threatening you or joking.

"They're very shiny, so it's hard not to notice them—" No, that sounds rude, hold on, you think, cutting yourself off. "And they're obviously very impressive," you add quickly.

"That's the idea," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I get them polished regularly.”

He takes a seat, leans back into his chair. "Alright, enough ego-stroking for today. Let's get to why you're really here. The ‘78 case, is that right ?" he continues.

Time to get to business.

"Yes that's the one. I was wondering if you could walk me through your thought process while coming up with the profile ?" you ask directly.

He tilts his head slightly. "You know I can't give you specifics, case is still open after all. What I can do —" He gestures vaguely with his hand. "— is talk you through the general method. General behavioral patterns, how crime scene elements correlate to specific types of unsubs… that sort of thing."

Thing is, you're not exactly here to get a private profiling 101 lesson with Agent Rossi. You need to get him to talk as much as possible.

"Of course, I understand. In general, when you're developing a profile, what behavioral indicators are you typically looking for ? And are there any elements of a profile you always try to include, even with limited data ?" you try.

He pauses, brings his hand back up to his face. Seems to be considering how much or how little, he can get away with saying. The ring on his pinky scratches against his beard.

"We look at what the unsub leaves us at the crime scene, whether they meant to or not. Level of organization, the type of victim they chose, a signature… Every element about the scene is a reflection of the unsub's mind." He pauses again, taps his finger against his chair absentmindedly. Tap, tap, tap.

"And for your other question ?" he asks. "What's something I try to include in the profile no matter what ?"

You glance up from your notes, your pen is starting to stain your finger with ink.

"Yes. I mean, if you don't have substantial information to base your conclusions on. What parts of the profile would you still try to figure out?"

"No matter how thin the file, I always look for signs of a potential escalation. Demographic profile, comfort zone, that's the stuff anyone can give, it's statistics. But escalation ? Emotional leakage ? That's what you have to look for, and you have to know where to look."

You finish writing down what he says and look back up at him.

"In the 1978 profile, you mention that the offender might potentially revisit the crime scene. Generally speaking, what would lead you to that conclusion ?" you venture.

He chuckles. In a sort of patronizing way. Like you're a little kid who just made a cheeky joke. Amused but condescending at the same time.

"Revisiting the scene, it's a form of reliving the crime, of quenching some sort of thirst or guilt. Think of it like an addict coming back for another hit. In the crime scene—" He stops and waits for you to finish writing. "— you see that the unsub spent time with the body, moved it, disturbed it in some way. Almost like they can't get themselves to let go. Of course, if the crime itself gave the unsub a specific and intense emotional release, they'd tend to come back to it."

Intense emotional release, to relive the crime. This checks out with the profile you have.

"How would you determine that a crime was sexually motivated if there's no sign of sexual assault?" you risk.

He knows what you're getting at. The profile you got doesn't include the fact that substantial damage was done to the victim's private parts, but that was easy enough to find out.

He narrows his eyes slightly, and straightens his back.

You put down your pen. Maybe you took it too far ?

"You've been doing some digging."

You're not sure if you're supposed to answer. You can't back down now, this is important. But at the same time, you hate that it feels like he's about to scold you.

He drags out the silence for a little longer. Like he's trying to see if you'll crack.

"Sexual motive isn't necessarily about the act itself. It can be about power, control, dominance, humiliation."

You pick your pen again.

"When there's no clear evidence of assault, we look at the body itself. Was it posed ? Was there overkill ? Did the unsub take anything ?"

You can feel him watching you, dissecting every part of you. Not unkind, but sharp.

"Looking back…" You clear your throat. " Is there anything in your original profile that you would maybe change, with the knowledge and experience you have now ?" Somehow, your voice is steady, even if you're shaking in your socks.

"Would I write the same profile today ?" He leans back in his chair. He looks at you, more kindly than before, and then to the side of his desk. Like he's trying to look back in time.

"Probably not. Not because the original profile is wrong… but because I'm— time changes the way you see things."

He hums, and tears his gaze away from his desk. You try to glance at what he was staring at but the picture frame looks backlit from where you're sitting.

"Let me ask you a question. I'm not used to being the only one interrogated." He smirks. "Why focus on profiling ? You're a law student, aren't you ?"

"I, uh—" You're not sure what to say. He does have a point. Because profiles are a walking contradiction, trusted by police but doubted by courts. That's the answer you should give. Sounds smart enough, and doesn't question the value of profiling as a whole. You're spinning your pen in your hand.

"Because they're—"

A quick knock. The door opens before you can finish what you were saying (thank god).

A man steps in, "Dave, can you— I'm sorry I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

A man doesn't even begin to describe whoever it is that just came in. You almost drop your pen (and your [REDACTED]. no? let's try a different word. your [REDACTED]. still not… you almost drop one of your personal clothing items. that works.)

He's beautiful. In an overworked, and underfucked way. His hair is short, maybe a tad too much, some of it is sticking up despite the gel coating the strands. Your hands are itching to brush them back down. He's wearing a suit, gray, with a red tie. Is there such a thing as a 'suit fetish', because you definitely have that. His tie looks almost too tight, like everything about him has to be tightly tied down. Almost reflexively, your eyes look for his hands. No ring. Thick fingers, hairy hands, fancy watch. No ring. You're probably staring at him with your mouth open, like this is the very first time you're seeing a man. And it might as well be. He's beautiful. And he smells nice. You get a very light whiff of his perfume… vanilla ?

Agent Rossi looks mildly amused, like he's stumbled upon something interesting. "Law student," he says with a small nod your way. "Working on one of my old profiles. About how profiling holds up in court." He glances at you then back at the (beautiful, beautiful) man.

"Since you were playing for the other team, maybe you could give them some pointers."

"Aaron Hotchner. Unit Chief," he says and holds out his hand for you to shake. It’s rough, and incredibly warm. The ink on your finger leaves a little blue smudge on his palm. Like every part of you is trying to latch on to him.

You give him your name. You're looking at his eyes. They're brown, and gentle, and beautiful.

"You're studying how behavioral analysis is used in court?" he asks with quiet interest.

"Yes sir." Oh don't think about what other context you could say this in.

"I find it interesting how profiling is interpreted and weighed in court. Not just in terms of legal technicalities but also by the jury. It can influence how suspects are apprehended and how evidence is interpreted, which directly impacts the trial." You take a small breath. "I'm not arguing against profiling per se, I'm just trying to understand how it fits with legal, uh— standards."

This sounds a lot better than the previous bullshit answer you were going to give Agent Rossi.

"That's an interesting angle to take." He starts rubbing the top of his index finger with his thumb. You're basically entranced, like he's a snake charmer and you’re about to start wiggling in your chair.

"Profiling can shape the way a case progresses. Most times it helps point to the right suspect. Sometimes, it can make the wrong one look more guilty," he adds, voice low and steady.

"The law is about concrete, undeniable facts. Profiling is more about patterns and possible ways to interpret them. The two don't always fit neatly together." He pauses, and you swear you can see the hint of a smile on his lips. " You've got your work cut out for you, but it's a great topic."

Meeting Aaron Hotchner must be some sort of reparation for all the pain men have caused you. You're glad you decided to study law, you're glad you picked a thesis subject on profiling, and you're glad you spent 1 hour 42 minutes and $13.00 to get here.

"Thank you sir. That… really helps." You don't think you can manage to say more than that without making a fool out of yourself.

Surprisingly, he gives you a small smile. You're sure that this one is real. Maybe the previous one could have been up to interpretation but this one is definitely real. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, and takes out a small card.

"Here. If you ever have any questions. I'll try to answer them as best as I can," he says as he hands it to you.

The tips of your fingers brush ever so slightly against his when you take it. There's a vein that's popping out on his hand. You can almost imagine the rhythm of his pulse. Dum, dum, dum. Slow, steady, regular.

When you look back up from his hand to his face, you notice a small scar on the lower part of his chin.

"I— Thank you again sir. That's really kind of you."

He gives you a nod, and looks back at Agent Rossi, who you somehow forgot not only was in the room, but even existed.

Agent Rossi, on cue, clears his throat, "Well, I believe you've gotten even more than what you were gunning for." He looks unbelievably smug, like he can barely contain it.

You blink. You're not sure if he means the toeing-with-the-limits questions, the advice, the business card, or… something else entirely. But for some reason, you're not the one he's looking at.

"Good luck with your thesis. Don't slander profiling too much," he jokes.

"Thank you, really. Both of you."

You quickly slip the card between your notes. You still technically have 15 minutes as an authorized visitor. But you're not going to push your luck, you head towards the elevator. You’re definitely keeping the visitor’s badge.

Holy fuck.

To no one's surprise, most of the officers and detectives that worked the case in 1978 are either dead or retired.

And obviously, the retired ones are just dying to narrate in outlandishly embellished and exaggerated detail their glory days on the force. The stories have ranged from a high tension stakeout of a local drug lord (an old lady who was unknowingly growing cannabis in her backyard. or was she ?) to somewhat useful anecdotes about the case. So bribes (no, let's say offerings rather) of donuts and coffee are starting to seriously make a dent in your wallet (can you even write that off as a business expense ?)

At this point, you're on first name basis with the donut shop owner (Norma, 47, Taurus, 2 kids and a balding husband, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael). But this sort of works out in your favor because according to Virginia law, you're not allowed to even see the police files. (To be legally thorough :

Code of Virginia § 2.2-3706.1(C) : "Criminal investigative files relating to an ongoing criminal investigation or proceeding are excluded from the mandatory disclosure provisions of this chapter, but may be disclosed by the custodian, in his discretion, except as provided in subsection E or where such disclosure is prohibited by law.")

The custodian in this case, Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager for the Lexington Police Department, isn't the biggest fan of donuts, or pie, or cake, or cookies, or you, for that matter.

As of now, your case notes consist of :

a) mostly redacted FBI documents (see Appendix I)

b) a search warrant affidavit from 1979 for a Lecter Perpetrator (now that's an inconspicuous name…)

c) the interview notes for Agent Rossi

d) a bunch of old newspaper clippings

e) notes from talking to the officers and other residents (part gossip, part conspiracy theories and part factual information) (see Appendix II)

To be fair, you can piece together most of the relevant case facts from all of this.

The victim, Teresa Banks, worked at the ‘Double Y Diner’; found naked, with choking marks and stab wounds to the chest and privates, 2 miles from her house, body discovered early morning of July 9th 1978. Her coworker/friend Shelly Johnson, said that she dropped her off the night before near the town's church, as usual, and that Teresa always walked the rest of the way home (which would take her about 8 minutes). No one heard or saw anything, but one of the neighbors said that "it smelt like something was burning."

She was found the next morning by people coming to the church for Sunday service. Most of them agree that it was "gruesome and inhumane" and "why would someone do that to that poor girl?" One guy in particular, Kevin Baskin, was a bit more descriptive : "It was really early. We were going to early mass with my mother. I remember the sky was still deep blue. Everything was blue, it felt like. The marks on her neck, her lips, the tips of her fingers. Just blue, blue, blue. She had dirt on her face, it looked almost black against her skin. Like if death had kissed her cheek." Sounds a bit creepy, but according to your math, the guy was 16 when it happened so let's just say that's how he processed things. Plus, he's been really helpful, he's the one who gave you most of the newspaper articles you have and he's always down to talk about the case with you.

Anyways, according to the profile, the dirt is actually soot and it likely got there from the killer slapping her after burning her clothes. There's not much you could find out about Lecter Perpetrator, the guy from the search warrant. Traveling salesman, never married, no kids, his sister said that "he had a mean streak and could get real violent." Died in 1984 in a car crash. Nothing of note was found at his house, except a few cans of lighter fluid.

All of this to say that you're not getting anywhere with your thesis. Sure, you have most of the facts you need and the interview with Agent Rossi did give you a good look at how he came up with the profile (and an even better look at his unit chief). But somehow, you feel like something is missing. Or you're just stalling. Or, you need Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief, to give you some more legal advice. Obviously you're procrastinating but it still feels nice to imagine the super hot guy you talked to for a grand total of 10 minutes, 3 weeks ago, instead of doing your work. His business card is still tucked in with your notes. 24 point or 0.024 caliper, thick and sturdy card. Feels smooth under your finger, and the lettering on his name is slightly raised. You can trace each letter, A-a-r-o-n-, and it's almost like you're tracing the blue-ish veins that were on his hand when he handed it to you. You think about calling the number on the card.

"This is Agent Hotchner speaking,"

"Agent Hotchner, I need your help with something… You see, I've been thinking about you and—"

"Have you now ? I'm glad you called me,"

"Oh yes, I keep thinking about your hands. How strong they look, how thick they are. I can't even focus on my work anymore,"

"We can't have that, can we ? Tell me what you need,"

"Well I—"

"Your free minute is almost up, to continue this call, a rate of $2.99 per minute will apply. Press 1 to accept charges."

Norma, (donut shop owner, 47, Taurus, 2 kids and a balding now ex-husband, still likes long walks on the beach and George Michael), managed to get you a contact with the old local paper editor. The donut investments are paying off, and she's also trying out a new donut recipe just for you (neat!)

You're now the lucky owner of archival and collector copies in mint condition of the Rockbridge County Paper, ranging from July 1978 to December 1983, and you have a donut named after you : the 'Law-berry and cream'.

The earlier papers don't provide you with anything new about the Teresa Banks case, but there's something interesting in the September 1982 one. Farmville, VA resident and local photographer Ronette Pulaski, 32, was found naked, with bruises on her neck and stab wounds, in High Bridge Trail.

The Farmville custodian is thankfully partial to brownies, so you do get more leeway to see the police records this time (maybe Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, is more of a savory person ?)

The coroner's report states :

"Multiple sharp force injuries consistent with stab wounds, on the anterior torso and bilateral inguinal regions.

Severe disruptive trauma to the external genitalia is noted, making assessment of sexual assault inconclusive. Evidence of manual strangulation observed, bilateral contusions on the neck, consistent with digital impressions.

Cause of death determined as asphyxia due to manual strangulation."

Also, the crime scene photos show a very faint stain on her cheek. Granted, it could be dirt, she was found on a hiking trail. But all of this is starting to sound eerily familiar to you. Farmville and Lexington belong to two different jurisdictions, so that's probably why they never connected the two. And the cases sound way too similar for it to just be a coincidence.

What now? This isn't a Nancy Drew book, you're not going to be solving the case on your own.

The truth will out, and it is your duty to help it, bla-bla-bla legal and ethical obligations. Basically, you have to inform the competent authorities through the proper channels.

And in this case, that would most likely be the BAU since they consulted on the 1978 case.

Great.

As it turns out, a 'report of potentially critical intelligence relevant to an active investigation' takes a lot more time than you thought it would. And you're not even reporting anything that critical, the cases are like 30 years old. Could it be because you keep getting sidetracked by day dreaming about a certain agent getting your report on his desk ? (He'd sit down in an expensive, aerodynamic and ergonomic chair, optimal for lumbar support. Take a sip of coffee (black, no sugar, no fun), from his very plain mug that just says 'FBI', and lick his lips afterwards. Maybe spread his legs just the tiniest bit, to get more comfortable. Let out a deep sigh, one that echoes a bit too loud to just be from fatigue. He'd lightly run his fingers over the paper before — )

No, of course not. Not only is this serious business, but he wouldn't even read the report himself, he's a very busy man. Also, now you're somehow worried that the FBI would be able to tell that you were having inappropriate thoughts about one of their agents while writing the report. Well, it's not like you're putting 'I want to [REDACTED] Agent Hotchner's [REDACTED]' in the report, so it should be fine.

Just make sure to proofread it before sending it. Just in case.

You're never drinking again. Ever. First of all, alcohol is bad for you. Second of all, the pounding in your head is making you rethink every opinion you've ever had about terrorism. And your phone ringtone definitely isn't helping; you've suddenly developed a deep seated hatred for Outrageous by Britney Spears (this is just the alcohol talking, they could never make me hate you Britney <3). So, for the homeland's security and interests, you can never drink again. And out of respect for miss Britney Spears herself.

Your phone screen displays 2 missed calls from Norma (donut shop owner, just turned 48, Taurus, 2 kids, ex-husband still balding, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael) and she left a message, 1 missed call from Log Lady/Witness, one message from Kevin Baskin and most unsettling of all 1 missed call from Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, herself.

Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, as established previously for the court, is not your biggest fan. So she must be calling because the second coming of Christ happened in Lexington, Virginia, and she's trying to get you to the front lines for the Lord's Judgment.

Your messages read :

FROM : NORMA DONUTS

7:43 AM

Call me back. There's been another murder. Identical to old one …

FROM : KEVIN BASKIN LEXGT

9:18 AM

Did you hear??

Oh. This is bad. B-H-A-D BAD.

You call back Mrs. Martell first because she might be able to get you the most information.

There's indeed a new body. Discovered this morning, May 16th at 5:38 AM by Kevin Baskin (poor guy, he's really having a rough year. first, his wife dumps him because she thinks he’s too boring and now this… but isn't it weird that the exact same thing happened to him twice?) Says he had to get up early to get his car to the repair shop before going to work. The body was dumped on Beatty Hollow, a couple of miles from the local car shop. The crime scene is way too similar to the 1978 one. The injuries are also exactly the same, strangulation marks and the stab wounds. To top it all off, Beatty Hollow and Turnpike Road, aka the road where the first victim was found, are one continuous road that branches off.

So there's obviously some freak copying the old murder. Why can't people find regular hobbies ? Like reading, or painting or perhaps even crocheting ? This makes the situation a lot more urgent than it was a few weeks ago, when you sent the information report to the FBI. Which, unsurprisingly, you haven't heard back about. To be fair, at the time, the crimes were respectively 29 and 25 years old with no new developments whatsoever. Plus, it's not like you have some notable credibility with the FBI or anything of the sort. So, unsurprisingly again, that report might not have been at the top of their priority list.

Is this somehow your fault ? By some weird manifestation thing, you saying that the cases weren't that urgent led to this ? How come this sort of immediate karma only works against you, never when you need someone to get what's coming to them.

The truth will out, and it is— we get it. Best next step is to actually talk to someone in charge.

Someone in charge… some … one… in charge…

The Lord really does work in mysterious ways.

The phone only rings three times.

"Hotchner."

This sounds a lot like last time… yes pressing 1, I accept the charges operator!

"Hello, uh, Agent Hotchner ? I'm — I talked to you last time about profil—" You stop yourself. That doesn't matter right now. "Basically I'm working on the murder case in Lexington. From 1978." You need to stop fumbling and get it together.

" I think I found another case that's way too similar for it to be a coincidence. 1982, in Farmville. And I sent an information report but—"

"I'm sorry, what is this about?" he cuts in, not unkindly.

"I— yes of course. There's been another murder in Lexington. I don't know if you're aware. And it's basically a copy of the first one. Same injuries, same everything," you explain.

"Yes, the BAU has been made aware of it." He still sounds calm, but maybe a bit sharper. You can hear the sound of a door closing. "Are you implying that there's another case related to this ?"

"Well… basically yes. I sent an information report about it but I'm not sure if they've gotten to it yet. And obviously, the situation is more urgent now. I'm sorry for just calling you like this, I just felt like it might be useful."

There's a brief silence on the line. Not long enough to make you think he hung up (he's not the type. at least you think so. he looks too proper to hang up on someone). But long enough to make you think that you might have overstepped.

"I appreciate you calling," he says finally. He sounds more attentive, focused.

"If the details are as similar as you're saying, it might warrant a closer look."

You can faintly make out the sound of paper shuffling, a drawer opening and the click of a pen.

"I'd like you to come to Quantico," he continues. "We'll need to go over everything you found."

Your mouth goes a little dry. The skin around your nail starts to itch, almost begging you to pull it.

"Okay. Yeah, of course."

"Send me the reference number for the information report. I'll have someone pull it up," he requests.

There's another beat of silence. You can hear the sound of his pen gliding (not scratching or scribbling) on paper. "You did the right thing calling," he finally says, gentle, quiet but still firm. The line clicks.

You lower the phone slowly, like it might shatter if you move it too fast.

You're almost waiting for the operator to tell you that your total charges are $14.95, and for a sultry voice to pop back up and say "You did the right thing calling, honey. Call me again when you're ready for more…"

The trip from Georgetown to Quantico still takes approximately 1 hour and 30 minutes.

You do manage to correctly follow the travel instructions this time, even while carrying a box full of notes and documents (not that you didn't last time, obviously…). In some way, the file box does make you feel more confident, like you're here on official business. Which you are technically, but now everyone else can see that. Get it while it's hot! DC fashionistas newest must have : super trendy file box, only $17 at Office Depot!

Even the desk-lady (different from last time though, so statistically not a valid comparison point) processes your ID and gives you your visitor's badge quicker, 10 minutes quicker to be exact. It's obviously thanks to the file box (or, it's because you're here on request of the BAU's unit chief, and not because you've been harassing an agent to give you an interview for like 4 weeks. crazy how networking works…)

You do still get your trusty chaperone, Mr./Agent (verdict's still not out on his proper title) Tojamura, to safely get you from the elevator to the 6th floor.

Mr./Agent Tojamura drops you off at what looks to be a conference room, decidedly not Agent Hotchner's office…

The table's round, 6 chairs, black, not too fancy, not too shabby. Bunch of brown folders and papers strewn on it, and a notepad with yellow pages that looks like it's been forgotten. There's a little coffee area, with a fax machine. The pot looks cold. Just above it, a white board with something about a mandatory BAU seminar and how 'It's better to volunteer!!' written in dry-erase blue marker. There's another board on the other side of the room, bigger, but it's flipped around.

You're not sure if or where you're supposed to sit. You pick one of the round table chairs that face the door and put your very chic file box on the table.

You wait.

10 minutes. No sign of Agent Hotchner, or anyone else for that matter. You can see people bustling around in the bullpen, making phone calls, reading through files, writing reports. You can also see some guy pretending to be doing work on his computer but he keeps going back and forth between an empty spreadsheet and what looks like a gossip forum. You can't make out exactly what the skinny is, but there's a very nice picture of Paris Hilton. That's hot.

You glance back up at the clock above the white board. It's been 11 minutes now. Do they have a quota of how long they're supposed to make you wait ? Like the time you thought you gained at the reception, you have to make up for here ?

The door clicks open. 13 minutes. About the same total wait time as last time. Not enough data to make a statistical conclusion, but there's a hypothesis that's starting to brew.

You turn your head as Agent Hotchner walks in. No gray suit this time unfortunately, just plain regular black. His shirt is a pale blue tone that looks nice against his skin. Tie still tightly knotted. You did some purely academic research since last time, and apparently 'suit fetish' is actually a thing. There's even blogs solely dedicated to posting curated pictures. Not that you've signed up for any of their emailing lists of course…

He's holding a manila folder in his hand. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. There's a crease between them that's deeper than it should be, like his face is preemptively getting ready for when he fully furrows them.

"Thank you for coming," he says.

You're waiting for him to pick the seat across from you, all neat and formal and professional. It's also the closest one to the door.

But he doesn't. He takes the one next to yours.

You're not touching. But you could be. If you sway your chair just the tiniest bit, your knee would knock against his. He's sitting next to you like you're colleagues, or somewhat equals. Like he wants to actually listen to what you're going to say.

He sets the folder on the table.

"You've brought everything ?" he asks while nodding towards you little bravado box. It's looking a little meek all of a sudden.

You nod. "Everything I could find. Some of it isn't— it's kind of a mess. Sorry, I didn't have time to organize all of it. It's mostly just my notes, nothing formal."

"That's fine," he replies. He's already flipping through your folders.

His index slowly drags against the paper. Most logically, because your handwriting is all jumbled and it's hard to follow the flow of what you've written down. But your mind easily makes the shortcut that he's caressing the words you wrote, and by extension, you (delusional). That this is his subtle way of starting an intellectual courtship (delusional).

"Sorry about the chaos," you explain, just to get your mind off of whatever highly inappropriate scenario it was getting to. "I wasn't really planning on anyone having to decipher through them."

"They make sense. Your notes," he answers without looking up, gaze still fixated on your papers.

He's doing that thing with his hand again. Rubbing his finger with his thumb. It's distracting.

"You picked up on details a lot of people would have missed."

There's no flattery in his voice. It's still that same low and measured tone. You don't even think he's capable of flattery. The tip of your ears feel a little warm.

"Thanks. I wasn't sure if I was seeing patterns that were actually there or if I was starting to make things up."

He looks up at you for a second. His gaze feels gentle but subtly inquisitive. As if he's quietly trying to figure you out without startling you.

"Feeling uncertain isn't a weakness." He goes back to reading your notes. "It means you're paying attention.”

There's a pause. You're not sure what to say. You're looking at the white board from before. The second 'e' on 'volunteer' looks a little crooked.

"Is there anything that made you connect the two victims besides how they were found? Both women never crossed paths," he inquires. He puts your notes down, and fully turns his body towards you. His suit jacket rustles a bit.

Your hands sit in front of you. You're lightly scratching the space between your thumb and your index finger.

"In Agent Rossi's original profile. It said that—" You pause and your start looking through the files you brought. You pull out your redacted copy of the profile. "The killer was doing it out of intense hate, that he's sadistic. And that he probably feels inadequate regarding love or sex." You quickly scan the page, looking for a specific phrase. "Also, this: 'Potential triggers include but are not limited to : rejection or humiliation in a romantic/sexual context.'" You take a moment. Tuck your hair back behind your ears. Gather your thoughts.

"This is hearsay, I'm aware. Double hearsay technically. But when I talked to the former local newspaper editor, he said that he'd heard— well not heard exactly but he wouldn't tell me his source— that the other victim, Ronette, wasn't the most patient person with random men. That she was really focused on her work and didn't have time and didn't want to make time for dating.” You risk a look at him. He's softly resting his chin on his knuckles. You can't find the little scar from before on it. He gives you a gentle nod, as if to tell you to go on.

"That's what's similar. To Teresa Banks. She was also described as someone who could be… brash, when needed. Her colleague, told me that Teresa would be the first one to put, uh, pushy, customers, back in their place," you continue.

"I think that's the link between them. That both of them wouldn't shy away from telling a guy to go f— to leave them alone. That's what sets the killer off," you finish. For some reason, you feel calmer than at the beginning. You've spent so much time and put so much of yourself in this case, both cases.

He puts his hand back down. The light catches the little scar on his chin, it's still there. It's a lot fainter now.

"I know this is mostly conjecture. But it still feels like something."

He doesn't say anything at first. He writes something in the margin of the folder he brought in with him. Quickly, efficiently, neatly. His pen looks expensive. Black, sleek with navy accents. Kind of like his suit. Does he match them on purpose?

"It is conjecture," he finally says. "But it's informed conjecture. And that's where we start from."

There's the ghost of a smile on his lips. It's that am I hallucinating/ it's up to interpretation / it could be just his lips twitching, smile again.

"You've put real time into this. It's good work." He closes the folder. His fingers drum on the cover.

His eyebrows furrow. To their full range this time.

He looks conflicted. Like he's weighing down his options. He glances at something outside the conference room, an office. His frown somehow deepens, like it’s testing the aerodynamic limits of his face. You're not sure who the owner of said office is, but it looks fancy. And you know it's not Agent Rossi's. He looks back at your files, and then finally at you.

Another moment of silence. His eyebrows twitch, like they're fighting back against his frowning. After that they relax, just a bit.

"I'd like for you to keep working on this. With us."

Your brain scrambles to catch up. You blink. Once. Twice. A third time. This is what happens when you abuse alcohol. You've clearly fried off the last of your brain cells with cherry brandy of all things.

"With… you?" you ask. You probably sound as confused as you feel.

"With the BAU, yes," he clarifies. "As a consultant. Informally."

You're just about to ask if he's gone senile when he continues.

"You've already put in the work. You know the case, you have rapport with the people. You're not trained the way we are but you see patterns. We could use that," he goes on, gently. Like he's somewhere between pleading and offering rather than demanding.

You want to. Of course you do. You'd say yes to anything he could possibly ask of you.

But your mind is screaming about all the legal implications. Appearance of impropriety, unauthorized practice of law, confidentiality breaches… You'd be crossing professional boundaries you haven't even had the chance to submit to yet.

The chair is sticking to your skin. You're back to picking at the space between your thumb and your index. Unknowingly, your eyebrows furrow. Not unlike how his do.

"You know I'm not exactly the best fit… legally speaking.” He knows what you're hinting at. And you know that he knows. And he knows that you know that he knows.

Even then, his expression doesn't falter.

"I'm aware," he answers. "I've made my assessment and I stand by it."

There's a pause. He's giving you room.

"You've already proven you're capable of threading the line. Carefully," he prompts you.

Your eyes settle on your notes, the mess of words, the coffee stains, the pages where the ink is all over the place because your printer almost blew up, the Office Depot sticker on the side of your file box.

"I'd need to check with my academic advisor." You're saying this more to yourself than to him.

"Of course," he replies.

A beat.

"But I'd like you to accept."

Turns out, the best way to get your academic advisor to respond in a timely manner is to put 'URGENT FBI CONSULT REQUEST PROCEDURE INQUIRY' in the mail subject line.

If only you'd had known about this trick before, you could have saved so much time. Because neither 'Advising appointment request, VERY important' nor 'Please respond I'm this close to naming you in my suicide letter' seemed to catch his attention.

Dr. Albert Rosenfield Ph.D., academic advisor though certainly undeserving of the title, tells you that consulting for the FBI would make a remarkable addition to your résumé and that you're legally savvy enough to know how to navigate the legal landmines that you're bound to encounter.

He's right. This would look banging on your résumé :

Juris Doctor,

Extensive knowledge of FBI investigative procedures through consultant work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit,

Proficient in Microsoft Excel (arguably the most notable achievement out of all of these).

Still, no matter how good this sounds on paper, it doesn't prepare you (in any way whatsoever) for sitting across the table in the Lexington PD improvised conference room, with 3 federal agents flipping through your notes like they're looking for a reason to kick you out.

Agent 1 : Dr Spencer Reid. Arguably the least intimidating of the three. Doesn't shake hands, talks really fast, and drinks so much coffee that he's making you consider quitting caffeine all together. He's also going through your notes so fast that you're wondering if he's part cyborg.

Agent 2 : Jennifer Jareau. JJ. Looks kind. She's the media liaison, so she's more used to talking to the non-initiated. She softly touched your back when you looked very obviously nervous after Agent Morgan told you that he "has no problem with you being here" but that you shouldn't "slow them down."

Agent 3 : Emily Prentiss. Most likely to kick your ass if needed. Sharp, slick, intimidating. She did compliment the Siouxsie and the Banshees pin on your bag though.

You're also going through files. Carefully vetted and redacted ones. About the copycat. To see if you can catch something different.

You haven't talked to Agent Hotchner —Hotch— since this morning, when he introduced you to his team, gave you a disappointingly professional pat on the shoulder (no lingering, no morse code message tapped with his fingers that reads "I kept thinking about you.") and told you to get to work.

Nothing really jumps out at you. There's subtle differences with the original murder. The victim, Sylvia Horne, 33, secretary, was last seen at the Bang Bang Bar. She was trying to put herself out there, be more spontaneous. Which would make her potentially more open to talking to strangers. Difference one.

Difference two. The ME report, although heavily redacted, (you tried to sneak a peek at the full copy while Dr Reid was distracted but Hotch immediately caught you, cleared his throat, and gave you a very pointed look.), says that the stabbing was less frenzied, less violent. Consequently, there was less damage to the groin. Which made it possible to determine, with certainty this time, that were wasn’t sexual assault.

Difference three. There's a mark on her cheek, not unlike the original case. But it's dirt, not soot. And it was smeared on her face, not slapped on.

You keep spinning your pen. Try to think. There's a growing ink dot on the side of your hand. You're not sure what to do with any of this.

You push the file away from you. "Bathroom," you mumble to no one in particular. Agent Jareau, "my friends call me JJ" but you're not sure if you can call her JJ just yet, gives you a small nod.

You step out onto the hallway. You're familiar with the layout of the Lexington police department, you've been here too many times to count. Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, is at her desk, typing what looks to be a very fiery complaint about the ever declining quality of the customer service at some restaurant downtown. Now that you're here on request of the FBI, she's toned down the nasty comments and pivoted to nasty looks.

You're headed towards the back door, on the left side of the building. There's a little staircase there, that's hidden from the rest of the department, where you can sit down and let your face rest from all the sharp glances it's been subjected to the entire day.

You spot Hotch on your way there. He's talking on the phone. His brows are back to their impressively furrowed state. This frown looks to be from annoyance though. Different from the ones you've seen from him before. The phone looks ridiculously small in his hand. You overhear him say a very clipped "Yes, I'm aware ma'am." before you open the back door.

You sit on the second step. Your phone buzzes. It's another message from Kevin Baskin (remember him?). He's been asking you more and more inquisitive questions about the copycat case the moment you got to Lexington. You're not sure what to message back.

You take a deep breath.

The door opens again, slowly.

Hotch steps out. He's holding a small paper coffee cup in his hand. It has a tiny blue sticker that says ‘LPD’.

He hands it to you before sitting down on, on the third step. The cup is warm. From the coffee. From where his hand held it.

You take a sip. Plain black coffee. It tastes absolutely disgusting. You try to contain the grimace that's making its way on to your face.

He lets out a little chuckle. It's so subtle that you thought you were hearing things, but when you look at him, there's a small smile on his lips. He takes out a sugar packet from his pocket and hands it to you.

"Are you alright?" he asks you softly.

From where you're sitting, you're slightly looking down at him. His eyes look really pretty from this angle. From any angle to be fair. But you can see more clearly that the center is brown and the borders have more green. That there's a few faint lines on the corners of them. That there's a single white eyelash nestled in the upper line of his left eye.

You swirl around the sugar into the coffee. It's still bitter, but better than before. You're staring into the cup. As if you're trying to spot any lone grains of sugar that haven't dissolved and are hiding out at the bottom. You're avoiding his gaze. You know that if you meet his eye, you'll just end up admitting something you're not ready to. Or perhaps he already knows, with his profiling superpowers, that you're wondering if there's any point in you being here, if you're actually helping or just getting in the way.

"Yeah. It's just… a lot", you answer so quietly you're not sure he even hears you.

He doesn't respond right away.

"I know," he says. He tilts his head. Like he's trying to catch your gaze through the coffee cup. "You're doing a good job."

You nod, slowly. You don't look at him, you're still swirling the coffee around in your cup. The sugar's almost completely dissolved. There's a few stubborn grains, stuck to the side of the cup.

You lift your eyes to meet his, for a second, before returning to the cup. You shift your knee to the side, barely. Just enough to fleetingly brush against his.

The sugar's all dissolved.

Day 4 of being sequestered in the Lexington PD makeshift conference room. Can anyone hear this ? Hello ? Is this thing on ?

You're now intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of this god forsaken room. You can't tag along to go interview people, because you're not law enforcement. You can't go to the crime scene, because you're not law enforcement. You can't visit the medical examiner, because — say it with me folks — "you're not law enforcement !"

JJ, lets you out of your enclosure for your one hour of fresh air a day around 12:30 (she insists you come have lunch with her and the rest of the team if they're not somewhere else.)

You like eating with them. It's fun listening to Dr Reid ramble about the agricultural technicalities of growing tomatoes in Virginia. Or pretending you don't see Agent Prent—Emily, steal fries off of his plate and having to stifle your laughter when he wonders out loud why he has less food all of a sudden while Agent Morgan tells him that it's because they're doing crop rotation on his plate. Or having Hotch open your water bottle for you because the cap was screwed on too tight, and inconspicuously (at least as inconspicuously as you can manage) staring at how his fingers flex and twist against the plastic.

Funnily enough, the work of an FBI profiler isn't as glamorous as one would think. It's half arguing back and forth with the local officers. Half staring at a white board and pages and pages of reports. And half (why are there three halves?) discussing whether the "unsub" chews with the left side of his mouth or the right one.

Somewhere in between light hearted jokes, at the beginning at Dr Reid's but now at your expense, and debates on the behavioral implications of chewing with the right side of your face, a more concrete profile is starting to emerge.

It starts with a scribble on Agent Rossi's notepad "less rage?" Which turns into a question from Emily : "What if the emotion of the crime itself isn't what he's after?”

Dr Reid frowns, or more like scrunches his nose. "He's mimicking the structure but not the intent. Most copycats exhibit a need for recognition or notoriety. They can also feel admiration for the original killer, perhaps a twisted sense of kinship. There's no evidence of that here. It reads as if he's recreating the crime with no emotional or ideological resonance," he rattles off.

It makes sense. You pick up the first pen you spot on the table and start spinning it in your hand. It feels heavy.

The only people who are even affected by this crime are the Lexington residents. It's the only thing people are talking about. Everyone you talk to has a theory, an opinion or a groundless accusation against someone.

This killer isn't doing it to get emotional release. The stab wounds aren't that violent, there's no sexual assault. On paper, it looks as much like the original crime as possible. But the details are all wrong.

The pen is one of those fancy ones you twist to use. Twist on, twist off, twist on.

The only thing this murder created is gossip. Wait. What if that's the point ?

"What if the point isn't the murder itself but the aftermath ?" you propose.

You can feel everyone's gaze shifting to your face. Although they don't seem as scary as before, it still makes your skin prickle. You tap the pen against your palm.

"I mean, this new murder is the only thing anyone can talk about. Everyone's focused on it. Like in 1978."

You glance at Hotch without meaning to. He's watching you. Carefully. Encouraging in his own quiet way.

You continue before you lose your nerve. "Norma, she owns the donut shop down the street, told me that back then, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened here. A lot of people were trying to solve the case on their own. Like a huge game of Clue."

Dr Reid nods, his left hand is held up, his index pointing to the ceiling. "The copycat isn't just mimicking the murder, he's recreating the conversation about it. That makes sense actually," he resumes.

Agent Morgan leans back in his chair, he's looking at the original crime scene pictures. "So he's attention seeking, but not in the classic way," he adds pensively.

Hotch hasn't said anything yet. You risk a glance at him again. His eyes are still on you. You look back down at your hands. The pen you picked up is black and navy. You twist it off one last time.

Emily lightly taps her finger against the table. "Then we've been looking at this from the wrong angle. This unsub is looking for reactions, some sort of excitement around what he's done. This is theatre to him," she concludes.

"It makes sense," Hotch finally says. "If he was too young in 1978 to fully grasp the impact of the murder but old enough to remember how it felt, this could be about reliving that moment."

Agent Rossi scratches his beard. "Or," he counters, "he's not only trying to recreate the feeling, he's trying to improve it. Make it last longer."

JJ tilts her head. "Draw it out you mean?"

"Exactly," Agent Rossi replies. "Think about it. The '78 case, one murder and it's got the whole town talking, dissecting the facts, playing Sherlock Holmes. Maybe this guy thinks that if he paces himself, strikes more than once, he can stretch the high for longer."

That seems to make things fall into place.

You can feel Hotch shift next to you. He grabs the nearest yellow pad, and holds out his palm towards you, a silent request. You almost put your hand in his before he whispers : "My pen."

Oh.

He writes down something quickly. You try to steal a look at it but he angles it slightly away.

"What is it ?" Emily asks, noticing the movement.

He looks up. "If this guy is staging a play, then we might be able to predict his next act."

He puts the pen down, closer to you than to him.

Agent Morgan's talking on the phone with their tech analyst. Talking might not be the most appropriate word to describe their exchange. You'd say that they're more so sexually harassing each other, but hey, you're not HR.

Penelope — as she cheerfully corrected you when you called her Agent Garcia (apparently, technically speaking, technical analysts and special agents are on different pay grades. which she laments because the 25% availability pay that's added to a special agent's check could be a game changer for her shopping addiction.)

She's currently trying to come up with a suspect list with Derek (known aliases : chocolate thunder, hot stuff, baby boy).

The working profile for this week’s latest flavor of creep is :

White male in his 40s,

Underlying insecurity and low self-esteem,

Obsessive personality, way too invested in the original crime as well as this one,

Has some sort of perverse nostalgia for the ambiance surrounding the 1978 crime,

Acting out of a psychological need for escapism rather than violent compulsion,

Someone unremarkable, doesn't stand out, plain boring job and plain boring life.

You're going through your case notes to see if you might have talked to someone who fits this profile. Except, there's pages upon pages of interview notes, you've practically talked to every single resident in Lexington that's capable of forming a semi coherent thought.

The clock ticks 10:30 PM. Agent Morgan headed out about 20 minutes ago, with a pointed : "Don't stay here too late kid."

The words are starting to blur into one big blue blob. The ceiling fan makes an increasingly worrying creaking sound every 5 minutes, like it's protesting against having to work past business hours.

Your stomach growls. Loudly. It probably echoes throughout the entire station. You ignore it. Sort of.

You flip to another page. You underline a sentence. You've kept Hotch's fancy navy twisty pen. Stare at the page. Forget why you underlined anything in the first place.

The door creaks open. You halfway expect it to be the security guard coming in to turn off the light. But it's Hotch. Still in a dress shirt, no suit jacket, tie just the tiniest bit looser.

"Still at it?" he quietly asks.

You nod.

"Have you eaten ?" he follows up.

The acoustics of the station are better than you thought they were if he could hear your stomach growling from outside the pseudo conference room. Then again, every sound seems to magically amplify at night.

You glance at the clock again, 10:43 PM.

"Not really." You shake your head.

He nods once. Not surprised.

He doesn't say anything, just holds out the door open, waiting for you to follow him out.

The only place that's still open this late is the Double Y Diner. It's one of those classic all American diners. You don't recognize the waitress working tonight. She's wearing a pale blue uniform with white accents. Her name tag says 'Annie'. She tells you that there's not that many pastries left. You get a lemon bar, Hotch an apple fritter (can he be any more predictable ?) and a cup of black coffee. When she brings them to you, they're on a singular indigo plate. They're lightly touching. The yellow zest from the lemon bar's icing blends with green-apple fritter's glaze.

You sit across from each other. His knees sometimes brush against yours. The town outside is quiet, muted. Like it's trying not to listen in.

You don't talk about the case. Instead, you talk about other things. Law school, books you've both half-finished and pretended to like, the difference between being good at your job and actually enjoying it.

You like talking to him. You like that he lets out a few quiet laughs at your jokes. You like the dimples on his cheeks.

At some point, your eyes drift to the old jukebox at the corner of the diner. In all the times you've been here, you've never tried playing it. Jukeboxes tend to be finicky.

He follows your gaze. You can see him let out a little smile.

He fishes out a dime from his wallet and slides it in front of you. The plate between you is full of crumbs. He let you try a little piece of his fritter.

You push the coin into the slot. You press K-10. There's a little proud smile on your face when you make your way back to the booth.

Hotch looks surprised by your pick.

"The Beatles?" he asks.

"What?" You don't fight the full smile that takes over your face.

You feel daring. Maybe it's the fatigue, the fact that it's almost midnight, or maybe it's the soft grin on his face that he seems to not even be aware of.

"This just in. Local FBI man baffled that someone under the age of 60 has heard of the Beatles. The rest of this story will surprise you. More at 6," you joke, putting on your best newscaster voice.

He lets out an amused sigh. You slide back into the booth.

The sun is up, the sky is blue

It's beautiful and so are you

He finishes the last sip of his coffee. You read the time on his watch, 12:03 AM.

Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play ?

It's day 6 on the job.

The typical work day at the Borden Health Center, 170 Kendal Drive (one of the offshoot roads of Enfield Road), Lexington Virginia, typically starts at 6:30AM.

Maddy Ferguson, motivated and dynamic newly-hired nurse, pulls up into the Kendal Drive-Enfield Road intersection at 6:02AM. After parking her car in a way that can only be generously described as wonky, she gathers her things and heads out to work. She's very glad she didn't have time to eat breakfast this morning. The sight that greets her straight out of her car is nauseating to say the least.

The body of 31 year old physical therapist Nadine Hurley is discovered at 6:07 AM May 28th 2007. The crime scene is identical to the previous one. Almost. No dirt on the face this time. ME report still pending.

You're stuck at the police station. Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, hands you a cup of coffee. You pretend to take a sip of it and thank her politely. She probably means well for once, but there's a non-zero chance that she put something in it.

One by one, the team trickles back into the station.

JJ comes back last. She's holding a file in her hand. The front part of her hair looks messier than usual, like she kept running her hand through it.

"ME report's in. It's still preliminary but take a look."

She sets it down on the table, between you and Dr Reid.

He starts flipping through it immediately.

"Manual strangulation. Stab wounds to the torso and genital parts. No sexual assault."

His index finger is going down the pages quickly. It stops.

"Wait. There's trace amount of saliva on her right cheek. Small deposit. They're extracting DNA from it to try and get a profile," he reads.

Emily leans back in her chair. "That doesn't fit with the profile. This unsub isn't getting gratification from the kill. Why spit on her ?" she mutters.

Small amount of saliva. On her cheek. Not from spitting on her.

"It almost sounds like a kiss," Hotch ponders out loud.

There's a pause. Or at least there's a pause for you. Has your daydreaming gone so far that you're starting to hear things ?

He's saying it in the most gruesome context imaginable, but still, just hearing him utter the word 'kiss' is enough to bring heat to your ears.

K — the back of his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, lips relaxed and slightly stretched, I —his tongue is high and forward, not touching his teeth just yet, lips unrounded, SS — the tip of his tongue almost touches the ridges behind his teeth, lips slightly parted to let air trough. KISS.

Agent Morgan is the one who cuts through your spiraling. "So first murder, he smears dirt on the cheek. Second one, he kisses the cheek. Sounds like he's trying to recreate the soot mark from the original case. But that mark got there from a slap. That's humiliation, it's symbolic. This ? Almost seems like it's just for show," he concludes.

Dr Reid picks up from there, rummaging through the mess of papers and reports on the table to find the original case file. "The soot mark was an expression of power, the unsub was trying to degrade the victim as much as possible. The copycat doesn't understand that. He's not replicating the emotion behind the crime, he's replicating the image of it. As if he's forging a painting."

Emily nods. "He's copying the scene. Not the crime itself. That tracks."

"But how would he know to copy the soot mark ? It wasn't mentioned anywhere in the newspaper," you point out.

JJ tilts her head, she looks pensive. "You're sure it wasn't mentioned in the papers ? Not even a slight allusion ?" she asks you.

"I —yes. As sure as I can be. I got a bunch of article clippings about it from some guy and full issues from the previous editor. There's nothing. The only reason I even know about it is because I got Agent Rossi's original profile," you reply.

"Couldn't someone have accessed the crime scene photos ?" Agent Morgan raises the question.

"No, I don't think so. The records manager here is basically part bulldog—" you cut yourself off immediately. Why would you say that ? You can hear Emily disguise her laugh as a cough, Agent Morgan isn't hiding it any better. Agent Rossi looks amused and even a bit… proud ? You catch Hotch trying to hide a little grin behind his hand. Dr Reid though, is expectantly looking at you to finish what you were saying.

"I mean, no, uh — she's very, uh, attentive. That's what I'm trying to say. That she's attentive," you fumble.

"Right," Emily continues, still half-smiling. "So if the photos were locked down and the press didn't cover the soot…"

"Then he had to have seen the body himself," Hotch finishes.

You feel your mouth go dry. You get up to pour yourself some water. You pick up a paper cup, one with a blue 'LPD' sticker on the side. You fill it up halfway. Without thinking about why, you fill up another one. When you sit back down, you place the second cup in front of Hotch.

You spot Agent Morgan and Emily sharing a look.

Dr Reid continues : "That narrows it down to the people who saw the body before it was moved."

"More like the people who saw the body and aren't dead yet," Agent Morgan corrects.

You let out a small snort.

One semi-professional phone call with Penelope later, and you end up with a list of people who saw the body, aren't dead yet, and aren't senile either. 11 names.

Sounds like a lot but she was found by a group of people going to church… Amen?

You start going through the list.

"Alright, which one of these is the sick bastard that would pucker up and leave the 'kiss of death' ?" Agent Morgan ponders.

You chuckle lightly. Agent Morgan perks up at the sound.

"You know," he starts, “you laugh at my jokes now. I think it's time you stopped calling me 'Agent Morgan' don't you agree?"

"I'm maintaining professional boundaries," you counter.

He smiles, all knowing. He glances at Emily. She's also smiling like she knows something you don't. "Right. Just making sure you're applying that policy… consistently," he says.

You blink. Just as you're about to ask him what he means, Hotch cuts in with a stern "Morgan," that shuts down any further back and forth.

You go back to the list.

Most of the names on it are people you've already talked to. You start from the top : Lucy Moran, Denise Bryson, Gordon Cole…

Hold on. Something Agent Morgan — maybe it is time you just call him Morgan ? Derek feels too weird. And you can't call him Chocolate Thunder, not even in your head— said sounded familiar.

Sick bastard, pucker up, kiss of death. Kiss of death.

You start looking for you interview notes on the table. Urgently.

"Is everything alright?" Hotch asks, concerned by the sudden agitation in your movements.

You don't even answer him. Your eyes are scanning the pages as quickly as they can. Nowhere near Dr Reid speed but fast enough.

You find what you're searching for. Your finger lightly trembles before setting down on the quote etched in your messy handwriting.

" 'Like if death had kissed her cheek' ," you read.

You look up. The room is silent.

"Who said that?" Agent Rossi asks, his tone heavy.

You say their name.

And then everything starts to move.

You're sitting in front of Norma (48, Taurus, 2 kids, new boyfriend has a full head of hair, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael) at the counter of her shop.

The donut she put down in front of you, your special donut, remains untouched.

You got too antsy to stay by yourself at the police station. Maybe you should make a fake FBI badge next time. Then, at least, instead of freaking out alone in the station you could freak out at the scene. (Just kidding. Don't do that obviously. Forging the badge by itself is a misdemeanor. But actually using it is a federal felony. Up to 3 years in prison and a maximum fine of $250,000.)

You caught a glimpse of Hotch before he left. Wearing an FBI bulletproof vest. To be fair, all of the team was wearing one but you know… Anyways. The vest. Navy. He kept the tie underneath it. It was stretched taut against his chest. Hugging, (well technically protecting) every single part of it. You wonder how it would feel like. To glue yourself so closely to him.

Norma can tell that you're not really listening to her. You keep looking back every few minutes at the window. Still, she keeps talking. As if she's trying to take your mind off of whatever's bothering you. She's going on a date with the new boyfriend tomorrow night. She's debating putting on her tried-and-tested hot date outfit but the last time she wore it was for her first date with her almost completely bald ex-husband.

You turn towards the window again.

You can see flashes of blue.

Blue, red, blue.

The police car comes to a stop. Morgan comes out first. He roughly escorts Kevin Baskin to the station. The handcuffs around his wrists reflect the siren lights. Red, blue, red. He looks… normal. Eerily normal. As normal as he did when you first interviewed him and he let out that he was feeling depressed because his wife left him but that he was glad he got to talk to you about the case. As normal as he did when he gave you the old newspaper clippings and told you that back in high school, him and his friends would play detectives and try to crack the case. As normal as anyone can look.

You make your way outside the donut shop.

Hotch is still outside. He took the vest off (bummer. or maybe not that much ? he's just in a dress shirt. his tie isn't crooked per se but it's not as rigidly proper as usual. this is the first time you see him with one layer instead of two.) You go up to him.

You can spot a small wound on his temple. It doesn't seem to be bleeding. It looks purple in this light.

He's looking at Morgan.

The air feels heavy. You don't know how to feel, what to say.

Could you have known ? Should you have seen something, anything ? Was his life so dreadfully uneventful that he needed to kill two people just to feel less… bored?

You don't say any of those things.

You point to your temple, "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing."

He looks tired, tense. The line between his brows is glaring at you.

"So… do you think I could get a gun next time ? Or how about a badge ?" you joke.

He lets out a quiet laugh. Like some of the tension left his body. Not all of it. But enough to let his face soften a bit.

You feel unreasonably proud.

His hand briefly settles on the crown of your head. Warm. Fingers gently brushing your hair. Incredibly warm. "No," he says.

His hand drops back down. "You weren't at the station ?" he asks.

You can feel your heart in your chest. Like it's trying to escape. Maybe what you actually need is a bulletproof vest to tightly hold it down in place.

"I was with Norma. At her shop." When you turn to point towards it, you can very clearly see Norma standing at the window, snooping. There's no two ways about it. She doesn't even flinch, doesn't falter at getting caught. She just beams at you, gives two enthusiastic thumbs up, and an exaggerated nod.

"That's Norma…". You avert your gaze in embarrassment. He looks down at you and smiles softly. You don't see it.

"She seems nice."

He turns to go back to the station. You follow him. Somehow, even with his ridiculously long legs, his pace matches yours.

You’re going from Georgetown to Quantico. One last time. Around 1 hour and 30 minutes. $13.00.

You type out part of your thesis on the way there.

V. Why the 1978 Case Remained Cold: A Legal-Forensic Analysis (draft 1)

A. Could Profiling Have Helped?

In retrospect, the 1978 behavioral profile raises critical legal and forensic concerns. Particularly when assessed under modern evidentiary standards, which require expert testimony to be based on scientifically valid reasoning and methodology. While the inferred offender traits outlined by the profile may seem plausible in hindsight, their speculative nature raise serious admissibility issues. The validity of the process behind behavioral profiling has been met with increasing scrutiny and skepticism by courts. For instance, United States v. Meeks (2003) …

You’re back at the BAU conference room. You’re here to give a formal report about your ‘consulting but not really but sort of but not really’ work for the case.

Hotch is the one taking it. Is this sort of paperwork even part of his duties ?

He’s sitting next to you, not unlike the first time you ever were in this room.

He asks you to describe exactly in what capacity you contributed to the investigation. He writes down what you’re saying with the navy twisty fancy pen. You feel a lot more at ease than the first time. The whiteboard still says ‘it’s better to volunteer!!’, with the crooked e.

He finishes writing down the last of your words and then taps the pen lightly against the edge of the paper.

“I’ve seen agents do less than this and get more credit,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor.

A smile tugs at your lips. “Is that part of the official statement, Hotch ?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Off the record.”

He turns the page towards you and hands you his pen for you to sign it.

“Just Aaron will do,” he adds.

Aaron. Aaron. Aaron.

You twist the pen, his pen, off one last time. You try thinking of a way to stall. To steal just another minute of his time.

“Well. That’s all of it,” he concludes.

A beat… That’s it ?

“Unless you want to debrief again. Over dinner ?” he offers.

I want to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] and de-brief (get it?) you and [REDACTED].

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotch fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction

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junplusone · 14 hours ago

Text

pacific standard time ; hong jisoo

do you still remember when we left home? we were supposed to stay on the west coast 🌴

SUMMARY. when your cousin's wedding inevitably brings you back to the city of los angeles, you're left to decide how you want to deal with the feelings you have for your best friend. time needs time, though. is it possible to mend eight years with only four weeks on hand?

PAIRING. hong jisoo x f!reader

GENRE. idol!au, angst, childhood best friends to not lovers, somewhat open ending, soonyoung appearance & jeonghan mention who cheered

WARNINGS. language/swearing

WORDS. 16.14k

NOTES. i feel like i need to state that i had keni titus' mud on my superstars on repeat almost the entire time while i was writing this. also east coast best coast i don't make the rules!! (can you tell i'm biased lol.) let it be known that i know next to nothing abt la i am so sorry. anyways i really hope you guys enjoy let me know what you think!! big big thanks to celeste @mylovesstuffs, supi @supi-wupi, and calli @hhaechansmoless for beta reading this for me <3

PLAYLIST. mud on my superstars - keni titus / california dreamin' - the mamas & the papas / oceans and engines - niki / east side - lyn lapid / they don't know about us - one direction / this town - niall horan / my youth - troye sivan / :) - the japanese house

The wind stings. It always does, over here.

Growing up you had constantly heard people complain about the strong drafts of Chicago, but now you know better – it is a thousand times worse in this city. You shiver violently, berating yourself for leaving your scarf at home while a proper Boston winter is currently in full swing.

No matter, now. It’s only one more block to your apartment building, and then you can pretend it isn’t freezing to death outside until you inevitably leave for work again in the morning.

Others don’t seem too bothered by the cold – your roommate, the least of all. But they’re all used to it, years and years of living through these harsh winters. You didn’t grow up with incessant snowfall and rain that came and went as it pleased. Los Angeles wasn’t ever like that.

It still isn’t – not that you would know. Maybe you would, if you went back more often. But it doesn’t feel much like home anymore, so you stay, and pull out the winter coat from your closet as November rolls around.

Ayun is home when you walk in. She stands over the stove, humming to herself as she sprinkles a bit more salt into whatever she’s cooking, and glances over her shoulder at the sound of your bag hitting the kitchen island.

“Long day?”

Your agreement comes in the form of an exhausted groan. This is the latest you’ve ever come home, and she knows it. It’s nearly half past eleven, and you’re only back already because you didn’t have to wait ages for the subway to show up at the stop. Thank god, you think, plopping yourself down on the small couch.

“What are you making?” you ask.

“Garlic pasta. Want some? I promise it’s really good.”

You decline it, saying you’ve had a late dinner at work. Ayun frowns. What you don’t tell her is that your appetite has been long gone, ever since you opened your family group chat to a picture of your parents with Joshua.

Look who’s back! read the message from your father underneath it, with a smiling emoji. We miss you. Visit soon!

In fact, you hadn’t told Ayun about Joshua at all. You didn’t want to speak his name, let him out into the city of Boston. He wasn’t yours in LA, and he definitely isn’t yours in Seoul, but maybe he can be here. You keep him to yourself, guarded like a secret nobody else will ever understand.

Because they can’t, really, no matter how much you explain. Ayun might nod along and pat your back, but she won’t truly get it.

She wasn’t there when he left, and Los Angeles had never felt emptier. Or when you left, too, without looking back. There is no way to explain how it feels to have your feet on the Atlantic Coast while your heart is somewhere in South Korea.

So you don’t, shaking your head and mumbling that you’re alright when she asks. You leave a heart reaction on the picture.

I will, you text back.

A lie, and by now your parents probably know it, too. It has been a year and a half since you set foot on California soil, and you’re not planning on doing it again anytime soon.

Your thumb hovers over the button to exit the group chat, but you find yourself looking at the photo longer than you should. Your parents look a bit older, more weary than the last time you video called them, and your brother has cut his hair even shorter.

But Joshua glows. He smiles in the selfie, one arm hanging off of your brother’s shoulders. Those eyes are scrunched up into two happy crescents. Too familiar, too much. The spark in his expression burns.

Stardom will inevitably change a person, but that part of him has always been the same.

You rip your eyes away from your phone, the screen with Joshua’s face on it going dark. Ayun puts the leftovers in the fridge, asking if you want to shower first. You tell her to go ahead, reaching for the remote. The TV drones on, but you aren’t listening.

It’s almost midnight. 8:52 in California, you think. It’s a reflex, each time you look at the clock. Even over two thousand miles away, PST never leaves you. Your parents might be having a late dinner right now, as they always do. Maybe Joshua is sitting at the table too, all smiles and stories you don’t know if you’d want to hear.

You hear the sound of the shower turning off already. Sighing, you open the last notification on your phone, a rather long text from your brother following a missed call.

I know you probably forgot, but Sumin’s wedding is soon. Mom and Dad didn’t want to bother you and ask, but I’m telling you because I know they want you there, and so does she. Sending the invitation after this. Please make time to be there. Everyone misses you.

The words burn into your eyes as you reread it, and then another time. The accusatory tone in Hajun’s message isn’t totally lost on you. You click hesitantly on the evite. Sumin looks radiant in the picture, bursting with happiness. You don’t recognize her fiancé. It’s been quite a while since the last time you spoke to your cousin.

February 12, 4:00 PM. It is soon. The date almost has you frowning, until you realize the weather back home is just accommodating enough during the winter for such events.

Should you go? You’ll need to request at least two weeks off, which you don’t know if you’ll get. On top of that, the mere prospect of being back in LA at the same time as Joshua has your stomach turning.

But then again, it’s been ages since you’ve been back. A part of you carries guilt for not being there – for your parents, for your brother, for your family. The least you could do is show up to an important event.

And yet…

The light clicks off in Ayun’s room. It is well past midnight now. You pick yourself up off the couch and into the shower, drowning out the heaviness of your thoughts with the steam that rises and fogs up the glass. The sound of the water reminds you of the waves, crashing and rolling against the Pacific coast.

Maybe a visit home is long overdue.

You didn’t like Joshua when you first met him.

It was petty, and stupid. You thought him too perfect, too kind – a far cry from the other elementary school boys who were rude and liked to crack jokes at the expense of everybody else. Preteen you refused to fall for the supposed act.

He lived just a few minutes away, and he was usually over at your house for a meal, or to do homework. Your parents absolutely adored him and thought he was the most polite boy they had ever met.

But you didn’t buy it.

It wasn’t until several years later that you began to understand. Joshua Hong was, at his core, the closest to altruistic you had ever seen a person come. He was not an angel, by any means – he liked to tease you often, but it was always harmlessly. He was endlessly kind at heart. That was when you had allowed yourself to be more comfortable in his presence, slowly becoming fast friends.

Joshua always stood by you not like an umbrella, but just another flower under the rain. His friendship was like a promise to weather everything with you, no matter what it was. There were never any secrets, not between you and him.

So it had felt like the biggest betrayal when you found the plane ticket to Seoul simply sitting there in his drawer, like it wasn’t a metaphorical stab to your heart.

Those are the memories that come unbidden to you as you settle in your seat, gazing out the window as the plane takes off. You still aren’t sure if booking this flight was a mistake, if you’ll regret it all the second you set foot in LAX.

But it’s too late for all that now. You suppose you’ll find out in six hours, anyhow.

Your fingers slip from the window’s glass as the rest of the airport grows smaller and the bay comes into view, soon giving way to the vast Atlantic. The cabin’s lights are dimmed. You should be trying to catch some sleep to better handle the three-hour time difference.

You’re already regretting choosing a six a.m flight — you don’t know why you let Ayun talk you into it. So you’ll land earlier instead of at night, she’d said. But you had never really been a morning person to begin with.

Joshua knew that, too. Still, he used to ring your phone at four in the morning, so you could catch the sunrise together at the beach. You always grumbled about it, but your mood never failed to lighten once the sun rose, painting the sky in picturesque colors. It was peaceful like that, just the two of you sitting and talking over a plate of sliced apples and peanut butter.

Your own words echo in your head, even after all these years. Why didn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you tell me?

And he didn’t have any answers, choosing to just stare at the ground as your heart shattered into pieces.

Maybe that was the problem, that you cared too much. The truth was that no matter how much you tried to hide it, you loved Joshua Hong back then, with all of your teenaged heart. Maybe he knew. Maybe he loved you back. But that line of thought would remain just that – a forever maybe.

Not surprisingly, you don’t sleep a wink the entire flight. It must show on your face, because Hajun asks about it when you meet him outside.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, pulling away from the tight hug he’d engulfed you in. He hasn’t changed much aside from the hair — still the same curious, eager eyes and bright expression. When he had suddenly grown so much, you aren’t sure. “Wow, you look exhausted.”

“I am,” you say. Hajun hoists your suitcase into the trunk, and you settle tiredly into the passenger seat. “Did you guys have lunch already?”

He shakes his head, starting the car. “No. We were all waiting for you.”

Your heart squeezes just a little bit at his words, but you remain silent. The drive passes just like that. You and Hajun have always been this way — talkative individually, but not with each other. Growing up, there were not many things you necessarily needed to say out loud between yourselves. It’s the same exact way right now.

I’m sorry. I missed you. It’s okay. I understand.

Sleep is gone from your mind. Hajun rolls down the windows just a little bit and you revel in the warm air as he drives down the freeway, taking in the California sky. You can’t believe you stayed away for so long.

A part of you even feels excited at the prospect of your visit, a much longer stay than the several days you were here every other time you visited.

There’s another car parked in your driveway when Hajun rolls in, one that you don’t recognize. You shoot him a questioning look, but he’s already turned away, unloading your luggage out of the trunk and the backseat.

The front door opens before you can even take another step. Your father hangs back with an excited smile as your mom lets out a little shriek, wrapping you in a hug. The familiar warmth still feels so far away, like maybe a part of you hasn’t finished the journey across the country yet. You let yourself melt into her warm embrace, the one you had stubbornly stayed so far away from for so long.

“Come in, come in,” she says hurriedly. “You need to eat something after your long flight, I made all of your favorites. Oh, and there’s someone you need to meet!”

You turn back to give your brother another confused look. Hajun meets your eyes this time, but the smile he sports doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks uneasy, if anything, and it’s only once you’ve set your suitcase down inside the house that you understand why.

Because in your living room, on your worn couch, sits Joshua Hong.

He stands as soon as everyone walks in, saying his hellos. Always polite, always so mannered. The idea makes your blood boil until you realize you don’t have the right to be angry about it at all. What you do find upsetting is the fact that you can’t really take your eyes off of him, not even after all that’s happened. His hair is neatly swept back as always, save for that one strand that never did as he wanted even as a child. Those lips that you once almost kissed are parted in mild surprise, doe eyes never once leaving yours.

“Hi,” is all he says.

You return it with a polite nod, unable to come up with words, and wonder why Joshua of all people is in your house right now. Ignoring him for the time being, you greet his mother and make small talk with her as your parents busy themselves with finishing things up in the kitchen. You always enjoyed talking with her, but right now there are more pressing matters to think about, like her son hanging onto your every word as he sits patiently beside her.

You shoot Hajun another look afterward. I’m sorry, I had no idea, he mouths back. You sigh and wonder at your perfectly doomed fate.

Maybe you should have told your parents that you and Joshua weren’t friends anymore, that you had stopped talking entirely after you found the ticket to Seoul in his room and had that disastrous argument. If you had, you probably wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

But you didn’t, and you are. So you force a smile and talk your way through lunch while pretending you aren’t five seconds from violently throwing up the entire time.

You’re about to use a stomach ache or something of the sort as an excuse to leave when your father’s voice stops you en route to your old bedroom.

“Why don’t you kids go have a drive around or something? I’m sure it’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up,” he suggests from the couch, ever so oblivious to the brick wall between the two of you.

Joshua is already standing up. You wish the floor would swallow you whole. The absolute last thing you want to do is be alone with him. You’re deeply tempted to say it aloud right now, but you know better than that.

Hajun goes to say something, eyes alarmed, but you shake your head ever so subtly. Normally you would be the first one to try and cause a scene, but you are too tired for any of that, and you know it isn’t worth it.

You fake a smile and drag yourself to the door, reluctantly slipping on your shoes.

“I’ll drive,” Joshua offers, reaching for his keys.

You want to punch him in the face. But you don’t have a better option, so you grumble an agreement and follow him out the door.

With each second that passes, you find yourself hoping he’ll say something. But he stays quiet, even as he starts his car and pulls out onto the road. It’s a nice, newer model, and you wonder when he’d bought it.

You suppose this is the kind of thing he can casually afford now that he’s Joshua of SEVENTEEN. Not yours, not LA’s, but the whole world’s instead, bigger than the dream he had all those years ago.

“Where do you want to go? The beach?”

You scoff. “Only a complete lunatic would go to the beach in January.”

“Careful. The New England in you is showing.” He ignores your words and takes a familiar right. Your stomach turns violently when you realize exactly where he’s heading, and his soft voice sends a thousand tiny daggers into every vein in your body.

You’ve heard that voice all too many times over the past eight years. You’ve heard it in interviews, sung into bedazzled microphones. It was shameful to admit it to yourself, but you had kept up with Joshua’s achievements for far longer than you should have. You almost messaged him when you received the news of his debut, too, but you stopped before you could pull his contact up, wondering if you were even allowed to do that anymore.

After all, you had not heard from him since he went to Korea. So you tucked your phone away, and chose to listen to his soothing voice instead.

“How’s Boston?”

It’s cold, it rains all the time, and I miss you. “Josh, let’s not do this.”

You regret the familiar nickname the minute you say it, but he doesn’t seem to register it, voice tinged with desperation. “Do what?”

“Pretend that everything is perfectly fine and we’re still friends,” you huff, turning to face him for the first time since you got in his car. His eyes are trained on the road, like the responsible driver he’s always been, but his jaw is tight. Good, you think. “Why were you in my house? Why are you still in my life?”

“You might hate me, but your parents don’t,” he says softly, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Our moms were friends before we ever were.”

You can’t bring yourself to say that you hate him, so you settle for the next best thing.

“I can’t believe you, Joshua Hong. I don’t understand how you have the nerve to disappear without telling me and then magically showing up again years later like nothing ever happened.”

“I didn’t,” he insists. “Disappear, I mean. We didn’t have to be strangers for eight years.”

“Well, we were! Did you forget about everything back home the second you got to Korea and started a completely new life?”

There’s a flash of hurt in his eyes, and you think this time you might have struck a sensitive nerve.

“Did you forget everything the moment you set foot in Boston and everyone else was three hours behind?” he counters. “At least I come home when I can. From what I hear, you’re barely even here.”

Your nostrils flare. You had always made sure to schedule your visits after he went back to Seoul. “I have a job, Joshua, and it’s not as flexible as yours!”

“You didn’t have to spend two whole years wondering if you were even going to have a job!”

Another quick remark comes to the front of your mind, but you hold your tongue at the last minute.

This isn’t good. This is turning into the last argument you had before you hadn’t spoken for years again, and it’s far too early for that right now. Joshua seems to understand this too, exhaling his irritation into the air.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “It’s fine.”

You had been way too caught up in the argument to realize he already parked in the all-too-familiar lot. The salty air is unmistakable through the half rolled down windows, and the waves lapping against the shore unlock a memory you thought you had securely put away somewhere in a dark corner of your mind.

You fold your arms. “Why are we here?”

Joshua shrugs. “Figured you haven’t been to a proper beach in forever. You used to love it here.”

“It’s been eight years, Josh. You don’t know a single thing about me anymore.” Even as you say it, you get out of the car, immediately letting the nostalgia wash over you. You missed this, the sand shifting under your feet and the seagulls’ distant calling. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for this?”

“Hm?”

“Hajun said dating rumors are essentially a death sentence for you guys.”

Joshua pulls out a baseball cap from the side of his car in response. You recognize that one, the old Lakers hat he wore religiously throughout high school. It hasn’t changed a single bit, but he has, so much.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “Barely anyone’s here. Soonyoung’s out exploring on his own right now, though. I’m more worried about him.”

You glance up in surprise. “You brought him, too?”

“Yeah, he’s staying at my place,” Joshua chuckles. “Last time we were here he went and had galbi with my mom without me. I didn’t even know he came over.”

You had heard about that, but you can’t remember exactly where. Instead, you let yourself watch him as he walks in front of you, following that same path to your favorite spot on the shore. He’s taller now, more built, but with the same boyish charm that had you falling at just thirteen.

Still, you reprimand yourself for every one of those thoughts. Not yours, not yours, not yours, you chant in your head, even as you walk precariously on the eroded rocks.

Even after all this time, Joshua has managed to find the spot fairly easily, setting down a beach towel so you can sit on the sand. You’re certainly not dressed for this, you think, but you still take a seat.

You aren’t sure what to say – what there is to say. The sunlight is gentler than usual, a trademark of a mid-winter afternoon. The gentle breeze tousles his dark hair just a tad, and for a split second he is yours, like he used to be.

The moment lasts until he speaks up again. “How long are you staying?”

“Four weeks,” you sigh. “I’m leaving after my cousin’s wedding.”

“That’s a pretty long time.”

It is, and you have a feeling it’s going to go by painfully slow. “You?”

Joshua stretches his legs out, head tilted up towards the sky. “I’m off for the rest of the month. Then I have other things scheduled back to back. But Soonyoung’s only here for two weeks.”

You nod, processing the information. Four weeks at home, and you won’t be able to avoid him for any of it. Maybe if you plan your days strategically, you can –

“Let me know when you’re free,” he says, shocking you.

You scowl at him. “Why would I do that?”

He shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but that will never work on you. You know him too well, you’ve always been able to see right through him. The hurt in his eyes cannot be disguised for anything else, and you feel terrible for a moment.

“Only if you want,” he murmurs. He looks picturesque, perfect, like he’s supposed to. Your chest tightens. “If you feel like making up for lost time.”

The idea is tempting, too tempting. But as soon as you catch yourself beginning to consider it, you brush it away again. Time has created a physical barrier between the two of you, and you feel it even now, an invisible wall you constructed when he left that you never bothered to try taking down afterwards.

It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and the sun is soft. The waves roll and crash ahead of you, and Los Angeles watches as you and Joshua sit side by side.

You are not one to sleep in, usually. But something about being home has done away with the part of you that is always alert, always on edge.

When Hajun is up before you, that’s how you know it’s bad. He tries to make fun of you, but you smack him on the head and chalk it up to the time difference, walking away so you don’t have to hear him say that it only works in the opposite direction.

Ayun has texted you a few times with life updates that you sit down to read thoroughly. You miss her, even though it’s only been a few days since you have been in California, and you keep forgetting that you’re a whole three hours behind now.

There isn’t much to do, and it bothers you. For most of your life, you feel like you’ve been chasing something — a degree, a career, stability. But it doesn’t sit right with you that for the next four weeks, you have nothing to work towards.

So you busy yourself as much as you are able, volunteering to drive Hajun to places he needs to go and helping your parents out around the house. As restless as the days can get, you still find pockets of calm where you can. It’s in peeling garlic in the kitchen with your mother, and long drives while your brother sings off-key to the songs playing in your car.

It’s during one of those drives that Hajun’s phone starts to ring mid-conversation. You don’t think anything of it, humming along to yourself as he answers it.

“Oh, hey,” he says, quickly frowning. “Yeah, she is. Why?”

His tone makes you look over at him curiously, but he just shakes his head.

“Alright, I’ll tell her. You too. See you.”

You shoot him a funny look. “Who was that?”

Hajun shifts in his seat. That’s how you know you might not like the answer. He has always been the one person who is unconditionally transparent with you, even growing up. You spare him an apprehensive glance from the driver’s seat when he remains quiet.

“It was Joshua,” he says finally.

Your stomach flips, violently. “What? How does he have your number?”

“He’s my friend, too,” Hajun reminds you. “You weren’t the only one who grew up with him constantly around the house.”

He’s right. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. It isn’t fair to project your own frustration onto someone who hasn’t done anything but have your back this entire time.

“What did he want?”

“He was asking if he could see you again, but he didn’t know how to contact you. Not now,” he clarifies. “Later, sometime. He sounded a little scared, honestly.”

“Good,” you mutter, fingers tightening around the wheel. Hajun notices and sighs, the one he does when he has something to say but consciously chooses to keep it to himself. “What is it?”

“You’re stressing yourself out again,” he points out.

“How can I not be stressed?” Still, you loosen your grip on the steering wheel reluctantly. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what he’s up to now? Eight years, Hajun! Eight years he disappears and then chooses to act like everything’s perfect and great! Does he think that just because he’s famous now he can come back and do whatever he wants?! What an immature little bitch.”

Hajun, ever the peaceful angel sitting on your shoulder, furrows his brows. “I wouldn’t put it like that exactly,” he says delicately, “but I agree.”

“Yes. Good. Thank you.”

“So… can I give you his number?”

You shoot him your best glare. But you can’t keep it going, not at your little brother. Even when he’s trying to play mediator in the midst of a ticking minefield.

Every single cell in your body is screaming no. But your soft spot always wins, and exposes that ugly, shameful truth: you hadn’t ever stopped loving Joshua Hong through the tumultuous years. Not in LA, not in Boston. He had left, but a part of him remained with you. You couldn’t ever get rid of it.

You say yes.

It’s embarrassing, almost, the amount of time you spend staring at the unfamiliar digits in your phone. Your finger hovers above it sometimes, during the moments of weakness you go through alone in your childhood bedroom.

You might have dialed Joshua’s landline ten years ago, standing in this very spot. You did, often, to talk about anything and everything at all. But the words don’t come easy anymore. In fact, they don’t come at all.

The house gets suffocating, after a while. You find yourself itching to get out, to paint yourself against the sparsely clouded sky. Maybe the water will give you the answers you cannot find on your own.

Or maybe you expect too much of the ocean – perhaps you read too many Herman Melville books during university, in which the crashing waves seemed to contain multitudes.

But that is all fiction. The Pacific does not seem to recognize your sadness no matter how many times you drive down to the beach. If you squint closely enough, you can see your own footprints in the sand, before the wind scatters them away.

Either way, you don’t expect much from the ocean anymore. No solace, no comfort. You don’t blink even as you get sprayed with water, the tide just barely reaching your toes.

The sacred silence is broken by a gentle peal of laughter further down the shore. Your heart drops. You would recognize that soft giggle anywhere in the world.

Joshua isn’t alone. He’s watching who you think is Soonyoung as he wades around in the water, if the tiger print shirt is any indication to go by. He sits on a large boulder, narrowly avoiding the tide each time it ripples across the sand and just barely reaches his toes.

It’s an all too familiar scene.

Yet you can’t help but look on fondly as they talk and laugh between themselves. Joshua has the kind of friends that you always secretly wished for him. It’s clear in every single clip that goes viral on social media, each snippet posted to Instagram you click on even though you told yourself you wouldn’t.

It’s perfect — they cheer on his unhinged madness, and he continues to take care of them in that gentle way of his.

They don’t know that you once knew that side of him, too. Joshua has always been widely beloved. Such a wonderful young man, the parents always said. Still do. But beneath all of that lies a thick layer of mischief that crackles and bubbles like a steady fire. You used to love that about him, how easily he was able to channel his inner child.

That version of him is not for you, not anymore. You get what the rest of the world sees. Joshua, the gentleman. Joshua, lead vocalist of SEVENTEEN.

Soonyoung slips and falls comically, almost flat on his face. Joshua helps him up, but not before laughing heartily first. The water he’d tried so hard to avoid pools around his feet, drenching the bottom of his light blue jeans.

You never understood why he always wore jeans to the beach. Who does that, anyway? But maybe you get it now. They aren’t supposed to get so soaked, not unless you want to feel like a miserable wet dog. There is a time and place to wade into the ocean.

One of those is when Soonyoung falls, apparently.

This is when you realize you make the mistake of looking too long, too much. Joshua’s head snaps up and he squints at you, either trying to make out your face or wondering why you’re here.

You look away, fingers combing through the warm sand. Once, twice, again.

He waves. Soonyoung waves, too.

You’d kick yourself right now if you could, but no amount of self-reproaching is going to stop them from making their way down the shoreline in your direction. Soonyoung skips ahead with his flip-flops in hand, clearly excited. Joshua seems a little less so.

You don’t even know what to say, when Soonyoung finally approaches you with a wide smile on his mouth. It’s hard for you to return it with equal enthusiasm, but you try.

Soonyoung speaks in flourishing sentences, interjects in Korean where he can’t come up with the English word. He says he can’t believe this is how he gets to finally meet you, and that he’s heard so much about you over the years. All good things, he promises.

You take his words at face value, because you think you would be able to tell if he was lying. And you’d believe them either way. Joshua is no angel, but he isn’t nearly as petty as you, and you know he would never speak ill of you to his bandmates.

Soonyoung is easy to talk to. Of course, you are starting on a clean slate with him. But Joshua approaches, and suddenly there are haphazard marks all over the stone. He greets you with a polite nod, because that is what he always does. But you’re able to easily see past the fraught smile.

“Hi,” he says, eyebrows lifting slightly. You scan the rest of the beach, wondering what would happen if someone happens to spot the three of you. But there is nobody else as far as you can see. There usually isn’t. That was why you started coming here in the first place. “Don’t worry, I really don’t think anyone would recognize us.”

“You should give yourself more credit than that. A lot of people like to brag about you over here.”

He laughs, like it isn’t true. “I haven’t made the news after being spotted out and about yet, so I’m counting that as a win.”

“Let’s hope you get to keep your lucky streak.”

“Let’s,” he echoes, eyes sweeping over you like he’s trying to find the answer to a question he hasn’t even asked yet. A part of you wants him to. Maybe you do have what he’s looking for. “I didn’t think we were going to run into you here today.”

You shrug, glancing at the calm waves. “I’m usually here.”

I know, he might have said if you were alone. Because he does, and you know it. But he only chuckles, like this is brand new information to him.

“Has Soonyoung already started talking your ear off?” he asks instead.

“I don’t mind it,” you admit. “He already promised me a year’s worth of embarrassing Joshua Hong stories, by the way.”

“I did,” Soonyoung confirms, eager to join the conversation. Joshua feigns a betrayed frown as they launch into a playful argument of their own.

You note his little mannerisms – the way he moves his hands when he makes a point, how his eyes go extra wide after Soonyoung makes a particularly bold statement – and wonder how you still remember all of them after so many years.

“What!” Soonyoung exclaims suddenly after Joshua calls him ridiculous, turning to you. “Noona, has he always been like this?”

You purse your lips. Joshua looks at you half expectantly, and you’re not sure what the rest is. Regret. Nostalgia, maybe. There’s no way for you to know.

“Yes,” you say. “Much worse. He wasn’t any less of a menace in LA, you know. If anything, I think he’s mellowed down a little since then.”

“I knew it. There’s no way he could have ever been normal.”

Soonyoung looks vindicated as he says it. Joshua begins to complain, but it’s evident that he really doesn’t mind. They begin to bicker again, and it reminds you of old times.

Maybe you should feel a little bitter right now. But you don’t. Perhaps Joshua had not felt so strongly about losing you after gaining this sort of precious friendship back twelve-fold. And you can’t find it in you to be anything but grateful that he had found home again, that with these boys he could be just Joshua and didn’t need to worry about being enough.

Soonyoung dodges a playful smack, and the scene makes you laugh. Joshua looks at you like the sound is startling, and you can’t take it. Your eyes find somewhere else to rest, anywhere and anything except for him.

“Anyways, noona,” Soonyoung turns to you. “What were you doing over here?”

“Me? Nothing.” You gesture vaguely to the ocean and the sand that had witnessed your childhood. “I used to come here a lot when I was younger. I guess I just miss it.”

Soonyoung nods, like he understands. “I know what you mean. I miss home when we’re on tour, too.”

And you know he means well, but he won’t truly get it. He speaks like home is always open for him, no matter how far it is.

But it has been so long since you’ve felt like there is anything left for you in Los Angeles. Your parents had begun to understand that at some point. Hajun, too.

Of course, memories are always strongest where they were originally made, but your life is no longer here. Education, career, friends – you had created a bubble for yourself on the east coast, and you’d easily slipped into that routine.

Coming back to the same beach you loved at sixteen does not feel like the full circle moment you thought it would be. And you feel a little stupid now, for thinking so. Of course it would not be the same. You are different in so many ways now than you were when you left California for the first time.

Joshua steps in when you begin to struggle for an appropriate response. You hate that he’s so good at knowing what to say.

“How’s Hajun been lately?”

“Oh, he’s good.” It’s a welcome change of topic. “He’s handling school pretty well, figuring out what he wants to do after graduating.”

Joshua nods, a little smile curving onto his lips. “I can’t believe Hajun’s already graduating college. Time goes by so fast.”

“That it does.”

“Sometimes I wish I had a little brother,” Soonyoung says mournfully.

“You don’t,” you assure him. “I promise it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. We really did not like each other that much until he hit middle school, probably.”

“Really?”

You nod. “Yeah, we used to fight all the time. I bruised his arm pretty bad once.”

“It’s true,” Joshua confirms. “I’ve seen it in real time. It almost happened to me in high school once, too.”

Soonyoung gapes at you in utter surprise. You almost laugh, and wonder what kinds of nice things Joshua must have said about you that he can’t seem to believe otherwise.

“Noona, did you actually punch him?”

“Almost,” you emphasize. “But he walked into my house and ate the last piece of my birthday cake that I was saving as a treat for after finals week. So it was his fault, really.”

“I was hungry,” Joshua offers, attempting to defend himself.

“Well, so was I!”

Sooyoung shoots him a look. “I don’t blame her. I’d do the same.”

“Thank you, Soonyoung.”

He takes it in stride. “It’s good to know there’s at least one person that can put hyung in his place.”

This makes you laugh, even if you don’t know how true that statement is anymore. Joshua narrows his eyes, like he’s not sure if he likes this new alliance that seems to be forming between the two of you. Playful, as he tends to be. There is no real grudge in his expression, only a sort of affection that makes it even harder for you to keep him at arm’s length. You catch onto it, and the two of you share a little smile that lasts only for a few seconds.

It’s a little dangerous, but perhaps it’s okay. Nothing wrong with honoring a memory, right?

Soonyoung either notices the tension, or subconsciously changes the topic himself. Whichever it is, you’re grateful for the diversion. You’re not sure you could handle this conversation if it was just you and Joshua here by yourselves.

“Noona, you should have dinner with us!”

You blanch at the suggestion. “Oh, I really don’t think—”

Soonyoung doesn’t notice your expression and just continues to talk about a cozy place nearby, somewhere with great bone soup he’s been craving lately. Out of desperation, you turn to Joshua, wondering if he might put a stop to this with an excuse. But he just smiles lightly as his friend chatters on.

“I mean, he’s right,” he says. “How long has it been since we’ve caught up over a meal?”

Damn you, you think. Damn you and your stupid face and your stupid smile.

But you know the truth. You could curse him in your head all you want, and still you follow him up the beach’s slope every time, stepping in his footprints as they sink into the sand. You refuse to let him drive you to the restaurant Soonyoung was raving about, and nod numbly when he says he’ll text you the address instead.

It sits there, the very first message he’s sent you in almost a decade. No hi, no how are you, just the number and street name blinking back at you from the screen.

You’d imagined this so many times, wondered how the conversation would play out. Maybe one of you would apologize, and that old feeling would blossom again. But there’s no use in dwelling on the what-if, so you start your car and turn your music on low.

The place is cozy. There are potted plants sitting in the corners, and old ballads play softly from the speaker. No one else is inside when you walk in, except for Joshua and Soonyoung, who must have arrived a few minutes before you. The latter is speaking in rapid Korean with the old woman behind the counter, having slipped into a comfortable pace. Joshua turns when you approach them quietly.

“He’s been trying to bond with her for the past ten minutes straight,” he tells you. “I think they’re both from Namyangju.”

“Well, is it working?”

“Very much so.”

The halmeoni tells Soonyoung he is a very charming young man, from what little you can decipher. He smiles bashfully at the compliment even as you’re shown to your table.

“See, that’s natural charisma,” he says pointedly. Joshua gets the hint and chuckles, taking a long sip of his water. “Noona, don’t you agree?”

“Definitely. In fact, I think Josh could take a page out of your book for once.”

Joshua chokes on his water. Soonyoung reaches over to high five you in the midst of his laughter, while the former pretends to be annoyed as he dabs the water from his shirt.

As always, Soonyoung is quick to move to another topic. He seems to have many questions at the tip of his tongue.

“Hyung said you live in Boston now,” is what he starts with. “What’s it like there?”

“It’s nice. Very walkable, unlike here. Super pretty in the summer, but the winters are brutal.” You try your hardest to ignore the way Joshua hangs onto your every word, as if each syllable falling from your lips is something special. “It’s a beautiful city. You guys haven’t toured there before?”

“I think we only went once, a really long time ago,” Joshua offers. “In 2017, if I remember correctly.”

Soonyoung nudges him and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Well, why didn’t you visit her then?”

You know why. Joshua knows why too, based on the way his almond eyes sweep to the linoleum floor. He had no way of knowing, back then, where you were and what you were up to. He had not contacted you since he left LA, and you were too proud to cave and send word first.

“We were busy,” Joshua says, going for the tasteful answer. “She probably was, too. With university and stuff.”

Soonyoung makes an ‘oh’ with his mouth. “What did you study, noona?”

You tell him you were an economics student, and he seems even more fascinated. Over steaming bowls of soup, you answer all of his questions, dropping in little extra details about your life here and there.

You know Joshua is listening as intently, but it’s easier on your heart to speak directly to Soonyoung instead and pretend these aren’t the updates you had wished you could give him all the time.

He watches you tell your stories, eyes patient and soft just like he’s always been. It is clear even now that he does not resent you for the dissolution of your friendship. Maybe he wanted to, but couldn’t. Like you.

The hour is late when you finally leave the restaurant, bidding the halmeoni a good night. You’re almost too tired to drive, but you manage to pull yourself together as you walk to your car.

“Drive safe,” Joshua murmurs, just barely loud enough to hear. “Text me when you get home.”

Silence is your response of choice. But you know yourself, and no matter how much you don’t want to, you’ll pull out your phone later tonight and let him know you got back okay. You just don’t want to think about it right now.

Soonyoung begins to say something, shoving his hands in his pockets before he freezes, alarmed.

“Shit,” he exclaims, patting the pockets of his jeans for good measure. “I think I left my wallet inside. Hold on, guys!”

Secretly you pray he finds it in some pocket or the other, but to no avail. He jogs back through the parking lot, leaving you alone with the last person you wanted to see in all of California. There is probably nothing you could say right now that would make the awkwardness any better.

“Soonyoung is quite the character,” is what you finally settle on. Joshua chuckles.

“He is.”

“I’m glad you have him,” you say. It’s the truth. “And the others.”

“Me too. I’m glad you got to meet him.” A stray strand escapes from Joshua’s well-kept hair. “They’ve wanted to, you know. The boys.”

You merely huff out a little laugh. “I wonder what stories you’re telling about me to your friends, Joshua Hong, that they think so highly of me.”

A twinkling smile graces the beautiful curve of his mouth. “The important ones.”

His gaze is deliberate. You know this, that Joshua has never been one to shy away from the issue at hand. He’s able to hold himself accountable, if anything.

But maybe that’s what scares you. It was easy to resent him, to linger in the grief of losing a dear friend. It was way too easy to convince yourself that you hated him more than anyone else in the world, even if you didn’t.

What’s hard is denying the simple truth that you still know Joshua to his core. People change, but still they do not become so unrecognizable once you uncover the essence of their being. There’s no way you could have magically unlearned him despite eight years of separation. Not even a lifetime apart could rip that away from you.

Soonyoung returns before you can say another word. Not that you can even remember what sort of response was on the tip of your tongue. He speaks with replenished energy and incessant curiosity, yet seems blissfully unaware of the rift between you and Joshua as you say your goodbyes.

The exhaustion hits you the moment you get into your car. Sighing, you lean back into your seat, wondering when something like love turned into such a painful, thorny thing to bear. When did it become so… resistant? In your youth you wore it like a pair of wings, light and airy. But it is stubborn now, and refuses to budge no matter how hard you push.

The sensible part of you wants it gone. But a tiny corner of your brain wonders if it’s a sign to stay.

Minutes tick by, and Joshua’s car is long gone. Still, the ghost of his presence remains with you, settling into the empty passenger seat. If you press your fingers to your chest, you can feel the ridges of the footprint he’s left on your heart.

In the distance, a seagull lands awkwardly onto a rock, before promptly righting itself. You ponder over the haphazard mess of your life, and wonder what it feels like to fly.

Of course, you should not have expected a peaceful four weeks when there is a wedding to be had.

Sumin is every bit as radiant as she looks. As children, you couldn’t ever be upset at your parents when she would come up in conversation as a point of comparison. Because they were right. She was impossibly smart, and beautiful, and always had just the right words to say. The years between you are only two, but she feels so far away, so unattainable.

But she still holds an approachable warmth that feels a little disorienting. You wonder at how humble she remains, despite being so accomplished and so loved.

Like Joshua, you think, before shoving that thought away.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Sumin says in that gentle voice of hers. “Auntie said you might not be able to make it. But I’m thankful she was wrong.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you tell her, truthfully. “I’m so happy for you.”

She smiles graciously. Everyone else nods along, an assortment of other cousins and some of her friends. You’ve met some, like Jiyeon and Sara, who went to the same university as Sumin. As for the others, you take the silence as an opportunity to observe them, as you always do.

Hawkish, Hajun always said to tease you. Joshua had chosen to take the kinder route, comparing you to an owl.

(“They’re considered very intelligent,” he’d said. “And they can fly really quietly.”

You frowned at him. “Are you telling me I’d make an excellent bird of prey?”

He laughed, loud and clear. “Maybe.”)

The afternoon tires you. You hadn’t originally wanted to go, but you felt you should meet Sumin at least once before the actual ceremony, and that had turned into a much more complex plan. Your mother insisted on you making some friends while you were at it, but that was futile. You had already anchored pieces of your heart here before setting sail without them, and you didn’t plan on doing it again.

The crisp air breathes life into your lungs as you leave her apartment. For the first time in years, it’s a Friday afternoon and you are free. There’s no worrying about deadlines, or rushing to another meeting with lukewarm coffee in hand.

It’s strange, to have so much time to yourself. And it shouldn’t be as odd of a concept as it feels. Your whole life, your days have never been yours. There was high school, there was university, and then there was the demanding schedule of a respectable job.

But these minutes belong to you. You can shape them, stretch them, use them however you want. Nobody is going to tell you no.

Your phone feels heavy in your hand, and you chew on your lip at the weight of the decision on your mind. Joshua’s name stares back up at you from the screen like a taunt. It burns unpleasantly in your chest, and you finally give in.

“Hello?”

A pause. You hadn’t expected him to answer so fast, and maybe you would have had time to think about what you were going to say. But then again, that should have been a decision you made before you called.

“Hey.” You feel the words getting stuck in your throat. It didn’t use to be this hard to talk to your best friend. “Sorry, were you busy?”

“No, no, you’re good,” he chuckles. It’s deep and rumbling, a far cry from the way he sounded at sixteen. Still, there are traces of that doe-eyed boy still there. “Did you need something?”

“Me? No. I was just wondering what you were up to.” You swallow, feeling the way the words begin to roll off of your tongue thoughtlessly. “I was with my cousin, but now I don’t really have anywhere to be, and Hajun’s got class, so–”

“Are you asking me if I want to hang out?”

You freeze, unsure of what to say next. The sound of Joshua’s soft breathing crackles over the phone. You can almost picture the rise and fall of his chest.

“If you are, my answer is yes,” he continues. His voice is gentle. Kind. I understand, it seems to tell you, even if he doesn’t say those words himself. “If not, that’s okay too. I’m glad you called, either way. I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

Stupid, stupid Joshua. That was all you wanted for years and years. But why does it seem like such a fearsome thing when it’s just within reach?

Now, though, is not the time to be indecisive or careful. You push aside every voice that’s whispering doubts into your mind and banish them into silence.

“I’ll pick you up in ten?”

Joshua laughs, like he knew you would say that. And he probably did, because it’s you, and how do you just forget things about people you’ve known for so long? He says he’ll be ready, and hangs up without offering to send you his address. He doesn’t need to. You couldn’t ever forget your way to the place that was like a second home to you in your teenage years.

The sun is more muted by the time you pull into his driveway, shrouded in cloud cover. It reminds you of the weather back home, and then you silently rebuke yourself for even thinking of Boston as home. Because it’s not, is it? The streets of Back Bay hadn’t raised you, hadn’t seen your moments of anguish as well as the ones of joy. One chapter of your life could never overshadow the whole book.

You’re startled by a soft knock on the window, and you unlock the door so Joshua can get in. He fits himself easily into your passenger seat. He looks good as always, donning a green flannel and a comfortable pair of jeans.

“You look nice,” he says. The words slip out easily, and your cheeks grow warm under his deliberate gaze. The sweater you’re wearing hangs off your shoulders a bit awkwardly, but you like how the fabric feels on your skin. It’s warm, and it fits. You hadn’t really thought much about it beyond that.

“Thank you,” you return, putting the car in reverse. “So do you. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

He raises a brow. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I’m sure you hear it all the time.”

“It’s different coming from you,” he says matter-of-factly. You resign to silence, and keep your eyes on the road ahead of you as you wonder what he could possibly mean. “Anyways, where to?”

You glance over at him suddenly. “Oh, I hadn’t… I didn’t think of that.”

“You usually have a plan,” Joshua observes, amused.

“Not today,” you confess. “Not for a while. Plans only work when there are things to be done. I’m sure you can understand.”

He nods, because he does. He must. His career is built around a strong sense of discipline and routine, if anything.

“Well, do you need to run any errands?”

Your heart aches. The two of you used to do this all the time in high school, dragging each other out of the house even for a simple grocery run.

“I don’t think so? Hajun got the groceries yesterday, and we’re not out of anything… I picked up Dad’s prescription, so that’s done too. Oh, and I should find something to wear to Sumin’s wedding, but I think I can take care of that later–”

“Let’s do it now,” Joshua says decisively. You try your best to shoot him an incredulous look while simultaneously keeping an eye on the road.

“You are going to be bored out of your mind,” you tell him. “That, and I need an actual second opinion.”

He feigns a hurt frown. “I don’t count as a second opinion?”

“You told me I looked like a melted stick of butter when I bought my prom dress!”

Joshua wrinkles his nose in recollection. “I thought I was being helpful, no?”

“I don’t think that was the compliment you meant it to be,” you point out. Joshua nods, making a sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

“Trust me, I’ve gotten better at those since last time.”

You throw him a cautious glance. “Joshua, you really don’t want to go dress shopping with me. I promise you.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

What could you even say? You know that he’s not unaware of the unsaid years bubbling between you two. There are so many reasons you could give, but you can’t settle on one.

“Listen,” he continues, “what’s the worst that could happen? If you find something you like, then that’s perfect. If you don’t, then you can come back later. Like you said, the wedding is soon, anyways.”

“You could be spotted. That would be pretty bad,” you point out.

“That’s why I have this.” He dangles the mask from between his fingers. “And a hat. I’m always prepared.”

“Right,” you say.

Because he is. He lays out the logic so easily, so smoothly as he always does. That’s what Joshua does – assessment followed by a calm decision. Unlike you, he’s good at that. Maybe he should have been a lawyer, you think, in another universe.

“Okay, fine,” you relent at last. “But I’m telling you now: if you compare me to a perishable food item, I’m kicking you out immediately.”

He laughs at this, eyes folding into those perfectly happy crescents you missed so dearly. “Deal.”

In this moment, you can convince yourself that nothing’s changed. Maybe in another universe where neither of you left home, you would be like this – humming along to old music and sharing the occasional glance as you drive down the winding roads.

Reality can wait, just for now.

It’s a long process, and you slowly feel yourself losing both patience and hope the longer it goes. There’s something off about each dress you try on – you can’t find the right size, the fit is weird, the color is off. Joshua tries his best to help, but you can only feel your exasperation growing by the minute.

“I like the sleeve details,” he says when you walk out in a forest green dress. He’s looking at you almost reverently, and you try very hard to ignore his sparkling eyes.

“It feels all wrong,” you say instead, shuffling over to the mirror. Joshua comes up beside you, hands in his pockets. He looks a bit silly, face covered by the mask and hat drawn low, but his presence is undeniably warm. “I don’t know, I don’t think this is it.”

Joshua hums. “Did you want anything specific?”

“No? I don’t know.” You sigh heavily, picking up the bottom of the dress so you don’t trip and fall on your face, and retreat back into the stall of the fitting room. “Sorry for dragging you into this, by the way.”

“Don’t apologize. I literally asked to come along,” Joshua says, with some mirth in his voice.

“I know, but isn’t it frustrating?” You pull the soft fabric over your head carefully. “We’ve been here for nearly an hour already and I haven’t been able to make up my mind on a single dress.”

“That’s okay. You forget we’ve done this before.” Joshua pauses hesitantly. “And for what it’s worth… you look beautiful in each one.”

Oh. You can feel your cheeks heating up, and you press your palms to your face to calm yourself down. Joshua has always been good at saying things like that. And it is always sincere – he’s not the type of person to say something he doesn’t mean. Still, it’s surprising when the words leave his mouth, and they render you absolutely speechless.

Whatever. You shake it off, reaching for the last dress you’d brought in with you. It’s made of smooth, soft fabric, and you feel comfortable even as you slip into it easily. The chiffon is light yellow, and it reminds you faintly of the dress you’d worn to junior prom so long ago.

You don’t know what you expect, as you step tentatively out of the stall. Joshua sucks in a sharp breath as you approach him, waiting for any sort of feedback. But he says nothing, gaze transfixed on you. You revel in his appreciative stare, almond eyes almost admiring you under the angled light.

Eventually, he speaks up. “You look like–”

“Please don’t say butter again, or I’ll kill you.”

“Dawn,” he finishes, barely above a whisper. “You look like first dawn.”

That, you had not been expecting. Your fingers smooth down the fabric at your sides in an attempt to calm your heart down a little. He notices, mouth quirking up into a smile at the nervous habit you haven’t been able to drop since you were a teenager.

“How does it feel?” he asks, when you remain silent for a few more moments.

“Good.” You dare to look at yourself in the mirror. The dress fits just right where you had wanted it to, and hangs perfectly off of your shoulders and curves. “It feels good. Light.”

Joshua raises his eyebrows. “That’s definitely a step up from all of the other ones.”

“It is,” you say, fidgeting with the chiffon. “Should I get this one, do you think?”

“Up to you,” he says softly. Those eyes are dangerous. One look and you’ll melt – so you don’t. “But you look lovely. Truly.”

You snort. “That’s what you said last time.”

Joshua laughs quietly, recollecting the memory. “It is. But I meant it just as much.”

The sun is no longer hidden away when you finally walk back out onto the street, goal accomplished and dress acquired. Joshua walks just half a pace ahead of you, bag in hand. He had insisted, and you let him.

It’s a difficult thing, saying no to someone you hold dear.

He’s talking in that smooth voice again, telling you an amusing story about Jeonghan and Seokmin. You feel bad – you’re only half paying attention, somewhat distracted by him. But the gears in your brain continue turning as you follow him down the street and he runs his hand through his wind-tousled hair.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Focus. He’s looking at you now, with worried eyes. You swear, those eyes will be your undoing. They always have been. You nod once, and then a second time when he asks if you’re sure.

A gust of wind hits your face again, stinging your skin. It leaves you wondering whether Joshua still holds the memory of what happened eight years ago so close to his heart, too.

The calendar that hangs from your bedroom wall stares back at you ominously as you observe it with equal parts apprehension and relief.

Two weeks. Just under two weeks until Sumin’s wedding. Two weeks until you fly back to Boston, until the salt air and warm sand are just memories on your skin.

Two weeks until you’re separated from Joshua, again.

Sighing, you flop back onto your bed. Leaving is inevitable. Perhaps you were never really meant to share your true feelings with him. The world has its ways of pulling you apart right when the words start to feel comfortable on your tongue.

But you hadn’t told him that night, had you?

The night both you and Joshua had leaned in a little too close, nervous hands shaking a little too much. You still remember the way his warm breath brushed against the corner of your mouth, his careful fingers as they held yours–

It’s a memory you don’t dare to relive. You don’t know if you deserve to let yourself hope that maybe after all these years, you still have a place in his heart as well. It’s a far-fetched idea. But you can’t seem to let it go.

Instead, you pretend everything is just fine, all while you meet up with him whenever you’re free. The next week goes by in a blur, and the days aren’t quite as slow as you expected them to be. But maybe that’s the effect Joshua has on you. Everything feels more alive, somehow. Even the flowers seem to have more color when his laughter rings in your ears.

The two of you are always discreet, always careful not to be seen — but always comfortable. Soonyoung joins when he can, and Hajun, too, when he’s able. You’d forgotten how natural it had felt being in Joshua’s presence, how it was so easy to be yourself and not care about anything else.

Maybe it’s that ease that scares you more than anything else. You can feel yourself slipping even further as your heart becomes less yours, and more his. The careful walls you had constructed over the years begin to crumble slowly, but surely.

In any other circumstances, this would be a welcome development. But it’s not. There are so many reasons why you and Joshua can’t be, and they all begin to rear their ugly heads while you try your best to save your heart in the process.

“Noona, what’s wrong?”

Your head snaps up to meet Soonyoung’s curious face. He’d come over today to play basketball with Hajun, as promised. Joshua hadn’t tagged along – he was spending time with his mom, Soonyoung told you.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “Do I look tired?”

“No! Not at all,” he backtracks, panicking. It’s almost funny. “I was just wondering. You looked a little worried.”

That, you were. It’s a feeling that’s always creeping just under the surface, no matter how happy you’ve allowed yourself to be.

Still, you manage a smile at him. “I’m okay.”

Soonyoung accepts this answer, but his brows stay furrowed. He fidgets with the edge of his hoodie, something you’ve come to learn he does when he’s a bit nervous.

“Noona, why did you really leave LA in the first place?”

You blink, wondering if you’d heard him right. “What do you mean?”

He sighs lightly, shoving his restless hands back into his pockets. When he does finally look back at you, there’s a mixture of understanding and sadness in his eyes.

“Hyung told us everything. Well, not all of us. Just me and Jeonghan hyung,” he clarifies quickly at your widened eyes. “I told him he needed to talk to you, but he didn’t know how. Or if you’d want that.”

“It’s complicated,” you tell him, even as your heart squeezes. Oh, Joshua. Had you truly seemed so unapproachable to him, the person who once knew you better than anyone else? “I had the choice between staying or leaving for university. And at the time, it was too painful to stay.”

“You don’t need to answer me,” Soonyoung adds wisely. He doesn’t have to say more. You know all too well what he means, and you look away sharply. All these years you had chosen to resent Joshua, over and over again.

But it takes two to tango, doesn’t it? There were many times you could have stepped in, so many opportunities to reconnect with him, and you didn’t do anything. It was the easiest thing to do, to stay upset, that you never thought about the irreparable damage your stubbornness would do above all else.

“I know, Soonyoung,” you murmur. “I know.”

He gives you a warm smile that’s meant to be comforting just as Hajun bounds down the stairs, basketball in hand. The thought remains with you even after both boys leave, and all the way until the next time you see Joshua.

And your fate must have struck a deal with the ocean, because it is always on the shore that Joshua finds you. Why is it that the restless waves are always there to bear witness between the two of you?

You recognize him instantly this time. “Oh, hi.”

He offers you a smile, sidestepping a rock and shuffling down the sandy slope. You’ve seen him fall on this exact square foot of sand so many times in your youth. He doesn’t slip now, anchoring his feet securely. You have changed, but so has he.

“You’re here late,” he observes, not taking the spot beside you until you gesture for him to do so. “I thought you’d be home.”

“Just needed some air.” You shoot him a look. “Shouldn’t you be home, too?”

“Soonyoung left, and I’m bored. You’re not the only one who likes to be out and about,” he replies cheekily. Despite yourself, you smile.

Out of the corner of your eye, you allow yourself to look at him a little extra, to memorize the soft curve of his face and his doe eyes. He has grown up over time, but this has not changed – the light in his smile, or the gentleness he carries with him.

At times you wonder if things might have been different. After all, this had not been the plan the two of you had made for yourselves. Neither of you was supposed to leave home, and go so far.

But what did that mean, exactly? You were so young. Whatever you thought was supposed to happen wasn’t necessarily the future you were going to experience. Joshua left to chase his dream of being a singer, and you left for an opportunity you were lucky to get. There was nothing wrong with that.

It was different, though. And different is always hard, even if it is good.

“Joshua, I’m sorry.”

This seems to get his attention. He shifts so he’s facing you more, eyebrows knit together. “What? What for?”

“... Everything.” You look into his eyes, and the words suddenly come tumbling forth. “I was scared of losing you. But then what did happen was so much worse.”

“It wasn’t–”

“It was,” you say firmly. “Don’t say it wasn’t my fault. I pushed you away, Josh, when all you wanted was to go and follow your dreams. I feel like an idiot.”

Joshua sighs, shuffling a bit closer to you. Hesitantly, he loops an arm around your shoulders, and you let your head rest against him.

“You weren’t out of line for being upset,” he tells you softly. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, that I was leaving.”

You huff out a guilty laugh. “I can’t believe I resented you for so long. It feels so stupid, looking back.”

“I figured you felt that way,” Joshua says, a touch of sadness seeping into his voice. “I tried getting in touch with you after getting to Seoul. But I think you changed your number. And then you were never here, when I’d come to visit. Your mom would always say you just left, or that you’d be back later. But I never saw you.”

That was true. You had been guilty of scheduling your visits around Joshua. Your parents, oblivious to the falling out the two of you had, were always telling you about when he was coming to LA again. But you never gave in, dead set on avoiding him for the rest of your life.

“It was hard,” you say. It feels like a silly excuse, but it’s the truth. “I didn’t know how I’d face you again, after essentially ruining our friendship.”

“We were just sixteen,” Joshua murmurs quietly. “We did a lot of dumb things. But you didn’t ruin anything.”

“Josh, you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “And it’s not like I’m entirely faultless, too. You’ll always be my best friend. That hasn’t changed.”

You peek up at him. “You better not tell Yoon Jeonghan you said that, or he’ll throw a fit.”

Joshua laughs. “It can be our little secret.”

As you settle back against him, you feel a bit lighter. Maybe Soonyoung was right, and all you needed to do was talk about it. The night feels less suffocating, now that you’re more at ease. The stars seem to shine in the same way Joshua’s eyes do when he gets really excited about something, or when a particularly mischievous idea crosses his mind.

You never did stop loving both sides of him. The calm, and the storm. Because it’s not a true balance if there is only one, is it? He brings the waves, and he brings the dawn.

Joshua Hong has never been more yours than he is right now, in this moment.

Next to you, you feel him shift a little, finding a more comfortable way to sit on the large rock. A soft giggle escapes you as you move to your left, allowing him more space. He mumbles a soft thanks under his breath, and you pick up on the smell of coffee that lingers on his clothes.

“I still have it, you know,” he says suddenly. “The note you left me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. That was such a distant memory, that you had effectively chosen to forget about it in the years that had passed. It was something embarrassing that you didn’t wish to associate with yourself any longer, because if there was one way you envisioned yourself admitting your feelings to Joshua, it was not that one.

“You still have it? But that was so long ago.” Involuntarily, your mind brings you flashes of memories from that night. “That was when…”

Joshua has the grace to nod so you don’t have to finish your sentence. “I know.”

“And–”

“I know that, too,” he says, almost mournfully. His lips are pursed in that look you know he only wears when his heart is torn. “I know you said you regretted it. But I didn’t. And I didn’t know how to tell you, so I kept it to myself. I just lived with the fact that I was never going to forget what happened that night.”

Your head is spinning. Violently. “I… what are you saying?”

He just looks at you knowingly, before turning his gaze to the ocean. “You don’t have to say anything yet. Take my words as you want, and nothing more.”

And there’s that smile again, his way of telling you it’s okay. It doesn’t work now, as your heart accelerates at a pace that is beyond normal.

Wasn’t this what you had wanted? The truth was, you hadn’t regretted it at all. For years you had wondered if he even remembered the soft brush of your lips against his, if he even cared. Now you have the answer, but it feels heavier than you ever could have expected. It brings you a crippling dread you can’t afford to ignore.

“Joshua, we can’t.”

He doesn’t frown, or furrow his brows at you. Rather, his expression barely shifts at all – but you can easily pick out the emotion that flashes in his eyes. Years and years of practice do not go to waste so fast. He doesn’t ask why, either, silently prompting you to go on.

“You’re leaving,” you continue, voice coming out a little more panicked than you intended. “I’m leaving. And you… you can’t be caught up in all of this. You have more important things to worry about.”

Now, Joshua’s eyes flare up with a hint of vexation. “Why do you get to decide whether or not you’re important to me?”

The question barrels into you, and then over your mind. “Eight years, Joshua! How are we supposed to treat eight years like it’s nothing?”

“I’m not asking that of you,” he says quietly. “I’m not asking anything of you, except for you to know this. That’s all.”

You scramble to your feet. Joshua follows uncertainly, like he isn’t sure what to say or do. Your chest rises and falls with every sharp breath you take as you attempt to steady yourself.

“We can’t,” you repeat. “You have a whole career ahead of you. And I won’t be here. There’s a timer on this, Josh, on us, and it’s all going to fall apart after that.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters.

“I don’t have to!”

He’s about to say something, but he stops himself, taking a deep breath instead. This has always been a quality of his, to be able to take a step back even in times of anger. You, on the other hand, are not like that at all.

When he speaks next, his words punch the air out of you.

“Why do you have to be so harsh on yourself all the time? You’re allowed to let yourself be happy. It’s not a luxury, or something to reach for. It’s something you deserve. You don’t have to earn it.”

“Now you’re lecturing me about my own feelings?” You glower at him angrily. “What do you know about feelings, Joshua? Where were your feelings when you didn’t tell me you were going to Seoul until I forced it out of you?”

Almost immediately, you regret saying it. Joshua flinches like your words have burned him physically.

“I’m not saying I never made my share of mistakes,” he says finally. At last, you seem to have cracked his calm exterior, and his agitation is much clearer now. “So have you. So has everyone. But that doesn’t mean we’re all awful people.”

You huff in frustration. “You really are the worst person to argue with, Joshua Hong. Truly.”

“You could have left,” he points out. “You certainly wanted to.”

“But I didn’t,” you hiss, taking an irate step forward. “Because I still care about you, idiot! You keep going on and on about being happy and letting myself feel these things and I’m trying to, but it’s not working, because I love you and I shouldn’t!”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Joshua asks it like it’s a challenge, and yet his eyes are pleading. “What’s stopping you? Tell me.”

An answer forms itself on the tip of your tongue. But one look into his shiny eyes and your throat constricts impossibly, dragging the words back where they came from. You look away sharply.

“I need to go.”

“Is that it?” Joshua’s question is soft, with an undertone of hurt. “You’re just going to walk away?”

“Yes, before I say something I regret,” you snap, suddenly feeling cornered. “I should have left a while ago. I should never have come here in the first place.”

Every new thing you say is a weapon in its own right. Joshua takes each one with grace that you don’t deserve, as if he already understands. He shouldn’t. You wish he didn’t. It’s selfish of you, but you wish he would make it easier for you to turn your back on his injured expression.

“Drive safe,” he calls after you. There’s no sign of ire in his voice, only resignation.

It provokes you even more, but what good will it do to get angry over a mere fact? You have always known this, that your temper rivals even the world’s most explosive volcanoes, and yet Joshua has always stayed a calm river.

You don’t respond. You don’t know what you might say if you do, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be something you can’t take back. It’s an admirable feat, that you manage to hold your composure until you get into your car, slamming the door with such force that the entire vehicle shakes. You can still see Joshua from where you’ve parked; he sits on the large rock, gazing out at the waves.

Ultimately, you can’t find it in you to start the car. Hopeless, like you and Joshua with only one week left on the clock. You let your head fall to the wheel and try your best not to cry, unaware that your best friend has already begun to shed tears of his own.

It’s beautiful. Sumin is beautiful. The venue is, for lack of a better word, jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Except for the white roses. That was always one thing you could never understand. You were told they were popular choices for weddings. They stand for purity, Sumin told you. Innocence. New beginnings. But what’s the purpose of love if it doesn’t splash everywhere in a thrilling show of color, if it just sits there muted and unassuming?

Either way, the flowers match the color scheme perfectly. It’s precisely the kind of scene Sumin had wanted, so you take it all in and settle in your seat.

A hanging petal falls off one of the roses and lands gently on your hair. You brush it off your head and watch as it tumbles to the ground, its smooth white now tainted by dust.

Hajun seems to sense that something is wrong. He always does. He has known you for his entire life, and so there are not many things you can hide from him. Still, he asks no questions as you clap when you’re supposed to, settling for a curious look in your direction.

All you want is to leave. To go home. Whether that is your parents’ house, your cozy apartment in Boston, or Joshua’s gentle voice, you don’t know. The lighting is quite harsh, and you can feel yourself beginning to sweat a little bit. Thankfully, the chiffon feels cool against your skin, the butter yellow fabric draped perfectly over your body.

No, not butter. Dawn, Joshua had said. First dawn. You hadn’t really felt very sunny as you put it on this morning, but you held onto the way he had looked at you when you first stepped out in front of him, the hushed awe in his tone.

If anything, it’s him that feels like the beginning of summer, when the sun isn’t yet strong and the days slowly begin to get longer. What you would give to see that smile, so beloved by millions across the world!

But you had gone and ruined it all, hadn’t you? He probably wouldn’t ever speak to you again – you had been so needlessly sharp, when all he wanted was to talk.

Sumin floats over to you in her newly wedded bliss, and you snap out of it. You let her hug you, feeling a bit of the happiness that seems to radiate from her.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she says warmly. Her fiancé smiles politely. “Come home more often, won’t you? I know everyone misses you.”

“I’ll try,” you say. It’s the best you can offer. You hadn’t meant for this trip to be as long as it turned out, either. Usually, you were only here for several days or a weekend. That too, months or years apart.

Maybe Joshua was right. The things he had said when you first saw him had struck a chord somewhere, even though you didn’t particularly want to admit it. Was that why the mournful feeling never fully went away? California was a part of you, after all, and always will be. Perhaps it wasn’t right to consciously shut that chapter of your life out.

It’s colder than you expect when you’re finally ready to head home. If it was up to you, you might have left several hours ago. You didn’t really care for all of the shallow greetings and well wishes most people didn’t truly mean, and by the first sign of dusk you were eager to be back in your comfortable bed.

You need the sleep, after all. Unwisely, you had booked an early flight back, and you can’t afford to be exhausted tomorrow.

Hajun lingers at your door when you walk into your room and sink into your bed. You need to get changed, but the moment of respite for your feet comes first. When you open your eyes, he’s still standing there, a bit hesitantly.

You sit up. “Is anything wrong?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” He gestures, asking if he can come in, and you point to the little old wooden stool you’ve had for ages. “You’re not great at hiding when you’re upset.”

“I’m not–”

“Upset, I know,” Hajun interrupts smoothly. “But you’re not fooling anyone, noona. And you can talk about it, you know. I hate that every time you come home, you end up leaving in a worse mood than before, and you keep it all to yourself.”

You mull over his words as you yank a few bobby pins out of your hair, setting them on your dresser with a little more force than necessary.

“I talked to Joshua,” you say.

“Oh.”

‘Oh’ is right. If you were in his position right now, you probably would have reacted the same way. The poor guy is watching you with wide eyes and his jaw slightly dropped, waiting for any further explanation you might give.

“And?” he prompts when you don’t elaborate.

“And nothing.” You huff out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know why I let Soonyoung talk me into thinking that was a good idea. All I did was make him hate me even more than before.”

“He never hated you,” Hajun says.

“That’s what you think.” Even saying it sends a jolt through you, as if you needed any sort of reminder of the damage your words might have dealt. Tears spring to your eyes as you swipe at them furiously, determined not to break down in front of your brother. “It’s essentially over, Hajun. I ruined it myself.”

“I know it might feel that way, but–”

“Don’t you get it? It’s just done.” You give up trying to calm yourself down, and within seconds your cheeks are wet. Hajun is beside you in a moment, looking at you worriedly. “I don’t know what to do, I never know what to do. I told him we shouldn’t talk again, but that might have been the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life.”

“You could still take it back, maybe. I’m sure he would be willing to listen to you.”

You shake your head vigorously, because Hajun is right. Of course he would; Joshua bears an immeasurable amount of patience, but that’s a favor you don’t deserve. And even so, you’re not sure you have it in you to hand him your heart and then walk away.

It’s not necessarily your fault, and it’s certainly not his. But it’s his dream, his life’s work, that ties him to Seoul. And the last thing you want to do is stand between him and it.

“I wish I didn’t feel so much,” you murmur numbly, sniffling.

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling,” Hajun tells you. It makes your heart squeeze. Your little brother – when had he become so wise? He lets you rest your head on his shoulder as you attempt to pull yourself together, patting your head awkwardly.

Growing up, it was you who had been his rock, his safe space. It didn’t matter how viciously or how often you fought, but you were always there. Maybe that was what had changed over the years. You stayed away, and he grew up, too. Nothing is ever linear, especially not change.

You wake with dread the next morning, with no particular reason why. The sun watches as you put the last of your things away in your suitcase, scouring the room for anything else you might need to take back with you.

In the third drawer of your desk, you find it – an old, dusty Polaroid photo.

The faces in it are unmistakable, even as you brush away the dust to take a closer look. You thought you had lost it all those years ago, as you were packing up your life in a bunch of suitcases to go start university. But here it is now, the picture of you and Joshua at the beach, a memory frozen in time. So young and happy, so unaware of what was to come.

Before you can change your mind, you slip it into your pocket.

You take one last look at your bedroom before you shut the door. It will not be your last time here, of course. But you’re not sure how long it’ll be until you’re here again, until you will be brave enough to face everything you have left behind.

Downstairs, everything is quiet as you bring your belongings down. It’s mid-morning; Hajun must have left for class already. The kitchen is empty, sunlight beaming down onto the wooden flooring – a familiar sight. But you move along quickly, suspecting your father is waiting outside with the car like he’d said he would be.

However, the vehicle out front is decidedly not his. You squint at it once, then twice before you realize where you’ve seen it before, and the owner steps out of the driver’s seat.

“Josh, why are you here?”

He graces you with a smile so kind you almost want to dig a hole and burrow yourself into it. He doesn’t say anything, only gestures for you to pass him your bags so he can get them into the trunk. There is no bitterness in his expression, no resentment in his eyes – only a strange wistfulness you feel in your soul – and it makes you feel even more guilty, that he is giving you the treatment you certainly do not deserve.

Finally, you pick up the courage to ask him. “Why…?”

“Your dad had to run to the office. He asked me to drive you to the airport.” Joshua has no problem meeting your eyes. His have always been clear, always transparent. That’s how you learned to read them, ever since you were just a kid.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumble, getting into the passenger seat.

He tilts his head, a habit he has never lost. “I wanted to.”

The sincerity in his voice is heart-wrenching. Your grip on the seatbelt tightens impossibly, and you wonder if breaking your own heart in order to spare his is truly what was meant to happen to the two of you all along.

The drive is silent, save for whatever music he’s got playing in the background. You’re not paying it any attention. The only thing you can think about is how it’s twenty more minutes to the airport, twenty more minutes until Joshua will only be yours through a TV screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he drives, eyes trained on the road. But you don’t miss the way his grip on the wheel tightens when he notices your eyes on him, or how he relaxes when you look away.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. He glances over at you.

“You keep apologizing for things that aren’t your fault,” he says.

“Still, though.”

Joshua gives you a half-smile, eyes somewhat crinkling into those crescents you have always loved.

“I’m sorry, too.”

In the late morning light, you wonder if there is ever another universe where things go to plan. If in that universe, both of you stayed. Maybe it never would have come to this at all. Maybe you would have been a bit more brave, and he a bit more selfish.

More than that, you wonder how many more years it will take you to fall out of love with him. Because you know it to be the truth, that if you do not will it, it won’t ever happen. You had already handed him your heart when you were just teenagers, and whether he knew it or not, he had taken it.

The familiar bustle of the airport comes into view far quicker than you would have liked. A strange sense of melancholy pools in your stomach and settles there, like things are coming to a close now. Like this is the end. You take your bags as Joshua hoists them out of the trunk, tugging his hat low over his face so that nobody recognizes him.

He gives you a long look as you shut the door. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You aren’t sure what to say to that. Has eight years not made you both strangers enough? It pains you to think of how much further you’ll have drifted the next time you see each other, if you do.

“I’ll try.”

“Good,” he says with some relief. “Don’t forget you’re my best friend just because you’re all the way in Boston.”

“Well, you already have twelve of them with you,” you point out wryly.

“I do. And they’re all irreplaceable.” Still, Joshua looks at you like he knows you inside out. “But so are you.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat as soon as it begins to form. No goodbye could ever compare to this one. You can’t press yourself into his side like you so desperately want, or lean into his comforting touch one more time. So you settle for a smile, basking in his warmth from afar this time.

A thought hits you, as you put your hands in your pockets.

“Wait,” you say hesitantly. Joshua only raises his eyebrows, patient as always. You pull out the photo you’d stashed away, holding it out to him. “I found this.”

Joshua traces your silhouettes in the picture, a faint grin on his face. The memory had not been so forgotten, after all.

“I remember,” he murmurs, with wistful eyes. “Your sixteenth birthday.”

It had been just two weeks before you found out he was going to leave for Seoul. You remember every minute of it, how you had been so excited to try your new camera. There were a lot of other photos you tried taking, but this was the only one that developed well.

“You should keep it,” you tell him. “So you don’t forget me.”

“I don’t think I ever could,” he says, but he tucks it carefully into his pocket anyway.

He doesn’t say his goodbyes. Neither do you. Deep down, maybe it’s because you’re both holding out hope that this might not be the last time you meet like this. After all, it won’t do to stay resigned to a fate you never once wished upon yourself.

But you do look behind you. Only once, just before you pass through the glass double doors.

Joshua waves.

You wave back.

Everything else is a blur. You move through the airport almost robotically, only stopping to take a call from your parents and respond to several texts from Ayun. There is no time to sit and experience the boredom that usually manifests while waiting at the gate, or sitting through a six-hour flight, not when your mind is full and your heart is heavy.

Sleep is futile, too. All you can see when you close your eyes is your best friend. Joshua, full of hopes and aspirations at just sixteen. Joshua, the night he tried talking to you one more time before he had to leave for Seoul.

Joshua, looking at you pleadingly with eyes that mirrored yours.

It’s all in the past, though. The world never waits for these kinds of things. It will keep on spinning. You will return to your little apartment in the city, and Joshua to his stage. It’s enough seeing him thrive under the lights and loud cheers many, many miles away. You suppose you’ll just have to live with that feeling forever.

The air is decidedly different when you step off the plane and into the airport. These walls are familiar, though not as familiar as home. It is much colder than you remember it being, and you shiver a little as you make your way out. The sky is gray and cloudy, vastly different from the blues that stretched out over Los Angeles, but it is still beautiful in its own right.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Ayun, most likely, wondering when you’ll be home. You’ve got half a mind to answer her now, but you don’t want to stop and pull your phone out, not when you’ve gained so much momentum already.

Soon, you think. I’ll be home soon.

Maybe home doesn’t have to be one place. Maybe it moves with you, shifting and changing as you go. The realization is warm in your chest, radiating all the way to your fingertips. Even if for just a moment, you feel a little better.

It’s still early in the afternoon back in California, but they’ll catch up soon. They always do. That, perhaps, is the beauty of time.

A snowflake falls gently, landing on your head. The first snow of February. It melts fast, disappearing into your hair, but nature always leaves a trace. Everything does, even the ghost of a memory that’s soft on your lips.

Winter caresses your cheeks like a loving sting, and you step out into the street.

thank you so much for reading pacific standard time! much love, hershey xx return to masterlist

#svthub #svt x reader #joshua x reader #svt joshua #seventeen joshua #seventeen x reader #joshua hong x reader #joshua angst #joshua idol au #svt angst #svt fluff #(🖊️) — hershey's writing #svt fics #svt joshua fics

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theseventhdimension · 3 days ago

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okay, so, i really liked the Triathlon story you wrote for Hotch x male reader, therefore, here comes a little spark of an idea it gave me

Say, the team split up on a case to go interview suspects or something and Hotch and reader get one that runs away but they’re like a track athlete or something and they take off after the suspect but reader has a lot more stamina and better pace? idk and Hotch calls like Garcia or someone to get them to track reader’s phone because they need to know where the suspect and reader are going? so the team is somewhat surprised to learn reader is so athletic?

idk, do what you want or not with this idea,

sending a virtual hug if you’d like it (consent’s sexy af)

Catch Me If You Can

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner + Gn! Reader (Their relationship comes off as platonic imo ^—^)

Word Count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are Welcome!

Author's Note: Shhhhshshshshhhhh we're going to ignore I've had this in my drafts for like 2 weeks now, okay? shhhhhh just take this shhhhh. (-‿◦☀)

Also, i would absolutely accept that virtual hug, and i will send you one back if you'd like it.

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! hope you enjoy ٩꒰ʘʚʘ๑꒱۶

The market is a riot of sound and motion.

There’s a dull hum of conversation, half a dozen languages tangled together in the air.

Somewhere, a kid is crying over a dropped popsicle.

A butcher slams cleavers into bone with metronome precision.

Color bursts from every stall—clementines piled high, rows of purple eggplants, threadbare umbrellas casting shaky shade.

You pass a crate of garlic so strong it makes your eyes water. It’s summer in the city, and the heat sticks to your shirt like anxiety.

You’re trying not to fidget.

Which is ironic, because your whole job right now is to spot people who are fidgeting.

The badge still feels too new in your pocket. The holster sits strange on your hip, like it doesn’t quite belong to you yet. You haven’t even memorized everyone’s coffee order on the jet, but you’re out in the field with Hotch in the middle of a live case, walking stall to stall in the hopes that someone saw something. Or someone.

It’s the perfect chance to prove yourself.

Which is exactly why your pulse is pounding like a bass drum.

“You’re sure?” Hotch asks the vendor beside you, voice low and even.

You glance sideways at the man he’s speaking to—a florist, maybe mid-thirties, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt under his nails, and shaking like a leaf. Not obviously. But enough.

The guy smiles a little too wide, scratches his arm once, twice. Blinks hard. Shifts his weight between both feet and back again.

And you see it.

It’s in the eyes first: a flick toward the alley to the left, toward the gap between stalls. The microsecond tightening of his jaw. The way his hand curls around the edge of the crate, not like he's steadying himself—like he’s about to launch.

You’re already moving before he bolts.

“Hey!” you shout, and then he’s off like a shot.

Hotch is right behind you at first, fast for someone who spends more time behind a desk than chasing suspects down alleyways, but you’re faster. You always have been.

Your legs remember before your brain does. How to lengthen your stride, control your breath, dodge between startled shoppers. Your shoes hit the pavement hard, rhythm steady. The suspect throws himself over a produce crate—you clear it like it’s the last hurdle on a track you haven’t run in years.

“Left!” you call over your shoulder. “Down the alley!”

You don’t have time to see if Hotch heard you.

Crates crash. A woman screams. Someone drops a whole tray of oranges and you dodge them, fast-twitch muscle memory in full control. You’re running full tilt now, weaving through the market like it’s a course you’ve trained for your entire life.

Because it is, in a way.

You used to run like this every day. For glory. For medals. For scholarship scouts.

Now you’re running for a criminal.

And—okay—you might be enjoying this just a little.

You and the suspect tear through the market like a two-man wrecking crew.

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. He vaults a crate of papayas, nearly slips on a puddle, and knocks over a display of novelty hats, but he keeps going. You match him step for step, weaving past startled vendors and ducking under flapping tarps. Someone yells. A basket of lemons explodes across the pavement.

“Move!” you shout as you hurdle a cart stacked with onions. The air is thick with spice and sweat and the sharp tang of crushed fruit.

You’re gaining. Every sprint drill, every bleacher stair, every grueling race in eighty-percent humidity—your body remembers. Your legs burn, but it’s a good burn. A familiar burn. You haven't felt this alive since your last national qualifier.

Behind you, you hear Hotch yell your name—but it’s faint, and getting fainter.

Hotch stops short, breath ragged, hand already pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Garcia,” he barks, already moving again, slower now, dodging a fruit stand. “I need you to track newbie’s phone. They’re in pursuit of a suspect, headed southeast from the market square—no backup, no visuals.”

There’s a pause. A soft click of keys.

Garcia’s voice comes through the comms, laced with concern:

“Uh, yeah, I see their GPS… wait, how fast are they—? Are you sure this isn’t a bicycle?”

Morgan breaks in, grinning. “What’s going on, Hotch?”

“They ran after a suspect. Took a sharp turn and disappeared.”

“You lost the newbie?” Emily says, half-laughing. “What are they doing, parkour?”

Garcia’s typing gets louder. “No, no, this is wild. I just pulled their high school track records—Hotch, they were state level. Cross-country, middle distance, relays. Almost went D1. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!”

Hotch doesn’t respond. He’s too busy trying to breathe through what might be early cardiac arrest.

You duck under a tarp, breath steady, legs pumping, and leap over a stack of overturned milk crates without slowing. The suspect’s about ten feet ahead and flagging—his pace is wild, desperate. Yours is measured. Calculated. You’re in your rhythm now, lungs expanding just right, shoes slapping the pavement like music.

He glances back. Big mistake.

You launch.

Your shoulder slams into him with practiced force, sending both of you sprawling to the ground. He scrambles, but you’re faster, already flipping him over and jamming your knee into his spine. His chest heaves under you as he swears, writhes, tries to twist out of your hold. You twist his wrist just enough to get the cuffs on with a satisfying click.

“You’re under arrest,” you say, breath still smooth, like this is just a Tuesday jog.

People nearby stare—some pause, some scatter. Someone’s dropped a bag of oranges that roll around like startled mice. You don’t notice. Your blood’s buzzing too hard to care. You forgot how much you missed that rush—how easy it is to fall back into it. No gun drawn. No backup in sight. Just you, instinct, and muscle memory.

You straighten, dragging the guy to sit against the brick wall behind you.

Footsteps pound behind you, heavy and uneven, and then Hotch rounds the corner, bent slightly like he’s about to pass out.

He slows when he sees you, taking in the suspect cuffed and sulking on the ground… and you, standing above him, barely winded.

Hotch doesn't speak. Just breathes hard, lips parted, eyes slightly wide. You give him a beat. Two. Then tilt your head.

“…You alright?”

He lifts one finger. “Don’t talk to me right now.”

His chest is rising and falling like he ran a marathon. Which, for him, this probably was.

Your comm crackles. “Okay,” Garcia’s voice says, far too loud in your ear, “I’ve pulled your high school track records and I just need to ask—WHAT?”

There’s a pause. You don't respond. She keeps going.

“You almost went pro? You were state champion three years in a row and you just—never mentioned that?!”

You shift your weight and glance at Hotch. He’s finally upright again, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Garcia’s still rambling. “Do you know how many medals you had? You got scouted. You literally turned down Stanford. What are you?!”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to run in circles forever.”

Hotch exhales hard through his nose, like that sentence alone might kill him.

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Then, dryly:

“You could’ve warned me.”

You pat the cuffs on the suspect’s wrists and smile faintly.

“You said this would be a low-impact day.”

He gives you a sharp look, but it’s undercut by the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. The lines around his eyes crinkle as he finally turns back toward the street.

“Let’s get him processed,” he says. “And next time? You chase. I’ll stay at the perimeter.”

You follow him out of the alley, still riding the endorphin high, half-listening to Garcia muttering over comms about pulling up every archived stat you’ve ever had.

It’s not exactly how you expected the day to go. But hey—at least now the team knows what you’re made of.

And more importantly, so does Hotch.

"Uh, hey Hotch? ..Do you think I'll have to be the one to pay for the broken crates of food?"

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #x male reader #x gn reader #x reader #aaron hotchner x male reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #Seventh writes

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raccoonfallsharder · 7 hours ago

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i can’t speak for everyone in this thread but i personally feel like “the more the merrier” when it comes to fan theories!!

i agree that the high evolutionary has a specific scientific process he follows (though i am also sure it changes over time), and i agree he never intended batch 89 to make it to”the new world.”

i haven’t written this fanfic yet but i have been simmering on the idea (for like a year) that batch 89 was not intended to be the precursor to the humanimals, but a precursor to the hellspawn. this is why floor and teefs and lylla had such outlandish augmentations. let me clarify that this is not a headcanon — just a fic idea. realistically it would be just as possible that the high evolutionary didn’t even think of the hellspawn till after he saw how violent rocket could be. but yeah — in my “universe killer rocket” fanfic — batch 89 was a rough draft for the likes of warpig and behemoth and octo-hyena.

when rocket first sees the hellspawn in vol3, i think part of his horror is that he recognizes the concepts. like, anyone of them could have been him or his friends.

i maintain my belief in killswitches! flawed though it may be lol. i don’t think every killswitch prevents outside medical treatment (necessarily), but i do think there’s no way that the HE has made anything since rocket that (he believes) he couldn’t kill if he wanted to. arguably the majority of the sovereign and the xeronians, etc, have been around a lot longer, so they may not have had them added to their genetic makeup. the thing is, the high evolutionary had NEVER thought rocket would be smart enough/strong enough/angry enough to scratch his face off. regardless of how inferior wyndham thinks his other creations are, I don’t think he’s taking the same chance.

when it comes to rocket hating the sovereign because they’re smug assholes created by the high evolutionary, i absolutely agree. BUT i think that’s further compounded/complicated by the knowledge that they are meant to be beautiful, and he… “looks like he was cobbled together by fat-fingered children” or whatever. I think there’s some painful jealousy there too.

ugh rocket makes me cry lol

Been thinking about Rocket’s cybernetics lately, and how he probably has to make adjustments to his clothes so that nothing abrasive rubs up against the metal in his back. I imagine that all of his jumpsuits probably have extra padding back there. I wonder how they affect him in different temperatures too, like if they ache more in the cold. Or do they ever get hot? Some clothes I have with metal buttons heat up in the sun and it feels hot to the touch. Since the implants are metal would the same thing happen? Also would he avoid lying down on his back because it would put pressure on them? I feel like they probably hurt him pretty often, but it’s something that he’s lived with for so long that he almost pays no mind to it unless he gets a particularly bad flare up.

I can’t remember now if we see it on the Nova Corps body scan or not, but are the visible implants more surface level or are they actually connected directly to his skeleton/muscles? I’m guessing the back implants are part of how his skeleton was rebuilt to stand upright and how his spine’s shape was changed and his shoulders were broadened.

I headcanon that he’s had to perform maintenance on his cybernetics, including self-surgery. I was talking about this with someone else on Tumblr a while ago and the one thing we ran into is the issue of the kill switch. If changes were to be made to his cybernetics it would undoubtedly set it off, so what we came up with is that while Rocket was unable to deactivate the switch he was able to temporarily stall it, allowing him to do the work he needed, albeit under a very limited time frame.

#rocket raccoon #gotg

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justwinginglife · 5 hours ago

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"Thought you said you were going to come for me? Those little droplets don't count."

I’ve had this one line in my drafts for like ever, and I feel like using it on the LADS boys is dangerous territory that I’d like to die in (because I’m a menace). Anyway, proceed at your own peril.

**This is, of course, NSFW. **

I had planned to release more smut today for my one year anniversary on Tumblr, but considering these were all roughly 1k a piece and I wrote five of them, this is all you get for now.

Tags- Oh, god, idk, like a fuck ton of sex? Edging, sex toys, fingering, oral, p in v, p in a, squirting, you name it.

Caleb

Up until now, you’d been comfortably perched on top of Caleb, hips rolling forward to whatever rhythm you so desired, his cock only going as deep as had you allowed, his cum only spilling into you when you had permitted it to. And he had given you that control willingly. Honestly, he found it hot. Ridiculously hot.

But then you’d had the audacity to tease him about how much he’d come inside you.

“A droplet,” you’d called it. A goddamn droplet. Evidence of his orgasm was literally oozing out of you in waves -in waves, damnit! Meaning it had yet to STOP- and had been for the past hour that you’d relentlessly tormented him, and now you had the nerve to be unimpressed. Joking or not, he’d make you choke on your own words.

“A droplet, huh?” His words rumbled out of his throat, low and gravelly. “And I suppose next you’ll tell me my size is mediocre too?”

You feigned thinking for a minute, pulling yourself off of him to play at measuring him. He was still impressively erect, his cock standing tall like a skyscraper between your legs, but you brought your two fingers close together as though the small gap between them was meant to convey his microscopic length. “I meeeean, while we’re on the topic, I guess it was kinda difficult to feel you.” You bit back a laugh, thinking yourself humorous. You were clearly joking. Anyone with eyes could see how massive his size was even when it was soft. And when it was hard? It was like trying to fit a baseball bat inside of you. So of course you were just messing around. Baiting him for the thrill of it. Looking back, you wished you never would’ve said something so dangerous.

“You can’t even feel it, huh?” He repeated, his eyes narrowing. “My apologies, Princess. I guess I’ll just have to do better, now won’t I?” His words were polite but his tone was harsh, his smile pinched, and the look he gave you was anything but respectful.

“Why don’t you tell me if you feel it-” In an instant, he had you locked in a mating press, your legs soaring over your head. Your lungs felt him before your cunt did, your air wheezing out of you as he speared through your shuddering walls. “-now??”

He’d completely bottomed out and, at that moment, you swore you could feel him in your ribcage.

Before you had the chance to reply -and you hadn’t yet figured out if you’d wanted to reply with more sarcasm (a reckless move but a tempting one nonetheless) or honesty- he began snapping his hips forward, his cock drilling into you vigorously.

He usually gave you time to adjust to his size, and he only became more careful the deeper he went, but not today. Today, he had to prove a point. Today was the last day you would be able to walk without a limp.

His cock pistoned in and out of you, rapid fire, leaving no time for breath.

“C-C-Caleb!” You choked out, tears burning in your eyes.

“Hold on, baby- gonna give you a couple more ‘droplets,’ how’s that sound?” His hands forced your legs closer to your shoulders, his fingers burying themselves in your skin. His eyes met yours, dark and dangerous.

You knew that look. He was preparing to go even harder. Your poor, bruised cervix didn’t know how much more it could take. You had no choice but to beg.

“W-Wait! P-Please, Caleb, I was only jok-”

He yanked his cock out only to slam his length into you full force once again.

“F-Fuck! You’re huge, you’re enormous, you’re gigantic-” Your saliva dribbled down your lips as you babbled your praises to him in hopes it would slow his bombardment. “I n-never should’ve said what I said! I p-promise I didn’t mean it-”

“Are you sure, baby?” He growled. “Maybe I should continue. Maybe you haven’t learned your lesson yet.”

“I have, I have!” You blurt out, desperation in your voice.

“Good girl. Now, sit tight and let me breed you like the obedient little thing you are, yeah?” He pressed kisses to your neck as though he meant to soothe you. When his lips finally met yours, his passion igniting pleasure in your every nerve, you forgot about the pain, just for a split second.

And then you felt your back rise off the bed.

He would go on to tell you later that you screamed his name so loudly he was sure your neighbors would file a complaint, but in that moment, as he split your pussy open wider on his aggrieved cock, its thick veins purpled with renewed purpose, his eyes burning bright with desire and determination, you swore all you heard was the roaring of blood that was pounding in your ears.

And even after he’d already come inside you (and you weren’t sure when exactly he’d started coming, as your senses had simply shut down at some point, having overloaded to the maximum), liquid gushing out of him like a geyser, his hips still stuttered back and forth as though he were commanding more to flow out of him. As though he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were spilling out rivers of his lust.

If he put you in a tub right now, would you fill it up with nothing more than his arousal?

Before he could get any more ideas, you quickly stammered out, “Okay, okay! It’s more than a drop, it’s more than a drop!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rafayel

Rafayel always had that after-sex glow.

That twinkle in his eyes, that pep in his step, that pink in his cheeks that served as evidence of just how much he’d enjoyed your time together. It was something you looked forward to as much as the sex itself.

But tonight, his more wholesome self was nowhere to be found.

Not after you’d accused him of barely coming inside you at all.

Tonight, those sparkling eyes were replaced by something more sinister, something more sinful. Tonight, he loomed over you like he was a storm you wouldn’t survive.

“Didn’t come enough for your liking, huh? You humans- always so greedy, always so demanding, taking what you want, whenever you want it. Well, I hope you can take this.”

You hissed as he pressed your back against the shower tiles, the cold stinging your skin. Before you had time to complain, you felt the familiar pressure of his cock burrowing itself deep inside your cunt. You wanted to ask how this was any different from the sex you’d just had mere moments ago, but he answered your question with a sharp thrust up your ass.

Wait.

He…he was in…two places at…

You looked down to find the cock you’d previously drained dry was roaring back to life again, now pistoning itself in and out of your pussy. Below it, an identical cock had emerged, equally engorged, and equally as unrelenting.

You blinked. Blinked again.

How was this happening? You’d had sex with him plenty of times before, cuddled him enough times that he may as well have been attached to you, so you were sure that you’d taken the time to properly memorize every inch of his anatomy from head to toe. How was it that you’d completely overlooked an entire sex organ? Especially one that large. Had it always…been there? Or were you really so cock drunk that you were imagining things?

“You’re not imagining anything.”

Your head snapped back up to meet his gaze. Was it that obvious what you were just thinking about??

“I only use it on…special occasions,” He dipped his head down to nip at your earlobe before purring, “And I’d say this counts as a special occasion, don’t you? Wouldn’t want my beloved bride to think I’m holding out on her now.”

His lips began their tantalizing trail along your jawline, his kisses both reverent and rebuking all at once. This lust-driven path continued down your neck, tongue and teeth working together to paint beautiful bruises along his newest canvas. After a while, he pulled back to survey his work, eyes skimming across the purples and pinks he’d stained into your skin. When he remained unsatisfied with his masterpiece, he began to ravage your breasts. Your skin flushed crimson as he lavished his attention upon them, his greed and desire evident with every stroke of his tongue and suction of his lips.

But even his admonishment of your insolent behavior came off as worship after long enough. He pinched your nipples between his fingers, but only as hard as you liked. He sunk his teeth into the mass of muscle between your neck and shoulder, but only as deep as you liked. And he slapped your ass repeatedly, but only as much as you could take.

You swore you knew how to speak, or at least, your tongue remembered what words felt like and your ears remembered how they were supposed to sound, but your brain, it seemed, was choosing to go into meltdown mode. You wondered if the bond between you gave away all of your most sensual secrets, allowing him to uncover everything that made you unravel. He had toyed with every sensitive spot on your body, all while fucking you completely dumb in two different places, and you had no words left to give. Only strangled noises that served as evidence of your pleasure. At some point, he’d turned on the water, but you paid no mind to it. You were already drowning in the feeling of him, what was a little water to you?

He strengthened his grip on your legs, pulling you tighter around his waist. Your shoulder blades dug into the shower wall as his weight pressed into you. He was bracing you, but you were too delirious to figure out what for. Up until now, he’d only been slowly thrusting into you, paying more attention to every other spot on your body that made you squirm for him. But he couldn’t forget what his original goal was. You’d asked him to come for you. To come for you impressively, at that. So now it was his turn to feel good.

His pace began to pick up, fingers digging into your thighs, as he plunged himself deeper into your two holes.

You gasped for breath but found only the heat of his lips colliding with yours. He hungrily consumed every squeak and squeal that slipped from your tongue onto his.

You hadn’t even eaten dinner yet -having gotten distracted by Rafayel coming out of the bathroom with nothing on but a towel loosely hanging from his waist, which was when you imposed the first round of intercourse on him- but suddenly your stomach was feeling rather full, having been stuffed to the brim on two fronts. You could feel your belly bulging as he burrowed his way deeper and deeper with every powerful thrust.

You could tell he was close as his thrusts became sloppy and desperate. Crimson seeped into his skin, following a path from the tip of his ears to the swell of his cheeks, even beginning to creep down the expanse of his neck. Water and sweat alike cascaded down his shoulders. They stuttered down his chest as his heaving breaths minutely disrupted their smooth flow.

Even as a god, Rafayel had never been particularly religious, only believing in what was relevant to him here and there, only participating when it was of benefit to him, but now, he swore he was seeing Elysium.

Your lips were parted, breaths bleeding into the steam, your cunt clenching hungrily around his cock, and he swore, when he looked into your eyes, everything from Heaven to Earth, the wind and the waves, the storm and the sun, all parted to allow him passage into paradise.

And then he passed through the gates.

He only had enough air to groan once, steam and lust clouding his vision in a field of white, before he lost himself in the feeling of you. His cocks spasmed and he lurched forward, his head collapsing onto your shoulder as he began to flood your depths with his seed.

You were nearly on the edge of bliss yourself, your mind having been unable to focus on a single target of pleasure between his eager conquest of your ass and your pussy, but when you felt his heat sear through you, his cum filling you to the brim, you let paradise claim you.

Your back arched off the wall, legs squeezing tighter around him, as ecstasy surged through your veins. You were soaring high above the clouds, the breeze dancing along your every nerve, until finally you came down to land in his arms.

When you squirt all over his pelvis, he lifted a brow, both amused and enlightened by the new information that you now had the ability to squirt for him. He leaned forward, his breath hot on your ear.

“I guess I’ll have to make everyday a ‘special occasion’ then, if you’re going to come so beautifully for me like that.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zayne

Zayne bit back a laugh.

“Forgive me, but I didn’t realize intercourse required a specific amount of cum to be effective.” He played like he was a researcher, listening to you intently as you provided him with new information that could potentially uproot his entire field of study, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. He wondered how far you’d take this silly, little charade of yours. And he pondered how far he wanted to take it himself.

“Yes, well, now you know. When we have sex, I expect you to fill me to the brim- nothing like the measly amount you just spilled into me.” You stated your words very matter-of-factly. Except that there was nothing factual about them. You knew damn well that, at this very moment, his cum was still dripping out of you like it had no end. And he knew it too.

He gave a small smirk. Yeah. He’d made up his mind already; he wasn’t letting his charade end until he was satisfied you’d swallow your own words. “I see. Well, I hate to be so disappointing. I think we’re in need of another trial run then, yes?” You nodded your agreement. “I believe that is the best course of action for this kind of situation.”

“Perhaps-” He suddenly turned you around and bent you over his desk (your eyes widening as he did so) before spearing his cock through your slicked folds once more, “-Your technique was what was lacking. In order to best stimulate my arousal to provide you with the optimum amount of orgasmal release, I’d recommend this angle.”

You let out a choked gasp as you steadied yourself against the desk’s surface. He’d never fucked you from the back before. Something about always wanting to see your pretty face make the expressions that you did. But apparently that factor didn’t apply today. Oh god, were you going to survive him?

He pulled out just enough so that only his tip remained within you and you bit your lip, bracing for impact. But it never came. His hips very slowly rowed forward again, his erection easing its way into you. His hands planted themselves on your hips, his thumbs caressing your back, as if to tell you how well you were taking him.

You thought to yourself, this wasn’t so bad. You could keep going like this. You could rock yourself onto him, taking the time to savor his every vein carving itself into your walls. You could do it. Sensual and slow was the way to go.

Then he reached around to flick his fingers across your clit and while you were busy whimpering at the new sensation, his hips rocketed forward, drilling the entirety of his bulging member through your trembling walls in one go.

“Zayne!” You cried out.

“Just a little bit longer, and you’ll get what you want.” He murmured, voice hoarse.

His thrusts grew relentless as his desire overcame him. Sure, he’d been trying to teach you a lesson, but now he was starting to forget what exactly that lesson was. All he could think about was just how perfectly warm you were, how perfectly tight you were, how perfectly soaked you were. He was sure if he lifted you up, you’d have made a mess of his desk already, your arousal pooling beneath you. And it drove him crazy.

He pounded into you tirelessly, his fingers nearly scarring their imprints onto your hip bones from how tightly he grasped you, attempting to stabilize himself. He wanted to feel every inch of you- needed it, really. As a doctor, he knew that logistically speaking, it was impossible for his cock to rearrange all of your internal organs, but he damn well wanted to try.

You held onto the edge of the desk for dear life as Zayne attempted to split right through your stomach. What was he trying to do? Saw you in half down the middle?

Your core was nearly on fire at this point; seriously, you were sure the only thing keeping you from sparking into flames from the friction of his cock grating against your walls was the fact that you were so ungodly wet right now. Why were you so wet? Did his ruination of you really feel that good?

He crashed against your cervix and you came on his desk.

“F-F-Fuuuuuck, Zaaaayne!” Your lips quivered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he continued to fuck your throbbing cunt. Your arms buckled beneath you, nerves spasming all over as your orgasm continued to pinball around your body, zinging to and fro, and you ended up fully collapsing on the desk.

“Hold out a little longer. I’m almost there.” He grunted out.

“I caaaan’t,” You whined.

“Who’s the one who wanted me to come harder?” He questioned.

You bit your lip. “M-me…”

“And who’s the one who just came on the desk because it felt so good?”

“M-me…”

“Exactly. You’re being such a good girl; I think you can hold out a little longer, yeah? Just until I breed you, nice and full. Yes, my love?”

You nodded shakily. You started this, you might as well finish it. You clenched your eyes shut as he continued to pump into you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It hurt so good. You’d never realized just how big he was. Never realized just how batshit crazy you were for him.

He thrust into you again. And then again.

Then he buried his head against your shoulder, groaning and gasping, as his orgasm slammed into him full force. His body shuddered as he struggled to process the ecstasy soaring through his veins. Loads of his cum surged out of him, thick and hot, until it was waterfalling down your legs.

As he caught his breath, he thought to himself that, even with you egging him on, he shouldn’t have been able to come that much. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of producing that much cum. He wasn’t aware that anyone human was capable of producing that much. But, ah well, there was no point in ruminating about this strange, new revelation now. He was finally finished. He could relax again (if you’d let him, you damn tease).

Then you twitched underneath him and before he could understand what was happening, he started to come again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Xavier

Xavier stared at you, eyes calculating, arms crossed.

“And what about that-” He bent down to run a finger through the fresh cum that was still drizzling out of you, “-wasn’t enough for you?” He asked, voice low and demanding.

You cleared your throat, preparing to stand your ground. You shrugged. “I’m just saying, I’m hardly soaked. If we were trying to make a baby right now, all we’d have to show for it would be a negative line on a pregnancy test.”

You were bullshitting him. You totally were. But how else were you supposed to goad him into fucking you more? You’d missed him. He’d spent way too much time frolicking around space, and you’d spent way too much time humping his pillow. You needed him. So if telling him that his cum was unimpressive meant that he’d spend the entire night proving you wrong, you’d do it again in a heartbeat.

When he immediately left the room, your heart sank. Was the bait not enough? Should you have pushed him harder? Or should you have just told him the truth, that you wanted him to fuck you into oblivion? You wracked your brain, wondering what you were supposed to say when you finally went after him.

You certainly hadn’t expected that he’d come back into the room with…rope.

“Sit down.” He gestured to a nearby chair.

Your eyes darted back and forth between him and the chair. Just what was he planning to do? Obviously, he must be thinking of tying you to the chair, but what then?

“Don’t trust me?”

His eyes were innocent enough that you made the decision to do as he said. But you shouldn’t have.

Like you thought, he began to tie you to the chair, but you hadn’t imagined it would be nearly this tight. Your wrists and ankles strained against the rope but it didn’t budge even the littlest bit. Oh fuck. What had you gotten yourself into?

“X-Xavier…what are you going to do to me now?” You asked meekly, your earlier audacity evaporating.

“Showing you how much I can come for you. Isn’t that what you asked for?” His eyes glint with mischief.

“I did…but how is tying me to a chair related? Don’t you have to come inside me?”

He leaned forward, capturing your chin in an iron grasp, before tilting you to face him. “And who said I had to come inside you?”

Before you could be properly flabbergasted at the single loophole he’d found to ruin your entire plan, he began to pull something out of a box.

You swallowed. “Xavier…what’s that?”

“You’ll see.” He bent down to push the foreign object into your cunt.

You winced at how cold it was.

At first, it did nothing. Just sat there. Provided some much needed pressure that you’d been hoping his cock would give you, but didn’t do much more than that.

Then he began murmuring to himself while flipping through a little booklet, which you soon realized was its instruction manual.

“Hmm. Let’s see. For first time use, low levels are recommended.” He hit a button on a remote and then glanced over the top of the booklet to see your reaction.

It’d begun a pleasant buzzing between your legs but it was hardly enough to elicit any sizable reaction.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re not like the other people using this thing. Low level my ass.” He chucked the booklet behind him and began to crank the dials up on the remote.

You jolted forward, sparks shooting through your veins, but the restraints held you in place. Like a wildfire, heat began to burn in your core and spread throughout your body. Sweat rolled down your bare chest, dripping off your peaked nipples. “X-Xavier!” You gasped out.

“Mm.. still think it’s not high enough. You do have high tolerance levels, after all.” He hit the maximum setting and then chucked the remote behind him as well, not bothering to see where it’d landed. Then he sat down and simply watched you, stroking his cock as he did so.

The damn vibrator began to wildly thrash in your pussy, igniting and imploding every nerve within your shuddering walls. Your stomach lurched, your lungs feeling like they were collapsing in on themselves. “Xavier!!” In no time at all, you were drooling and squirting all over yourself.

“That’s it…” He drawled, spitting on his cock as he fucked his palm harder.

“W-W-Waaaait!” You stammered out, choking on your own saliva. As quickly as you’d come, the tension had begun to build itself inside you once again. “C-Can’t…take…”

“You wanted me to come for you harder, right? So why don’t you come for me harder? Give me a good show. And then I’ll reward you.” He continued to watch you squirm, licking his lips as your drool dripped down your breasts. He ran a thumb over his tip, groaning as he teased himself.

“S-So…sensitive…” You squeaked out in an almost pleading tone, eyes squeezing shut. Your head had rolled back, shoulders slumped, as you attempted to catch your breath. Your breaths came in such short gasps, you were surprised you’d managed to suck in any oxygen at all. He still hadn’t turned down the setting so your torment continued, a never ending cycle of pleasure and pain.

When you came again, like a bomb exploding between your legs, he began to circle you.

You would’ve asked him what for, if you’d had enough energy left, but the vibrating between your legs never stopped, and so you mustered up what strength you had left to endure the next onslaught.

He played with his balls in one hand, the other still vigorously stroking his impressive length, as he watched you make a mess for him. You were sure you’d ruined the chair by now, but that just turned him on even more.

He finally stopped his circling to stand before you, hand bracing itself on one of your shoulders. You wondered if he’d finally put an end to this cycle, but he didn’t. He simply pumped his hand in and out of his fist faster and then came all over your stomach.

“That enough cum for you yet?” He growled.

So that was his plan.

Leaving you no time to answer, he spoke again, “Guess not.”

He began to play with himself again until his cock had hardened to an almost painful degree. “Look at you…all covered in my cum. All helpless and desperate. You want me to take the pain away, don’t you? To fuck you myself?” Your eyes widened and you quickly nodded. “Yes, Xavier, please! Take this damn thing out of me- I wanna feel you!”

Still stroking himself, he slipped his fingers inside you to retrieve his little torture device. Surprisingly, the split second he had touched your cunt was enough to make you come again, and you squirt all over his fingers this time.

“Naughty.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “How should I punish you?” He brought the vibrator between your legs once more and tears began to roll down your cheeks as you prepared yourself for insertion but it never came. Instead, he pressed it to your clit.

“Mmmph!” You let out a muffled sob as your clit began to swell from the stimulation. At this point, you were sure all your internal organs would just spontaneously combust. You weren’t used to such a rollercoaster of sensations, and right now, you were on an upwards spiral. Each delicious, devious vibration that rumbled against your clit sent you teetering closer and closer to the edge. You fought against your restraints again, if only to try and close your legs, but it was to no avail. That familiar spark was bursting into flames once again.

When you came for the third time, you were sure you blacked out. Blinking back the oblivion, you realized he’d completely doused the entirety of your neck, torso, and legs, like you were his personal cum dumpster. Seeing you all timid and trembling in combination with his fucked-out fist must have sent him barreling towards his orgasm too. And an impressive one, at that.

You suddenly heard the snap of a camera and looked up to find Xavier examining the picture on his phone.

“Yeah. I think that’ll do.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylus

Sylus scoffed, both amused and irked at the same time.

He could’ve filled his car’s gas tank with how much he’d come inside you tonight, and still, you were insistent that it wasn’t enough. How bold of you.

“And do you think, somehow, that you could’ve come anymore than me?” He demanded, gesturing to the liquids that were currently oozing out of you and collecting on the floor in a puddle.

You lifted your chin to him defiantly. “Do I think I could’ve come more than a grain of sand? Yeah, I do.”

He snorted. A grain of sand. You were literally oozing gallons out of your pussy at this point and you’d had the audacity to first compare him to a raindrop, and now a grain of sand. He’d have to do something about that mouth of yours.

He spread your legs wide in an instant. “I’d like to see you try, kitten.” He split your pussy open on two fingers, cum spilling out of your slit as he pumped them in and out. “Come for me. Again and again.”

Shit, you thought to yourself, biting your lip. This wasn’t what you wanted when you’d goaded him on. You were just so cum drunk you were hoping to spurr him into coming for you more. You wanted him to soak your bed so much it started feeling like a water bed. You weren’t expecting him to turn the tables on you.

He curled his fingers, thrumming the patch of nerves that always made you choke.

“Sy!” You groaned.

“What is it, kitten? Can’t do it? Talked too big of a game?” He smirked, fingers still relentlessly plunging into your wet heat.

You swallowed. “It’s, um…it’s not that…it’s just…”

“Just what?” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust.

Your back arched off the bed. “Fuck!”

“Use your words, kitten,” He drawled, thumb coming up to circle your neglected clit.

You let out a whimper, eyes rolling back in your head. “W-Wanna… wanna come with you,” you pleaded.

“Poor kitten. You want my cock that badly, huh?”

You nodded your head vigorously.

He chuckled, low and dark. “It’s a shame I can’t give it to you. After all, its service has been so poor this evening, isn’t that what you said? I’ll have to find some other way to service you.” His pace picked up and he added a third finger, reveling in the way your cunt swallowed them down with ease.

“Won’t you show me what it looks like to properly come?” He teased, his words a purr in your ear.

You wanted to bite him, the insufferable man that he was. But your lips were too busy quivering from holding back moans as your second orgasm of the night washed over you. Your toes curled into the bed, legs squeezing tightly around his hand as you shuddered your way through the high. His fingers kept the same rhythm even with you squirming around him, never letting your release tiptoe out of reach.

When you finally finished gasping, he pulled his fingers out, flicking his tongue over them to clean them off. He feigned contemplation as he swallowed down your arousal, like he was some critic at a restaurant. “Not bad, but barely more than a grain of sand. Maybe two grains of sand. Thought you were going to show me something special, sweetie.” He grinned, his lips curled smugly.

You huffed. “Yeah, well, maybe you just didn’t do enough!” You protested. For a moment, you’d even forgotten that this whole situation was a monster of your own making, and that you’d originally intended for him to be the one coming. Because now you were just offended.

“Ohh. So I’m the issue. Interesting theory. Shall we test it out?”

Before you could answer -before you could even realize your mistake- he dove in, tongue barrelling through your entrance. His nose nudged against your clit as he inched deeper, devouring every ounce of arousal you had to offer him. Of course, he swallowed loads of his own cum too, and for a moment, he contemplated pulling back to show you just how much of his cum was on his tongue. Prove he’d given you more than a ‘drop.’ But then he felt your hips stutter as you fucked yourself on his tongue, your lust rising, and he could practically smell the sin radiating off of you. It was intoxicating. He wouldn’t dream of stopping now.

He flicked his tongue in every direction, smirking against your cunt when he felt your walls shiver against him. God, you were going to taste so good when you finally stopped fighting him and just came in his mouth. He continued to lap you up hungrily like he’d never eaten a day in his life.

And there it was again. That tingling sensation that had begun to build in your core. That rumbling between your legs that only grew with every demanding stroke of his tongue. Your orgasm had begun dancing into view again just like it had before. But…something was different this time.

This time…oh god…this time you felt like you had to pee.

You began crawling back up the bed, in attempts to pull away from him, but you didn’t get very far. His hands shot out and pinned your hips to the bed. He was starving and you were interrupting his meal. He couldn’t have that.

“Wait-Sylus!” You wanted to explain yourself. You weren’t pulling away from him, you just didn’t want to piss in his mouth. You wanted to tell him he felt good. He felt amazing. He felt like Heaven in a bottle. But then his tongue licked up your clit, his fingers sliding back into position, and you came for him, hard.

The air was knocked from your lungs and your vision went white as the ecastasy tore through you, limb from limb. And then your pelvis jerked forward and you squirt all over his face like a flood.

When you had finally finished, you slowly pulled your legs apart to examine his expression.

He was completely stunned still, his face dripping as he processed this new information.

You cleared your throat.

“So…um…I’d say that counts as more than a drop, yeah?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @wifeyofsylus

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jessequinones · 21 hours ago

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How to Write When You’re Not Inspired

I’ve been writing for...let’s call it a year or two. Or twenty. And honestly? There are months when I just don’t write. It’s not because of a lack of motivation. It’s more that sometimes, I simply don’t want to. And that’s okay.

The creative bug, as some call it, died in winter (because, of course, it’s winter). It won’t crawl back out until summer, and honestly? It’s infuriating. I want to write. But I can’t.

This isn’t about losing motivation or writers block. It’s the sheer gravitational pull of everything not writing: video games, naps, watching shows/movies, etc.

When this happens, especially to others, they begin to doubt themselves. “Did I ever even love writing?” Might be a question they asked themselves. They haven’t touched it in months, but they’re happy doing other things. And yeah, I’ve had those same thoughts too.

Here’s the first thing I remind myself: There’s no harm in needing a break. Some people swear by the “just write one word!” advice, but honestly? If that one word takes me hours and leaves me frustrated, I haven’t achieved anything. I’ve just made myself miserable. And in a world that’s already exhausting? I’d rather just stay happy.

So how do I fix this?

Honestly? I don’t have a perfect answer. Sometimes, I just have to wait for summer to roll back around before I can write again. But there are a few things that help me ease back into the flow.

1) I Get Jealous

Weird? Maybe. But it works.

I’m in a bunch of writing groups, and when I see them posting about their word counts, their edits, or, their upcoming book releases, that little bug starts gnawing at me. And you know what? It’s weirdly effective. Suddenly, I’m back in my chair, typing away.

Now, let’s be clear: I don’t write because I think I’m better than them (have you seen their work? It’s incredible). I write because I want to keep up. I want to share my own progress, to feel that same pride, to inch closer to finishing my own story. So yeah, sometimes jealousy isn’t a vice. It’s a spark.

2) Write Something Else

Picture this: I should be working on my book. But it’s cold, inspiration is hibernating, and my electric blanket + coffee combo is calling my name louder than my manuscript. (This may or may not be how I procrastinated before writing this.)

Then, the guilt hits. I haven’t written in weeks. But instead of forcing my book, I wrote a random Facebook post, and somehow...it worked.

Weird? Maybe. But sometimes, you need to grease your gears with something completely unrelated. A silly post, a rant about your pet’s weird habits, anything to remind your brain that writing can be easy and fun.

This is why “uninspired” isn’t the same as “unmotivated.” The desire is there; the engine’s just stuck. And sometimes, a low-stakes warm-up is all it takes to get the real work moving again.

3) You Can’t Write on a Cloudy Day

For me, writing requires a clear mind, one that can fully immerse me in my characters and stories. But inspiration refuses to show up, no matter how badly I want to write. Sometimes, the best course of action is to walk away.

Sure, that might mean not writing for three months. But if my brain’s fogged over, forcing it only leads to awful drafts I’ll despise later (and inevitably rewrite).

To ensure I don’t fall behind with my writing, I keep a notebook of ideas. Jotting down random thoughts means I never truly “lose” them. Weeks later, re-reading those scraps might spark excitement all over again.

The planets don’t need to align, just my focus. If my mind’s not on the page today, that’s fine. I know it’ll be there another day.

As long as the want to write is still there, the inspiration will circle back. And when it does? You’ll find me at my desk on a sunny day, ready to go.

#writing #writeblr #book #books #writers on tumblr #writers #dragon #writerscommunity #creative writing #writer

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immaqulate · 2 days ago

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introducing.. your overprotective brothers x apocalypse?!

Saying these three are overprotective is an understatement. Being the 17-year-old little sister of the Sturniolo Triplets was already overwhelming before the world ended. But now? In a full-blown zombie apocalypse? It’s like having three armed guard dogs who refuse to let you breathe without supervision.

Nick, Matt, and Chris have always been protective, but survival has turned their instincts up to a whole new level. If they were strict before, now they’re relentless. You don’t go anywhere alone—not for food, not for water, not even to pee without at least one of them standing watch. Every supply run turns into a battle over who’s staying behind with you, because no way are they letting you step foot outside the safe zone. And if danger so much as sniffs in your direction? They’re already handling it before you even have time to be scared.

Chris is the reckless one—the first to throw himself into a fight, always moving too fast, too loud, but never hesitating when it comes to protecting you. Matt is the strategist, always thinking five steps ahead, planning routes, conserving supplies, making sure none of them take unnecessary risks. And Nick? He’s the quiet, ruthless one. No hesitation. No mercy. When it comes to keeping you safe, he’ll do whatever it takes—even if it means making the hard calls no one else can.

It’s suffocating. It’s frustrating. Sometimes, it makes you want to scream. But deep down, you know why they do it. In a world where survival isn’t promised, they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you live—because to them, you’re the only thing left worth fighting for.

And as much as you hate it, as much as you wish they’d let you stand on your own, you know one thing for sure: With them by your side, you’re never facing this world alone.

@conspiracy-ash girl .. ur request has been sitting in my drafts for 3 months i am SO SORRY 😭 but i finally got to do it .. again im so so sorry i just got to it now.. (dividers by @bernardsbendystraws)

𐔌 . ⋮ chat with your protective older brothers! here .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

click here for c.ai bot navigation and here to be added to my taglist

taglist 1 ✎ @chrisissobabygirl @sturnzwrld @strnilolover @sweetshuga @mattslilies @sirensdollesque @slxtarchive @heartsonlyforchris @sturns-mermaid @bluessturniolo @pasteldreams @endereies @solarsturniolo @drewswife @conspiracy-ash @courta13 @ivytthew @blushsturns @surprisecurlyfriess @mazzystarrysky @eclipsturns @riasturns @mattsgirl4ever @elisesturnz @ribbonlovergirl @chrisslut04 @pair-of-pantaloons @obxfansstuff @poppetbaby02 @bgfshai @kalel2005 @sturniszn @leahfaith @rafespuppyy @babciaala13 @whump-loverz @chrispycremedonut @mattsdiva

#immaqulate writes ─ .✦#immaqulate!.࿐#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #character ai #character ai bot

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solixiaa · 2 days ago

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It's Nothing, Right? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ao3

paring : bucky barnes x dr!reader ( canon divergent )

summary : You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

word count : 5.9k (jeez louise)

warnings : fluff!!! slight angst, language, drinking/alchohol, Bucky is emotionally constipated, misunderstandings, miscommunication trope, semi insecure reader, public embarrassment / confrontation, no use of y/n

authors note : this has been in my drafts forever. writers block will be the end of me. Used one of my most favorite SZA songs as inspiration for this one (drew barrymore). But thought What More Can I Say was more fitting. hope u enjoy :’)

recommended listening : What More Can I Say - The Notations

❝One day you love me, and the next you disappear from sight.❞ ♡

It’s important to get one thing straight.

You never expected—or necessarily wanted—to end up working at the Avengers compound after busting your ass off in medical school.

You envisioned something quieter for yourself. A little loft in the city, maybe even a tiny home on the coast of California back with your family. A job at a nearby hospital. Cute scrubs. Cute stanley. Maybe a cute boyfriend. Just…a cute lifestyle.

Like those girls you see on TikTok who make life seem so simplistic. Somehow always aesthetically pleasing. Always having their shit together. That's what you envisioned.

Alas, here you are frantically clutching your unorganized papers and tablet to your chest—quite literally not having your shit together—chasing after the well known genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist himself; Tony Stark. As intimidating as his presence was, he was less like a boss and more-so an annoying older brother.

“Tony, would you give me a second?” you continue furiously speed walking after the man, earning a few concerned glances your way. The long hallway stretched out in sterile white and gunmetal grey, echoing every hurried footstep like the place wanted to remind you of how small you were there.

“I don’t even know if I’ve got space on my calendar.” You whine.

“Well I sure suggest you make space. Didn’t hire you for nothing now did I?” Without slowing his pace he looks over his shoulder and cocks a smug eyebrow at you.

The last year of working here felt like a blur. One minute, you were nervously presenting your research about nerve receptors at a medical tech conference. The next, you were being handed a keycard to the same building where Thor (a literal fucking God) showers.

Stark Industries had apparently taken one look at your work—custom nanotech for optimizing post-op nerve regeneration and cellular healing—and decided you were perfectly suited for patching up people who fight aliens for a living.

You’d expected to be tucked away in the corner of a lab. Instead, you got shoved straight into the compounds' med bay, testing field tech, designing custom recovery protocols for enhanced bodies, and monitoring vitals.

The job was demanding. So demanding you had to move in. Even if you were able to snag a shitty overpriced apartment nearby, you wouldn’t be spending much time in it. So, you figured there was no point in protesting.

To that, you sigh. Yes you’ve spent the last year in the medical bay tracking vitals, managing combat injuries, and designing more than half the meds in the compounds’ dispensary….but this?

Why did he have to assign you to Barnes?

Tony finally halts in his tracks after reaching his office. Opening the door and motioning for you to enter. Floor to ceiling windows encased his office. Inside coffee stained papers and books were found in every corner. It was a bit chaotic; like a peek into Tony’s mind. You set your bundle of unorganized papers and tablet down and melt into the chair across his desk with exasperation.

“Remind me again why I’m taking over Barnes?” You run your hand down your face. Eyes still heavy from being called down by Tony at 6 AM for this.

Your teeth are unbrushed, hair in a tangled messy bun. Yet there he stands looking like he just got out of a vogue photo shoot. How in the hell does he get up so early? “I thought my only patients were Nat and Wanda.”

Tony shrugs, pouring himself a drink that is definitely not water.

“Barnes’ last medic resigned. Something about needing a sabbatical. Or maybe she’s moving galaxies. Didn’t specify.”

You roll your eyes. “So you volunteered me?”

“I trust you,” He says matter of factly, which—coming from Tony—is more meaningful than it should be. “I wouldn’t trust anyone to care for Barnes. He’s different.” He points a pen at you while explaining.

“I know that. He’s similar to Steve, right?”

He takes a sip from whatever concoction lies in his glass, then adds in a more serious note. “Look, his vitals are weird. Serum weird. Where he’s different is in his trauma. It’s not exactly subtle either. We need someone who won’t treat him like he’s broken. Just…a different model.”

You sink further in your chair, slowly rethinking every life decision you’ve ever made. “When do I start?”

Tony glances at his watch and purses his lips in a thin line.

“In an hour. Better get ready. Not loving this hobo look on you.” He points.

“Gee, Thanks T,” You weakly smile, standing and gathering your heap of files and tablet. “I’m assuming you’ve already transferred me all his data?”

“You know it.” He leans into his chair, the sarcasm softening just slightly. “Thanks, pipsqueak.”

You pause at the door. “Anytime.”

Then shut it behind you with a quiet click.

You finished getting ready with plenty of time to spare. Hair in a neater bun this time, teeth brushed, and of course your uniform. The loose white Doctors coat and light blue scrubs underneath with your badge in the lanyard around your neck.

Despite the hundreds if not thousands of times you’ve done these checkups with other members of the Avengers, you couldn’t help but feel the nervousness bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

It wasn’t the fact that he had different physiology. You’d studied Bruces’ gamma influenced vitals, Steve's super serum, and even Wanda who had powers from an infinity stone. You’d become accustomed to treating bodies with conditions that don’t always follow textbook patterns. Put it simply, these things came to you naturally.

It was the fact that it’s Barnes.

The man who could dodge trucks like it was nothing but couldn’t seem to hold a conversation with you for more than 30 seconds.

And you really did try. Passing him in the hallway at least a dozen times—usually when grabbing your creamer filled coffee after late-night med bay shifts, or tagging along with Nat for training briefings. Each time, you’d offer a small smile, or a joke about how much Fury rants.

And each time, he’d give a tight nod, a barely-there smirk…and would continue walking like you had just asked him for his social security number.

“He’s shy,” Natasha had told you once, trying not to laugh. “Or maybe he’s just bad with pretty women.”

But he was never like that around Nat. Or Yelena. Or Wanda. Or anyone for that matter. Only you. Which drew you to the conclusion; Bucky Barnes does not like you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, grab your tote bag, and make your way downstairs to the medical bay. Checking yourself one too many times in the mirror—It’s a checkup, not a damn date.

Still, you swipe a bit of lip balm on.

Your eyes squint slightly as you step into the fluorescent lighted room that smelt like a mix of sanitizer and your vanilla scented air fresheners.

You freeze for a second when you spot him sitting at the exam table. Elbows on his knees, dog tags hanging low from his neck. His head lifts when he hears the door open, and for a moment it's just eye contact.

You freeze because not only did he show up early, but because he showed up at all. And you were still under the assumption that he didn’t like you. But also—Bucky had almost never shown up for a scheduled checkup. On the few occasions he did was when Steve and Sam quite literally forced him to.

Tony warned you about it. “Don't take it personally,” he said while working on one of his many suits. “Barnes has a habit of ghosting medical appointments. He’s got that ‘I heal fast, don't waste your time on me’ complex. I’m sure you’ll figure something out”

Seeing him sit there without any need for persuasion or bribery was nothing short of astonishing.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up” You admit with a smile. Eyes focused on your tablet as you make your way over to prep the scans, putting your tote bag up on a hanger. “Thought I’d have to call Steve to take you in.” You get a quiet huff in response. Maybe even a half-smile.

You set your clipboard down. “I read through your file. Looks like we’ll be doing a routine check. Just vitals and general examination. Nothing too scary.” You assured me with a soft smile.

He gives a short nod, jaw tense, gaze flickering around like it’s a warzone and not a softly lit doctor's office.

“You’ve done this with the others?” he finally asks, voice low.

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you start laying out the equipment. “Plenty of times. Nat. Yelena. Kate. Even Pietro, once. Didn’t get very far though. He kept trying to flirt the entire time, which was more exhausting than the actual testing.”

That earns you something—a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips like he was holding back a smile.

You catch it, then tilt your head slightly. “What about you? I hear you’re always very enthusiastic about checkups.” His eyes flicker to yours, then away again. “Don’t really see the point in ‘em.”

“Because of the serum?” you ask gently, pulling plastic gloves on your hands as you move closer to where he’s sitting. He nods. “Doesn’t feel fair. People out there losin’ their lives, and I’m in here gettin’ my blood pressure taken.”

You pause for a moment, taking in what he’s saying. There’s no judgement in your voice but something gentler. Quieter.

“Healing faster doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you.

Before he could respond—if he was even going to—you clasp your hands together with a smile “Alright, well let me get started.” turning once again to grab your things. You’re pretty sure you catch him watching you, but you try to ignore it.

“You mind taking your jacket off for me?” You ask. Bucky pauses for a beat—almost forgetting where he is. Its a fucking checkup he tells himself.

As he sets his jacket to the side, you pull up a swivel chair to his right.

“Just gonna start off by taking your blood pressure,” you hum while pulling out the blood pressure cuff. The cuff crinkles under your touch as you unwrap it, your fingers skimming the firm muscle of his arm. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his biceps tense under your palm.

"Are you doing alright?” you ask gently, brows furrowing with concern. You always try to keep things professional, but your gaze lingers for a little too long. The short stubble on his jaw. The dimple on his chin. And his annoyingly long lashes.

You’ve done this procedure a hundred times, but for some reason, wrapping the cuff around his arm makes your pulse tick just a little faster. That, and the way you’re forced to look up at him because of your height difference isn’t making this any easier on you.

He nods, but his body language says otherwise. Shoulders tense, breathing is off. You don’t think much of it.

“Relax your arm for me.” you murmur.

He exhales. For a second his eyes flicker to your face—and linger. He can’t help but watch as you care for him with such precision.

You glance up at him just in time to catch it. “What? Do I have something on my face?” You smile.

“Nothing,” He mutters, too quickly, eyes darting to the wall.

You shuffle in your chair as you start to unwrap the cuff from his arm, “Y’know, It’s okay if you’ve got a little hospital anxiety. It’s normal.” You assure him.

He lets out a chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, something like that.”

You walk over to your station and scribble down some notes on your clipboard, the soft scratch of the pen being the only sound in the room. You toss your gloves in the trash can beside your desk and glance over your shoulder.

“Alright,” you murmur, pulling your stethoscope from where it hangs on a nearby hook “Heart rate next.”

As you walk towards him, Bucky finds himself watching you with curiosity. How were you not scared of him? In the few checkups that he went to with his last Doctor, comments would constantly fly out of her mouth. Regarding his past. Regarding The Winter Soldier. Although they were meant to be light-hearted jokes, something about “Hope this doesn’t trigger any…programming” stung the wrong way.

But there was something quiet about you. Comforting, like a gentle breeze, that made him feel safer than he cares to admit. Quiet in a way that made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. A quiet that he didn’t think that he deserved.

You step closer, tugging the stethoscopes ear plugs in and gently placing the diagram against his chest.

“Deep breath,” you say softly

He obeys. Chest rising under your palm—broad and steady. You notice how close you two are. You can literally feel the heat radiating from him. Like he’s a damn furnace. But it’s completely professional. Just like all your clinics are.

So why do you feel your face warming?

You clear your throat and try to regain your composure. Focusing on the rhythm under the stethoscope. But it’s not helping that his heartbeat picked up the moment you touched him. You stare at the heart monitor, not because you needed to, but because you’re sure if you looked at Bucky he’d see how flustered you are.

You pull back slightly, raising a brow. “Hm. A little fast.”

He clears his throat. “Serum. Makes everything run a little..high.”

“Sure,” you say scribbling on your chart without looking up. In a split second you think back to Natashas comment. That he gets nervous around pretty women. That couldn’t be the case, could it? It’s Bucky Barnes. It’s you.

“Definitely not because you get nervous around needles.” You joke.

You get an eye roll and a smile in response. A real smile at that. Simple as it is, it makes your heart flutter. Progress.

The rest of the clinic goes by smoothly. You kept your composure. Kept your hands steady. Unable to ignore the way his gaze lingered. The way his muscles tensed at your touch without fail.

Aside from the brief awkward silences—usually followed by even more awkward banter—everything about him checked out. Healthy, and normal…as normal as a super soldier gets, at least.

The next few weeks passed in a strange kind of limbo. You’d have your clinics, and of course, over time he slowly warmed up to you.

You actually started to look forward to seeing him around— Whether when he was training in the gym with Steve, Going on runs with Sam, laughing at something Thor told him. But the difference between Bucky and them was, he’s always present.

He wasn’t like that with you.

Yes, he would talk to you. Conversations about his childhood and Brooklyn, or about how you ended up here. There’d even been a time where he offered to walk you back to your room because it was “dark”. And you swear, he almost looked disappointed when you said no.

But it was the quiet moments you’d cherish most. During meetings when your hands would be shaking under the table. All he’d do is gently tap your hand. Or rub his thumb across yours. Small. Enough to ground you. Like he was always watching even when you didn’t expect it.

But then the next day, he goes back to ignoring you. Brushing past you in the hallway like he’s never met you. No nod, no eye contact, nothing.

It’s enough to make you question everything—had the tension and lingering glances been in your head? Had his heart beat really just picked up because he was afraid of needles?

Because he would always go back to his routine of ignoring you. And it's starting to get under your skin—even if you aren’t exactly sure why.

You told yourself to just focus on your work. He’s a coworker. A patient. You’re a professional. One person not liking you shouldn’t send you into a spiral.

So you convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you imagined it all. The touches. The coffees. The looks.

Maybe he’s just polite. Or extremely awkward. Maybe both?

Either way, you told yourself to just let it go. You’re not some girl projecting her fantasies onto someone who doesn’t even see her.

And then Tony announced the party.

Not like it was unusual, for Tony. He’d always come up with some excuse to throw a late night rager. Whether it be for a fundraiser, or a ‘celebration’ of some sort, Tony found a way to party.

Something about “Pepper is leaving us unsupervised for the weekend,” was his reasoning this time around. Whatever it was, it was all anyone could talk about— who was coming, who’d get the most wasted, and what songs should be played at karaoke.

You hadn’t planned on going. Hell, you didn’t even want to go. But Natasha gave you that look. The look that meant she wouldn’t stop until you gave in. After a solid 20 minutes of bargaining, you caved.

So here you are, getting ready in her bathroom. Slipping on a skin tight off the shoulder white dress that hangs dangerously low on your cleavage. Your hair is finally out of your usual messy bun and in neat curls. You open the bathroom door, greeted by Natasha leaning against the wall with her keys dangling lazily on her fingers. She freezes when she sees you.

“Oh my God,” Her eyes widen and whips her hand over her chest dramatically. “If looks could kill…” She whispers while shaking her head. Natasha looks nothing short of stunning herself—her short red hair falling into voluminous curls and her figure emphasized by her black dress.

She lets out a hushed giggle under her breath. “Y’know….”

“He’s gonna be there tonight.”

You don’t even need to ask who ‘he’ is.

Ever since your first appointment with Bucky she has nothing but teased you for it. She’s convinced he’s got some little crush on you.

Sure, he shows up to every appointment; Most of the time early. And sure he’s gotten in the habit of making your coffee when you have to stay up late in the clinic —the way you like it, with extra creamer— though he’s never mentioned it.

Just leaves it at your desk without a word. He probably doesn’t even know that you know it’s him.

Okay, fine. Maybe you’ve come to like the idea. Maybe you’re dressing up in hopes he’ll see you. And maybe—just maybe— you’ve gotten used to the flutter in your chest whenever you do see him.

Even with all the mixed signals, some part of you wants to believe there's something there. But you can’t help hoping it’s not nothing.

You playfully roll your eyes and scoff. “Oh would you shut up,” you laugh. “I never teased you about Steve this much.”

“Because you’re too nice.” Nat quipped. “And please— you totally like him. I see the way you stare.”

You scoff in mock annoyance. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want him to see me tonight.” You say it like a joke, but part of you isn’t kidding.

Natasha shrugs with a sly smile like she’s been waiting for this confession. “Mhmm. No judgement, but— I told you soo.” She sings.

When you arrive, the party is surprisingly classy. Supposedly Tony wanted to up his act from the last party he threw—that ended up with Thor drunkenly dancing on a table as everyone harmoniously chanted for him to ‘Take another shot’.

The floor to ceiling windows give a perfect view of the star flooded night sky adds to the calming atmosphere. The lighting is warm, and the air smells of expensive fragrances mingled with whiskey.

As you and nat are weaving your way through the crowd, you’re about to suggest getting drinks–and that’s when you hear it. A burst of laughter from the far side of the room- familiar.

You turn your head instinctively, eyes scanning the room. You weren’t even looking for him– not really. But there he is.

He throws his head back as he laughs and the corner of his eyes wrinkle– for a second, it seems as if everything moves in slow motion. His chest heaves up and down as he laughs. His brunette hair is neatly pushed back.

Stubble on his jaw so cleanly cut you can almost smell the after shave from across the room. Black suit sharp in all the right places, like it was custom made to steal your attention.

Everything about him seems to fall perfectly in place. So much so, you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if the universe is messing with you. But it’s like there's a spotlight on him in the middle of the room and you’re the only one that seems to notice.

You shake your head to snap yourself out of your trance as your eyes drift to the rest of the crowd. It’s very clear who came with who. Clusters of groups stand throughout the room, couples usually locked arm in arm. Thor stands with Jane, Wanda with Vision, Scott with Hope, Clint with Laura. And of course, Nat is soon to make her way to Steve.

And the fact it's clear who came with who makes your freeze for a moment.

Because when you see Bucky– you see a girl next to him.

And fuck is she beautiful.

“Who the hell is that?” Natasha muttered under her breath in pure shock. You shake your head slowly, “No fucking clue.”

That’s what you get for allowing Nat to feed into your delusions.

It’s nothing, right? Not like you two were ever anything.

Just coworkers.

Your eyes flicker to his and you offer a weak smile and an even weaker wave before getting your arm pulled by Natasha. “Let’s go get drinks.” She insists.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Nat drags you to the bar. She orders drinks for the two of you, and you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment.

“It has to be a friend,” Natasha shakes her head while sipping on her drink. Part comforting you, and part trying to convince herself. “There's just no way! The signs are there.”

“The signs are there and they’re pretty and girlfriend shaped, Natasha.” You throw her a look, pressing your lips in a tight line. “It’s okay really. I didn’t really think anything would happen.” you muttered. But why does he look at you the way he does?

Natasha frowns. She can’t help but feel guilty for playing into the idea, but she still hasn’t lost hope. “C’mon. Let’s go dance.” She places a hand on your shoulder.

You tilt your head in thought, trying to find the courage to go. But your heart feels like it’d been wrenched for all it’s worth. You close your eyes and shake your head, “You go. I’ll catch up with you later. Go see Steve.” Just as she’s about to argue back you place a silencing finger to her lips “Go. I promise I’m fine, Nat.” You force a smile.

“Okay, but you better come out there.” She points a finger at you and raises her eyebrows.

It’s been about two hours. You’ve been sipping on different wines. Mostly people watching. Mostly, Bucky watching. Natasha had tried to pull you but you weren’t in the mood. Bucky having a girlfriend hit you harder than you’d like to admit.

“Bucky’s been asking about you, y’know.” A familiar voice mutters behind a beer bottle. You glance to your right, and there he is. Steve Rogers. “Nat’s in the bathroom.”

You nod. “Yeah? He can ask me himself next time.” You mutter. You didn’t mean to come off so bitter, you’re just exhausted. Exhausted from the mixed signals. Exhausted from trying to decode everything.

“Sorry,” You drop your head and sigh. “Just tired.”

Steve pats a reassuring hand on your back. And then, Natasha reappears.

“Okay. It’s time for you to get up. Take another shot and cmon girl.” She demands. Hands on her hips and eyes glaring at you like you’ve personally offended her. Then, you know there’s no fighting this one.

“Fine,” You whine. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out there.”

As Natasha and Steve walk off hand in hand, you look across the bar and catch Bucky’s eyes staring again. Like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He’s talking to his girlfriend, and Tony. You lock eyes for a little too long, and that was the last straw.

You need to get your mind off of him.

The party has picked up. The lights are no longer warm, but rather cool and dim. The soft jazz is replaced by a thudding baseline just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Exactly what you need.

You weave your way through the electric crowd, meeting Nat, Steve, and Wanda. Thankfully Bucky is nowhere to be seen. As much as you want to bombard Steve with questions about Bucky’s mystery girlfriend, you don’t want to kill the mood.

You move to the beat, letting it pull you under. Your heart stuck somewhere between devastated and defiant. Someone takes your hand and twirls you around. You laugh; sharp and hollow. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like someone trying too hard to be okay.

You catch a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye and your chest tightens. Need to get away, you think to yourself.

“I’m gonna go grab another drink Nat!”

You barley hear her shout back.

You turn, and then—

Cold.

A shock of cold across your front, soaking through the fabric and skin. You look down. Deep blooms of red spread across your dress. Red puddles at your feet.

Red wine. Everywhere.

You look up to see the woman holding the now empty wine glass. Clearly pissed off and even more clearly drunk. “Watch where the fuck you’re walking!” She slurs loudly and throws her arms up.

Heads turn towards the two of you and the once loud booming music dims. You look for Natasha in the crowd but can’t see her.

You’re too drained to fight back. Voice cracking as you speak, feeling the oh so familiar sting at your eyes. Tears pooling before you can fully process it. You can’t do this tonight. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t fuckin’ sorry me,” She crosses her arms. “Maybe if you weren’t busy eye-fucking Barnes all night you’d be able to see where you’re walking.” She rolls her eyes with a scoff.

There's a shift in the crowd to your left. A familiar weight. You don’t even need to look to know that it’s him. And when your eyes finally find his—half shielded by the crowd— it’s like the world shifts.

He saw.

He heard.

Of fucking course he did.

You don’t wait another second to see his face. Or Nats. Or anyone's. You push past the woman, past the crowd, past Bucky’s girlfriend because all you can think about is getting away. Even when the crowd is behind you—it’s not far enough.

Your ears are ringing, heart is thudding in your chest and you start to taste blood from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not even sure how you get back to your room. Just that your heels are loud in the long hallway, echoing every footstep reminding you once again of how small you are there. Before you know it, you’re back in your room slamming the door shut behind you. Skin is sticky, sweaty, and your hands won’t stop shaking.

The door clicks somewhere behind you. You don’t care enough to lock it. You don’t even think about it. You just drop your shoes, your pride, and your head into your hands.

Your elbows stick to the cold kitchen island counter. Wine and hair still clinging to your skin, causing your dress to stick to you in all the wrong places. You don’t cry. You don’t move. You just sit there. Breathing. Replaying the last 10 minutes in your head.

You hear a light knock on the door before it opens fast. You don’t turn, alreading knowing who it is. His heavy footsteps. A held breath. And a pause long enough to feel like a lifetime.

“Hey—” his voice is breathless. Concerned. “Are you okay?”

You don't look up. You shake your head, hands covering your face like you’re holding yourself together. Not daring to make eye contact with him—like it’ll make the situation settle into reality.

He moves slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off. His hands hover near your face for a moment—hesitant— before he tucks your hair behind your ear revealing your flushed cheeks. The wine dripping from your dress to the floor being the only noise in the room.

“Jesus,” He mutters under his breath. He runs a hand down his face and disappears down the hallway. Then he’s back, draping a towel over your shoulders. “You’re soaked.” he sighs.

You flinch as he touches you—not away, but like his touch startled something loose. You shake your head and let out a breath that's half-sob and half-laugh. “I really can’t fucking tell if you like me or hate me, Bucky.”

And for the first time since he entered, you look up at him. You probably look like a fucking mess. You probably sound like a mess. But you don’t care. Not right now. Not when heart strings have been pulled in every direction by something that might not even be there.

He just stands there stunned for a beat. Mouth agape like he’s trying to find the right words to say. You inwardly sigh, knowing that the whole situationship was more than likely– in your head.

“You’re just giving me all these mixed signals.” You rub your eyes, like you can’t believe you have to explain this. “One day, we’re best friends. Next, you ignore me. You make my coffees. Steve swears it isn’t you but he’s a terrible fucking liar!” You exclaim with a huff, nails digging into your palms.

“And then,” You take a deep breath, “Steve tells me you’re asking about me?! After ignoring me? And- and then I see you at the party with a whole girlfriend? Like—like it’s nothing. Like you don’t look at me the way you do. Like you didn’t….”

You trail off and shake your head with a bitter laugh.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was all in my head.” You let out a trembling sigh. “Just forget it.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

Oh.

You let out a breathy laugh. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe. Warmth creeps up to your cheeks and you don’t try to stop it, because— what? You’ve spent the entire night spiraling over a girlfriend—that wasn’t actually his girlfriend. The light seems brighter now, putting a spotlight on your embarrassment.

He licks his lips. Searching for the right words to explain. Like he’s scared this might be the last chance you’ll let him explain.

“She’s an old friend,” He starts slowly, “She asked to come to network. That’s why I was havin’ her talk to Tony.”

Oh.

“Okay,” you start, eyes darting to the floor. “But was everything else in my head?”

You lift your gaze hesitantly—afraid of what you’ll find in his. Taking in every detail just like your first real encounter at the clinic. The dimple on his chin. The stubble on his jaw. The blue eyes that you’d search for in every hallway, every meeting, and every day.

“You didn’t feel it either?” Something twists in your chest, audible through your voice.

Bucky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet breath, jagged and sharp around the edges.

“I didn’t mean to-” He stammered, shaking his head “I did.” He managed to get out.

The words make the air thicken, landing in between the both of you. Making your chest feel heavier with every breath you take.

“I did.” He repeats. I just didn’t know how to…show it.” He’s looking down now. Jaw clenched, his index finger rhythmically tapped against the side of his leg—an anxious tendency he couldn’t force himself out of even if he tried.

“I thought you were just doin’ your job.Just being kind, ‘cause that's what you do. Just being nice to me. Smiling even when I don’t say much.”

His eyebrows furrow like the memory hurts.

“ ‘nd I didn’t think I deserved that.”

His voice is deeper. Something more, something raw. Gaze flickering to yours.

You push yourself off of the chair, it softly scraping the floor. Red wine still dripping off the seat, slow and steady. Each step marked by the hollow click of your heels.

Your hands rise before you even realize it, cupping each side of his face. Feeling the stubble tickle the center of your palms. His breath stutters, and he freezes—afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment.

And before you know it, you’re kissing him.

And he’s kissing you back.

His hands falter, before they hesitantly find your waist—pulling you closer. The kiss starts slow, and uncertain but feels like he’s been holding this in for far too long. Like a breath he thought he’d never be able to take. It’s not perfect. It’s messy. Your hearts are beating far too fast, but it’s real. It was never in your head. It was real.

When you finally pull back, your noses brush and for a beat—neither of you say anything. You’re both smiling. Like idiots. Like the weight from the past few weeks have lifted off your shoulders and drifted into the air surrounding you.

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound. You envisioned something quieter–simpler. It’s not the coastal hospital life you thought you’d have—But this isn’t so bad. You still don’t really have your shit together, but you’re getting there.

“Would you quit it!” Laughter fills the air as you try to push Bucky off of you. All you need to do is take his damn blood pressure, but it’s kind of hard when he keeps repeatedly pressing kisses on your head.

“Nope,” He places a kiss on your cheek as you struggle to wrap the cuff around his arm. “Not when you look so cute in those scrubs.”

The room smells like your favorite creamer filled coffee. He brings it every morning now—and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Doesn’t need to. Natasha swears she called it from day one. And still—after everything,— teases you like no other.

You’re not one of those girls on tiktok, with cute matching scrubs. Or a cute stanley. Or a simplistic life.

But you’ve got someone who brings you coffee every morning. Stays up with you every night in the lab.

Keeps an extra hoodie in his room for you.

Buys your favorite flowers for you, so you always have a fresh bouquet.

Watches countless Gossip Girl reruns with you—even if he insists they’re all over dramatic.

Some nights he doesn’t say anything—just rests your head on his chest, until the world quiets down.

And maybe that’s better.

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱

23 notes · View notes

thestrugglewithin · 6 hours ago

Text

Vessel x Reader

Idiots very much in love. How an accidental hickey and an argument gets way out of hand. Mdni!

A/N: This has been collecting dust in my drafts and I’ve decided to admit that I lost the motivation to work on it any further. So have this mini angsty fic of our beloved Vessel <3

You’ve always been quite cheeky with your antics, especially when it came to Vessel. One time, you even swore that you just couldn’t help it; he was irresistible, after all.

Oftentimes he’d fix you with a look that said he was unimpressed, but you knew better. Vessel believed that you must’ve hung the moon, so his adoration could never falter. His mind behaved differently whenever you were involved.

This time was different, though. You really hadn’t meant to leave such a distinct mark on him, certainly not one that was so plainly visible. Never in a million years would you have imagined he would be so worked up about it. And really, you hadn’t even noticed it before he so urgently brought it to your attention.

Which was where you found yourself now, sandwiched between him and the wall of the venue he’d perform in tonight. His presence had never been intimidating, not before this moment. But he was acting so unlike himself you couldn’t help but to back up a bit.

“So you didn’t think it was necessary to tell me before we left the room?”

You’d never seen him angry before. Frustrated, maybe. But not angry, and certainly never towards you. “I didn’t notice, Ves. Obviously, or I would’ve-”

“How could you not notice? I seem to be drawing every eye in the room,” he shot back. His attitude begged the question of why a hickey had him so bent out of shape, but you knew him well enough not to bite back at this moment. It couldn’t have anything to do with the ever-present company you two were among whilst on the road– your relationship was no secret. It was hard to keep it completely private given the circumstances, but this was the first time that you felt like that was a problem. He certainly had never bothered to keep his affections to himself where you were concerned. So where on earth was this attitude coming from?

You resisted the urge to bite back at him, knowing it would do very little to ease the tension between the two of you. “You’re drawing eyes right now because you’ve backed me into a corner and are speaking to me rather unkindly.” Sure, you didn’t want to escalate whatever was going on here, but no way were you just going to roll over and take it.

At this, he straightened up his posture, like he became aware that you were still in a hallway full of people. People you’d be seeing on a daily basis for another month, at that. “Maybe consider some self-control from time to time,” he huffed. “No need for us to act like animals.”

Oh, he was lucky you were painfully aware of your surroundings. All thoughts of attempting to be the bigger person went right down the drain. There was a string of endless curses you could have choked on when attempting to swallow them down.

But you knew Vessel. Loved him more than your own heart could fathom. This was not him, and you were no stranger to the idea that there was something else going on inside his head. There was no telling what, though, seeing as he decided to snap at you over a hickey instead of just telling you what was up.

His words took straight to your heart though, and you let them settle. If he didn’t want you leaving your trace on him, of course you would respect that. He meant the world to you, after all– you’d do anything he asked of you. Horrible efforts at communication aside.

You must have let on that you were done with the conversation, because he turned and stalked off towards the dressing room. It was for the best that you let eachother be for a while, you figured. Neither one of you seemed keen to argue back and forth. Maybe after the show he will have blown off enough of the steam that he was simmering in to have an actual conversation with you. Meanwhile you could be left alone to wallow in the sudden embarrassment that this situation had left you in.

You exhaled a shaky breath then. There was plenty of time for a talk back in the privacy of your shared hotel room. Or an argument, whatever it came to. Such matters should be handled in privacy, after all.

Whatever remained of the argument never came, though. And neither did any acknowledgement of the topic. You’d gotten back to the hotel room that night, continuing about as though the earlier part of your day never happened. You opted not to bring it up. There was a much more familiar Vessel sleeping next to you now, and that felt like enough.

Sweeping feelings under the rug is never a good idea, and you knew that. But it felt okay in the moment– and it certainly was the easier option.

It was easy until you had to put thought into how you were to handle your boyfriend going forward. Vessel had expressed a boundary to you, and you ached to be respectful of it. It was new and a little unnatural, but after a few days you fell into habits of giving him space until he initiated contact.

You realized that it had been a full week since your guys’ little hiccup, therefore a week since you’d had sex. It wasn’t intentional, not really. You craved Vessel like he was air, like he was an actual requirement to your survival– but the both of you were adults and perfectly capable of keeping it in your pants. You began to notice an aching in your heart whenever you were longing for him. You’d sat with your own thoughts long enough to convince your mind that the safest bet in your relationship was to just let Vessel take any initiatives.

This didn’t allow for much opportunity, though. He really did pour every part of himself out on stage, he rarely was left with much energy afterwards. He’d argued long ago that he could never be too deprived of energy when it came to you. ‘You light a fire within me, darling’ he’d cooed.

But your mind was not kind to you amidst these new feelings. The thought of trying to express your need to him and being rejected made your stomach churn. Pairing this with the fact that he’d made no effort towards you either was eating away at you.

Just as long as it’s not me who pushes too far again. You told yourself. Over and over and over again.

Vessel was in a particularly good mood tonight following the show. He was always pretty rambunctious with his guys, but the energy was definitely higher amongst the four of them right now.

Seeing him so lively brought a pang to your chest, right where your heart resided. It actually upset you how happy he seemed right now. And for what reason? You could have asked yourself that, if you weren’t already grossly aware of the answer. You’d been festering on hurt feelings for a week now. Whether it was still about the unresolved conflict, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was that you noticed his severe lack of attention towards you since you’d been advised to control yourself around your him.

Maybe it was that you were beginning to feel angry. Upset at him, not just upset. This distance was destroying you, could he seriously not feel it? Did it not eat away at him that the closest you’d gotten to each other all week was a goodnight kiss? It felt like each hotel room you found yourselves in, the less comfortable you felt in his presence. His presence was like home to you, but you were beginning to feel unwelcome.

This newfound insecurity of yours was proving increasingly difficult to ignore when Vessel laid over top of you for the first time in what felt like ages. He curled his back over top of you in his kneeled position between your knees, hands wandering lightly up and down your clothed sides. You were trying to focus on him, how much you missed him, how thankful you were that he was here with you and finally present in the moment, but your thoughts shattered the moment his lips met the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

It felt like an instinct when your head nudged him away.

You felt him falter, but only momentarily. His hands persisted, now moving to take hold of your waist lightly. A hum of satisfaction slipped past your lips just before you felt those lips again, this time sucking lightly just below your ear. That might’ve been your undoing, if you didn’t find yourself pushing his head away again.

He did pause this time. “Darling?”

Your hum of acknowledgement must’ve satiated his curiosity, because he did not speak further. Instead he slipped his hand beneath the fabric of your shirt, hands finding purchase on your soft skin. His head dipped and captured your lips with eager force. Your nails trailing up his arms and moving to thread between the hairs at the nape of his neck must’ve read to him as an invitation, because his head descended once more. You didn’t let him get far though before you were tugging his head back up, and this finally brought him out of the moment.

He sat back on his knees, peering down at you in confusion. “Why aren’t you letting me kiss you?”

It sounded like an innocent question leaving him, but it stirred those unresolved feelings of yours. Evidently allowing a week to pass by did you no favors in deciding to be adults about this situation. You felt your own pettiness clawing to come out.

“You literally just did.” Of course you knew what he meant, but you had to feign confusion. Suddenly you felt ready to play with fire. He only huffed in response. “Is that not what you just did?”

“You keep pulling me away,” he overlooked your attempt to be smart-mouthed. “Since when do you not like me kissing your neck?”

There was a very fleeting moment that you almost felt bad for what you were inevitably about to put him through. Still, you furrowed your brow. A confused pout might do you well, too. “Just didn’t want you to get carried away.. I thought we were trying not to leave marks.”

He made an obvious attempt not to scoff. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin then. “You’re upset about that? It wasn’t really that big of a deal, was it?”

It was obvious now more than ever that he hadn’t paid your argument any mind since the moment that it had happened. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with that. You’ve been turning yourself in circles for days over it, and he might as well have forgotten about it altogether.

You hoped he would have begun to apologize with how upset you so clearly were, but his silence remained deafening. You fixed a glare on him instead. He sure made it seem like a huge deal in the hallway of that venue, so what changed? “It’s not a big deal,” you offered easily, although it was a lie. “But you seem to be having some self-control issues on your end.”

More silence. His face betrayed no sign of what was turning the gears in his head, but you knew they had to be in overdrive right now.

“That’s different, though,” he said helplessly– pathetically, even. This brought an incredulous laugh from where you still lay on the bed. How he managed to act so small while he was still knelt above you.

“In what way is it different, Vessel? You can do it to me but don’t want me to do it to you?”

You knew he didn’t actually have an argument for this matter. Not a good one, at least. But of course he persisted. “There are thousands of people that I stand in front of every night that would run rampant with conspiracy if they noticed something like that.”

You wanted to laugh again, but you rolled your eyes and moved out from under him instead. “You are covered in black paint on stage, Vessel,” you spit. “Do not try to act like that was the problem, you and I both know that whatever was wrong with you had nothing to do with me.”

You didn’t see him run a hand down his face or the cringe of remembrance of how he had treated you. You continued before he could come up with anything to say.

“But you know what? It doesn’t matter now what was up with you, because you decided to take it out on me. You chose to humiliate me in front of your entire crew.”

You heard him call your name, but you continued to work yourself under the already unmade covers, trying like hell to put space between the two of you. This was already a mess. You really should’ve insisted you talked about it after it happened. Or maybe brought it up some other way. No matter, because now you were even more upset and fighting tears while the man you loved only just now realized how upset you’d been.

You needed to sleep. The can was open, but now you were too upset to talk about it the way you knew you needed to. There was no doubt in your mind that it would only get worse if you continued now.

“Baby..” he crawled over to you, running his knuckles along your back.

“I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, Vessel. I’m not really in the mood.”

You knew he didn’t like it when you said his name like that. If it wasn’t Ves, it was always a pet name. Normally you’d only do so to tease him, to get him to fake his annoyance and “punish” you in return.

He slithered down now, placing his chest close to your back, his hand coming to lay a featherlight touch against your hip. “Please don’t go to bed upset.”

Vessel usually wasn’t one to just let stuff go, and bless him, sometimes he did need to be told twice. Your silence gave him the nerve to curl his arm around your stomach, moving just a little bit closer. It must have finally clicked just how upset you were, so his lips descended to press against the back of your neck, the way he knew you loved.

“Get off of me,”

He stiffened behind you but made no effort to move. You knew how wrecked your voice must have sounded. Your throat was on fire, and it felt like it was going to close any minute. He was about to crack your resolve without even trying. “Vessel, move.”

“No.”

“No?” you questioned. You didn’t make an attempt to move from his grasp, but you turned just enough to address him. “So you tell me to control myself around you, and I oblige.. But I tell you to get off of me and all I get is ‘no’?” You couldn’t actually meet his stare to give him a proper glare in this position, but you damn well were going to try. “Got it. You’re a hypocrite.”

“I don’t want you to go to bed upset,” he whispered.

“I’ve been going to be upset for a week now, I think I can survive another night.” You felt his sigh against your skin, but he relented and pulled his arm from around you. That was as far as he went, though, and he offered no response. “You can sleep on the other side of the bed so we can talk about this in the morning.”

“Don’t sleep alone,” his voice was soft, pleading. It cracked you a little bit, but not enough for him to notice.

“Move away from me unless you’d prefer that I sleep on the couch.”

It was with obvious reluctance when he finally moved away from you. He didn’t go far enough that his body heat didn’t still radiate over to you. You knew it would be torture for him though. Not that it didn’t tear you apart inside as well, but you really believed that this would do you both well to sleep before sorting this out. His stubbornness to leave you alone was admittedly endearing, and you silently cursed him for it.

It was silent for a moment before you heard his soft call again. “You won’t really sleep on the sofa, will you?”

“As long as you think you can stay over there.”

Well of course he wouldn’t be able to do that. It was natural the way his body longed for you. You were meant to fit together. It felt wrong to have this much space between you.

Oh, how you wanted him to hold you. You’d never be able to sleep like this, not with him right next to you. Your stubbornness persisted, though. You had to talk this through, and you figured caving into your need for him and choosing to ignore it for another night would do no good.

He sighed loud enough that you heard him- felt him, even. It took every fibre of your being not to roll over to face him. Instead you opted to close your eyes and try to steady your breathing. Sleep would find you eventually.

It did find you eventually, but not for very long. There was no way to tell how long you’d been asleep, but the fatigue in your body led you to guess an hour at most. You lifted your head trying to adjust your position, but you caught your boyfriend looking at you.. From the floor.

Immediately, you frowned. “What are you doing?”

His head lowered, like he was guilty. “Couldn’t sleep”

“Did you even try?”

“No.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes and sighed. He’s lucky you think he’s cute, “Get in bed and go to sleep,” all he could do was stare back at you. He made no effort to move. “You have to perform tomorrow. You’ll never make it through if you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep without you.” He whispered. His long fingers were absentmindedly tracing the seam of the cushion he had his head on a moment ago. “I can sleep right here. I can be closer without being too close.”

“No, you can’t. You’ll fuck your neck and your back up.” This whole ordeal had brought upon a new level of stubbornness you didn’t even know existed in him. You didn’t want to admit that his persistence made your tummy flutter, even though you felt bad that he’d been sitting on the floor watching you sleep.

“I can lay down,”

“Vessel,” you groaned. God, he made it so hard to be mad at him. You weren’t going to let the entire thing go, not so easily. But you loved him and under no circumstance would you ever fail to take care of him when he needed you to. “I am asking you to get into bed. Please. You cannot stay on the floor.”

“Can I hold you?” He had tears pooling, just waiting to spill over. Oh, your sweet (albeit oblivious) boy.

“Ves, baby,” you called to him so softly. Not unlike the gentle grip you coaxed his head into. You tugged gently until he took the hint to stand and crawl into the bed right beside you. You scooted back to accommodate his form. He’d only just settled down, his face so close to yours when you took the opportunity to kiss away one of the tears that had fallen. Your thumbs caught the ones your lips didn’t.

With much hesitation his hands finally gripped your hips, the way they’d been itching to all night. His eyes closed while he breathed you in, fighting back a sob that choked in his throat.

“Shh, don’t wreck your voice by crying,” he nodded so you knew he heard you. “We’re going to be okay, you know that. We’re just gonna have to work this one out. I promise it’ll take a lot more than one argument to tear me from you.”

He nuzzled his face at the base of your throat and made an effort to settle his breathing. Even after all of this, you're still here looking after him. But he nodded his understanding and gripped you tighter. “I don’t think I deserve you,”

“Ves,” you warned. He knew how you felt when he talked poorly of himself, no matter the anger you held for him not too long ago. “We’ll talk and apologize in the morning. Right now you need to rest.”

You smoothed your hand over the back of his head, waiting until you felt his body loosen a bit. A few kisses were placed on his head, and he finally spoke.

“I love you,” he managed. “I am not one to overlook my blessings– so I need you to know that you are my greatest one.”

“You know that I love you– I’ll love you through everything.”

You lay in silence for a minute or two, your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair. He’d been so still you figured he had finally fallen asleep. Of course, you really should’ve known better– this was Ves, after all.

“I used to wonder around, trying to wrap my head around the idea that you’d actually allow me to kiss you,” his voice sounded muffled with the way he had his face pressed into your chest. “And that you wanted to kiss me back,” his head shook like he was trying to convey genuine disbelief. “And now I’ve made you think I don’t want your affections. Please know that I do. I don’t think I could ever make it if I had to go on without you to love me.”

You did manage to breathe out the smallest laugh then. “I would take a bite out of you if I could, Ves. Don’t ever think I don’t want to be all over you.” You could feel his smile then. “We’re fine, baby. You just go to sleep and I’ll be here ready to make up with you in the morning.”

He squeezed your waist one last time before he finally relaxed and allowed you to hold him. You might’ve laughed at how this came from him wanting to hold you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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