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sugarplum217 · 4 months ago

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The Fire We Make (Part Two)

Pairing: Terry Richmond X Black Female/Plus Size/Curvy Reader, MDNI

Warnings: very heavy smut, unprotected sex, nasty & dirty talk, mention’s of abuse, triggering topics, not suitable for anyone under 18+, oral sex, sort of a slow burn, casual sex, fluff, use of the N word, AAVE, somewhat age gap relationship, mentions of verbal abuse, use of abusive lanuage, alcohol usage, mentions of female masturbation, mentions of sexual assault and drug use, oral sex (female recieving) please

Authors Note: Please excuse any errors or mistakes, I hope you enjoy and please be kind.

Summary: You were supposed to be focused, handling your Nana’s last wishes, getting this house in order, and most importantly, staying out of trouble. But how the hell were you supposed to do that when trouble was six-foot-something, built like a sin, and living under the same damn roof? Terry was already making it hard to keep your thoughts pure, but when a little liquor enters the mix? Whew. The lines start blurring, the tension gets thicker, and suddenly, the two of you are toeing a line that neither of you might be ready to cross. But with confessions spilling, dangerous heat rising, and that fine ass man looking at you like he’s ready to ruin your whole damn world… staying away? Yeah. That might not be an damn option anymore.

You always knew your Nana had a funny way of doing things, but damn, you didn’t expect her to leave you damn near lost in the sauce when it came to handling her last wishes. You swore this woman had an aversion to clear instructions. You should’ve known better. Nana never wrote shit down, not a recipe, not a schedule, not even a damn grocery list. Everything she did was off instinct. She’d always tell you, “Baby, just follow your heart. It’ll lead you where you need to go.” That was cute and all, but what the hell was your heart supposed to do when you were knee deep in paperwork, fighting through legal vocabulary, and trying to make sure her precious land didn’t end up in the wrong hands?

You’d spent the past few days drowning in documents, back-and-forth phone calls with a bunch of old Southern men who thought you were just some clueless city girl, and running errands that felt like they had no end in sight. On top of all that, you had to deal with a whole grown-ass man—a man that was so damn fine he had your hormones setting up camp in your ovaries and throwing a block party every time he walked in the room.

This random-ass nigga Terry, the so-called “helper” who was supposed to be here to assist you, was doing the complete opposite. This man was a walking sexual healing, word to Marvin Gaye. The shit was becoming ridiculous. Your pussy damn near fell through your panties every single time he walked by.

Broad ass shoulders, arms cut like he was hand-carved by the gods, abs that looked like they belonged on a sculpture in a museum. And that face? Whew. That was a whole different kind of fine. I mean, not the kind of fine you run across too many times in life. Terry had one of them strong, grown man faces, sharp jaw, full lips, and for godsake those unique colored eyes that held a storm behind them. He looked like he had a past, like he’d been through some dangerous shit, like he was the type to handle business when necessary. In other words, he looked like the kind of trouble you had no business entertaining. Especially not in the frame of mind you were in, for crying out loud you were still technically grieving. But the way your body reacted? The way your thighs clenched every time his deep ass voice hit your ears? The way your nipples betrayed you whenever he got too close? Yeah… this wasn’t just simple attraction. This was some next level, soul-stirring, I need to be baptized immediately type of undeniable lust.

The sun had been on demon time all damn day. You swore the devil himself had blown his hot-ass breath straight onto the state. It wasn’t just hot—it was disrespectfully hot. The type of heat that made the air stifling and thick as well as made your skin sticky. Had you questioning if you should just go lay down and let Jesus take the wheel. At the moment you were currently outside, sitting on the porch, trying not to pass out from heat stroke. Your leopard-print Fashion Nova romper wasn’t doing much to keep you cool—it was thin and barely there, clinging to your curves like it had an agenda of its own. You didn’t care, though. If these country men could walk around in nothing but basketball shorts and tank tops, you could wear your little booty-clapper romper in peace.

With a lemon-flavored popsicle in hand, you scrolled mindlessly on your phone, music blasting through your AirPods. You weren’t even paying attention to the world around you. At least, not until you looked up and saw him. Terry was out in the yard, shirtless, sweat glistening on his golden-brown skin like he was made of pure temptation. He had the lawn mower in a firm grip, pushing it across the grass with ease, the muscles in his back flexing with every movement. His broad shoulders and cut biceps worked as he maneuvered the machine, sweat dripping down the hard planes of his chest, sliding over his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his basketball shorts.

“Lord, have mercy…” You whispered under your breath. Your stomach clenched, thighs instantly pressing together on instinct. You weren’t even paying much attention to how hot it was anymore. Not when Terry was giving you a show.

The way he moved—slow, controlled, powerful—had your mind going straight to the gutter. You bit your lip, watching him like you had no damn home training. Your mouth went dry, but you refused to blame the heat. This was all him. The way the sun kissed his rich caramel skin? The way his jaw clenched in concentration? The way his thick ass thighs flexed every time he took a step? Terry was a whole ass problem.

You took a slow pull from your popsicle, sucking the tip into your mouth as your eyes stayed glued to the scene in front of you while you leaned back on your elbows, stretching your legs out in front of you, letting the sun warm your skin as you continued to watch him work. You intensely watched as the lawn mower moved slow and steady under his firm grip, his strong hands flexing around the handle as he guided it across the thick grass with impeccable controlled precision. Every push made his biceps tighten, the muscles in his shoulders rolling under his skin like waves. His back flexed, broad and cut, tapering down to a slim waist and thick thighs that held all the power he was working with. He definitely made yard work look sinful. The deep hum of the lawn mower vibrated through the air, but it wasn’t enough to drown out your thoughts. You shifted again, your thighs pressing together, trying to ignore the growing wetness that had started to turn noticeably sticky against the seat of your romper.

Truth be told you knew it had been a minute since you got some. And it wasn’t just about sex—you needed something real. Not some half-ass, two-pump, let-me-get-mine type of situation. No, you needed a man who knew how to handle a woman like you. A man who knew how to grab you, flip you, make you forget your own damn name. Most men didn’t know what to do with a woman built like you—soft in all the right places, curves that needed to be held properly. The kind of body that required strength. The kind of body that needed a man who wasn’t afraid to take control, to pin you down, to make you feel every inch of him until you were running from it. And something in the back of your mind told you Terry was that kind of man. Now you knew damn well in the back of your mind , you weren’t supposed to be lusting after this man. You were supposed to be focused. But the way your body was reacting? The way your heartbeat was drumming between your legs? Baby… focus was nowhere to be found.

“Shit…” You muttered under your breath, shifting in your seat. You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing as your thighs lazily parted open, wanting to give him a view of exactly what he was working with. The thin leopard-print romper did nothing to hide the soft, fat flips beneath it, and you dared Terry to notice. Terry clearly must’ve felt you staring after a while because suddenly, he looked up, eyes locking straight right at you. Your lips wrapped around the popsicle before you could think better of it, your tongue flicking against the tip in a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes darkened while a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in, legs parted, skin glowing, sitting there like temptation itself while sucking on something cold to keep from melting in this heat. Or maybe to keep from melting under his heat. You could’ve looked away. Could’ve played it off. But instead, you held his gaze and dragged your tongue along the side of the popsicle, purring at the refreshing taste. Terry’s smirk deepened. He dragged a hand over his head, wiping away sweat, and took his sweet time looking you over—eyes traveling from your thighs to your lips, lingering for just a second too long. While he took his own glances.

Your eyes dragged lower, following the slow, tantalizing trail of sweat dripping down his abs, rolling over the deep-cut lines of his V. The way his muscles flexed with every movement, the way that sheen of sweat made his caramel skin glisten under the ruthless South Carolina sun—it was sinful. You could see it. The way those sharp dips led right beneath the waistband of his basketball shorts, teasing at what was beneath. That print, that damn thick dick print, sitting heavy between his thighs, made your mouth damn near water. Your fingers tightened around the melting popsicle, lips parting slightly as your breathing turned shallow. You didn’t even realize he had stopped pushing the mower by this point. Hell, you didn’t even notice how hard he was staring right back at you. Your mind was complete mush. His gaze wasn’t on your face, though. Wasn’t even on your parted lips or the way your chest rose and fell beneath your thin romper. No, Terry was looking right between your thighs. Your legs were still lazily parted, the soft, fat flesh of your pussy lips spilling over the seat of your romper in a way that had his stormy ocean like eyes darkening, narrowing slightly. And then , he noticed that little glint of the diamond metal sitting exactly where his tongue wanted to be. His jaw flexed and his grip on the mower tightened. His nostrils flared just slightly, envisioning what your pussy looks beneath that romper. The way he was looking at you? Like he was imagining spreading those thighs wider, getting a real close look at that piercing, letting his tongue play with it just to hear how sweet you’d sound moaning his name. Terry’s slow stare continued to drag up and down your body, lingering on that juicy space between your thick thighs. His tongue peeked out, swiping across his bottom lip as he eyed you like he was trying to decide if he was about to fuck around and make a bad decision.

The air between you two was thick and dripping with animalistic lust and deep sexual tension. By this point your entire body felt as though it was buzzing, waiting for him to say something, do something—Then your phone rang, loud as hell might I add. You damn near jumped out of your skin, startled, the sound snatching you straight out of your dirty-ass thoughts. In your rush to grab the phone, you choked on the popsicle juice sliding down your throat, coughing as your eyes watered. Terry huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before turning back to his work. That only made it worse. Now you were sitting here, hot, pussy throbbing and wet, and embarrassed, struggling to breathe while he went right back to pushing that damn lawn mower like he hadn’t just had you about to risk your soul in broad daylight.

“Hello?” You answered, trying to steady your voice and not sound flustered.

“Miss Walker?” The voice on the other end came through.

You swallowed hard, still trying to steady your voice. “Uh, yeah. This is her.”

“This is Veronica Kincaid, the realtor you called about your grandmother’s land. I wanted to touch base since I’ll be coming by tomorrow evening to do an initial walk-through of the property.” The realtor stated.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing a hand to your forehead. Of course the realtor would pick now, right now—to call you. And of course your voice still sounded all breathy and flustered like you’d just been caught doing something you had no business doing. Which… technically, you had.

“Right, right. Veronica. Got it. Uh, so… what time were you thinking?”

You cleared your throat, shifting once again, getting up off the chair to head inside the house. The gentle flow of the air condition kissed your skin soon as you went inside the house and you were oh so grateful. You tucked your phone between your ear and shoulder as you migrated to the kitchen to grab a much needed ice cold glass of water.

“Well, I was hoping for around five, if that works for you? I know it’s short notice, but I had an opening, and I wanted to make sure we got ahead of any potential buyers who might be interested.” She explained.

“Yeah, yeah, five is cool. I’ll be here.” You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. You grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and opened it, immediately gulping it down.

“Great! And just to confirm, we’ll be looking at the full property today? The house and the surrounding land?” Veronica gently inquired. Your eyes flicked back to Terry outside through the kitchen window, who was still working, still glistening in that sun like the temptation he was. You exhaled slowly, pressing your thighs together again.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice lower than it should’ve been. “The whole thing.”

“Alright, perfect! And if you have those documents ready, we can go over them when I arrive.” She requested, making you scrunch up your face confused. Documents? You thought to yourself. Your brain was fried. Not just from the heat but from that damn man outside looking like a walking sexual healing.

You barely managed, “Yeah, I’ll have everything ready,” before rushing her off the phone with a hasty, “I’ll see you tomorrow Veronica, alright bye.”

The second the call ended, you dropped your phone onto the counter and pressed your palms to your thighs, inhaling deeply. You clearly needed a moment, but apparently, God wasn’t done testing you today. Because not even a second later, Terry walked into the kitchen. You instantly stiffened up soon as he crossed the threshold, making your body react yet again. It wasn’t enough that he was fine as hell, now he had the nerve to smell good, too? Like fresh-cut grass, sun, and something deep and masculine that made your thighs press together on instinct. Terry didn’t say a word as he went straight to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, twisting off the cap with one hand like it was nothing. You tried to focus on Veronica’s voice in your ear, but then he slowly tilted his head back with his eyes closed. His throat flexing as he gulped down the water, droplets escaping down his chin, rolling over the slight scruff lining his jaw before dripping onto his ridiculously cut chest.

“Oh, fuck.” You uttered barely audible, thanking the heavens he didn’t hear you. Your brain short-circuited and all you could see was the way his lips wrapped around that bottle, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow, and suddenly, you weren’t picturing water anymore. No, now you were picturing your own creamy essence dripping down that chin, sliding down his jaw, his lips shiny with your sweet juices. Terry glanced at you mid-sip, catching the way you were gawking at him, before lowering the bottle and licking his lips.

“You good?” His deep voice carried that smooth, teasing edge.

“Mmhmm.” You swallowed hard, nodding quickly, forcing a tight lipped smile. Terry lifted a brow like he wasn’t buying that shit at all but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned against the counter, smirking slightly.

“Hot as hell out there, huh?” He teased, taking another swig from his water.

You huffed, waving a hand. “Yeah, I can’t do this shit. It’s too hot.”

“Can’t hang, huh?” That low chuckle of his sent a shiver down your spine. You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t even have the strength to argue. Your body was over it. As you grabbed your phone again, scrolling for the information Veronica needed, Terry took his time looking you over—really looking. Up close, he had an unobstructed view of what that leopard-print romper was doing to your figure. The way it clung to every curve, the way it barely covered your ass—or didn’t at all. That fabric had disappeared between your cheeks like it belonged there. Terry licked his lips, his mind going places it had no business going. All he could see was you bent over for him, those thick thighs trembling, that ass bouncing as he made you take every inch. A cornbread-fed body like yours? The type with thick thighs, soft rolls, and an ass that could smother a man to death? Yeah, that was his weakness. There were about a hundred ways he could make you run from him, and he knew that shit for a fact. His mind was deep in the gutter and he knew it as he watched you concentrate on your phone with your entire upper half of your body perched across the counter. Your ass poked out while you were arched just right for his liking. You didn’t even realize the way your ass swallowed the romper of we’re being honest or that he was looking at you like he was picturing it bouncing on his lap. As much as Terry didn’t want to, he knew he had to snap the hell out of it before he fucked around and found out.

“So… have you talked to the realtor yet?” He asked , clearing his throat, he shifted his stance and forced himself to focus. You glanced up, raising a brow like you knew he was just pulling himself out of a real deep thought.

“Yeah,” You said slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s coming by tomorrow evening.”

“That was quick.” He nodded, eyes still lingering on you, trying to gauge you.

“Trying to get shit handled as quick as possible so I can figure everything else out and not be here longer than I need to be.” You sighed, rubbing your temples. Terry let out a small chuckle, slightly shaking his head as his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long.

“Guess we’ll see what she has to say then.” He said stoically , expression unreadable.

“Guess we will,” You murmured. Avoiding his eyes as you fidgeted with your phone. The subtle ache from his lawn mowing performance is still evident.

“Aight, well I’m gon’ take a shower. If you need me just knock on my door.” Terry tapped his fingers against the counter before speaking again.

“I will.” You nodded, not bothering to meet his eyes. Terry gave a simple head nod, before turning the opposite direction, and heading out of the kitchen to get his shower. You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding until you heard a door close from down the hall. You immediately snatched your phone and dialed Tasha. The entire time you had been staying here, you were putting her up on game.

“This heffa better pick up this fucking phone—.” You were cut off by her picking up on the first ring.

“Bitch… this better be good. I’m trying to do my nails.” She dragged out, knowingly.

“Tasha...” You groaned.

“Tell me why you sound like you just had a whole orgasm.” She twisted up her face as if you could see, laughing softly on the other end.

“Because, bitch, I might have.” You got up from in front of the counter, migrating into the living room and dropping onto the couch, covering your face.

“Oh no. What did Terry do now?” Tasha cackled loudly. You adjusted the phone on your ear, not bothering to use your AirPods .

“It’s not what he did, Tasha. It’s just… him existing.” You sighed loudly, fanning yourself dramatically.

“Damn. It’s that bad?” She snickered.

“No, girl. It’s worse.” You exhaled, flopping back against the cushions. “This nigga got the nerve to be outside, shirtless, cutting grass like he’s auditioning for a damn porno. And then he comes inside, drenched in sweat, drinking water like he knows what he’s doing.”

Tasha wheezed. “Did you damn near suck the air out of the room watching him?”

“…I might’ve choked on my popsicle.” You embarrassingly admitted. Dead silence. Then— She SCREAMED.

“BITCHHHHHH.” She hollered out, doubling over in laughter.

You groaned. “I fucking hate you.”

“Nah, I love this for you,” She snickered. “But, uh, be careful. That man sounds like he’s about to be all in your guts real soon.”

“Lord please… don’t say that Tasha.” You whined, feeling your heart rate speed up. Your legs crossed tight at the thought. Because the Lord knew you wanted it. And by the way Terry had been looking at you today? He might’ve wanted it just as bad.

“Girl, I’m just saying… it’s been a minute since you got that back cracked open like a lobster! When was the last time you had a man deep inside you making you forget all your worries, hmm?” Tasha asked, her voice playful but full of intent.

You groaned, throwing your head back against the couch, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “Damn, Tasha. You really gotta ask me that?”

“Yes, I do! ‘Cause the way you soundin’ all flustered and stressed out over this man, I know you need some relief. So spill it.” She pestered. You hesitated, lips pressing together. The truth was, it had been a minute. Too damn long. And the last time? Whew… the last time was with Rahmello, better known as Rome. That fine, toxic-ass sneaky link who had you sprung even though you swore up and down you weren’t. He wasn’t Terry fine, but he was still fine in his own right. Tall, built, skin the color of fresh coffee, and a smile that could charm the lace off a nun. The sex was fire. He was the only one who truly knew how to touch you, how to work your body like he had a damn manual. And Lord, did he love to hear you moan.

But Rome wasn’t on or about shit. He never wanted to leave your apartment after laying the pipe like his name was Mario. Not because of your body—oh no, he worshipped every damn inch of you—but because he was still technically with his baby mama and didn’t want that smoke. A coward. A man who thrived off the thrill but would never step up. So yeah… he was the last man you’d been with. And it had been two years.

“Girl, why is you so quiet? You reminiscing, huh? I knew it!” Tasha’s voice pulled you back to the present.

You scoffed. “First of all, shut up. Second of all… I ain’t reminiscing. I’m just—”

“Just realizing it’s been too damn long since you had some real dick,” She cut in, making you roll your eyes.

“Tasha, I am NOT about to be fuckin’ this man. I came down here to honor Nana’s wishes, not get caught up with some stranger!” You sighed dramatically.

“Oh, so now he’s just some stranger? You ain’t been drooling over him for the past three days? Girl, please.” She amusingly scoffed.

“That’s beside the point. The point is—I’m keeping it together.” You sucked your teeth.

“Nah, the point is, you're scared. You afraid that if you let that man touch you, it’s over for you.” Tasha snorted.

Silence.

Then, you exhaled through your nose. “YES, HOE! THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I��M AFRAID OF!”

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! Oh my God—bitch, you actin’ like this nigga ‘bout to have you outside his window with a boombox, playin’ love songs n’ shit!” Tasha hollered, practically puncturing your eardrum.

“Tasha, I just KNOW that nigga got some demon dick. He look like he will have me screamin’, I GOT THE BIKE, HOLIDAY!” You covered your face with one hand, laughing despite yourself.

“STOPPPP! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! I CAN’T BREATHE!” Tasha was screaming now, full-on hollering through the phone.

“I’m serious! This man just look like he’ll have me actin’ a damn fool. And I don’t have the time or the mental capacity for that kinda stress.”You laughed too, shaking your head as you fanned yourself.

Tasha finally calmed down enough to catch her breath. “Whew… girl. I get it, I really do. But, for real—for real… if you keep fightin’ it this hard, that just means you already in too deep.”

You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew she had a point. You just weren’t ready to admit it yet. After spending another few minutes on the phone with Tasha. You realized you needed to take care of the constant yearn that was deep inside your belly. The ache between your legs was damn near unbearable. No amount of squeezing your thighs together, shifting in your seat, or deep breathing was doing a damn thing to make it go away. And it was all of his sexy ass fault. Terry had no business looking that damn good, smelling that damn good, and moving the way he did. Your body had been on high alert from the moment you saw him out there mowing the lawn, and now, after that whole scene in the kitchen, your nerves were shot, and your body was begging for relief. You needed release, and fast. You leaned up slightly from the couch, as you listened carefully, making sure he was nowhere near. Then, you heard it—the sound of the shower running down the hall. Terry was in the guest bathroom, meaning you had just enough time to sneak upstairs and handle business before he finished. Wasting no time, you shot up from the couch and rushed up the stairs, heart pounding. The second you got into your bedroom, you fished through your suitcase, hands shaking with anticipation, until your fingers wrapped around the one thing that could bring you to the edge and push you over in minutes, your lovely rose better known as your lifesaver.

You practically ripped your romper off, the fabric slipping down your thick thighs with ease. And when you stepped out of it, you whimpered. The sight of your own slick, gooey essence stretching between your thighs had you trembling. Your swollen clit pulsed angrily, begging for attention, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than for Terry to be the one to drop down to his knees and lick up every single drop. You bit your lip feeling a shudder run down your spine. Your legs felt weak as you climbed onto the bed, settling against your pillows. Wasting no time, you powered the rose on, immediately switching it to the third setting—the one that never failed to drag a scream right out of you. The second the soft suction latched onto your needy, swollen wet clit, your whole body jerked.

“Oh fuck! Mmmm shit.” A sharp cry tore from your lips as your thighs clenched. You threw your head back, feeling your juices gush out as it hit the toy, making a sound that had you so turned on. The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that you felt yourself spiraling already as you slowly rubbed the toy up and down your clit, teasing it as its suction continued to pull and tug on it, making your cream slowly gather inside your hole, ready to drip out.

“Fuuuuck, y-yess.” Your hips bucked as you rocked into the toy, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure hit you like a fucking freight train. You knew you were about to have the hardest nut of your life.

“My clit so fucking fat shit.” You moaned filthy, feeling hot and wet as your pussy began to have a mind of its own. You were in love with how sensitive your clit felt. The dream was dripping like lava as you felt the toy’s hard suction increasing as your clit fattened with need.

Your legs trembled as you held them back, the rose sucking and pulsing against your swollen clit, dragging out a sticky, wet ache that had been building for days. The first drag of suction made you shudder, a deep moan slipping from your lips as your juices dripped down your pussy slowly and onto the sheets. You rubbed the toy up and down while holding it down to add more pressure, teasing your clit, the pulsing vibration making your body jolt every time it latched onto your clit just right. The obscene squelch and suction noises filled the room, bouncing off the walls, mixing with your ragged breaths and soft whimpers. You swore you could feel the orgasm creeping up already, your belly tightening, thighs clenching, toes curling. You didn’t even care how loud you were; Terry was all the way in the guest bathroom, the sound of the shower running covering your sinful little secret. At least, that’s what you thought. What you didn’t know was that Terry wasn’t even in the damn shower yet. He had stepped out of the bathroom to grab some fresh clothes from the dryer, towel slung over his shoulder, basketball shorts hanging low on his waist, when he passed by your door. And that’s when he heard it. The wet, messy sounds. The desperate little moans.He stopped mid-step, his head tilting, listening closer. The low buzz of a toy, the way your breath hitched between every slick, suctioning pull of it. His lips parted slightly, and his hand flexed at his side, his whole body stiffening as his breathing slowed down, listening to you moan and cry. His tongue ran across his teeth as he bit down, his dick already hardening at the thought of what was happening just beyond that door. And Lord help him… he wanted to see.

“Mmmm suck that pussy! Yesss.” You cried out, eyes closed, picturing Terry’s mouth on you instead of the rose. You pressed the rose down harder, throwing your head back against the pillows as soft spurts of pussy juice squirted from you, making a nice puddle beneath your ass. Terry stood frozen outside your door, jaw tight, tongue pressed against his teeth as he listened to the wet, sloppy sounds coming from your room. His breathing deepened, chest rising and falling as his mind wandered and painted a crystal clear image of you and how you looked right about now pleasuring yourself.

“Damn,” He muttered under his breath, low and raspy. “I know that pussy look pretty when it cum.”

His head dropped forward slightly, hand flexing at his side as his mind painted the filthiest picture—your thick thighs trembling, that pretty little pussy clenching and dripping, all swollen and needy, just waiting for a real tongue to replace that damn toy. And then he heard it. His name slipping past your lips, soft and breathless, like a damn prayer as you were orgasming and creaming all over yourself , and letting out what you had been building up for the last few days.

“T-Terry— FUCK TERRY!” You cried loudly, cumming hard and intensely, as you rode the toy slowly. Immediately going sensitive you dropped the toy to the side and rubbed your aching clit rapidly with your middle finger, allowing yourself to squirt out as a second nut hit you, making your walls squirt harder. Terry’s eyes went dark, a deep hunger settling in his gut, spreading through his veins like wildfire. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his breathing ragged as the image of you writhing on that bed, your fingers tangled in the sheets, legs wide open for him, sent a pulse of raw, aching need straight to his dick. He swallowed hard, fists clenching tighter as he forced himself to step back, to walk away and restrain himself before he did something reckless. Because if he stepped into that room? There wouldn’t be any turning back. He was gonna beat the fuck out of that pussy until you saw stars.

You jerked from the aftershock of your mind blowing orgasm as you laid there, trying to catch your breath. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest as your ears were practically ringing. You’ve had your fair share of amazing orgasms when it came down to self care but this one? This one was undoubtedly the hardest, most nastiest one you had ever given yourself. You knew what your good girl could do. She was a messy juice monster that could make a mess if touched correctly and only you knew how to touch her to make it this intense. But it wasn’t just your technique this time , or your rose toy. It was that tall rich caramel nigga with the gorgeous unique eyes that had you spent and dripping cum.

“S-Shit…” You softly whimpered, feeling tired as your eyes grew heavy. As much as you wanted to get up and clean yourself off as well as change the covers. The aftershock of your orgasm sent you into a soft deep, very much needed slumber. You weren’t fond of sleeping in sweet sticky essence but you were too spent and too weak to fight against it. Not even a minute later you were knocked out, snoring softly with your legs still wide open, with not one care in the world.

A little after 4pm you finally arose from your slumber. Your body felt brand new after an hour-long nap and a much-needed shower. The kind of shower where you let the hot water run over your skin, steam fogging up the mirror while you took your time rubbing yourself down with your favorite body scrub. You needed that. Deserved that. Now, feeling refreshed, you threw on something light—a tiny tube-top dress that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs, the soft cotton clinging to your curves. You slid your feet into your fluffy fur slides, secured your hair up in a claw clip, and let a few soft curls frame your face. Cute, comfortable, and cool. Perfect for this ridiculous heat. With your Bluetooth speaker connected, you scrolled through your playlist, finally settling on SWV’s “Anything” Remix. As soon as the beat dropped, the energy in the kitchen shifted. The bass vibrated through the air, wrapping around you like an old friend. You started off slow, swaying your hips as you pulled out ingredients, letting the rhythm seep into your bones. The knife moved effortlessly through the ripe tomatoes, the sizzle of onions hitting the pan mixing with the music.

“Boy, my body’s just for you…” You sang as your shoulders bounced to the beat, and before you knew it, you were dancing. Really dancing. Hands up, hips rolling, that natural rhythm taking over as you stirred the pot on the stove. The little dress lifted with every step, teasing the curve of your ass as you lost yourself in the moment. What you didn’t know was that Terry had walked in a while ago, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, just… watching. Amused. Intrigued. You moved so effortlessly, like music was embedded in your bones. He licked his lips, eyes glued to the way your thighs jiggled with every step. That ass? A masterpiece. He could’ve watched you all damn day, but after a few more moments, he finally made his presence known.

“Ahem.” The deep rumble of his throat clearing cut through the air like a record scratch. You jumped, nearly dropping the spoon in your hand. Turning around, wide-eyed and caught, you saw him standing there, that signature smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, you scared the hell outta me,” You huffed, pressing a hand to your chest, trying to slow your pounding heart.Terry just chuckled, eyes dark with something unreadable as he nodded toward you.

“Nah, baby girl, don’t stop on my account. Looked like you was really feelin’ it.” He teased.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” You rolled your eyes, waving him off as you turned back to the stove. But your heart was still racing. And not just from the scare. Terry leaned against the counter, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off with ease. As he took a slow, deep gulp, you caught the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. The way his lips parted just slightly, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop. You swallowed hard, looking away before your mind took you places it had no business going again for the second time today. Terry smirked behind the bottle. Oh yeah, he had peeped all of that. And after overhearing what you were really up to in your room earlier, he was having a hard time pretending like he didn’t know exactly what had you so damn flustered. But he kept that dirty little secret to himself. For now.

The silence stretched for a bit, except for the music playing in the background. You exhaled, stirring the pot before muttering, “It’s too damn quiet out here.”

Terry hummed. “You ain’t used to it yet?”

“Not even close. I miss New York. All the noise, the people, the energy… I miss just walking outside and hearing taxi’s honking or ambulance's blaring. This country cricket life is not for me.” You scoffed. Truth of the matter was that you couldn’t stand the quiet due to being alone in your thoughts. The quieter things were, the more you relived trauma and pain you tried to forget about in this very house and town. Living in the city helped you stay occupied and distracted so you wouldn’t have to feel or think. Your therapist had told you long ago that , that was an unhealthy way to cope but it was either bury the shit or be on meds for the rest of your life because you couldn’t function.

Terry leaned against the counter, watching you. “If you were back home right now, what would you be doing?”

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “Hittin’ the town with my girls or curled up with a glass of wine, binge-watching something on Netflix or Hulu.”

“Sounds like a good night.” Terry nodded, smiling slightly.

“It is,” You said, then paused, your mind drifting to something else. A memory.

“You know… it wasn’t always bad down here. My daddy used to take me to this old skating rink when I was little. Sweet Rollers. Used to be the spot for all the neighborhood kids. I had the time of my life there, zoomin’ around, thinking I was so grown.” You smiled softly, stirring the pot absentmindedly. Terry’s lips tugged into a smirk, eyes flicking to your face as you got lost in the memory. He loved that little spark in your eye when you talked about something that made you happy.

“Sweet Rollers still around,” He said casually.

Your head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Terry chuckled. “Still open. Still got skate nights, too. If you hurry up and get dressed, we can make the evening session.”

“Yeah, right. My big ass ain’t skated in years. I’m not about to be out there bustin’ my ass in front of a bunch of teenagers. No thank you.” You snorted.

Terry leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “All you done did since you got here is work and complain. How ‘bout one night of just… fun?”

You gave him a side-eye. “I have fun.”

Terry smirked. “Name one fun thing you done since you stepped foot in this house.”

Silence

“…Exactly.”

You exhaled, narrowing your eyes at him. “You really tryna get me out the house that bad?”

“I’m tryna get you to loosen up,” Terry said, voice low and smooth. “Ain’t no harm in that, is it?”

You bit your lip, debating. And Lord help you… but the way he was looking at you? It was making it real hard to say no.

You hesitated for a second, chewing on your lip as you looked between Terry and the food sizzling on the stove. “We gotta eat first.”

“We can eat this delicious concoction when we get back. I’ll wrap it up so it stays warm. You go get dressed.” Terry shook his head with a smirk, stepping past you and reaching for the knob, twisting the fire off. You huffed, knowing he wasn’t about to let you argue. A night out didn’t sound half bad, and Lord knew you needed to unwind.

“Fine, fine…” You muttered, turning on your heel and rushing upstairs. Now, if you were going out, you were going to look good doing it. You picked out a pair of booty-hugging daisy duke shorts that gripped your thighs in all the right places, frayed at the edges just enough to tease. Then, you slipped into a cherry-red halter top bodysuit with a plunging neckline, leaving your entire back out, your spine tattoo on full display. You accessorized with your gold nameplate necklace, matching gold hoops, and stacked charm bracelets, letting the jewelry glint against your brown skin. Your hair was next—water and gel slicked it up into a high ponytail, soft curls cascading messily while your baby hairs framed your forehead just right. Shoes? Cute sandals. But you tossed a pair of socks into your purse for the rink. Makeup? Unnecessary. Your skin was already glowing. You fluffed your lash extensions, reapplied your buttery lip gloss, then reached for your Tom Ford Vanilla Sex—a Christmas gift from your mother. The rich, warm scent filled the air as you sprayed a generous amount over your collarbone, wrists, and thighs. Just as you grabbed your purse, you heard Terry’s deep voice call from downstairs.

“You ready yet?” His voice sounded smooth as velvet.

You smirked at your reflection before stepping out of your room and heading toward the stairs. The moment you hit the top step, his head turned. You saw the shift in his expression immediately. His eyes dragged down your short frame—lingering on the way your shorts sat snug on your thighs, then dropping lower to admire how your ass filled them out from the front. His tongue swiped over his lips before his gaze trailed up your exposed back, his jaw flexing slightly. By the time he reached your face, his pupils were just a little darker.

“Damn, ma…” His voice was deep, and heavier. “You tryna have every nigga in there break they neck?” He raised his eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes, descending the stairs. “Boy, shut up.”

Terry let out a low chuckle, stepping closer. “Nah, for real. You dangerous in that.” His head tilted, his voice dropping. “Lookin’ like you tryna get chose tonight.”

“Please. I just like to look good.” You scoffed, even though your pulse betrayed you.

He grabbed his keys, still watching you like he was committing every detail to memory. “Well, you succeeded.” Then, he smirked, nodding toward the door. “C’mon, before I change my mind and keep you here all night.”

Your breath caught for a split second, but you played it off, brushing past him as you stepped outside.You felt his presence heavy behind you, his eyes still lingering. Yeah… this night might be trouble. But you were already in too deep to back out now. Jesus be a complete fence around you and your hormones tonight. The ride to the skating rink was smooth, the warm evening breeze slipping through the cracked windows of Terry’s truck. The low hum of the engine filled the silence at first, but the tension in the air was anything but quiet. You shifted in your seat, smoothing your hands over your bare thighs, acutely aware of Terry’s presence beside you. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console, his long fingers occasionally drumming against the leather. He was relaxed, but you could tell by the way his jaw flexed that his mind wasn’t completely at ease.

“You always this quiet?” You finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I talk when I got something to say.” Terry smirked, eyes still on the road.

“Oh, so you one of them?” You scoffed, shaking your head.

“One of what?” He glanced over at you briefly, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“The mysterious, brooding type. The ‘I ain’t gotta say much’ type. That whole ‘quiet storm’ thing.” You waved your hand. “Lemme guess, you think it makes you more intriguing, huh?”

“Nahhh, I just don’t waste words.” Terry chuckled under his breath.

“Mmhmm.” You folded your arms, feigning disappointment. “And here I was thinkin’ we was gonna have deep conversation, maybe share some childhood secrets, bond a little.” You pouted.

That made him chuckle again, this time a little deeper. “What you wanna know?”

You turned your body toward him, lips curling into a smirk. “I dunno… something interesting. Like, what’s your guilty pleasure?”

Terry lifted an eyebrow. “Guilty pleasure?”

“Yeah, like some random shit you love but would never admit out loud.” You stared at him, admiring the way his pretty eyes looked under the settling evening skies.

He rolled his lips together, thinking for a second before saying, “Old ‘90s R&B.”

“Word?” You perked up.

He nodded. “Yeah… I be playin’ the hell outta some Jodeci or Mint Condition when I’m by myself.”

“Not Jodeci.” You gasped dramatically, hand to your chest.

“You asked.” Terry chuckled, shaking his head.

“So what you be doing? Sitting in your truck with the seat back, windows down, singing your heart out?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He smirked, glancing over at you.

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s wild. I would’ve pegged you for more of a hardcore rap, never-show-emotion type dude.”

“Oh, I still be on that. But sometimes, you gotta let a little Feenin’ or Pretty Brown Eyes play when the mood hit.” He licked his bottom lip, giving you a side glance.

“Yeah… I can see that.” You stared at him for a beat, biting your lip.

Terry’s eyes flickered to your mouth before looking back at the road. “What about you?”

“What about me?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’s your guilty pleasure?” He side glanced you, licking the corner of his mouth.

You grinned, knowing your answer might make him judge you. “Don’t laugh… but I love watching trashy reality TV.”

“Nah.” Terry snorted.

“Yes!” You laughed. “Like, the messier the better. I love the drama, the fighting, the over-the-top acting—”

“That’s wild.” He chuckled.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m judgin’.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever.”

Terry smirked, shaking his head before muttering, “Yeah… I can see that.”

The way he threw your words back at you made you laugh, shaking your head as you settled into a more comfortable silence. The ride continued, the city lights flashing past the windows, and for a moment, you found yourself just enjoying the easy rhythm between you two. No pressure, no awkwardness. Just… something smooth. Something that felt good. Something that made you wonder what the hell you were getting yourself into. As soon as Terry pulled into the parking lot of Sweet Rollers, the deep bass of old-school R&B / Hip Hop tracks vibrated through the truck, mixing with the sounds of laughter and chatter from the rowdy crowd gathered outside. Groups of people lingered near their cars, some sipping on drinks, others showing off their best dance moves before heading inside. It was packed, just like you remembered, and an excited thrill rushed through you at the sight of your old stomping grounds.

“Oooh, this is what I’m talking about!” You excitedly grinned, practically bouncing in your seat.

Terry, however, wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic. His sharp ocean-like gaze swept over the crowd, his jaw tightening slightly. “Too many fucking people.”

“It’s a skating rink, Terry. It’s supposed to be packed.” You rolled your eyes.

“I know.” He exhaled through his nose, gripping the wheel. Unbeknownst to you, Terry wasn’t fond of overly packed places. He hated crowds in general but where he came from he knew that too many niggas in one spot and a bunch of alcohol was a recipe for some shit to pop off. Being an ex Marine Terry was always on guard and ready to handle business if need be and even tonight wasn’t no exception to his unspoken rule.

“What, you scared?” You smirked.

He cut his eyes at you. “Ain’t never been scared a day in my life.”

“Then come on, tough guy.” You unbuckled your seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle. “Let’s have some fun.”

Terry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before finally nodding. “Yeah, aight.”

As soon as you both stepped out, you could feel the eyes on you—or more specifically, on him. Women stopped mid-conversation, their eyes raking over Terry like he was the best thing they’d seen all night. And honestly? You didn’t blame them. Terry was the type of man that commanded attention without even trying. Standing tall in his fitted black tee, grey sweats hanging low on his hips, and fresh sneakers, he had that effortless, I know I look good but I ain’t gotta say it kind of presence. The streetlights bounced off his sexy caramel skin, illuminating his small curls on top of his head, and highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw and the cool, detached expression that made him even more irresistible.

One woman in particular—a tall, red bone beauty with a micro mini dress that left nothing to the imagination—bit her lip as she eyed him. “Damn,” she muttered to her friend. “That man is fine.”

Before you could process the way irritation flared in your chest, Terry’s large, warm hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you toward the entrance. The simple touch sent heat rushing up your spine, but more than that, it was a silent message. Ain’t no need for you to feel any type of way, I’m with you. And if the daggers those women were shooting your way were any indication? They got the message loud and clear. Inside, the rink was even livelier. The neon lights flashed against the glossy floor, reflecting off the disco ball spinning in the center. The scent of buttered popcorn, funnel cakes, and sweet candy lingered in the air, mixing with the faint must of sweat and skate wheels burning against the slick surface.

“Oh my God,” You breathed, looking around with wide eyes. “It’s exactly how I remember.”

Terry glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That right?”

“Yep. This place was my childhood.”You nodded, grinning. He hummed, tucking that piece of information away before leading you toward the rental counter. The girl behind the counter, a petite thing with slicked baby hairs and acrylics long enough to type paragraphs with, barely spared you a glance. Her gaze immediately locked onto Terry, and her whole energy shifted.

“Hey, handsome,” She purred, leaning forward on the counter just enough to push her cleavage together. “What size you need?”

“Thirteen.” Terry, completely unfazed, pulled his wallet out.

“Mm, big feet…” She smiled, twirling a curl around her finger. Your eyebrow shot up at the boldness of this air head before you. You blinked a few times at her. Did she just—?

Terry didn’t react, just glanced at you. “What size, ma?”

“Seven,” You muttered, crossing your arms.

The girl finally looked at you, then reached under the counter, sliding both pairs of skates toward Terry with an extra sweet smile. “That’ll be twenty-seven dollars.

Before you could pull out your own money, Terry was already handing over a crisp bill.

“You ain’t have to do that,” You frowned.

“I was raised to be a southern gentleman. You ain’t payin’ for nothing in my presence.” Terry tucked his wallet away, grabbing the skates.

You huffed. “Terry—”

“I know you can handle your own, mama,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flutter. “But let me handle it tonight.”

And just like that, your knees buckled a little. Terry smirked as if he knew exactly what he was doing, then handed you your skates.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the benches. “Let’s get you laced up.”

You swallowed, fighting the warmth creeping up your cheeks as you followed behind him. Lord have mercy… What did you just get yourself into? You both made your way over to one of the long benches lined against the wall, the music thumping as people whizzed by on their skates, laughter and conversation blending into the lively atmosphere. You plopped down with a sigh, resting your skates beside you, but before you could even think about lacing them up, Terry was already kneeling in front of you, rolling his shoulders back like this was just another day. Your breath hitched. The sight of him on his knees—those thick, muscled arms flexing as he took your ankle into his hands—did something to you. The heat that spread across your skin was immediate, undeniable. His fingers, large and slightly calloused, wrapped around your calf with ease, his touch firm but careful as he guided your foot into the skate. Your body and not to mention your pussy betrayed you instantly. A sharp tingle danced up your spine, settling deep in your clit as you watched him work. His brows furrowed slightly, dark lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones as he concentrated, making sure the skate fit snugly before pulling at the laces. The way his hands moved—strong, sure, completely in control—had no business being so damn… sexy.

“You good?” His deep voice broke through your haze, snapping you back to reality.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good.” You cleared your throat, shifting slightly on the bench. He glanced up then, his light ocean gray eyes locking onto yours, and damn. That slow, lazy smirk of his was back like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.

“Yeah?” He drawled, tugging the laces tighter before looping them into a knot. “You sure, mama?”

“I’m sure, Terry.” You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your thighs pressed together involuntarily. He hummed, low and deep, and that sound alone nearly had you sliding off the damn bench. Instead of giving you a break, he moved on to your other foot, gripping your ankle and repeating the same slow, methodical process. By the time he finished, your body was on fire, your skin practically scorched under the weight of his hands.

“There,” he muttered, patting your knee as he rose to his full height. “You straight.”

But you? You were far from straight. Because when you looked up at him—his full lips twitching in amusement, his towering frame standing over you, his scent of clean soap and warm musk surrounding you and you knew one thing for sure. This night was about to be dangerous. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the wooden floors as the DJ spun a classic 90s R&B jam, filling the rink with a sultry, feel-good vibe. The actual song that happened to be playing was Return Of The Mack. The neon lights flickered against the smooth surface, casting a glow over the skaters gliding effortlessly across the floor. Laughter, cheers, and the occasional sound of wheels scraping against the wood echoed around them as people skated in pairs, some moving in sync, others wobbling through the crowd. You took a deep breath, adjusting your balance as you stepped onto the rink, gripping the railing tightly. It had been years since you’d done this, and your legs felt unsure beneath you.

“Yo, you comin’ or you just gon’ hold up the wall all night?” Terry called out, already rolling ahead like he owned the place, flashing that cocky smirk that made your heart skip a beat.

You sucked your teeth, a playful roll of your eyes as you replied, “I gotta get my footing first. I ain’t tryna bust my ass in front of all these people.”

“Ain’t nobody worried ‘bout you fallin’, mama. You got me.” He laughed, skating backward like it was nothing. With a deep breath, you pushed off, wobbling a little as your skates started to glide. Just like you feared, your legs betrayed you, and before you knew it, you were tilting forward, ready to take a nosedive. A quick gasp escaped your lips, but Terry was there, like a superhero swooping in. Strong arms wrapped around your waist possessively, pulling you up against him with a grip that felt both solid and warm. When you looked up, his face was so close, that smirk teasing you like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn, ma,” He murmured, his voice low and smooth like silk, sending a shiver through you. “You just wanted me to hold you, huh?”

“Shut up.” You laughed, trying to shake off the heat creeping up your cheeks.

“Relax baby girl, you thinkin’ too much. Just let your feet glide and don’t fight it. Just move with me.” He chuckled, steadying you with those strong hands before easing you back to your feet. And just like that, you started to find your groove. With Terry guiding you, his hands firm yet gentle, the wobble in your stance faded. He kept one hand on your hip, ensuring you didn’t lose your balance, while the other hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining like they were meant to be. Before long, you were rolling across the rink, laughter spilling out of you every time he threw in a little spin or playfully tugged you in a new direction.

“I see you getting the hang of it now,” He teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Mmhmm,”You shot back, grinning wide. “I told you I just needed a minute.”

“Oh, so you an expert now?” He cut an eye at you, smirking and tugging you again, making you squeal.

“I ain’t say all that,”You laughed, shaking your head, your heart racing with the thrill of the moment. With the beat rolling through you, you started to work it, feeling yourself get lost in the rhythm. Skating in sync with Terry, you spun and swayed, your laughter mingling with the music as he cheered you on, his voice rising above the sound.

“Ayeeee, aight I see you little mama.” He joked. You winked, swaying your hips in-sync as you glided effortlessly, getting lost in the music. The music suddenly shifted, a deep, sensual groove flowing through the speakers, the kind of track that made everything feel electric, as if the whole world was slowing down just for you two. You could feel Terry’s grip on you tighten, the way his energy shifted, and before you could even think about pulling away, he was pulling you closer.

“C’mon,” He murmured, breath warm against your ear. “Let’s see if you really got it.”

Your stomach flipped as he pulled you against him, your back pressing against his solid chest. His arms encircled your waist, guiding you as he began to sway, rolling his hips in time with yours, making the whole world fade away. You let out a slow breath, your body molding into his without even trying. The feel of him behind you—the steady strength of his hold, the way his fingers pressed into your bodacious curves, had your pulse racing like you were on a rollercoaster. Terry’s large stature moved like he was born to skate, fluid and confident, leading you in a rhythm that felt natural. As the music danced around you two, you surrendered to the beat, letting it pull you deeper into the moment.

“I ain’t just good at housework, baby girl,” He teased, his voice low and playful, making your heart flutter. “I got skills.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep the smile off your face, but it was too late. “Oh yeah?” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes sparkling with challenge.

“Yeah. You see it,” He grinned, and damn, you did see it. You felt like you were floating, gliding through the crowd, every move you made infused with that infectious energy, the kind that made you feel alive. The way Terry watched you, like you were the center of the universe, only pushed you to show off even more. You bent over slowly, dipping your hips lower as he spun you both around, slow skating backwards. You had seen couples do this a thousand times on Tik Tok and part of you always wanted to do a slow set and here you were with Terry, slow grinding it to Slow Bass Line by Lloyd. The two of you must have skated for at least a good thirty minutes before you got a little winded. After a while of skating, you were starting to feel the burn in your thighs, and your throat was dry from all the laughing and talking. You leaned back slightly against Terry’s chest as you slowed to a stop.

“I’ma go grab a slushie from the concession stand,” You told him, brushing a stray curl from your face.

“Aight, I’ll be right here.” Terry nodded, his eyes still watching the skaters zipping past. With that, you carefully rolled off the rink, maneuvering your way through the crowd. The concession stand was packed, as expected, with groups of teens, couples, and families all waiting for their orders. You took your place in line, debating between cherry or blue raspberry when—

“Well, damn.” The deep, familiar drawl sent a chill straight down your spine, making you freeze in place. That voice—it had been years, but you’d know it anywhere. Slowly, you turned around, your eyes widening as they landed on a face from your past.

“Jalen?” Your mouth slightly dropped. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. He looked good, you couldn’t even lie. Still fine, still tall with that same cocky glint in his eye. His gold chain glistened against his brown skin, and his white tee stretched across his chest in a way that told you he had been in the gym.

“Man, I knew that was you,”He said, eyeing you up and down like he was taking in every single change time had made to you. “Look at you, girl. All grown up and still fine as hell.”

You forced a polite smile, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and unease settle in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been a minute,” you said, keeping your tone light. “What you been up to?”

Before Jalen could answer, another voice cut in—one that made your stomach drop.

“Oh, hell nah. I’d recognize them big ass hammocks anywhere. Heyyy big mama!” The obnoxious voice teased. Your forced smile fell instantly. Not this bitch. You turned your head slightly and, sure enough, there she was. Shawna. Loud, ignorant, hating-ass Shawna. She looked exactly the same, except for the extra layers of cheap lace-front glue caking up along her hairline. Same exaggerated lashes, same gaudy press-on nails, and the same damn attitude she always had when it came to you. You took a slow breath, already knowing she was about to try you.

“Damn, girl, what brings you back down here? Ain’t seen you since you hauled your lil’ thick ass back up north.” She put a hand on her hip, cocking her head with a smirk.

“Yeah, life happens. Not that it’s any of your business.”You folded your arms, giving her a blank stare.

“Still thick as hell, I see. Some things never change.” She smirked deviously, shifting her weight to one hip, a slick smile on her glossy lips. Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to let her see you sweat. You’ve dealt with Shawna since childhood. She’s been your bully, your hater, your competition—always loud, always fast, and always looking for a way to put you down. And back then? She won. Over and over. From the cruel jokes about your weight to the way she snatched Jalen right from under you like it was her birthright. And now, here she is. Still the same, still petty, still trying to play in your face.

“I see some things never change either,” you fire back smoothly. “You still worried about me more than you worried about yourself.”

Shawna cocks an eyebrow, sucking her teeth. “Girl, please. I just call it how I see it. But damn, you done got cute or whatever.” She tilts her head dramatically. “Somebody put you on or you finally figured it out?”

“Excuse me—“ You try to correct her, but her loud ass mouth cuts in, cracking a joke at your demise.

“Boy, you used to love her fat chunky ass back in the day.” Shawna let out an obnoxious laugh, nudging Jalen. You clenched your jaw even tighter, about to deliver a sharp and downright disrespectful clapback that may or may not resulted in hands being thrown, when suddenly—A strong, warm arm draped around your waist, pulling you firmly against a familiar solid chest from the back. Terry, once again swooping it like a knight in shining armor. His presence alone was enough to shut down whatever slick shit was about to leave Shawna’s mouth.

“You good?” He murmured low enough for only you to hear, his voice steady, but there was something else underneath it—possessiveness.Your body instantly relaxed against him, feeling both safe and seen.

“Yeah, I’m good.”You nodded, your eyes flicking up to meet his. Shawna, however, was not. Her entire demeanor shifted the second her eyes landed on Terry. She damn near devoured him with her gaze, acting like her own man wasn’t standing just a few feet away.

“Whew, and who the fuck is this?” She exhaled dramatically, fanning herself with her hand. Jalen finally notices Terry too. His expression shifts, eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Terry.

“This your man or somethin’?” Jalen asks, crossing his arms. Terry doesn’t even blink. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his grip on your waist firm but easy, as if silently letting you decide how to handle it. But then, he speaks.

“Who’s asking?” He answered, voice sounding rougher and more authoritative than usual. The way he says it? Deep, smooth, unbothered. Like he already knows the answer doesn't matter. Like Jalen doesn't matter. And something about that makes your knees weak.

Jalen scoffs, shaking his head. “I was just curious. We got history, that’s all.”

Terry nods slowly, eyes still locked on him. “Yeah? That supposed to mean something to me?”

Jalen chuckled, lifting his hands in surrender. “Damn, bro, it ain’t even like that. We was just catching up.”

“That right?” Terry didn’t move. His dark eyes remained locked on Jalen’s, completely unbothered.

“Yeah,” Jalen nodded, though he seemed a little less sure of himself now. “Ain’t no pressure.”

Terry let a slow smirk curl at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

Shawna, still practically drooling, licked her lips. “Mm-mm-mm. I don’t know where you found this fine nigga, but girl… you won with this one.”

“I didn’t know we was in competition.”You shot her a dry look. She huffed a little, but before she could get another word in, Terry leaned down slightly, speaking just low enough for only you to hear.

“You still want that slushie, mama?” He asked, rubbing sooting circles on your lower back. Your lips parted slightly at the way he said mama like it was his name for you.

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”

“Go ‘head and order. I got you.” He nodded his head towards the counter.

After you and Terry basically dismiss Shawna and Jalen. You grab your slushie, feeling a rush of excitement to partake in your childhood delicacy as you step away from the counter. The rink is still buzzing with sweaty energy, and the slow jams are starting to play. Terry follows you to the bench, his eyes scanning the crowd, but you can feel him close by, steadying your nerves. You sit down and take a sip, enjoying the cool, sugary sweetness, but there’s still a lot on your mind. Terry sits beside you, and you can feel the tension between you both, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to open up, and that’s something you don’t do easily.

“So who were they?” He glances at you, his expression curious. You hesitate for a moment, taking another sip of your slushie before setting it down on the bench. A sigh escapes your lips before you begin to explain.

“Jalen… he was the first guy I ever really loved,” you say, the words almost slipping out before you can stop them. “We were high school sweethearts. Thought we were gonna be together forever, you know? He was… the one who made me believe in all that fairy tale stuff.” You shrugged.

Terry listens intently, not interrupting. You can tell he’s taking it all in, but there’s something about the way he watches you—like he wants to understand.

“Sounds like he had you wrapped around his finger,” He says, his voice almost amused but with a touch of something darker behind it.

“Yeah, he did. But then Shawna came into the picture… She was always there, talking trash about me. My weight, my thighs, my body—she always had something to say. I’d try to ignore it, but… it wasn’t easy. And Jalen? He never defended me. He just let her talk.” You smile weakly, fighting back your emotions. Terry’s jaw tightens a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He just listens as you keep going.

“One day, Jalen broke up with me out of nowhere. No explanation. He just… dumped me. And Shawna? She wasted no time stepping in. It was like she’d been waiting for the moment to steal him away from me. She was the one who made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. And it stung. Still stings.” You sigh, taking another sip from the straw. You can feel the anger bubbling up again, but you try to keep it in check. This was the past, right? You weren’t supposed to let it get to you anymore. But it does.

Terry’s hand moves to rest on your knee, and you glance at him, surprised by the gesture. He gives you a look, his voice soft but intense. “That’s some messed up shit. No one should make you feel that way. Especially not him. And especially not her.”

You nod, your throat tightening a little as you try to swallow the lump forming there. “Yeah, well, that’s how it went down. Shawna made sure to rub it in my face every chance she got.”

Terry leans closer, his hand still resting on your knee. His gaze softens, and for a moment, you can almost forget about Shawna and Jalen, about everything that happened before. You’re here now, and that’s what matters.

“You’re better than them mamas, believe that.” He says firmly, his voice low but full of conviction. “Way better. And they don’t get to take that from you.”

His words sunk in, and you let out a small breath, feeling the weight of the past lift just a little bit. You smile, looking down at your slushie before you heard the music shift, the tempo slowing. The music in the rink slowed, a soft, familiar melody filling the air. The first chords of “Weak” by SWV began to echo, and the slow grind of couples on the rink picked up. The rhythm made you feel light again, the nostalgia pulling at her heartstrings.

“I used to love this song,” You say, nodding to the slow jam. “It reminds me of when my dad used to bring me to this rink when I was a kid. We’d skate all night, just goofing around with the kids from the neighborhood. It was one of the best times of my life.” You got teary for a split second.

“You were a pro back then, huh?” Terry raises an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. But I sure had fun. My dad let me stay out late, skating with my friends. It was like… freedom. You know?” You laugh, shaking your head.

“Sounds like you got some memories here. You still got that spark, though. I can see it in your eyes.” Terry watches you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You meet his gaze, feeling your heart race. You hadn’t expected this kind of attention, especially not from him. But here you are, sitting next to a man who seems to see you in a way no one else has.

“Well,” you say, your voice teasing, “I’m not sure I’ve still got the moves. My skating game is a little rusty.”

“We’ll see about that.” Terry grins, a playful glint in his eyes. He carefully stood to his feet, balancing on his skates.

The song swells, and the crowd on the rink starts to slow down, couples swaying together in time with the music. You glance at Terry, then back at the rink, suddenly feeling more confident. Maybe it’s the music, or maybe it’s just being here with him. Either way, tonight, you’re going to let go of all of your inner insecurities and just live in the moment. He stands in front of you , offering you his hand, and you take it without hesitation. The night’s just beginning, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you might just have the strength to leave all the old hurt behind.

“You ready to show them what you got?” Terry’s eyes linger on you, his large fingers interlocking with yours.

“Let’s see if I can still keep up.” You smile, pushing off the bench.And as he pulls you onto the rink, guiding you effortlessly into the slow rhythm of the music, you realize something… This night ain’t about the past or your grudge your held against this place. It’s about right now. And right now, Terry Richmond got all your attention.

The clock struck a little after 9pm and you and Terry both decided to call it a night and turn in your skates. You followed Terry’s lead as the two of you stepped out of the skating rink, the cool night air kissing your skin after the heat of the packed building. The bass from inside still rumbled in the background as more folks poured in for the after-hours session. You felt a lingering excitement from the night, your legs still tingling from the rush of skating and swaying with Terry on the floor. He walked beside you, his pace slow and relaxed, but you could tell by the way his eyes swept the parking lot that his mind was elsewhere. Terry wasn’t the type to get too comfortable in one spot for too long—especially not when crowds gathered, alcohol flowed, and tempers could spark over the smallest shit.

“You good?” You asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, I’m straight. But you look like you still got some energy left.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket, twirling them between his fingers before shooting you a smirk.

“I ain’t gon’ lie, I did miss this. I had fun tonight.” You smiled, stretching your arms.

He nodded, then slowed his steps, tilting his head at you. “You tryna call it a night, or you got one more adventure in you?”

“Depends. What you got in mind?” You raised a brow.

His smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with mischief, “Let me stop by the liquor store real quick. Grab us something to sip on with our food waiting back at the house.”

“O-Okay.” You nodded,

Your stomach tensed slightly. Drinking around Terry made you nervous, but not because you didn’t trust him—it was because you didn’t trust yourself. There was something about him, the way he carried himself, that made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. The ride to the liquor store was quick. The neon lights of the small shop glowed against the dark sky, buzzing faintly. Before stepping out, Terry handed you a couple of bills.

“Go next door, grab two Big Gulp cups, and fill ‘em with some slushies,” He instructed. “We mixin’ when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.” You took the money and rolled your eyes playfully. He chuckled, stepping out, and you walked into the 7-Eleven, heading straight for the slushie machine. The bright colors spun in the clear tanks, and you carefully mixed cherry with blue raspberry for one, pineapple with mango for the other. As you reached for the lids and straws, a voice cut through the air—deep, raspy, too damn familiar, making your entire body run cold and lock up.

“Sunshine?” The familiar voice spoke. Your breath caught in your throat, fingers stiffening around the cup. The air in the store suddenly felt too thick, your vision narrowing as an old, buried fear slithered up your spine. You knew that voice anywhere. Slowly, hesitantly, you turned, and there he was, Rodney. Time hadn’t been kind to him. His skin, once rich and buttery smooth, looked sunken and dry, dark circles carved beneath his hazel eyes. His frame was smaller, his once-athletic build now gaunt. He used to be fine—every girl wanted him, the older ones keeping a watchful eye, the younger ones waiting for their turn to catch his attention. He had that ’90s R&B pretty-boy look, the type of dude who stayed fresh, always smelling like cologne and bad decisions. Now, he looked like he had seen the bottom of every bottle, taken every wrong turn, and lost every battle along the way. But none of that mattered because all you could see was him. The boy who took something from you. The boy who played on your innocence, your trust. The one who made you run from this city and never look back. Your stomach twisted violently.

“It is you,” Rodney breathed, a weak smile tugging at his chapped lips. “Damn… how you been, baby girl?”

You nearly dropped the slushie as your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the hum of the store. Your hands shook as you took a step back, the nausea rising fast. You couldn’t be here. You couldn’t do this. Rodney stepped forward slightly, his hand lifting, as if he wanted to touch you, but your body reacted before your mind did. You jerked back so fast your shoulder hit the slushie machine, your breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. Rodney quickly dropped his hand, his expression flickering with something unreadable.

“S-Sunshine, I—” He attempted to say, with tears forming in his eyes. You didn’t wait to hear whatever lie he was about to tell. Grabbing the slushies, you tossed the money onto the counter and bolted. The second you hit the night air, the nausea took full control. Your stomach lurched violently, and you barely made it to the side of Terry’s truck before you doubled over, vomiting onto the pavement. Terry was there in an instant.

“Shit—” His voice was sharp with concern, one hand hovering over your back, not touching but close enough to let you know he was right there. “Breathe, ma. Breathe through it.”

You wiped your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m fine,” you choked out. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

However, Terry didn’t buy it. He knew your were lying through your teeth and if it was one thing he hated, it was liars.

His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes scanning your face, reading every emotion you were trying to bury. “Nah,” He murmured. “That wasn’t just some bad food. What happened?”

“Terry, it’s—” You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Who?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Somebody in there? Did a nigga do some shit to you in there?” He pressed harder. You exhaled shakily, gripping the truck door for support. His eyes darkened further.

“Tell me who, Y/N” He said, voice even, but you could hear the tension beneath it. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to push it down, to shove the past back into the box where it belonged. But your body wasn’t listening. Because for the first time in years, you weren’t the strong, guarded woman you had built yourself to be. For the first time in years, you were that scared 14-year-old girl again.

“C-Can we please just go home? Please?.” Your voice rasped out, clearing your throat again before spitting in remaining bile out of your mouth. Terry didn’t say anything, he just nodded, eyes on you like a hawk with a tight jaw as he opened the passenger side door for you to get in. As you’re getting in, you felt small under his gaze, almost as if he were scolding you for not being upfront about why you were fine one minute and next thing he knows you’re basically vomiting all over the pavement.

The drive home was drenched in silence. The only sound in the truck was the low hum of the radio, some old R&B record playing softly in the background. You stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your mind far away from the present. You couldn’t believe after all this time you had seen Rodney. His face, his voice, the weight of his presence had pulled you right back to the past, back to that helplessness, back to that night. You gripped your thighs tightly, your nails digging into your skin as you forced yourself to focus on your breathing. Terry didn’t say a word the whole ride, but you felt his eyes flicker toward you every so often, his grip on the wheel tightening. He wasn’t the type to press for answers—not yet, anyway. He knew whatever was haunting you wasn’t something you could just spill out in the middle of a drive. So he let the silence ride. By the time you pulled up to the house, your stomach was still twisted in knots, but the second you stepped inside, you moved on autopilot going back to that all too familiar numb place. You went straight for the food. Earlier that day, before y’all left, you had cooked—a nice quick meal, something good to come back to. You turned on the stove, reheating the dishes quietly, barely paying attention to anything else. Terry, however, was watching you. His eyes followed every move you made, how your hands trembled slightly as you stirred the food, how your shoulders tensed, how you were too quiet. He didn’t like that shit. Without a word, he grabbed the bottle of Hennessy White he had picked up from the liquor store and poured a generous amount into both Big Gulp cups, mixing it with the slushies you had made earlier. When the food was ready, you placed the plates down on the table and turned to walk away, but before you could, his hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

“Sit down.” His deep voice finally spoke, making you tense. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t rough. Just firm enough to make you pause. You swallowed, eyes locked onto the floor. Your body felt stiff, your chest tight, but you sat down next to him, grabbing your fork. Terry didn’t let go of your wrist immediately. His thumb brushed against your pulse, slow, measured.

“Tell me what happened,” He murmured. You inhaled sharply. You had fought tears all night, forced yourself to push it down, to not go back there. But with Terry sitting this close, his voice low, steady, and patient, the walls you had built started to crack. You took a slow bite of your food, chewing without tasting, your throat dry despite how much saliva gathered in your mouth. Reaching for your cup, you took a sip of the spiked slushie, the cold hitting your tongue first, then the warmth of the Hennessy settling in your chest. You swallowed, staring at the table.

Then, softly, you said, “It’s more than one reason I stopped coming down here during the summers as a kid.”

Terry didn’t move. He just listened. Your grip tightened around the cup as the words started spilling out, slow at first, then faster, like a wound being ripped open. You began to tell him about Rodney. About how, when you were just 14, he had been someone you looked up to, someone who made you feel seen in ways no one else did. You told him how he gained your trust, how he made you feel special, like you mattered—only to betray you in the worst way possible. How one summer night, when no one was around, he took something from you. How you froze. How you felt your body leave you, how the ceiling blurred, how you counted the cracks just to keep yourself from breaking. How, after it was over, you never told a soul. How you buried it, packed it away like luggage you’d never unpack. How you left town and never looked back. And how seeing him tonight, in that damn store, had ripped open everything you spent years trying to forget. By the time you finished, your hands were trembling around the cup. Your food sat untouched. Your throat burned. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, but Terry still hadn’t moved. But when you finally looked at him, his jaw was tight, his eyes dark—not just with anger, but something deeper, something dangerous. You had seen Terry irritated before. You had seen him frustrated. But this? This was different. This was fury. This was war. His grip on the cup was so tight, you thought he might break it. But when he finally spoke, his voice was eerily calm.

“Say the word.” He said slowly.

“What?” You blinked, your breath catching.

His eyes met yours, steady, unwavering. “Say the word,” he repeated. “And I’ll handle it.”

The air in the room instantly shifted. Terry’s words weren’t just words—they were a promise. A quiet, dangerous assurance that if you gave him the green light, Rodney wouldn’t be breathing the same air for much longer. You swallowed, your throat dry, your chest tightening at the sheer weight of his presence.

“Terry…” You started, but your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you wanted to say. He was still watching you, eyes dark, jaw tight. His fingers flexed on the table like he was holding himself back.

“Say the word,” He repeated slowly, measured. His voice was like gravel, rough with barely contained rage. “You ain’t gotta carry this no more. I’ll take care of it.”

Your stomach twisted. This was the part of Terry that made people afraid—the quiet storm before the destruction, the way he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make threats. He just acted. But you didn’t want him to act. Not like that, and definitely not for you. Your Nana would be so ashamed if she had worked hard to keep him out of trouble and you got him into more shit. You exhaled shakily, setting your cup down before your fingers betrayed you and showed just how badly you were trembling.

“It was a long time ago,” You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Terry leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his broad chest rising and falling steadily. His silence was suffocating. Then, finally he spoke up.

“That don’t mean shit and don’t mean it don’t still matter.” He gritted. Your breath hitched. You wanted to hold it together, to keep that wall up just a little longer, but something about the way he said it, the way he was so certain, shattered something in you. You turned your head away, blinking rapidly, but Terry wasn’t having it. Before you could even think, his fingers brushed against your chin, tilting your face back toward him. It was so gentle, so unexpected, that your breath stalled.

“I see you tryna hold it in,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your jaw, his touch featherlight but firm. “You ain’t gotta do that with me.”

And just like that, the dam broke. A tear slipped free, then another, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying. Not loud, not messy, but the kind of silent, shuddering tears that came from years of swallowing your pain. Terry didn’t speak. He didn’t try to shush you, didn’t hit you with some meaningless “It’s okay.” He just… let you cry. And somehow, that meant more than any words could. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose, rubbing a slow, careful circle against your jaw with his thumb.

“Come here,” He said, his voice softer now, deeper. You hesitated, but something about the way he said it—like he knew you needed it, like he wouldn’t push if you weren’t ready—made you cave. You shifted in your chair, and before you knew it, you were leaning into him. Terry caught you instantly. One strong arm came around your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his lap, the other resting against the small of your back. His warmth surrounded you, his scent—woodsy, clean, something unmistakably him—enveloped you. Your face pressed into his neck, his skin warm against your damp cheek. You felt his breath in your hair, slow and steady.

“I got you,” He murmured. And for the first time in a long time… you believed him. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. At some point, your tears dried up, exhaustion creeping in, your body growing heavy against his. But Terry didn’t move, didn’t rush you. His hand stayed on your back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns through your shirt.

“You ever tell anybody?”He finally asked. You shook your head against his shoulder.

“Didn’t think so.” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. A long beat of silence stretched between you before he gently spoke.

“You shoulda never had to carry that alone, ma.” He inhaled deeply.

Your throat tightened again, but this time, you swallowed it down. “I didn’t know how to tell nobody,” you admitted. “And when I finally thought about it… it was too late.”

Terry was quiet for a moment. Then—“Ain’t never too late.”

“Terry—” You pulled back slightly, looking up at him.

“I mean it.” His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Ain’t never too late to get what’s owed.”

A cold chill ran through you. You knew what he was saying. He wasn’t talking about healing. He wasn’t talking about moving on. He was talking about payback. You studied him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you he wasn’t serious. But he was. He was dead serious.

“You can’t—” Your heart pounded.

“I can.” He countered sharply.

“Terry—” You tried to speak.

His fingers flexed against your hip. “Ain’t no nigga walkin’ free after doin’ that to you. Not while I’m breathin’.”

Your stomach flipped. “I don’t want you getting in trouble for me.”

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about.” His lips pressed into a thin line. Your chest ached. This wasn’t what you wanted. You had spent years trying to put this behind you, trying to move forward. But now? Now he was bringing it all back to the surface. And worse? A small, dangerous part of you wanted to let him handle it. Terry tilted his head slightly, studying you. Then, almost like he could read your mind.

“You don’t gotta decide now.” He murmured, staring at you. You swallowed hard.

“But whenever you ready… you just say the word.” He leaned in, his lips just barely grazing your temple. And with that, the choice was yours. The two of you sat and ate your food in comfortable silence as you just tried to forget about how your past decided to pop up and be a son of a bitch. Eventually after you finished your dinner, you two ended up in the living room, the evening taking on a mind of its own.

The soft hum of ’90s R&B filled the space, smooth and sensual, engulfing the living room around the both of you. Jodeci’s “Freek’n You” played low from the speakers, the bass deep, the lyrics suggestive. You curled up beside Terry on the couch, your body warm from the Henny and slushie cocktail, the ice long since melted. The burn of the liquor coated your throat, loosening you up, making you bold. Your eyes flickered to the mantle above the fireplace, a shrine of memories—your nana’s old porcelain figurines, a few framed pictures, a vase filled with artificial roses that had collected dust over time. You exhaled, rubbing a hand down your thigh.

“I’m really gonna miss this place,” You whispered, almost to yourself.

“So don’t sell it,” He said, simple like it was an easy fix.” Terry, leaned back into the couch, his long legs spread wide, cup resting against his knee, studying you.

You snorted, shaking your head. “I am not a country girl,” You said, flashing him a playful smirk. “And besides, I don’t got a husband or kids to pass this land down to. What would I even do with all this space?”

Terry hummed, taking a slow sip from his cup. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. Something contemplative. You let the silence stretch, the weight of everything lingering between you. The conversation had been too heavy, and you were tipsy enough to crave something lighter. An idea hit you.

Smirking, you sat up, turning toward him. “Let’s play a game,” You said, voice dripping with mischief.

“What kinda game?” Terry raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Rapid-fire 21 questions. But…” You paused, licking your lips, letting the moment breathe, “let’s make it grown.”

“Oh, you tryna be messy now?” His smirk deepened.

You laughed, shrugging. “You scared?”

“Me? Nahhh.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Aight, bet. You go first.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think. “Hmm… Favorite position?”

Terry took a slow sip before answering. “Depends on the woman. Some deserve missionary so I can look ‘em in they eyes while I fuck em’… others?” He exhaled, his voice dropping an octave. “Bent over, face down in the pillow, ass up high.”

Your stomach flipped, but you kept your composure, sipping your drink to hide your reaction.

“Your turn,” you said, clearing your throat.

Terry leaned in slightly, eyes low. “You ever faked it?”

You blinked before bursting into laughter. “Hell yeah.”

His brows lifted. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

“Not my fault some niggas don’t know what they doing,” You teased.

Terry chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s tragic.” He lifted his cup. “Rest in peace to them weak-ass performances.”

You clinked your cup against his, giggling as you both drank.

“My turn,” You said, leaning in a little closer. “Ever had sex in public?”

“Too many times to count.” Terry’s smirk widened.

“Damn. Where?” Your eyes widened.

“Cars. Stairwells. Dressing rooms. A rooftop one time…” He trailed off, eyes glinting with amusement. “You sound intrigued, ma.”

“I ain’t say all that.” You rolled your eyes, fighting back your smile.

Terry just watched you, like he could see through the front you were putting up.

“Alright, my turn,” he said, setting his empty cup down on the table. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, voice dropping into something smooth and dangerous.

“So…” He paused just long enough for the tension to coil tight between you. “That rose… it feel better than a nigga’s mouth?”

Your stomach dropped. The question hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you choked on your slushie. Coughing, you slapped a hand over your chest, eyes wide as you stared at him.

“W-What?” You coughed. Terry licked his lips, unbothered, amused even. His eyes dragged over your face, then down to your parted lips, lingering there before flicking back up.

“You heard me, ma.” His voice was deep, smooth, coated in something dangerous. “Answer the question.”

Your heart pounded, heat rushing to your face, your thighs pressing together out of pure instinct. This nigga was playing dirty. And the worst part? You liked it. You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry despite the icy slushie burning your tongue. Your knees pressed together instinctively, but you forced yourself to keep eye contact, refusing to let Terry see how deep his words cut through you. His gaze was heavy, molten, dark with mischief, and he knew what he was doing. He had that lazy smirk on his lips, like he was just getting started, like he was enjoying watching you squirm.

“That’s a bold-ass question.” You cleared your throat, forcing a small smirk of your own.

“And yet, you still ain’t answer it.” Terry leaned in slightly, his broad frame dominating the space between you.

“Why? You trying to compare stats?” You shifted on the couch, swirling your drink in your cup, feigning nonchalance.

Terry let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and rich. He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. “Nah. I already know my stats, ma. I just wanna know if you playin’ yourself out of a real experience.”

Your stomach dipped. This man… this nigga right here…

You exhaled through your nose, refusing to be the first to break. “The rose is efficient,” you finally answered, tilting your chin up in defiance. “It does what needs to be done.”

Terry hummed, eyes still locked on yours. “Efficient, huh? That’s cute. But a machine ain’t never gonna know what your body need the way a real nigga will.”

You should’ve seen that coming. You tried to keep your cool, but the way he said it? The way his deep, raspy voice wrapped around those words like silk? It sent a ripple of heat down your spine. You huffed, shaking your head, but your body betrayed you. Your skin was warming up, and the Henny had you feeling too damn good—a little too relaxed, a little too reckless.

So you smirked, tilting your head. “Oh? And what exactly does a ‘real nigga’ do that’s so different?”

Terry’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening for a half second before that smirk of his returned—cocky, knowing.

“Everything baby.” The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so damn confident, it had no business making you clench around nothing. You bit your lip, trying not to react, but Terry caught it. His gaze flicked down to your mouth, watching the way your teeth tugged at the soft flesh, and suddenly, the air between you shifted. He leaned in even more, his knee grazing yours, voice dropping to something silky, almost hypnotic.

“You really think that little toy can do what I can?” His fingers traced the rim of his empty cup, slow and deliberate. “That rose ain’t got no tongue. It don’t know when to slow down, when to speed up… don’t know how to tease you just right ‘til you beg for it.”

A slow, heated pulse throbbed between your thighs. You opened your mouth to clap back, but nothing came out. Your body had already betrayed you—your breathing had deepened, your skin felt too tight, too hot, and Terry was watching every little shift in your expression like he was reading you.

“See, that’s the thing, ma. A real nigga don’t just make you cum. He makes you feel that shit while he’s sucking on your clit .”He licked his lips. Your thighs clenched. Hard. This was dangerous. And what made it worse? Terry knew exactly what he was doing. You bit down on your straw, trying to distract yourself, but it only made things worse. Terry’s eyes flicked to your lips again, watching the way they wrapped around the plastic, how you pulled back slow, tongue flicking out just slightly to catch a stray drop of slushie. He smirked.

“So,” he drawled, swirling the ice in his cup. “How you like to be ate?”

Your chest seized. You choked again but this time, not on the drink, not on food—on air. Your eyes went wide as you coughed, covering your mouth, your whole body heating up like you’d been thrown into a damn furnace.

Terry just chuckled, unfazed, leaning back against the couch. “Damn, ma. That a hard question or somethin’?”

“You can’t just ask somebody that outta nowhere, Terry!” You wheezed, fanning your face.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “You grown, ain’t you?”

You sputtered, taking another sip of your drink, anything to cool yourself down, but the way he was watching you? Like he had all the patience in the world, like he was waiting for you to stop fighting yourself? That made the heat worse.

“A’ight,” He mused, his voice dropping lower, deeper. “Lemme make it easy for you. You like it soft and slow? Or deep and messy?”

Your whole body betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them, and Terry caught it. He didn’t say nothing—didn’t have to. The small smirk on his lips said it all.

“I—” You swallowed.

“See,” Terry cut in smoothly, shifting closer, his knee knocking against yours. “Me? I don’t play when I eat pussy, baby. I clean my plate—efficiently.”

Your breath hitched.

“I like to take my time with it. Make sure I learn every little thing that makes you shake, makes you moan, makes you beg me to stay down there a little longer.” Terry tilted his head slightly, his eyes hooded, that slow, lazy smirk still on his lips. Your fingers curled around your cup, gripping it tight.

“But I ain’t selfish,” He continued, voice like molten honey, thick and dripping with promise. “I’ll tease that pussy if that’s what you like. Kiss on her real slow. Run my tongue real soft against that lil’ spot with your piercing that makes your toes curl. But if you need it nasty?” He licked his lips, letting the sentence hang before finishing, “I’ll drown in it.”

Your stomach clenched. Your thighs trembled. The Henny was hitting too damn good now, because your head felt light, your body warm, and every single thing he was saying was burrowing deep inside you, making you ache.

You stared at him, the temptation thick between you, and whispered, “That… that sounds amazing.”

Terry’s smirk deepened, his fingers brushing lightly over your knee.

“Then let me eat you out,” He murmured. “Let me show you that rose ain’t got shit on me, baby girl.”

Between the slushy, the slow jams playing and the diabolical heat and Nana’s broken AC system. Your brain was fried as you stared in the ocean eyes of a man that was crafted by God himself, practically egging you on to let him taste what you had between your thick thighs. The thought alone of his juicy lips wrapped tightly around your sensitive bud , milking you through your orgasm already had you practically drooling in your panties. You could feel your pussy becoming slippery against your thong as it stuck to you, making you hold back a whimper. As your clit swoll with need, that damn piercing began to betray you and make you nearly cum on yourself as the seat of your panties rubbed it , creating a slow friction.

“Terry, maybe we had too much to drink—. “ You tried to say but before you could even finish your sentence, Terry was in your personal space, making your heart speed up. Terry bit his bottom lip, his eyes locked onto yours, as he slowly wrapped his hand around your throat. Your breath hitched, feeling your heart pounding in your chest, as you felt his touch ignite a fire within you. Your faces were mere centimeters apart, the tension between you two palpable. Your breathing grew heavier, your anticipation building, as Terry’s full lips finally connected with yours in a slow and nasty tongue kiss. It was as if time stood still, your lips moving in perfect harmony. Your eyes instantly fluttered shut and your hand instinctively found its way to his cheek, deepening the kiss with hunger. You couldn't resist the magnetic pull between you two any longer. You scooted closer to him, with your other hand finding its way around his neck. The music in the background seemed to fade out as the two of you lost yourselves in each other's mouths. The heat between your bodies intensified, mirroring the growing desire that pooled between your thighs.

Terry growled as his grip on your throat tightened slightly, causing you to gasp and let out a small moan. It was all the encouragement Terry needed to deepen the kiss further, his tongue sliding sensually into your mouth, swirling and teasing. You moaned, sucking his tongue, allowing your spit and his spit to intertwine. The more his tongue flicked and sucked against yours, the wetter your pussy felt. It was so slick and slippery, you could smell it through your shorts. The living room seemed to transform into a steamy haven as Terry’s strong hands began to explore your body, igniting every nerve ending along the way. Unable to contain his desire for you any longer, Terry let the kiss become more aggressive, his passion shining through every movement. You responded with small whimpers, your lips tingling from the intensity of the connection. Terry’s hold on your neck released, his lips moving down to explore the sensitive soft skin of your neck. You moaned and shuddered, feeling Terry’s tongue swirling against your neck, expertly finding the spot that drove you wild. Terry’s lips sensually kissed and sucked, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your grip on Terry’s small curls in his head tightened as your cute moans escaped your lips, only fueling Terry’s nasty desire. Terry’s arms wrapped around your body, pulling you in closer, as your bodies pressed against each other.

“T-Terry, p-please.” You whimpered out breathlessly, rubbing his head. By this point you were a shaky mess and needed some relief quickly. Terry chuckled deeply in your neck, biting it slowly as he trailed his tongue upward, circling it around your earlobe before sucking it into his mouth.

“Please what baby? Hmm? Please what?.” His voice darkened, making your body quiver. As much as you tried to fight it and fight doing something you may ultimately regret. The liquor and your hormones was working against you and you said fuck it. Might as well, might as fucking well.

“Taste my pussy.” You whispered, whining for him. That was all Terry needed to hear before he pushed you back on the couch, allowing your back to rest against the pillows as he continued to leave wet open mouth kisses against your neck. Caution was to the wind at this point and damn the consequences of your actions. You needed to feel something, ANYTHING.

The heat between you two intensified, while your hands roamed freely over Terry’s toned arms, your nails grazing the surface, eliciting a groan and a moan from Terry’s throat. You watched as Terry leaned back, staring down at you as he lifted his shirt up from the back, and in an instant he had it off. You bit your bottom lip at the sight of his rich and healthy body. It was crafted to perfection and made you wanna lick every dip and curve of his cut abs. Terry’s eyes dropped lower as he watched your hand reach down and pop the button of your shorts open, letting him know you were on demon time. Terry smirked, pushing your hands out of his way before he took control, yanking the shorts off of you himself, making you gasp at his roughness. Your hips instinctively raise up to assist him in getting them off of you. Soon as your shorts came off your intoxicating arousal smell hit his nose, making his mouth instantly water.

“Fuck, your pussy so fat.” He remarked, as his ocean gray eyes stared down at the way your pussy sat against the snapped closure of your bodysuit. Your clit jumped as more of your juices seeped through your thong, creating a very noticeable wet spot on the outside of the red fabric. Terry’s eyes stay locked on yours, dark and heavy with intent, as his hands ease up under the curve of your ass, gripping you firm but slow like he’s mapping out every inch. But he doesn’t rush—nah, he takes his time, savoring every reaction, every hitched breath, every little tremble that runs through you. His lips graze over your jaw first, then lower, tracing a slow, burning path down the side of your neck. The heat of his breath makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. He lingers at that sensitive spot near your collarbone, sucking just enough to make you squirm, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Terry…” His name slips from your lips, part plea, part warning, your fingers gripping at the solid muscles of his shoulders. He hums against your skin, deep and rich, the vibration sinking right through you.

“Relax, baby,” He murmurs, trailing his tongue down the valley between your breasts, the thin fabric of your bodysuit doing nothing to stop the warmth of his mouth. “Let me do this right.”

Your breath hitches when his hands slide down your thighs, then lower, fingers teasing at the clasp of your bodysuit between your thighs. He pauses, his grip firm but patient, his dark eyes flicking up to yours, reading you.

“You want me to stop?” His voice is thick, low, serious. Giving you an out.

You shake your head, pulse hammering in your throat. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

That slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips as he flicks the snaps open one by one, the small pops echoing in the thick silence between you. The fabric of your bodysuit peels away, his fingers grazing over the newly exposed skin of your stomach, making you shudder. Terry shifts lower, dragging his hands up the backs of your thighs, his touch warm, possessive. He takes his time, savoring the way your breathing changes, the way your body reacts to him, completely at his mercy. Your breathing labors as you feel Terry’s lips trail down, slow and deliberate, leaving a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses against your belly. His warm breath fans over your skin, and the heat of his tongue sends a delicious shiver through your body.

“You smell so fuckin’ good, ma,” He rasps against your skin, his voice thick with hunger. His nose grazes the crease of your inner thigh as he inhales deeply, like he’s savoring your wet scent, like he’s already addicted. Your own arousal was beginning to invade your nose turning you on to the highest max. Your thighs instinctively try to press together, but he’s quicker, stronger. His hands slide up, firm and possessive, gripping the backs of your knees before pushing your legs back—high and open—until they’re nearly touching your stomach. With one free hand, Terry pushes your thong out of the way, snapping it at the seams, making you gasp. Your swollen pussy lips spread open instantly for him as he pushes your legs back further. He leaned in slowly and guided one of your legs over his shoulder, running his hands over your supple thighs, parting your slippery wet fat lips to kiss and lick at you swollen clit slowly. You jerked at the sudden warm sensation of his tongue. Terry’s tongue flicked back and forth rapidly against your diamond piercing that sat against your clit, making your walls gush in an instant.

“O-Ohhh fuckkkk! Shit shit!.” You hissed, toes curling in the air. You stared up at the ceiling, feeling your breaths becoming shallow as his tongue worked slow and steady patterns between your pussy folds. His right hand slid up your thigh as he dipped his tongue down further to taste what seemed to have dripped out, grunting as the sweet sensation danced on his taste buds. Your back arched into the couch as your fingers dug into the cushion beneath you, feeling his tongue swirl up and down your pussy sloppily. Your ears were graced with soft lapping sounds as his tongue danced in circles around your throbbing clit. You could feel your creamy juices seeping like liquid gold as his tongue worked in a figure eight motion. Terry slowly started to suck gently on your clit, but then he became relentless, sucking your sensitive and swollen clit into his mouth with determination and precision.

Terry groaned loudly against your skin, the vibration sending a shockwave through your body. “Mm,” he hums, his tongue flicking out to taste your clit again. “Just like I knew you would… sweet as fuck.”

“T-Terry…” Your voice is barely there, breathless, overwhelmed.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening with your creamy juices, his expression wicked. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick like molasses. “Feels good, don’t it?”

You nod, swallowing hard, your thighs trembling around his head. Soft whimpers leave your mouth as you stare at the gorgeous work of art between your thighs. Clit glistening with his spit and your juices as he kisses on it, while his eyes remained locked on yours. You purred, feeling his hand gripping your ass and running his other hand up to knead at your breasts, groaning into your slick lips like he’s the one getting pleasure from it.

He smirks. “Then let me finish my plate.”

And just like that, he dives back in, his pace slower this time, more intentional. His tongue moves in slow, sensual strokes, coaxing you higher and higher until your back arches, your fingers gripping the couch for dear life.

You try to hold back, try to contain the whimpers slipping past your lips, but Terry isn’t having that. “Nah,” he murmurs against your pussy, sending another wave of pleasure through you. “Lemme hear it, ma.”

“Oh daddy… d-don’t stop.” You shamelessly whine. His grip tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you, his tongue working you into a slow, desperate unraveling. He sucks, licks, flicks at your clit until your thighs are shaking, your breaths are coming in short, uneven gasps, and your entire body is tensed like a bowstring ready to snap. You inhale sharply, nearly convulsing, throwing your head back as your hand found its way into his curls. Your feet digging into the back of his shoulders every time he sucked a little more forcefully on your clit. You cried, trying to push his head back, but he held you down. Continuing to shake his head side to side as spit was dripping from his mouth onto your pussy, sucking at your clit with determination. You held his head and watched it go up and down and side to side, creating the perfect cadence to aid in your oncoming orgasm.

“T-Terry— FUCK! Wait— I-I ooooh I’m gonna cum!!” You squeal, feeling your pussy gushing incessantly. You pushed at his forehead again, but he wouldn’t relinquish as his lips stayed locked around your clit, sucking it harder, allowing his tongue to sit flat against it and flick back and forth.

“Oooh yesss daddy yesssss.” You whimpered louder.

He pulls back just slightly, his lips glistening as he licks them slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t run from it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice sinful. “Take all this shit.” And then he’s back on you, hungrier, deeper, more consuming. Holding you open, eating like it’s his last meal.

“Terry— fuck! oh my god don’t stop.. don’t stop please.” You begged holding his head in place. He used the pad of his thumbs to spread your full lips apart as his tongue circled your entrance before dipping the tip in real slow. You squealed as you felt his tongue thrusting upward against your g-spot, thumping it rapidly. Your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt yourself dampening his goatee hair.

“So fucking fat and sweet.” He groaned, wrapping his tongue around your clit, sucking all over it nastily as he pushed his face deeper. Your hips bucked upward, feeling your stomach tighten up in a knot. You knew you were about to cum and from the way he continued to assault your clit, it was gonna be intense and messy.

“T-Terry..” You managed to get out, eyes crossing as he relentlessly held your clit captive in his mouth. Terry’s eyes flickered up as he watched you, his gray eyes locked onto your face as he works you over with hard, deliberate strokes of his tongue and the sensation of his lips . He can feel every little tremor in your thighs, every sharp hitch of your breath. But he ain’t letting up. Not yet.

“Relax for me, ma,” He murmurs against you, his deep voice vibrating straight through your core. “Let me take you there.”

Your hands are gripping his curls so tight it should hurt, but he doesn’t care. He loves it—loves the way you’re coming undone just from his mouth, the way you’re trying to hold on when he knows you ain’t got a chance.

“T-Terry…” Your voice is shaky, needy, your thighs trembling in his grasp. You listened to the nasty wet sounds of his mouth devouring your pussy like it was a succulent piece of fruit. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure becoming too overwhelming, but he didn’t let you play yourself out of what he knew you needed most, and that was a good nut.

“Shh, I got you.” He flattens his tongue against you, slow and deep, before switching up, flicking in a way against your clit in a turbo motion, that has your whole body jerking. He grins against you. “Damn, you sensitive as hell, baby. You been neglecting yourself or that little toy just ain’t cuttin’ it no more?”

You let out a whimper, head tipping back against the couch, body arching off the cushions. He chuckles, low and sinful, before sucking deep, rolling his tongue just right.

“Oh—fuck!” You yelp loudly, holding his head down, trying to scoot back again.

He tightens his grip when you try to close your legs, spreading you wider, keeping your pussy open for him. “Nah, don’t run now,” he rasps, lips glistening as he glances up at you. “You gon’ take all this shit. Let me hear you, baby. Let me feel you.”

He drags two fingers through your slick pussy, teasing your awaiting creamy hole before pushing them in, the cream instantly pushes against his fingers as he thrusts them slow but deep. The stretch makes you gasp, back bucking like a horse off the couch.

“That’s it,” He praises, curling his fingers just right towards your g-spot. “You feel that? Feel how my fingers fit right inside this fat pretty pussy? That little rose can’t do this, can it?”

Your breath stutters, eyes rolling back as he strokes his fingers deep, touching your cervix as he rubs your g-spot, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers, drawing you closer to your orgasm.

“I—I’m… Terry, I can’t—” You whined desperately.

“Yes, the fuck you can,” He growls, increasing his pace, pushing you right to the edge. “C’mon, baby, gimme that shit. Let me feel you cum for me.”

“I-I’m b-bout to cu—“ Your words were instantly cut short as the ache in your stomach intensified and your release shattered through you.

Terry feels it before he sees it, the way your body locks up, the way your creamy slick walls grip his thick fingers like a vice, the way your thighs tremble uncontrollably in his hands. He knows it’s coming, and he ain’t about to let up now. If anything, he doubles down, curling his fingers just right, his tongue flicking against that sensitive clit like he’s got something to prove.

“That’s it, baby,” He rasps between licks and strokes of his fingers, his deep voice vibrating through you. “Let that shit go for me. Don’t fight it. Cum in daddy’s mouth baby.”

Your breath stutters, a choked sob ripping from your lips as the pressure inside you snaps, sending you spiraling into an earth-shattering release. Your entire body jerks violently, back arching off the couch as a gush of liquid rushes out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, his damn beard. You squirted hard as your orgasm overtook you and left you practically paralyzed.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Terry groans, voice thick with hunger as he licks and sucks clit through it, taking every drop, every last shudder. “Damn, you taste so fuckin’ good.”

“Oh—shit! Terry! YES YESSSSS! Dadddddyyyyy.” You screamed out, thrashing all over the couch as his fingers stroked you through your orgasm, milking it from you. Terry lets out a groan, deep and satisfied, as he watches you lose yourself completely, his lips glistening, his fingers still working you through every wave, every shudder. He doesn’t stop until you physically push at his head, your legs twitching in overstimulation, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Finally, he pulls back, his face soaked, his smirk downright sinful as he wipes his mouth. His eyes are locked on you and your spent, trembling body, the way you’re struggling to come back down, your chest heaving, your skin glowing.

“Fuck,” He murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Look at this messy ass couch. Look at you, baby.” He bites his bottom lip, shaking his head. “Told you that little toy wasn’t fuckin’ with me.”

You couldn’t even form words yet, still floating in the aftershocks, but he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss against your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan, tongue kissing him back, getting drunk off your own sweetness and scent on his lips.

“You good baby?” He asks against your mouth, his hand stroking your thigh, grounding you. You nod weakly, eyes still dazed, lips slightly parted as you try to catch your breath.

“Y-Yes…” You gently rasp out, too spent to form a coherent sentence.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He smirks. As you lay there, still trembling from the intensity, your body aching in all the right ways, your mind is a swirl of confusion. The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart are crumbling, and for the first time in years, you feel something close to vulnerability. Terry, with all his heat, intensity, and promises of more, has unlocked something inside you. But a part of you still wonders—should this just be a one-time thing, or are you ready to risk it all? You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the thick sexual tension that lingers in the air. But when you feel Terry’s presence next to you, his hand gently caressing your skin, the question lingers in your mind— do you really want to open yourself up to love again? Or is this simply just getting a nut in while you sort out your Nana’s last wishes?

Now ain’t this bout a bitch!………

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dontshootmespence · 14 days ago

Text

Tell Me I'm Not Second Best

Pairing: Non-enhanced Bob x Reader

Summary: After losing your husband, Henry, your first love, due to unforeseen circumstances, you start dating Bob. It’s only been eight months, but you’ve fallen fast and so has he. One night, while packing for a trip, you say your late husband’s name, which triggers Bob.

Author’s Note: I feel like Bob is always in need of some degree of reassurance.

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, relationship trauma, unprotected p in v, sad, grief-laden sex.

Word Count: 2334

----

When you walk into the bedroom, you see Bob hunched over the suitcase, examining its contents to ensure you have everything for your short stay house-sitting for your parents. “Everything okay?” You ask.

“Yea,” he says, proudly showing you what he’s packed. “I think I’ve got everything, but you might want to make sure.”

As you pad over to the side of the bed, you can already tell that he’s forgotten something. “Socks. You need socks.”

“That’s right, I think most of mine are in the laundry. I’ll go get them.”

When he comes back, you’re checking things for what feels like the fiftieth time to make sure you don’t forget anything. “You want me to bring that cucumber body wash you like?” he asks as he comes back down the hallway to your bedroom.

“My mom has some, Henry,” you reply. “So no worries.”

Turning to face him, you can see that something is wrong, his face drawn in surprise and then it clicks. “Oh my god, I just called you Henry, didn’t I?”

Bob tried to mask his feelings, but the hurt was written all over his face. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” you said again.

“It’s okay, sometimes the wrong name just spills out. I know that,” he says, turning toward the staircase. “I’m just gonna go downstairs and take care of the carry-ons, because we have to get going within the hour.”

You reached out to get him to stop. Repeating over and over again how sorry you were.

“It’s fine, d-don’t worry about it,” Bob said curtly. When your hand touched his shoulder, he shook it off. It’s fine!” The room fell silent and thick with uncertainty.

When he turned to face you, he saw the tears in your eyes. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he said, frustrated with himself. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Your lips quivered and a tear ran down your cheek. “I’m really sorry,” you breathed.

Bob shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. Why I’m all touchy. I think it’s just the stress of packing and making sure everything goes according to plan, but that doesn’t excuse me snapping. I’m sorry.”

Just days ago, you’d visited his grave alone. “He’s on your mind. I understand. It’s my own issues. Not anything to do with you.”

You reached out and grabbed his forearm. “You can talk to me, you know?”

“I know,” he responded, lips quivering with the restraint of holding everything inside. “I just…Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“I just don’t want you to get upset, when I ask it.” Bob glanced down at his twiddling thumbs, a nervous tick he’d had ever since he was a kid. You rubbed small circles into the flesh of his forearm, encouraging him to say what was on his mind. He steadied himself, swallowing hard. “Do you…do you love me…the same way you love him?” His voice tapered off, ashamed that he allowed himself to voice his concerns. “I won’t call him your ex. He’s not. And that’s a disservice to him, but-”

Bob took a deep steadying breath in through his nose. “I didn’t want to ask. Because it’s an unfair question. I’m just tired and being stupid.”

Immediately, you reassured him. “You’re not being stupid. I want you to get it out. To talk to me. Trust me.”

A tear fell from his eye and onto the collar of his gray t-shirt. “I just feel insecure sometimes, you know? I know it’s not fair to you. I just see how you talk about him and I know you’re still going through the grieving process. I know you loved him so much.” He wiped at his nose and continued. “S-so much. And I don’t wanna take that away from you. But I see it sometimes and it just makes me feel less than. It’s such a selfish thing to think, I know, but-”

“It’s not selfish, baby.”

The pitch of his voice rises as the floodgates let loose, tears streaming down his face. “I know it comes from my own relationship trauma and not feeling good enough and it’s so unfair to put that on you, but I can’t help it sometimes.” He bit his bottom lip to stop the quivering. “I just keep thinking that if that drunk driver hadn’t been drunk that night that you’d still be together.”

He began crying so hard his nose began to run. Covering his face in shame, he said, “You’re everything to me. You’re my world, and I’m so afraid that I can’t do what he could. That I can’t make you feel how he felt. And it kills me inside.” He sniffed hard, attempting to stop the tide of emotions that threatened to overtake him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get upset.” His voice shook with unbridled sadness. “I feel like I can’t compete with him.”

“You don’t need to,” you cried, tears falling to the floor.

Nodding, Bob said. “I know logically that I don’t, but my brain…my stupid brain.”

He crouched down to the floor with his head in his hands. “You have this perfect memory of him and I feel like I’m never gonna measure up. Because he was your soulmate, and I’m just the guy that fills the gaps.”

You fell to your knees beside him and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. “You do not fill the gaps. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you having helped me through it. You’re everything to me, Bob.”

He couldn’t maintain your gaze. “I hear how everyone talks about him. I understand it, but sometimes I feel like your friends and family look at me like I’m an imposter trying to take his place. Like I did something wrong. Just because I love you.” He let out another steady breath.

Crawling closer to him, you spoke, “You did nothing wrong. And no one thinks that, I promise.” You swept a strand of messy brown hair out of his eyes. “Henry and I were best friends, and if you believe in soulmates, maybe we were that too, but we had our problems. Our relationship wasn’t perfect.”

Bob sniffled. “I know. I just feel like I don’t want to say anything negative or let you know how I feel because it would be minimizing your grief and I don’t want to do that. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes,” he said, a sob catching in his throat, “I feel like I just want to be held and reassured that you feel the way you do, but I feel like that’s taking away from you keeping his memory alive and that’s what’s important. So I pretend like it’s fine when it’s not. I’m really hurting lately.”

As his head fell against your shoulder, he cried, “I need you to reassure me that I’m not second best. That I’m not a placeholder. That you love me the same way you love him.”

Swallowing against the lump in your throat, you grabbed his hands and pulled him up with you. You cradled him in your arms and let him sob for moment, but now that he’d let his feelings be known, he couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, clutching your shoulder, his head nuzzled into the side of your neck. “I’m just being pathetic and dumping all of this on you. I’m gonna clean myself up and we can just forget-”

“No,” you insisted. “Will you sit down with me? I need you to listen to me.”

Nodding, he followed you to the couch. “I won’t lie to you. It still hurts on occasion. He was a big part of my life, but now you are. I don’t want you to be like him, I want you to be you. Because I love you, for all that you are, here and now.”

Bob’s eyes found yours. “I know. I think I just put him on a pedestal - compared myself.”

“I understand,” you said softly, grabbing his hand in yours. “But I need you to understand that I love you. Not because you’re him, but because you’re you. You’re my Bob. The man who helped me grieve. The man who held me while I cried. The man who brought me groceries when I physically couldn’t get out of bed to take care of myself. I love you.”

Bob collapsed against your shoulder in relief. “I love you too,” he whispered. “I love you so much. I’m sorry for dropping everything on you all of a sudden.”

“It’s okay.”

As the tears subsided, he talked himself through his feelings. “I know love isn’t this ethereal thing that just happens. You make it work. And we’ve worked at it together. My brain just doesn’t want to cooperate sometimes. Thank you for reminding me.” The last of his tears cascaded down his cheeks. “If it’s not too much trouble, can you keep reminding me?” He asked earnestly.

“Every day,” you said softly, bringing your tear-stained lips to his.

He sighed into your mouth as you kissed him. Chuckling softly, he grasped your chin in his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t kiss me right now, I’m a mess. My face is gross.”

“I don’t care,” you said, peppering his face with kiss after kiss.

Bob reached out to the table near the couch. “Can you hand me that box of tissues?” He blew his nose and placed the tissue on the wooden surface. “Thank you again for letting me get it out. I think I need to make more appointments with my therapist.”

“That’s okay,” you replied, a sad smile ghosting your lips. “We’ll work on it together. And you’ll work on it with her.”

Scooting yourself closer to him, you pulled his face to yours and kissed him like he was home. Slowly, languidly, you showed him just how much you loved him. When you climbed into his lap, he stopped you. “What are you doing?”

“I’m showing you how much I love you,” you sighed into his mouth.

Bob swallowed. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not like this. That’s not what I was after.”

You slid your hand around the back of his neck. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

As your mouth found his again, he moaned, hands flying to your sides in an attempt to anchor himself. His fingertips brushed the skin at the small of your back and you arched into him before reaching down to the hem of his pants. “This okay?” You asked.

“Yea,” he sighed. “ I just want to make sure this isn’t because you feel like you need to, or that it’s out of pity. I know that sounds stupid.”

You assured him that wasn’t the case. “Just wanna be close, quiet, with you.”

Your hand palmed over his cock as you bent down to kiss his shoulder, his collarbone, the side of his neck. “I love you,” you said, your breath hitting the shell of his ear and making his breath hitch. You sucked at the pulse point just below his ear that drove him crazy.

“Make the hickeys obvious,” he laughed softly. “So people know that I’m yours.”

“You are mine. Forever.”

Bob sniffled. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

Resting your head against his, you reveled in each other’s breath, just allowing yourselves to be in the moment. As your hand rested above his heart, you felt it slow and steady into normalcy before grinding your hips against his, lazily pulling your core over his clothed erection. With clumsy hands, you pulled his zipper down and released him from his boxers and jeans. “Mine,” you breathed.

Kissing him, you maneuvered his cock to your entrance, slowly pulling it back and forth across the wetness that gathered there. As he slipped inside you, you both groaned, hands flying to each other’s bodies, needing the feel of each other. Bob mumbled “I love yous” against your skin as you began moving up and down on his cock, slowly at first but then with increasing vigor. “I love you, baby,” you whined.

You felt a tear slip onto your chest.

“You crying?”

“Happy tears this time,” Bob replied. “I promise.”

The room quickly filled with hitched breaths and strangled groans. His hands flattened against your spine, pulling you in close so you were skin to skin. “Fffuck, baby,” he sighed. “Need you.”

“You have me,” you said as you swallowed his moan.

His hand found the dip between your shoulder blades, where he traced slow circles while his mouth found your chest. “Are you close?” He asked.

“Almost, baby, just hold out a little longer.”

You picked up the pace, wanting to feel him come with you, needing that connection. “I never want you to forget how much I love you.”

Bob groaned, his lips sliding over your skin. “I won’t forget again. I promise.”

The coil in your stomach tightened and you could see in his eyes that he was right there, at the precipice, just waiting for you. “Come with me, baby,” he said, his voice muffled by your neck. “Come with me.”

As you fell over the edge, you both cried out, grasping onto each other as if your lives depended on it. You slowed your pace, milking him dry as his lips found yours. Unable to hold yourselves up any longer, you collapsed back into the couch. “Thank you,” he said, kissing the underside of your chin.

For a moment, you laid there in each other’s arms, heavy breaths subsiding into steady ones. “D-Do you think next time you go to visit his grave, I could come with you?”

You nodded, removing yourself from him and coming to rest at his side.

“I feel like it’s something I’ve been putting off, but I don’t want to anymore. He’s a part of you and a part of us.”

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds angst #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds angst #robert reynolds smut

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januaryembrs · 1 year ago

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THERE'S NO SIGN OF LIFE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [3]

Description: The one where you grieve Emily together (+ the one where you kiss him)

word count: 7.9k

trigger warnings: okay so this chapter is exactly how it sounds, heavy in themes of grief, depression, anger, slight ideation of the world being better without bugsy (as if), DRUG USE (once and not addictively and not by Spencer!), mention of Spencer being horny, mention on blood and drinking.

authors note: this was just supposed to be a little filler chapter for the next one where the real juicy shit happens and long story short it became nearly 8k words of pure angst until the last minute when I decided to stop hurting you all. please don't hate me, promise a big boy chapter is coming up.

previous chpt | next chpt

'Doctor, look into my eyes.

I've been breathing air, but there's no sign of life.'

The team had fallen into chaos since Emily died. Hotch thought that just five little stages of grief weren’t quite enough to summarise what they were going through.

Morgan was pissed off by the smallest things, had flipped shit just that morning because the printer had jammed. He'd gone through two mugs and a keyboard in just two weeks in his tempers that had certainly seen better days.

Penelope’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears she was trying her hardest to choke down, to wipe away so fast she could pretend to still see her computer screen, but Hotch didn’t need to be a profiler to see the way her sleeves were smudged with mascara, sodden through 24/7.

Rossi seemed resigned, tired, his breath smelled faintly of the strong whiskey he saved for special occasions, his hair unkempt, as though he hadn’t slept until the early hours, or if he had it had been unrestful. He took more frequent breaks, came back smelling like the cigars he kept in his desk drawer for the bad days, and he sighed as if the world beat down on his back, like he’d been asked to choose between stopping world hunger or saving the environment. His chest was heavy. His face was tired of losing so many friends he loved.

Spencer was working himself to the bone, his desk piled with books (even more so than usual), his fingers twitching by his side more often, as if his brain cells had been dialled up to a thousand percent, which was saying something when it came to Reid. In fact the only thing out of ordinary was the fact he was constantly checking his phone, the sight of which had Pen dropping her coffee on the rough carpet, which she had promptly then excused herself with watery eyes over. Yes, he actually knew how to use technology, which he had been so vehemently against for years, until the team realised it was because one very important member of the team had been using her sick days for three weeks now.

They knew he was looking after her, that he would bring her dinner and make sure the cats were fed, but they had no idea she had all but moved in with him, Niko and Sergio included.

Yet he found himself checking the screen every twenty minutes or so for signs of an update, even just a thumbs up or a little sign that said seen under his good morning texts. He was scared he’d wandered too far into boyfriend territory, it certainly felt that way when he would come home to see her bundled on the couch, nose deep in one of the books he would leave out for her, how her eyes would light up just the tiniest amount to see him home. She rarely cooked, he knew she didn’t even touch the food in his fridge no matter how much he reminded her she needed to eat when he wasn’t there, to which she usually just nodded at him and buried her head in his arm to escape the scoldings.

Things were different with her here. He knew she was vulnerable, lost, he saw it every time she came crawling into his bed from where he’d set her up in the spare room, or when Sergio made himself home on her lap and she squeezed the cat to her chest in quiet tears. Usually he would have squirmed out of her grip, he had always preferred Emily, but these days he just let her sob with a docile blink at where Spencer watched her from the other end of the couch, and pretended not to notice when his fur was sodden and messed up.

Spencer had felt something for her before, the weeks, months even leading up to Emily dying, but with her here, needing him all the time, holding him tightly when he needed to grieve himself, making herself at home in his personal space, he was sure she knew it too. There was no way she didn’t know how he felt.

But the topic was too heavy, too complex to bring up with her mourning her sister, it would rip the carpet out from beneath her feet, and no matter how heavily, besottedly, how deeply Spencer felt he loved her, he would never do that to her. He couldn’t.

He had always loved mind games, but loving someone so much you couldn’t not tell them, only to not tell them because you loved them so much felt like a whole paradox even he couldn’t wrap his big brain around.

So they stayed where they were. She had good days, though they usually looked like said reading on the sofa with nothing but a strong cup of coffee in her stomach. And then she had bad ones. And the bad ones made him scared, so scared he had no choice but to get help.

Penelope came over the Friday evening with Spencer after work, kitted out entirely with nail polishes and gems, the box set of Barbie movies, a hot chocolate mix she swore by, three tubs of ice cream, face masks, Teen vogue with a Never have I ever section ‘Begging to be answered’ and of course, her Pièce de résistance, her makeup kit and joke fluffy handcuffs for them to tie down Reid and give him a makeover.

“Hello my handsome gentlemen,” She greeted Niko and Sergio who rushed to the door on instinct, knowing Spencer always gave them each a big handful of treats upon arriving home, “Auntie Penny is here for a super girly evening, no boys allowed,”

“Am I not invited?” Spencer asked, faux hurt flashing on his face as he shut the door behind them, though his eyes were quick to scan around his living room for any sign of her. There wasn’t, not even a single pillow was out of place, and he knew it had been another day of skipped lunch and breakfast.

“You are, of course you are, I just didn’t want them to get jealous,” She whispered, her brown eyes taking in the too perfect apartment and the lack of the Prentiss girl, “Is she sleeping?”

“No,” He said without checking, because he knew she rarely slept nowadays unless she was in his bed with him, “I’ll go get her,”

“Okay,” Some of the joy died out of her tone when she heard his voice soften sadly as she set her bags down on the kitchen counter, “I’ll get the hot chocolates ready!” Penelope tried to recover in that perky tone she used to cover up when something hurt her.

He just hoped this had been the right decision, that he wasn’t pushing her too hard.

Knocking softly on her door, he let himself in when he heard a small murmur on the other side, and as he suspected, she was curled into a small ball under one of his blankets, her hair wet, her pyjamas in the laundry basket. She had one of his shirts on and some boxers he had noticed had gone missing, but he would never hold it against her.

She had showered while he was gone at least, and her breath was minty fresh as he crept over the woolly rug and kneeled one leg on the bedside.

“Hey,” He started softly, sweeter than honey, his cadence somewhat hopeful as he leaned over her and stroked her hair that was still damp. “You got up! Did you eat anything?”

She looked up at him with tired eyes, but she reached out with both her arms to embrace him gently, like she’d been waiting all day to have him near again.

“I had a couple biscuits and some coffee,” Her voice was raspy, and it was the first he’d heard her speak in a few days. “I’ll try better tomorrow, I just was a bit tired today-”

“No, no, that’s great,” He rushed to comfort her, to stop the apology that was coming his way whenever she didn’t take care of herself the way he wanted her to, “Penny’s here to see you. She’s here for a girl’s night, if that’s okay?”

Bugsy attempted a smile, though she seemed hesitant, but he thought that was probably just the way her expression was these days, like everything hopeful had been sucked out of her.

“I’ve missed Penny,” She said, and he knew she meant it. She nodded finally, and he leaned over her to give her a proper hug for putting on a brave face, feeling her nuzzle into his chest at the contact. She sniffed the air for a second, before whispering into his ear, “Is that chocolate?”

He chuckled, stroking down her back and pulling her up into a sit. He’d gotten used to her being pliant under his touch, and he only wished her being so receptive to his advances would be under other circumstances.

The urge to grab her face and kiss every bit of hurt out of her was growing harder and harder to shove down with every day he saw her so soft and wounded. He wasn’t good at knowing what to say, but for her, he was trying to be. The only alternative was kissing her silly, until the pit she’d crawled into was warm, just warm all over, and she came back to him in one piece.

“Yes, it’s chocolate. Now come on, before she starts the movie without us,” He breathed gently, helping her out of bed, pretending he didn’t hear the way her joints cracked with the first sign of movement in hours. “Wait a second, pants,” He reminded her, tossing her some sweatpants from the floor, which she shoved on blindly. He didn’t mind her walking around like that if it meant she were comfortable, but he didn’t want her to give Pen a scare.

A ghost of a smile teased on her lips as he led her out the room with two hands on her shoulders, seeing the blonde woman light up like the fourth of July at the sound of the two of them approaching.

“Bug!” Penelope called, mid way through distributing a hefty amount of whipped cream and marshmallows on top of three mugs. Spencer watched the second her eyes widened slightly as she took in the girl’s appearance, trying frantically to cover it with an even wider smile, rushing to hug her tightly. He saw the minute she realised she felt so different in her arms; lifeless, heavy, rooted to the spot, like any contact with someone other than the gentle Spencer-touches she was used to made her lock up.

She looked sick, like she hadn’t known fresh air in weeks, or like she’d pulled three all nighters in a row, or like she would be able to watch a ten car pile up and not bat an eye. She looked dead. She felt dead in Penny’s arms.

The thought of it made her squeeze her tighter, until she felt two arms cuddle her back firmly.

“I see Spencer has been treating you well,” Pen said, because she was avoiding the subject of Emily, and the way Bugsy looked exhausted, and the way she saw how scared Spencer was when he’d come into ‘the bat cave’ that afternoon to ask for her help.

Bugsy attempted another smile, nodding slightly as the blonde drew back from their hug, and she saw the worry she tried so desperately to hide as she took in her face.

The girl’s skin was dull in a way they’d never seen her before, her expression tired, her bones creaky, like someone had reached down her gullet and plucked her soul right from out of her chest, snatched it there and then. Penelope saw why Spencer looked so worried.

“He’s been great,” Bugsy replied simply, her eyes finding Spencer’s where he shadowed behind her, worried she would faint on the spot from all the movement. She’d not been eating anything other than what he encouraged down her throat, but he supposed a handful of biscuits were better than nothing.

She felt the bottomless pit that used to be her heart rip open just that bit further, the way it had done slowly the past few days, eating away at her skin. She knew she could never ever repay Spencer for everything he was doing, knew the odd few times she’d managed to collect herself enough to be there for him when he cried could never amount to how he hovered over her every second he was home.

But where she should have felt guilt, there was nothing, there was just nothing left of her.

He seemed to notice the slip, the way he always did, and she never did tell him how perceptive he was as he stroked over the back of her hair, leading her with a warm hand on her upper back to the sofa where Pen had already laid out the movie selection, had already grabbed the hot chocolates that were quickly melting onto the coffee table, where Niko was waiting with an eager pink tongue to collect his share, where he settled her down and wrapped her in a blanket as if he was swaddling a baby, where he let her take the middle and him and Pen on either side as Fairytopia lit up his living room with hot pinks and rainbows and flowers and magic.

And even though she had yet to crack a smile, a real one at least, she seemed content, not entirely uncomfortable with the evening as Penelope commandeered one of her hands to paint her nails a shiny blush colour ‘to match the evening’. Spencer thought for a minute she might have just needed some girl time, something no matter how many cuddles and sweet words he whispered could never give her. Maybe that was all she’d needed.

Maybe she would get through this without entirely crumbling.

It wasn’t until the next day when even showering was too big a feat for her, when she had only two mouthfuls of the blueberry pancakes he’d made her before she apologised with watery eyes that he realised how stupid he was for believing it.

It wasn’t until she said she wanted to move back home by herself that he really started panicking.

JJ took her out for a picnic in the park the following weekend. The guilt was eating her up alive about hiding Emily’s secret, and from what Pen had told her, she wasn’t doing good. She wasn’t even doing bad; she was barely hanging on by a thread. Hotch had said she would be a flight risk with her sister gone, had said they would need to keep an eye on her as much as they would the rest of the team, but for Emily’s safety she couldn’t tell her the truth. JJ could only stand back and watch as the girl they all knew crawled into something dark inside herself and barricaded the door closed.

Spencer had taken the nice approach with her, never forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to or asking too directly, as had Penelope. They’d both tried letting her open up by herself, which had only resulted in the girl taking about five steps back and even starting to shut out Reid, something which they all saw tore him up even more than seeing her wasting away in his spare room. He spent more days at hers, crying harder than she had seen him even when he was struggling with opioids. Crying for Emily some of the time, but mostly crying for the fact he was entirely helpless now she had moved out, like the one thing that had held him upright until then had left in a guilty mess of ‘sorry’s and dead eyes.

So she instead took the approach of telling Bugsy she needed help. Because if there was one thing that had always been able to bend her will, it was someone else needing her.

JJ thought about reminding Spencer that Bug would come back if he took the same route, if he just told her how badly he needed her instead of her feeling like she was simply a burden on his life. But she knew he wouldn’t hear it, he would only blame himself more.

So she’d told Bug she was struggling with looking after Henry alone while Will was working away, that he’d been asking for her since she’d come to his second birthday party with the biggest stuffed whale toy he’d ever seen. It was a white lie, Will was home more days than she was, but Henry had been asking for ‘the bug lady’ every time he played with his teddy. And it worked like a charm.

So they sat in the warm April breeze, Bugsy reading on her stomach as JJ carefully nudged a punnet of fat, red grapes her way, hoping she would take the hint and swallow a few.

It wasn’t until Henry came diving over to them from where he was collecting snails by their shells that Bug even showed any sign of pulling herself out of the book.

“Buggy!” The little boy called, his tongue struggling with the complexity of the ‘gsy’ sound, and she looked up at him with a tired smile on her face that JJ saw right through immediately. “Buggy, look,”

She held out her hand, and he gently placed a common land snail in the palm of her hand, no bigger than a quarter, who happily slid over her fingertip with a squishy sensation.

“Thankyou, Henry,” She replied, her eyes trailing over the shiny slime he left behind over her palm, his tiny antenna eyes googling up at her. “What should we call him?”

“Sid’d’snail,” Henry replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world, crouching next to her to watch him crawling over her chipped pink fingernails.

“Hi Sid,” She chimed, and JJ watched her face drop into a completely emotionless expression the second Henry’s back was turned to find Sid a friend.

She felt it clawing at her throat to come out, Emily’s alive, Emily’s alive, come back to us please, please come back to us because Emily’s still alive. JJ was watching her rot in front of her very eyes, and better yet she had the power to stop it with those very few words.

She could put an end to all of this, she knew how badly it had hurt when Ros died, her older sister, her whole world ripped from her the way Emily’s ‘death’ was doing to Bugsy. She would have given anything for someone to have turned to her and said ‘Jennifer, your sister is still alive. Jennifer, it was all a trick, a hoax, a ploy to keep you safe. Jennifer, Ros is still here, alive and breathing and living her best life in Paris of all places.’

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t betray Emily like that, and knowing, no matter how much of a relief it would come, would put Bugsy in more danger with Ian Doyle and whatever other enemies her sister had made at interpol than she could have ever realised.

So instead, JJ just ran a gentle hand over her hair that warmed in the sun, and started braiding parts of it absent-mindedly, like they were two girls in a playground waiting for hometime.

JJ stayed quiet, and watched Bugsy get worse.

Aaron came over to her apartment at 8am sharp. He’d found JJ and Penny in floods of tears in the women’s bathroom when they were due to start the presentation of the latest case and they were nowhere to be seen. Spencer had become detached, quieter with every day that he checked his phone and saw no reply, but had mentioned he’d seen them go into the bathroom together as he got his morning coffee, only for their boss to see the two of them clinging to one another with wet cheeks and before he could even ask, Penelope splurged that Bugsy hadn’t messaged in four days and was refusing to open the door, and that even Spencer asking so sweetly, something that was usually her kryptonite, had failed to draw her out.

Aaron was convinced if this didn’t work he was kicking down the door himself, even if it meant filing paperwork for a necessary home visit.

Aaron Hotchner, surprising to no one, was soft on the youngest Prentiss girl. He’d watched her grow for four years straight, had come to her of all people in his hour of desperate need, and felt every second of her grief as if it was his own because he, like JJ, knew he had the power to stop it all but couldn’t.

He called her name through the door first, her real name, loud yet anxious, along with a firm knock. When he heard nothing back, he rapped on the wood louder, “Bugsy, I know you’re in there. The team are worried about you, they’re worried you’re hurt,”

Nothing.

And it wasn’t just the team that was worried, it was him too, if his heavy fists banging even harder were anything to go off of.

“Bugsy, if you don’t answer I’m sending for the SWAT team and asking them to ram this door down,” He said, with not a trace of a lie in his tone. Because he wasn’t lying, not by a long shot.

He heard footsteps then, and she appeared through a small crack in the doorway, not open enough for him to see the mess in her living room, but enough to see the way her entire face looked like a cadaver.

He fought back against the guilt choking him from the inside out.

“Stop yelling,” She murmured, almost bitterly, “You’re scaring the cats,”

“You’re scaring us,” He countered back, in a tone that was a little too mean, but from what he heard, soft and gentle wasn’t working, “Please, just let us help you, stop pushing everyone away,”

“That’s a little pot calling the kettle black there, Hotch,” She said in an equally harsh tone, her face scrunching into a frown, and she nearly slammed the door on him right there and then.

“Get your work out clothes on, we’re going for a run,” He ordered, and it was only then she notices his sport shorts and trainers. She scoffed in his face. He was quick to shove a foot in the door before she actually could swing it shut on him, ignoring the way he nearly yelped as it trapped between the wood, “I’m not asking,”

“Fuck off,” She spat, and he bristled at her choice language, but he saw the way her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was a roadkill on a sidewalk waiting to be put out of her misery; she didn’t want to be prodded and poked at and ordered around, she wanted out.

She wanted to go quietly, without a fight. And it was for that reason, he put up more of a struggle.

“You are coming outside with me, even if I have to drag you down the street myself because this is not how it ends for you.” Aaron barked back, forcing the door open with one of his large hands as if it was nothing.

“Of all people, I would have thought you would understand, Aaron,” It was like she had slapped him in the face, though he thinks maybe that would have hurt less, and it was only then he saw her eyes had welled up, and her bottom lip was quivering. It was a horrible sight, it twisted his guts like he’d been stabbed by Foyet all over again, but it was better than the nothingness that was there before.

“Ofcourse, I understand,” His voice softened, his hands coming up to gently rest on her shoulder like she was breakable china beneath his palm, “You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to hide away and never face a world without Haley ever again? I can’t, even now, imagine the rest of my life with her gone,” His throat clogged with emotion he fought off, because he refused to have both of them crying in her living room when he was meant to be the one pulling her out of it, “But I do it because Jack needs me-”

“No body needs me,” She said emptily, ignoring the way Sergio wrapped his tail around her leg and meowed loudly as if to tell her otherwise.

“Yes we do,” Hotch insisted, seriously, damn near ready to shake her on the spot to knock some sense into her, “We need you, and better yet we love you. You may have lost your sister, but you still have a family waiting for you, Bugsy,”

And that was it, the single crack that broke the dam. Before he knew it she had launched herself into his arms in a fit of tears, clinging to him tighter than he thought she could for someone who looked so weak and perished.

He just held her close, feeling his own stray tears drip down his nose as his shirt got wet through. In another life, maybe he and Haley would have had a daughter, and maybe she would have reminded him of Bugsy, maybe his heart would soften to putty just the same way it did with her. The same way it did for Jack.

And eventually, when she dried her face, and quietened Sergio down, she went to put on her gym gear and one of Spencer's hoodies she’d stolen and felt too guilty to give back, and they went for a run.

If there was one thing Rossi knew better than his whiskeys, it was how to cook a good carbonara. And if there was one thing Bugsy needed more than anything at the moment it was a buttload of carbs and cheese.

Aaron had been taking her running every morning since that day, and even she had to admit the fresh air and exercise did her good, made her feel stronger and less like the women they find in body bags at the beginning of a case, made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could get through the rest of this.

It wasn’t going away overnight, not by any means, but she looked healthier, and her exhaustion meant she got more sleep too, but what remained was a hunger that she was filling with cereal and instant noodles that Rossi knew he had to put a stop to immediately. Instant noodles should have been outlawed with crack and underaged drinking, he would proudly tell her.

So he invited her over for a cooking lesson, or as he would put it, she could watch him cook and eat as much as she wanted at the end, if she promised to never buy those awful microwave ramen ever again. And she’d agreed, because she felt her appetite coming back every day (and she knew where he kept the good white wine).

“Now as entertaining as this is watching you drain my stash of Sémillon, why don’t you chop up that pork and I’ll get started on the sauce.” He handed her a sharpened butcher’s knife, and the thin slices of seasoned ham, turning to use the stove for just a few moments, “You’re gonna add the cream in until it becomes thick, like cough mixture running off your spoon,”

“Thick and creamy, you got it,” She chimed in, her fingers slicing the meat into strips, “Did you want this as diced or Julian?”

“Do you mean julienne?”

“That’s what I just said,” He chuckled into the pot, his chest warming to hear some of that old bratty teenaged sass returning to her tone. He bet she would have run rings around him if she was his kid.

“Diced, if you would,” David said, using a wooden spoon to stir in the thick cream little by little until the container ran empty.

“Yes, Chef,” She hummed in response, flipping the chopping board around to begin slicing them the other side, “So, I’m guessing if I asked to try some of that Sauvignon I saw in the fridge, your response would be- oh motherfucker-”

David frowned, “Maybe not so harsh on the tongue but-” He turned around when he heard a hiss, and he quickly understood why she’d thrown the expletive out there.

Her hand ran red with thick blood, dripping quickly down her arm, ruining her shirt. He didnt even care that his hand carved indian wood chopping board was permanently stained, or that the meat was contaminated, or that the blood trickled a little too quick over his floor, only that her eyes seemed suddenly far away as she did nothing to stop the cut gaping. It had caught her in a trance, one she was not even aware she had been sucked into until he grabbed a towel and headed for her.

“Emily, no! Emily please, I need medical in here, we have an agent down! Emily, please, please don’t, please- Someone get medical, she’s bleeding-”

David’s hands grabbed a hold of her bloodied palm, wrapping it tightly in the cloth, so harshly it knocked her out of the daze she was in, dragged her out from the last time there was blood all over her hand, when it had been Emily’s blood, when she could do nothing but freeze like she had now.

“I’m fine,” She said on a reflex, even though he hadn’t asked, he had just acted, pulling her towards the cupboard where he kept the first aid kit, “David, I’m totally fine, it’s just a little scratch,”

“You have to let me go,” Emily had gasped. "Let me go, Bug,"

“David, I’m fine, stop worrying,” She said again when she saw him fussing, hoping he couldn't see the way she’d started shaking, and if he had, she wondered if she could play it off as the adrenaline rushing to fix the wound.

She knew she was on thin ice with the lot of them after her talk with Aaron. Like he said, they were her family, and family’s took care of one another. She couldn’t live with herself if she kept burdening them so much, kept them from grieving their partner just as much as she was; she loved them too.

Bugsy was trying to get better, she really was. Sometimes it was just a little difficult, like now when she could still see Emily’s butchered body infront of her as if she were little more than that joint of pork she’d been julienning.

“It’s okay to get hurt sometimes, kid. You don’t have to lie and pretend it doesn’t hurt if it does,” David said, sitting her back on the breakfast table, holding the bloodied cloth up where he was unravelling a spool of bandage and some rubbing alcohol.

She shut up then, and she wondered if she was really that see through or if David was just that good at his job. They stayed silent, except for the moan of pain she let out when he doused her hand in the solution, pulling the skin closed tightly and wrapping it taut enough for her to feel her heartbeat in her fingertips.

“It’s okay if you need a little help once in a while,” He continued, his movements gentle and careful, worried he’d spook her with the first real conversation they’d had in a long time. Rossi had always been closer to Emily than he had her, and maybe it was the fact he lost the few chances he had to be a father, or just the fact she reminded him so much of her older sister, but being with her felt like part of the wound in his chest was the one being treated. “Rather than being afraid to ask for help, remember this: When you ask someone to help you, you are actually doing them a tremendous favour by giving them an opportunity to feel needed.”

“Is that a David Rossi original, or did you get that from one of your self help books?” She sniffed, hoping he didn’t see the way her expression had fallen, or her throat caught with an apology, or how she hid it with a small smile.

“Richard Carlson.” He replied, pinning the end of the bandage in tight enough it wouldn’t snag. He sighed, looking at the girl who started guiltily at her fingers, reaching behind her for the corkscrew, “I’ll go get the Sauvignon, you order us a pizza. Just please god, no pineapple, that’s just as bad as instant noodles in my books. That’s like asking Da Vinci about bitcoin, it’s madness,”

And that was the first time she properly laughed in weeks.

While Derek was more than equipped to schmoozing the ladies when he wanted a date with them, he had not been ready for this when he’d asked Bugsy to go to the club with him.

She had been doing better, Rossi had said. She had seemed stronger, that was what Hotch had told him. Spencer said they’d even gone for coffee together. He left out the part where it felt awkward and almost like they were seeing an ex, though that of course would be impossible, because they were never dating. At least as far as he knew anyway.

It had been going fine, they’d gotten two rounds of drinks, had been chatting and she’d even been giggling the more the alcohol hit her. She was looking more like she used to, and it almost all felt like a horrible dream hearing from the rest of the team the state she was in.

He’d turned his back for a second, for two damn seconds, and she’d been whisked away by some frat boy, and come back to him with a crazy happy look in her eye that he didn’t notice until an hour later.

“Where did you go, kid?” He’d asked, and she’d shrugged like it was nothing.

“Needed the bathroom,” She said, and he hadn’t even noticed it was a lie until the light struck her eye for more than a couple seconds and he saw just how dilated her pupils were, like the blackness swallowed her iris whole, and the way she buzzed on the spot with more energy than she’d had in months.

She was supposed to be getting better, and she was trying, really she was.

But she couldn’t stop seeing the blood on her hand, couldn’t stop seeing Emily’s face now she could actually sleep again.

Spencer was half way through his fourth re-read of War and Peace, in its original Russian translation, when he got the knock on the door.

It was 10pm, he muttered to himself, who was bothering him at this time.

But of course, as luck would have it, it was the one person who he hadn’t stopped thinking about, the one person who he hadn’t stopped thinking about for the past three years.

“Spencerrrrrrr!” She chirped, and immediately alarm bells were ringing in his head, her fingers linked with Morgan’s as if he’d all but pulled her to his apartment from the cab.

She wasn’t stumbling, and she smelled a little like alcohol, but not so much that her inhibitions would be completely destroyed, so he knew it wasn’t that. And Derek looked guilty, a serious kind of guilty like he’d suggested they take a drive on a motorbike with no helmet, or go chasing unsubs unarmed.

It wasn’t until she flung her arms over his shoulders, and he’d pulled her inside, Morgan following behind with a nervous clear of his throat that he realised what it was.

“Spencerrrr, I missed you! I missed you so much, Spencer!” And usually he’d love the way she said his name, but this time it was tainted, too false, too electrified. It barely even sounded like her, he hated the way his heart still pounded out of his chest at the fact she pressed herself so close in that little clubbing top of hers, those tight jeans.

“What did she take?” He ignored her little hums of a song he couldn’t hear, the way she pushed herself even further into his body in a way he knew too well felt like a warm hug throughout her entire being. “Morgan!”

Spencer had never snapped at him, not since his own days on whatever it was he was doing, and Morgan ran a hand over his face as she nuzzled her nose into his neck.

“I don’t know, I swear. I turned my back for two seconds to get us another drink, and next thing I know this senior is hitting on her and she’s shoving gum in her mouth and coming back towards the bar- I don’t know what it was, I swear I thought it was gum, man,” Derek rushed, hating the look of desperation in Spencer’s eyes as he yanked her away from him with a small mewl of protest from her mouth.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me,” He murmured, and she did, and he saw almost immediately the way her pupils were the size of saucers when she stared at him, crazed and intoxicated, “Do you remember what you took? I need to know so I can keep you safe,”

“You always keep me safe, so safe with Spencer,” She giggled to herself, trying to pull him back to her, but he wouldn’t budge, not until he got a real answer, “Come on, I’m going to be fine, it was just a little Molly, nothing to worry about. Kid even gave me a half for like ten dollars because he said I was reeeeeal pretty. Do you think I’m pretty Spence? I think you’re pretty, I think you’re super pretty,”

They felt themselves sigh in relief, because while still a drug, half of one pill shouldn’t really do much, especially if it was the cheap stuff going around frat houses that the DEA was having a field day with.

Morgan looked at Spencer, where he let her shove her face against him once more, wrapping his arms around her back and feeling her sigh in relief that she was back there under his warm touch, and they shared the same thought.

This never happened.

Because if it did, it meant opening a can of worms Spencer had tried for years to shut tight. It meant acknowledging that the reason Morgan came to him and no one else was because he knew Spencer would know how to handle her when she was coming down in an hour or so. It meant acknowledging why Spencer would know that, and why they hadn’t acknowledged it the first time around. It meant their jobs would be on the line, and so was hers, and as much as she was struggling at the moment, they knew she just slipped up, and that this wasn’t who she was. They knew she could be better, that Spencer would force her to get better, because if the only other option was having her turn into who he used to be, then he was handing in his notice first thing Monday morning.

That wasn’t an option in Spencer’s books, nor was it in Morgan’s.

So Morgan left with a little pat on the back of her head, claiming she was a little troublemaker, though he hadn’t quite sounded as teasing as he’d intended and more bitter, and leaving Spencer with her to minimise the damage.

Bugsy let him lead her to the spare room that once was hers, but she didn’t quite care enough to say anything other than, “I missed you so much,” As she pushed her face into his neck more.

He sighed, sitting her down on the bed, knowing where she’d left some of her makeup wipes in his bathroom.

“Stay right here, I’ll be right back,” But she whined again, making a grab for his hand, which he quickly avoided, feeling mean for it the moment he saw her face scrunch in hurt. He stroked her hair behind her ear, watching her melt under his touch, and it almost felt like nothing had changed, like she had never moved out, and like she hadn’t just burst back into his life after popping a bit of molly and turning his evening upside down, “I missed you so much, too, Bug,”

And he wasn’t lying. Not even a little bit.

She looked up at him with those dazed pupils, as big as dimes as they batted up at him dreamily, and some awful part of him always wanted her to be looking at him like that, like everything he ever did in his life was perfect and he was a god among men. Like she was seeing her favourite movie for the first time on the big screen, when in reality he was just wiping her makeup off her face and handing her spare clothes to change into so she could sleep off the come down.

It wasn’t until he tried to leave again to go get her some water that she put up a real fight, one that couldn’t be fought off with a gentle touch (he tried), and she was quick to grab his wrist, tug him closer to her.

“Bug, I’m getting you-”

“Come lay down with me, let’s talk. I love talking to you, why haven’t we talked in so long?” She said like every barrier she ever put up had come tumbling down and her mouth was a free for all for her every thought.

Spencer smiled despite himself, his honeycomb eyes soft as he shuffled to lay beside her, and they stared at one another, heads against the same pillow, and she looked soft than an angel laying on his bed waiting for a response. She looked happy for the first time in a long time, and he hated how much it suited her.

“You moved out, remember, bug? You said you wanted to go home and I didn’t want to stop you,” He said gently, like he didn’t want to upset her. But she just giggled and shook her head like he’d told her a joke.

“Oh, yeah. But I didn’t really want to go home. I wanted to be with you. I want to be with you forever,” Bugsy giggled to herself, wiggling her toes inside her socks and running a finger up his arm gently as she lay on her side, “I missed you so much,”

His brow furrowed, “What do you mean you didn’t want to go home?” But she wasn’t listening, she was tracing over his face with her fingertip, running over his nose gently, past his full lips that quivered under her touch, “Bug,”

“Hm?”

“What do you mean you didn’t want to go home? Why did you leave?” He asked again, and she looked back up at him with a shrug, shuffling closer to him, so close he could feel her breath fan over his cheeks.

“I thought here with you was my home. I wanted it to be.” She said, her fingers finding their way into his nightshirt, “But I felt too guilty being so sad all the time, like I was getting my sad all over you and you couldn’t do anything about it because I was the loser girl with the dead sister you had to look after,”

His eyes burned with emotion, and he willed himself not to cry, because suddenly it made sense why she had pulled away so fast. She looked at him like he’d hung the damn cosmos in the sky; had he not even paid attention to the letter she’d written Emily. She felt like she was dragging him down, the way she felt about everyone in her life, and decided to cut herself free before she took him with her. And look where that had landed her.

He felt like a fool.

“No, no,” Spencer whispered, pulling her into his arms, because he was scared that come morning she would take a million steps back and up and leave him all over again, “That’s not true, that could never happen, you hear me? I liked taking care of you, I wanted to take care of you.”

“Really?” She asked hopefully, her face soft and dream-like, “I liked taking care of you too, when you would let me,”

It was true he had tried to push his own feelings on the back burner, besides the few times the dam had cracked and he wound up with his head in her lap receiving the brunt of the affection that evening. He didn’t know why he ever doubted she would have wanted to do that; when he had his migraines she had done nothing but love on him until he felt full to the brim of her warmth.

He felt himself chuckle, and she shuffled entirely into his arms then squashing out any last molecule of space left between them, and his hand slid over the back of her head, fingers rubbing softly into the nape of her neck which only made her moan loudly, entirely unaware of how sensitive her skin was from the molly.

“That feels nice, Spencer,” She hummed, her thighs straddling his own as she squished herself against him more, “You feel so nice, I love you so much.”

He would be lying if he said the sounds she was making didn’t shoot straight to his dick, and hoped more than anything that she couldn’t feel how it pressed against his stomach angrily. His heart beat rattled loudly, and he swore she had to be able to hear it.

“I love you too,” Spencer sighed, wishing he could have said this to her sober. Wishing she wouldn’t shut him out so easily, wishing he’d pushed her walls a little harder.

Then she did something he wasn’t expecting. It took all of two seconds for him to close his eyes and hum in content, where her hands were playing with the soft of his waist, and his fingertips stroked her jaw gently, but in a quick movement she planted her lips on his in a soft, sweet peck that he barely had time to register was happening before he pulled away in shock.

She kissed him. She had kissed him.

And he wanted her so badly, wanted her in every way it was possible to have someone, wanted to kiss her so hard his face went blue and his lips went numb and his throat burned with lack of oxygen. But he would never dare do anything when she was like this; vulnerable, intoxicated, unaware that the pill she’d taken had acted like a truth serum.

“We’re so silly,” Bugsy giggled, and for a moment she looked twenty two again, like the girl that had answered the door to him in college in nothing but her boxers and a shirt, with her metal music playing so loud he could hear it ringing in his ears minutes after she’d switched it off. She looked like his Bugsy again.

Spencer chuckled with her incredulously, feeling his face on fire from her action, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest that had been immovable for months, because as hard as her come down would hit her, things seemed different now, like they actually had a kicking chance of getting through the grief together.

But before he could say anything else, her eyes had fluttered shut under the warmth of his palm, and she had drifted off to sleep.

He guessed he’d have to tell her tomorrow.

–

taglist:

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#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #matthew grey gubler x reader

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klemen-tine · 1 year ago

Text

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 3

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking, Partner Abuse

Part 1

Part 2

@problematicreblogger and @wpdarlingpan Since you guys wanted to be tagged lol

+++++++++++++

Y/N sat in the bathtub in the guest room. It’s been three days since they arrived, saw the photos, and the creepy trophy room. Three days since their conversation with Dick, finding out that they had all been on their terrace and taking photos of them. Stalking them.

They wrapped their arms tighter around their legs, resting their chin on sharp knees and staring at the porcelain tiles and gold facet. Three days of walking on egg shells, somehow managing to evade most attempts in hanging out with the siblings and Bruce, and only really seeing them at meals. Y/N hasn’t built up the nerve to ask about the trophy room, but Y/N knows that everyone in the house knows that Y/N knows of the two rooms. They know of the photos, the ones taken without their permission or knowledge, and the clothes that have redefined their modeling career.

Sighing, Y/N stared at their pruning hands and the now cool water. The bubbles dissolved a long time ago and the essential oils had become diluted enough that the scents no longer permeated the air.

Finally dressed in a robe, lotion and oil on their skin and face and teeth washed, Y/N exited the bathroom and screamed at the sight of Jason on their bed. In the midst of their panic they threw the brush at the larger man, who caught it skillfully.

“Wha-what is wrong with you? No-wait, why are you in my room?” Y/N walked around the large bed to where all their clothes are kept. Their eyes not leaving Jason’s imposing figure that was currently resting on their bed.

“I knocked.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “I didn’t ask if you knocked, why are you in my room?” Jason shrugged, “Just felt like I haven’t talked to you in a bit.” Jason and Y/N’s relationship was like that of dragons in the old ages. Full of history and non-existent.

Jason was already dead by the time Y/N had entered the Manor. A small body buried in the Wayne gravesite. In hindsight, Y/N’s timing had been awful. Moving in when Tim basically forced Batman to take him in as a Robin, Dick’s and Bruce’s relationship had worsened, Jason was dead for about a year, and Alfred had still been grieving. Truly a terrible time to join a family. Y/N could taste the tension when they had first moved in, and they understood immediately that they were just another unneeded burden.

A 13-year-old Y/N cried in their bathroom, mourning their mother who had loved the fame more than them, the friends that loved Y/N for Y/N, and the life on the West Coast that they were now expected to continue on the East Coast.

The unfairness of it all.

“What do you want to talk about?” Y/N asked, rummaging through the drawers and finding a nice shirt and some nice jeans.

“Hmm, oh you know, the casual how are you doing? How’s the model-life? Any fun stories you have? What have you been doing lately?” Y/N started changing in the bathroom, keeping the door cracked so they could hear the questions.

When Y/N reemerged, now fully dressed and the robe hanging on the back of the door, they smiled at Jason, “I’m doing good, kind of tired but that's to be expected because of the ‘model-life.’ The fun stories I have are more of traveling around the world and seeing different cultures and eating good food.

“As of late, I’ve been thinking about getting a cat.” Jason’s brow raised, “You travel though.” Y/N nodded, “Yeah, some models travel with their pets and I think that's what I plan to do. They’re easier to travel with than a dog, and I don’t think a dog would like my condo.” Jason nodded, “You could always leave it here. The little spawn would take care of it.”

“I can’t do that to the family. It’s my pet and should be my responsibility.” Jason hummed, “Is it because you don’t want to visit?” The air stilled and blue eyes met E/C. Jason didn’t look bothered, if anything he seemed relaxed about the whole thing, “It’s fine if that's the reason. I hate being here too.”

Jason came back as a dead person Y/N knew not to talk about. From the stairways, they would watch Jason storm out after a bad argument with Bruce. Unable to completely understand what exactly was going on, but from the hushed conversations they knew it was something they didn’t want to know about.

“I don’t hate being here, I just don’t have reason to visit other than Alfred.” Jason continued to stare at them, “Not even for ‘family.’”

“Jason, when have you ever looked at me and saw a sibling?” Jason didn’t banter with Y/N, never showed interest or any inclination that Y/N even existed. Y/N is pretty sure that to Jason, Y/N is just a stranger living in the manor.

Y/N wonders if they will see Jason’s temper. Will it appear like the monster hidden in the closet, waiting for the right time to lash out at anything? Y/N has heard the screaming matches, the threats, the holes in the walls from Jason. For someone who has killed people, Y/N wonders if they should really be mucking around with Jason.

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that had other priorities. Once upon a time, Jason was the youngest and loved by Bruce, but then younger Robins came. Jason died, and while never replaced, Robin was.

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that Y/N is not a part of.

They are not siblings. Not cousins, relatives, they are not even friends. Barely acquaintances if Y/N is honest. Which is fine. Y/N has gotten over the hurt and feelings of loneliness.

It is just Y/N against the world, with Alfred partially in their corner. Not fully. Never fully because Alfred will always be in the Wayne family’s corner, and Y/N is not a Wayne.

Jason sighed, “Mmm, I guess that night when you took a beating from that one dude for not getting in the car.” Y/N paused in brushing their hair, mind reeling and slowly turning their head to look at Jason who was instead picking at his nails. Y/N opened their mouth, but Jason beat them to it, “You went out partying, like almost every high schooler does, and your boyfriend was drunk.”

“Just get in the car, Y/N!”

“No! You’re drunk and you said you’d stay sober!”

“I am sober, now get in the fucking car!”

“Fuck off!” A 15-year-old Y/N stormed off, turning their back to Marcus Dueller, the then jock of the school. A rough hand grabbed their shoulder and a fist met their face, “You don’t talk to me like that.”

“...Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend.” Jason didn’t show any signs of hearing Y/N, “You took a pretty bad beating, I’ll admit it. I was going to step in once he started choking you, but you took that brick to his head pretty hard.”

Blood splattered across Y/N’s face as Marcus collapsed. The hands around their neck loosening and Y/N took deeply needed gasps of air. Their throat aching and lungs burning as they rolled over onto their hands and knees. Tears pricked their eyes as the pain and realization settled in.

“I called his friends. He was fine, just a concussion.” Marcus and Y/N never talked again, and Marcus’s friends took one look at the bruises on Y/N’s face and neck to understand what had happened.

They all stayed Marcus’s friends, because unlike Y/N, Marcus was loved by his family.

“Then, you walked your beaten ass towards the liquor store.”

“Oh my God! Y/N!” Stacey cried out in shock, and she gently cupped bruised cheeks and watched split lips grow into a smile.

“Can I have that bottom shelf vodka please?”

“Bitch, you need a second shelf from the bottom vodka.” They sat outside of the store, Stacey’s partner taking over the counter as she watched Y/N take swig after swig from the bottle. Her concerned eyes tracing over each and every bruise and cut, down to the clothes they were wearing and scrapes in their knees and hands.

“How many does this make?”

“Seven. Whoever said seven was a lucky number is a liar.”

“Oh Y/N, why do you keep doing this?” Y/N gave Stacey the most beautiful they could muster. Not minding the ache in their cheeks or the burning of alcohol on split lips.

Looking back at it, perhaps Y/N was on a downward spiral. Trying to find love in other people that weren’t the people at home. From ages 13 to 15, Y/N had dated over 9 people. Not one of them made it past two months, and none of them were healthy.

Once Y/N got into modeling, all their attention went into it. Dating and friends were on a standstill as their career and education became a priority. Maybe that was another thing Y/N inherited from Bruce, a known serial dater. Although, Y/N knows for sure that their taste in partners was definitely inherited from their mother.

Some of Y/N’s earliest memories are of M/N getting berated and smacked around by men bigger than her. When they would leave, Y/N would emerge with bandaids and tears on their face. M/N would smile at them, blood from her nose painting her lips red and she would cup soft cheeks and whisper in their ears-

“Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Y/N glared at Jason, who was meeting that glare head on. Now that they are older, Y/N has learned to hate that phrase. They have watched numerous models be in kind and gentle hands and still be beautiful. Still have a loving and healthy relationship with themselves and the other.

Now that they are older, Y/N knows how untrue those words are. Yet, who said those words had to only be applied to romantic partners?

“Now here you are, in your glass castle imitating diamonds.” Y/N’s nose scrunched, “Always the poet, reading the classics.” Jason shrugged, "Someone has to be literate in this messed up family. Sure as hell ain’t Bruce.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “So what? That still does not explain anything. More importantly, why now then?” Why was it now that they decided to make a move if they had supposedly been caring for a while now.

Jason smirked, "Because finally, Bruce sees it too.” Y/N narrowed their eyes and watched with pursed lips as the bigger and stronger man got up from the bed, and walked over to them, “I’d wear comfortable shoes, Y/N. You’re going out with Bruce and the little spawn today.”

“Wait, what do you mean Bruce finally sees it too? What is there to see?” Jason smiled at him, and it looked more of a monster preening at it’s prey. Callused hands reached up and traced the small, almost invisible scar on Y/N’s upper lip.

“Make sure you smile, the vultures will be there too.”

++++

“I do think green will look best on you.” Y/N smiled at Damian, “Green looks good everybody, Damian. You just need the right shade.” Between them was an emerald green silk shirt, the price displayed like a bounty and Y/N wanted to walk out of the store once they saw it. Yes, they made a lot of money, but Y/N also knows what it means to be frugal.

Damian raised an eyebrow and continued to judge the piece as if it had insulted the family. Y/N set the shirt down and continued to peruse the aisles. Their eyes looking at all the clothing and trying to predict what will be in style. What could they use to match or create their own trend? It is still winter, meaning layers will still be necessary but how to make a stylish outfit when there needs to be layers.

“Do you see anything you want, Y/N?” They jumped a bit, and whirled around to see Bruce smiling at them. Those blue eyes, intense like winter rivers, roamed over what Y/N was looking at and he raised a well groomed eyebrow, “Do you want that one?”

“N-no, no thank you. I’m just looking.” Bruce hummed, and wrapped a large arm around Y/N’s bony shoulders and brought them close. He pressed his lips against his temple, an unusual act of affection towards his kids but everyone will chalk it up to Y/N being a model and still young. Bruce whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Just let me know what you want, and I will get it for you.”

‘If I want to be left alone?’ Y/N didn’t voice it, but they didn’t have too. Bruce’s grin was sharp, “Within reason, Y/N.” A chill ran down Y/N’s spine and they swallowed down the bile threatening to come up.

“I have money, Bruce. I can buy my own stuff.” Bruce picked up a shirt, “Let me spoil you. It is what parents do.”

“You already paid off my condo, that is good enough.” Bruce continued to smile, “That was for the birthdays and holidays I missed while you were with us. I still have to make up for the time when you were with your mother.” Y/N wanted to scream, “How about you donate that then?”

Bruce smiled, “I already do. Let me spoil you.” He kissed Y/N’s temple once more before walking away, eyeing everything the way designers did when critiquing their pieces. Y/N had a feeling that if they didn’t get something from here, the store would be paying the price. Grabbing a sheer halter top and pair of black high waisted pants, Y/N let Damian throw the green top on the small pile and made their way to the check out. The cashier smiled nervously as the Wayne family stood in front of her.

True to Bruce’s promise, he paid for the three articles of clothes, the pair of shoes, the jewelry, the accessories, the–

“I think that is enough.There are a lot of bags, and while I appreciate it, I really don’t need anymore stuff.” Y/N placated Bruce and Damian, already picturing the amount of trips it will be to take everything back home. The man seemed satisfied though, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “If you insist. How about some lunch now?”

Y/N wanted to decline. They wanted to go back to the manor and get away from everybody. The feeling of walking on eggshells and constantly being watched had their skin crawling and the need to take another bath. Bruce wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and brought them close, and Damian took up their other side.

“You’re acting more as a bodyguard than a father it seems.” Bruce smiled, “We’re having a nice family outing. I’d hate it if one of your ‘followers’ interrupted." Y/N furrowed their brow, but they could not stop their body from tensing, “Someone is following us?”

“Unfortunately.” The photos they saw in their old room re-emerged and a feeling of dread seized their muscles, making them lean further into Bruce. Yes, they were once all Robins, but not once in those photos taken from their terrace was there ever a reflection of the Bat.

“It’s okay Y/N, I’ll make sure they won’t take any of you.”

“How… how do you know its not you they want a photo of?” Bruce smiled, guiding them into a fancy restaurant, Damian requesting a table away from the windows, "Because they all know not to follow me.” There was something akin to a warning in Bruce’s voice that had Y/N biting their lips and following the wait staff quietly.

Y/N watched as Damian and Bruce conversed casually, well, as casually as Damian can be. The topics went from school, a family named the Kents, and future prospects. Damian was still unsure about what exactly it is he wanted to do, and it most likely didn’t help that Tim was the one who was going to take over Wayne Enterprises.

Y/N continued to eat and sip their tea, not wanting to add to anything as their mind wandered. After talking to Jason, it proved to Y/N that they were somewhat always being watched. Jason bringing up that one specific memory may have made Y/N’s heart rate spike, but it did prove that Jason was there. The photos, all of them that were taken without Y/N’s consent, show that everyone had at some point gained interest.

However, why did they never act on it? Why wait until now to do something?

‘Bruce finally sees it too.’ Y/N’s jaw clenched, what does Bruce have to do with any of this? Could they not interact without Bruce’s permission? Alfred would never allow that.

Would he?

“What do you think, Y/N?” The question jolted Y/N out of their thoughts and back into reality. Looking around the table to two expectant gazes, they gave an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I was thinking about something, what was the question?”

Damian scrunched his nose, “What is there to think about when you have blood-related family members in front of you?” Y/N blinked in shock, and then remembered how much blood meant to Damian. They shrugged, “I have a busy schedule coming up.”

Bruce stabbed the piece of steak with the silver fork, “You do, don’t you.” He stared at his child, one who he has left to their own devices and now is estranged from the family. Always keeping them at arms length, and never looking back to see if they are behind them. Not because Y/N trusts them to be, but because Y/N was used to them not being there.

Y/N, for how proud Bruce is of them for standing on their own, is still naive. Still innocent. They didn’t notice the paparazzi lurking around, or maybe they got so used to them they learned to block them out. None of it sat right with Bruce. Those should have been things he taught Y/N. Things to prepare Y/N for a world that was bathed in camera flashes and gossip. How to look out for themselves. How to defend themselves, and what to do in case there is a stalker. Those should have been at least a fraction of what Bruce taught them.

Yet, he never did any of that. Looking at Y/N sitting across from him, sitting tall and with a closed-off expression, had Bruce frowning. Y/N was still polite, smiled when they needed to and engaged in conversation, but there was still a wall between them. Almost like glass. Bruce is able to see everything and hear almost everything, but his ability to interact with his child is limited. All interactions stopped by the wall of glass put up by Y/N themselves.

It's a good thing that Batman breaks glass windows on a daily basis.

“You have some shoots in New York, will you be visiting afterwards?” Bruce watched Y/N’s eyes widen and lips pursed. He could see the breaking point, cracks spreading throughout the glass as Y/N’s mind tried to wrap around the question.

“How–”

“Is it odd for a parent to know their child’s schedule?” Y/N blinked, and processed the information. A tight smile formed on their lips, “How long have you known my schedule?” Bruce took a bite of the steak and Damian continued to eat his plate of some fancy pasta.

“Now Y/N-”

“How long have you known my schedule?” Damian glanced up, irritated at their father being cut off, but the look on Bruce’s face had him settling down. The man was smiling, non-threateningly but all Y/N could see was the Bruce that had stood before them in the changing room after Gabanna’s runway show. The same eyes, full of intentions that had Y/N shivering and the money, power, and background to act on those intentions.

“Like I have said, Y/N. I am making up for the lost time and neglect you have faced within our home.”

“And I have said, Bruce, there is nothing to make up. That still does not answer my question about you knowing my schedule.” The cracks were spreading, chipping away and becoming weaker.

“What parent doesn’t know-”

“Don’t repeat that sentence. Bruce, you know what I am asking and you keep avoiding it. Who told you my schedule?” An emotion other than faux politeness finally filtered into Y/N’s voice, making the question sound firm and unlikely to bend or be swept away with Bruce’s elusivity. He smiled, “Oh Y/N, did Maya not tell you? GLM Agency has been under new agency since last year. Wayne Industries is now the parent of GLM Agency.”

Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, their pretty face twisting as the words registered with them. Everything crashed on Y/N, like glass shattering and bathing them in their shards. The guest room that is identical to their bedroom at home, the clothes that are from their closet, the two rooms full of their photos and mannequins wearing their iconic looks, that fucking Batman-inspired piece of clothing.

“Y/N.” They’re walking away from the table, head lost in thought and body moving on autopilot. The need to get away from everyone was overpowering the logical part of their mind, and Y/N is walking towards the front door of the restaurant. Pushing the glass doors open, and being bombarded by flashes from cameras.

“Y/N, what do you have to say about your mother?” A 13-year-old Y/N was guided out of the condo by police officers. Eyes rimmed red from crying and their only source of comfort was the blanket they managed to snag before being escorted out.

“Were you aware of your mother’s drug-use?”

“Are you on drugs?” A 17-year-old Y/N walked past the paparazzi, keeping their eyes forward even though they wanted to snarl at that person.

“Y/N! Look over here!”

“Look!”

“Over here!”

A large hand gripped their arm guided Y/N through the crowd and towards the parking lot where the car was. The large body blocking the photos and shielding them from the flashing of cameras that had thrown Y/N back in time. Once inside the safety of the metal box on wheels, Y/N became aware of their rapid breathing and the feeling of their heart pounding. Irregular beats and sweat began to form on their skin as they struggled to take a breath. Just one breath.

The hand that had guided them to the car grabbed their wrist and placed it on a large and firm chest, emphasizing the deep breaths that Y/N needed and wanted to take. Rough fingers gently traced their cheek, up to their ear, and then to their hair. Gently bringing Y/N back to the present.

“Shh shh, it’s okay Y/N. It’s okay. You’re safe.” E/C eyes drifted around the car, and closed once they saw the person’s reflection.

“Father, those vermin have been cleared. All of them will be getting in trouble.”

“Thank you, Damian.” Y/N rested their head against the glass and fought down the need to jump out of the car. Bruce eyed Y/N, and what made it worse was there was an apologetic look on his face.

“Y/N, I… I am sorry. I thought Maya had told you.”

“Seems like your manager isn’t doing their job if you didn’t know. You should get a new one.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Y/N mumbled, feeling a headache forming and they wanted nothing more than to curl under the covers and die. They could feel Damian’s pointed look through the seat, “Maya is a great manager. She will not be replaced.” Damian sneered, “She didn’t even inform you of the change in ownership.”

“Because it does not concern me. As long as I am able to get booked and get to my destinations, it does not matter who is in charge.” Y/N paused, “Although, now it looks like nepotism.”

Bruce huffed at his child’s overdramaticness, "It's not nepotism. I had no say in what shows you did or who booked them.”

“But you had a say in what clothes I wore.” Ice filled the car and Bruce gave Y/N a long look.

“Just that one piece, and I asked her to do it. She didn’t have to do it.” Y/N laughed, long and hollow as they turned their head to Bruce, “Of course she had to do it. Bruce Wayne is asking for a commission piece, who would turn it down without risking their reputation?” The man sighed, “Y/N, I submitted a commission piece. That is the only thing I had a hand in throughout your modeling career.”

“Others won’t believe that.”

“Who cares what others think.” Y/N whipped their head around to Damian, “I do. I do a lot actually. I care a lot about what my fellow models say and think about me.” The boy rolled his eyes, “Why? Their opinions don’t matter.”

“And your’s do?”

“We are family!”

“By blood, yeah! That’s as far as it goes.” Damian looked ready to snarl out more remarks, but the abrupt parking of the car had both of them pausing. They were already at the manor, and Y/N wondered just how fast was Bruce driving to get them here so quickly.

Y/N was quick to jump out of the car, “I will grab those bags later. Please don’t make Alfred take them.” Bruce followed, “Y/N.”

“No! No, ‘Y/N’ or anything. I want to be left alone.” Y/N pushed open the manor’s front door, and they wonder how many times they have snuck in and out of these doors before. Was it really even sneaking out if someone knew?

“Y/N, we need to talk about this.” There was something in Bruce’s voice that stoked the right ember within Y/N’s chest. Whipping around, they glared at the two Waynes, “For fuck’s sake, I just want to be left alone! I was fine with how things were. None of this-this- whatever the hell this is!

I was fine on my own. I was fine without you guys. I would have been fine if you stayed away!” Bruce didn’t even look bothered that Y/N was yelling, in fact the asshole looked relieved. He gave a patient smile with fake concern in those blue eyes, “The thing is though Y/N, you never should have done it on your own.”

Y/N rolled their eyes, “Where the hell did all of this even come from?! This… this sudden need to be part of my life? You’re not even being subtle about it!” They were drawing a crowd, but Y/N couldn’t even bring themselves to care.

“I keep telling you, it does. Not. Bother. Me that you all were inattentive. It doesn’t make me mad, it doesn’t make me upset, it doesn’t stir anything within me knowing you were not there. Yet here you are trying to make it up and all that nonsense, but when I tell you that it's fine you don’t listen!

“It genuinely seems that you are not doing this for me, but to ease your guilt.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, and it appeared they were in their own little showdown. Bruce’s gaze, not showing a hint of anger or irritation at his child while Y/N seethed. For once, Y/N looked liked the wild one in the family. Their teeth bared and eyes full of unadulterated rage, they glared at Bruce with the face of a raging angel.

They hated how Bruce’s lips pulled into a smile, and the feeling of gloating eyes falling on their body from all their siblings. Like they all knew something Y/N didn’t.

“Bruce finally sees it too.”

Y/N pocketed that thought, taking a deep breath and trying to calm down. Nothing intelligent was ever said when angry–

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?”

– Fuck it. Intense E/C eyes landed back on Bruce, “If you bought GLM Agency a year ago, why now?” Bruce continued to stare into Y/N’s eyes, “Because it seemed like you needed a break from Gotham. So, I figured a year away would be good.”

Y/N narrowed their gaze, “Then why didn’t you call?”

“Because it looked like you needed a break.” Y/N chuckled, “I needed a break, or you needed time to get those rooms set up?” Bruce raised a brow, but Y/N continued on, “It's one thing to have photos from some photoshoots but not photos taken without my consent. Or the clothes I’ve worn on mannequins with almost the exact same physique as me.”

“They are exact.” Y/N tore their gaze away from Bruce to stare at Tim, the thin and exhausted looking teen standing above them on the stairway. Chapped lips opened, “We used the measurements within the modeling database and created mannequins that have your exact measurements.”

Y/N gaped at him for a quick second before rolling their eyes, “Wow. That’s not helping your guys’ case at all.” Dick approached them, going for a placating gesture and an easy smile, “Now Y/N, I think you might be overreacting–”

“I think I am underreacting to all of this. I find out that you all have been taking secret photos of me, which someone them are from my ‘stalker’ and I don’t really believe that but whatever, you have access to my bank account, you bought the modeling agency I work for, commissioned a Batman-inspired piece, and that you have been keeping some of runway pieces on models that are exactly my measurements!

How else am I supposed to be reacting?! And I still don’t have my phone back!” Y/N snapped at Dick, and then began to rub their temples when the headache got worse. An Aspirin, they need an Aspirin. Now, preferably but Y/N has the strangest sense that even if they did take it, the headache would not go away.

“Whatever, just… I’m going home tomorrow and whatever was bought today just… just ship it. Since you know my address and all that apparently.” Y/N began walking up the stairs, ignoring the panicked looks some of their ‘siblings’ were giving them and the dark look on Bruce’s face.

Dick, ever the peacemaker, reached out, “Wait, you can’t go back yet! You still have a few more weeks before your next shoot. Just stay for a few more days.”

“Add kidnapping and being held against my will to that list too.” Y/N continued walking, feeling exhausted and wanting to sleep. They missed the nod Bruce gave Tim and Damian, and they missed the dark and knowing looks on Jason’s and Dick’s face. The walk back to the room was long, and more exhausting than usual. The events of today caught up to them and Y/N wanted nothing more than to cry, scream, and then go to sleep.

Because why not.

“Y/N, you are making a mistake.” Dick followed after their younger sibling, who only sped up to get away from them. The man grabbed Y/N’s forearm, “Y/N, listen! You don’t want to do this.”

“What is ‘this’ you are talking about Dick? I am literally just going home. It is not a big deal.” Y/N tried to pull their arm away from Dick, but to no avail.

“It's how you are doing it Y/N. All we want is to spend time with you and make up for the lost time!” Y/N wanted to scream at Dick, but held it in and instead gritted out, “Why didn’t you do it normally then? Like… texting or calling.” Dick pouted, those blue eyes looking sad and his lower lip jutting out like a toddler, “We missed you, and we just wanted to see you.”

Y/N’s face was scrunched, their mouth open in disgust, “How can you say that with that look on your face as if you all weren’t the ones who ignored me?” Dick looked heartbroken and some part of Y/N felt bad about that. They remembered the room with the photos and the other side of Dick that they saw only a few days ago. Their body seized in terror, but Y/N tried to keep their expression neutral.

“Look, Dick, once again I am not mad about how my time here was spent. I’m genuinely not. But you guys keep throwing it back in my face and saying such contradicting things, of course I’m going to get upset about it.” They are trying to be civil. Trying so desperately to be civil and it feels like it is not working. Old wounds and painful memories continued to be dragged out of the crevices of their minds like it was some type of zoo attraction.

A 16-year-old Y/N stared at the shattered mirror, tears racing down their face as they stared at their broken reflection. All they could see were the imperfections everyone continued to call out. Comparing them to their mother, to other models, to society’s twisted views of beauty that Y/N is trying to be.

If their mother was alive, would she know what to say? Would she gaze at them with those soft eyes and long lashes, smiling beautifully and whispering, “Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Continuing to remind Y/N that modeling was not a gentle job. It wasn’t a job for those with paper skin or glass bones. Those easily hurt by the meanest of comments, nastiest looks, and the horrendous words never made it in this industry.

Would this have been easier if they had the support of Bruce and his kids?

Labored breaths and broken sobs filled room-turned-practice room as the mirrors caught the sight of a teenager breaking down. Crumbling and shattering under the pressure, pricking their fingers as they cleaned up the broken mirror and picking up their shattered image.

It will be those same mirrors that watched those broken shards form their glass castle, posing as diamonds to deter others from trying to break in.

Y/N continued to walk down the long hallway, ignoring Dick’s calls and locking the door behind them. It was only 2pm, and Y/N had plans to sleep the rest of the day. They had no bags to pack, and nothing here they felt like taking. All they needed to do is sleep the day away, which will be easy, wake up tomorrow, call a cab and skedaddle out of here.

“Thats all we have to do, Y/N.” They closed their eyes for what only felt like a few minutes, until jostling and whispers of their name had them groggily opening their eyes. A yawn escaping them and their eyes struggled to open.

“Why are you in my room?” Tim gave a small huff, “Its dinner time.” Y/N buried their face in their pillow, groaning out a ‘not hungry.’ The young man hummed, “I think you should come down for this one, Y/N. You might get the answers you want.”

“Not interested.” Tim leaned down, his breath tickling Y/N’s ear, “You’re glass castle is shattering, Y/N. Don’t you want help fixing it?” Y/N wanted to swing. They wanted to do something to get their point across that they wanted almost nothing to do with this crazy family anymore.

They opted to glare, and Tim gave a soft smile, “C’mon, lets go eat. Besides, Alfred said that the cab won’t be coming for you if you don’t eat dinner.”

“Alfie!” Y/N groaned into the pillow, and they had stopo themselves from throwing up their arms and legs in a fit. Leave it to Alfred to do something so diabolical. Groaning one more time, Y/N sat up and mentally braced themselves for this shitshow of a dinner.

E/C eyes looked at the door they know they locked, and chose that whatever little bickerment that will start was not worth it at this point in time. Throwing their legs over the bed, they followed Tim out of the room and towards the dining room.

Everyone was there, and waiting for Y/N to appear. Once again, they were made to sit between Bruce and Damian, which they did so with little complaint.

“Now, Y/N, it looks like everyone has some explaining to do.” Y/N gave Bruce the driest most unimpressed face they could muster, to which the man took with a smile, “So, what questions do you want answered?”

‘They’re really doing this.’ Y/N could feel another headache forming, but decided to take the brightly colored bait. Looking at Jason, who was meeting their gaze with his green eyes waiting for this question, Y/N asked, “What did you mean when you said ‘Bruce sees it too.’” The man smirked, meeting Bruce’s eyes and back to Y/N, “Exactly that. The old man finally sees what you are to this messed up family.”

Y/N narrowed their gaze, taking a bite of the pasta, and chewing slowly. Dick decided to chime in, “Y/N, you have been loved by us for a while. Something you probably pieced together, but Bruce took a while to see it because… well because you’re not us.”

“Not like, you’re not Robin, but more like you’re not…”

“You’re fragile.” Everyone’s head turned to Damian, and Y/N had half the idea to be upset about that. They raised an eyebrow, but before they could say anything Damian continued, “You are not meant for this life we lead. Vigilantism never suited you, and that is something I picked up on when I first came here.”

When Damian had first met Y/N, it was like seeing a rare flower that had to be protected at all costs. Y/N was something that at the slightest gesture, could be hurt. When people come across something ethereal like that, the need to protect it can be divided into two different directions.

Hovering or distancing.

Bruce chose to distance himself, whether he knew it or not, and Damian had followed suit. He watched as his older sibling hovered from a distance, watching the rare flower bloom before it was finally the right time to engage with it.

“Y/N, it isn’t so much that I didn’t want to interact with you, it is that I didn’t know how.” Bruce looked into his child’s eyes, “How could I interact with someone who needed gentle hands, when there is not a gentle bone in my body.” Bruce’s hands have broken more bones than the human body has. He has scars on his skin and calluses on the palm of his hands.

“It took me a while to figure out why, but once I did, your absence became suffocating.” Everyone had been gasping for air, doing everything in their power for the slightest piece of oxygen. It was the fear of Y/N being harmed that kept them collared and chained to the photos, every interview, every runway show.

However, Bruce knows that every now and then, children should be able to spread their wings and fall. Y/N ended up flying, soaring above them and never looking back down. Bruce, and the family, decided to give Y/N a year. Just one on their own. This gave them all plenty of time to improve the glass terrarium that they wanted Y/N to be placed back in. This time they will be protected and paid attention too.

“When everyone stated that I can finally see the impact you have on this family, it means I have to come to terms with the fact that I no longer want to be hands off with your life and career.” Y/N’s brow furrowed, not liking the term ‘hands off.’

“You have done great on your own. A fabulous job. Clawing your way up and making a name for yourself, I am so proud of you. Everyone is extremely proud of you.

However, there is no need for you to struggle anymore. You’ve proven yourself, now let us take care of the rest.” Y/N felt shivers go down their spine as they stared at their family in fear. They took in each expression, and when they made eye contact with Jason, the other had a daring look in his eyes. Begging for Y/N to do something, similar to how predators hope for their prey to fight back to make the kill all the more interesting.

“But… But I don’t need your help, Bruce. I can do this on my own.” Bruce’s smile was that of honey, luring in unsuspecting insects and trapping them in its viscous fluid. If Y/N were younger, they may have fallen for it. They may have allowed themselves to coat their fingers in sugary words and sweet gestures, just so they could feel the love from a father.

“I know. We know, but you don’t need to anymore.”

“Now wait a minute-no. No no no no. You can’t just do that, explain yourself, and expect me to just roll with it.” Y/N set their napkin down, and tried to stand from the table, “I don’t need your help, although thank you for wanting to I guess. I am fine with it just being me and Maya.”

“About that…” Dick grimaced, handing Y/N his phone and pulled up was an article.

Y/N’s eyes widened and the world around them went cold. THey looked back up, “You’re lying.” Dick shook his head, fake empathy across his face as Y/N continued to read the article.

“No. NO this is a joke and a terrible one. Maya would never–”

“They were found in her apartment, Y/N.” The headlines, eerily similar to ones from five year ago, flashed across the small phone screen.

Manager of Model Y/N L/N Suspected of Drug Usage

Y/N wanted to cry. Horrible flashbacks resurfacing and tears pricking their eyes. They turned to Bruce who was still sitting and eating his pasta.

“Bruce, please. I know Maya, she would never do this.” The man said nothing. Y/N bit their lip, “Bruce… Bruce please. If its because of what I said then take that out on me. Please leave Maya out of it.

“Please Bruce! I know Maya. She’d never do that, and–and Bruce please.” Y/N was whimpering now, tears streaming down their face as the thought of losing their manager, the last person they had, nearly had them collapsing to their knees.

“Lets make a deal, Y/N.” Bruce wiped the corner of his lips, and grabbed Y/N’s thin wrist.

“You come home more often, during breaks and whatnot. I won’t have a lot of control over your modeling schedule, but make sure you include time each week for family. The only exception is when you are out of the country.” Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, but nodded along.

“In return, Maya gets out of trouble. Nothing will change other than the weekly meeting with family.” Y/N can’t breathe. They cannot breathe and there were eyes all on them. Gulping down on whatever air they can get a hold of, Y/N sobbed out, “Why are you going to such lengths?”

Bruce stood, and even though Y/N is tall, no one compares to Bruce’s towering figure. He smiled down at the model, and cupped a wet cheek with a calloused hand. Ice blue eyes stared into watery E/C eyes, and that smile turned too sharp to not be hidden blade, “I told you. It is too make up for lost time. Plus, as those photos suggest, you need protection. What better protection could you have that is not only part of the family, but also vigilantes?

“While it is true that diamonds are never made without pressure, diamond-encrusted jewlery require gentle hands and patience.” Bruce kissed Y/N’s temple, and the model flinched away. Ice blue met their eyes once more, “Now pick, Y/N. Either way, you will still be meeting us once a week, but you can have someone you know at your side or someone under my command.”

+++++

“And cut! Good job everyone!” The flashes from the camera stopped and the stage lighting turned off, no longer blinding everyone within the room. Y/N stood up from the red couch, a smile still on their lips as they thanked the photographers.

“Y/N, as always, perfect shots!”

“Good job Y/N!”

“Thank you for doing this, Y/N!” They continued to smile and acknowledge everyone that passed by, Maya right behind as they walked back to the changing room. Sitting on the couch was Jason’s large form and Tim’s lithe one. Both of them looking up as Y/N entered, ignoring Maya’s flinch.

“You have a birthday gala you need to catch. Come on, change out of that and lets go.” Leave it to Jason to get the message across. Y/N nodded, taking to the changing room where they know their clothes are already waiting for them. They could hear Tim interrogating Maya in the politist way. Clipped words and empty praises.

“Y/N they came out of nowhere! They stormed in and went straight to a vent where these-these drugs were! I’ve never even seen those there before! Let alone know that there was a vent!” Maya cried into Y/N’s shoulder as Dick and Damian watched on.

Emerging from the changing room in jeans and a crew neck, Y/N sighed, “Alright, shall we get going?” Jason stood up and Tim shook Maya’s sweaty hand. Y/N gave his manager a nod, signalling for her to take the rest of the day off. Jason’s large hand rested on the small of Y/N’s back, and Tim led the way to the new car that Bruce bought.

The ride was only two hours, filled with light conversation and catching up. Once at the mansion, Y/N greeted Alfred with a hug. Not as tight as they normally are, but it felt wrong entering the mansion without hugging Alfred. Bruce entered the foyer and grinned, hugging Y/N and kissing their temple.

“Your clothes are in your room, and there is another present on behalf of Damian and Jason.” Y/N nodded, “Thanks, Bruce.” The man smiled, “Come and eat dinner when you are done. We’ll have enough time before the Gala to at least eat something.” Y/N began walking away, each step up the stairs feeling like there was lead on their feet stopping them from going any further.

Once in the room, the locked the door and on the bed was a box and black and gold clothing. The black looking like it was made out of silk, and the gold was sequin. Y/N carefully walked towards the box, and when they lifted the lid, a white kitten mewed at them. Their fur still looking young and their eyes bluer than Bruce’s. They mewed and mewed, and Y/N could feel tears streaming down their face.

In neat cursive and tied around the bow of the box, was a small note, ‘We’ll watch her when you decide to leave the country.’

Y/N bit their lip, and felt as if their world was falling a part once more. Broken glass surrounding them and no matter where they stepped, their feet will end up bleeding. Now forced to rely on their family to carry them out of the mess they made, and now… now there was a lifeform that this family can and most likely will use against them.

Thin fingers gently picked up the cat and gave it a wobbly smile, as she mewed at Y/N. A red collar already around her neck, tied in a perfect bow.

“Y/N, the makeup artists are here. Are you ready?” Wiping their tears, Y/N set the kitten down and took in the black and gold piece once more.

“Not yet, but they can come in. I’ll get dressed afterwards.”

“Alright.” The door opened, despite Y/N locking it, and it was Dick smiling as he let in the two artists who were now scrambling to get set up. Blue eyes traveled from the cat, to the clothes, and back to Y/N. He grinned and stalked closer to his younger sibling that was now being corralled into sitting in front of the makeup artist.

He picked up the kitten and passed her for Y/N to hold, whispering in their ears, “Happy Birthday, Y/N.”

______________________________________________________________

Honestly... I really like this series. I think I'm going to do other stories but in the other characters POV now.

#batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfam #platonic yandere #batfam #batman x reader #bruce wayne #platonic batman #platonic batfam #yandere imagines #gender neautral reader #batman x gn reader #Yandere batman #batfam x male reader #Batfamily x female reader #Batfamily x gender neutral reader

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alikesical · 3 months ago

Text

part 1 part 2 part 2.5 part 3

trigger warnings: mentions of death (specifically dead parents), might be out of character? idk we'll see

"Bruce? What are y-"

"Please," he said, not letting you get another word out.

He knew how this looked like. He knew it was bad, and terrible, and very very confusing, and nothing like he fantasized about.

He was at your doorstep, 3 years too late, and instead of an apology, he's got a child and a plead.

"I-" he stuttered, Bruce never stuttered, "I need help." he said, his eyes never leaving yours. It was weird, looking him in the eyes again, after all you've seen of them for 3 years were on news broadcasts, but they somehow were still familiar.

The door creaked as you opened it up, a silent invitation. A promise that whatever went down in the past, will be left there.

For now, at least.

You said nothing as he walked in, no questions asked, even if there were thousand. You could always ask them later.

"My room is in there," you pointed at the closed door, "I'll get you some spare clothes. They'll be too big for him, but it's the only thing I have." you said and headed towards your bathroom. You could hear Bruce thanking you as he moved the boy in your room, the bed creaking as he set him down.

The site that greeted you once you walked in, nearly broke your heart.

Bruce was sitting on the edge of your bed, staring silently at the boy, the softest expression you've ever seen, etched in every corner of his face. They both looked so serene, the only difference being the look of absolute, excruciating sadness in Bruce's eyes.

He almost looked like he was grieving.

"Here you go," you broke the silence, offering the clothes to him, which he took with an appreciative nod.

He turned to the boy, silently nudging him, trying to wake him up as gently as he could. You could barely hear him whispering the kids name as you left the room and closed the door behind you.

Whatever had happened to this kid must have been traumatic if Bruce brought him to you instead of going straight to the manor and having Alfred help him. Seeing another stranger wouldn't do him any good right now.

And with that thought, you moved to your living room table, picking up your mug of now cold tea and headed to the kitchen. Your movements were mechanical as you filled the kettle with water and turned it on, still confused by how your night had progressed.

You were supposed to read your book, in peace and quiet, drink your tea, and ignore the world around you for a couple hours.

Now, you had a kid sleeping in your bed, wearing your clothes, and were making tea for Bruce Wayne, your best friend whom you haven't spoken to in 3 years.

You exhaled as you filled the mugs with water, blinking a couple times, before you picked them up and headed back to the living room.

"Jesus Christ!" you jumped back when you saw Bruce already sitting on your couch, hands on his knees, spilling some of the tea on the floor.

When did he get there? How did he get there? Your floorboards are the creakiest thing in your house, which says a lot considering the apartment is very old. How did he not make a single sound? It's not like he's small. The man towered over you and probably everyone else you knew.

You shake your head a little before walking up to him. It's late, you're tired, and the night has been eventful, no wonder you didn't hear him, your thoughts are loud enough to cover up the noise.

"He's asleep." he said as he accepted the mug from your hands, "Thank you." he took a sip.

You sit down across him, pulling your legs up to your chest as you copy him.

"It's no problem," you look at him, shoulders tense, head lowered. This isn't Bruce, not the Bruce you knew, at least. The Bruce you knew always stood tall, shoulders out, radiating a calm kind of confidence. This Bruce is just a cell of who he used to be.

"You can stay as long as you need," you continued, "both of you." you say and you see him visibly tense up more, like he didn't expect you to say that.

And in all honesty, he didn't. He didn't expect any of this. Not you opening the door, not you letting him in or giving clothes to Dick, or making him tea, or letting him stay. All the while, not asking a single question.

He didn't deserve this, he didn't deserve any of it.

You saw his brows scrunch up, his eyes fixed on the mug he was holding so tightly that it could break any moment. "Listen," you spoke up again, interrupting him from falling deeper into his thoughts, "It's late and you look like hell. Why don't you go and sleep in my room with the kid and we'll talk in the morning?" you stand up, "How does that sound?" you say moving in front of him as he nods and follows your example.

You both head into the room, him making a beeline to the bed, and you heading to your wardrobe, getting an extra pillow and a blanket.

"Good night Bruce, sleep well." you say as he slowly slips under the covers, his coat resting on your desk chair.

"Good night." you hear him answer as you close the door behind you.

The next morning, you wake up, groaning as you stretched on your couch, your back hurting in ways you never thought it could.

You exhale as you stand up, feet hitting the cold floor, as you stand up and immediately head to the kitchen trying to not think about what happened last night and the reason you had to sleep on the couch in the first place.

Coffee first, you can deal with Bruce later.

You rub your eyes as you wait for the water to boil, trying to crack your neck, just to get some relief from all the built up pressure.

Thankfully, you didn't have to go to work today, so once you were done, you grabbed the mug and headed back to the couch, hand immediately reaching for the remote.

"-terrible accident took place last night as a pair of acrobats travelling with the circus, known alongside their young son as the Flying Graysons, fell to their death, leaving their son an orphan." you hear the news reporter say the moment you turn on the TV, your expression turning into one of shock,

"Their death has been attributed to an accident, the GCPD says after conducting research overnight, and their young son seems to have be taken away by no other than Bruce Wayne, who's own parents died when-" you turn the TV off, staring at the empty black screen.

So that's what happened. This is why Bruce looked so distraught last night. He didn't just watch two people die, he relived the night his parents we murdered all over again.

Flashes from the past appearing right before his eyes, leaving him unable to escape the hold they still had on him, the hold they always will...

You were pulled out of your thoughts as you heard the light pitter patter on the floor, accompanied by it creaking with every step, and before you knew it, you see the boy in front of you, wearing your shirt, that was entirely too big for him, rubbing his eyes as he looked around confused.

"Good morning," you greet him, a soft smile on your lips as he turns to look at you, only then realising there's another person in the room with him, "How did you sleep?" you ask him, but he stays silent, playing with the hem of your shirt.

"...good" he says under his breath after a while, and you exhale in relief.

"Are you hungry?" you ask but he gives no response, "I've got some cereal in the kitchen." no response, "I'll let you keep the toy," he immediately perks up, and you let a wide smile overtake your face as you stand up again.

You head into the kitchen, the boy following close behind, and suddenly a light shines on this terrible situation, because even after witnessing something so traumatising, this little boy still got excited at the thought of getting the silly little toy that came with the cereal box. After all that happened, he was still a child, and you were determined to keep it that way.

@whiskytoast hope you enjoyed it! I'm not gonna lie, while I did plan on continuing this at some point, I lowkey screamed when I saw your comment and immediately got up lmao slept is for the weak after all

#batman #bruce wayne #batfam #bat family #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce x reader #dick grayson #robin #dick grayson x reader #dick appears as robin

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thewritingfairy · 1 month ago

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↪ 15. The beginning of the end

PREV PART trigger warnings: (threatened) violence, (past, kinda) medical + physical + emotional neglect, mentions of drugging, anger, the start of yandere behaviour, delusional behaviour, swearing, tell me if I missed any! main m.list series m.list

Jason is going to do something he’ll regret, and this time Dick feels no reason to hold him back. After your little stunt of just leaving to your friends house for a week, without a phone, and ignoring Damian at school Dick feels no reason to make shit easier for you. Perhaps he’s feeling petty, disregarded like a piece of trash. But then again, isn’t he just that?

In the week you had left Bruce had found your medication stash, and instead of taking it like he predicted he would he sabotaged it. Adding a little bit of drugs that’s meant to make you sleepy enough that you’ll need more help, at least that’s what he told Dick. He doesn’t know if he believes his adoptive father, it’s clear he’s spiralling.

Dick remembers your mama, he remembers her warmth, how she saw through his disguise and how she helped him with grieving Jason. Gods, she was an angel descended down to earth to leave too soon. It makes him think of how similar your future fate might be to your mother’s, it makes him question Barbara if she knew what he could do to bond with you further, but no one but Duke knows and he made it clear he’s not on their side. He likes to think your mama would have sided with them, would have given them the grace you refuse to give. She wouldn’t, she would curse them all to a crueller fate the Joker had given Jason.

But your pills isn’t something that enraged Jason. No, he found that it was quite a good idea. It was your blatant disregard for their feelings, to a degree Dick could understand why you disregard them but he won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt.

So here he is, with Jason waiting for a few of your friends ready to threaten them. At least he convinced Jason to not go as Red Hood, isn’t he so kind?

Now, there is no time to get distracted, your friends will pick you up at work tonight and they need the fear of your brothers in them.

“I’m so excited for (Name) and Maria,” Francis says to Willow, grinning ear from ear. Oh perhaps the brothers will listen tot his for a short moment. “they finally picked an act for the talent-show.”

“About damn time,” Willow agrees, grinning just as big. “oh and I cannot wait to see that Damian’s face, he’s going to be so surprised that (Name) is even participating!”

Okay, now they’ve heard enough.

“Excuse me,” Dick greets them with his award winning smile (no really, he won awards). “could we have a moment of your time?”

Willow and Francis look at each other and pulled a disgusted face, a face that pissed Jason off enough to grab Francis’ collar. “We shouldn’t be polite to these little fucks,” he hisses as he drags Francis in an alley, something that makes Willow follow immediately. And by the look in her face she was about to kick Jason in the fucking nuts. “they need to be learned a lesson-”

“Get your hands off my fucking brother, you sibling beating bitch!” She shouts, kicking Jason in the side but it does nothing. The kick was like a little tickle and Jason laughs at how pathetic it is. Truly, (Name) you want these pathetic little fucks protecting you?

Dick tsked and forced Willow to stand in a corner with her brother who looks suspicious. “We don’t want to fight,” he says, but it’s a clear lie. And when he saw Willow’s deadpan he gave her a smile that Willow could only describe as crazed. “yet.”

At least Francis has the sense to attempt to protect his little sister, but all Jason could think about was smashing his head in the wall for filling you with thoughts of leaving. For giving you the confidence to act like a bitch (what they don’t know is that this won’t intimidate Francis and Willow, no, they’ll tell you all about it and whatever you do. Don’t worry they’ll stand by your side). “Don’t glare you little shit,” Jason hisses at Francis. “you have no right, who the fuck do you guys think you are?!”

Willow scoffs; “Maybe we need some context to two strangers pulling us in an alley and clearly having a fucking issue with us!”

She knows who they are, Dick is sure of it. She has to.

“Because all I see is two insecure men that can’t believe their little sibling is fucking awesome and no longer needs them!” She shouts, and now it hits him. Willow doesn’t see them as Dick and Jason, no. Simply as two poor brothers. “And now you are fucking intimidating us?!”

Well turns out Jason has less self-control then Dick remembers, because now it was Willow’s head who was smashed into a wall. Blood dripping down her face, and for a second Dick has a moment of clarity. What the fuck are they doing? They are meant to protect civilians, yet here they are smashing a small girls head in a wall. Francis makes a sound of surprise and quickly pulls Willow to his side, his eyes wide as he spoke; “You know at first I couldn’t believe (Name) that the Wayne’s are such pieces of shit. But now I know that’s even too kind.”

Dick chuckles. “As if anyone would believe you if you were to tell them what happened then and now,” Francis smirks as if he knows something Dick and Jason don’t, which he’ll ignore for now. “so run along and see this a warning. Stop corrupting (Name), or this won’t be the last of this.”

“Even without us,” Willow starts, slurring her words a bit. Jason still frozen in shock of what he just did and the fact that Dick didn’t stop him. “they would have ‘turned’ against you, you neglectful motherfuckers.”

With that the two they left, not knowing what storm was coming when (Name) comes home.

BAD ENDING 0.16 NEXT PART (main story) As the titel says, it's the beginning of the end! I know it hasn't gotten all too bad yet but from this chapter forward I will be going 2 ways, a bad ending and a good ending. Idk yet how many chapters they will each get, but basically the bad ending means that the batfam gets their preffered ending (with a few hiccups) and the good ending means you'll get an escape ending which will be ‘the main story’ because the good ending takes a different path than the bad ending. And the bad ending is more extreme so I'll make a seperate masterlist for the chapters for that and a seperate taglist.

taglist:@prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

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chaoticsolsworld · 2 months ago

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“In the end, I Chose You…”| Manny Alvarez x Reader

Author’s Note: Canon-divergent one-shot where reader turns on Abby’s crew during the cabin scene and saves Joel + Ellie. She spares Manny too (because love hurts, but not like that), and they’re taken to Jackson for interrogation. Tension, regret, redemption, and a slow-build happy ending. Joel lives. Love survives.

CW: gun violence, death (of canon side characters), guilt, emotional distress, betrayal, interrogation, soft!Manny energy, reader crying a lot.

Let me know if you want a part two or epilogue!

Blood. Breath. Cold.

The cabin smelled like smoke, gun oil, and fear. Joel Miller was bound and bruised in the middle of the floor, and Abby’s voice echoed in your skull like a warning bell.

“Get it over with.”

You watched her raise the golf club.

Your hand shook on your rifle.

Ellie’s voice rang out hoarse, desperate….just outside the door. She was pounding against it with both fists.

You hesitated.

Abby didn’t.

She took a step forward.

“No!” you screamed, suddenly moving.

The shot rang out before your mind could catch up. Abby crumpled, her weapon clattering to the floor.

Everyone froze.

Mel screamed. Owen turned, reaching for his pistol but you shot him too. Then Mel. Quick, messy. You were sobbing by the time they hit the ground.

“Shit—shit,” Manny cursed behind you. “What the hell did you just do—”

“I couldn’t let her see it!” Your voice cracked, gun trembling in your grip. “I couldn’t watch her lose him!”

Joel was bleeding, but alive. Staring at you like he didn’t know whether to thank you or kill you next.

The door burst open.

Ellie charged in, knife raised, eyes wide with rage but froze the moment she saw who was standing. Who wasn’t.

You.

Manny.

And her father figure, still breathing.

She blinked, body trembling. “What did you do…?”

You dropped the rifle. “I saved him.”

Silence. Thick and broken only by your breathless sobs.

Manny stepped between you and Joel without raising a weapon. “She didn’t want it to go this far,” he said, hands half-lifted. “I swear. She stopped it.”

You turned to him. “I didn’t shoot you,” you choked. “I—I couldn’t—”

“I know, cariño.” His voice was rough, unreadable. “I know.”

Footsteps.

Outside. Fast.

The cabin door banged open again and this time, it was Jesse, gun drawn, flanked by Jackson patrol.

“Hands in the air! Now!”

Joel obeyed. So did Ellie.

You and Manny didn’t resist.

You were cuffed, hands behind your back, knees in the snow and led out of the cabin in silence.

(Jackson, Two Days Later)

Interrogation. Isolation. Grief. Suspicion.

But Joel told them what really happened.

That you spared him. That you saved Ellie.

That you didn’t pull the trigger when it counted most.

And Manny? He could’ve turned on you. Could’ve saved himself.

But he didn’t.

He sat in the other cell beside yours, hands folded in his lap, refusing to speak unless you were brought in with him.

Eventually, they allowed it.

He looked at you—tired, unshaven, eyes soft.

“You didn’t shoot me,” he murmured again, like it still surprised him.

“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “Even then… I still loved you.”

He reached for your hand, and you didn’t pull away. Not anymore.

“I don’t know what happens after this,” you said.

“Maybe they let us stay.”

“Maybe they exile us.”

“I don’t care,” Manny replied. “As long as you’re with me.”

(Jackson, Months Later)

You stayed.

Both of you.

With restrictions at first. Patrol shifts. Community hours. Slow trust.

Joel healed. Ellie grieved. But they nodded at you when they passed now. Jesse did too.

Sometimes, you and Manny would sit by the gate after patrol—watching the snow fall like nothing had ever been broken.

And even if the guilt still lingered… even if the scars ran deep…

You had spared Joel.

You had spared each other.

And that choice…that mercy? It was finally enough to start healing.

#danny ramirez #danny ramirez x reader #manny alvarez x reader #manny alvarez #tlou hbo

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month ago

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Wicked Games 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Bruce is nice enough. He does a typical checkup. Says he'll request the ultrasound from your doctor. You thank him and he chats with Steve before he goes.

"Says you're healthy," Steve declares at the door shuts. "Nothing of concern so far."

"Did you ever think...maybe, that whatever they put in you might kill me?" You scowl from the couch as you hug a pillow. "Pregnancy is already damgerous enough."

"Bruce doesn't seem concerned with that. He's a scientist. He's curious," Steve approaches. "You just need to take it easy."

"Take it easy?" You grumble. "Right. It's not very easy. There's a thing growing inside of me."

"Our baby," he sits beside you. "Look, I get it. It's not what you imagined but you gotta think about it. We met for a reason."

"No, we met because I was mad at my husband and my own stupid choices and what did I do? Made another one." You throw a hand up and sink into the cushy couch. "Shouldn't the great cap go out an find someone bubbly and pretty and perfect?"

"You're perfect," he insists.

You stare at him. You're so tired. He's relentless. No matter what you do, puke, gorge, snarl, he's not going to let up. For God's sake, he killed Barrett.

"It really was the greatest night of my life," he leans toward you.

You wince. "Steve..."

"I only want to take care of you." He says. "That night, the woman I met, she wanted that too. That's what you said. You said you were lonely and you just wanted to be wanted. I want you. I need you."

You look away as your eyes gloss with tears. He's not lying. That night you were bitter and dejected. Your husband wouldn't touch you and just that was enough to break you. You were drunk but you were still you.

You cover your face and turn away.

"It's alright," he touches your shoulder gently, rubbing your arm.

"It's not." You snivel.

"But it will be." He squeezes your shoulder. "Shh, sweetheart, relax."

He spreads his hand across your back and rubs. You shiver. He shifts closer. You can feel him. He slides his arm over your shoulders.

He pulls you to him. You don't resist as he turns you and puts your head on his chest. His other hand runs up and down your arm.

That's it. You have nothing left. You crumble. You bury your face in his shirt as another storm washes over you. You sob. You're not just grieving your husband, you're grieving for yourself.

He hushes you, rocking you slightly, and the waves ebb and flow until you're spent. He stays like that with you. You can hear his heart.

He relaxes against you. You let him hold you. Just like that night, you settle for any comfort you can find.

Time blurs and you drift in the haze. When you break through the ambivalence, you're still on the couch. You're on your side, hugging the pillow, numb and dozy. You're not sure you were sleeping, you're still exhausted.

Steve emerges and you watch him. He's in only a towel. His blond hair slightly curls from moisture. He looks at you and rubs his neck.

"How're you feeling?" He asks.

You groan.

"Hungry?"

Your stomach growls before you can answer. You've never felt hunger quite like it.

"I can make you something," he offers.

"No, no," you sit up. "I can manage. I'm not.... helpless."

"I know. I'm just trying to help."

You look at him and stand. You don't say anything. Funny, he keeps saying that word; help. Does he know what that means? It only seems to mean do what he wants.

You pass him to get to the kitchen. You try not to notice or think about his exposed physique. The hard muscle, his thick arms, that inhuman strength.

Remember what he did. You don't know that he wouldn't do the same to you. Sure, he wants the baby but he could find another woman, make another. You're not delusional. You don't think you're special like that.

You'll make a sandwich. Simple. It shouldn't make you sick. Just peanut butter.

Wrong. As you twist open the jar, the smell flips your stomach. You step back and cover your mouth. Steve's shadow moves into the doorway.

"You okay?"

You swallow the bile in your throat.

"As okay as I can be," you drop your hands.

"Like I said, anything I can do."

"Give me some space," you say abruptly. "I need a moment, okay? Like, don't you get it? I planned to be with my husband, not you."

You spin away and put the lid back on the jar.

"I get that," he says tersely.

"I never wanted a kid. Do you know that?"

He hums.

"But here we are so give me a chance to process this," you snap.

He tuts and steps into the kitchen. He crosses his arms.

"You think this is what I want? I never wanted to be in this century. I never wanted to wake up in a world where everyone I know is gone. Where all my hopes and dreams are quashed and this brave new world rejects everything I know."

His voice cracks and takes a deep breath.

You drop your shoulders. No, you didn't think about that. Yet, why would you even consider any of it when he can have anything he wants. Sure, his life isn't what he wanted but why does he get to do the same to you?

"I'm not the one who ruined your life," you mutter.

His brow twitches.

"No, you didn't. You're giving me a chance at that life," he sighs. "So, take your time, but we both know I'm going to get what I want."

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #mcu #marvel #drabble #wicked games #series #au #captain america #avengers

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reidmarieprentiss · 10 months ago

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Ghost of You

Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt, fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending

Word count: 14.3k

a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive

main masterlist

The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation.

Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.

“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.

Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.

Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.

The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.

The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.

Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.

As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.

“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.

Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.

As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.

—

As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.

Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.

JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.

Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.

Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.

As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.

In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.

—

In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.

Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.

Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.

Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.

At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.

Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.

—

The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.

Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.

At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.

Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.

"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.

—

In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.

JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.

He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.

Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.

The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."

Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."

"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.

That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.

Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.

Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.

As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief.

—

Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.

Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.

Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.

Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.

But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.

Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.

Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.

—

As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.

"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.

"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.

Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.

"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."

Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"

Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."

The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.

As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.

"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."

The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.

—

As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.

Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.

"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."

"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."

Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.

As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.

"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."

Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."

The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.

—

On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.

Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.

Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.

"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.

Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.

"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."

"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.

At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.

Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her.

—

In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.

"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.

"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.

"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"

"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.

"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.

"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."

"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"

The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.

—

In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.

"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.

Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.

Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."

The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"

Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.

As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."

—

The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.

Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.

It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.

Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.

As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.

He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing.

—

As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.

Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.

As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.

"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.

Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."

The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.

"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.

"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.

"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."

Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.

"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.

"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"

Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.

"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."

Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."

The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.

"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"

"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"

"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."

Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."

"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"

"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."

Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"

"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.

"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."

"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"

Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.

"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.

"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."

The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.

Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.

The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.

Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.

The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.

The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.

“Hi, Spence.”

The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.

The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.

Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.

Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.

As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.

—

Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.

When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.

Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.

Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."

At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.

The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.

"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."

Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words.

—

Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.

"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.

"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.

"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"

"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."

"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.

"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.

As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.

"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."

"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.

"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.

The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.

—

At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.

Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.

You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"

"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.

With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."

You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions.

"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him.

The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.

You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."

The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.

"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.

The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash.

"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."

The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.

Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience.

"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"

You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"

“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.

“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.

“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.

Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.

"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.

"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.

Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"

The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.

You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.

"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.

Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.

You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.

"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.

"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.

"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.

Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.

"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.

"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.

He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.

"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.

Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.

He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.

“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade.

You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”

“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”

The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.

As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.

—

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.

Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.

"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.

You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.

Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad."

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.

"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"

Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.

You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.

In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.

—

After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.

As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.

You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.

Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.

—

The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.

When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.

“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.

“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.

“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”

The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.

Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.

Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”

“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.

“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.

Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons.

—

As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.

When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.

You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"

"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.

"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.

Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.

"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"

"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.

"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.

"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.

"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.

"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"

You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.

He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.

"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop.

Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship.

"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.

"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.

"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.

"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence.

Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.

—

Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.

When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.

You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart.

Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.

“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.

“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.

“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.

He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.

Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”

“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.

“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.

You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.

“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.

Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.

“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.

“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.

You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."

Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.

The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan.

"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.

"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.

As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.

"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.

Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.

As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”

Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.

"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.

The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.

Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.

"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection.

Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.

"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.

Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you.

"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.

Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.

"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.

His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.

“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed

Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.

"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.

"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.

"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.

"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."

His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"

"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure.

The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.

Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"

"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.

"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.

"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension.

As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.

The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.

Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.

As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.

Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.

—

“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.

Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.

"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.

"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."

He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"

"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.

"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.

Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.

"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?"

—

Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.

Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.

Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.

“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.

Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”

"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44

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ds-angel1 · 2 months ago

Note

can you do a hitman! rafe x reader fic where reader hires hitman! rafe to kill her cheating husband— and she finds out that rafe doesn’t seem too bad himself ;)

a/n: um so... I didn´t read the request well enough and didn´t see the cheating... so so sorry!! I´m gonna keep it the way I have it, cause it´s not that integral to the plot. I hope this isn´t too far off from what you wanted and sorry that it´s taken me so long, such a cool request!!!!

cw: murder/hiring a hitman, brief mention of abuse, mention of shooting and drowning, unprotected sex

wc: ~ 1.5k

The parking lot was a wasteland of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights, each drip of water from a leaky gutter slicing through the silence like a metronome of dread.

Your footsteps echoed, uncertain and slow, each one louder than you'd like. Fingers twitched at your sides, restless and cold, while your mind spiraled, thoughts crashing into each other with no room to breathe, let alone think clearly.

Time stretched. Minutes passed like hours, every second a drumbeat in your chest. Then finally, movement. A figure emerged from the shadows.

A man. Jeans, hoodie, buzzcut, and a scowl etched so deep it looked permanent. His eyes swept the lot in quick, practiced scans before settling on you. He stopped just out of reach.

“Um… are you… the guy?” you asked, the words fumbling out, awkward and thin. You didn’t know his name, only what he was supposed to do.

“Yeah. You Mrs. Walton?”

The name stung, triggering something deep in your skull. You clenched your jaw. Not for much longer, you reminded yourself. Soon, it would be gone, scrubbed from your life like blood from tile.

“Yes,” you murmured.

He studied you, eyes dark and unreadable. “You got anything on you I should know about?”

You shook your head. “What… like a recorder? No.”

“Good.” His tone was flat, but the warning behind it landed hard. “If this gets out, there’s people who’ll handle it. Even if I’m inside.”

You nodded, stiff.

“You’re gonna buy a new phone. Cheap, burner. Text me when and where. Got it?” He held out a slip of paper, a scrawl of numbers barely legible in the dim light. “Half the money now, half when it’s done. I’ll text you the location for the other half the day before.”

Your fingers closed around the paper, knuckles pertruding with tension. Your brain burned the details into your memory, this wasn’t a mistake you could afford.

This was murder. You were paying to have your husband killed.

It sounded monstrous when you thought of it like that. But you’d run the math a hundred times. A divorce meant ruin, he’d bury you in court, leave you penniless, maybe even dead. You knew the connections he had. You’d seen the bruises. Felt them. This wasn’t just escape. It was survival.

You looked him in the eyes, steadied your breath, and nodded. “Okay.”

With one last glance over his shoulder, he turned and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the same darkness he came from.

And you stood there, hand tight around the number, knowing there was no turning back now.

Just a few days later, the call came.

“Mrs. Walton? I’m terribly sorry to inform you—your husband was shot while driving to work this morning. The impact caused him to lose control of the vehicle… he drove off a bridge. Rescue teams are still recovering the car from the river, but… we’re confident he didn’t survive. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

It took them nearly two days to drag his overpriced luxury car out of the water, along with what was left of him. His bloated hands, that smug face already softening with rot. The bullet, once perfectly placed over his heart, had nearly dissolved in the water, just like the man himself, dissolving into memory, into myth, into nothing.

Then came the wave: condolences, hushed voices, solemn faces, the funeral. You cried on cue. Hugged on cue. Played the grieving widow like you’d been born for it. You should’ve won something for that performance, an Oscar, at least.

Six days after the hit, the text finally arrived.

A location. Coordinates in the kind of place GPS signals go to die—the edge of the worst part of town, where the streetlights didn’t bother working and the air smelled like rust and regret.

You showed up on time. Summer, yet the sun dipped early, casting the trailer in long shadows. It looked like it had been pieced together from scraps and curses. Through the grimy window, you spotted him, same buzzcut, same scowl, hand lazily resting on his chin as he watched you approach.

By the time you reached the door, he was already there, holding it open with that same unreadable expression. Wordless. You stepped inside.

“You got my money?” His voice was gravel in the cold, stale air.

“Yeah.” You reached into your purse, pulling out a plastic bag stuffed with bills—his money, technically. Now yours.

He took it without ceremony, fingers rummaging through it, counting. “You stay while I go through this,” he muttered.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The silence was sharp. Tension hung like a fog as he flipped through stacks, licking his finger, counting aloud under his breath.

“Did… did you plan that?” you finally asked, breaking the quiet. “The river, I mean. To like... get rid of evidence?”

A low hum escaped him. A yes, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.

You let another beat pass before speaking again, quieter now. “Is this... your place?”

“Friend’s,” he answered, clipped and uninterested.

You frowned, letting out a small huff and turning your gaze to the peeling walls. His eyes flicked up at the sound.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” you said, folding your arms. “Just think you could be a little less rude. You know, considering.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely incredulous. “Yeah? I kill people for a living. You expect rainbows and compliments?”

You met his stare. “Wouldn’t kill you to be a little more polite to your clientele.”

Your words were met by a roll of his eyes before he stood slowly, nearing you threateningly.

“Oh yeah? Ya want me to be nice to you, darlin´?”

You don’t know how it happened, the moments between those few words and now, were a blur.

You were sat on the cluttered counter of the trailer sink, arching your back off of the wallpaper-ridden walls as the man holding your thighs to your chest was pumping in and out of you unapologetically rough and hard.

His eyes, illuminated only by a tiny lamp in the corner, were strictly focused on the sight of his length being engulfed by your soppy cunt.

You let out whine after whimper and moan after exclaim, muttering about his size and how damn good it felt over the lude squelching sounds and the rattling of the trailer. The tip of his mind-screwing cock hit a spot inside you your dead husband could never reach, making you come like you never have as he emptied his seed inside your warm, inviting womb.

Silence settled in, thick and charged, as the two of you caught your breath. His thumbs traced slow, almost tender circles on your bare hips, an unspoken lullaby after the storm. Then, with a quiet groan, he pulled out. A soft, slick sound followed, and a warm rush of your mingled release slipped from you, trailing down your inner thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and almost reverent as if the word alone could ground him.

He crouched down, redressing you with surprising care, slipping your panties back up, smoothing your skirt into place. His hands lingered at your waist as he guided you upright, placing you gently on trembling legs.

“You don’t tell anyone about this,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. His gaze lingered on your face, drinking in the wreckage of your expression, flushed cheeks, mascara streaked in messy rivers, eyes wide with something between shock and surrender. The dim light tried to swallow it all, but it couldn’t. He saw everything.

He reached up, his fingers rough but delicate as they wiped away the smudges beneath your eyes.

“Okay…” you whispered, the word ghosting past your lips. Your mind hadn’t caught up yet, still lost somewhere between shame and euphoria, disbelief and craving.

He nodded once, sharp and unreadable, before turning to the bag. Without finsishing counting, he began gathering the stacks of money, trusting it was all there. Somehow, that trust felt heavier than anything he’d said aloud.

You watched him in silence, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

“Can I… will I see you again?” you asked, your voice barely steady enough to make it out of your dry throat.

He didn’t look up. Not until his bag was zipped shut with all the money you paid him for killing your husband buried deep inside. Just like his cum was buried deep inside you.

“Keep the phone,” he said, tone flat, but something in it twisted, subtle and raw.

Your pulse quickened, your breath catching in your throat.

He walked to the door, hand gripping the bag so tightly that his tanned knuckles turned pale. You stepped forward, words tumbling out before you could stop them.

“Wait… what´s... what’s your name?”

He paused in the doorway, half in shadow. Then, turning his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Rafe. My name is Rafe.”

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smellslikechahnspirit · 11 months ago

Text

FAKE TEXTS SKZ

🤍 : fluff, soft, still might contain swearing

🕸 : MIGHT CONTAIN SOME adult themes, emotional, maybe trigger warning

[R]: requested (41)

OT8, 스트레이 키즈 :

You're addicted to caffeine 🕸🤍 [R]

Mistreated by "friends" 🕸🤍 [R]

You're not feeling well 🤍 [R]

Christopher Chahn Bahng, 방찬 :

You had a crush on Felix 🤍

You got your period 🤍

You've gained some weight 🤍

You had a panic attack 🕸🤍

You couldn't find your tampon 🤍

Your parents were fighting 🕸🤍

He's late...again 🤍

You thought he would be angry 🕸🤍

You were having a hard time 🕸🤍

You didn't shave 🤍

You were drunk 🕸🤍

He's scared to lose you 🕸🤍

He's bored and can't sleep 🕸🤍

You're angry at everything but him 🕸🤍

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍

He's worried about you 🕸🤍

Mutual love? 🕸🤍 [R]

He feels like he's neglected you 🕸🤍 [R]

You're grieving 🕸🤍

You're fighting 🕸🤍

He's being a tease 🕸🤍

You have a toxic friend 🕸🤍 [R]

You feel insecure about your body after pregnancy 🕸🤍 [R]

Fighting due to your PMSing 🕸🤍

You don't want to bother him 🕸🤍

He's jealous 🤍

He found your vape 🕸🤍

You lost his expensive gift 🤍

He wants to go public about you two 🤍

You're a virgin 🕸🤍

Anger issues 🕸🤍

Single mother 🤍 [R]

Confession 🤍 [R]

Abusive ex 🕸🤍 [R]

Impulsive haircut at 2 AM 🤍

Caught masterbating 🕸🤍 [R]

Intimate on your period 🕸🤍 [R]

You're on your period 🤍

Another idol asked your number part 1 part 2🤍 [R]

He hears you cry 🕸🤍

You were in an accident 🤍 [R]

He found you shells 🤍

He found your smutty book 🕸🤍

He snapped at you 🕸🤍 [R]

You have baby fever 🕸🤍

Almost 27 yo 🕸🤍

Happy for the first time in a long time 🕸🤍

He found your vibrator 🕸🤍

Wearing a Ghostface mask 🕸🤍 [R]

You're on your period 🕸🤍

You are using anxiety pills too often 🕸🤍 [R]

Rumors about him cheating 🕸🤍

You got your period late at night 🕸🤍

Huge spider in Sydney 🤍 [R]

You don't realize he likes you 🤍 [R]

He misses u 🤍

You're ovulating 🕸🤍

Best friend Channie hears you masterbating 🕸🤍

Best friend Channie finds out you're lonely 🤍

He's mad at STAY 🕸🤍 [R]

Post break-up 🕸🤍

Revealing dress 🕸🤍

Accidental i love you 🤍

Fight 🕸🤍

Lee Min ho, 이민호 :

You got bullied 🕸🤍 [R]

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Seo Chang Bin, 서창빈 :

He sees you at the high-school reunion 🤍 [R]

You can't kiss him 🕸🤍 [R]

Hwang Hyun Jin, 황현진 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Han Ji Sung, 한지성 :

You got stood up 🤍 [R]

He texts you after the high-school reunion 🤍 [R]

You don't want to bother him 🕸🤍 [R]

He missed you 🕸🤍 [R]

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Lee Yong Bok, 이용복 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

He spoils your surprise party 🤍 [R]

Irresponsible sex brings consequences 🕸🤍 [R]

You're gonna visit his hometown soon 🤍 [R]

He found out you were pregnant via another member 🤍 [R]

Kim Seung Min, 김승민 :

You couldn't find your tampon 🤍 [R]

You send him flowers 🤍 [R]

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Confession 🤍 [R]

Yang Jeong In, 양정인 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

please let me know if there is a mistake in it somewhere or i said things that needed a trigger warning, and i forgot.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

#stray kids #skz fake texts #skz #incorrect quotes #skz x reader #scenario #felix x reader #minho x reader #seugnmin x reader #bangchan x reader #jisung x reader #changbin x reader #jeongin x reader #hyunjin x reader

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babybeeelle · 5 months ago

Text

Hiii, long time no see. I was writing a different story, but I wasn't satisfied in the direction it was going so this just spouted from my brain. This was based off a request, but I'm dramatic so I amplified it :)

Summary - When Agatha's grief causes her to lash out at the reader, she hurts them deeply.

Warnings - Agatha needs therapy, mention of self-harm scars, near-death experiences, and detailed? suicide attempt.

Word count : 4400+

a/n - Very important Warnings. The is a very detailed fic. Please please please read them and make a safe decision to continue reading💖

What's Said and Done

You didn't intend for your reminiscing of Nicky to trigger Agatha the way it did. You had hoped that maybe the decades upon decades spent grieving together created a safe space to talk about the short, but treasured time you all had with Nicky. You craved to fill the hole his death left with the precious memories that had filled your heart with joy. You wanted that for Agatha. You wanted to mend the corrupted memory of him. He deserved to be cherished.

It was obvious now Agatha couldn't. You knew that unadulterated grief that was entangled into her loving soul very well. You thought her forgiving Rio, inviting her back into her heart after two centuries, meant that she was in a stage of grief where she would want to talk about him.

You had so many memories of Nicky etched into your heart, moments that glowed like a lighthouse in the violent weather of grief.

The day he first came into your lives, his tiny hands were gripping tightly to your fingers as Agatha held him, and his wide, curious eyes darted around the unfamiliar space in the bedroom of the little cottage you shared.

Rio had been cautious at first. Viewing his birth from the door frame, knowing she was going to be the one who would lead him to the afterlife before he could truly live.

Yes, she created him, but she also knew the possible complications of creating a precious life unnaturally. But when Agatha looked at her, tears brimming in her eyes as she nodded her head, she could see Agatha was thankful for giving her the time he deserved. To Rio, the pain would be worth it.

Anyone could tell Nicholas was made from Rio. The resemblance was uncanny as he grew older. His facial structure mirrored hers perfectly, from his sharp jawline to the delicate angles of his cheekbones. His eyes a warm chocolate, filled with mischief, were identical to hers. Even down to the smile lines that shined so brightly with his perfect smile. He truly was a mirror image.

There were the little everyday moments that had became everything.

Rio kneeling in the backyard, dirt smudged on her cheek as she pressed her hands to the soil, coaxing life from the earth. Nicky crouched beside her, his tiny fingers buried in the dirt, eyes wide with awe as delicate petals bloomed before him. Every time a new bloom appeared, he’d clap his hands and turn to Agatha with Rio's smile.

Then there were the nights Agatha loved most. She would sit on the edge of his bed, her hands glowing with a soft purple light as galaxies lit across his bedroom ceiling. Stars twinkled, planets drifted in slow, mesmerizing orbits, casting his room in a cosmic glow. Nicky’s small hands would reach up, tracing constellations only he could see, his laughter light and full of wonder.

It was all the things Agatha didn't want to remember.

Her shoulders stiffened while she was putting away laundry. “Why?” Agatha asked finally, her voice low and clipped.

You frowned, caught off guard by her tone. Feeling the sudden change in energy, you began to rub your scarred arm, a self-soothing habit you picked up when you began to feel on edge. “Why what?”

“Why do you have to bring him up?” she said, halting the chores. She turned to face you as you stood beside her. Her eyes were trained on yours, unwilling to break eye contact. “Do you think that helps? Reliving every little memory like it’s going to bring him back?”

The words stung, but you took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I don’t bring him up to hurt you, Agatha. I just... I miss him. I thought maybe we could talk about the good times, try to focus on—”

“On what?” Agatha snapped, her voice rising. “On how he was never ours to keep him? How we couldn't heal him? On how everything we tried wasn’t enough?” She slammed her hand on the dresser in agitation causing you to jump, eyes-widened as your breath was caught in your throat from surprise. “Because that’s all I see when I think of him.”

Your heart clenched as you watched her unravel, the grief in her voice morphing into anger. “It wasn’t your fault, Agatha,” you said quietly reaching out for her hand. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she avoided your touch, crossing her arms defensively. “Of course you’d say that. You always have to be the understanding one, don’t you? Always so composed, so...forgiving”

Her words hit like a slap, but she was being unfair. “You’re not the only one who lost him, Agatha. I lost him too. And Rio—”

“Don’t,” Agatha interrupted, her voice cutting through the room. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”

The tension between you thickened as your shared grief and unresolved pain collided.

“Why not?” you challenged, ready to defend. “She loved him too. We all did. And maybe it’s hard for you to see, but she’s been trying, Agatha. She’s been trying to make things right with you.”

Agatha's lips curling into a bitter smile. “Trying?” she repeated mockingly. “Trying to what? Pretend like everything’s fine? Pretend like she didn’t—”

“Like she didn’t what?” you demanded as you cut her off, beginning to believe she had never truly forgiven Rio. “Say it, Agatha. Whatever it is you’ve been holding in, just say it.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her body trembling with fury. “Like she didn't take him from us. He’s gone, and all you can do is sit there and talk about him like that’s going to fix anything.”

You stared at her, a silent conformation of your theory. "It wasn't her fault and you know it. He was our boy too," you whispered in defeat. You weren't sure if she had even heard you. But her response showed you she did.

"It wasn't her fault?"

But before you could respond, she delivered the blow that shattered your soul.

“He was never your son,” she said, her voice sharp as she looked at you like you were nothing to her. “Not you. Not Rio's. He was my son. I'm the only one that did anything and everything to keep him alive, and here you are defending Rio like you always do,” she spat out with a sneering expression.

The words hit you hard. You felt physically sick. Your breathing was shallow like Agatha's words were constricting your lungs.

“No,” You protested, your voice breaking. Your eyebrows scrunched as your eyes shone with tears, searching Agatha’s face, desperate for any sign that the woman you loved hadn’t truly meant those words. “You don’t mean that."

Agatha’s expression hardened leveling down to look you straight in the eyes. “I mean it from the bottom of my heart,” she seethed, annunciating every word. “God, I can’t even look at you. It's pathetic. You have no right to be crying right now.” Pushing past you, she walked to the door like your very presence disgusted her.

You staggered back a step, clutching the edge of the dresser to steady yourself. Your tears fell freely now.

“Where are you going?” You asked, your voice thick from crying, inadvertently pleading for her to stay.

“Anywhere but here,” Agatha bit without looking back.

With that, she stormed out, her footsteps echoing down the stairs. The back door slammed shut moments later, leaving the house in a suffocating silence.

Letting the dam crumble, you clasped your chest, trying to ease the ache that felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside.

Your legs seemed to move on their own, carrying you to the bathroom in a haze.

As you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the reflection staring back at you felt foreign, like someone you barely recognized. You searched your own face for something, anything, that might explain why you weren’t enough. Why Agatha couldn’t bear to look at you.

"How could anyone love you?" that dark, familiar voice in the back of your mind whispered. It had been gone for a while, held back from the unconditional love of the two women you'd do anything for, but it has returned making its mission to demolish all the progress you've made.

You gripped the edge of the sink so tightly that your knuckles were turning white. Agatha's words echoed endlessly.

"He was never your son." "Not you. Not Rio. He was mine."

The venom in her voice, the disgust in her eyes—how could she say something like that? How could she not see how much you loved him, how you would've given everything if it meant saving him?

You couldn't wrap your head around it. She couldn't actually think that of you, right?

The intrusive thoughts came in waves, each one dragging you deeper into despair.

"She doesn’t want you anymore. She'd be better off without you. Rio too." You squeezed your eyes shut, as though it could stop the endless spiral.

The thought of Rio did it for you. Rio’s face flickered into your mind. Her eyes, usually filled with warmth, was devoid of any love for you. She's death, literally. She is a cosmic being, and you are so...ordinary. You didn't have a sharp, captivating aura like Agatha who demanded anyone and everyone's attention the second she walks into a room.

Your love wasn't worth all the pain. You weren't worth all the pain. You're a burden to them.

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You needed both of them. There was already a piece of your heart missing, but Agatha and Rio kept your heart from crumbling. You wouldn't survive that pain again.

You glanced down at the sink, where droplets of water leaked from the faucet. For a moment, you began to visualize your arm as the faucet, slowly leaking blood.

Your gaze shifted back to the mirror. The self-hatred hit you like a tidal wave. How could they love you? Agatha’s words weren’t just anger—they were confirmation of your deepest and darkest fears. They didn't need you the way you needed them.

The familiar ache in your chest morphed into a dangerous mission. You opened the drawer beneath the sink, your trembling hands rummaging through its contents until they found what they were looking for. You hesitated for a moment, pausing as you were unsure if this is what you wanted. You had been so good, so happy. Then you remembered what your reality had shifted to.

It was a little purple jewelry box. It once held the ring on your finger from a day you'd never forget. A vow of a love that would be everlasting. But as you opened the box and found the blade hidden within, none of that mattered anymore.

Freeing it from the packaging, you noticed it still had the same sharpness from the last time you used it, and the glint made your stomach twist in anticipation.

The blade felt cool and familiar in your hand as you slowly sank into the cold, empty tub, the icy surface sending a chill down your spine. You hesitated again, gripping it tightly, the thoughts racing through your mind almost convincing you to stop. But one reason kept you going: you were doing this for them. This way, you could take the burden of yourself off their shoulders. You were doing them a favor.

With a shaky exhale, you glided the blade lightly across the center of your arm, testing the waters. The first cut was a shallow line that only allowed little bubbles of blood to come to the surface, but the sting grounded you nonetheless.

With more urgency, you pressed down harder, carving another line into your skin. Blood welled up, slowly making its way down your arm like raindrops rolling down a window.

Taking a deep breath in, you moved the blade down to your wrist where you knew the blood would really flow. As you exhaled, face scrunched, you swiped quick and deep, finally getting to the point where you knew you did damage.

But it wasn’t enough. You craved balance, symmetry. You mirrored the cuts on your other arm, your movements growing more frantic, wanting your relief to come faster. The tears flowed in rhythm with your blood, causing a hysterical laugh to escape from your throat.

Your vision swam as exhaustion began to set in, your body growing heavy. The pain that had once felt grounding now dulled, your consciousness blurred. It never really dawned on you who would be coming soon.

On cue, a familiar presence filled the room. The usual warmth was now an unwelcoming cold. Her usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by wide-eyed panic as she took in the scene before her.

“No, no, no, no,” Rio panicked, her voice raw and breaking as she kneeled beside the tub. Her hands were trembling as they hovered over your wounds.

“You can’t do this to me. I won't do it. I refuse to take you,” she cried out in anguish as tears streamed down her face, denying her duty as Death, defying the natural order.

Her hands glowed a faint green as she pressed her palms to your arms. A tingling warmth spread through the cuts, knitting the torn flesh back together. She murmured soft reassurances under her breath, though they were more for herself than they were for you. Her power wasn’t meant for this, for preventing death, but she gave freely to herself, pouring every ounce of her strength into pulling you back from the edge. The strain showed in her creased forehead, but she fought against it because her heart depended on it.

When the bleeding finally stopped, Rio sagged back on her heels, her hands trembling as the adrenaline drained from her body. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears. She stared at you, her vision blurring with a mixture of relief and pain.

Carefully, as though you might shatter at the slightest touch, she reached out and gathered you into her arms. Your body was limp against her, your head lolling weakly onto her shoulder. She could feel the shallow rise and fall of your chest—too faint, too fragile—but you were breathing. That was enough.

She pressed a trembling kiss against your temple, her lips barely grazing your skin as she carried you from the bathroom. Each step was slow, deliberate, as though she feared moving too quickly would send you slipping away from her again.

By the time she laid you down on the bed, the world around you was a hazy blur, shifting in and out of focus. The weight beneath you felt unfamiliar—softer than the cold tub, warmer than the tile floor. A distant pressure tugged at your limbs, grounding you, but your thoughts drifted in a fog. Sounds came muffled, like you were underwater.

Rio’s voice, low and strained, broke through the haze. You couldn't make out the words, only the shape of them, the warmth in them. Then she was gone, footsteps fading, leaving you adrift in the silence.

A moment later, something soft slipped over your head. The scent of lavender and something faintly smoky curled into your nose, stirring something deep in your chest. A trembling breath left your lips, the familiarity of it pulling you in, dragging you closer to the surface of awareness.

Your lip quivered. A whimper—barely more than a breath—escaped instinctively. The sweater clung to your skin, warm and safe, and for the first time since your body hit the tile, the numbness began to melt.

“What is it?” Rio asked urgently, cupping your face with her hands, searching your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. “What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you whispered, still dazed, “She doesn’t want us anymore.”

Rio froze, her heart dropping at the words and the hopelessness in your voice.

She cupped your face, shushing you as her thumbs brushed away the tears that continued to fall while she forced herself to stay steady her voice, to stay calm. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Agatha loves you. She loves us. She’s just... hurting.”

You shook your head weakly, your gaze unfocused, lost in the thick fog of exhaustion and heartbreak. "She said it. She said... he wasn't ours, only hers. She doesn't want us.” Your voice cracked, breaking on the last sentence. “She doesn’t want us.” Your words grew softer, fading into incoherent murmurs as exhaustion pulled you under.

Seeing you like this brought bile up. Your pain was making her physically nauseous. Rio’s arms wrapped around you tightly, as though sheer force alone could keep you from slipping away again. “She’s lost in her grief,” she said softly, resting her chin on top of your head. “She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t.”

But your eyes were already fluttering closed, exhaustion and despair pulling you into an empty, restless sleep. As your breathing evened out, Rio stayed by your side, her hand resting on yours.

For a long moment, she simply sat there, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

She wanted to believe Agatha hadn’t meant it, that the words had been spat out in grief and anger, not truth. But seeing you like this—weak, barely conscious, drowning in the pain Agatha had inflicted—made it impossible to excuse.

“She’s lost in her grief. She didn't mean it," Rio murmured again, this time to herself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The argument replayed in Agatha’s mind as she sat on the bench, viewing the garden Rio created centuries ago as the cool night air brushed against her skin. Her fingers pressed against her temple, rubbing slow, desperate circles as if she could knead away the headache forming beneath her skull.

She took a swig from the half-empty beer bottle, the taste flat and useless to distract her from the ache in her chest. Her words had been cruel, sharp-edged daggers thrown in anger. "He was never your son. Not you, not Rio. He was my son." The memory of your devastated expression was seared into her mind.

She’d meant it in the moment. Or at least, she’d convinced herself she did. Grief over Nicky had festered into something raw and ugly, and in her anguish, she had taken it out on you—the person who had only ever tried to love her through her faults. Your love was pure.

While Nicky had inherited little of your features, what you had given him was more personal than any resemblance could ever be. Your ability to love someone regardless of their past and all the terrible things they've done is one of a kind. Agatha was sure there was no one who could ever grace this world the way you did. That was what made you stronger than any power she or Rio could ever possess.

But that purity was suffocating. It was too much like his. It was like he had never left. And yet, he was gone.

That was the worst part. Every time she looked at you, at Rio, it was a reminder of what she had lost. Of what she could never get back.

It wasn’t fair that you and Rio were still here with her when he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair that you kept loving her, even after all the ways she pushed you away. It wasn’t fair that you could carry on, bearing his memory with softness, while she was drowning in the weight of it.

Maybe that was why she lashed out. Because she hated that you were proof love could survive grief. And she hated herself even more for resenting you for it.

But now, in the openness of the garden, regret gnawed at her, eating her alive. She wished she could take it back, wished she could go back in time to undo the pain she’d caused. She hated herself for how easily the words had slipped out, sharp and unforgiving. It was a defense second nature to her. It was as unstoppable as her magick siphoning. It relented before she could remember that the people she lashed out at were the ones she loved most.

The sound of the back door slamming and heavy footsteps jolted her from her thoughts.

Agatha shot to her feet, as she carelessly discarded the bottle she had been nursing. She turned sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs as Rio strode toward her. The guilt and sorrow clung to Agatha like a shadow, but Rio wasn’t here to acknowledge her pain. This wasn’t about her.

She didn’t speak at first, only stood before Agatha, her entire body trembling with a rage barely containable as she tried to formulate her words carefully. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her fists curling so tightly at her sides that her knuckles went white.

Agatha froze. Her gaze flickered around Rio's figure, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the barely restrained fury rolling off of her in waves. Then Agatha saw it—dark stains smeared across Rio’s hands, stark against her skin. The realization hit her like ice water.

Blood.

Her stomach twisted violently. She felt the breath hitch in her throat as her gaze snapped back to Rio’s face. The rage was still there, burning bright, but beneath it—buried just deep enough to go unnoticed by anyone else—was fear.

“You know what you’ve caused?” Rio’s voice was low and deadly, trembling with restrained rage.

Agatha swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I—”

Rio cut Agatha off before she could try to explain. “Do you know what Y/N tried to do because of you?” The words were spit through clenched teeth, but her voice cracked on your name.

“What... why-” she stammered. Once again, getting cut off.

“She thought you didn’t want her anymore. That you didn’t want us anymore.” Rio’s composure shattered, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to find the love of our lives bleeding out in our tub? Because of you? Because you let your grief fester into something that poisoned her?”

Rio’s hands trembled as she dragged them through her hair, her breath coming in sharp, angry heaves. Then, suddenly, as if overwhelmed by the weight of it all, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and let out a harsh, shuddering breath.

Agatha couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Her vision swam, your face flashing in her mind—not the way she had last seen it, but in a way that it looked utterly lifeless.

Tears welled in her eyes, her hands trembling as she clutched at the edge of the bench for support. “I... I didn’t know,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.

Rio dropped her hands, her gaze snapping to Agatha with something close to disbelief. Then she laughed, humorless and bitter. “You didn’t know?” she echoed, voice raw. “How could you not know, Agatha? Don’t give me that pathetic reasoning. You know her more than you know yourself. You know how deeply she feels everything. Love. Pain. And now she thinks you hate her.”

Agatha’s tears spilled over, her chest heaving with the weight of her guilt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just... I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know how to-.”

Rio’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, the raw pain in Agatha’s panic stirring something deep within her. But she quickly steeled herself, unwilling to let sympathy distract her from the truth.

"You need to fix this." Her words were quiet, firm, and final.

Agatha blinked through the blur of tears. She hadn't felt this fear since Nicky.

“If you ever loved her, if you ever loved us, then you’ll make this right,” Rio said filled with tiredness and desperation. “Because if you don’t, you’ll lose us both.”

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Rio’s words hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog. Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode back inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a thud.

She had been so consumed by her own grief that Agatha hadn’t realized she had become the very thing she feared, the thing that had broken you.

Agatha stood there stunned in silence, her mind reeling. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the dirt of the garden. Her fingers dug into the soil as though it could somehow anchor her to the ground. The weight of Rio’s words crashed over her like a tidal wave, and for the first time, the full gravity of her actions hit her.

Her guilt twisted like a knife in her gut. Her sobs were quiet at first, but soon they grew louder, wracking her body with the force of her grief. Her pain pulsed around her, a sickness that spread without forgiveness. Her gaze darted around, watching in anguish as the pink azaleas she had once tended with such care now wilted, their petals curling in on themselves as if recoiling from her presence. The energy emanating from her twisted the life around her, black veins creeping up the stems, the poison of her emotions seeping into the earth. Just like she did to you.

It was a silent parallel of how she had poisoned you.

The thought made her sick.

She had always known that her anger and pain had pushed you and Rio away, but she hadn’t realized just how far it had gone until now. The fear that she might lose both you and Rio, it was too much to bear. And for the first time, the full weight of her actions hit her, her breath came in ragged gasps. She didn’t know how to fix it, how to undo the damage she’d done. But she knew one thing for certain: if she didn’t try, she would lose you both. And that was a price she couldn’t afford to pay.

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