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honeyedmiller · 2 months

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The Hills | Joel Miller

pairing: actor!joel x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact.

warnings: no outbreak!joel, joel miller au, use of marijuana (reader gets high and joel takes a hit), alcohol consumption, enemies to not-so-much-enemies, joel is on his freak shit in this one, smut (fingering, ass play, cum eating, rimming, unprotected piv, spitting, m & f oral receiving, consensual choking and breath play), reader is lowkey a brat but joel is also an ass, joel’s twitchy palm™, two (2) ass slaps, reader is described to be wearing a dress and heels, mentions of usage of cocaine (non-descriptive and it’s neither reader or joel using—just had to add the warning), no use of y/n. if there’s anything that i missed, please lmk.

word count: 6.1k

synopsis: drugs. sex. fame. joel miller—the very man you despise. something about hollywood or other. it all seems to become a blurred line when you get invited to an oscars after party at a house in the hills.

a/n: shoutout to @joelsgreys for keeping eyes on this for me, for beta’ing, for letting me rant about this continuously in our texts, etc etc. ily

Hollywood: the definition of glitz and glamor, celebrities galore, and wild parties.

Right?

Sort of.

You’d been to these afterparties before—chaos, laughter, and drunk or high celebrities every which way. The afterparties that showed the real side of Hollywood’s favorite people. The afterparties where secretive sex ensues in a hidden room tucked in the back of the mansion. The afterparties where people let loose, had fun, and celebrated their wins, or the wins of their friends.

That’s exactly why you were here. This particular multi-million dollar home was chalk-full of familiar famous faces that would get absolutely trashed without the public knowing a single thing about their rendezvous, celebrating each other’s wins.

It was like an unspoken rule amongst all the attendees: what happens at the after party, stays at the after party.

Tess Servopoulos, a well-known actress, was your best friend. She always invited you to the award shows when she could, and made sure you were invited to the afterparties. In this case, it was the after party for The Oscars, where her other best friend was celebrating his wins tonight, taking home three Oscars just hours prior.

And it’s funny, because to you, the devil wasn’t down in Georgia. He was in fucking Los Angeles, California, and his name is Joel Miller.

Arrogant, conceited, and a complete asshole as far as you were concerned. You’d never had a good interaction with the man, always seeming to have targeted hatred toward you for no particular reason.

So you hated him right back.

Because, honestly, who the fuck did he think he was?

You didn’t give two shits if he was an A-lister. Good for him. His arrogance and asshole-ish nature was enough to make you roll your eyes at the mere sight of him. He was one of those people that everybody seemed to absolutely adore, thinking he was doing everyone a solid favor just by being in their presence.

And you think, the fuck does it matter anyway? Your opinion of one man in a room full of elites is about as relevant as a speck of fucking dirt on the bottom of some Louboutins.

You inwardly sighed and drank from the champagne flute that was placed in your hand once you maneuvered your way into the house. Tess dragged you along to say hello to people you’ve met before, and introduced you to those you hadn’t. Most of them were fairly nice, some remembering you from previous parties or recognizing you in god-awful candid shots that paparazzi took of you when you were with Tess.

Tabloids were always a funny thing. There were multiple times where you’d see a photo of yourself in public with Tess, plastered in some stupid celebrity magazine claiming you were her ‘mystery lover.’ Or, there were the times where they’d call you a gold digger; someone who wanted fifteen minutes of fame and all the “luxuries” that came with being acquainted with a celebrity.

You always had a good laugh with Tess about them, and she’d tell you that one day she’d share the story behind you: a college roommate who was her total opposite, but it worked. You were there from the beginning—she’d get casted in parts for commercials, then extras for TV shows, and then bigger roles like a supporting character, and eventually the lead character in many blockbuster hits.

You were her biggest supporter, there for her through her wins and losses. She was truly your platonic soulmate, and you, hers.

You always plastered a smile on your face when making your rounds at these things. Got a little star-struck here and there, but you kept your cool. Celebrities are human beings, after all.

The party was in full swing, people plastered and laughing loudly over the thumping music. Sometimes you thought these parties got a little ridiculous, but you knew this was a rare occasion where these people—faces of the public, under a watchful eye of millions of adoring fans and the scrutinizing media—got the chance to loosen up and be their real selves.

You swirled the champagne around your flute, babysitting the same glass from when you first walked into this party. You leaned against a crisp white wall adorned with what you were sure were very expensive paintings, observing the crowd before you.

The familiarity that drifted through the room was almost unsettling for you. Friends with arms slung over each other’s shoulders, casual and comfortable conversation—and then there was you, who didn’t really know anyone but Tess. She didn’t want to leave your side, but she’d gotten pulled every which way for a conversation and you didn’t want to ride her coattail all night, so you told her you’d get yourself another drink, maybe.

And you were going to, but then the room felt a little too warm. So, naturally, you ventured down another long hallway adorned with paintings and expensive side tables with vases that held fresh flowers that probably cost more than you’d ever see in your lifetime.

Your heels clicked rhythmically against the marble flooring as you made your way to two French double doors that led out to a balcony that was unoccupied.

Perfect.

You opened the doors and sucked in a huge breath of air, admiring the lights gleaming throughout the whole of Los Angeles as far as you could see.

And then you wondered, with every house and apartment and business that was illuminated with a soft yellow light, what each individual occupying these spaces stories were.

People that weren’t famous. People that had regular nine-to-five jobs. People who were desperately trying to make ends meet. People like you, you think.

You loved Tess to death. You’d do anything and everything for her, but Hollywood was secretly a massive headache.

You sighed as you tore your eyes away from the soft lights, opening your clutch to find the joint you brought. Just something to take the edge off and ease the fucking nerves that started coursing through you, unwanted and untimely.

You fished the pre-roll and lighter out of your bag, flicking the lighter on in multiple attempts, but no avail.

You groaned as you kept trying, but the realization that your lighter was done for had swept over you quickly.

“Son of a bitch.” You mutter with a heavy sigh.

“Need a light?” A deep voice asked from behind. A familiar voice. A voice with Southern twang that supposedly charmed every person that was blessed to hear it. A voice you couldn’t fucking stand.

You look over your shoulder to see Joel Miller in the flesh, clad in a crisp white button-down with the top two buttons unbuttoned, exposing his tan chest. The shirt was tucked into some black slacks, accompanied by shiny black shoes.

You hated to admit that he looked good. Real good. But you wouldn’t ever dare to admit that out loud, even with a gun to your head.

“No.” You said, turning back around. His footsteps become closer, and you roll your eyes before you have to restrain yourself from physically shuddering at the proximity between you two.

“Stop bein’ a brat and jus’ take the goddamn light.” Joel rolls his eyes, and you turn to face him. He’s next to you now, leaning against the balcony while holding up a lighter.

You eye him conspicuously, and he looks annoyed as he flicks the lighter on and off. You grit your teeth before slotting the joint between your fingers, bringing it up to your lips.

He easily flicks his lighter on once more, bringing the flame to the end of the joint. The small flame illuminates the space between your bodies, and he looks good with the soft orange glow against his tan skin, you think.

The end of the joint crackles and you inhale deeply, turning your body toward the lights of the city once more.

You blow out the smoke slowly, tilting your head to the side. “Thanks,” You mutter.

“Hm,” He hums, “Would ya look at that. Not that hard to use your manners now, ain’t it?”

“Shut up, Joel. Christ.” You rub your forehead with your thumb, eyebrows pinching together. You came out here for some peace, not to be annoyed and antagonized by the very man you couldn’t stand.

“Hey, I jus’ did ya a favor. No need for that fuckin’ attitude of yours.”

“Jesus fuck, Joel, do you not have anything better to do? Shouldn’t you be fucking one of your whores by now or snorting coke in the bathroom with another beloved A-lister?” You roll your eyes and take another hit.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He took a step forward, broad body hard to ignore with the heat radiating off of him. Your eyes trail up his chest and to his face, which was contorted with pure anger.

“Who the fuck do you think you are talkin’ to me like that? You’re pissin’ off the wrong person, doll.” Joel’s voice is gruff, full of patience that was smaller than a piece of thread at this point.

“I don’t need to bow down to you just because you’re famous, asshole. You’re the one who’s had the problem with me from the beginning. I only reciprocate the energy I receive, so you can fuck all the way off with the superiority complex you think you have over me.”

“Why the fuck are you here anyway? Hollywood ain’t a place for naïve girls like you.” Joel quirks his harsh brow at you, like he’s challenging you.

Motherfucker.

“And who said I was naïve, cowboy? You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know that you’re annoyin’ and don’t fuckin’ belong here. God knows what Tess sees in you as a friend n’ why she keeps invitin’ you to these things.”

Your blood ran hot as you stared at the man in front of you. His jaw was set in a hard line, clenching his teeth every so often in pure annoyance as he looked at you with utter hatred and disgust.

“I may not belong in Hollywood, Miller, but at least my fucking morals are right and I don’t pull bitch moves like abandoning my friends when they need me the most.”

You were infuriated and quite frankly so fucking sick of this man berating you when he should be the last person on this green fucking Earth to talk. It was a low blow, your last comment to him, but what kind of a friend was he to choose a woman he was so pussywhipped over instead of being there for Tess when she was going through a rough time?

It broke your heart to see her so upset that Joel chose another woman he barely knew over her, icing her out when she’d been nothing but a good friend to him. She forgave him, of course, after he’d apologized to her months later.

She had a kinder heart than you would’ve at the situation. You don’t think you could ever forgive somebody for that.

You already thought Joel was an arrogant asshole before that even happened, but that situation was the last nail in the coffin to confirm that he’s exactly the person you thought he was.

“I apologized to her. We’re good now.” Joel’s harsh stare never wavered, but the annoyance in his tone did. He almost sounded…sad.

“Yeah. Whatever.” You roll your eyes, flicking the ash off of the end of the joint before taking another hit. Your mind was already starting to become hazy, and the proximity between you and Joel was starting to make your head spin.

Your gaze flickered up to his face once more, brown eyes still locked on you. You furrow your brows, but before you can speak, Joel plucks the joint from your fingers. He puts the filter up to his lips and deeply inhales, and you frown.

“Get your own recreational drugs, asshole.” You mutter, arms crossing over your chest. Joel’s eyes trail down to your chest before moving back up to yours. A small smirk evades his lips, and he blows the smoke into your face.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat.”

“Fuck you gonna do? Spank me for not thinking you’re all high and mighty and shit?” The frown is permanent on your face as you assess him, not realizing the impact that your words had on him.

His cock stirred in his slacks at the thought of that.

He stubs out the half-finished joint before handing it back to you. You tuck it away in your purse before looking at him again, carefully studying him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He’s got a knowing look on his face, and you have to force yourself to feign disgust.

Because, goddammit, you probably would. You’d probably be all over him if he wasn’t such a fucking asshole. The rage you’ve targeted toward him has made you see past his rugged looks and charm, the broadness of him and the veins that protrude from his hands to his forearms and—

You’ve wondered briefly what it’d be like to succumb to it. To be like every single other person who melts for him like lava seeping into the deepest cracks of the Earth. Untouchable. Destructive. And yet, a beautiful aftermath.

“Think I’ll take that as a yes.” His laugh rumbles from deep within his sturdy chest. For a moment he looks so carefree, so light and happy while he laughs. It might’ve been at your own expense, but for the slightest second, you saw through the harsh stares and the hateful demeanor.

“Fuck you, Miller.”

His mouth snapped shut and his harsh gaze settled on you again. His nostrils flared as he glared at you, a heat behind his eyes you’ve never seen before. His palm twitches at his side and he opens his mouth to say something argumentative, but closes it after a second.

Before you know it, he wraps his hand around your forearm, dragging you behind him.

You nearly trip over your heels as you try to keep up with him, wriggling in his strong grasp. He wouldn’t let up.

“Let go of me you asshole!” You seethe, but he pushes you into a room—tucked at the back of the mansion—secluded from everyone else. Oh.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You quickly realized you were in for it when he shut the door and locked it. Nerves buzzed in your veins and you inhaled a shaky breath.

He looked like he was some sort of predator stalking its prey with the way his eyes scanned your body as he moved around to the other side of the room.

“Real fuckin’ sick of your attitude.” He starts. You scoff at him and throw your arms up.

“Wouldn’t have to deal with it if you just left me the fuck alone in the first place.” You cross your arms over your chest once more, and Joel takes two large strides toward you before he’s standing so close that you can smell the whiskey and weed on his breath.

“N’ that’s the problem, darlin’, I can’t leave you alone. Been wanting to fuck that attitude right outta you since the first day we met.”

You swear your heart drops into your ass. “Wh-what?” Your eyes are wide as he walks forward, forcing you to move backwards until the backs of your knees hit the king-sized bed.

You didn’t even notice there was a bed in the room because the very man before you was insanely distracting.

“You heard me. You’re a brat, baby, n’ brats deserve to be punished.”

You swallow hard as a fire burns behind his eyes, mischievous and daring.

“Joel—”

“Turn around.”

You don’t even think twice before listening to his demand, turning around so you face the bed.

“Can’t hate me that much if you’re an obedient little thing for me, hm?” The amusement was oozing from his Southern drawl.

Your first instinct was to argue with him, but deep down you knew he was right. Maybe all the hatred you had for him had a little bit of desire sprinkled deep down in the depths of your core, unexplored and completely disregarded.

The thought of his hands on you excited you. You saw the way he touched women in the movies he was in. Regardless if it was just acting or not, you always ended up aroused after Tess would force you to watch any movie of his—especially the ones with erotica. She would tease you about not liking him, unknowing of the true abhorrence that stirred in your body. He was her best friend too, so you had to be cordial to him around her for her sake.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but where it got you now—pressed up against the bed as his large hands landed onto your body to tightly grip your hips—didn’t seem to pan out so well.

“Will you let me touch you?” His voice has a rough edge to it, the teasing long gone as he stares at your figure from behind.

“Yes.” You whisper.

He doesn’t say another word as his calloused hands slide around your thighs and to the front of your body. He presses himself against you, and the warmth he radiates off of his body alone makes you sigh.

He’s so sturdy and strong, just as you imagined him to be. You could feel his cock hardening against the plump of your ass, and you wiggle in the slightest to tease him.

He inhales sharply, one hand sliding underneath the hem of your dress while the other hand splayed out onto your stomach.

The skimpy panties you had on did a terrible job at keeping your arousal strictly within the confines of the lace fabric. The apex of your thighs was smeared with the neediness you refused to address, now completely on display for the man it was all for.

Joel’s hand skimmed your inner thighs, chuckling darkly as he traced the outline of your pussy with his thumb through the fabric.

You tried your hardest to hold back a moan, really. You fucking tried. As soon as the sound bubbled in your throat and glided past your lips, you could feel Joel’s smile in victory. He was always playing chess while you were playing checkers.

Well, check fucking mate for him.

“Didn’t know I got ya this excited, baby.” He grips the hem of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You step out of them and he immediately pockets them.

“You wouldn’t be the first.” You mumble, not wanting to feed into his already huge ego.

“Oh I’m sure I’m not,” He starts, breath hot on your neck. “Doesn’t mean I won’t ruin every other fuckin’ man for you. Bend over.”

You clench around nothing at his words, deciding that staying silent is better than digging yourself deeper into your own fucking grave.

You do as he says and bend over the bed, cheek resting against the soft silk sheets.

“‘M gonna fuckin’ make sure I’m all you think about after this. Fuck yourself with your fingers to flashbacks of tonight. Moanin’ my fuckin’ name all alone in your house, wishing I was there to take care of you instead. Fuckin’ brat.”

His words sound like a simultaneous threat and promise, but you just had to say something. You couldn’t let him completely have this without giving him some kind of shit.

“Oh please, I bet I’ll forget as soon as we walk out of this room. You’ve probably got a small dick anyway.”

And you know that isn’t true. He’s huge, and you know he’ll never let you forget about tonight.

A sharp sting blooms onto one of your asscheeks, the sound of him smacking your flesh reverberating off of the walls of the bedroom. You moan at the delicious pain.

“You n’ I both know that ain’t true, doll. Enough with that fuckin’ mouth of yours. Could put it to better use than talkin’ all that shit.”

His hands knead the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks apart to get a good look at all of you. You almost feel embarrassed, but decide not to get into your head too much about it because all you want him to do is fucking touch you where you need him the most.

Your core was aching. You were almost ready to put your pride aside and fucking beg him to touch you. Almost.

You were about to give in when you heard him shuffle behind you, and you craned your neck to see Joel drop onto his knees behind you.

His eyes locked with yours as he gave you a smirk before leaning forward to bite your ass. You let out a small yelp, and his hand was quick to soothe the pain.

“Gonna fuckin’ set you right once n’ for all.”

And he brings a hand up to your core, sliding his middle and ring finger through your dripping folds. You whimper softly at the sensation, a small flood of relief coursing through your veins. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Your hips start to rock involuntarily, and Joel tsks at you.

“Greedy fuckin’ whore, aren’t ya? Patience is a virtue, baby.” He chides.

“Goddamnit Joel.” Your voice sounds breathy, even to your own surprise.

Suddenly, Joel slips his two fingers into you, and your hands fly out to grip the sheets beneath you. Your eyebrows furrow together and relish in the feeling of his thick fingers scissoring in and out of your aching cunt.

“So fuckin’ wet already. ‘F I woulda known I did this to ya…” He chuckles, working his fingers in and out of you expertly.

He leans forward and licks up your folds, swirling his tongue around your clit. You can’t help the strangled moan that leaves your mouth, and you can just feel Joel’s cocky ass smirk.

He continues lapping up your arousal, more dripping out around his fingers and down to his wrist. It'd been awhile since anyone touched you like this, so you presume you were extra turned on because of that reason.

You didn’t want to give all the credit to Joel.

His tongue slid up and he removed his fingers from you, replacing them with his tongue as he prodded it into your entrance and fucked you with it.

You were already a moaning mess, like you were on cloud nine with the way he was making you feel. He gripped both of your cheeks and spread them further for his own leisure, tongue dragging upward until it met your asshole.

“Holy fuck, Joel—” You choke out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he swirls his tongue around the tight ring. Your heart is thrumming in your chest and your pussy clenches around nothing.

Joel lowly moaned around you, the vibrations shooting straight up your spine.

You don’t know how long he’s doing this for—your mind is still hazy from the high you’ve been riding, pleasure wrapped around every single inch of your body. You lose track of time and immerse yourself in how he’s making you feel.

Joel pulls himself away from you, sliding both of his fingers back into you. This time, though, he teases your other hole with the tip of his pinky.

“You ever let anyone fuck this pretty ass of yours with their fingers?”

“Please.” Was all you could squeak out, because while you didn’t want to admit you never have, you were willing to give it a go. It was obvious he knew what he was doing, and if you didn’t like the way something felt, you’d just tell him.

He spits onto your asshole before grunting, “Relax.”

And you do. He slides his pinky into your puckered hole, and fuck you feel so full with him like this. He works his three fingers in and out of you slowly at first, each move calculated and precise.

He may’ve been an asshole, but he at least wanted to make sure you were comfortable.

He picks up the pace of his fingers after he’s sure you can handle it, and the feeling of pleasure seizes your body as you shake underneath him.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. You can feel your orgasm rapidly building building building, the coil wound so tight that your stomach constricts in plea of release.

“Fuckfuckfuck, Joel I’m gonna—oh fuck!”

And you’re literally gushing around his fingers. He prolongs your orgasm as long as he can. You think he’s saying things like there you go, that’s it, but you can hardly pay attention over the loud ringing in your ears as you try and come down from your Earth-shattering orgasm.

He slips his fingers out of you slowly, watching your body convulse sporadically from the aftermath of it all.

He grabs your body and flips you around so you’re laying at the edge of the bed. The fluorescent lights are blinding as you try and look at his face. You blink rapidly, chest heaving up and down as you try your damndest to find your bearings once more.

He’s unfastening the button on his slacks, and all you can hear is the rustle of the fabric and the thumping music outside of the locked door.

You wondered briefly if anyone—Tess, specifically—was looking for the two of you. You’d be mortified if she found you like this, but Joel was smart enough to lock the doors.

You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t even noticed he was pulling down his underwear, so when you looked back at him you gasped when you saw his stiff, aching length. Your hunch was correct—he was huge. His tip was red, smeared with precome and just begging to be taken care of.

If there was any time in your life to impress Joel Miller, now was your chance. You sit up on your knees and lower your head, looking up at him through your lashes, your mouth inches away from his tip.

The muscle in his jaw ticked furiously, brown eyes watching you meticulously. You gave him a small, cocky smirk before you leaned forward and wrapped your lips around his tip, eyes fluttering shut at the salty taste. You use one hand to steady yourself onto the bed, and the other to wrap around his length as you start to pump him slowly.

He inhales sharply, holding back a groan as you undoubtedly start to please him.

You set a steady rhythm between your hand and mouth. The wet sounds are obscene and nearly pornographic. A part of you wishes this was being recorded so you’d have something to watch back when you needed to get yourself off.

Greed is a tragedy, and tragic you were in this moment.

Joel’s hand flies to the back of your head, cradling it as you remove your hand and slide your lips as far down his shaft as your mouth would allow. The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and as much as you were salivating, you swallowed around him.

The tip of your nose barely made contact with the wiry hairs at the base of his cock, and Joel let out the most guttural groan you’d ever heard.

“Filthy fuckin’ mouth, baby. Goddamn. Knew it could be put to better use than you—ngh—spewin’ that fuckin’ attitude.”

You hum around him, bobbing your head up and down his length. His pants were getting more rapid and he was becoming more vocal, grunting fuck and filthy, filthy girl.

“Shit, yeah, just like that doll. Just. Like. That.” Joel’s voice is hoarse behind his clenched teeth. If you didn’t know any better, he’d probably shatter his teeth with how hard he was clenching them.

And you don’t let up. Not even after a string of curses spills past his lips, and definitely not after he groans so loudly that it vibrates through his whole body as ropes of his come spill down your throat.

You’re in overstimulation territory, and he’s falling apart at the seams.

He pulls your head off of his length as he tries to catch his breath, sweat beading at his temples.

“Fuckin’ christ.” He breathes, squeezing his eyes shut before looking at you again.

“Didn’t know I would be so good at that now, did you?” You tease, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a snarl.

“Shut the fuck up.” He says, and you laugh. He grabs your hips suddenly, flipping you around once more so you’re on all fours for him again.

“‘M’keepin’ my promise. Gonna fuck that attitude straight outta your goddamn brain.” His tone is serious, and you’re beginning to think he really isn’t fucking around.

You hear him pump himself a few times and you think about the dangerous threshold you’re about to cross with him. Would you regret it after? Would he?

It was like you were both taking a bite of forbidden fruit, specially picked from the Garden of Eden.

Fuck it. There’s worse things you can do.

“You on any birth control?” He asks, and you nod.

“IUD.”

“Good.” He says before sliding the head of his cock through your folds. Your body jerks when it catches your clit, still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

Without another word, Joel pushes into you and you stretch around him deliciously. It’s like your body was begging for him to be inside you at this point.

“Fuuuck.” Joel groans, gripping your hips so tightly they’d probably be bruised by tomorrow.

You bite your lip to keep from screaming, because he’s the biggest you’ve ever had and the sting won’t go away.

“Move, Joel.” You plead, and he smacks your ass once again, making you flutter around his cock.

“Fuck did I say about patience? Christ, woman.”

You shut your eyes as you feel him become fully erect inside you, and you’re seriously going to cry if he doesn’t move soon.

Almost as if he’d read your mind, he started to thrust his hips slowly. It didn’t take long for him to set a pace, though, and he was brutally pistoning in and out of you.

“Fucking…. hate… you.” You spit pathetically, holding onto the sheets for dear life. He laughs dryly behind you, mumbling a sure before going even harder.

Your moans were getting louder and louder, and you truthfully couldn’t give two fucks who heard you at this point.

Fucking let them hear.

“Better hush up now, whole house could probably hear you with how loud you’re bein’.” He scolded, and you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t give a fuck,” You squeaked out, “Let them.”

“Attagirl,” His laugh was mischievous, pounding into you even faster than before. “Little fuckin’ whore loves takin’ this cock, hm?”

One of his hands moved up your body, causing chills down your spine and goosebumps to raise onto your skin.

His hand wrapped around your throat, and you moaned at the idea of getting choked out while he fucked you from behind.

One of your hands flew up to his, and he was half expecting you to yank it away. He was pleasantly surprised when you clamped your fingers down around his, silently urging him to squeeze.

And he did. You felt like you were fucking floating.

Joel didn’t let up, even when you felt the burning hot coil wind up in your core once again.

“Feel so fucking good– s–o so fucking— fuck.” You’re a blubbering mess. He pulls your body up so your back is facing his front, never letting his pace waver.

“Fucking you dumb on my cock, aren’t I? Listen to you, baby. Pathetic.” He laughs at you once again, but you don’t have any willpower to fight back. You just let it happen, because each thrust of his cock into you has your body turning into complete fucking mush.

“Close.” Is what you whisper, and Joel can feel your walls tightening around him. He chokes on a moan at the sensation, fingers tightening around your throat even more.

You can barely breathe, but you fucking love it. You love seeing stars cloud your vision like this. The heightened sensation of your orgasm comes crashing down over you, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you silently scream out.

Your body convulses continuously as you try to ride out your orgasm, but Joel’s hand leaves your throat and moves down to your clit to rub at it furiously.

You cry out his name, your hands frantic to find purchase to anything as you try and brace yourself.

It’s no use, though. Your body is limp and your soul fucking escaped from you long ago.

“Where do you want me?” The urgency in his voice is evident, but you’re in such a daze that you barely clock it.

“Inside me.” You manage, and he groans loudly before he lets go, filling you up with everything he has. His body slumps over yours, both of you trying so hard to pull yourselves back to reality.

He slides out of you and you both groan at the loss of being one.

You turn over on your back, once again blinded by the lights. Your eyes flutter close as you assess everything that partook the last—thirty? fourty? you don’t fucking know—minutes of your life.

Your body slowly floats back down to reality, and you peel your eyes open when you hear shuffling. Joel is on his knees again, spreading your legs to look at his handiwork. He looks up at you with that same devilish smirk, licking up his spend from your cunt before hovering over you.

He uses his thumb to coax your jaw open, spitting his spend into your mouth.

“Swallow.” He demands, and you do as he says. You open your mouth to show him you did, and a satisfied look washes over his features.

“Hope you feel me leakin’ out of you all goddamn night, sweetheart.”

You look at him incredulously, reality crashing down with the unwavering truth: you and Joel really fucked.

He was inches away from your face, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what it would be like if he kissed you. His lips looked so soft.

But that would make it too complicated. It would turn into a thing you didn’t need it to be, and you knew kissing him would make the probability of hating him into a fucking zero.

Get a grip.

But, you catch him. You catch his eyes flicker down to your lips, the same thing probably reeling in his mind, too.

Maybe one wouldn’t hurt.

No. You wouldn’t allow it for yourself. He can take his Southern charm and shove it up his ass.

You cleared your throat and moved to stand up. Your legs were shaky at first, but you found your grounding as you walked over to the mirror on the other side of the room.

You straightened out your appearance, making sure you didn’t have “I just got fucked” plastered across your forehead. Once you were satisfied, you turned around to see Joel sitting on the bed.

You nod at him once, “Joel,” and you’re unlocking the door to be rejoined by the thumping music and loud laughter, leaving him to stare at you as you walked away.

You made your way into the backyard, needing a breath of fresh air after everything that ensued.

“There you are! I was looking all over for you.” Tess pulls you into her side, giving your arm a playful squeeze as she holds you close.

“Yeah, I uh, went to smoke a J.” Which, yes, was of course partially true—but you’d probably never admit to her that you just got done getting your brains fucked out by Joel Miller.

She probably wouldn’t even believe you if you told her, anyway.

It didn’t need to become a thing, even if it was the best sex you’ve ever had in your life.

Sex you’d probably be having flashbacks about years down the line, just as Joel promised.

You groan inwardly, eyes drifting upward to casually scan the backyard. You caught a familiar pair already staring at you from across the way, and your whole body bloomed with aching heat once more.

Those brown eyes were accompanied with a sickening smirk, and two seconds later, a wink.

You knew no matter how hard you tried, and as much as you fucking despised him, it wouldn’t be easy to get him out of your head.

You were so fucked, you think.

The idea of admitting that you maybe didn’t hate him was unwarranted, but you knew deep down it was your reality. You really didn’t hate him.

And maybe, just maybe, these parties weren’t so bad after all.

tags: @ilovepedro @nostalxgic @punkshort @endlessthxxghts

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller imagines #joel miller imagine #joel miller au #actor!joel #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x afab!reader #fic: the hills

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marvelsmylife · 2 months

Text

Don’t go

Pairing: Cassian x reader

Plot: there was something about Cassian that you were really drawn to. You needed to be by his side at all time. What happens when he has to go on a very long mission by himself and you beg him not to go. Will he listen or will he break your heart and leave anyways.

a/n this is based off of this request. I'm sorry for all the angst I promise this is going to have a very happy ending in part two

warning: angst through and through. Everyone is worried for the reader. Azriel being really protective over the reader.

Part Two

The normally cool and collected Cassian was anxious as he flew home from an important four-month-long mission. Memories of the last conversation you shared haunted him for the last four months and he wondered if you still hated him for his harsh words.

“Please stay,” you cried as you watched Cassian pack for the mission he was assigned to tomorrow.

Being friends for years, you and Cassian were practically joined at the hip. You often found comfort in each other's arms and weren’t used to being separated for more than a couple of days.

This mission was different though. He was going to be gone for four months, and he didn’t know how he was going to survive without you for so long. It didn’t help that you also voiced your disapproval and was begging him to stay with you.

Growing frustrated by the argument, Cassian blurted out: “Gods y/n, no wonder you don’t have any friends besides us. You’re so damn clingy you're making me want to be as far away from you as possible!”

Cassian immediately regretted saying those words the second he saw you tearing up. “Well, wish granted,” you whispered, tears now cascading down your face: “I hope you have a miserable time on your mission,” and left before he could say anything.

The following day, Cassian left without saying a word to you. He was still so hurt by your reaction to him leaving that he thought it would be best to leave you alone to cool off.

What Cassian didn’t know was that you were an absolute mess when you discovered he left without saying goodbye. It took Rhysand calling Madja to sedate you for you to finally settle down and eventually fell asleep.

Your friends were worried about you as they watched you turn from a bright and cheery fae into a shell of your former self. Everyone tried to help you, but you kept your shields up and refused to talk to anyone.

Every night, they’d hear your cries for Cassian, and one of them would be there to rock you back to sleep. It got so bad that Rhysand was tempted to pull Cassian from his mission so he could possibly fix whatever was wrong with you. Of course, he couldn’t; the mission was too vital, and when he last spoke with him, he was close to whatever Rhysand needed.

When Cassian finally arrived home, he was expecting to be greeted by you and being bombarded with questions on how the mission went. He missed you and wanted to apologize for the fight that occurred between the two of you. Instead, he was greeted with silence. Not one of his friends was there to greet him. “Y/n? Rhysand? Is anyone home?” Cassian called out, thinking maybe no one was home.

“Yes, we just don’t want to talk to you right now,” Cassian heard Mor’s voice before the blonde finally appeared with a scowl painted on her face.

Cassian was surprised by the tone in Mor’s voice. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome. I’ll be in my room, I guess.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Mor blocked Cassian’s path: “You are going straight to y/n’s room and apologize for what you said to her when you left four months ago.”

Cassian felt his throat go dry at the mention of your name. While he was ready to apologize for the fight, he thought because you didn’t hold grudges, he expected you to be over what he had said: “I know what I said was harsh, but she should be over what I said by now.”

“She isn't though, and she has every right to still be mad at you. She refuses to leave her room or eat, and we're taking turns being by her side at night because she has night terrors while screaming your name.” Azriel suddenly appeared and was ready to kick his brother's ass for what he had put you through: “If you don’t go and apologize for what you said to her, I’ll make you regret it.”

Cassian was surprised by Azriel’s threat towards him, especially because you two weren’t close before he left. Cassian felt a peg of jealousy at the thought of you getting close to Azriel while he was away. “Go apologize now!” Azriel repeated before leaving with the equally angry Mor following closely behind.

Cassian thought Azriel was exaggerating when he described your current state until he entered your room. He was absolutely devastated at the scene that was in front of him. Your normally neat room was messy, with you sitting at the edge of your bed staring out the window. As he got closer, he noticed your once radian face and healthy figure was replaced with an alarmingly thin body and a sunken face. “Y/n?” Cassian whispered.

“Oh. Hi Cassian,” you replied in a monotone: “I didn’t realize you were coming home today.”

Against his better judgment, Cassian stocked over to you and hugged you tightly. A part of him broke when you didn’t hug him back: “Y/n, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” you replied, still not hugging him back: “Just let me be alone so I won’t annoy you or anyone else with my clinginess.”

Cassian shuddered at the realization you used his own words against him. He was about to start apologizing profusely when he heard Rhysand's voice in his head: My office. Now! Shaking off Rhysand’s words, Cassian tried to hold your hands, but you crossed them over your chest before he got the chance to: “Listen, I wanted to apologize for what I said when I was leaving for the mission. I know it’s not a good excuse, but I was stressed because I didn’t want to go in the first place. I wanted nothing more than to stay with you.” Cassian knelt down: "How about I take you out to dinner? We could discuss how we can rebuild our friendship?”

“Don’t bother,” you mumbled: “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Cassian felt like he was struck with an ash arrow at your words: “You don’t mean that.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you ignored him and got under your covers. Cassian wanted to join you and apologize repeatedly when he heard Rhysand’s voice again Cassian, get in my office this instant!

Cassian reluctantly exited your room, but just as he was about to leave, he said: “I’m sorry for causing you so much distress. I really hope you forgive me.”

#cassian imagine #cassian x reader #acotar imagine #acotar x reader

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cherryjuiceblues · 9 months

Text

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

➯ HARRY IS A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH Y/N AND Y/N JUST WANTS TO KNOW WHEN HE’LL HAVE SEX WITH HER AGAIN. ✰ dom!harry sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 14k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him.

But he doesn’t. He’s nice.

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best.

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy.

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?”

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away.

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused.

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with.

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees.

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?”

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve.

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand.

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones.

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse.

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.”

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for.

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

#harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #fanfiction

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callme-darling · 2 months

Text

work tensions

or; you’re a prosecutor working a trial vincent is defending and your colleagues get the feeling there’s some underlying tension between the way you’re at each others throats

word count: 3.3k

warnings: smut, like genuinely filthy shit, fem reader, hate sex (kinda), sex in the workplace (so like semi-public ig), vincent and y/n are rivals/enemies, this actually somewhat has a plot lmao, hellllaaaaa tension, so much teasing, degradation (he say slut once), cocky vincent, begging if you squint, throat holding/light choking, fingering, no protection, p-in-v, not proofread, friendly ending (bc i’m a big softie)

a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAY LADIES!!!! hope you enjoy🤍🤍

you were amongst the youngest of the attorneys in the city courthouse. you were fortunate in the opportunities afforded to you, but you also worked your ass off to get where you were today. which is why you, for the life of yourself, can’t understand what the hell you did to earn the contempt of vincent renzi.

from the first time you both stood in the same courtroom, it seemed like his eyes were always set in a hard glare when they saw you. so whose to blame you for reciprocating the hostility? your colleagues usually give you well-intentioned advice to at least talk to him, something you haven’t even done outside of casework. who knows, they’d shrug, maybe it’s just ill-concealed intrigue.

you were young, but you weren’t naive enough to think the esteemed defense attorney didn’t absolutely hate your guts.

some of your colleagues, however, seemed hellbent on taking matters into their own hands after a minor scuffle that left the judge’s office suspended in a tense battle of wills. the case wasn’t even that serious—just a petty case of ‘he-said, she-said’ neighbor dispute. but the simple judge’s meeting quickly fell apart to a dispute that devolved to obviously personal jabs.

when the judge finally had enough, she dismissed both you and vincent from the room with the stern instruction to “talk out whatever issues you two obviously have, and get your shit together”.

you’re on vincent’s heels as he speeds out of the room. as soon as you hear the door click shut behind you, you’re glancing up and down the hallway. vincent runs a hand through his hair, annoyance etched across his features.

“what the hell is your problem?”

you gawk at him, “MY problem?!” you chuckle at his audacity. “you’re the one who started all this-“ you wave your hands in the space between you two like some enigmatic boundary separated you.

his tongue prodded the inside of his cheek, and a roll of his eyes had you seeing red. before you had a chance to properly rip his throat out, an older man poked his head out from another room, face stern as he recommended you find somewhere else to continue whatever dispute you deigned important enough to have a tempermental yelling match in the middle of the office.

with a noise that could only be chalked up at pure irritation, vincent began strutting down the hall. you were quick behind him, wordlessly keeping in step with his long strides. you weren’t done with your conversation, and you’ll be damned if you let him walk away now.

you were in an unfamiliar, and rather desolate, wing of the building when he spun around to face you, his face inches from yours as he ducked down slightly to glare into your eyes. “quit following me like a damn dog!”

your eyes widened before a hard scowl settled on your face. “not until you tell me what your problem with me is.” you fume, “ever since i got here, you have had some personal vendetta against me. you’re going to tell me why.”

his jaw clenched as his eyes scanned your face. “your feelings are hurt because i don’t like you, is that what this is?”

you roll your eyes. “that’s bullshit and we both know it. the truth. now.”

“i need a reason to dislike you?”

“you can make one up for all i care, but i’m tired of your attitude fucking with my job.”

he chuckles dryly, “oh, i see. that’s what this is about.”

your brows scrunch together. at your look of confusion, he takes a step closer, breath fanning your face as he whispers through tight lips, “it’s my attitude fucking with your job, hm? that’s what drives me so fucking crazy- you’re so blind.” he rubs a hand over his mouth, taking a breath before his eyes are hard set on you again. “don’t think i don’t see it—the way you’ve charmed our colleagues, how you bat your pretty little eyes at the judges to get your way-“

you cut him off, disbelief dripping from your words. “excuse me?”

he scoffs, “oh don’t be coy.”

“you know what, vincent,” you clench your fists, nails biting into your palms as they shook, “you can fuck right off.”

you go to turn and walk away, but a thought of venom penetrates your mind and you whip right back around, nearly nose-to-nose as you whisper low, “just say you’re threatened by me next time.”

you watch as something akin to rage flash across vincent’s face. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his eyes bore into yours with a silent threat that chills your spine. his tone is low, dangerous. the rasp makes the hair along your arms stand on end. “i suggest you choose your next words wisely, y/n.”

maybe it was your stubbornness, or a fleeting air of confidence, but you hold his stare, your own voice quieter but just as menacing. “vincent renzi is threatened by the fresh-faced competition and can’t stand the thought that i may be the better attorney.” were you being childish in taunting him? yes, probably. but the months of tension were reaching critical mass, and whatever thoughts crossed your mind were being said.

what had just slipped through your lips, though, was definitely the wrong thing to have said.

a hand harshly grips your bicep as he drags you to the nearest room. he flicks on one set of lights and slams the door shut. he’s fuming, you note. however, you don’t fully register just how angry he is.

he’s silent for a pregnant moment, the air suffocating as he watches you with an analytical glare, his body seemed almost animalistic in how he stalked towards with with silent strides. you feel a new form of anxiety quicken your breathing.

he’s close now, so close you can smell his day-old cologne like it were freshly applied. his voice is quiet, but it makes you jolt under his intense gaze. “you want to know why i hate you so much?”

you feel as though you’re trapped in a stupor, your mind dizzy with this newfound suspense. you give him a small nod, not trusting your voice to remain firm in this intensity.

you swear you feel his lips just barely ghost over your cheek as he speaks, nearly growling in your ear. “i hate you because you’re so infuriating.” he pauses. “the way you walk around the courtroom like it’s yours to own, how you always make the most nit-picky points. and what pisses me off the most, is how i’m so attracted to you because of it.”

you were holding your breath. you felt your mind reeling as silence settled over the room. only the sound of your own breathing and the blood rushing through your veins reached your ears as you held vincent’s gaze.

his ferocity seemed to have diminished a fraction, but his jaw remained clenched. words escaped your brain as you tried to wrack together some coherent response, anything to quell the heat burning you from the inside out.

when no such words came, you decided ‘to hell with it’.

your eyes flicked to vincent’s lips, rubbed a pretty red from his hands and teeth. then you looked back into his eyes. an exchange that required no voice.

‘do it then,’ you silently dared. do it.

and so, he did.

his palm was warm on your cheek, fingers wrapping around the back of your head as he crashed his lips to yours. the force of the kiss had you stumbling back before vincent’s other hand caught your hip.

impatient. that was the best word to describe the way vincent kissed you. you tasted his lips on yours, body humming as you become acutely aware just who you’re kissing. and the mere thought has your thighs clenching together.

there was no room to speak with the way his mouth trailed down your chin, dipping into the curve of your neck. a shudder rushes through your muscles when you feel his teeth nip at the skin of your throat, eliciting a soft gasp to fall from your kiss-swollen lips.

you can feel the faint press of a grin to your collarbone. he coaxed your legs to walk back a few steps, securing your body between the table and his own.

his breath was warm as he spoke against your shoulder, “tell me to stop.” the featherlight touch of his fingers sent jolts of electricity through you as they skimmed down your arms and over your waist. “tell me you don’t want this, and i’ll let you walk out that door.”

your lungs burned when you finally released your breath. you could feel the heat pooling in your stomach, and the deep octave of his voice was doing little to soothe it. you were surprised by your own voice’s clarity, “shut up and kiss me again.”

you felt his body melt deeper into yours as your palms pulled him in by the side of his neck. you allowed yourself to be more eager, greedier, as your tongue teased his bottom lip.

he pressed his hips firmly against yours, his rasping moan nearly making you whimper in response. he was breathless when he pulled away. the pad of his thumb stroked your bottom lip, his own shining with a mixture of yours and his spit.

“i’m going to ruin you..” he murmured, leaning down again, his lips brushing over yours as his thumb holds your chin in place.

you prop your hand on the table behind you, not trusting your legs to hold you for much longer. your voice is meeker this time as you whisper against his touch, “you can try.”

vincent kisses you with an assured hunger. his touch dominating as he grips your hips, the fabric of your skirt gradually bunching in his hold. you can sense the apprehension in him, his internal battle of morals. your hand cradles the back of his head, nails stroking his scalp as you use your other to guide his hand under your blouse. blue eyes meet yours as you chide, “you don’t have to play nice with me, vincent.” the lull of his name from your lips paired with the way you brought his palm to grope at your chest, he needed no more convincing.

“such a little fuckin’ minx.” he muttered under his breath. your skirt was bunched up to your waist, your panties shoved down your legs. he had your back flat on the tabletop, hips slotted between your thighs as his eyes raked over you.

you could feel yourself slowly dripping onto the table below you, cheeks flushed with both lust and embarrassment.

vincent smirked. seeing you laid out like this, on display for him has his dick twitching in his pants. he appraised your needy pussy, a tentative two fingers teasing your folds as your thighs trembled. he watched how you grew shy, hand hovering over your mouth as you whine at the fleeting touch.

finally, you feel the pair of fingers slide into your soaking cunt. a whimper escapes you when he’s knuckle-deep in your clenching heat, the palm of his hand grazing your clit.

his gaze is attentive as he makes note of every little reaction you have to each stroke of his fingers. he bites his lip as he witnesses your eyes softly roll back when his fingers find the spot that has your chest heaving and hips shuddering. he leans down so his ear is next to your mouth, intent on hearing every single needy little whine he lures from you. he presses his lips to yours when he feels you creep up to your climax. “are you going to come on my hand?” his eyes find yours, half-lidded and glassy, and the sight alone makes him groan as his cock aches.

“is this all it takes to have you all pretty and compliant?” the teasing lilt in his voice only makes your cunt flutter around his fingers. “not so smart now when i have two fingers in this little pussy of yours, hm?”

you swear you felt like you were going to pass out. the combination of his fingers and palm against your pussy, his degrading mocking, and taunting eyes has you keening under him in a newfound desperation as you teetered precariously on the edge. so, so close to being rendered incoherent with only two fingers.

his touch leaves you.

you whine loudly, pouting as you attempt to catch your stolen breath. you move to sit up, but a large firm hand across your collarbones keeps you sprawled on the table. you squirm under his hold. “vincent.. why?” under any other circumstances, the needy pitch of your voice would’ve made you cringe, but your depravity gave you little to care about aside from satisfying your incessant lust right now.

his voice was sickeningly taunting as he cooed down at you, his other hand brushing the hair from your face. “come on, you have to work for it.”

you could feel that familiar animosity sit on your tongue, but you hold it. though, based on the sly smile looking down at you, you got the sense he could feel it too.

“how ‘bout this..” he sighs instead. his eyes trailed over your face, blue irises harboring a certain warmth that had anticipation swirling in your stomach. “if you say a simple, little sentence, i’ll give you what you want.”

you chew on your bottom lip, mulling over what was no doubt a trap. “what would you have me say?”

the way his smile widened had your pussy clenching around nothing, the cold air making you shiver. “i want you to say: ‘only vincent renzi can make my pussy this wet’.

“oh fuck y-“

his hand catches your jaw before you could finish your crude remark. his fingers lightly dig into your cheeks as he comes nose-to-nose with you. his voice is dangerously low but a softness keeps to the edges. “would you rather me leave you here, like this? your pussy is practically weeping.” as if to reinforce his words, a hand lightly slaps against your folds. the wet sound had your face turning a new shade of red, lips pouting as his other hand still holds your face close to his.

you don’t say anything, internally battling with yourself. the tip of vincent’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, your eyes following the minute movement with bated breaths. then his soft voice buzzes in your ear. “c’mon.. just say how i make you drip like a needy slut. let me hear that pretty voice of yours, the one you like to use so much.”

you felt a whine croak in your throat as the hand between your thighs gave your clit another tap. “i’ll give you three seconds.” his low tone warned.

“three..”

you felt your breath stutter, eyes searching his. there’s no way he’s serious.

“two..”

he wouldn’t actually leave you like this, would he?”

“on-“

“okay.” you cut him off, words rushed as you grip the wrist of the hand holding your face.

he peers down at you expectantly. the corner of his lips upturned slightly, and you hated how attractive it was.

“only vincent can make me this wet..” he’s never seen you so timid and meek than in that moment, something that only added to the building heat of the room.

“now, was that so hard?” he quirked a brow, fingers playing with your aching cunt as he notes the way your slick soaks his palm. “you’ve done your part, so be a good girl and take what i give you, yeah?”

you nod dumbly as his hand drops from your jaw. your body felt like it was buzzing, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him fumble with his pants, pulling his leather belt off with one hand.

he plants a searing kiss to your lips, a trained dominance permeating his movements. you moan against him, hips twitching as his pants brush against your bare core. a hand slides between your bodies to free his leaking cock from his slacks. you swallow any sounds he makes as his hand strokes his dick a few times. “you got to stay quiet. think you can handle that?”

you ignore the obvious taunt, hand on the back of his neck as you pull at the ends of his hair. “just fuck me already, vince.”

he chuckles dryly, but you sense the anticipation crawling under his skin. next time, you’ll be the one making him beg.

a drawn out gasp fills the room as you feel him slowly begin to sink into your tight heat. fuck, you felt dizzy as your cunt pulsed, sucking him in deeper.

you both moan in with quiet sighs when he bottoms out. he starts slow, but eventually finds a rhythm that has you whining with each thrust, your whimpers gradually growing in volume as his thumb toyed with your sore clit. he curses under his breath, a large hand gripping the sides of your throat.

his voice was labored but firm, “you want the entire firm to hear how you sound with my dick in you? be quiet.” he warns again.

you try, you really do. your hand is over your mouth, eyes watering with unshed tears as his pace quickens. your other hand flies to his shoulder, nails biting into his shirt in a silent plea. his voice floats back to you. “but staying quiet was never your strong suit, was it?”

“fuck, oh shit-“ you whimper, eyes screwing shut when you feel the start of your orgasm wrack through you. “vincent, please, oh-“ your eyes fluttered as his grip around your neck tightened a fraction.

“i told you, you would eventually start begging.”

you can barely hear him over the erratic pulsing in your ears. your entire body tenses, cunt clenching around his dick like a vice. he hisses above you, teeth gritted as he watches you come undone.

he pulls out of you, stroking himself a few more times before he’s coming on your pussy and thighs.

you lay on the table, breathing hard as you come down from the orgasmic high. you stare at vincent who’s already watching you, breaths sharing a calming rhythm. when you feel more like yourself, you start to sit up. he hands you a box of tissues, eyes daring to glance at the mess he made on you.

you attempt to straighten your blouse, the collar of which looks as though it had gone through a windstorm. your eyes scan the floor for your panties.

vincent’s palm offers the small ball of satin into your fingers. your gaze catches his as he suppresses a grin. “wouldn’t want to be caught without these, would you?”

you glare at him, though it’s void of the usual hostility. you finish straightening your clothes, blouse retucked into your smoothed-out skirt. you turn back to vincent who’s been put back together for a couple minutes already, leaning against the wall idly.

your mind screamed at you to fill the silence, to say something to settle the oncoming disquiet.

to your surprise, it was vincent who broke the silence first. “who would have thought that this is something you’re into?” his eyes appraised you again. there was no adversity in his jest, only a gentle prodding.

“you can’t say that like you didn’t just fuck me the same.”

he nods, toothy grin starting to crack through his lips. you can see the way his fingers twitch, itching to hold a cigarette between them.

“want a smoke?” you offer, testing the waters.

his eyes catch yours, and he holds your gaze for a moment. then the first genuine, true smile you’ve seen from him is directed at you.

“i’d like that, yes.”

#♱₊˚✧ filth .#swann arlaud #anatomy of a fall #anatomie d'une chute #vincent renzi #anatomy of a fall vincent

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 4 months

Note

AITA for asking someone not to make my art about a ship I hate?

This happened a couple months ago, but I’m still kinda unsure if I handled it correctly.

Basic rundown of events: I posted some art of a character on their own in the evening, and when I woke up the next morning, someone had reblogged with an addition about a ship that’s a big notp for me. I messaged them to ask they delete it as politely as possible, because people had been interacting with that version of the post specifically and it made me uncomfortable. They responded by saying I was being immature and needed to learn not to police what other people do on the internet. We exchanged a couple more messages, and I tried to explain my position my throughly. Neither of us was overtly hostile or anything, but I felt extremely talked down to by their tone of voice. After our conversation, we both blocked each other, and that was that. They never did delete their addition.

Why I think I might be TA: we weren’t exactly friends or anything. Neither of us followed each other. I’d seen them around in the fandom, and they’d reblogged some of my art in the past, but I think messaging someone I didn’t know instead of just blocking them might have been a bit of an overreach. Plus the ship in question is canon, and not particularly controversial or anything, so most people in the fandom probably wouldn’t have minded.

On the other hand, the ship being so unavoidable is a big part of the reason it upset me so much. It’s hard for me to exist in this fandom without having to see it constantly, and I don’t even ever mention the other character in it for fear of this exact thing happening. I’ve had people be assholes on my posts about the ship I prefer, or go out of their way to interpret my romantic posts about them platonically, or add tags to my art about how they only like my ship as backstory and not endgame. I don’t want to have to put a disclaimer every single time I post about this fandom. I just want to enjoy the things I like without being negative all the time. Which is why I figured messaging privately was more polite than making a stink where everyone could see. I specifically mentioned that I knew they wouldn’t have known and wasn’t mad.

No one actually ended up reblogging their addition, which is also a strike against me, but I got a lot of likes on specifically that version of the post, which made me scared they were going to. I hated the idea of having to turn off reblogs on a piece I’d worked pretty fucking hard on because a version I found so upsetting was in circulation. If it was just tags, I’d have blocked, but it being an addition is different. I don’t think asking people not to make my posts about it is “policing what other people do on the internet”. You’re in MY house, on MY post with MY art I spent hours on. Making additions to art posts already seems somewhat rude to me, that’s just not something you do, but I guess that’s a matter of the corner of tumblr culture you’re used it.

Also, their response felt very aggressive and condescending. They implied I was, like, a kid, and I do think I’m somewhat younger than them, but the only information about my age in my bio at the time was that I’m an adult, so it felt like a rude assumption. My age doesn’t have anything to do with it.

Again, though, I do absolutely see how my initial message could read as entitled. During the rest of our messaging, I did lose my temper a little bit at one point; I said something about how I’ve had to deal with shit in this fandom before, and I don’t remember the exact words since, again, we both blocked each other, but I know I swore at them. That might’ve come across as more aggressive than I wanted, and probably didn’t exactly help deescalate. (Can’t say for sure, I don’t have their side of the story)

Like I said, this situation was a bit ago now, but it upset me pretty bad at the time, and I’m still not entirely sure who’s in the wrong. So, AITA?

(Also to get ahead of this: please don’t make this about shipcourse in the comments. It’s not about that. They and I have similar opinions on that discourse from what I’ve gathered anyway. Thanks.)

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole #ship discourse

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effortandmore · 11 months

Text

tuesday moon | knj (18+)

summary: being “just friends” with kim namjoon sucks

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: fluff, smut

au: university, co-workers to lovers to friends to lovers again (they're oblivious)

warnings: it's mostly fluff i think. they're oblivious. smut: minors should not be interacting/reading, namjoon has a big dick, a lil praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving), penetrative sex, the usual suspects i think. drinking (but not before they sleep together), tae is into new age jazz... and they were roommates!

word count: 7.7k

a/n: so... i had this dream a couple months ago and couldn't get it out of my head, so here you go. thanks, sleep brain. the title is from a neutral milk hotel song (but tbh the '23 album isn't great). thank you to @ugh-yoongi and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over. and then for doing it again when i couldn't even find the mistake you told me was there 🙃

read on ao3

You’ve learned a lot in university—which given how much money you’ve spent to be there is a relief. But amongst business classes and writing workshops and statistics, the most important knowledge you’ve gained is that of small things.

Of small things and how they can change your life in unbelievably big ways.

Kim Namjoon isn’t exactly small. But the events that put him right in the middle of your life are. The first day you meet him is a Tuesday. Tuesdays have always been for non-events: for meetings and your least favorite classes… For snagging a coveted dryer on the third floor of the dorm building because Jeongguk saves it for you when he’s finished with his seemingly endless laundry. Tuesdays are for your first real uni friend, Taehyung, to show up to the laundry room unannounced and make you listen to weird new-age jazz on his phone that you hate, but love how much he loves it.

And then your work-study starts. A job in the library is supposed to be easy, has better hours than a lot of the jobs that are available, and pretty much only requires you to understand the Dewey decimal system so you can reshelve things quickly. You can count and read, and those seem to be the only things the head librarian cares about. Cake.

Your first training day is a Tuesday. It’s a rainy afternoon, and in one of the conference rooms in the back of the law floor are you and three other new employees. Right away, it seems like Yoongi, Hoseok, and Namjoon are already friends. They joke and whisper throughout the orientation videos and absolutely make you feel like a fourth wheel. At your first break, Hoseok extends the invitation for you to sit with them when he notices you still sitting by yourself in the back of the room, and it's then that you learn they for sure already knew each other—music majors and all in the same class even though Yoongi is a little older than the other two. They signed up for all the same work-study assignments hoping they’d be placed together, hoping they could have a chance to work on music during slow times at the slowest work-study assignments. Namjoon, though, who has been quiet the whole time, finally speaks up at this.

“Well, I also like books,” he says softly, one side of his mouth turned up in a grin. “So, I guess I had an ulterior motive.”

“Of course you did, Namjoonie,” Hoseok replies.

Yoongi turns to you, explaining, “Namjoon’s a double major. Smartest guy we know. Literature and music.”

You talk more with them after the ice is broken—Yoongi’s a double major, too, math and music. Hoseok raps and does street dancing in his free time, and around the three of them, you feel like you’re woefully underachieving just at life in general.

“What about you?” Namjoon prompts after you get some background on all of them.

“Ah… nothing impressive. Economics major. Just what my parents wanted, you know. But I like books, too. I volunteer at the public library already, but it doesn’t exactly help with tuition.”

“You volunteer?” Namjoon repeats, looking surprised.

“Oh, yeah… It’s no big deal. I just read books to kids sometimes.”

“That’s awesome,” he says, and the look on his face tells you he might actually mean it. Next to him, Yoongi snickers and Hoseok smiles brightly at you.

“Namjoonie here has wanted to volunteer doing park clean up for a while, but Yoongi and I are always dragging him to the studio on the weekends, so he doesn’t have time.”

Namjoon shrugs. “It would be nice to feel like I’m helping, I think.”

“It is,” you agree, sharing a look with him across the table. “The purpose of life is to be useful…” You mumble the quote under your breath, assuming they wouldn’t know what you meant anyway.

“Emerson?” Namjoon asks.

“Oh! Uh… yeah, I mean… That’s what people think, but probably not. It’s most likely from a speech someone else gave when they gave Emerson an award, but most people think it’s him—” you cut yourself off when you notice Namjoon’s eyes gone wide.

“Self Reliance is one of my favorites,” he says, leaning forward, excitement playing in his voice.

“Same! No one ever knows what I’m talking about, but ‘Nothing at last is sacred but the integrity of one’s own mind’ is maybe my whole life philosophy,” you ramble, just happy that someone might finally know what you’re talking about. No one in your economics classes ever shows any interest in philosophy, anyway. Your roommate calls you a nerd every time you bring stuff like this up, and Jeongguk just stares at you with big eyes like he wants to drink every word you're saying but doesn’t understand a drop of it. But Namjoon actually looks… interested in what you’re saying. More than interested, even.

Yoongi elbows Hoseok and smirks. “Namjoon’s in trouble,” he says.

But before you can ask what that means, the head librarian interrupts to tell you it’s time to get back to training. You have to partner up for training to use the library’s reservation and shelving programs, and Namjoon comes right up to you, grinning shyly, and asks if you want to be his partner while his friends whisper on the other side of the room. You know immediately how this is going to go. Or you think you do, anyway.

And you’re right. By the end of the first week of your work study, you’re in Kim Namjoon’s bed.

It’s just like it sounds.

You’re naked, legs bent at the knees and open with his head between them. You noticed his brain first, but it only took that first afternoon to realize that not only was he smart, but stupid hot and kind and sort of funny in the sarcastic way you like, and he seemed to like something about you, too.

On Saturday, you work a slow shift together, both of you using most of the time to catch up on homework, and when it’s over, he asks if you want to come back to his place and keep studying. You agree quickly, but as soon as you get there, you realize you’re both on the same page about being more interested in studying each other than your class work. One thing leads to another, and here you are, moaning into your own palm as he flicks his tongue over your clit in a steady rhythm.

“Namjoon, I–” You’re pathetic, you think, gasping and barely able to make words come out of your mouth, but fuck if he’s not good at this. Better than you’d thought he would be, actually. He came across as a little on the shy side during work, like he might be one of those guys who needs you to tell him where the clit is. Eager to please, but not quite sure how to go about it. Willing to take direction.

He is not that.

“Gonna come, baby? You like my tongue that much?” Namjoon lifts his head to ask, and his lips are slick with you and his voice is deep and his fingers just don’t stop moving… It's so much.

“Yeah, so close…”

At that, Namjoon smirks and ducks his head back down to finish the job. He makes quick work of you, sucking on your clit and twisting one of your nipples with his free hand. The other has two fingers fucking into you in just the right way, just shallow enough to hit your g-spot each time he pushes in.

The orgasm builds fast, pressure from the inside, pressure from the outside… Everything feels so, so good, and you try to tell him so, but all you can do is whimper through it, clenching your thighs around his ears when you come on his tongue and he tries (bless him) to keep licking your core as your knees shake.

“Fuck,” you say on an exhale, arm tossed over your own forehead.

“I’m down,” he teases.

You’re about to say something sarcastic back, but when you lift your arm and look down at him, you lose that train of thought. He looks fucking incredible: flushed, a little sweaty, chin shiny with your orgasm and he’s grinning with those stupid dimples out… How could you not give him everything he wants? Maybe it’s the orgasm talking, the sweet rush of dopamine affecting you when you say, “I want that. Fuck me…” And for emphasis, when he stares at you a little stunned, you add, “Please, Namjoon?”

He only nods, enthusiastically and a little dopey with it, a little like the boy you saw in the library. But when his cock is out—big… like, really big. Why even have a cock that large, really? What’s even the point of that?—he’s smirking and appropriately (you hope) confident again.

“That is…” you look down and make a vague gesture in the direction of his dick, which makes him look down, too.

He shies almost instantly. “Yeah, it’s okay if it’s too much or whatever…”

“No! That’s not what I meant. I just… You look good.” You scoot up so you can have level eye contact. “Want you to fuck me. I can handle it, promise. I want to.”

Namjoon swallows, visibly nervous, but agrees anyway.

You knew it would be fine. Any partner who makes sure to tell you you’re beautiful, who makes sure you come first, who pays attention to your body the way he has for the last couple hours is probably going to keep doing that, you decide. And he does. He’s careful, even though you think it might actually be killing him a little to not move once he’s over halfway inside you. He checks in with you, makes sure the consent is still there, and then when you ask him to “actually fuck me, Namjoon… want your cock… all of you,” he does. And he delivers.

You’re essentially sitting in his lap, his palms spread on your hips as he moves you on his cock and it is… Well, it’s unequivocally the best anyone’s ever fucked you. His lips are on your neck, your breasts, the swell underneath them where they meet your ribcage… He keeps talking to you in his raspy whisper, making sure you feel okay, telling you how good you feel to him. There are times when he gets a little porny, telling you how tight you are (you’re sure a cock that big hasn’t seen anything not tight), and then he says, half out of breath, “Knew you would be a good girl. Knew it from the first time I saw you.” And you didn’t even know you wanted to be a ‘good girl,’ but suddenly you very much do.

Before he comes, he makes sure you do again, too. His thumb finds your clit and his lips are hot against your ear, whispering filth when you tighten around his cock and shudder in his lap. He’s not far behind you, pulling your hips down when he thrusts into you a little harder, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort. He’s quiet when he comes, just a low moan of your name as he stills under you.

After, it’s the small things he does that you like. It’s nice that he doesn’t try and move right away, just runs his hands up and down your back—soothing, almost. The closeness is nice, his head resting against your collarbone while you stroke your fingers through his hair. It feels intimate, more than a first time or a one night stand with your coworker should. But neither of you make a move to change that, so maybe it’s alright.

For now.

You haven’t exactly been the most social university student, but you know how these things are supposed to go. You clean up, you get dressed, you make awkward small talk about your classes or your work study and then you go your separate ways. You go back to your apartment and you don’t talk about what happened. He might look at you like he knows what’s underneath your hoodie next time you see him, but you know it won’t happen again. That’s not how it works. Not for you, anyway.

Kim Namjoon is a good guy, that you’re sure of. He’s a hard worker, he’s smart, he has lots of friends and hobbies and between that and school and work, you know there’s no way he’s looking for a relationship, and you also know he’s going to do his best to let you down easy if he thinks that’s what you’re after.

But, he’s your friend. And your co-worker, and the sex was great, so you want to at least spare him the effort of all that. So, when he gets up to dispose of the condom and find a washcloth, you get dressed quietly, pack your textbooks, and do your best to look mostly put together by the time he comes back.

“So,” you start as he returns to his room, “that was great… Really great, Namjoonie. Thank you.”

He looks… confused. “You’re thanking me for sex?”

“I uh… yes?”

Namjoon gives you a dimpled smile with an eyebrow raised, clearly amused. “Okay… Well, you’re welcome, then. And thank you.” He gives you a teasing bow, and with it, you feel a little relief. Because he’s obviously ready to move forward and this can just be a fun thing that happened and you don’t have to make him worry about letting you down, and you don’t have to worry about how much you fucking like him already. You can just be friends.

The problem, you realize quickly, is that being “just friends” with Kim Namjoon sucks.

It’s like sending your poor, delusional heart through a cheese grater with each of your work-study shifts. It’s swallowing down every dream of happiness when you have to sit next to him at a party and watch him nod along in agreement as Hoseok tells him how hot the new guy in his dance class is. (The guy is hot, with at least a 6-pack, big, pouty lips, and biceps like cannons. So, even you have to agree they have a point.)

Okay, that’s probably dramatic. Incredibly dramatic according to Taehyung and Jeongguk. Which, honestly, says a lot coming from them.

So, you do your best to forget your crush and just be cool about everything. You both make a frankly commendable effort to never talk about what happened between you, and after a few weeks, things don’t feel quite so weird. Namjoon’s probably relieved you never mentioned it again, didn’t expect him to be your boyfriend or anything.

You think you’ve done well.

At one party, halfway through the semester, you meet Namjoon’s friend, Seokjin. He’s quiet at first, polite with a big smile and a nervous laugh. He sticks close to Yoongi and Namjoon, and it doesn’t take long before he’s being shuttled across the large backyard in your direction.

“Hi,” he says simply. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh! That’s good… I think?”

“Yah, Namjoonie here—”

“Well, that was great!” Namjoon interjects. “Glad you two finally met. We’re late for something, though. So, bye!” And then he’s pulling Seokjin behind him through the yard in the opposite direction. It’s so weird.

In his protests, you’re pretty sure you hear him say, “You’re ridiculous,” to Namjoon. If you were more sober, you would have recognized it as the first small thing that should have tipped you off.

The second thing happens right before summer break. Your whole group, consisting of your and Namjoon’s friends, are sitting around at lunch discussing everyone’s plans for the summer. Hoseok and Jimin (the hot dancer he wouldn’t shut up about who is now his new boyfriend) are going to a dance clinic on the other side of the country. Jeongguk is going home, promising you he’ll leave you a list of acceptable laundromats in his absence. Seokjin and Taehyung are working—teaching acting classes to teenagers at summer camp.

Yoongi’s got an internship, so he’ll be around, but barely since it’s in the city and your university is a little outside of town. It’s a long subway trip, so he’s got a sublet up there he’s moving into for the summer months.

And then it’s Namjoon’s turn.

“I’m staying. Not on campus, obviously. But I found an apartment and I’m looking for a roommate.” Everyone nods along except Jeongguk, whose eyes dart from Namjoon to you and back several times.

“What about noona?” he finally says, hooking a thumb in your direction. “She’s staying, too.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“That’s not a bad idea…”

Namjoon and you look at one another. He’s flushed, and he’s doing that thing he does when he’s nervous where he rubs his throat.

“I’m sure Namjoon has plenty of people in mind already,” you say, trying to give him the out he clearly wants.

“Not exactly,” he mumbles.

“This is perfect!” Seokjin exclaims. “Don’t you think this is perfect, Namjoon?”

You lean over to whisper to Namjoon, “You don’t have to, it’s really alright.” It feels like you’re making him nervous, you can feel his muscles stiffen where you’re touching his arm, and the flush he was sporting is spreading to his neck now.

“Would you even want to?” He asks softly.

You’re not sure, actually. It’s already hard work trying to put your stupid crush out of your mind most days. And now, you only see him a few days a week. Your brain (a logical friend) is telling you that living with him will be terrible for your heart. Your heart isn’t as smart and is pounding faster just thinking about spending more time around your crush. Friend, you correct yourself.

The problem is that only Tae and Jeongguk know about your feelings, and none of them know you and Namjoon have already slept together. So, if you say no, it might be weird. As far as they know, you’re just friends, good friends. Why wouldn’t you want to live with him?

“Yeah,” you reply brightly, swallowing down your nerves, “it’ll be great, Joonie. I can cook and you can help me study for my summer classes.” You’re nodding along as you speak, trying to convince yourself that what you’re saying is true.

“Okay… sure. Roommates,” he says, looking a little stunned.

“Roommates!”

You stick your hand out to shake his. You’re the least sexy person to have ever existed, you decide, as he laughs and shakes your hand.

“It was a terrible idea,” you whine into Taehyung’s lap. “He’s just here… all the time. And sometimes…”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes he doesn’t wear a shirt!” You slump further into your friend, making what you know are pitiful whining noises into his thighs.

It’s not like you’d go as far as saying moving in with Namjoon for the summer was a mistake. But it wasn’t great. Actually, it was really fucking great, and that was the problem. Or part of the problem anyway.

The apartment is nice—nicer than you’d envisioned when he told you about it. Not too big, but on the corner of the building so you got nice light throughout the day. You each have your own bedroom (thank god) and they aren’t large, but Namjoon gave you the one with the room for a chair by the window, even though you knew he’d been planning to write lyrics there. As promised, you cook for both of you in your small kitchen and Namjoon helps you with your summer classes.

With all of your friends gone or busy, you two don’t see much of them, and it feels like you build your own little world: late nights listening to the records he brings home, eating simple meals by the window and complaining that you don’t have a balcony, getting dragged out on bike rides when the sun falls and it’s cool enough outside, hunched together on the floor of the living room scrolling webtoons and drinking one too many cheap beers, and the worst (best) of all—falling asleep on the couch together before you wake up with a jolt realizing your head is on him and it’s far, far too much to realize his chest is in your face… so you scramble to your room like a coward and don’t fall back asleep, too keyed up.

Seokjin, when you do see him, adds in more and more “old married couple” jokes as the summer goes on. He makes fun of your chore lists on the fridge, cutely decorated with whatever doodle has been occupying Namjoon’s mind that week.

(Jin doesn’t even know that when all the chores are done, you save the little post-it notes, snatching them off the fridge when Namjoon’s not around or not paying attention, and putting them carefully into a little box in your desk drawer with all the other scraps and mementos of your friendship you’ve kept over the almost-year you’ve known him.)

Jin teases you when he lets himself in, late in the mornings, and finds the two of you still asleep, tumbled atop each other on the floor, record-listening session gone too late, the needle still digging into invisible grooves at the center.

It’s not his fault it doesn’t feel like a joke to you, he doesn’t know that you feel like the 45 and all of the jokes and all of Namjoon’s smiles and all of the little notes he leaves and the way he blushes when you come out of the bathroom in your robe like maybe maybe there’s just a chance you’re not the only one still thinking about that one time… that those are the needles, and you’re here, spinning in place while they poke and prod and dig for a melody that just isn’t there.

Namjoon, to his credit, is the very definition of a good friend and roommate. He does all the little things. He brings you breakfast sometimes when he’s been out all night and knows you’ll be waking up shortly after he comes home. He cleans, so that even though he’s got so much stuff (endless records and books and figurines and things he just thought were cute), your apartment never feels dirty, just lived-in and homey and a little cluttered. Buys toothpaste when you forget—before you forget, even. Puts your favorite flavor of soju in the fridge every week even though he hates it.

And it’s not just what he does at home (your home. with him. which you try not to think about because the way the thought makes your heart swell and almost burst is dangerous and confusing, and you hate that you can’t stop thinking about it entirely.) he takes you out, too. It helps that he’s more social than you: gets you outside in the real world between classes and studying. Makes sure you touch grass. Does stupid dances with you to bad music at worse clubs. Buys you hotteok at 2am because he knows you want it even though you won’t admit it so he says both pieces are for him and lets you argue that it’s bad for his heart and you’re willing to take one off his hands just for the sake of his health… because you care for him.

You don’t let yourself think about the way it seems like he flushes and his eyes twinkle a little when you say that. It’s got to be in your imagination.

He doesn’t know that each time he goes out of his way to do something nice for you hurts a little. Doesn’t know that each time he’s a touch too sweet, you wish you’d stayed that one time. Can’t possibly relate to the way you wish that one night turned into a date turned into something more, maybe.

And you know he can’t relate, because he’s started doing this thing while you’ve been living together: talking about someone. Someone that he likes.

It’s devastating and you try so hard not to cry on the nights when it comes up. You succeed in never crying in front of him, but if you drip snot onto your pillow trying to hold back your sobs once you’re alone in your room, he doesn’t have to know.

You don’t know who she is, but you’ve overheard Namjoon on the phone with Yoongi talking about her. She sounds great, if Namjoon’s probably clouded judgment is any indication. He thinks she’s smart and talented, says she sells herself short and he thinks she’s as close to perfect as anyone on the planet. He doesn’t go out without you too often, and you don’t ask where he’s been if he doesn’t offer, but he must be spending time with her because you catch him on a video call with Hoseok saying she can cook and she’s brilliant and she’s everything he’s ever wanted.

She also sounds like she doesn’t know what she’s got, because Namjoon’s convinced she doesn’t like him back and that she’s out of his league—you finally ascertain that the reason he’s been going to the gym more was because one time she said she thought another guy had nice biceps and he knows they were bigger than his.

One time, you come home late, catching Tae at a bar near campus after he’s done with classes and drinking a little too much. You’re not drunk, but you’re in that warm space past sober where everything is a little softer and funnier and Namjoon looks dangerously pretty sitting at his desk with headphones on working on a song.

You plop on his bed, as you do now, and wait for him to notice you’re there. It doesn’t take long.

“Hey,” he says as he pulls off the headphones. He’s giving you the double-dimple smile, which is especially effective when you’re tipsy like this. Throws you more off-kilter than another cocktail would have. “Have fun with Tae?”

“Hmm… yeah.” You lay back on his bed and don’t let yourself worry about your shirt riding up or your hair spilling around you in a haystack. It’s just Namjoon, and you know he doesn’t think about you like that, know he’s already seen you with more skin showing, hair messier.

“Need me to get you some water?”

“No,” you sit up on your elbows, “s’okay. Didn’t drink too much. What’re you working on?”

Namjoon is staring right at you, something indiscernible on his face. He looks almost like he’s in pain or something. “You alright?”

He shakes his head and looks embarrassed. You have no idea why. “Yeah, fine… I’m fine. Just a song, nothing too special.”

“Can I hear it?”

“It’s personal… Kind of silly. It’s not done yet… I’m not sure you’d like it,” he says.

“I like everything you make.” It comes out too honest, you’re not sober enough to hide the tenderness in your voice, to wrap it in something less vulnerable.

There’s no response to that, and you worry you’ve given too much away for a split second before he unplugs his headphones and hits play on the song. And if you thought the sight of him working, bathed in moonlight and neon, was beautiful, this song is truly something else.

It’s lovely—sweeping melody and building building with layers until it crashes all around you, his voice low and quick, persistent with words of love. It’s a love song disguised as wordplay, or maybe the other way around. It’s him in music: smart and beautiful and selfless and breathtaking… You want to keep it, you want it to be yours, you want the words to be about you or for you or just written with you in the back of his mind. It’s too much, it’s so so beautiful, and you know it’s about her. It’s for her. She’s the one who has his attention and who gets his words and it makes you want to crawl under your blankets and never come out like a petulant child.

You’re laying down again, so you don’t know what he’s looking at as you listen. When it ends, you’re asking the question even though you don’t want the answer, even though him saying it will make it too real. “Is it about her?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers, just as quietly. “It’s about her.”

You sit up quick, make sure you’re turned away from him so he can’t see the tears that are beginning to drip down your cheeks.

“It’s pretty,” you say as you head toward the door, hopefully not giving yourself away, not looking back in his direction. “Really pretty. She’s lucky, Namjoonie.”

You don’t see the confusion on his face as your bedroom door closes behind you. You don’t hear him tell you goodnight in a small, concerned voice.

After song-gate, you do your best to put a brave face on and move forward. It’s more for him than you, you have to tell yourself. Because you, your heart, you don’t want to let him go, can’t stand the idea of watching him be happy with someone else. But you, Kim Namjoon’s best friend, you want nothing more than for him to be happy, even if it’s not with you. And it’s hard, but for the most part, you let that version of you win.

You give him broad smiles and you keep not asking where he’s going when he leaves without you. You try really hard not to overhear his calls with Hoseok and Yoongi and when you do, you give him a ridiculous double-thumbs up and tell him to go for it, that she’d be a fool to turn him down. You’re pretty sure you’re the only one who ends up looking foolish in that moment though, even if you really, truly mean it.

One day (of course it’s a Tuesday), you come home from class, and you’re sorting through the mail when you spot a card on the counter that wasn’t there in the morning. Namjoon must’ve left it when he came home, you can hear the shower running from down the hall. It’s rare he beats you home on Tuesdays, always saying he’s got “something” to do “across town” and you just assume it’s with her, so you don’t ask.

But what’s more interesting than him being home early is what the card is: a temporary driver license issued to one Kim Namjoon. It’s got a picture of him, dimples out and glasses on, dated that day. You hadn’t even known he’d taken the class or the tests. You wonder why he wouldn’t tell you… It’s a big deal to him—he’d always said he didn’t need it, liked taking the bus and the metro. Thought cars were bad for the planet and that there were too many of them in the city anyway. But here’s the card, proof that for some reason he thought it was time for a change.

“Oh! You… I didn’t mean for you to find that…”

You look up. Namjoon’s standing by the couch, watching you examine his license, wrapped in a towel because if there’s a god, he only wants you to suffer.

“You got your license?”

“Ah… the temporary one, yeah. Still need to take the road test.”

He seems nervous, fidgeting with the blanket on the back of the sofa. You don’t know why he’d be nervous, it’s cool, you think. One more thing to add to the seemingly endless list of things Namjoon can do.

“Proud of you, Namjoonie. But… why? I thought you didn’t want to drive.”

He shrugs. “Don’t really, but… I just thought… Well, I thought if I got up the nerve to ask someone on a date, it would be nice to drive her. Just once or twice. Make it special, I guess. It’s probably stupid, but I thought y—” He cuts himself off and pauses. Looks out the window and scrunches his forehead up like he’s scolding himself. “I thought she might like that,” he says, finally.

“Did she tell you to get a license?” You’re sure you sound as outraged as you feel when you ask.

“No! She wouldn’t… No. I just wanted to try.”

“Okay. Okay, good. You shouldn’t change yourself for anyone, Joonie.” And then you do that thing again, where you say too much, where it comes out too fond. “You’re more than enough just the way you are. If she doesn’t know that, she’s not good enough for you.”

Namjoon smiles softly. “I’m starting to think she does,” he says.

And the look on his face… It’s happiness and warmth and fuck you wish it was for you. Those nagging feelings of wanting more more more from him are welling up in your chest. “Good,” you say, still too tender as you set the card in his palm and scoot past him to your room, mail forgotten. “That’s the very least of what you deserve.”

Later that night, you’ve tucked the soft and vulnerable parts of you back inside, showered, ordered food, and sent Namjoon down to pick it up with a stop at the convenience store for soju and beer. You can do this, you tell yourself in the mirror, psyching yourself up for the first time you both will hang out with all your friends in months.

The summer is drawing to an end. Seokjin and Taehyung are done teaching, Jimin and Hoseok got back over the weekend, Yoongi’s internship ended the week prior, and Jeongguk is back from his visit home, everyone returning in time to buy books and settle in for the new semester.

You and Namjoon have decided to keep the apartment: close enough to campus, affordable enough, and you both bashfully agreed you liked living together, an arrangement sealed with the secret handshake greeting from a drama you’d watched together over the summer. So, you have the biggest apartment out of all your friends (which doesn’t say much), and they’ve all decided in your group chat that the group “welcome home” party would take place in your living room.

Seokjin and Taehyung arrive first, Jeongguk in tow. They’re pouring through your door play-fighting and laughing and for a minute, you forget your crush on your roommate, you forget he’s pining after someone else, and you just feel so much joy that your friends are back as they pull you into a crushing group hug.

“We brought wine,” Seokjin says.

“Ew!” (A twin chorus from you and Jeongguk).

“Fine, you two have your cheap soju and leave the good stuff for the rest of us.”

“Hyung, that bottle was only six—”

“Shh! Have some respect!” Seokjin says, slapping in the air in Tae’s general direction.

They file into the kitchen to drop off snacks and cheap wine while you leave to dig around in Namjoon’s room for some records to play. It’s a hassle, finding enough that you like and then having to flip them every fifteen minutes, so you finally give up and resign yourself to just playing a playlist off your phone. Or anyone’s phone except Taehyung’s anyway, because “experimental jazz night” was not a hit last time he suckered you all into it.

When you come back down the hall, your kitchen is suspiciously quiet. There is whispering and you can’t hear what they’re saying but you know anytime Jeongguk and Seokjin are colluding that it means trouble.

“What’s going on in here?” You ask as you make it back to the kitchen.

The three of them are reading the notes on your fridge and they all hop around immediately. Jeongguk and Taehyung have the decency to look guilty, but Seokjin just looks like he’s unearthed the lost city or something.

“What are these?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Our shopping list? Chore list?”

Seokjin grins. “No, not those… These.” He plucks a sticky off the fridge and starts reading it aloud.

“...And greet the all auspicious day,

Whose privilege permits my song—”

You can feel your face like a wildfire, hot and persistent, as you snatch the piece of paper out of his hand and tuck it in your pocket.

“That’s nothing. Just a poem”

“That’s not nothing, that’s a love poem.”

“We just leave each other quotes sometimes,” you mutter, fussing around the kitchen, opening the bags of snacks and setting them on the counter. “It’s no big deal. Just a small thing.”

Jeongguk looks at you with wide eyes. “And you sometimes leave each other love poems?” he asks cautiously.

“I guess… It’s whatever,” you say.

“What’s whatever?” Hoseok’s bright voice drifts into the room. You snap your head up to see that he’s with Jimin, and they’re followed in by Yoongi and Namjoon, carrying all the food and drinks.

“Namjoon hyung and Noona leave each other love notes on the fridge!” Jeongguk says brightly. “It’s so cute.”

Your jaw actually drops, and you see in your periphery, Namjoon’s is doing the same.

“They’re not love notes!” You protest.

“They’re poems,” Namjoon adds with indignance.

“Besides,” you add, “he’s got a girlfriend or whatever.” You know you sound a little annoyed, and you don’t want to, but it’s worth it if it gets them off your backs.

“Wait, what?” Yoongi finally joins the conversation, peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen.

Six pairs of eyes are on you, and one (Namjoon’s) is anywhere but. You get the offputting feeling that something is happening, but you don’t know what. That the boys staring at you know something you don’t.

“Namjoonie… He’s got a girl he likes. So, they’re not love notes. They’re just quotes we like.”

Yoongi stares at you like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, and then Hoseok says, “Oh my god, they are that bad.”

Seokjin nods. “The worst, actually.”

“What? What is going on?” You ask. The question is directed at anyone, but you’re looking straight at Namjoon, who still won’t look at you.

“I’m just gonna open some soju,” Jimin says. “Come on, guys.”

The statement is clearly directed at Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jeongguk, who are all still huddled by the fridge, clearly amused at whatever is unfolding in your kitchen. One by one, they file out. Namjoon tries to follow them, but Yoongi unceremoniously shoves him back into the kitchen with a hissed, “I don’t think so, Namjoon.”

“I’m so confused,” you say quietly. Namjoon finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, and he looks so so nervous. Just like the day you’d agreed to be roommates. You have no idea why, because you’d never do anything to make him feel that way, not on purpose. “Is this about her? I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have—”

“No! I mean… yeah, it’s about her. Or you, I guess?”

“Me?”

Namjoon nods. He takes a deep breath and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You. You and her.”

“I don’t even know her, Namjoonie.”

He sighs. “You are her.”

You’re every meme of confused people trying to do math. You think you probably have a literal question mark above your head. You think you heard him right but… but there’s no way that it’s what he meant.

“What?”

Namjoon looks like it’s almost painful to keep speaking, also a little apologetic. “I like you,” he says, shrugging. “I like you so much, and I’m a dick for agreeing to be your roommate when I felt that way, and I thought after that one time… Well, I thought maybe you needed more and that’s why it never happened again, so I started going to the gym more and trying to… I don’t know. Be more?” He runs a hand through his hair and slumps against the counter. “I just like you so much and I wanted you to like me, too. But I—”

“You like me?”

“Oh, fuck, so much.” It’s almost out like a breath, floats through the space between the two of you, waves itself in front of your face.

“That’s why you thought it would be weird to be roommates…” you say, pieces clicking together.

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “And why I tried to get biceps like Jimin and why I leave you love notes on the fridge, and why I wrote you a whole song about how incredible you are, how you make me feel, and how much I want you even though you don’t want me back…”

“Biceps like Jimin?”

“You said they were nice…”

“Oh my god.” Little details of the past few months since you slept together all start floating around in your head and you see it so clearly now, it all starts to make sense, all the silly little things Namjoon does for you because it’s you, because he likes you… and oh no…

“Namjoon.”

“Yeah?” He’s painfully cute like this—nervous and a little shy, hair falling into his eyes like it can protect him from looking right at you.

You take a couple of steps closer to him. “I like you, too.”

“You what?”

“I like you, too. Just the way you are. I like all the nice small things you do for me, I like how you think, I like how you smell like soap all the time ‘cause you take a million showers… I like living with you… I like your records and your books and… And it’s stupid probably, but I save all your doodles like a teenager would ‘cause I just like you so fucking much… And I’m the bad friend, the one who moved in with you even though I liked you like this. I thought I would get over it. I thought… I don’t know. I thought after we slept together you just wanted to be friends, so I’ve been trying so hard, but…”

“It’s awful,” he says, a giant grin on his face as he watches you stumble through your confession. “I thought you just wanted to be friends, too. You left before I could ask you to stay.”

“Yeah, it is awful. Liked you since that first day in the library.”

“Fuck, me too. We’re so ridiculous.”

“Jin was right, we’re the worst,” you whisper.

“You are!” You hear Jin call from the living room.

You let your head fall forward and bury it in Namjoon’s chest as he wraps an arm (with a perfectly sized bicep, you note, reminding yourself to tell him later) around you and laughs into your hair.

“You’re listening to us?” you protest.

“Hard not to,” Yoongi answers, “small apartment.”

“You fucked?!” Hoseok yells.

“Oh my god,” you moan into Namjoon’s shirt.

“I bet they made love,” you hear a dreamy-voiced Jimin chime in.

You can feel Namjoon’s laugh rumble through his chest against your ear. It’s the best feeling you’ve felt in months.

“So,” you start, pulling your head off his chest, but letting him slide his arm down yours until you’re loosely holding hands. “What now?”

“Well, we should probably talk.”

You peek around him to see your friends all staring at you. “Maybe later?” you ask.

“Later is good.” Namjoon smiles so so big. You love knowing that you’re the one making him feel happy, you think you’re a little ridiculous for being jealous of some other non-existent girl this whole time.

“We like each other,” you say, still a little in shock.

“We do.”

Then, because you’re you, and you have not ever once been cool in front of Kim Namjoon, you lift your palm up. And because he’s him, and now you know he probably thinks he has never once been cool around you, he gives you a high five, his palm connecting with yours and then lingering there while you look at each other and you try not to lift up on your toes and kiss the shit out of him.

“Did they just high five?” Hoseok asks, incredulous.

“They’re so weird. Do you remember when they shook hands on being roommates when it was so obvious they wanted to jump each other on the couch? They probably kissed no tongue and called it sex,” Seokjin says, unhelpfully.

“Hey!” you shout. “We can hear you!”

“The sex was really great, for your information,” Namjoon says, and your face heats immediately.

“It was,” you agree, if for no other reason than it really really was. And you want to make Seokjin as uncomfortable as possible. “Namjoon really knows wh—”

“This is going to be even worse than them being oblivious, isn’t it?” Yoongi asks no one in particular, cutting you off.

But that night after your friends leave, and you do get the chance to kiss Namjoon again, who is now not only your roommate, but your boyfriend, you know Yoongi couldn’t have been more wrong. This is infinitely better than being oblivious to Namjoon's feelings.

“What do you see in me?” he says into the ceiling, sweaty and a little hazy post-orgasm, after you’d made sure to seal your new arrangement properly. No high fives, no handshakes, just long kisses and nervous touches turning more sure, Namjoon making sure to whisper into your skin how much he cares for you, how sexy he thinks you are, how long he’s waited to have you again like this…

(And you returning those words, moving your hips in slow circles in his lap, fingernails trailing across his shoulders as you tell him how good he is, how gorgeous he looks, how his biceps are the exact right size for you to squeeze—which makes him laugh while he fucks you, and if that’s not the best thing you’ll ever see in your life, you’re not sure what is...)

You lace your fingers with his and turn to him, thinking about all the things you love about him, how all those pieces layer together to make something so big that it seems to take up your whole heart. “I like all the small things that make you, you.”

And he kisses you as a reply, lips soft and sweet on yours, and you decide that from now on, Tuesdays are for kissing your boyfriend in the moonlight and making sure he knows exactly how much you like him so that neither of you are ever unsure again.

#namjoon fic #namjoon smut #namjoon imagine #namjoon x you #namjoon x reader #namjoon fluff #namjoon fanfiction #knj x reader #kvanity #btshoneyhive #bts smut #bts fluff #bts writing #bts fanfic #bts imagines

601 notes · View notes

juyeonszn · 6 months

Text

I LOOK BETTER UNDER YOU

PAIRING choi chanhee x f!reader

WORD COUNT 2.62k

GENRES smut

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, mature language, TW: LEWIS STRUCTURES/CHEMISTRY TERMS 🤢🤢🤢, academic rivals to something idk, kev and jichang appearances, chanhee is a cocky little shit, vaginal fingering, edging, exhibitionism lowkey, there’s not p in v action but they are in a public space so…. take with that what u will

SUMMARY aside from excelling at literally everything else, choi chanhee was also really fucking good at getting on your last nerve.

MORE my brain hurts LOL anyway fawntober day???? 7 holy fuck that is actually insane… ANYWAY shout out reese for being my beta as always <3 and also shout out @sungbeam for the idea <3 laurv u bestie!!! pls reblog if u enjoyed :)

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri

You felt stupid. Never in your life had you ever struggled to learn a concept, usually understanding on the first go around. This was the case for a majority of your courses. However, for some reason you just couldn’t quite grasp Lewis Structures in your Chemistry class.

Everything else seemed simple enough, your professor explaining them in a way that made them sound easy. They were anything but. You found yourself stressing over whether or not you could fully comprehend the bonds between atoms in time for your midterm. With the way it was going for you, that hope appeared to get less and less realistic.

“Have you thought about going to tutoring?” Your friend, Kevin, asks as you sit across from each other in one of the library’s study rooms, your chemistry textbook opened up to the section on Lewis Structures.

“I mean, no, I haven’t. I just think they’d judge me, considering I have the second highest GPA in our department.” You huff, scribbling down even more notes on the concept, as if you didn’t already have everything you needed to know. God, being a woman in STEM was so hard.

“That’s your problem,” Kevin rolls his eyes, working on his communications homework simultaneously. “Your ego is too damn big. Maybe if you toned it down a notch and set aside your pride, you’d be able to grow the balls to actually ask for help.”

You’re offended, honestly. Because as much as he was right, he was simultaneously very wrong. It wasn’t that you didn’t have the courage to ask for assistance. It was the fact that your biggest rival was the person in charge of the science department’s tutoring lab. He had the highest GPA in your year and you couldn’t stand the thought of losing to him. Let alone showing your weak side.

Aside from excelling at literally everything else, Choi Chanhee was also really fucking good at getting on your last nerve. You were thankful that he wasn’t in your Chemistry lecture, lest he made fun of you for all the questions you asked pertaining to your struggles. He had a knack for crawling under your skin like a goddamn parasite, doing everything in his power to make sure you never felt a moment of peace as long as he was around.

You hated him. You hated him so much for all of the unnecessary competition and constant need to one-up you in every mutual category possible. You hated his overall overachievement to be better than you, to be above you at all costs. You hated his dumb pretty face.

So how could you turn to tutoring after all of that? It just wasn’t feasible. Kevin wouldn’t get it. He didn’t have an arch nemesis holding him back from success.

“That’s not it at all, Kev. But it’s whatever, I’ll figure this shit out myself.”

You could not figure that shit out by yourself. Midterms were a week and a half away, and you were still ripping your hair out over which structures were more dominant and other things of that nature. This was absolutely humiliating. Perhaps growing up as a gifted kid was the worst thing that could’ve happened to you.

With a frown permanently etched on your face, you glance over at your tablemate’s notes. He had messily scrawled examples of those damn Lewis Structures covering the sheet, eyes flickering back and forth between his notebook and the projector at the front of the lecture hall. Oh how badly you wished to be in his shoes, to decipher everything and anything to do with the dot structures presented to you.

Ji Changmin was by no means a genius. His intelligence levels were above average, but that was still below you. How could he understand this better than you? It made no sense. Then again, he was close friends with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. That had to be the reason why. His friend was practically the Einstein reincarnate.

This meant that you couldn’t even express your difficulties with him either. Chanhee no doubtedly knew that you sat beside his friend. If you asked for his help, it would obviously circle back to him and you’d never hear the end of it. You’d never unhear the taunting voice of Choi Chanhee teasing you for asking Ji Changmin for assistance with fucking Lewis Structures. There really was no winning here.

As the lecture draws to a close and your professor reminds you to study for the fast approaching midterm, Changmin clears his throat beside you with a raised eyebrow. You look at him with thinly concealed surprise. So much for being subtle.

“I saw you looking at my notes,” he snorts. “You know, if you’re having a hard time with this chapter, you should just go to the tutoring lab. I’m assuming you haven’t because Chanhee hasn’t gloated about it yet. But if you were curious, he won’t be there today. He has to go to some meeting for the newspaper. You know that guy’s got like ten different clubs he’s a part of.”

You’re not sure why Ji Changmin would be on your side with this. In fact, it kind of makes you skeptical. You didn’t know how credible he was, so why would you trust this information? For all you knew, he could’ve been attempting to lure you right into a trap. However, despite the bit of laughter he exhibited, he didn’t appear to be lying. You were usually a pretty good judge of character.

That’s how you found yourself showing up to the tutoring lab later that evening.

It was located inside of the STEM building on the fourth floor, along with some of the offices belonging to several professors. You chose to go later at night with the knowledge that most students would be gone by that time. The lab was available for use until 9 PM on weekdays, and it was currently 8 PM.

Your grip on the strap of your bag tightens as you push open the see-through glass door of the lab, grateful for the evident emptiness. Though it also worries you, because there were no tutors around either. Maybe the slowness of a Thursday evening encouraged them to head home early. You decide to wait a few minutes anyway, just in case someone shows up.

That was, unfortunately, a very big mistake. As you’re pulling out your notes and textbook, you hear the low creak of the door opening. You think you might keel over and die when you’re suddenly face to face with The Choi Chanhee.

His lips curl up almost menacingly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well well well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“Shut the fuck up,” your teeth grit together. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting or something? Why are you here?”

“Ended early,” he shrugs. “The tutors have a habit of leaving prematurely when I’m not around, so I wanted to see if there was anyone here. Guess it’s my lucky day, huh?”

This dude was a walking headache for real. You were seriously going to walk out of the lab with a migraine if he kept talking like he was so fucking smart. He was, but he didn’t need to know that you thought that. His own ego was large enough without you inflating it even more.

“I’m going home.” You state simply, mouth drawn in a straight line. You didn’t have the patience for his aggravating ass tonight.

“Am I really that horrible that you won’t accept my aid? I heard that you’ve been having problems with Lewis Structures. I may like to joke around, but I’m not really a masochist who likes to watch people suffer,” Chanhee chuckles with a shake of his head. “You’re just so easy to rile up.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, avoiding his piercing gaze. “But fine. If you’re actually gonna help me, I’ll let you just this once. I can’t afford to have this cost me a perfect midterm grade.”

He grins, something that looks conniving. You hate how much more attractive it makes him. You were thankful again for the fact that there were no other students present. It was embarrassing enough to be seen being civil with the worst person in the world.

Chanhee takes the seat beside you, turning it so he’s facing you. You keep your body squared to the table, flipping your textbook to the page on Lewis Structures and preparing a fresh sheet in your notebook. You feel your cheeks warm up with the attention on you, his arms still folded in front of him.

“S-So I don’t get the— um— I don’t— uh— I don’t understand the dominant— the dominant bonds,” your eyes squeeze shut, mortified by the amount of stuttering and fumbling over your words. “How do you— um— how do you determine them?”

He smiles at how cute you are, a shy side of you he’s never seen before. He was so used to you constantly arguing with him, used to you standing your ground and competing with him even when you knew he’d come out on top. He places an arm on the back of your chair, leaning in to read what was in your textbook although he didn’t need to. He just wanted an excuse to get closer to you.

“So you’re gonna want your formal charge to be as close to zero as possible. In order to calculate that, you’ll have to subtract the number of bonds divided by two and the number of electron pairs from the total number of valence electrons per individual atom,” Chanhee explains, pointing at the formula on the page. “How about I give you a couple examples to work on?”

You nod slowly, afraid your voice might betray you again. He jots down a few molecular examples on your notebook, pausing for a moment to nip at his lip and examine you. You blink, a little confused by the action.

“What are you doing?” There’s a slight crack in your tone.

“I have an idea,” he licks his lips. “To make this more rewarding for us both.”

Your brows furrow, his response further perplexing you. One of his hands situates itself on your thigh, your eyes widening. Of all days to wear a skirt, why did you have to choose today? You glance between his face and his hand, lips parted.

“Ch-Chanhee?”

“Yes, pretty?”

You don’t know why the nickname has your upper and lower heartbeats skipping, sweat forming on your palms. You’d always been too preoccupied despising him for being so much better at everything than you were. But right now, his fingers creeping beneath the denim of your skirt, all of that seemed to fly out of the window. You gasp as his fingertips reach the lace of your panties.

“I can make you feel good,” he says into your ear, thumb massaging your thigh. “I can make this worth your while if you do well for me.”

He was giving you fucking whiplash. One second he was teasing you for coming to the tutoring lab, and the next he was trying to coax you into coming quite literally. You think you’re the insane one, however, because you can’t conjure a logical reason to say no.

“Okay,” you breathe, shakily picking up your mechanical pencil. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

You begin to work on the first molecule he wrote out, trying to ignore his slender fingers pushing aside your underwear and rubbing your clit gently. Your bottom lip quivers when his lips make contact with your neck, kissing up and down softly with each circle of his phalanges on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Chanhee presses two fingers inside of your cunt, smiling against your skin when you whimper, nearly dropping your pencil. You fight back tears threatening to spill from your eyes due to lack of reaction, his digits so skilled at working your pussy and looping that knot in your abdomen. Your legs spread wider as you attempt to finish the first example as quickly as possible, so he can knock you over that edge that seems so close now.

“D-Done,” you shiver, lids almost fluttering shut from pure bliss.

Chanhee judges your answer, fingers halting their movements when he recognizes an error. You whine, that taste of sweet release pulled right from under you like a rug. He tsks, kissing your temple as if he hadn’t just denied you an orgasm.

“That’s not the dominant structure. Try again.” He instructs, not continuing until you’ve picked up the pencil and rewrote the Lewis Structure.

You ignore his palm applying pressure to your clit as his fingers thrust in and out of your drooling cunt, lips sucking at the exposed base of your neck, where it meets your shoulder. Your focus zeroes in on completing this structure correctly, rearranging the electron bonds until they’re right. You feel your climax returning when he praises you for getting it this time.

“Such a smart girl,” he murmurs into your collarbone. “Now do the other one.”

He doesn’t stop his assault, increasing the pace of his fingers while you scribble out numbers and draw electron pairs. Your orgasm inches towards you, like a freight train going at full speed. Chanhee curls his middle finger, tripping you up and causing you to write down a wrong number on accident. Ever the perceptive, he relaxes his wrist and retracts his hand, the band in your stomach loosening along with it.

“Please, Chanhee,” you cry, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks. “Need to cum so bad.”

“Mm-mm,” he scolds. “Not until you finish the structure properly. C’mon, I know you can be a good girl for me.”

You force yourself to persevere, bottom lip between your teeth when he slips his fingers back into your pussy. Pretending like you weren’t on the cusp of euphoria was making you dizzy, but it was necessary if you wanted to reach it completely. You couldn’t handle a third denial.

Chanhee speeds up his fingers, adding his thumb on your clit for extra stimulation. It was like he did enjoy watching you suffer. Perhaps he really was a masochist. You scrawl the last electron bond of the structure, releasing the pencil from your grasp and throwing your head back with a low whine. He hums in appreciation at a job well done.

“Oh my god,” you moan softly, looking down at where his hand disappears in your skirt. “Feels s-so good.”

“Yeah?” Chanhee goads, peppering kisses on your jaw and nibbling at your pulse point. “Ready to cum for me, pretty? Gonna cum all over my fingers?”

You can’t even reply, his cocky voice filling your head as he finally permits your orgasm, walls convulsing and clenching around his digits with a wail. It hasn’t even occurred to you that you’re in a very public, very open space, where anyone could walk in at any given moment. Your brain is too foggy from your overstimulated cunt and the comprehension that Choi Chanhee just fucking fingered you to even consider the consequences of the location.

It only takes a few seconds for you to come to, your body catching up with your head. You look at Chanhee with eyes resembling those of a prey cornered by its predator.

“Why is your hand still inside my skirt?”

“‘S warm down there,” he shrugs with a sly smile. “Besides, I’m not really done with you yet.”

“What are you talking about…?” You trail off, throat dry from how winded this guy was making you.

“You still need some practice before your midterm, no? And I kinda wanna see how pretty you look under me.”

#the boyz #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #tbz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #the boyz chanhee #the boyz new #tbz chanhee #tbz new #choi chanhee x reader #choi chanhee smut #chanhee x reader #chanhee smut #juyeonszn #fawntober.2023🎃

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deathblacksmoke · 5 months

Text

two way vision

pairing: noah sebastian x nick ruffilo x fem reader

cw: polyamorous relationship, dom!nick, brief name calling, belt spanking, threesome, unprotected p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), boyfriends calling each other dude hehe, mid-sex bickering, ABSOLUTELY FILTHY but don’t worry i think it’s still very sweet 🩵

word count: 3.2K

taglist: @concretenoah / @ladyveronikawrites / @circle-with-me / @darksigns-exe / @xxrainstorm /@agravemisstake / @monotoniscreaming

let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics!

author’s note: ruffilo wore a belt and i immediately got all twisty about it? and this happened. enjoy 🤍

**************************************************************

You hadn’t meant to misbehave tonight.

You had put on your pretty dress and gotten all done up with the intention of getting comfortably tipsy and remaining on your best behavior, but things don’t always work out as planned.

Apparently it’s a very important night, with very important people. Apparently the future of the band could ride on this very event. This could mean big things for them. Apparently.

While Nick and Noah are schmoozing, paying you no mind whatsoever, the boredom gets to you. You hate this party. You’re the only girlfriend here and the alcohol sucks—no liquor, just champagne. You’ll regret the morning after blinding champagne headache tomorrow.

You were well aware that they wouldn’t be able to pay much attention to you, but you couldn’t have predicted just how bored you’d be and how out of place you’d feel. You love spending time with them, you love supporting them, but you almost wish you’d stayed at home tonight.

You just wish they’d pay attention to you for a moment. You wish you’d stayed by Nick’s side instead of heading for the bar, but shaking hands and smiling politely at men in suits didn’t sound like fun to you. It still doesn’t.

Being next to them, no matter how boring the conversations may be, seems a lot better than this—sitting at the table alone, sipping on shitty champagne and sulking.

You know that Noah would be more receptive to the games you feel like playing. You know you’re not allowed. It was discussed extensively—in public, you’re Nick’s fiancée and Noah’s friend, for now. Playing with Noah would pose a lot of questions that none of you are quite ready to answer.

That doesn’t mean you have to like it, especially tonight when they’re all dressed up, looking like that. You’ve been aching since the moment Nick stepped out of the bedroom, doing up his belt, asking if the two of you were about ready to go. It’s not often you get to see them like this. Having to keep your legs crossed, squeezing together to chase away that familiar buzz, feels a little silly. You just want to have a little fun.

You’ve been here for so long and want them to take you home.

Walking up behind Nick, notching your finger in his belt and pulling him back towards you, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, you know it’s not your best idea.

You recognize the guy he and Noah are talking to as someone in another band, not an exec—you don’t know who he is but you don’t really care.

“You want to introduce me to your friend, Nicky?” you ask, and he looks back at you with a sour expression. He doesn’t want you to be doing this, not here. Not tonight, not now. It’s just so fun to push his buttons. You slide your hand around to his front, resting over his belly and rubbing. “I’m bored.”

He narrows his eyes at you but he turns back around and introduces you—you don’t listen for a name. You shake his hand and place a kiss behind Nick’s ear. You catch Noah from the corner of your eye, softly amused with an overcurrent of concern. He knows where this lands you.

“Go sit back down,” Nick bites as he turns to face you. He kisses you but it’s short. You’re in trouble. Your intent hadn’t necessarily been to embarrass him, but tease him, a little fun to take the edge off just how much you don’t want to be here. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

His tone is dark in a way you don’t get often. The ache is unbearable. You go to sit back down and hope you don’t regret what you’ve done, waiting for Nick and Noah to come and join you.

**************************************************************

You don’t speak on the ride home. With Nick’s hand gripping you, you can feel exactly where the marks will be on your inner thigh, where his fingers press in painfully. He’s angry. Noah holds your hand, rubbing a thumb along the back, a comfort.

You’re ushered inside with a hand on the small of your back when the car pulls up out front. Possessive.

The door slams shut behind you, making you flinch. Not fear, necessarily—uncertainty. It’s been a while since you’ve done this and you’re not sure exactly what to expect. He hangs his jacket on the rack, not used to wearing it, muscle memory of the hook by the door.

“Go to the bedroom. Both of you,” Nick orders, voice stern but gentle at once. You share a glance with Noah but do what he says. “I’ll be right in.”

You close the door behind you, leave your clothes on and wait for Nick’s instructions, though you think you know what they’ll be.

Noah kisses you with a gentle hand on your face, thumb grazing your cheek. It’s gentle and you need it, though you’re buzzing with the anticipation of what you know is to come.

“You think maybe you shouldn’t have done that, love?” Noah asks when he pulls away, breath on your lips. He’s smirking but his voice is laced with a bit of concern.

You smile, settling him. You almost want to laugh, because he must have forgotten.

“I wanted to do it,” you assure him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I appreciate your concern, sweet boy, but I wanted this. You think I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

You freeze when the bedroom door opens, slamming back shut. Noah backs away from you quickly like he’s been burned, like being near you will get him in trouble, too. He’s definitely forgotten.

Nick comes up behind you, wrapping his arms tight around your middle. It’s almost like normal, if not for his teeth grazing your neck, then biting down in a way that hurts you, feels primal and angry.

“You were very bad tonight, baby. You know that, right?” Nick asks. You nod, his hand sliding its way around your throat, grip tight enough to make you short of breath but loose enough that you don’t fear it. You never do—not with Nicholas. Even angry, he’s always careful, always has an edge of softness in his every move. “I know you didn’t mean to embarrass me, but they know now. They know my girl is a desperate little slut.”

You moan, cut off when he clamps his hand down over your mouth. The ache gets deeper—you’re dripping for him.

“Noah, go get on the bed, baby,” Nick says, and Noah scrambles to do it, eager. He props himself up against the pillows how Nick normally likes him at the start and it makes you chuckle, seeing him so ready to do whatever he’s asked to do. Nick’s hand trails back down to your throat, just resting there, not squeezing. With his mouth at your ear, he shushes you. “You,” he whispers in your ear, making you shiver. “I want you to undress and get on all fours on the bed for me. Okay?”

You nod, moving to undress and do what’s asked of you, but he catches you by the hand and pulls you to him again, your back pressed to his chest.

“Uh uh, sweetheart,” he whispers, a hand trailing delicately down your side. “I need you to be good and use your words. I need a yes or no from you. Do you want to do this?”

“Yes, Nicky,” you say, moving to turn around in his arms and hoping he’ll let you. He allows it and you feel a wave of relief, especially when you see the expression painted on his face, patient and gentle for a moment. “I want this. Please.”

“Good girl,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. You feel yourself relax completely, reminded that you’re safe here with them. He gives you a slap on your ass when you turn around and you gasp, hearing him laugh behind you. “Dress off. Hands and knees, please.”

You unzip your dress and let it fall to your feet, watch as Noah’s eyes glaze over with want. You unclasp your bra and hear Nick’s breath hitch as it falls to the floor. Dipping your fingers into the band of your lace panties, he tsks behind you. “Those stay on,” he orders—your cheeks heat. You leave them and crawl onto the bed. “Thank you, baby.”

“Keep your eyes on Noah,” Nick says, coming up behind you, hand on the small of your back. You shift your eyes up to Noah, looking back at you with a soft expression, small smile. You smile back. You can hear as Nick unbuckles his belt, but don’t hear the familiar sound of his zipper being pulled down. You hear it sliding from the loops, and feel as the belt, folded over, grazes your ass. You shiver. “How many do you think you deserve, baby?”

“I—I don’t know,” you say. You don’t know just how bad you were tonight. You know you shouldn’t have done what you did, but you were so bored. Lonely. “Maybe ten, Nicky? Is that good?”

“I think ten is just fine, sweetheart,” Nick says, running his hand up your back, leaning over to press a kiss to your shoulder blade. “Do you remember my rules?”

“Um—yeah. ‘Red’ if I need to stop, or if I make a really pained noise, you’ll check. And I count the hits,” you say. Nick places a slap to your ass, gentle. You’ve forgotten something. “And I keep my eyes on Noah.”

“Yes, good girl,” Nick says. “You take care of her, baby,” he tells Noah, who nods up at him, then focuses back on you, reaching out. “Hold her hand, okay? Tell me if anything seems off,” the belt grazes your ass again. “Are you ready?”

You nod before hearing him sigh behind you. Your words. You forgot again. You’re so nervous, or excited, or a little bit of both. “Yes, I’m ready, Nicky.”

The first blow stings, surprises you—you yelp and squeeze Noah’s hand. “One,” you gasp. Another. “Fuck. Two,” Noah grazes his thumb against the back of your hand, brings it up to his mouth, whispers good, baby. Another. You’re getting used to it. Feeling nicer. “Three,” The fourth hits a little low, below the meat of your ass, high on the back of your thigh. You hiss and Nick pulls back, soothing with his hand. “Four.”

“Hold on. Are you okay?” Nick asks.

“Mmhmm, just—” you start, thinking of what to say. “That one was a little low. It felt bad, kind of. Can you try to stay higher?”

“Of course, baby. I’m sorry,” he says. You relax. You know he didn’t mean it—he always tries his best to be careful. “Thank you for using your words. Are you good to continue?”

“Yes, please,” you say, reaching for Noah’s hand again, who offers it readily. The fifth feels nicer, your responding groan breaking off into a sigh. “Five,” The next two come in quick succession, one on each cheek. You feel yourself dripping for him, Noah’s eyes glazed over as he watches you. “Eight,” you gasp, thinking you should misbehave more often. It was all thanks to that fucking belt. “Nine,” you whine. The last one stings worse than the others and you’re glad you didn’t pick a higher number. “Ten.”

“Good girl,” Nick says, leaning down to pepper kisses along your back, soothing a hand over your ass. Noah leans down to kiss you on the mouth and you smile into it. “You did such a good job for us.”

“I want—” you start, gasping into Noah’s mouth when Nick’s fingers graze your folds over your panties, pressing in slightly. “I want you. Both. Please.”

“I know, you want to be full, huh?” Nick asks and you nod. “How do you want us?”

“I want Noah in my mouth,” you say, and Noah gasps, grazing a hand over your face. “You inside me, Nicky. Please.”

It’s been a while since you’ve had them like this, full from both ends, complete center of attention. You wiggle your ass back and Nick groans when you make contact with his front, cock hard and insistent, pressing against his zipper.

“Remember, two taps on Noah’s leg if you need to stop,” Nick says, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. You hear them fall to the floor. You’re not sure when Noah got undressed, but when you look, he’s naked and waiting for you. Your mouth waters. “Do you care about these?” Nick asks, fingers grazing the fabric of your panties.

“No, Nicky,” you say, just before his hand presses over the band against the small of your back, his other dipping beneath the gusset and yanking, fabric tearing. The shock of the cold in the room on your lips makes you shiver.

“Look at you,” Nick marvels, fingers dipping inside. “Look at this pretty pussy, baby, all wet and dripping for us.”

Noah presses his cock to the seam of your lips, swipes a thumb along your cheek. You stick your tongue out to taste him, bask in the weight of it as he lays it on your tongue. You close your mouth around the tip, swirl your tongue and sink further. You never tire of his little gasps when he’s in your mouth or in your cunt.

You feel Nick at your entrance, sliding inside easily, bottoming out and forcing you further on Noah’s cock. “Oh, fuck,” you hear him gasp and your eyes flutter closed. You’ll let them do the work for you—that’s your favorite part. “Fuck, you always feel so good.”

You force down a choke as you’re forced further onto Noah’s cock, swallowing around him. You grasp Noah’s leg for purchase and his gasp is dizzying.

“How’s she feel, baby?” Noah asks, and Nick groans from the back of his throat. God, you love listening to them while they’re using you. “Her mouth is—” he breaks off into a gasp as you swallow around him, the slightest graze of your teeth, just how he likes it. “Fuck.”

“You know, dude,” Nick says, fucking you harder. You feel split open and can’t control the gag this time, as you’re forced down further on Noah’s cock, who pulls back a bit to give you a reprieve. You squeeze his leg gratefully but move yourself back down further, needing it—the gag, the choke, the overwhelming fullness of it all. “You know she feels fucking perfect. You wish you were back here, huh?”

“No, dude, her mouth,” Noah counters, a hand running over your cheek, into your hair, tugging and making you gag. Noah’s groan is fucking pornographic, Nick’s even more so. “You know how her throat tightens around you when you pull on her hair?” Noah asks him. You feel overwhelmingly full when they both lean forward. You hear the wet, sloppy sounds of their kissing and you bask in them. Noah tightens his hand in your hair while Nick’s hands move from your hips up to your sides, gripping tight. They chuckle into each other’s mouths when you choke again. “Did her pussy do it, too, Nicky?”

Nick moves his hands from your sides. If Noah’s whine is anything to go off, Nick’s hands have tangled in his hair just how he likes it. You wish so badly you could watch them—you love them like this.

“Are you smoking again?” Nick asks Noah, and you’re surprised it took him so long tonight to notice the smell, the taste of them. “You taste like shitty cigarettes. Stale. Menthol ones.”

“It’s her, man,” Noah says, and you pinch his leg to hear his yelp, payback for being a snitch. “She bummed a few during the party, snuck out front. She was gone for ages,” he continues, unfortunately not deterred, determined to throw you under the bus so he can remain Nick’s perfect boy. “I taste like her, Nicky. You would have noticed if you’d been paying any attention to her. I’m not allowed,” he snarks. You laugh—apparently Noah likes the vibration of it, muffling a moan into Nick’s skin. “Don’t you know never to leave a pretty girl like this alone?”

“I’m gathering that. Fucking smartass,” Nick says, fucking you slower, thrusting deeper and harder. A hand comes back down to grip your hips, thumb grazing over your skin. “Kiss me again, Noah,” Nick orders and he doesn’t hesitate—you quickly readjust as he moves forward again, meeting Nick’s mouth. “Honey, you’re shaking. You’re about to cum, huh?”

Noah doesn’t answer, not that you can hear, just thrusts faster and deeper into your mouth. You power through it, swallow around the gag, blink away the tears and let your eyes slip closed. “I’m gonna cum,” Noah gasps into Nick’s mouth. You double your efforts, sliding your head down as far as you can, swallowing around him. He groans, gathering your hair in a fist and stilling. “Oh, fuck.”

Noah’s barely pulled out before Nick is, too, flipping you over onto your back and slipping back in. You swallow, Noah’s cum sliding down your throat. He’s leaning over you again, licking into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. It’s filthy and makes you ache, tighten around Nick.

Nick slaps a tit, kneading it and pinching the pebbled nipple between his index finger and thumb. You let out a desperate moan as he grabs the other, fucking you deeper. “Touch yourself, sweetheart,” Nick tells you, right hand moving from your chest to your throat, tightening just slightly. “Keep your eyes on me.”

You reach between your bodies, middle finger sliding over your clit. You had already been so close and the first touch of your finger sets your body alight. Nick’s eyes are so focused on you—you’re short of breath and so fucking close.

“Nicky,” you gasp, reaching out for him with a free hand. He leans down to kiss you, the most gentle thing you’ve felt all night. Throwing your head back, you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Your eyes meet Nick’s again. “Cum on my cock, sweet girl. Cum for me,” he says as it washes over you.

Nick is pulling out, then, jerking his cock once, twice, three times before his cum is covering your tummy. You always love the way it feels.

They bracket your body. Noah gathers some of Nick’s cum on his fingers, sucking them into his mouth. Nick’s eyes unfocus before he leans over you, licking into Noah’s mouth.

They focus back on you, Nick speaking up. “I’m sorry you felt neglected tonight, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have done that to you,” Nick starts, thumb grazing over your cheek. “If it happens again, you can just tell me, all right? You don’t need to act out.”

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Nicky,” you respond, but he smiles and shakes his head, letting you know that you didn’t.

“Can I run you a bath?” he asks, and a bath does sound so nice right now, the warm water on your stinging and aching body.

“Can Noah come?” you ask, and Noah smiles into the skin of your neck, snorting. You’re glad you’d decided to go for the bigger tub.

“Of course he can,” Nick responds. “Noah always comes.”

#bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens rpf #nick ruffilo fic #nick ruffilo fanfiction #nick ruffilo rpf #nicholas ruffilo fic #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo rpf #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian rpf #nick ruffilo x reader #nicholas ruffilo x reader #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian x nicholas ruffilo x reader #deathblacksmoke works

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thanotaphobia · 6 months

Text

ménage à quatre

or, missa runs into tina on the way to see phil. and pac. and mariana. and-

CROSSPOSTED TO AO3

⋆

Missa thinks he’s decent at being sneaky.

He at least doesn’t knock things over. Their new and improved underground base is well-lit despite the dark stone that makes up its walls, and Missa skirts the farms and chairs and chests with ease. Getting out isn’t so simple, but he’s nearly there. It’s nighttime, and while most people don’t always sleep through the night in this place, it’s easier to hide under the cover of darkness. Easier to get away with things, to see people. Missa also knows if he runs into anyone who isn’t his team or Phil that he’s absolutely dying, so going out at night is a necessary risk. Risk, because mobs, but once he reaches the meeting spot in the woods he and Phil had talked about, then he’ll be okay.

He misses Phil. With every aching beat of his heart, he misses him.

Missa hadn’t known how strong his feelings had run until they’d been separated like this. It was physically painful, like love had wrapped tendrils around his heart and gut, squeezing every time Phil pops into his head.

And so the occasional midnight rendezvous must happen. It has to happen, because otherwise Missa thinks he would die if he didn’t get to see his husband in a relatively safe, stress-free space.

Careful not to catch the attention of any of his teammates, Missa creeps through the base and watches every step. He doesn’t think they’d crucify him for it, but he doesn’t think they’d like it either. People have become different, and fast. Personalities have shifted and everyone, Missa thinks, has gotten a little more ruthless. Even Missa himself thinks it’s affecting him– although he tends to isolate instead of lash out. He’s frozen to death on beaches more than once, staring out at the ocean lost in thought until his eyes had clouded over and he’d woken up in their base with fingers stiff from cold. Others, though. BBH has a look in his eye every time Missa sees him, a look that makes him skirt around the man like he’s got the plague.

It’s unsettling. He hates feeling uncomfortable in what’s supposed to be a safe place. He hates sneaking around like this when he should just be able to see his husband whenever he wants– he hates it.

But it’s fine. He’s nearly out, anyway. He enters the darkest part of his exit, a long corridor, and hurries forward. Just another couple steps and–

“Oh!”

All the air is forced out of his lungs, half from terror and half from the collision. He bounces backwards into the cold stone wall and shrieks, then shoves a hand over his own mouth to stifle the sound. Across from him, there’s a thud and someone gasps. Missa blinks into the dark.

“Missa?” Tina says after a second of silence. He takes into stock what just happened– a warm body bumping into his, shorter but strong, and the strong scent of tea leaves and cool soil in the air. Tina. Just Tina.

“Sorry,” Missa says out loud after a second, lowering his hand from his mouth. Tina laughs, and Missa can’t see her very well in the dark as he pushes himself up off the wall. “I didn’t mean to–”

“No, it’s okay!” Tina says. They’re both whispering, but even then each word sounds like a gunshot in the tunnel. It reverbs, echoing around them and twisting in the air like smoke. “I didn’t expect you– oh, man, I fell down and dropped my bag, can you–”

“Yeah, one second,” Missa says, getting her intent instantly and dropping to his knees to feel around for the knapsack. “You okay?”

“Fine, thanks!” Tina giggles, high and breathy. Missa’s hand knocks against fabric and he grasps it triumphantly.

“Got it!” he says, raising his clenched fist into the air– only for it to come into contact with skin and bone, the crack echoing around them louder than their words had been.

Missa is almost impressed by how Pac doesn’t swear. He hears a thump as someone sits down, a soft hiss of breath, and then a long exhale.

“Oh my god,” Missa breathes, before he knows it’s Pac, “I’m so so sorry–”

“All good,” Pac grits out, and Tina gasps.

“Hey!” she says. “It’s like a party in here!”

“Are you bleeding?” Missa asks, and Pac mumbles an affirmative. The next thirty seconds is spent looking for a piece of cloth to hold to his nose, and they end up having to improvise with one of Tina’s shirt sleeves. “I’m so sorry,” Missa apologizes again. “Bro, bro, I swear I didn’t know you were there, I didn’t mean to, I was just getting Tina’s bag. I’m so sorry, man.”

“It’s dark,” Pac says, his voice slightly muffled and sounding as though he’s got a bad cold. “All good! All good, my friend.”

“What were you even doing down here?” Tina asks. She’s kneeling by Pac on the other side, and Missa has finally gotten used to the dark. They’re all mostly on the floor, staring around at one another– Missa can see the whites of their eyes, and that’s about it. It’s the strangest situation he’s been in for a while, honestly.

“Well, I was trying to leave,” Pac says, sniffling once and grunting in pain. “But, ah– you were here first.”

“Wait,” Missa says, blinking as he realizes something. “Tina, why were you here–”

And then someone lights a torch, the spark and resulting flame causing all three of them to cover their eyes or cry out. Missa blinks back tears from the sudden brightness and glances back– standing a few feet away is Mariana, torch held up as he stares at the three of them with an indignant expression.

“The fuck are you bitches doing?” he asks loudly, and despite their various states of distress, Missa, Tina, and Pac shush him quickly. Mariana goes quiet, pressing his lips together before stalking forward and crouching beside them. In the torchlight, Missa can see the blood on Pac’s nose now, and winces. “Why did none of you have a torch?” Mariana asks.

Tina hums. “That probably would’ve been a good idea.”

“Why are you here?” Pac asks. “Did you hear us?”

“No,” Mariana scoffs. “But I should’ve. I was going to see Slime–” He clearly didn’t mean to say it– his eyes widen a fraction and he snaps his mouth shut quickly, staring at the three of them before clearing his throat. “I meant, I was going to kill Slime.”

“We all know what you did in the fountain,” Pac says, his voice nasally but dry. “You know?”

Tina breaks out into big, bubbly laughter, heaving for air between gasps of breaths. She giggles, high-pitched and frantic, and Missa can’t help but snort either, covering his face with one hand. He can see Mariana between the bars of his fingers, and the way his face goes a bright, brilliant red.

“Yeah, well–” Mariana only stutters for a moment, composing himself and snapping. “What are you three doing anyway?”

“I was going to see Bagi,” Tina practically wails. She’s on her back on the floor, hair spread like a halo around her, and Missa thinks it’s a miracle she hasn’t passed out from laughing yet. Pac is laughing too, still pinching his nose but grinning and cackling. Missa bites his lip, then drags his hands down his face and comes out with the truth.

“Phil,” he says, cursing his husband’s name into his palms. “Phil and I–”

“I won’t say who I was going to see,” Pac says proudly, and Tina stops laughing at that. She sits up and points a finger at him.

“We all know about Fit, Pac! We know! Nothing is a secret!” Between her words she hiccups giggles. “This is so dumb, we’re all so dumb!”

Missa leans back against the stone wall of the tunnel and slumps, his knees slowly giving out until he’s sitting fully on the cold floor and staring at the rest of them slowly losing it. Tina and Pac are holding onto each other, giggling and rocking back and forth slightly, while Mariana is trying his hardest to look disgusted with them and notably failing to hide a smile. Missa lets out a breath and knocks his head back, covering his eyes with his elbow and snickering.

“Well, I’m going,” Mariana finally says, stepping over Missa’s outstretched legs and past Pac and Tina. He’s still got the torch in hand– the shadows against the wall stretch and warp with his movement, making the whole tunnel feel unsteady. He turns back. “I have a date to keep.”

“Oh gosh, so do I,” Tina gasps, finally getting a hold of herself and scrambling for her bag. Missa nudges it closer to her with one foot and she grins at him. “Thanks! Don’t want Bagi to be waiting up for me.”

“Have fun on your date,” Missa says, mouth a little dry. “Dates.”

“You too,” Tina chirps, standing up and slinging her bag over her back.

“Wait, I need to get up too,” Pac says, and he and Missa stand together, gripping each other’s shoulders and arms as they do. His nose has, for the most part, stopped bleeding.

“Sorry again,” Missa says apologetically.

Pac grins and shakes his head. “No biggie.”

“Are you coming?” Mariana calls. The shadows have gotten longer and the light dimmer as he’d started walking away, but he waits now near the end of the tunnel, looking back at the three of them with mild irritation. “Or can I ditch you all yet?”

“Oh be quiet Mariana,” Tina says, catching up with him easily. They both wait for Missa and Pac, which makes something warm blossom in his chest where the cold has sat so easily the past few days. “We can go together now, as long as we stay away from Bad!”

“That would be not good,” Pac mutters, glancing back. Missa winces.

“We’ve gotten this far,” he says.

“This far without waking the guard dog,” Tina says, and they all make their way the last little bit out into the faint light of the stars. Around them the air is cold and crisp, and it takes Missa’s breath away. For a minute they all stand there, taking in the sight of the moon glistening across the oil-slick sea, light refracting off the ice and snow and making the whole world a soft, delicate shade of blue. Even the light from Mariana’s torch doesn’t last, barely casting out onto the pockmarked and scarred beach ahead of them.

“Well,” Missa says, equipping some gloves. He doesn’t want to stand here for too long. He wants to see Phil. The ache is back, something about the sight in front of him and the people beside him making his heart ultra aware of Phil’s absence. He thinks of Phil, worrying about him being late; he thinks of Phil laughing when he hears what delayed him. “See you in the morning, guys.”

“Hey, Missa?” He glances over at Mariana, who sticks his torch down into the sand and shoves his hands into his pockets, nonchalant. “Do you want to go together? Might be easier. Mobs and stuff.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea! Pac, let’s go together!” Tina chirps, and Pac nods with a smile. She grabs his hand and he lets her.

“Sure,” Missa says, a little startled. “That’s– yeah, yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” Mariana says. “Bye, guys.”

Pac and Tina wave as they deploy their separate boats, hopping in beside one another and parting into the cold, choppy sea. Mariana drives, Missa sitting passenger, and he stares out over the ocean as they leave their team base behind them in the cold. When he looks over at Mariana, the other man is staring out across the horizon in front of them, hands gripping the wheel of the boat and a strange look on his face. When he notices Missa looking, he glances over and catches his eye.

“What’s the matter?” Missa asks.

“Bad Boy Halo totally was watching us leave,” Mariana says, dead serious, and that is finally what sends Missa into hysterical laughter.

#qsmp #q!missa #q!tina #q!pactw #q!mariana #pissa #bagina #fitpac #slimariana #team soulfire #qsmp blue team #they're in a comedy #actually #my writing

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spookyscarydemonbabe · 6 months

Note

I know we love Eddie pampering and taking such good care of you, (bc he so would), but could you do Eddie HCs where maybe he just needs a little extra love? Like maybe after a hard day or he’s just really tired? Everyone needs a little TLC sometimes and I think it would be sweet to have how he’d react to the reciprocated care

absolutely!! i always love getting to give Eddie all the love he deserves 🥰

sweet boy just needs some luvin 🫶

Usually when Eddie has his difficult days, he doesn’t like to show it

He won’t want you to worry about him, he always puts you before anything, but unfortunately that means he puts your feelings before his almost 100% of the time

But you’ll always notice

He’d come home from work quieter than usual, his eyes will look drained and he’s even walking different

He never wants you to worry about him because he feels that you’re the one that needs to be taken care of, not him

But you can’t help but want to make him feel better on those exhausting days

You’ll cook him his favorite dinner and it’ll be ready on the table when he comes home from work

You’ll even have dessert waiting in the fridge for afterwards

You’ll have a pair of warm, clean pajamas laid out for him on the bed to change into after he takes a nice relaxing shower to clean up from the day

And though he hates it when you use this word, you’ll pamper him for the rest of the night

You’ll get nice and comfortable on the couch and gently comb through the knots in his curls while he watches his shows, using your nails to massage his scalp

He’ll never say no to head scratches

When you get into bed, you know he just needs to be held

He’ll lay his head onto your chest and rest his body between your legs while his arms wind around your torso

You’ll lay there and hold him all night if he wants it, playing with his hair and scratching his back while whispering such sweet things to him

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good day baby, but tomorrow is a new day, things will get better…”

“Why don’t you invite the boys over tomorrow and we’ll have a nice night in? I know they’d love to see you again…”

“How about i get up early tomorrow with you? I’ll make you your lunch and we can have breakfast together…”

He’s always wanted a domestic life with you and he’s happy that you’re able to provide for each other

Eddie just loves love, wether he’s giving it to you or you’re giving it to him

(Though he usually prefers it when you’re giving it to him)

tags: @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @munsonology @esme-viridian @gvf23

(my tag list is always open, let me know if you’d like to be added 🖤)

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson headcanons

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captainpulisic · 1 year

Text

woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side - c. pulisic

authors note : dedicated to all my girlies who went against gender norms and dont know how to cook for shit. you are SEEN and you are LOVED <3 gif credits to owner word count : 1.8 k

christian had always hated mornings. waking him up was the worst thing you could do. don't get him wrong, he had always prided himself with being punctual and motivated for hours spent out on the pitch but unscheduled mornings were his own time. after long days and endless weeks of training, hiding away in his sleep was the only chance he got to truly rest. no expectations to meet, no obligations to fulfill. back before he had gotten his own place, every teammate turned roommate was tasked with the pointless battle of trying to get him out of bed. it was futile trying to shake him awake or yelling at him to get a start on his day, they’d just be met with snores or a shoe lazily thrown at them.

if only any of those roommates could see him these days, they’d have a stroke.

the current christian, the one waking up at ungodly hours, was not the one they had come to be weary around. he was different, he was happy. he wasn’t cursing the person waking him up anymore. how could he, when it was you waking him up?

you being an early bird, tried to always wake up at 6 am. a jam packed schedule and uni had you itching to start your days earlier than others, wanting to be out the door by 8 am, and not a moment later. yet, you made sure to always set a few moments aside for the grumpy, sleeping beauty on the other side of the bed. you’d trace the curves on his face, a feather like touch sweeping his furrowed brows and over his lips. sometimes seeing him so peaceful, so beautiful- you couldn't help your urges to kiss him silly.

and that was christians favorite way to wake up. the trail of kisses you’d leave on him was intoxicating. he felt them everywhere. his lips, cheek, jaw, neck and chest. and when he’d hear your soft ‘good morning’, it was over for him. no, he didn’t hate mornings anymore. he loved them and he wished he could always wake up this early, if this was the way it would happen.

a typical morning would have the rays of shine having your eyes flutter open. the light illuminates the room, casting a pretty glow on christians sleeping face. it gives you a few seconds to fully wake up, a peaceful prelude before your hectic day begins. the cold london air is still present outside of your little bubble. you don’t even feel it, christians insane body warmth keeping you as toasty as possible. with his arm secured around your waist and your body pulled flush against his, you’re sure you’d survive antarctica in this position.

and while christian might say he despises mornings, you absolutely loved them. and its become your mission to make him love them, too. thus, you’ve created a little game of seeing how many kisses it takes to get him awake and happy. you pepper them all over his face and neck, watching him stir a little. you start this little show by a gentle kiss on each cheek, making sure to leave one on his nose. soon after, you reach his chest. there, gentle kisses to his collarbones and wet brushes where his neck meets his shoulders. they grow a little faster and frustrated as you realize they aren’t working, trying to lure him out of his sleep in the sweetest way possible.

it took you a week of this charade to realize that he cheats. that he usually wakes up after the first kiss to his nose and cheek, but lays perfectly still. that while his eyes remain shut and face unchanged, he’s praying that your touches don’t stop. he thinks he’s so clever, not realizing you figured out the moment he’s awake. you’ve figured out what areas to kiss, that causes his breathing to stagger. the slight tint in his cheeks betrays him every single time, alerting you that he's conscious.

lucky for both of you, this is a win-win situation. he likes being kissed awake by you and you like being the one to kiss him all the time. therefore, you’ll gladly keep this pretense up, pretending to desperately cover him in soft kisses until he’s ‘finally awake’.

usually, after you shower him with affection with one final kiss on his lips, he’ll decide to be nice and miraculously wake up (as if on cue). other times, he’ll be a bit more stubborn and keep up his sleeping beauty act. on those days, you’re practically straddling him and messily kissing him. neither of you wanting to be the first to fold. damn right strong headed, the both of you.

yet, usually, you end up winning with your secret move. the final act that has him waving the white flag and you claiming victory once again. after kisses on neck and cheeks and lips and tattooed chests, you drag your lips to his ear. capturing his earlobe, you tug it gently in between your teeth.

and that just about does it for christian. game over, no argument. he lets out a sigh and his eyes flutter open.

“morning, handsome.”

he feigns grogginess, eyes awake and tired. the bastard even has the audacity to fake a yawn. returning a kiss to your forehead, he slides his hands to rest on your hips. a smile plays on his lips, “morning, pretty girl.”

yeah, christian loves these types of mornings with you.

but today was not one of those mornings. he had woken up to an empty space and cold sheets. with tired eyes and still in a sleepy haze, he unlocks his phone to see it’s already 10:15 am. his horrible mood is at the point of returning because you’d usually be in class by this hour. yet,his frown only grows deeper when he remembers it was supposed to be a peaceful sunday morning between the two of you. no class, no training, no plans.

he could go back to sleep, it’s tempting. he could roll over right now and hide his body further into the blankets. he could do it, but he doesn’t. it just doesn’t seem worth it if you’re not there to keep him warm. hoping to find you somewhere in the house and coax you back into bed, he gets up with a huff.

he checks the living room, knowing you retreat there to read when you want to be alone. nothing. he checks the backyard, the living room. nothing, again. this house is too fucking big, why does he need all these rooms when they’re just here to make it harder for him to find you?

its when he hears the pots and pans clanking that he nearly trips over himself rushing to get to the kitchen. he doesn’t care how pathetic he seems. frankly, waking up without you and spending these 5 minutes without you, he’s decided they’re the worst 5 minutes he’s ever lived.

finally, reaching the kitchen, his feet and heart stop at the sight of you. there you were, back turned to him and in his shirt from the night before. he can’t see your face but he hears your smile in the way you were humming along to whatever song is stuck in your head. it’s very endearing to him the way you’re too caught up in your mind that you don’t even notice the eggs burning on the stove. no, making sure the kettle was filled with water seemed more important to supervise. he doesn’t blame you, not really. back when you had first moved in with him, you wanted to make a celebratory pasta for dinner. lets just say, a pot of water caught on fire and some pieces of clothes earned scorch marks. to this day, neither of you can explain how that happened. it was just mutually agreed upon that christian would be the one to do the cooking for the both of you.

when he fears that the smoke detector will go off any second, he lets his presence be known by stepping up to turn the stove off. your head whips around, finally noticing the burnt state of the eggs. you let out a shy laugh, hiding your face behind your hands.

“i’m sorry, i know i’m banned from using the stove” you rambled, flushed and starting to regret the romantic idea of bringing him breakfast in bed. “it’s just that you were asleep and you looked so peaceful and pretty- you alway look pretty. and i wanted to do something nice for you and have food ready for when you woke up and uber eats would’ve taken too long and eggs seemed easy. why aren’t eggs easier to make?”

he steps in front of you, taking your hands from your face and kissing each one. his voice is still raspy from sleep, “mornin’ baby.”

“hi, good morning.” you kiss his lips in return. shaking your head once more, “and I really am sorry.”

“it’s okay, we can make something else.”

“wait! I did make you something else.” he sees your eyes brighten, “I also made you toast, no one can mess that up! it’s just bread!”

without wasting a second, you turn to the toaster that’s on the other side of the island counter. you freeze when you see the black smoke emitting out of it. as if on cue, two slices of charred bread pop out. yeah, you both should’ve seen that one coming.

christian, bless his soul, just smiles and says ‘yum’. he tries, he really does to scrape off some of the darker bits of it. its hopeless. he lathers some butter on it and doesn’t break his smile when he takes a bite of it. you notice how he tries not to wince. you can see him struggle to chew it and swallow, you’d be laughing at his horrible poker face if your heart wasn’t about to burst over how sweet he is.

he notices your awestruck expression, “what?”

“nothing,” you muse. wrapping your arms around him and burying your face into him, “I just love you, ‘s all.”

“i love you, too.” you feel him squeeze you a little tighter, “and i’ll finish this toast but no amount of love will make me eat those eggs.”

your laugh is music to his ears and he feels a sense of pride for being the cause of it. he feels a kiss on his exposed arm, “sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“it’s okay,” he kisses the top of your head. hoping to make you laugh some more, “you made me a 5 star meal, so i’ll let it slide just this once.”

yeah, mornings might just be christians favorite part of the day now.

#christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic x you #christian pulisic fluff

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boldlyvoid · 9 months

Text

I Know Places: Mayhem

18+ Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader | Masterlist | AO3 link

Summary: After Aaron is hurt during a terrorism case in New York City, reader is faced with the undeniable truth that she is falling in love with her boss. While ensuring that he doesn't lose his hearing, she nurses him back to health despite her coworkers' knowing looks and comments. Navigating through her crush, knowing he's still in love with his ex-wife is going to be rough.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence (mentions of rape and murder), hurt/comfort, Drug use tw as well as drug addiction mentions, unrequited love (so she thinks), There's only one bed

Word count: 15,088

From the moment Aaron was served divorce papers in the office, something about him changed. He was angry, which was to be expected. He was unpredictable as if he was ever predictable before… He was hot-headed, willing to jump down someone's throat at the drop of a hat, but he was also quiet. Withdrawn. He looked lonely.

She watched on from the sidelines, she brought him coffee on days where it seemed worse and sometimes even a baked good just to get him to smile. She offered to partner with him at the precincts, share hotel rooms, and drive with him just for the chance to get him to talk.

Keeping it inside wasn’t helping.

And at first, he didn’t say anything. Little by little, as he realized she wasn’t going to share his feelings with everyone on the team, he began to tell her things.

She stayed back to help him with paperwork, he picked her up in the mornings so they could get coffee and treats together, and he even called her on days off just because he wanted to. They’d stay up for hours, in their own beds, sharing little stories about growing up and failed relationships and sometimes they would say absolutely nothing… it was nice just to know the other was there. Her favourite moments, however, were when he’d put on the same show she had on in the background just so they could talk about it.

She went from wishing he had someone to talk to, to being his friend and keeping all his secrets. It was nice…

And then they went to New York.

Kate Joyner, the lead agent on this case, was a spitting image of his ex-wife, Haley. It was almost scary how much they looked alike, and of course, Aaron has known her for years. He met her at Scotland Yard and they “Liaised” whatever the fuck that meant. Everyone was skeptical of her at first, even the beat cops on the task force… for them, it was the way she acted more important than she was, her posh accent and the overall misogyny of hating successful women.

For Y/N, it was the way Aaron looked at her. The way he doted on her and agreed with her every move. The way he’s sticking to her side like a lost puppy and how he doesn’t see anything wrong with his new behaviour.

It was at this moment that she realized her boss wasn’t just her friend. Not even her best friend. She had a crush on him and the mere idea of him liking someone else was sending her into a tizzy.

She found herself agreeing with Derek Morgan more than ever before on this case, not because she knew he was right (he was) but because it meant she could go against Agent Joyner. She was argumentative for a very petty reason, but at the end of the day, Derek was right. Kate was on her high horse, she wanted to stay in the good graces of the FBI and keep her job. And that cost her another life.

This case is unlike anything she’s seen yet. Unlike the others, she hasn’t been on the team long enough to have seen one of everything. Morgan, however, has been. From being a Chicago cop, on the bomb squad and 3rd in command at the BAU, he’s seen almost everything.

When they touched down in NYC, there had been 5 victims already, the local FBI was on the scene as it was protocol, but the BAU was a last-ditch effort to crack this case. Each victim had been shot, point blank in the head and the unsub was able to flee each time without being seen. Those who did get a glimpse only saw a black hoodie. Nothing more. There was nothing to tie the victims together, each killed in a different neighbourhood, no common victimology, no sexual component, no robbery and no geographical connection. It was as if they were random. Like the unsub didn’t care who he killed, he just wanted the thrill of killing.

He’s killing roughly every two days which doesn’t give the investigation team much time to come up with theories or ways to catch him in the act, between kills. The press is having a field day, the civilians of New York are terrified and the police are stumped. It hasn’t been this bad since the Son of Sam in ’76.

When they arrived, Agent Reid was quick to get a geographical profile up and running to asses the unsub's comfort zone. Hells Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, Chinatown and East Harlem were all marked on the board. Using anti-geographical profiling, they note that the unsub is organized, he strikes at the same time of day he knows where the cameras are placed and that all means he’s doing his own surveillance. These spots aren’t random. They mean something to him. And because of how calculated he is, they know he’s a need-based killer. He’s killing outside of his comfort zone… meaning every other neighbourhood in the city has a reason to be terrified.

The 6th victim is killed while holding a pretzel, hailing a cab. By the time the public registers that there has been a gunshot and taken cover for themselves, the unsub has faded into the crowd once again. Not before leaving a tarot card, this time.

Death.

It’s the same card the D.C sniper left at the scene of one of his scenes. Either this unsub has no idea its spiritual meaning of rebirth and transformation… or he has a deep understanding of Behavioural Profiling and he’s toying with them. They’re going with the latter theory.

They also brought along their technical analyst this time. Penelope Garcia. She’s been looking over all of the surveillance footage from each crime scene, including the most recent. With her physically there with them, she’s able to run her own software and programming through the old-ass NYPD tech and she’s figured out something huge. There isn’t just 1 unsub. There are two.

They’re not killing together, which is weird. From previous killing teams, they know it’s highly unusual for them to do things apart from one another, which leads them to suspect they might be dealing with a gang. There could be more than 2 unsubs and until they know more, Derek wants them out on the streets so they can be even more hyper-vigilant.

Kate, however, didn’t like that suggestion.

“These guys hit at midday,” he reminded her and ranted until Hotch cut him off. “We could target ingress and egress to particular neighbourhoods, position us near express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th—

“Morgan, Morgan stop. It’s not your call.”

Instead of taking Morgan's great advice. They went back to their hotels for the night.

Aaron had noticed that Y/N was being strange. He could sense her distaste for Kate and thus, he distanced himself from her for the case. He had his own hotel room, so did their other leader, David Rossi, and almost everyone else shared. Reid went with Morgan and she was supposed to room with JJ, only JJ’s boyfriend showed up… she’s pregnant and he couldn’t stand the thought of not being with her during a case like this.

It just drove home to her even more just how alone she was.

In the morning, Aaron stayed with Kate at the precinct and Y/N huffed about it. Instead, she stuck herself to Spencer’s side as they gave their profile that morning, to the news, the police and the rest of the FBI agents at 26 Federal Plaza.

Just as they finish their talks, the unsub hits their 7th target. At 59th and Lex. Right where Morgan predicted they’d hit next. Thus causing the two men to shout at each other in front of everyone in the building.

“I said to put us at express stops, 14th, 42nd, 59th,” his voice gets louder with each number. “And that’s exactly where they hit!”

“It’s not your place to have this discussion!” Hotch shouts back.

“My place?”

“You need to back off,” Hotch warns.

“We’ve got seven bodies, man!”

“Which is exactly why we need to stay focused.”

“Focused?” Derek all but laughs in his face. He drops his voice, steps in closer to Aaron and looks past him to Kate before continuing. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, all you seem to be focused on is her.”

“Take a walk. Now,” Aaron matches his tone and then turns away from him.

The whole office is quiet. Not a single sound is heard. It was true. Aaron’s been uncharacteristically following this woman’s lead since the moment they got there… even before when he talked her up on the jet over.

Y/N catches his eye, silently relaying that she agrees with Derek… he’s not wrong. Even Hotch knows it.

This 7th kill brings forth the knowledge that there is a 3rd shooter. You see, one of the programs Penelope has takes the height of the unsubs on the camera, across the 7 videos there are 3 different heights. They’re definitely working with a team but not a gang. They haven’t reached out to the police, the media or given any clue as to what their mission is yet, either.

—

The next morning, Y/N is sent out onto the streets, partnered up with one of NYPD’s finest. Detective Cooper. He’s respectful, loyal and kind. They get along like a house on fire. He’s one hell of a flirt, but he doesn’t mean anything he says because he’s happily married. He’s funny, too, making her laugh as they walk through the streets, patrolling 14th Street, downtown and Brooklyn, baby.

There’s a gunshot which makes their heads turn in the direction from which they heard it. It takes seconds for them to start moving towards it, and even quicker for Y/N to press the button inside her jacket sleeve to talk with Penelope in the surveillance booth. “Garcia?”

“I’m on it, I’m on it,” she rushes through the speaker in Y/N’s ear. Searching hundreds of cameras for the unsub. “16th and Broadway! He’s running east on 16th!”

“He’s headed our way,” she says, tapping Cooper's arm and taking off with him down the block.

The unsub sees them and starts running the other way, they both draw their weapons and sprint even faster after him. Cooper is quick on his feet, he must’ve been a runner in his high school days as he’s leaps and bounds in front of her.

The unsub darts down an ally, runs halfway and waits for Cooper to turn the corner and bang. He shoots Cooper in the chest. Having seen it happen, Y/N rounds the corner with her finger on the trigger and pulls it, twice, as soon as her sights are on the unsub. He goes down before he can even get a second shot out.

She takes his weapon from him, makes sure he’s going to stay down and rushes back to Cooper. “Cooper!! Garcia, we’ve got an officer down on 16th west of union square!” She shouts into her mic.

“let me see,” she instructs Cooper to lay back and let her look at the wound. It’s on his left shoulder, bleeding like a son of a bitch. “Okay. You’re okay it’s going to be okay.”

“Garcia, can you see us?” She shouts into the mic again. “We have an officer down!”

She presses down on his wound, “Cooper stays with me, It’s going to be okay.” She assures him. Keeping her eyes on his until they hear sirens approaching. “See, it’s all good, you’re going to be fine.”

The ambulance arrives first, one paramedic attends Cooper, and the other attends the unsub. Not long after, Morgan, Rossi, Reid and JJ are arriving on the scene together. Cooper lost a lot of blood but they think he’ll make it. He’s loaded up and taken to the hospital as a second ambulance arrives purely for the unsub. He’s not going to make it. All the answers to the questions they had, died with him.

“I should’ve had to shoot him,” she says to herself mostly. Trying to rationalize what just happened.

“he shot a cop, Y/N you did what you had to do,” Derek reminds her.

“I know… I just mean, he was ahead of us. He could’ve gotten away but he stopped. He waited for Cooper to round that corner. He shot him on purpose.”

“Tell me about his behaviour, was he panicked? Was he winded?”

“His hands were steady,” she recounts. “His eyes were dead calm. I mean, these guys have been hyper-vigilant. Organized! They do pre-surveillance. I mean, what are the odds they would shoot someone only two blocks from where me and Cooper are standing?”

“You mean he deliberately caught someone where he could be caught?” JJ asks.

“What if he did? What if he chose this spot because we were here?”

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks, wanting to know where she could possibly take this.

“He had no ID on him. He waited until we caught up to him, he was strangely calm, I-I-I, it, it was like suicide by cop!” She sums it all up with a stutter.

“Why? Why would he do that?” Derek asks.

“I don’t know? Maybe to make us think everything was finished?” She hypothesizes. “What if they don’t know we know there are 3 of them and this was their way of getting us to think we did it. We got the bad guy. We can go home now. What if they want us to back down so they can do something worse?”

“We need to go back through the profile and figure out what we missed,” Derek announces, agreeing with her that something is off.

Hotch and Kate show up mere seconds later, dipping under the crime scene tape and rushing over to their little group. Rossi and Reid, who were standing over the body of the unsub, make their way over too. It's a team huddle.

“We think we might have a serious problem,” Rossi announces.

“What is it?” Hotch asks.

“We have multiple unsubs, they’re disciplined, they’re using counter-surveillance. They know the FBI movements, there’s a hierarchy. What does that usually equal?” He poses it back to Hotch.

“Terrorism,” he answers.

They get off the streets then, regrouping back at Federal Plaza to go over the newest findings and re-profile the unsubs. Reid explains that these murders simulate a bombing. They station someone to watch the scene and gauge police response time, at which point they know when to bring in a second bomb. Their ideal situation is to take out a first round of civilians and a second round of first responders. they’ve seen this before, just never like this.

Something bigger is coming. How soon? They don’t know.

“I think they’re targeting points of entry,” reid points out, referring to his map. “Each murder has taken place at a bridge or tunnel.”

Y/N steps up closer to the board. “Holland tunnel, midtown tunnel, Manhattan bridge.”

“If a bomb went off, the emergency response would shut down any ability in or out of the city,” JJ reminds them. “It’s like people would be trapped on the island.”

“Keep in mind it’s still a theory, like any profile,” Aaron says, calming their nerves before they all panic.

Just then, Garcia calls Morgan's phone. “We’ve got a problem. I went ahead and checked all 4,468 cameras and they’ve hacked into the surveillance system. They’ve got footage of every crime scene. They’ve been watching since the beginning.”

“How could we not have caught this?” Hotch asks.

“They were smart. They hacked in one camera at a time, it wasn’t system-wide, I had to check each camera one at a time.”

“And this is from every crime scene?” Y/N asks, making sure she has it right in her mind.

“I’m afraid so… they hacked into 1 camera at every scene. The one with the best angle, we only caught it because Lisa here, my number 2, was checking the days after each murder and noticed the shots were different. The angles changed so minutely that you wouldn’t notice a difference unless you were zoned in on that camera 24/7.”

“Thanks, Garcia,” Derek says. “Call us if you find anything else.”

“So much for theory,” Dave retorts.

“We need to hit the ground running,” Kate stands, visibly anxious about what this means to her job.

She’s so close to being fired and replaced, she’s been warned they want to replace her with Derek Morgan. It’s why the two of them have been butting heads. She wants to get ahead of his before all of New York City is up in flames and her head is on the chopping block.

“Reid,” Hotch calls his attention as they enter the room. “Take Y/N go brief Port Authority police.”

“Yes sir,” they both agree at the same time.

“JJ I want you on the phone running point with the Governor, Dave will you go talk to the commissioner? And Morgan, I want you to brief Homeland Security. Kate and I will meet with the Mayor.”

Everyone starts to get up and get going, “We’ll meet back here as soon as possible. Stay alert, stay vigilant. With them knowing were here, we could become a target.”

She lets Reid drive, throwing him the keys as they walk to the elevators. They’re the first to leave. They make it 6 blocks from the plaza when they hear the news over the radio. 10-80. That’s cop talk for an explosion. They slow down, reid pulls them to the side of the road and they listen closely. “Please note that 10-80 was a car bomb.”

Reid flips on the sirens, all the traffic on the road comes to a halt and he u-turns out of there faster than she’s ever seen him move a vehicle. With their lights and sirens going, they run every red light, they make it back to Federal Plaza and rush up to see the rest of the team. The whole time, she’s on the phone, trying to get at least 1 member of the team but there’s no service. “New York of all places should have service!” She shouts, slamming her flip phone shut again.

“we’re here,” Reid announces, throwing the car in park.

They rush back upstairs, it’s just Rossi that’s left in the building. “A car bomb?” Y/N says as she makes it to Rossi’s side. “Did they say where?”

He shakes his head. “No, and the cell towers are down. This is what we’ve been waiting for. We’re looking at 8 suicide bombers that are about to hit each and every location of the murders. Reid, I need you to make a list and get it to homeland security and quick. Tell them to pour troops into all those sites. This isn’t a false alarm. This is terrorism.”

“Actually, if we’re correct, it’ll be 16 suicide bombers,” he reminds Rossi. “One for the civilians. One for the first responders.”

“Fuck,” Rossi mumbles under his breath. Referring to the TV for a moment as the first news reporters have arrived on the scene.

The woman on screen holds her hand to her ear, listening to what information she has. “I’m hearing that the explosion was a car bomb. The car in question was a black SUV just outside 26 Federal Plaza.”

They all know what that means. Hotch was right.

Rossi presses the quick dial button for the CCTV command post, getting in touch with Penelope as she returns to the computers. “Can you see anything?”

“I literally just sat down sir, give me one moment,” she says as they hear furious typing. “Where am I looking?”

“they said the explosion was a Black SUV just outside Federal Plaza—

“Oh no, you don’t think—

“I need you to look, Penelope,” he pushes her back to the main focus. “Can you see anything yet?”

“Hold on I have 300 camera angles and— have you heard from anyone?”

“I’m here with Reid and Y/L/N, but we haven’t heard from anyone else.”

“Oh no, oh no no no,” she chants to herself as she keeps looking. “Sir, I’ll call you when I know more I cannot multi task like this.”

“Thank you, Garcia.”

Until then they just have to sit and wait… just not in this building.

A Critical incident command centre is set up at 700 Hudson, they’re rushed out of 26 fed, down the back stairwell and out the door. A shuttle bus comes to pick them all up in waves, and a bomb sniffer dog is there too, checking the shuttle busses before they leave, they even check Reid and Y/N’s SUV before they head out themselves. They stare out the windows, trying to get any look they can at the scene but they don’t pass it. They’re completely in the dark as to what is going on.

When they make it to the command centre, JJ is pulling up right behind them.

“oh my god, JJ,” Y/N wraps her up in a hug. “Have you heard from the others?”

“My phone isn’t working,” she complains. “Come on, let's head inside. I’m sure there’s a news helicopter out by now and live footage from the scene.”

Upstairs, the phone is ringing like crazy, Dave rushes to it and hits the speaker. “Hello?”

“Rossi, open the computer I have live footage from the blast!”

At the same moment, Y/N turns on the TV then to see helicopter live footage of the scene. It shows Aaron and Kates SUV in flames, Kate on the ground and Aaron covered in blood hovering over him.

She almost loses her mind thinking he’s hurt. She starts to leave, grabbing her things and searching for the keys in Reid's bag but it’s not there. “What are you doing?” He stops her.

“Aar—Hotch, he—he needs us? Shouldn’t we go to him?”

“We profiled that the first attack was to garner a response from the police, if the police and ambulance show up there will be a second bomb taking out all the first responders, we can’t go,” he reminds her.

“But he’s hurt and bleeding? Shouldn’t someone go to him? Let me go to him!”

“Y/N… we can’t,” Spencer looks her dead in the eyes, all the compassion in his soul seeping out through his own, he knows why she wants to run to him. But he can’t let her.

“Hey, hey look,” JJ calls their attention back to the TV to show Derek running up to him. “Look, Dereks there, he’s going to help him until we know it’s safe to bring in the emergency services.”

She quickly makes her way back to the TV, watching with a hand over her mouth, she’s beyond worried. Anxious doesn’t even begin to cover the sinking feeling in her chest. Kate’s dying. He has to watch a second woman who looks like his wife leave him in just a few short months. This is going to kill him if another bomb doesn’t.

Penelope has eyes on the crime scene, she calls both JJ and Derek, allowing the team to have some form of communication altogether. She goes back on the security footage, and she notices the bomber place the bomb and sit around and watch it go off… and then he returns to the scene.

He was the same kid currently “helping” Hotch.

He even called 911 for him… the next thing they see on the TV is Derek take off after the unsub and a single ambulance pulls onto the scene.

“Can I go now?” Y/N asks the rest of them.

“Yeah, you can” Rossi agrees. “Penelope you find out what hospital they’re going to through the dispatch system and Y/L/N’ll meet them there.”

“Got it, sir… but I’m not seeing anyone dispatched to Hotch’s location?” She explains. “There’s a strict order not to go… they must’ve gone of their own volition.”

“Okay… can you follow the ambulance on the cameras?” JJ suggests, “Find out what way they’re going and cross that with the nearest hospital.”

“I can do that,” she says, furiously typing away. “Yeah, I can do that…. Okay, they’re headed uptown…”

She wants to run. She feels like she could chase down the ambulance and meet Aaron there in a matter of seconds, that’s how much adrenaline is rushing through her veins.

“Saint Barclays!” Penelope shouts once she has it. “Go, go now!”

“Spence, keys!” Y/N shouts to him and he throws the keys her way. She catches them and then she’s off. She doesn’t even take the elevator, she runs down 6 flights of stairs, pushes open the fire exit doors and books it for their SUV.

Once inside she has the car on, her seatbelt fastened and her lights and sirens on. She speeds down the street, whipping the SUV around corners, she haphazardly comes to a halt in the emergency parking lot and throws the car in park. She leaves her door open and runs inside the emergency room.

She stops the first nurse she sees, “Hi, hi, I’m looking for agent Hotchner? He just came in he— oh my god,” she notices him. “Is he okay?”

“So far we’ve diagnosed him with acute acoustic trauma in his right ear and the doctor is working on pulling shrapnel from his left leg. But he’s going to be okay. He passed out shortly after arriving, my guess is that the adrenaline didn’t allow him to realize how hurt he was and so the blood loss and the equilibrium challenges from his ear injury all caught up to him all at once.”

“Okay,” she calms down a bit. “And the agent he brought in?”

“She’s in surgery,” the nurse explains. A solum look on her face. This won’t end well.

“Can I sit in there with him?” She asks, pointing to Aaron’s little corner of the ER.

She shakes her head, “Not until the doctor is done. When he wakes up he might be a little scared and confused, I wouldn’t want you getting hurt as well.”

“Okay…” she understands, so she waits there, resting against the nurses station and watching over him from afar.

Morgan comes rushing in not long after. She’s too busy listening to him talk to the nurses to notice that Aaron is up, he’s confused and yelling from his ear injury. He rips off his vital cords, and there’s an elongated beep ringing through the ER as the nurses try to get him to sit down.

“Agent Hotchner—

“Aaron,” she cuts the doctor off and rushes in front of him. Places her hands on his chest and looks up into his eyes, “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Calm down… you’re at the hospital. Kate is in surgery, Derek is here too.”

“I need my clothes,” he says in a softer tone. “Where are my clothes?”

“We’ll get you your go bag, just calm down a second,” she ushers him back to his bed and makes him sit down.

“Has anything happened since the bomb went off?” He asks, looking past her to Derek.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“And Sam?” He asks.

“He’s dead.”

That must be the kid who detonated the bomb and stayed back to pretend to help… he just wanted to see the results of his destruction.

“The team needs to be here, we need to discuss this together… I don’t understand why they’d just set off one bomb and in a place none of the other attacks happened?” He says, trying his best to rationalize it but he can’t figure it out.

“I’ll call the others… Y/N?”

“I’ve got him,” she smiles over to Derek. “Go.”

She turns back to Aaron with a small smile, she looks to his ear which is packed with cotton and the dried blood that dripped down his neck. “Excuse me?” She grabs the attention of one of the nurses. “Can I have some antibacterial wipes, I just want to clean the blood off him?”

“Sure,” the nurse says before disappearing for a moment. “Here,” she hands her a few things to get him all cleaned up.

“Thank you,” she smiles.

“Thanks,” Aaron adds. Feeling sorry for reacting the way he did moments ago. “You don’t have—

“Well, I’m going to,” she cuts him off. She peels open one of the little packets and unfolds the wet wipe inside of it. “I’m sorry if this stings at all.”

She wipes the blood off his ear and neck, she tilts his head back a bit and she starts on the marks on his forehead and cheeks, her heart aches for him. He reaches out and holds her around her hips, letting his shoulders drop as he relaxes a bit… and then he rests his head against her chest and hugs her.

She rubs his back, “You’re okay…” She rests her cheek on the top of his head for a moment. Resisting the urge to kiss his head, instead, she waits for him to pull back and then she smiles at him. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t know who I’d talk to anymore if I lose you.”

“You’d need something a lot stronger than a bomb to get rid of me,” he teases, finding his humour again.

She manages to laugh. “Okay, big guy, I’m glad to see your humour is still intact… how’s your leg?”

He looks down at it, his hospital gown rests at his thigh, and he can see the bandages on his calf. “Okay, I didn’t realize I hurt it?”

“Shrapnel,” she explains. “They got it all.”

“That’s good.”

Derek comes back around the corner then. “The teams on the… way? You two wanna tell me something?” He teases.

“Oh hush,” Y/N waves him off. “I’d worry if it was you or Reid or JJ too.”

“Not Rossi?”

“He barely ever steps into the way of danger,” she reminds them. “He’s too old for this shit.”

She takes a step back from Aaron, his hands fall back to rest on his own legs, and he sighs. “Any news?”

Derek shakes his head. “None. Homeland security is about to call everyone off, they think this was all a false alarm.”

“They’d be stupid to do that,” Aaron remarks.

“I know… it doesn’t make any sense?”

“Who did that Sam kid keep calling? Garcia said that there weren’t any ambulances dispatched to his area, how’d they know to get there?” Y/N asks.

“I don’t know… let me call Garcia,” Derek suggested, stepping out of the room again.

“The hospital's on a bypass,” Aaron looks up at her with horrified eyes. “The secret service is here, they didn’t want to let us in but… oh, god, I drove the bomb right in here.”

“We don’t know that,” she tries to push his worries away.

“We do. We do know that. They knew we’d catch on to them, they knew we’d stop all first responders from actually responding or run the risk of having the first wave taken out as well. This was their way to get to a presidential target.”

The team comes rushing in then, JJ has his go bag in her hands, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’ll change, Y/N tell them what I told you,” he orders, ushering her out of the room and closing the curtain on himself so he can change.

She repeats Aaron's thoughts, and Derek supports his theory by explaining that Sam never called 911. He called the same number 9 times, a disposable phone, that was destroyed around the same time Sam died. They planned this. This is their end game. They had to get moving.

Derek, JJ and Rossi head down to the garage while Y/N Hotch and Reid head up to the operating floor to warn the secret service. The hospital begins evacuations, Derek finds a bomb in the ambulance and Penelope puts a jammer on the cell phone signal so it can’t go off while they think of the next steps… then Derek gets the brave idea to drive the ambulance out of there, towards a clearing, all by himself.

It’s stupid, it’s reckless… but it works.

They find the unsub, the paramedic that Hotch drove in with, sitting down in the ambulance bay, knife to his throat and phone detonator in his hand. He’s waiting for a reconnection. One that will come in 10 seconds. But they’re already onto him… he has no choice but to end his life or go to prison. So he picks up a blade and slits his own throat.

The case ends with 8 dead civilians, an injured cop, 3 dead suspects and the death of Kate Joyner.

Aaron leaves with a broken heart and ringing in his ear that doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon.

The majority of the team heads home. JJ leaves as soon as she can, newly pregnant and with the love of her life. Derek, Reid and Rossi all head back in the bureaus jet… Y/N offers to drive Aaron home. The pressure in the air would hurt him in her flight and taking the train home alone would be sad, so she drives him.

They drive in silence most of the way. He has a few naps, waking up only to drink some water and take more medicine. She expected to be bored, but keeping him safe, making sure he gets home okay, that’s more than worth it.

—

Back at Quantico, Aaron’s placed on a medical leave of absence while he recovers from his ear injury. He’s not happy about it. Not at all. He isn’t allowed to join them on cases, and he’s not even supposed to come into the office until he has a doctor sign off that he’s good to go back into the field… but that doesn’t stop him.

He needs something to do. He’s so bored in his bland little apartment that he comes into the office just to hang out with Anderson and help with paperwork.

He has a couple MRI’s lined up in a week to check the damage to his ear, it still hasn’t stopped ringing which he doesn’t quite mind… it’s the pain that bothers him. He’s been given a prescription for T3s, which worry Y/N just a little. They worry Reid a lot.

Everyone in the office stays up to date with Hotch’s condition, they all talk about it like he’s their father in a nursing home, prescribed something new. It’s sweet how much they care, but Aaron hates being doted on. He hates that people see him as weak even if it’s just for a little while. It sucks not being the leader they’ve come to know and love. But the thing about love is that it doesn’t stop once you get hurt, it just gets bigger.

They’re talking on the phone again too, he holds the receiver to his good ear and he turns on subtitles for their shows so he can still follow along. Every now and then he has her repeat something, and he scolds himself, saying he feels like he’s 85 and senile but she loves it.

“Hey, it just means you actually care about what I have to say.”

“I do care,” he reminds her. “And I appreciate how much you care about me too… I almost forgot what it’s like to have someone care about me so much.”

“Has she reached out at all since the accident?” She pries.

“She brought Jack over the other day for a few hours, he just wanted to cuddle and show me his toys which was nice… Haley sat in the corner and read a magazine the whole time. She didn’t even ask about it.”

“I’m sorry, Aaron,” her heart breaks for him. She knew that the divorce wasn’t his idea, not even the slightest… he still loved her. He probably always would.

He brushes it off, asking her about their latest case instead. She told him everything, from the time they gathered in the briefing room until the flight back home, she recounted it all. He just hummed along, letting her know he was following, he didn’t ask many questions, seemingly because he knew if he just listened longer they’d be answered.

It becomes a habit after that. He calls at the end of a case just to ask her how it went. He knew he could read about it in the paperwork later, but it was more rewarding this way.

He has 1 week left until his ear is healed completely, he’s convinced the doctor to let him go back to work if he takes it easy, which means once they get back from their current case, he’ll be back out there.

He calls her at 11pm Virginia time, knowing she’s just an hour behind him in Illinois. They’re done with the case but staying 1 more night just to sleep it off. He expects her to be in her own hotel room, away from the others, able to take his call… she isn’t. She’s sharing with JJ.

She sees his name on her caller ID and takes her phone with her to the door, “I’m just going to take this I’ll be right back,” she assures JJ.

“Do you have your room key cause I don’t want to get up and let you back in, I’m exhausted,” JJ asks.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” she rushes out as she leaves the room. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry were you asleep?”

“No, I’m sharing with JJ tonight, we were talking,” she shares.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, how are you? How’s the ear?”

“Good… I can go back to work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She repeats, concerned as all hell. “Aaron, you still have a tear in your ear, if you’re not careful you’ll lose hearing forever. It’s not a joke. Don’t you want to be able to hear? We can catch a few more bad guys without you. It’s okay?”

“I need to come back to work before I lose my mind,” he responds with a bit of an attitude. “If I have to sit in my tiny ass apartment and stare at these white walls any longer, I will go crazy.”

“I rather you mad than deaf,” she explains, trying to keep herself together. “If you come back to work you’re taking it easy. I’m going to stick to your side like glue, you hear me? I’m not letting this get worse.”

“Fine, mom,” he teases her. “Whatever you wish.”

“I thought you liked that I cared?” She teases back. “You’re my best friend, who else am I going to talk to if you can’t hear me?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he assures her. “It’ll be fine.”

—

The Angel Maker case is one she studied at the academy. Victims were beaten with the assailants' bare hands until they were dead. Post-mortem stab wounds were found in each victim's torso, made by a screwdriver, each victim's wounds in a different pattern. Some with more holes than the others, as if he was experiencing different amounts of rage with each woman. There were also signs of sexual assault. He completely abused these poor women after death. It was a good thing they caught him.

He died a year ago yesterday, by lethal injection at the prison in Lower Cannon, Ohio. They thought they were done with him as soon as he was lowered into the ground…

Their newest victim, Delilah Grennan, was bludgeoned to death with what is assumed to be a hammer. She too, was stabbed in the chest with a screwdriver. She was also raped. Only the weird part was the semen left at the crime belonged to Cortland Bryce Ryan. The Angel Maker himself.

“So this unsub is a weaker guy?” Derek proposes. “Or at least someone who perceives themself as weak?”

“He brought along the hammer to make sure the job was done,” Y/N adds, staring across the table at Aaron, watching him blink slowly. He’s in pain as if someone smacked him upside the head with a hammer and he’s keeping it to himself.

She almost misses Rossi’s hilarious joke about the elephant in the room… the dead man's seamen at the crime scene, that elephant, all because she’s staring at Hotch. “It’s obvious someone planted the DNA at the scene,” Aaron adds, his voice small yet powerful at the same time.

“In the victim…” Derek reminds him.

“That’s one theory,” Spencer mumbles.

“There's another theory?” JJ asks, leaning over the back of his seat, wondering what’s going on inside that genius head of his.

“Think about who shares the exact DNA profile as another person,” he hypothesizes.

“Reid, you’re not seriously floating around the idea of an evil twin?” Morgan groans, knowing Reid all too well.

“No, I’m not. I’m floating around the idea of an Eviler Twin,” he raises his brows, proud of himself for that one. No one else finds it funny. “Traditionally the concept is a good twin and an evil twin. But in this case, it’s evil twin, Eviler twin.” He says it with more suspense this time.

No one says anything. Y/N just shakes her head, trying not to smile cause it was funny… and then Aaron grips his forehead and hunches forward, something is making his head hurt.

“JJ get him some water,” Y/N suggests right away, keeping her voice down. “Hey, where are your pills?”

He points to his bag over on the other side of the aisle and she’s quick to pull his bag over and start looking for them. She takes two from the little orange medication bottle and slides them across the table just as JJ brings him a glass of water.

“Were you actually cleared to fly?” Morgan asks in a similarly low tone.

Aaron swallows down his medicine and nods, he doesn’t say anything, he just rests his head back against the headrest and keeps his eyes closed. Everyone turns to Y/N instead, asking questions with their eyes. She shrugs, she doesn’t know what to say. Other than she knew this would happen.

—

It happens again when they’re digging up the original unsubs grave. The sound of the metal grinding as the front-end loader hauls the coffin out of the dirt, it’s way too loud for Aaron. He covers both of his ears and starts walking away, cowering from it all. She pats Reid's shoulder so he stays there and watches everything go down with the Sheriff and then she follows Hotch through the cemetery towards a tree that he’s leaned himself against.

She carefully runs her hand over his side, inside his suit jacket, “hey,” she whispers, getting him to look at her. He’s almost crying with how bad it hurts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers back.

“How am I supposed to look at you?” She argues, raising her voice a little. “You said you were cleared for duty. This isn’t what being cleared looks like. You’re going to go deaf if you don’t take it easy.”

“I’m going to go deaf if you keep yelling at me like I’m 4,” he spits back. Reaching into his pocket for more pills, she takes the bottle from him.

“Uh-uh, no. You had two 3 hours ago. It’s not time for more. Stop putting yourself in harm's way and relying on these,” she scolds him. She steps in even closer to him so it’s just them to hear. “I care about you. I’m not letting you ruin your life because you can’t find the patience to actually heal properly.”

She has her finger pressed into his chest as she stares him down, asserting her own dominance over him. “I’ll be administering these to you from here on out, got it?”

He nods. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good, now the noise has stopped over there, go look in the casket and then I’m driving us back to the precinct,” she says as she steps away from him and marches away.

Reid and the sheriff were the first to see that the casket was empty. Someone stole his body and god knows how long ago. Aaron takes once glance at the empty box and heads back towards the SUV, getting in the passenger side with a huff.

“What’s going on with him?”

“He’s not better. He wasn’t cleared because he’s healed. He was cleared because he’s a sweet talker and the doctor believed his bullshit,” she rants. “He’s taking his meds like candy, he’s not taking care of himself… so I let him have it. I’m going to drive us back, I’m administering his meds from now on. He’s going to actually heal whether he likes it or not.”

Reid follows her to the car, and as soon as they’re out of earshot of the local cops, he asks it. The question she’s been dreading hearing.

“You love him, don’t you?”

“What?” She turns to him with a faux look of confusion. “I mean, yeah? We all do. He’s our boss?”

“No. If this was just you protecting a co-worker, you would’ve done the same thing for me after Tobias Hankel…”

“Spencer,” her heart breaks for him. “I wanted to help you, we all did, but we didn’t know how.”

“You just did to him what you should’ve done for me,” he almost cries. “You should’ve reached into my bag and taken the drugs away from me… but you didn’t. Because I’m just a co-worker to you. Admit it. You love him.”

“I can’t,” she gives in. “He still loves Haley. I’ll never be her.”

“No, you can’t… but maybe he doesn’t want you to be,” Reid simplifies it. “maybe he needs you to be everything she wasn’t.”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, “but we’ve gotta go… I’m sorry, by the way.”

“It’s okay,” he places his hand on her arm and they keep walking. “I’m not jealous or anything, I just sometimes get mad that it happened to me at all.”

“You can talk to me about it whenever,” she makes sure he knows that. “I’m always here for you.”

“Thanks,” he smiles at her, knowing she means it.

—

Turns out, they had difficulties putting Ryan to death. The whole town had a conspiracy that he never actually died… so finding his empty casket rocked the whole police station. Even in his last words, he said he’d come back to life to finish what he started. Putting the town at ease was their number one priority, aside from catching the new killer. Because a town in panic causes more crime, and more death than a single killer could even imagine.

Hotch proposes that the person who took Ryan's body is the same person doing these copycat killings. They had to’ve had help from inside the prison… probably the same person who was getting all his memorabilia and… fluids, out of the prison.

Yesterday, before they found the empty grave, Derek interviewed a guard at the prison, Guard Rutledge. Weird guy. Sketchy, Derek called him.

So, what are the odds that when Garcia— the ever-incredible computer genius who leaves no stone unturned— searches the web for Angel Maker memorabilia, the most common seller is a man by the name of Sid Rutledge? Slim pickings, but of course, our girl Garcia figured him out.

Morgan is tasked with repaying Rutledge another visit, this time, at his house. He takes Y/N along with him for backup and the two of them make it to his house just after nightfall.

They knock on his door, making their presence known, “Sid!! FBI Open up… come on, man, I just want to talk.”

She peers through his windows, there’s no movement in the main room and all his lights are still on. “I’m not seeing anything?”

Derek twists the doorknob, testing if he can get in before he breaks a door down (he’s good at that) and the door pushes wide open.

“That’s weird,” Y/N remarks. “Guys got two deadbolts and doesn’t bother to lock either?”

“Sid?” Derek calls out once more, unholstering his weapon and raising it. “Sid, we’re coming in.”

Y/N follows his lead, holding her weapon, her finger on the safety, she doubts she’ll have to use it but just in case… they search around his main living room, clear the kitchen and then head off towards the bedroom, down the hall. From the doorway Derek can see the man’s feet, he’s laying in bed.

“Wakey-wakey, my man,” he shouts as he pops into the room and finds something they didn’t expect.

Rutledge, laying in his bed with his pants off, in just his shirt and boxers, dead. Shot in the head and in the groin.

“That’s personal,” Derek says under his breath.

They put their guns away, Y/N pulls rubber gloves out of her back pocket and starts to put them on. In her other back pocket, a wad of evidence bags.

“Well yeah, he was selling the unsub memorabilia… Rutledge knew his face.”

“Now the unsub’s covering his tracks,” Derek says with a sigh. Putting his own gloves on before taking out his cell phone. “Hey, Hotch… we’re gonna need crime scene and the coroner at Rutledge's place… yeah. Shot twice, I’d say he’s been dead for at least an hour, maybe two. Yeah. See you back at the precinct soon. Bye.”

“You think he contacted the unsub after you visited him at the prison? Maybe he wanted them to get their stories straight?”

“That or he threatened him… he might’ve wanted the glory of catching a killer?” Derek proposes.

She looks around his room for a moment, nothing sticks out, so she heads to the bathroom. “God, it stinks in here… muggy and thick, too much old spice.”

“Really? He strikes me as an aqua velva kinda guy,” Derek teases.

In the bathroom, what does she find on the first shelf? That exact cologne. “you're good!”

“I’ve been at this longer than you, kid,” he teases. “Anything good in there?”

On the counter, there’s a bottle of pills. She suspects antidepressants or even allergy meds, nope. She reads the bottle and laughs, “No shit… Viagra.”

She makes her way back out into the room and holds the bottle up, “I think we’ve got this unsub all wrong.”

“Why?”

“He was taking Viagra. You only leave the door open and take this when you’re expecting someone. There doesn’t look to be a struggle in here either, his pants came off willingly… either Sid’s gay or our unsub is a woman.”

They bring their findings back to the police station, most of the crew has gone home for the night and the minimal, small-town, night shift has clocked on. Y/N and Derek walk in on JJ and Reid sitting together at the table, Hotch pouring himself more coffee and Dave on the phone in the back room.

“we’ve got news,” Derek announces.

“He was taking Viagra,” Y/N places the evidence bag on the table. “I sent the crime scene photos we took to the computer, you’ll see on there that there wasn’t a struggle. He was shot in the head and in the junk… he was expecting the unsub for sex.”

“I knew it!” Reid lets out a cheer, almost too loud for their little bubble. “When you were gone I was suggesting that. There’s an abnormally high amount of female fans of serial killers, the way they love these killers is fascinating, there are endless lengths that these women will go to, to feel closer to the killers. Buying his sperm, continuing his killings… to a psychopath, in her mind, doing those things would bring her closer to him. A woman in love, no matter how her brain works, would do anything for the man she loves.”

Y/N just looks at reid with wide eyes, feeling called out in a sense. Of course, he’d come to that conclusion after their talk and what he’s seen. She just hopes Aaron doesn’t realize it too. She’s not ready to lose a friend because of her stupid crush on him.

—

On their 3rd day in Ohio, they finally give the profile. They fill the cops in on their theory and in doing so, they calm the nerves of the town thinking a ghost is on the loose, killing these women. It takes up an hour of their morning, they answer every question available and then start narrowing down suspects.

JJ gets a list of women who visited Ryan in prison before he was put to death and Reid goes back through his fan mail to ascertain a pattern that would lead them to the unsub. Alongside that list of women who visited Ryan, they also found out that Sid Rutledge worked at a woman’s prison. He had a history of smuggling things in and out for sexual favours. Ie. they found the reason why he was shot in the dick.

They have two main suspect pools, insane fans and wronged women. Finding the cross over… that would be where the unsub is.

Y/N and Rossi are sent out on the road, their job is to interview the woman who visited Rutledge and wrote him. Most of them were crazy, basically harmless and not worth the time. Their last interview of the day, however, she— she was different.

Shara Carlino, she visited the angel maker 70 times and even bought herself a home overlooking the prison. She’s quite beautiful, you’d never know she’s fucked in the head… within those 70 visits, she was subject to their rigorous strip searches and 3-hour wait times just to see him for 10 minutes.

“That’s Two hundred and 10 hours of waiting and just 11 hours of face-to-face time with the love of her life?” Y/N does the quick math in her head and then shakes it.

“Would you endure that for a man?” Rossi teases.

“No… I’m more into catching the killers than fucking them.”

“Amen, sister,” Rossi jokes, knocking on Shara’s door.

“Hello?” She answers, just as pretty as her photo. Red hair, pleasant smile. She’s dressed up like she’s ready to go out… “can I help you?”

They hold their badges up, “Hi, yes, we’re with the FBI we’re looking into the recent copycat murders and we’d like to speak to you about Cortland Ryan.”

She invites them in, and offers them tea or coffee but neither of them takes a cup. They sit down at her kitchen table and Y/N opens a file. “According to the logs, you were the angel maker's number one fan?”

“His name was Cortland and I wasn’t a fan,” she spits back. Sensitive as ever.

“How would you categorize your relationship?” Y/N asks.

“We were lovers.”

“Last time I checked, they didn’t allow conjugal visits on death row?” Rossi makes a joke out of her comment.

“It wasn’t about physical interaction. When you take away the flesh, all that’s left is the soul,” she says with a mystical expression. Truly believing the words that leave her mouth. “Everything was understood between us. We had no secrets. Cortland made me feel alive in a way no free man ever could.”

Gross, she thinks… but pushes it away to ask her most pressing question: “Where were you on the 16th of this month?”

“Why?”

“We have reason to believe that this copycat killing was done by one of his female fans,” Rossi explains. “Someone who knew Cortland very well.”

“I was out of town with the company I work for, ask anyone there,” she states her alibi and stands by it, visibly hurt by the fact anyone else could be close to Ryan.

“Do you know another woman—

“there were no others,” she cuts Rossi off. Sure of herself.

“I can show you logs and fan mail,” Y/N starts sifting through her evidence folder. “I have photocopies of the letters, women who sent Cortland their photos and even their panties…”

“They didn’t mean anything to him.”

“But… whatever connection you had with Cortland died with him,” Y/N looks at her through her lashes, faking sympathy and driving the wedge in deeper. “Not the copycats. She believes that every time she kills for him, every time she repeats his ritual, their connection gets stronger and will keep getting stronger until she completes his mission.”

“That is of course, unless you help us stop her,” Rossi adds.

That breaks her. she’s visibly distraught by the thought that someone is closer to him than she was. They see it in her eyes that the psychopathic logic makes sense to her… “there was something… he sent me a letter a few months before his— his passing. I knew it wasn’t meant for me. It was addressed to “my dove.” He never called me that.”

“Do you have the letter?” Y/N asks, so close to the finish line she could taste it.

“No. I burned it.”

“Did the text reveal anything about the woman?” Rossi asks.

“The text was a joke,” she spits back. “Usually his prose was beautiful, seamless.. as if he didn’t even have to try. But this— this letter was pedestrian. Crude.”

“You never asked him who this Dove was?” Y/N pries further.

She shakes her head, staying quiet in her hurt.

“I thought there were no secrets between you?”

She laughs, looking Y/N up and down, “You’ve never been in love, have you.”

Y/N smirks, wanting to laugh at the assumption because oh, if she only knew…

Back in the car, she scribbles down some thoughts as Rossi drives. It’s quiet, the radio is on volume 4 and they barely hear it over the sound of their tires bumping down the old, crumbling paved road of this small town. She shakes her head, thinking to herself, how was it that Reid, someone who’s never had a deeply romantic love in his life could guess her feelings so fast and this woman, this deeply troubled yet deeply in love woman couldn’t see it.

She would go to the ends of the earth for Aaron. She’d kill for him if she had to. She wanted to cradle his head and kiss his hair, she wanted to make him lunches for work and dinner when they got home. She would have his babies for crying out—

“oh my god,” she speaks into the silence of their car. “Why else would she buy the sperm if not to just plant it at the scenes?”

“Cause she’s insane?” Rossi laughs.

“She wants his babies!” She makes herself more clear. “She wanted to make a mini Cortland… holy shit.”

She picks up her phone and calls Garcia, “Hey, weird question but are you able to access all obstetrics and gynecology records in this country, by any chance?”

“I can, why?” She asks.

“I think the unsub might’ve tried to get pregnant with the unsubs sperm… she might’ve had checkups, gone to the hospital because of a loss or even had the baby and it died, can you run all the records and cross it with women who visited Cortland and or went to the prison that Rutledge worked at?”

“I sure can try,” Penelope assures. “I’ll call you when I know more.”

—

On the morning of their 4th day, they have another victim. Same bludgeoned skull, same rape, same torso wounds. The house is just like the others too. No sign of forced entry and every single window in the joint was opened too.

Y/N, Hotch and Derek head to the crime scene, Reid, Rossi and JJ stay behind to look through the fan mail a 3rd time with their eyes open for “dove.”

Once the coroner is done with the body, they head back to see her for themselves. With her gloves on, Y/N moves the woman's shirt up to see her torso marks. She was the only one to see the first victim when they arrived, she knew of the findings and how there was paper in the wounds… she takes out her notepad and starts to draw out the marks, ripping off the page to then hold it over her.

“Aaron,” she calls him back over. “Look, Ryan knew what he was doing, he had it all memorized when he made his marks, this unsub needs a stencil, that’s why they found paper in the wounds of the first vic… and I think I know what they’re trying to make out.”

She takes out her phone again, calls Reid and puts him on speaker, “hey, whatcha got?” He answers.

“I think the unsubs were marking out constellations on the victim's stomach… but I don’t think it’s the zodiac?”

“I just found a secret code inside all the letters to Dove that I’m trying to crack… you know, there is a dove constellation, it’s part of the heavenly waters?”

“Reid,” Hotch makes his presence known. “Can you have JJ pull the images of every single victim, this case and the original, and match them to the constellations in that family?”

“I sure can… you know, it also makes sense why all the windows are open at the crime scenes now, he wanted their souls to escape back to heaven, he was quite literally making angels,” Reid explains.

“Sick… well, we’ll be back at the precinct in 30, nice work,” Y/N smiles as she hangs up.

—

When they arrive, JJ has all the torso pictures on the board with printed-off photos of the constellations. “There are 9 main constellations,” she explains once they’re close enough. “Ryan did 6 and our unsub has done two more, the only one she hasn’t done is the dove… either we’ll have a new body tonight or she’s going to do it to herself.”

“So she knew about the real meaning of the stomach marks but we didn’t?” Derek can’t believe it.

“They were a lot closer than we realized,” Rossi adds.

“More than that,” Reid pipes up, scribbling on his own whiteboard. “They were in love.”

“You cracked it already?” Y/N can’t believe it. It’s been not even an hour since their phone call.

He nods, “I profiled the author, Cortland Ryan. He was on death row with several high-ranking members of the Aryan brotherhood… either they taught it to him or he read a lot of 16th-century literature. The Aryans like to use a cypher based on a 400-year-old code written by Sir Francis Bacon…”

“So it’s a binary code,” Derek says with a sigh, always amazed at how Spencer’s mind works.

“Bacon used a 21-letter alphabet, this one is 24. Each letter is assigned a string of 5 binary digits. This combination yields 32 possible encodings. Normally, you’d use a computer to run all these combinations but it was quicker just to do it long-hand until I found the right one.”

Y/N wraps her arms around him and holds him close, “Oh, I love your brain, you beautiful genius, you!”

He blushes, and wiggles out of her grip, making his way to the table with all the letters. “Thanks… now, we don’t have a complete record of their correspondence, but I was able to make a chronology. The woman he calls “Dove” established contact right after the trial.

They all read through the letters, disgusted by what these two people called love. “Ew, okay here she said ‘Take heart, my love. I will bring a part of you back into this world… you will watch over us from the stars.’ Us. she was definitely pregnant when she wrote that.”

“Agent Hotchner!” The sheriff comes running to the room. “We just got reports of a woman attacked in her home by a female assailant.”

“Y/N, we’ll head to the scene, you 4, call Penelope, and tell her to make it her priority to cross-reference birth records with the women on our lists!” He calls as they all head towards the door. “I don’t care if you have to physically head to the local hospital and read through records and interview staff, I want a name!”

She follows Aaron out of the station and he searches his pockets for his keys, “you can drive, right?” She asks.

He nods, “I haven’t had any medicine at all today. I’m feeling better…”

“Okay, good,” she gets into the passenger seat beside him.

They buckle up their seatbelts and Aaron places his hand on her headrest, looking behind them, “Hold on.” He backs up and spins the SUV around, following the sheriff to the scene in his police cruiser.

Reckless driving shouldn’t be so hot… but she swoons anyway.

When they get to the scene of the crime, it’s so totally different from what they’ve seen 2 times before. The assailant pretended to break down and walked up to the victim in her driveway, asked to call a towing service and they tried to attack the victim. She screamed for help so loud the rest of the neighbourhood heard it, left their homes and beat the assailant into submission, subduing her until police could come make an arrest.

“Are you kidding me?” Y/N can’t believe who she sees in the back seat of the police cruiser… “That’s Shara. Shara Carlino. Rossi and I interviewed her the other day. Her alibi is solid.” She walks over to the cruiser and opens the door, Hotch in tow behind her. “What the hell, Shara?”

“It worked for her, why couldn’t it work for me!” She cries, bloody and bruised.

Y/N just shakes her head, “Because he’s dead. He’s a psychopath who never fucking loved you, he never could. You ruined your life for him, and for what? You don’t even look that good in orange.” She slams the door closed and scoffs. “And she accused me of never having been in love before.”

“Have you?” Aaron asks.

She wasn’t expecting that, she stands a little taller and shrugs, “I mean… yeah? Once or twice.”

“Third times the charm,” he teases, patting her shoulder and then walking back towards the SUV. They weren’t needed here.

—

They’re all sitting at the table when Penelope calls again.

“So there were 463 children born in Lower Cannon between 2006 and 2008,” Garcia recounts over the phone. “If you want me to find baby angel maker, I’m gonna have to narrow this down.”

“I have a letter here, there’s a quote from Cortland that says, ‘I knew even before you told me that the future had taken root,’” Y/N reads. “That must mean she did get pregnant… that letter was written January 7th, 2007.”

“Cool so fast forward 9 months—

“Ten, actually,” JJ corrects her. “There are 40 weeks of pregnancy, so it’s actually closer to 10 months.”

“Seriously?” Penelope had no idea.

“it was news to me too,” JJ rolls her eyes. “I’m going to be pregnant almost all year.”

“Damn, well, with that new math… I’m looking at August to September 2007… single mothers only, cause you know, you don’t want to brag— oh your baby daddies a 3rd-grade teacher? Mine likes to poke people in the tummy with tools… I have 9 names.”

They all laugh at Penelope's strange sense of humour. “Cross-reference them with women from the female Prison Rutledge was at,” Derek suggests.

“Chloe Kelcher,” Penelope announces.

“Wait,” Reid stands up and starts looking through his papers. He pulls a file from a box and places a piece of paper on the table. “She was on the jury…”

“She was exposed to the case evidence,” Derek adds. “That’s how she knew about the stomach wounds.”

“She fell in love with him sitting across from him in the courtroom,” Hotch says with a shake of his head. “She heard everything, she saw what he was capable of, and she wanted him anyway.”

“What happened to the baby, Garcia?” Y/N asks.

“He died at the hospital—

“Microvesicular Steatosis,” Reid finishes. “Microvesicular steatosis is characterized by small intracytoplasmic fat vacuoles— liposomes— which accumulate within hepatocytes. Most common causes are tetracyclines- or acute fatty liver of pregnancy, Reye's syndrome, and hepatitis C.”

“Okay… so the only way to stay close to him after the death of both him and her baby, was to keep killing. Two questions, how did she pick her victims and how do we figure out the last one before it’s too late?” Hotch asks.

“Look at the type of women she was killing, as opposed to Ryan going after women who sexually excited him, she needed a way to get close to them. Delilah made jewelry and sold it from her home, Maxine ran a daycare out of her house. This would give Chloe an opportunity to make an appointment with them and gain access to their homes… and then she could go to the bathroom, crack a window and hope it was still open when she returned in the middle of the night,” Y/N proposes.

“Okay, let’s get suited up, Garcia, send us her address and search her internet history, see if she’s booked a time to meet with anyone today,” Hotch orders and then hangs up the phone.

At her house, she’s nowhere to be found. What they do find, however, is a kid's bedroom covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and the decomposing body of Cortland Ryan in a treasure box near what would’ve been her baby crib. It’s disgusting… they call the coroner to pick him up and keep searching the house.

The Sheriff finds her Filofax filled with dates off appointments and people she knows… she had visits with both Delilah and Maxine the day before their murders, but no tools. No Rape kit, either.

“She had an appointment this morning,” Dave announces, reading the book back. “Faye Landreaux, 126 North Red—

“Red River Drive,” The Sheriff finishes the address off. “She’s a CPA, she does my taxes.”

“Does she work out of her house?” Aaron asks.

“Yep.”

“Let’s go.”

—

At the scene, they find Chloe’s car parked on the road. The windows are closed, that’s a good sign that nothing has happened yet… but they need a plan. They need a way to make sure this ends without another death.

It was Y/N’s job to draw the suspect's attention away from her next victim, speaking to her through a bullhorn while Derek snuck into the house and got the victim to safety. She makes Aaron stand away from the bullhorn, his good ear closest to her so that she doesn’t ruin his hearing further as she talks the suspect away from the bedroom.

She taunts her, reading letters Cortland wrote to other women, making her question the love they had for one another. “He wasn’t capable of loving you. He was a narcissist, Chloe. He was lying to you. He wrote countless women the same words.”

Reid quickly recalls the letters from memory, rushing the words down on paper and holding them up to her.

“Possessions matter not to a condemned man but I cannot leave this world without seeing your face one last time,” Y/N reads over the bullhorn. “It isn’t your fault that he made you feel these things, trust me. It isn’t your fault your baby died.

Just then, Derek returns with the victim. While what Y/N was saying made her upset, losing a victim just made her furious.

It was her last chance to complete the love of her life mission and be joined together forever in the afterlife… another crazy conclusion made in the mind of a psychopath.

“It’s over Chloe, we have Faye,” she says through the bullhorn. They hear her destroying things inside, so she adds. “You have nowhere to go.”

“I think we have some teargas ready to go,” the sheriff adds.

“We’re not going to need it, she doesn’t have any place to go,” Aaron assures him.

“Maybe she’ll do us all a favour and put herself down?” He suggests.

“No, she won’t do that either. She’s not done,” Aaron knows her too well.

After a few moments of silence, Chloe starts to come out of the house. Everyone draws their weapons and points them at her as she wields a small revolver. Rossi asks her to put it down but she doesn’t back away.

“Go stand back there,” Y/N suggests to Aaron, motioning behind the car with her head while she keeps her gun locked on Chloe. “If we shoot you’re going to be in pain again, go. Now, Aaron.”

Surprisingly, he listens. He makes his way away from them just in time for Chloe to raise her weapon and the sheriff pulls the trigger, knocking her to the ground. He and Y/N rush to Chloe, taking her weapon from her before they check on her… she’s gone. This is what she wanted. It’s then that Y/N notices what she’s done. Made herself the last victim, completing what the angel maker set out to do a decade ago.

She really was his dove.

When she looks back, Aaron is holding his head and leaning forward, even at a distance it still made his ear ring. She walks over to him and holsters her gun, “you okay?”

“I’m good, I’m good… thank you for making me move,” he says in a hushed tone.

“You’re welcome,” she says but she doesn’t feel good about it. He’s still hurting. He was going to keep hurting until he was fully healed.

—

They spend the night in a hotel, partnered off to save money when they know the price of keeping the jet in a hangar for another night is already ridiculous.

Rossi pays for his own room on nights like this, leaving 1 person lucky enough to also have their own room… so they give it to JJ. Now that she’s pregnant she deserves something nice.

Derek is with Reid, leaving Y/N with Hotch. The way she wanted it.

They change separately in the bathroom, he goes first and then they switch. By the time she’s done and coming back out, Aaron is sitting in his bed, reading through a case file.

She puts her bag down by her bed and takes a chance. She sits on the edge of Aaron's bed and he looks at her softly, smiles even, “Thank you for being hard on me this week.”

“I was just about to apologize,” she admits. “I don’t like raising my voice at you, but someone has to take care of you.”

“You were right, though… I wasn’t fully cleared, I lied and said I’d stick to light duty but I threw myself into this case thinking it would be fine.”

“I know,” she sympathizes with him. “You’re going through a lot. Your job is really all you have left and when you can’t go to work, what else are you going to do?”

“Go crazy,” he laughs. “I’m not going to fly home tomorrow. I’m going to drive back.”

“That’s a long drive, like 7 hours back to Quantico?” She worries. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, no… not unless you want to?” He looks at her with puppy dog eyes. He’d never ask, but he’d let her if it was her idea.

“We can make it a whole thing, I mean tomorrow is Friday, we have the weekend off, we don’t need to be back in Virginia till Monday,” she suggests. “We could have some fun?”

“That sounds nice,” he agrees. “Would it… would it be weird to hug you?”

“Not at all,” she doesn’t mind in the slightest, she simply moves in closer and opens her arms.

She holds him there, resting her chin on his shoulder, she closes her eyes and makes it last. He’s so warm, his strong arms feel so comforting and he smells good, too. It’s perfect. She didn’t realize how badly she craved his touch until he was pulling away and it felt like it was over too soon.

“Any time you need a hug, let me know,” she offers. Leaving it at that.

—

They take the long way home.

It only takes an hour for them to get out of Ohio, they make it to West Virginia around lunchtime and pick a random small town to go get some food. The diner they pick is so cute, old-time-y and pink, the waitresses are on rollerblades, it feels like they’ve been sent back in time.

They go further back in time, however, when they decide to stop at the little antique shop just down the road.

Most of the stuff is junk… that’s to be expected. But there’s a box near the counter, “photos ¢25 each” and they’re almost all in black and white, some sepia and faded, but all old. That’s for sure.

She digs through the pile while Aaron looks around at a few things and she finds a few that just break her heart. A 30’s bride, smiling wide with the biggest bouquet of flowers she’s ever seen, just excited to marry the love of her life… and a couple sitting on the porch of their first house, he has his arm around her and she’s got her hands on her pregnant belly. they’re starting a life together. There are school photos and family pictures, all worn with time and left to collect dust in someone else’s shop.

The saying is “A picture is worth a thousand words” but each photo here is worth a thousand years. Most of the people in these photos are dead now, their love only exists here, in this shop, in her hands. These people who fell in love and lived to the best of their abilities and died surrounded by family, they had no idea where these photos would end up… so she buys a bunch of them, to keep their memories alive longer.

One of them she buys not just for that reason… but because the couple in the photo looks a little bit like her and Aaron. Part of her thinks that she was always meant to find these, Aaron was meant to get hurt, they were meant to go on this drive and her photos were supposed to come back to her. Her whole heart is so sure that she’s loved Aaron before, that she’ll love him again too, she’ll love him in every lifetime until the world dies too.

She keeps the photos that she wants to buy in her hands as she makes her way around the store. Aaron’s in the back, looking through stacks of old newspapers and letters. He looks up at her and smiles, “look at this,” he hands her a handful of letters. “These are from 1944, a couple sent them back and forth to each other during the war… look how in love they were.”

She reads through the letter with tears in her eyes. Stories of this couple's missed anniversary, their oldest child was starting to learn how to play baseball, their youngest had just started to walk… she ends every letter the same. “I pray to god every night you make it home to me, I know he’s working on it for us.”

She holds her hand over her heart and tries so hard not to let out the sob, “Oh my god?”

“I know,” he smiles, glossy-eyed and blushing. “What did you find?”

“Photos,” she hands them to him. “Doesn’t this guy look like you?”

“Oh, wow…” he honestly can’t believe it. He runs his pointer finger over the woman who looks like her and his shoulders drop. “I guess we’ve been here before.”

“I think we have,” she agrees. “How weird is it that out of all the places we could’ve gone, out of everything that could’ve ever happened, you got hurt just in time for us to have to drive through West Virginia?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know… you know my mother's family used to live here in 1745, they were coal miners.”

“So you might actually be related to this guy?” She holds the picture up again.

He nods, “that or I’m a vampire,” he jokes. “I’ve been living here for hundreds of years.”

She shoves him, “You’re so funny.”

They wander around some more, Aaron finds a painting he likes and she picks up a cute set of dishware and when they go up to pay, the owner smiles at them. “Together or separate?”

“Together,” Aaron answers over Y/N saying “separate.”

“You don’t have to,” she worries but he takes the plates and her photos from her hands and puts them on the counter.

“I want to,” he assures her with a smug smile.

“First date?” The lady asks, so sure she’s got it right.

They shake their heads, “Co-workers, we had some business to attend in Ohio and thought we’d take the long way home…”

“Oh,” she smiles to herself, knowing there’s something else there… she can feel it. “Well, I’m glad you stopped here, these things were in need of a nice home to go back to.”

“Aaron here has a new apartment that is very boring,” Y/N teases. “This painting will be perfect for the wall in his kitchen.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Aaron muses.

She gives them a total, Aaron pays in cash and she wishes them well on their journey home. “I hope to see you back here one day.”

“Us too,” Y/N answers, giving her a smile and a wave.

—

They keep driving east, thinking they could probably make it back to D.C. around 3 in the morning if they didn’t stop. Instead, they pick out a cute little bed & breakfast with the hopes of staying there for the night.

The little bell on the door rings as Aaron holds it open for her, there’s a little old lady sitting behind the counter crocheting, she looks up when she hears the noise. “Oh, hold on, my daughter just ran to the back to get more receipt paper, she’ll check you in in a moment.” She has a posh English accent and a sweet smile.

“Thank you,” Aaron gives her a smile back.

They don’t have to wait long, a middle-aged woman comes out from the back room and stops dead in her tracks when she sees there are people. “Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, did you have a reservation?”

“No, we’re just driving though and wondered if you have a couple rooms we could book?” Aaron asks.

She clicks her tongue off the roof of her mouth, “Uh… oh, no, we only have 1 room left—

“Does it happen to have two beds?” Y/N cuts her off, scared to have to share.

“No, I’m sorry, we have just the one queen left,” she explains. “I can call the inn 30 miles down the way and see if they have two rooms left?”

“No, no it’s okay,” Y/N brushes it off, “I don’t mind sharing…”

“As long as you’re okay with it,” Aaron agrees.

“We’ll take it,” Y/N decides, giving the lady a soft smile.

As the woman starts to write up their receipt and mark her books that the room is taken, Y/N asks about breakfast. “What time is breakfast tomorrow?”

“We can bring it to your room between 7 and 11,” the elderly lady explains, going into detail about the meal options they have.

“You’re in room 6,” she explains, “it’s going to be $173 for the one night and the breakfast in the morning…”

Y/N beats him to the punch this time, taking her credit card out and setting it on the table, “you bought everything earlier, it’s my turn.”

“Fine,” Aaron lets her do it. “But I’m getting lunch or dinner tomorrow.”

“You can try,” she teases, punching in her information and running her card through the machine.

“And I just need you to both sign the guest book,” the keeper explains, pushing the book toward them. “You know, in case you go missing and the police need to recount your steps,” she says with a laugh. Thinking it could never happen.

“We are the police,” Y/N teases.

“FBI actually,” Aaron adds. “It’s a good thing you keep these, I can’t tell you how many times we’ve reached a dead end because people don’t update their books.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” the woman stands a bit taller, feeling proud of her little business.

They get their key after that, they head back to the car to get their bags and head to their room… they’re quiet at first. She heads into the bathroom to change and hype herself up for what’s about to happen. She has to share a bed with the love of her life knowing he doesn’t feel the same about her. She doesn’t know if he’s going to make a pillow wall between them or sleep with his own blanket so they don’t have to touch. She’s so nervous she doesn’t know what to do.

She slips into her work pyjamas, just a simple pair of shorts and an old college t-shirt, she brushes her teeth and adds a bit more deodorant because the last thing she wants is for him to not like her AND think she smells.

She’s honestly just a ball of anxiety.

When she comes out, he’s already changed. In his boxers and a white shirt, sitting on top of the covers with his phone pressed to his good ear. It’s barely 8pm, she can tell by the smile on his face that he called Jack.

“I love you too, buddy, have a good sleep,” he says with a whispered tone. “Bye.”

She puts her bag down by the night table on what will be her side of the bed tonight. “How is he?”

“He’s good… He’s starting school next week. I can’t believe how big he’s getting,” he explains, shaking his head. He hates that he’s missing it too.

She takes a seat on the bed, facing him, her one leg curled under the other, “are you going to drop him off?”

He nods, “I’m going to try my best to be there that first morning, I want to get some pictures of him walking in and wearing his big backpack.”

“That’s going to be so cute,” she swoons. “Oh, I wish I could see it.”

“Come with me?” He asks, “I can pick you up on the way to work, you’re close to his new school anyway.”

“That wouldn’t be weird?”

He shakes his head, “No… I mean, Haley might even have her new boyfriend there.”

“You’re kidding?”

He shrugs, “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Her heart breaks for him. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be, I mean, it happens. Not many kids who meet in high school stay married for life,” he rationalizes it. “And the ones who do aren’t happy about it.”

“Still, I hate knowing she hurt you,” Y/N sympathizes. “You’re a good man. You shouldn’t have to choose between your job and your family. She knew this was your job when she got pregnant. I don’t know what she was expecting.”

“Me either,” he sighs, he puts his phone on the night table and leans back against the pillows. “Can I have some more medicine now?”

She laughs, he sounds like a kid when he asks. “Yeah, let me get it.”

She grabs a complimentary bottle of water off the dresser and gets his pills from her purse, she hands him two and watches him take them. “You know why I stepped in, right?”

He nods, taking both his pills before he speaks again. “I appreciate it, too. I wasn’t using them as instructed, it could’ve gotten bad.”

“We almost lost Spencer and no one stepped in,” she whispers, ashamed that they all knew and did nothing. “I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

He puts the bottle of water back down on his night table he takes her hand and pulls her closer and wraps her up in a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I appreciate you more than you know.”

She hugs him back, her second hug in 2 days. She closes her eyes and bathes in his strength, “you’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine,” he assures her. “Come get in bed?” He asks as she pulls back.

“Okay,” she nods, walking around to her side, he scoots under the covers and she pulls the covers down to get in herself. The lights are still on, but they lay on their sides and face each other, “this isn’t weird?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t think so… do you?”

“If I cuddle you in the middle of the night I’m sorry,” she says, feeling a bashful wave fills her cheeks with heat.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to cuddle into… If anything, I just do it due to muscle memory,” he admits. “I’ll move away if—

“No, no you don’t have to,” she cuts him off. “Honestly, I might be nice?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling softly.

He’s smiled so much today that it makes her heart so happy.

She nervously moves in closer to him, he lays back against the pillow and she cuddles into his side. He rests his arm on her back, she keeps her hand on his stomach and he holds it with his free hand. “I’ve had a lot of fun today.”

“Me too,” she swoons. She settles against him, she expected him to be hard… he looks so big and strong she didn’t expect him to be so soft and cuddly.

She could get used to this. However, this is not her life. Playing pretend is fun for a while but sooner or later she’s going to have to wake up and face the consequences. He doesn’t love her back, he simply misses having a wife.

She can play that role. She’s just not ready for the director to yell cut.

General Taglist

@ncsls0515 @stevesmunsons @reidsbookclub @sweetyyhippyy @manuosorioh @mrs-dr-reid @k-k0129 @squishyturtle @katsukis1wife @babybisexual @marsmunson86 @buckleyhans

IKP taglist

@southernraven @alluringshawn @lambsheepsheeping @lmg-stilinski24 @louderfortheback @deludedfruitcake

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #hotch smut #hotch x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine

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