#so if it comes across like i'm saying it's 'us' when right now it isn't... yeah i'm sorry
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Show me where it hurts (part 1)
Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader
(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist
summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.
warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo
a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker. I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D
(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)
edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(
wc: 3.6k
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You think Miguel is avoiding you.
One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point.
"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."
She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it.
"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"
"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow.
"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.."
He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here."
"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?"
"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?"
"I don't have time for this-"
"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?"
"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans.
"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks."
"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now."
This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching.
"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-"
"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."
"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."
He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "
Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!"
When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall.
"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly?
Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out.
~~~
Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big.
He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing.
Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm.
"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain.
Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies.
"What happened?" He strains.
"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-"
"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"
"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"
Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye.
"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-"
"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."
Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple.
"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."
When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile.
You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you.
"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."
You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."
"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."
You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?"
He shrugs. " 'Course I was."
"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does.
"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now.
He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?"
"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan.
"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"
"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-"
"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-"
"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"
"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-"
"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "
He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.
"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"
Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.
"I don't… I d-don't…?"
"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?"
Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to.
"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."
"Miguel-"
"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."
"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts."
Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."
You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears.
"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."
You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.
~~~
The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning.
The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before.
You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now.
"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"
"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home.
You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time.
The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear.
"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."
"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?"
"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"
"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."
"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."
"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."
"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?"
You hum.
"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"
"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."
He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?"
"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me."
"Naturally…"
"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."
"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"
"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."
"Shit."
"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."
"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."
"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "
"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me."
" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."
"Good to know. I'll see you around."
He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard.
Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes…
You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.
On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate.
"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you.
"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding.
"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?"
"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."
"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?"
She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."
Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?"
"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."
You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?"
"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."
"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?"
She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters."
"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"
"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word.
"I'm a little confused, Lyla."
She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface.
It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head.
Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…
"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "
You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla."
"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."
Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning.
"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?"
"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."
"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."
"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."
"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this."
"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"
"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."
The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."
"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you."
With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.
_
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#miguel o hara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara#spiderman 2099#spiderman 2099 x reader#across the spiderverse#kat_writes😼#this gif is fucking crazy btw
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My Darling, My Honey
Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 12)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12
Part 12:
It felt like hours went by, and it looked like your suspicion was correct- as indicated by the deepening red of the skies of Hell, compared to the pale pinkish hue it was when Alastor teleported the two of you up here.
The entire time, Alastor hardly said even a single word- a rare occurrence, knowing his occupation and personal love of hearing himself talk. If anyone ever knew that Alastor just purely listened attentively to you for hours, they'd probably think you're lying.
You told him about how your parents and in-laws treated you like a bargaining chip for their own businesses and social standing to prosper- then for everyone to turn their backs on you as soon as you were married off. You were treated like a circus animal in a cage.
Even after that, he didn't say a word. He just rubbed his thumb across your hands as reassurance before you continued.
When you told him about how your ex-husband used and abused you, but then paraded you around as the trophy wife like nothing was wrong, all Alastor did was tighten his grip on your hands.
As you explain in full detail the emotional and physical distress it all caused you and the impact that meeting Alastor had on your life, which then spurred the meticulously planned murder of your then-husband, you could swear you feel his hands trembling ever so slightly.
Many more tears had fallen from your eyes during this whole process, your throat sore from talking so much at one time.
Then, you looked up at Alastor.
He looked at you with nothing but love and the most gentle smile you had ever seen.
Without saying a word, he stood up and walked over to you, helping you stand up. Then he gave you a warm embrace. You gasped in response. It was very rare for either of you to initiate much physical touch, but it was even less common coming from Alastor.
Not letting this opportunity go by, you wrap your arms around him.
Alastor pulls back from the embrace slowly to gently caress your face and says, "And here I thought I couldn't possibly love you even more, my dear. You're just as perfect to me as the day I first laid eyes on you..."
A chuckle escapes your lips as you lean into his touch.
"My vows still hold true, you know. As I put that ring on your finger that night you left me too early, I said to you...' 'In life and in death, I am forever yours, as you are forever mine. I love you, dear.' with only the moon and stars as my witness."
A huge smile spreads across your face, "Oh Al, honey... Looks like you were right after all, in life and in death, I'm yours". You say as you pull him into a kiss, that he happily obliges to indulge you in.
"My dear, I think we will have to have a proper exchanging of vows soon- one that isn't interrupted by a certain someone- banging on the DOOR!"
You hardly even noticed the muffled yells and banging noises that were present at door that then disappeared with a yelp as Alastor whipped around to unlock and open the door.
"Why Vaggie, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from you all the way up here?" He answered the door with a low growl to his voice.
"Alastor! You just up and kidnapped our guest and haven't returned for HOURS! You can't just do that! Especially when you were threatening their life!"
"Ahahaha! Funny thing! Yes, yes I can!"
"Why you... ALAST-"
"Hey, hey! Vaggie, don't worry. I'm okay, we're okay." You quickly shoved yourself between the two of them as you felt the tensions rising.
" (y/n)! What did he do to you?? What's going on here???"
You sheepishly smile as you slink back to Alastor's side and link your arm through his, "Just uh.. reuniting?"
Vaggie took a step back and raised an eyebrow while asking, "Hold on now, what did you just say?"
Alastor clears his throat, "Ahem, why I do believe I owe you and Charlie an apology of sorts! Perhaps a 'thank you' as well for saving the love of my life, my soon-to-be fiancée from when we were still alive!"
"Excuse me- WHAT???"
-> Part 13
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hello miss jade ily! since you’re feeling the marauders right now, may i request something with any of the boys, pre-relationship and too lovestruck to speak? reader has done something innocuous, or she’s literally just standing there, and he can’t not break and smother her?
hello lovely, thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k
modern au
You let yourself in quietly. Remus can tell without raising his eyes from his laptop that it's you. James would shout hello, Sirius would beeline for the downstairs bathroom. You close the door with care and leave your shoes under the stairs; Remus can picture you turning your head to one side gently, listening for signs of life.
"James?" you ask.
"Just me," Remus says.
You come around the doorway, beaming at him like he's the one you were looking for the whole time. "Hey, Remus. Don't suppose you know when James is back? He's going to take me to the garage so they don't rip me off."
"Uh, no, but– but I could go with you?" he suggests. Remus isn't your boyfriend, but he wishes desperately that he was and he thinks that's a boyfriend's duty to perform, right? "I'd be happy to."
Your phone dings. You pull it out with a smile. "Oh, it's James," you say, "he's still coming, but he's late. That's fine, I didn't have an appointment or anything. I'd love for you to come if you want, though, baby."
Remus chokes on nothing, clearing his throat and sitting up to not seem so pathetic. "I'll come." Because baby? Baby?!
"Brilliant. How's you writing?"
"Uh, it's, you know, happening. Slowly."
Remus is admittedly much more collected regularly, but your sudden arrival, your smiling, and now your pet name, you've thrown him for a loop. He's doubly thrown when you sit down on the sofa beside him, no polite space, thigh to thigh and close enough to smell the oils in your hair.
"I'm not looking, I promise," you say.
Writing is a raw process. Knowing someone else's eyes are on it magnifies the flaws, but he realises with certainty that he doesn't care if you see it, flaws and all. "That's fine. I don't mind so long as it's you."
"Lucky me," you say.
You take your phone out. Remus doesn't mean to pry but you're right there, and your phone screen brightness is high. The text thread between you and James is open, your thumbs penning a quick response.
Hey James, are we still meeting at the house? I'm omw. 2:17PM
yeah of course, remus is there so go have a cup of tea ill be there soon 2:30PM
ok 2:31PM
sorry running late !! Promise I'll be there, have remus make you a scone :) 2:40PM
I like him too much to have him act like my serf, you can buy us both big salted pretzels on the way home to say sorry for wasting his time 2:45PM
I'm sure he's just gutted to spend time with you 2:46PM
Nice one, James, Remus thinks incredulously. That's exactly what Remus needs, more evidence that he fancies you. You don't seem to have noticed either way, swinging a leg over your knee and finishing another text to James.
I hope not, I love spending time with him 2:48PM
Remus turns to his computer screen, elated and guilty at once. He was not supposed to see that, surely.
"Your word count is really climbing," you say, tucking your phone away. "A hundred and fifty thousand. I can't imagine writing so much… will you have to cut that down?"
"Yep. Much more chance of being published if I fit their standard count. It'll need at least forty thousand words shaved off."
You shake your head. "I can't imagine putting in all that work and then having to put in more work to get rid of it."
"Think of it like refining, instead," he suggests, his fingertip sliding across the laptop's space bar. "I'm making sure nothing is boring."
"I doubt it's boring if you're the one writing it." You stand to his surprise and stretch, a slice of your waist appearing as you twist away from him, an audible click emitting from your back as you roll your shoulders. "Can I make a cup of tea, please?"
You've had a hundred cups of tea in this house.
"You know you don't have to ask," Remus says.
"But it's always nice to ask first," you say as you leave.
He suspects you were talking more to yourself than him as you occasionally do, and he pays little mind to your movements in the kitchen. He has a lot of work to do and not nearly enough time to do it, and editing isn't as simple as cutting away. It's not obvious what needs to go. Remus has to have a deep think.
He gets distracted. When you return he barely notices, busy rewriting a clunky sentence. It's not until your pinky finger brushes his arm that Remus remembers you're here, emphasis on you, and that he's besotted.
When he looks up, he doesn't suppose he'll ever forget again.
You're at his side neatening a plate of biscuits and toasted scones, the very tip of your tongue peaking between your lips in concentration. It's a simple thing, some might even find it unattractive, but you're totally focused on the plate of biscuits, your lovely eyebrows tightly pinched.
You seem upset, for a moment.
Then you meet his eye and any trace of unhappiness vanishes. You're smiling again, eyes alight with something he can't name. "I got you a couple of biscuits and stuff, hope that wasn't too forward. You never remember to eat when you're writing."
"Oh, sweetheart," he says unbidden to himself, hands paused at his laptop, "that's not too forward."
He sets his laptop aside and stands. There's nothing for it, no hold to bar —Remus steps forward to kiss your cheek and squeeze the top of your arm, the kiss swift and the squeeze less so.
"Don't set up around me," he continues fondly, "we'll go have tea in the kitchen with the window open. You can tell me about your day, please. I should've asked you earlier."
"Don't worry, there's nothing important to share," you say, and to Remus' delight, you've visibly flustered.
His hand slides down the length of your arm to your hand, where he holds your fingers in his palm. "If it's about you, it's important. Mm?"
You stare down at his chest and laugh softly. "Okay."
It's a credit to his self restraint that he doesn't kiss you then and there.
#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x fem!reader#remus lupin fluff#remus lupin x you#remus lupin x y/n#marauders era#remus x reader#remus x you#marauders#remus lupin drabble#remus lupin blurb#marauders x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fanfic#remus lupin fanfiction#the marauders
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one of my most formative fandom experiences was a comment i had gotten on a fic i wrote for a halloween themed fandom event.
this was for a manga/anime, so the fic was a general ghost story obviously set in Japan. the beginning of it involved a pizza delivery and while writing it, i had spent like 30 minutes just double checking tipping customs and the types of pizza they serve and even fell down a wikipedia rabbit hole looking up the history of pizza in Japan.
now, i just like the research part of writing, i do stuff like this because i have fun doing it. and while i was writing this particular fic, i had laughed at myself for my 30 minutes of googling that amounted to 2.5 offhand lines in a 3500 word fic. i didn't think anyone would care about or even notice those particular details except for me, especially since none of them were relevant to the ghost part of this ghost story.
except, when i had sent this fic to a Japanese friend, the first thing she said to me about it was "OH MY GOD YOU GOT THE PIZZA RIGHT"
and that was the moment when it had really clicked for me. what had just been 30 minutes of effort on my part had become a moment of relief for her. my friend was far more used to reading ethnocentric fic that ranged from unintentional ignorance to outright superiority against part of her culture (the original story's culture no less). and even with the "innocent" ignorance (heavy quotes on that) far outstripping any outright maliciousness, that's still so many people saying her culture was not worth learning about. the pizza in my story was a small detail, but i had cared enough to put in some effort to check it. and for her, coming from a fic experience where her norm was bracing for hundreds of inaccuracies born of ignorance, especially at that time after a flood of stories centered around "Halloween as a cultural holiday in the US" premises instead of the "Halloween is a commercial gimmick in Japan" reality, seeing someone put in some effort even for minor story details meant something to her.
this also throws me back to the discourse that arose in a french show fandom a few years ago because there were a lot of fic authors that wrote 'dollars' instead of 'euros'-- but when people brought this up as a prevalent issue across the fandom but an easy one to fic/watch out for, many of these writers instead pushed back to complain that they were posting stories for free and it wasn't that big of a deal. which really upset a lot of people, but then this upset was met with a new wave of indignation that people needed to 'get over it' because they're writing fic ~just as a hobby~. but, even if 'dollars' instead of 'euros' wasn't a big deal, by digging in their heels about the issue, they were saying "your culture isn't worth even five minutes of my time or effort."
I've been thinking about these things lately because the ethnocentrism in Thai drama fandoms is...staggering. just over the turn of the year, there were waves of Christmas fic for Buddhist characters. and just. Christmas in Thailand is a tourist thing at best. sometimes a pop culture gimmick for international audiences or maybe an offhand high school thing to blow off steam between midterms. it's not a cultural thing. and even if a character is a part of the Christian minority, a Christian Thai's holiday customs and culture are going to be vastly different than a Christian's customs in the Americas or Europe. and while the Christmas fic is at least finished for now, I'm already bracing myself for the Easter fic wave that also seems to pop up for Thai dramas. it's so frustrating to see this sort of cultural overwrite all the time, especially since most Thai drama holiday works aren't about Thai holidays.
but the thing that really got me bristling about all of this again was i saw a post the other day where op said that they weren't going to write [thai drama] fic because they don't know much about thailand.
what an absolutely appalling statement to make.
google is right there. wikipedia is free. you don't even have to leave tumblr or AO3 to learn more because there are Thai natives in fandom who write essays to explain common elements of their culture. hell, even just watching these Thai stories and considering the values and messages imparted by the narrative framework and story lens tells you something about that culture. the audacity to look at a culture different from your own and say "this is not worth my effort or time to learn anything more about," are you kidding me?!?
the messages and values of a story tell you about the writer's values, which are going to carry their cultural values, beliefs, and biases. Thai culture is going to be heavily relevant to any Thai story, even the ones that aren't explicitly about Thai culture/customs/etc. (hell, Thai bl/gl as a genre alone-- just the fact that queer Thai writers are making these stories in Thailand's current political climate is highly political, even the "fluffy" ones that don't seem to make outright political statements.) to approach any story like it was made in a vacuum is to remove the writer(s)' culture and values and to overwrite them with your own.
especially because this is fandom. these are the lowest stakes to learn! it sucks to see people say things like "but i'm scared i'll get something wrong" and hold up that fear as a shield to justify their ignorance. no one's expecting anyone to get every detail right, especially not for a culture that isn't theirs, just make an effort to learn something new about it. pick out something that caught your eye as different to learn more about and see where it leads you.
and for the record--making a mistake trying to broaden your horizons is a far, far better thing to do than to superimpose your culture on everyone else's because you're scared to confront your ignorance.
edit: check out this reblog thanks
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The years go by. The retail jobs that Steve thinks are temporary keep piling up, but he has no idea what else to do with his life so he just keeps on keeping on.
Until a large tree falls on the lawn of the little house he managed to buy and he gets the quote on removal and the number literally hurts his soul.
He buys a small chainsaw instead. Over the course of a few weeks, he gets most of the branches cut up. He collects some large rocks from down by the quarry and digs out a fire pit in his backyard. On his days off, his friends come over and they sit out back and have a few beers. The pile of wood dwindles.
The giant trunk is another story though. His chainsaw isn't big enough for it. Burning it would take forever, and Steve's terrified he'd disappoint Smoky the Bear. He's at a loss.
Until he sees another giant trunk in someone's yard carved into a bear.
He knows what to do then. Not a bear, but something else. Through trial and error, the trunk becomes the rough shape of a woman, the remnants of the branches like a crown on her head. It's not as amazing as the bear he saw, but it's his. He finds he loves the smell of sawdust and the feeling of creating something.
Just like that, Steve realizes what he wants to do. It takes several months and a lot of yard sales, but he scrounges up the tools he needs to start woodworking. He learns to measure twice and cut once. He makes tables and chairs and carves them with art and designs that get better and better the more he learns. Shockingly, people actually buy his pieces.
Even more shocking comes the realization that he's making enough money to do it full time. He puts in his two weeks notice at Melvald's and hands in his assistant manager badge.
He's not sure he's happy, but he is content. It feels good to work hard and actually have things to show for it. It also feels good to work muscles he hasn't used since high school. He carries on for a few years like that, creating and learning and creating some more.
Then Eddie Munson blows back into town. Invited back so Hawkins can have their most famous alumnus sing the national anthem at homecoming. Steve's honestly surprised he shows at all.
"Can't believe you didn't tell them kiss your hairy ass," Steve says. Because of course Eddie ends up around his fire pit, sipping on Steve's cheap beer like he doesn't have three Grammy awards on his mantel. The years fall away with each drink, reminding Steve of just how much it had hurt when Eddie left. He'd wanted Eddie so bad back then, more than he'd ever wanted anyone. He can feel the echoes of that deep ache across time.
"Pfft. Don't you know all famous people wax our asses now? All the rage in LA." Eddie cuts a look at him and smirks when Steve rolls his eyes, grateful for the lighthearted moment to snap him out of his maudlin nostalgia. "Really though I thought about it, but then I thought it would be way funnier to donate a metric fuckton of money to Hawkins High with the stipulation that it go to the theater and band programs. Kind of bummed they couldn't honor my other request though."
"Which was?"
"My old Hellfire throne. I miss her, but apparently she's not around anymore. Something about water damage."
"Oh yeah. Water main busted a few years back and flooded the theater. I remember that."
"Yeah. Had to settle for the promise they'd make a game lounge and stock it with all the supplies a budding young nerd needs."
"That's really nice, Eds."
Eddie shrugs. "I've been known to be nice on occasion. You'll come to homecoming, right? Moral support?"
Steve hasn't been to homecoming in years because he sees the other people who stayed in town all the time, and he has no interest in seeing the people who didn't. He can only answer the same questions so many times. Oh, I'm doing woodwork now. Yep, I still live right here. Nope, still not married, no kids.
He goes though, and he answers the uncomfortable questions. Because Eddie asked him to. Because no matter how long it's been, Steve can't deny that some part of him still...
He says goodbye after, and Eddie leaves again, and Steve tries not to think about that too much in the following days.
He's halfway into the project before he realizes what he's building. He'd seen Eddie's throne quite a few times back when. What he doesn't have memories of, he makes up. He adds his own touches too, making it a throne fit for a rock star, a nerd, a friend.
He carves ornate patterns, he creates scenes of dragons being beaten back by a man with a guitar, crowds of people that could be knights or concertgoers.
It's his favorite piece he's ever done, and his hands are shaking when he dials Eddie's number. He gets an answering machine and stumbles through a message.
"I made you something. I guess it's kind of silly, but it's here in Hawkins if you want it. Or I'm sure you can afford the shipping if you don't want to come. Just, I made you a chair. It's more of a... Well, you'll see. Unless you don't want to... It's Steve by the way." He hangs up before he can embarrass himself even more.
Eddie doesn't call him back. One day passes and then another. Steve tries not to let it get to him. He works on orders and new projects. He enjoys his little backyard oasis. He rents a few movies and thinks they're okay.
He's debarking some wood in his driveway when the rental car pulls up, Eddie stepping out in ripped jeans and an old Metallica tee. "Hi again, Stevie."
"Oh." Steve clears his throat. "The thing's in the garage. I'll..."
Eddie doesn't say anything for a long time, circling the throne, running his tattooed fingers over each little detail.
"You made this whole thing?"
"I did."
"For me?" Eddie looks at him then, one hand still touching the wood like he doesn't want to let go. Even under the harsh lights of the garage, his eyes are such a warm shade of brown that Steve forgets to breathe.
He nods. "For you."
"Why?"
There are a hundred answers Steve could give, but he spent so long not knowing who he was or who he wanted to be. Too long. "Because you'll always be the one that got away. Because some part of me will always want to make you smile no matter how long it's been."
Eddie falls into the throne like he just got the wind knocked out of him.
"You don't have to respond to that," Steve says. "You can just say thank you and take the chair."
"I can." Eddie blows out a breath. "But that would be incredibly stupid considering half my early ballads are about you."
"What?" Unfair. Steve doesn't have a chair to fall into.
"Oh sure, I changed the hes to shes for a while there because..." Eddie waves his hand. "But they're about you, Steve. God, I should've asked you out. I just thought..."
Hearing those words is a lot like seeing that carved bear all over again, something clicking into place that wasn't quite right before.
"Go out with me now then," Steve says. "Or stay in. I've got a frozen lasagna and I rented Contact."
"Steve Harrington? Asking Eddie 'the Freak' Munson on a date? Did hell freeze over?"
"Pfft." Steve takes a step closer toward what he wants most. "Hell froze over in 1986, Eddie. You were there."
Five months and a lot of long distance phone bills later, Steve opens Harrington Woodworking in Los Angeles. That same day, Eddie takes photos for Rolling Stone posing in an ornate throne in his living room. He tells the reporter exactly who made it and what he means. At concerts, he starts singing those ballads the way he always wanted to. More often than not, Steve stands in the wings singing along.
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cake testing with miguel for the wedding!
a/n: featuring a very possessive miguel
continuation from this!
—
it has been one of your favorite wedding plans that you always look forward to. When your best friend got married, she took you with her to help her choose which one was the best. The caterer brought six classic flavors and both of your eyes twinkled with excitement. The same goes for your best friend. You and her almost demolished that one special raspberry lemon cake with her, since both of you have a sweet spot for fresh fruits.
You could guess which one ended up at the wedding reception.
And now, getting to do it with your soon to be husband, Miguel, just seems like a dream come true.
"So, Darla isn't gonna be with us since she's got errands to run, her assistant is going to replace her today." You inform your fiancee as he drives.
He squeezes your thigh with his hand as an answer, focusing his eyes on the road. You look up from your phone to watch him drive. A smile graces upon your lips as you think how good he looks while doing it. Furrowed eyebrows in concentration, a small pout on his lips with one hand on the wheel.
Fuck, he looks absolutely delicious.
Miguel senses your gaze on him, causing him to glance at you for a second before a grin spreads across his handsome face.
"What?"
You shrug. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Look sexy while driving"
He snorts out a laugh before making a turn. "I don't"
it's your turn to snort as you shake your head. "Humbleness is good. But God you're a liar."
"Ah, si? But you do love me, no?"
"Unfortunately" You answer, causing him to pinch the inside of your thigh making you giggle. "If we're not on our way to the boutique, I would hop on that dick right now"
He groans at that, eyes shutting briefly as the thoughts of you riding him in the car fill his mind. And seeing the seductive smirk on your face and how divine you look in that white sundress, it's already hard enough.
''Just say the word and I'll pull over mami." He's dead serious. You could see his hand gripping tightly around the wheel.
"And be late? No can do. Plus, I dressed really nicely for today and I do not want to ruin that."
"We can be quick" He tries again, smirking at you. "20 minutes top."
"Knowing you, it could never be 20 minutes. An hour and a half maybe." You point out, re-applying the gloss on your lips before smacking it. "And that's why I'm always late to work"
"You're killing me here, Y/N." He sighs loudly, pulling over to where the boutique is. "I never hear you complain about you being late when my cock is buried deep in your pussy, anyway."
You feign an offensive look as you slowly turn your head at him, shooting a soft glare. "Excuse me? What happened to getting rid of the first-name basis?!"
Yes. You made it clear from the start of the relationship that you refuse to be called by your first name anymore. It simply just won't cut it. You made sure to give him hell every time he called you that, even if he had done it by accident. Miguel was silently pulling his hair because you can be quite mean about that. Though he won't admit how you driving him insane is sexy. Like, really, fucking sexy.
it's a turn-on for him at this point.
"Shit, my bad" He parks the car as you both get ready to walk out. "Sorry baby." He leans over to peck your lips with his hand still on your thigh. The action makes you smile.
“That’s better”
Miguel gets out first, not allowing you both to walk out at the same time because he wants to be the one who opens the car door for you. Despite you telling him that you're perfectly capable of doing that by yourself, he argues with the fact that gentlemen always open doors for their women. Your heart does a somersault every time. It never goes away.
"Got everything, mi amor?" He asks as he extends his hand which you take, before shutting the door. You nod at him, and the two of you walk into the boutique hand in hand. "Dios... You look so good right now, I might just have to fuck you out here"
You gasp at that, slapping him in the chest, earning a low chuckle from him. "Easy there, tiger. I'm not going anywhere" You scold him but secretly love it when his filter's off
“How can i take it easy when your… Girls look so inviting?” His eyes glances at your breasts being pushed up by the cups of your dress, gulping at the sight. “They want me to play with them” A pout on his lips making your heart melt.
“Ugh, Miggy! please do not call them girls” You whine, shaking your head. “I thought we agreed on ‘tits’? Just tits.”
“Alright, alright fine… You’re no fun sometimes” He jokes, kissing your cheek. “Now, is this it?”
You nod, pushing your sunglasses up to the top of your head. “Darla said we can just walk right in.”
Miguel opens the door before allowing you to walk in first as he follows from behind. Red orbs scanning over the interior of the shop. It’s pretty. Lots of flowers in each corner, the paint is mostly pink and white.
“So is this where you and Darla had done the cake testing?” He asks, hand snaking around your waist.
“Yes! It’s so beautiful isn’t it? It’s like something coming out of fairytale or that ‘Enchanted’ movie we watched the other day. Darla really did amazing with this one. Though i did advice her to fix up the ceilings a bit and enhance the structure on that specific corner there.” You point with your manicured finger. “I offered to redesign and oversee the construction more. Just to help her a bit.”
He hums, squeezing your waist before planting a kiss on top of your head. “Look at you go… My little architect” He mumbles softly.
There’s no doubt on his mind that he’s proud of you. He loves seeing you work and help your friends who are in need. And that smart little brain of your is one of the things that made him fall in love with you in the first time. Jess had introduced you to him one time when he was scouting for a new architect to remodel the Spider Society’s HQ.
He was definitely entranced by your beauty when he saw you walked into his office with Jess by your side. You looked so sophisticated and elegant with glasses and the dress you had on that time. Long hair fixed into a messy bun as you shot him a smile before saying your name.
From that moment on, he was hooked. And made it his mission to make you his.
“Ms. Y/L/N and Mr. O’Hara?” Both of your ears perk at the sound of someone calling your names. You see a man, who’s probably in his late 20s emerging from the back with a smile. No doubt about it that he is quite handsome.
“Hi there! How are you? My name is Cameron, i’m Darla’s assistant. And my my, Darla didn’t say anything about her client being beautiful.” He chuckles as he lets out the joke. “She said you are stopping by for the cakes?” He flashes his toothy smile at you, and only at you.
Miguel frowns, at that. That doesn’t seem professional now, does it?
You choose to ignore that comment before smiling. “Yes, we are actually! I mean, I’ve done it with Darla about two weeks ago but my fiancé haven’t. So I’m bringing him, so he can taste it for himself.” Your hand squeezing your lover’s arm that is still settled around your waist.
The man nods, smiling as his eyes aren’t leaving yours which makes Miguel even more uneasy. And the way he looks at you from head to toe makes his blood boil.
He knows how men think, and he thinks. No, he knows that this asshole is basically undressing you with his eyes.
But Miguel is not the type create a confrontation. At least not anymore now that he’s with you. So he might’ve to push those feelings aside because he knows how much this means to you.
“Well step right here, I’ve prepared it all just for you, Ms. Y/L/N” He winks, gesturing you to follow him to where the cakes have been displayed.
Is he fucking serious?! Miguel thinks.
“So 6 different flavors, yes? Chocolate Lava, Lemon Raspberry, Strawberry Champagne, Red Velvet, Hazelnut Praline, aaand Hawaiian. That one is vegan” He checks off the last one on the list. “Customer’s favorite always been the Praline or Lemon Raspberry. You look like you deserve the latter. The best reserved only for the prettiest”
Again, you ignore his comment. “Oh well i tasted the Strawberry Champagne and it was amazing. But I’m leaving it to my fiancé here, so he can choose” You look up to him and notice there’s a slight frown on his face. “Baby?”
Miguel regains his composure when you call him, snapping him out of the thoughts of him killing Cameron in his mind. “Oh. Yeah yeah. Sure. You know my taste buds don’t matter just as long my woman is happy”
He makes sure to emphasize the words ‘my woman’ just so the guy can get the picture but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it.
“Well, we’re in this together so your taste does matter, as well.” You’re completely oblivious with the soft glare that Miguel throws at Cameron’s direction. Hands softly picking the forks from the table to cut a piece,
“Here. Let’s try the Chocolate—“
“Why don’t you feed it to me, mi amor?” He asks, looking at you with a smile. “One fork for two.”
If he can’t be violent then he’s got to find a way to make sure that this Cameron fellow understands that you’re fucking off limits.
You raise an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Sure, papi” You mirror his expression before cutting the cake, lifting it to feed him,
He takes a bite. Eyes dead set on the man who stands awkwardly from across, gaze looking anywhere but him.
“Hm” He nods. “That one’s good. Dark chocolate is it?”
“Right?” You ask cheerily. “Darla is amazing, i swear i need them all 6.” As you turn to fees yourself with the chocolate cake.
He shrugs, wiping a bit of the frosting from the corner of his mouth. “You’re the bride baby, you can have all 6 for the wedding, i don’t mind. I got the money for it anyway.”
You smile at him, kissing his jaw. “I love you, but we can’t be too greedy now can we?” A giggle escape your lips.
Oh he knows. He just wanted to make sure that son of a bitch gets it through his thick fucking skull that you’re his.
The two of you continue to feed each other’s cakes— more like you feeding it to him to be honest— rating each and every single one. Making sure to put a mental note on whichever you prefer before coming back next week and pick one.
Miguel glances at Cameron every now and then and watches how he stays quiet for the rest of it, letting you and Miguel do your thing. Probably too scared after seeing the intimidating look on his face.
“Gotta say, Strawberry Champagne and Chocolate one are amazing.” Miguel points, rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. “You sure have a great taste, cariño. Confío en ti con todo.”
“Gracias, mi corazón” you put down the fork back on the table, smiling up at Cameron. “That’d be all i guess, yeah? But i think we’ll be back next week to pick one for sure. Will Darla be here?”
“She hasn’t said anything about it but uh, i-i’ll make sure” He stutters a bit, smiling nervously and trying to avoid Miguel’s death stare.
“Okay then. Well, thank you, Cameron for assisting us today. We have to get going now, still have a lot to work on” You offer a polite smile to his direction. “Shall we get going?”
Miguel nods, eyes still fixated on Cameron. “Yeah sure. But uh.. Can you wait for me by the car? I just need a few words regarding with the cakes with Cameron”
He’s not letting this off easy.
You watch how his eyes trained to the young employee, scrunching your brows as Miguel turns to look at you with a soft gaze. “It’ll be just a minute, baby.” He presses a reassuring kiss on your temple,
“Okay” You nod, smiling softly. waving a hand at Cameron before walking towards the exit. Soon as you’re out of their sight, Miguel turns his gaze back on Cameron. The young man looks like he’s about to piss in his pants.
The two stands in silence for a while as Miguel looks at him up and down.
“You ever gotten your ass kicked, Cameron?”
The question throws him off guard. Eyes widening while his mouth hangs open.
“S-sir?”
“It’s a question. Yes or no.”
“Well uhm, n-no sir” Cameron shakes his head. “Wha-“
“You do know that me and my girl came as a couple, yes? Or are you fucking blind?” Miguel’s eyebrow raises at him, arms crossed over his chest.
“I see that, Mr. O’Hara. I-i didn’t— I’m sorr-“
“You flirt with every customers? With their soon to be bride? Or is it just my woman you’re after?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth.
“N-no, Mr. O’Hara.”
“No as in what?”
“J-just her, i-i mean your woman.” He nervously confesses,
Miguel lets out a dry chuckle. “Let’s get one fucking thing straight, kid.” He leans forward, balling his fists before resting them on the table
“If you ever flirt with her, look at her or hell, if you even think about her when we come back next week, i will make sure no one remember how you look. And trust me when i say that this is not a threat but it’s a promise. Understood?” His voice laced with venom as he points his finger at Cameron’s chest who gulps,
Nodding quickly, he answers. “Understood.”
“Very well” Miguel retreats, taking a bottle of water from the table. “Stay away from my wife”
With that he walks out of the boutique, breathing out a heavy sigh, unscrewing the bottle cap before taking a gulp.
“How’s the interrogation goes?” You speak up with a playful smirk. “Did you manage to make him piss?”
He looks at you as he walks towards the car, shrugging. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” He replies.
Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms. “I saw you, papi. You almost kill the kid.”
“Again, i don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiles innocently, both arms snaking around your waist to pull you close. Seems like a good kid. So i didn’t say anything”
A laugh escapes from your lips, one that he loves most—besides your perfect moans— “I know you, O’Hara. Like i said, a bad liar.”
“Alright fine, you caught me” He holds his hands up in defense. “He’s lucky i didn’t punch him.”
“That would be a sight for sore eyes.” You tease. “You know there’s nothing to be afraid of, right? Ain’t any other man could possibly steal my heart like you did three years ago.”
“Yeah well maybe if you stopped looking so fucking beautiful with your big pretty eyes and soft pouty mouth, then maybe men wouldn’t try to chase you off and i wouldn’t have 50+ competitions” He complains. But in reality he doesn’t mind.
“Oh excuse me, Mr? You don’t think i got one too?” You ask him through your lashes since his physique is towering you. “I had to put your ex back in her place at the Gala we attended three months ago, you remember? Slimy bitch.”
He laughs hard at that, head shaking at the memory of you confronting Dana was truly one of the unforgettable moments he has of you. “So, what’s next on the agenda?”
You look back at your phone before replying, “Seating arrangements on 112th street. Now this, we can use that 20 minutes up for something else since they’re running late.”
Miguel’s eyes harden as your finger running up and down his chest. “You mean—“
“Offer still stands. Want me to ride you while we wait?” You chew on your lower lip, gazing up at him and giving him your best doe eyes.
“Baby, if i ever said no to that question… Please feel free to grab my gun under my desk and shoot me in the head” He states, making you laugh as you throw your head back.
-
This feels like shit :/ I’m sorry but i need to clear out a few WIPs in my drafts
Though i still hope you all like it!
#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o'hara#miguel o’hara smut#miguel o’hara x fem!reader#miguel o’hara blurbs#miguel o’hara fluff#miguel o’hara imagines
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i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend
sukuna x reader
summary: you persuade sukuna to play go fish. the two of you have a small disagreement (he really can't stay mad at you). he confides in you about his past as a sorcerer.
w/c: 3.4k
tags/warnings: the teeniest bit of angst. mostly fluff. banter. cursing. aged up!yuuji. slight yuuji x reader. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers.
a/n: the first section could be read as a brief(ish) stand alone. and for context, the world's shortest frankenstein synopsis: victor frankenstein brings a creature to life using dead body parts and thrusts him into a world he doesn't understand, then promptly abandons him and wishes him dead. alone and regarded as repulsive by every human he comes across, the creature begs frankenstein to create a wife for him too. when frankenstein refuses, the creature is further driven to hatred and violence.
series masterlist // masterlist
"we should play a card game!" you exclaim as if you've just had the world's greatest idea.
"i'll pass."
sukuna sounds listless, like it's quite possibly the worst proposition he's ever heard.
"why's that? scared i'll beat you?"
"i'm opposed to mind numbing boredom, more like."
"you really need to expand your horizons," you suggest, making your way over to where you keep your playing cards. "all you do is read and brood."
"it's gotten me this far."
you don't respond, too busy rifling through your bookshelf. just as you spot your cards, a book catches your eye and you pull it from its place.
making your way back over to him, you drop it in his lap. "since you found jane eyre so insufferable, here's one you might actually like."
he surveys the cover, which reads: frankenstein or the modern prometheus
you take a seat across from him at the kotatsu table and shuffle the deck, while sukuna flips through the pages with new found intrigue.
"what's it about?"
"the dangers of playing god. should be right up your alley."
"your subtly never ceases to amaze."
"i'm just kidding." you laugh. "there's a lot more to it than that— revenge, loneliness, personal responsibility..."
he turns the book over. "it's written by a woman?"
you raise your eyebrows at him. "what, you don't think women have enough depth to write about those kinds of topics?"
"no, it was just an observation," he says off handedly. "you are evidence enough to the contrary."
he doesn't say it as a compliment, more so as a statement of fact. you hope your astonishment isn't written all over your face.
clearing your throat, you begin dealing while explaining the rules to him.
he takes up his cards and seems to understand the game after only a turn or two, but you're narrowing your eyes at him soon thereafter.
"go fish," he says for the fourth time in a row.
your gaze shifts down to his hands. there's just no way. "show me your cards."
"wouldn't that defeat the purpose of this stupid game?"
"not if you're cheating, now let me see."
"no."
you reach across the table, hoping to snatch them from his grasp, but he just holds them out of your reach.
swiftly rising to your feet, you launch yourself at him in a sad attempt to catch him off guard.
with only one arm extended, he easily fends off your attack. "do you actually think you have a chance here?"
you sink to your knees in defeat and sit with your legs folded beneath you. "not really, but i have to know if you'd stoop this low."
"that so? had you believed me to be above cheating?"
you gasp. "so you admit it?"
"i told you i didn't want to play," he deadpans.
"that doesn't mean you had to cheat! now we have to start over!"
he carelessly tosses the cards onto the table. "i don't think so."
"please?" you lean forward, jutting out your bottom lip.
he just stares at you with an air of disinterest.
sukuna can be so haughty sometimes, and frankly, it drives you a little crazy. you'd give anything to wipe that look from his face— to prove that he doesn't find this as miserable as he lets on.
leaning forward even further, your hands meet with the carpet to support your shifting weight. now he's watching intently as your face approaches his, your eyes flicking down to his lips.
unbeknownst to you, sukuna's breath catches in his throat once he sees your gaze shift, though his mind struggles to catch up. it happens so fast that he hardly registers the quick peck you place on his lips (though maybe it's not the speed of the occurrence, so much as his shock).
"please?" you repeat.
he looks off to the side and stays silent, though his demeanor is indicative of some heated internal debate.
sukuna can't let you win, not that easily. you'd be under the impression that you actually have power over him! and for what? some measly kiss?
no, he simply will not allow that. "i already told you—"
grabbing him by the chin, you cut off his words with another kiss, but this time it lasts a few beats longer. your lips don't move against his, they just linger there in a way that that makes him question whether all of the oxygen has vanished from the room.
when you pull away, you're looking at him expectantly with the same pout still playing on your lips.
"fine!" he barks, grumbling something afterwards that sounds a lot like "evil little minx."
"human earthworm two is definitely still the best."
you're walking home with yuuji after a late night showing of the newest movie in the series.
"no way," you contend. "this one was even better."
he gawks at you. "in no world is the seventh film in an anthology the best! you're crazy—"
sukuna's mouth appears, always eager for a chance to undermine his vessel. "she's right, brat."
yuuji can't believe his ears. "what?! you haven't even seen it!"
"i don't know," you interject slyly. "i'm willing to look past that. it really seems like he knows what he's talking about."
"you mean the guy who's existence predates cinema?" yuuji asks, his eyebrows furrowing as a thought occurs to him. "what'd you do all day anyway? watch plays?"
"..among other things, yes." sukuna answers.
"if you look at it logically," you reason, "we probably wouldn't have movies without theater, so we should definitely consider him an expert in this case."
"oh please, baby. when the topic is ancient civilization or being a homicidal maniac, i'll be sure to solicit his opinion then."
"i resent that," sukuna declares, his conviction forcing a giggle from your lips.
"why?" you question. "was it the part where he called you old as shit, or the part where he called you a murderous lunatic?"
yuuji brings a hand to his mouth to stifle a snort, but you're freely laughing now.
sukuna scoffs indignantly and bites back a comment about how partial you seem to be toward said lunatic. "and to think i defended your opinion."
his response has you clutching at your sides and struggling to see through teary eyes.
but perhaps karma is real, because not a moment later, you step off the curb in a way that sends a sharp sensation through your leg.
you gasp in pain and brace yourself for the impact of falling to the concrete, but it never comes. instead, you're left with fingers clamped tightly around your wrist and a strange sense of deja vu.
you turn your head just before the dark lines fade from yuuji's arm completely.
"tch, watch where you're going idiot," sukuna scolds, his mouth disappearing as soon as he finishes speaking.
"are you okay?" yuuji asks worriedly.
"absolutely," you claim, but when you try to put weight on your left foot, you let out a hiss.
yuuji's hands find your waist, hoping to keep you steady. before you know it, he's crouching in front of you with his back turned and beckoning you to wrap your arms around his neck.
once you do, he hooks his arms under your thighs and easily stands up. "this okay? you comfy?"
"yeah. i can't believe i just did that." you hide your face in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. "thanks, yu."
when you get home, yuuji sets you up on the couch with icepacks, heating pads, three different drinks, two different books, and the tv remote.
he still asks if you have everything you need several times, then kisses you sweetly before heading to bed.
around thirty minutes later, sukuna's leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.
"hey," you greet. your eyes never leave the tv, as you're privy to the slight tension between the both of you.
he skips the evening's pleasantries. "i could heal it, you know."
you finally turn to face him. "really?"
"of course." he rolls his eyes. "some of us can actually use reverse cursed technique."
"and you've just let me hobble around the past hour anyway?"
he shrugs. "you pissed me off."
you blink at him a few times, rubbing at your temples. "well what about now?"
"i don't know," he begins, making his way over to you. he towers over where you're seated on the couch, so you have to crane your neck to look up at him. "just doesn't really seem like something a homicidal maniac would do, but maybe if he were to receive an apology..."
you cover your face with your hands and groan. "i didn't say that. this is really something you should take up with yuuji—"
"i don't make a habit of conversing with the brat, so if that's the way you're going to be..." he turns on his heel and starts for the bedroom, but you grab onto his sleeve just before he's out of reach.
"wait. please don't go."
just like that, your words have his resolve crumbling and any of his lingering irritation ebbs away. he urges himself to stay strong though, especially after the go fish debacle.
when he doesn't speak, you let out a breath.
"i'm sorry, sukuna." he can tell right away that you're being entirely sincere. "i would never purposefully hurt your feelings. i only meant to tease you, but i can see how i was being mean."
are those... are those tears swimming in your eyes? are you in that much pain, or did he just make you feel that badly? in any case, he endeavors to remedy it immediately.
moving around the couch until he's in front of you, sukuna kneels between your legs. he grabs your left foot gingerly, situating it on his thigh before hovering his hand over top of it.
he sighs. "i don't care if you tease me and you weren't being.. mean." the words sounds so juvenile to him.
you weren't necessarily wrong either, goes unsaid.
well, he'd like to consider himself a little more sophisticated than 'maniac' would imply, but that's beside the point.
"then why are you upset with me?"
his jaw flexes as he tries to find the right words. "i would prefer you do that when it's just.. us."
"oh." realization dawns on you, as does another heap of guilt. you know he despises being trapped in yuuji's body, and you completely failed to consider how ganging up on him might make him feel. "i'm... fuck. i'm really sorry, sukuna—"
"stop apologizing," he urges you in a low voice. it's partly because what he just said makes him feel pathetic, but more than that, it's because the look of self reproach you're wearing is akin to a thousand needles in his chest. "it's fine."
he can't believe you're sitting there with so much remorse over a man like him because you... what? wounded his pride?
he probably deserves it anyway.
why should you give a shit when he's done things a thousand times worse, a million different times?
oh, right. because you care about him.
you can't see the cursed energy at play, but you can tell it's working as your pain begins to dissipate.
once he's finished, he carefully moves your foot to the floor and looks up at you. it's not unlike the way a person might gaze at one of the wonders of the world, like they're lucky to be there in the first place.
with the intensity of his gaze, it feels like he can see right into your head— read your every thought and pick apart every emotion. has anyone ever looked at you like that before? you're having a hard time remembering. you're having a hard time thinking of anything at all, really.
so it goes without saying that you don't think about it when you lean forward and kiss him.
it's not at all like when you were trying to convince him to play cards. no, this isn't light hearted or frivolous.
and it's not like the other two kisses you've shared either. it isn't heated or desperate, nor does it leave you gasping for air.
it's tender. it's so fucking tender, in fact, that sukuna wonders whether he's going to crumble beneath your touch.
he grips the area just above your knees, as if needing something to tether himself to before he withers away completely.
his lips move with yours in a way that's slow and careful.
your hands are on either side of his face, ghosting over his skin as a testament to your hesitance— like you're not certain if this is something he would want.
he wonders how in the world you could ever second guess yourself.
when you pull back, you examine his face for a moment before a small, shy smile tugs at your lips and you murmur, "thanks 'kuna."
he just peers at you wordlessly and it makes you nervous, so you attempt to fill the silence. "it feels so much better. a-and i'm sorry again abo—"
his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling your lips against his for a moment longer. "don't mention it, angel."
ever since you gave sukuna your copy of frankenstein, he's spent a decent portion of your nights together reading, his brows drawn together in concentration.
upon finishing, he stares at the page after taking in the final line: "he was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."
he's deathly quiet and wearing some unreadable expression. his eyes seem far off.
you leave him be for a little while, as it's clear he's lost in thought, but eventually you grow a bit concerned. it's been nearly half an hour since he last moved.
"sukuna?"
he turns to you. "why did you think i would enjoy this particular book?"
you consider his question carefully, his mood evoking your own seriousness. "it's... elegant and tragic. i suppose i appreciate the moral grayness of it. why do you ask?"
"no reason."
"did you enjoy it?"
"yes."
"why?"
he ignores your question. "frankenstein— do you like his character?"
you can't help but feel like you're answering some sort of riddle. "i think he's foolish and arrogant, but i guess i pity him to some degree."
"and the creature?"
"i'm much more sympathetic toward him. he's very... complex and certainly less culpable for the events of the novel than his creator."
you're surprised when he laughs. "of course you would think that way."
and with that, he's flipping through the pages of the novel. you move to sit beside him and once he finds what he's looking for near the middle, he begins reading:
"remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. but i will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. i am thy creature, and i will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. oh, frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. remember that i am thy creature; i ought to be thy adam, but i am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. everywhere i see bliss, from which i alone am irrevocably excluded. i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous.”
his voice is strangely even, almost bordering on robotic. you're struck with the notion that he's attempting (with rare difficulty) to mask his emotions.
you regard him quizzically and wait for him to speak. the last thing you expect to hear tumbles from his lips.
"you know they called me the disgraced one?" you nod. "do you know why?"
"i know the story that sorcerers have passed down."
he hums. leaning back into the couch, he looks fixedly at the ceiling before continuing. "i was just a boy when i was orphaned and no one knew anything about my heritage, including me. jujutsu society took me in and raised me as a sorcerer."
"and you didn't care for it?"
"oh, quite the opposite. i reveled in it. my strength was unprecedented, that much was clear from the start. i surpassed my teachers with ease, and eventually, i took to training alone— reading primitive texts and honing skills that they couldn't teach me."
your hand finds his thigh, hoping to offer him some consolation before beckoning him to continue. "then what happened?"
"the men who had been my teachers, who had been the only.. family i'd ever known.. they scorned me. deemed me reckless and dangerous to jujutsu society. plotted my demise."
your voice is small when you ask, "were they right?"
he wants to hate the question— wants to hate you for asking it— but he knows that it's warranted.
"no. i admit i was forward thinking and a bit.. unorthodox, but i wasn't..."
"what they thought you were?" you offer gently.
he nods. "not until they made me that way— not until they abandoned me and backed me into a corner like some animal."
you struggle to find the right thing to say, if any such thing even exists. you're amazed that he's confiding in you, and while it makes your heart swell, you really don't want to fuck it up.
he looks back down at the book, his eyes scanning the paragraph before repeating, "i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend."
he says it as if he's coming to terms with the circumstances of his life for the very first time.
"the creature was remorseful at the end of the novel," you recall somewhat bravely. "are you?"
sukuna thinks for a great deal of time before replying. you wait patiently for him.
"no," he answers decidedly.
looking over at you for the first time since he began his story, he's relieved to find your face is free of rebuke. instead, there's a warm willingness to understand him. a sadness because of the way he was alienated.
he's curious whether anyone would be able to read the sentiment on your face, or if he just knows you better than most.
is that a privilege he's worthy of? he doubts it.
"you didn't deserve what they did to you," you whisper, reaching up to rake your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp before your palm rests against his temple.
his head leans almost imperceptibly into your hand, and any regret or unease he may have felt at relaying his past to you disappears. watching a single tear slip down your cheek, he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.
he means to say "don't cry. not for me," but the words die in his throat.
for once, your tears are for him rather than because of him and it's utterly riveting. the fact that someone like you would cry on his behalf seems to contradict every horrible thing he's ever been told about himself.
he could sit here and bask in the feeling forever— he's always known himself to be selfish after all. and you know it too, don't you?
his eyes flicker between each of yours, studying your face. "do you want to know why i don't regret the things i've done?"
you tilt your head to the side. "why?"
"because even if it's made me into a monster..."
for a moment, he contemplates not saying anything more. he considers forcing himself to pull away from your touch, even if it's the only comfort he's been given his entire life. he might still be able to salvage whatever tiny, laughable pieces remain of his pride—
"all of my actions have led me to you."
your eyes soften before you're wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body to his. he returns the gesture after a few seconds pass.
you know he's awful. you know he's cruel. you know that what he's been through doesn't excuse his actions. but still— you want so desperately to take away his pain. to make up for all the things in his past. to wipe the blood from his hands.
as you embrace such an incredibly complicated man (one who is infamous for unrivaled wickedness, yet has his face buried in your hair), you ponder the creature's plea: "make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous."
a/n 2: if you're still w me, thanks for reading!! i'm not sure how i feel abt this part, so feedback is both welcome and appreciated!! also, how do we like sukuna using angel?? in my head he picked it up from the "my good angel" line in jane eyre, so i hope it doesn't seem too unnatural. alsoooo, highly recommend frankenstein. it's one of my favorite books!! mary shelley popped off and literally created the entire genre of science fiction at 21! anyway, thanks for all the love yall, it means the world<3
taglist: @96jnie @ay0nha @sad-darksoul @bbysatoruuu @luciiferian @risuola @lirasmoon @disaster-rose @archivist-ghoul606 @creative1writings @sloppyzengarden @omismicrowave @cecesharktales @tanyeonn @hiqhkey @ruixrei @yellowsubiesdance @thefallofruins @anything-and-everything-here69 @emzalot @thepup356 @browneyedgirl22 @lantsovheiress // users in bold could not be tagged. if i forgot to tag anyone, my apologies!! just give me a heads up.
#m!writes#sukuna#sukuna x reader#sukuna imagines#sukuna fluff#ryomen sukuna#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna imagines#ryomen sukuna fluff#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen imagines#jujutsu kaisen fluff#jjk#jjk x reader#jjk imagines#jjk fluff
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Have you read GRRM books? He claims swords needed to be “especially designed for women’s hands” how true is this?
About as true as all of those, “girl guns.” Because, as you know, a woman cannot hold a Glock unless it's pink or sky blue. Which is to say, not even remotely true.
You might get a situation where a child would be unable to operate a weapon designed for adults because the grip is too cumbersome, but even this is going to be something of an outlier. Even years later the Nicholas Cage's line from Lord of War (2005) sticks with me, when describing the AK he narrates, “...so simple a child could use it, and they do.”
Just like basically any other common grip you encounter in your daily life, from screwdrivers to steering-wheels and cell phones, selling smaller, or more colorful ones, is strictly a marketing gimick.
Now, is a legitimate context, but it doesn't really have anything to do with the wielder's sex. If they had the money, the time, and the desire for a perfect grip, they might commission a smith to produce a grip specifically for their hand. Though, the only place I've ever come across this was in competitive fencing. I have seen cases where someone modifies their blade's grip with tape or other materials to better fit their hand, or the addition of a leather (usually shagreen) wrap over their grip, but even that is somewhat unusual. (Shagreen is leather from a shark or ray, and it grips the skin, making it easier to hold, especially when wet.)
Ironically, girl guns do illustrate the one case where have some weight: Weapons as fashion accessories.
I know I've complained about weapons (particularly handguns) as fashion accessories in previous posts, but the truth is that using weapons like this is not new behavior. In the early modern era, one of the ways the rising middle class liked to display their status was with a sidearm. (In this case, referring to a sidesword or, later, a rapier.) I've looked specifically into women carrying sidearms at that point in history, but it really would not surprise me in the least if they did, and if there were, that at least some of those swords were specifically designed to be more delicate and, “feminine,” per their owner's tastes. (Though, to be fair, a more delicate grip on a rapier would be fairly impressive, as the grips tend to be pretty thin.) This is a case where you might want to look into it further, if it really catches your interest, but I've never really run this down before.
If you're still dubious, feel free to wander into nearly any HEMA event, and you'll have a better than average chance of a woman being willing to prove this idea false with a Zweihander, that may in fact be taller than she is. (Historically, Zwiehanders could be over 2 meters long, and chances extremely good that you're shorter than 2 meters.)
I know I'm regurgitating previous posts here, but it really is worth remembering that swords are much lighter than people think. Zweihanders are some of the heaviest battlefield swords from history, and even the heaviest examples weigh less than 9lbs. Women in HEMA can, and do, use them effectively. Swords aren't about being big and heavy, they're about being a (in this case) seven foot long razor blade.
Since we're on the Zweihander specifically (and this may also apply for some of the other greatswords, such as the Scottish Claymore), this is a case where you might have a custom weapon forged for you. However, in this case, that's more about the right blade length, then worrying about the grip being too thick or too thin. Ideally, you want the blade length to match your height (roughly), this is because of the drills with the weapon itself, though you could adjust to a longer blade if that's what you had.
Now, to be clear, the idea of someone, particularly a noble, having a blade custom forged for them specifically isn't strange. That's something that did happen, both at the noble's request, and also as diplomatic gifts from other nations. Examples of the latter resulted in beautiful art pieces that you would never take into battle.
If you had a situation where you couldn't use a sword because the grip was too large (for, whatever reason), there are ways to fix that. In an ideal situation, you could simply pop off the pommel and grip, and then replace the grip with one that was a better fit to your hand. If the tang itself was the problem (this is the metal core of the grip, and is part of the blade, which the pommel attaches to), you might be able to shave (or file) down the tang, and then replace the grip with a new one, fitted to the now smaller tang. I'm not particularly wild about modifying the tang directly, simply because there is a (minor) risk of reducing the structural integrity of the sword in the process. Though, replacing the grip (especially on a sword with a threaded pommel) is very doable, and unless someone, somehow, screws up catastrophically, it should be a pretty trivial modification. (Again, replacing a sword's original grip with a new shagreen grip does make a lot of sense if the owner wants that improved grip.)
But, to the original question, it's not really a thing.
-Starke
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sleepless
ao3 ⋆ main masterlist
pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
rating: Explicit (18+ only!)
warnings: unprotected PIV, creampie, fingering, cumplay, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darlin’), mild praise kink, very mild dubcon (sleepy reader), bratty reader, no use of Y/N.
word count: 3.5k
summary: It’s been days since you last got anything resembling decent sleep. You’re exhausted, but more than that, you’re angry. Every little thing is pissing you off, and you just want to be left the fuck alone. Joel, ever the gentleman, has a solution to your sleeplessness, and your bad mood.
A/N: This was an out of body experience and I don’t know how it happened. Seriously, I stood up out of bed and wondered what the fuck I’d done. I haven’t written a single thing in an entire year (and that was for a funeral), and I have never written smut and don't know what I'm doing. So. Enjoy?
This one is for all of us who get really grouchy when tired. Or hungry. Or if the phase of the moon just isn't right. I see you honeybuns, and so does Joel.
follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work
terrible graphics by me
“What's got your panties in a bunch?”
You were in a shit mood. It was a shitty day, and you were in a shit mood and Joel was not helping.
“Nothing.” You huff out. Totally believable.
Joel runs his tongue over his teeth, eying you. “Okay… You need to go make yourself come or somethin’?”
You slam your mug on the counter, hot tea sloshing over the edges with the force. ”No Joel, I don't need to fucking come.”
It was true. You didn’t. What you needed was to be left the fuck alone with your bad mood and misplaced rage. What you needed even more was to get some goddamn sleep.
“Right.”
“Just fuck off, Joel.” You say. And he does.
An hour later and you still haven’t left the kitchen. You haven’t seen Joel again either - he knew better than to bother you when you were like this. He’d just piss you off more, which hardly seemed fair when he wasn’t the one to piss you off to begin with. You were the one to piss yourself off to begin with. You’d barely gotten more than a full night's sleep across 4 whole days, you were tired as hell, and the sleeplessness-induced irritation was starting to seep into every part of your day. You didn’t want to inflict your bad mood on anyone, but you would if it came to it, just to be left the fuck alone in peace and quiet.
Slamming doors as you tidy away the things you'd used that day, you continue to stomp around the kitchen. It was your mess. You'd used the coffee pot. You'd used a mug, a spoon, a plate. But it still pissed you the fuck off and you were trying to conceal the blind rage that was flowing through you.
You slam yet another door, putting a plate away - why did you use a fucking plate instead of eating over the sink - and suddenly your front is crushed against the counter, a warm, solid mass pushed against your back and strong arms boxing you in either side. Joel. You could hit him. You could fucking hit him. But you don't.
“Fuck off, Joel.” You say through gritted teeth, gripping the counter in front of you.
“When did you last sleep?” He growls in your ear. You feel his warm breath ghost the side of your face. How the fuck did he know. As if it wasn’t obvious.
You don’t answer, and he nudges a shoulder forward, momentarily pushing you more firmly against the counter to get you talking.
“At night.”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he sighs. “Which night, smartass.”
You’d taken the opportunity given by the movement of his arm to slip out from where he’d pinned you. You were not in the mood to play this game.
“I don't know.” You sneer at him as you fold your arms over your chest. It may have been childish, but you didn’t care.
“Yeah you do.”
“I said I don’t -”
“Yes. You fuckin’ do.” He was stern now, pointing a finger at you, daring you to be a smartass one more time. “Because I know it sure as fuck weren't last night.”
Busted. “The night before.” Looking away, you busy yourself with folding a dish towel.
“Really.” It’s not a question. Joel cocks an eyebrow at you with a twist of his head.
Shrugging your shoulders, you mumble back to him. “Couple hours.”
“And the night before that?”
“Didn't know you were the fucking Spanish inquisition.”
He cocks an eyebrow. Again.
“A couple fucking hours, Joel. Now fuck off and leave me alone or I swear I'll -”
He grabs you as you’re about to slap the dish towel onto the counter in anger and pulls you forward into his chest. His nose is practically touching yours and his eyes are impossibly dark.
“Shower. Now.” He means it, but you resist, trying to pull from his arms. You're pissed off. Now is not the time for him to be telling you what to do.
“No, I-”
“Get in the fucking shower.”
You can feel your top lip preparing to curl itself into a snarl.
Instead, you turn on your heel and head for the shower.
You’re still damp, wrapped in nothing but a towel, when you exit the bathroom.
“You done?”
Joel is stood there at the foot of the bed, his t-shirt already discarded somewhere in the room. His belt is unbuckled and he’s beginning to unbutton his jeans and pull down the fly. You can’t help but stare. The sleep-deprived rage that’s flowed through you all day feels an awful lot like arousal when your brain is too muddled to know which way is up. And when you’re looking at Joel. Especially when you’re looking at Joel.
You gawk at the hard planes of his body. Broad shoulders, muscle built from years of working on construction sites, and a softness around the edges given to him by the comforts you know he loves so much.
It’s only 6pm. You were now more tired than angry, some of your anger washed away in the shower, somewhere between scrubbing your body and rinsing conditioner from your hair.
You float toward the dresser and open a drawer, planning on readying yourself for bed - you suspect that’s the plan anyway. “Shower and bed” is your usual routine, after all. You distantly register that he’s talking again, but the words don’t compute until he’s twisting your head toward him with a firm finger on your chin.
“No panties. Get on the bed.” He cocks his head toward the plush bed in the middle of the room. You don’t move. “Get on the fucking bed.”
Dropping your towel, you move to the bed. You’re compliant. So tired you’ve given up. So tired, the rage can’t take hold in the same way any more. So tired, you’d do just about anything to get a few hours sleep. The fight in you has all but fucked off. For now.
Your limbs feel like lead as you pull yourself onto the comforter and fall back somewhere toward the center of the mattress. You’re too tired for grace right now. You just need to sleep. If only you could fucking sleep.
There’s a rustle of discarded jeans, and a moment later, the mattress is shifting under Joel’s weight and the heat of him radiates up you as he shifts his body on top of yours. At some point your knees were knocked apart and his own had settled between them, but you don’t remember exactly how. All you're focused on is the heat of him.
A large hand ghosts over your hip, down the soft swell of your thigh and between your legs. He starts stroking gently at the soft skin of your inner thighs. Moving up, and up, and up, he switches sides just before meeting the apex of your legs and moves to give your other thigh attention.
You don’t know if you’ve been breathing, but you’re not dead yet so you must have remembered at some point. All you know is you’re somehow sensitive and numb in equal measure - feeling everything so harshly, but so distantly.
Soft kisses are being pressed to you - your neck, jaw, temples, chest. Up and down, just like his hands. The movement of him could send you off, but the heat above of him is burning through you too much for you to be lulled to sleep.
Swapping from side to side, he caresses your soft flesh until he’s so impossibly close to your center yet not close enough to be touching. A soft sweep of his hand over your cunt, and you’re pulled from your daze with a jolt.
“Joel, I said I don't want to come.” You try to be firm, gripping his arm and lightly tugging, but you don’t want to be. You do want to come. You’re tired, you didn’t want it before, and you’re being stubborn because fuck you always are, but now that he’s here - now that he’s there - you want it.
“I ain't makin’ you come. I'm gettin’ this pussy wet so I can fuck it.” He says it so matter of factly you could headbutt him.
Instead, your mouth falls into an o-shape and you stare at him. Your grip on his arm weakens, partly with your resolve, and partly with exhaustion.
“I -”
“Shut up.”
“But I -”
The firm fingers that were caressing your thighs so softly a moment ago are suddenly gripping your chin hard, and your eyes snap directly to his. “I said shut the fuck up.” He lands a gentle peck on your lips before releasing you, trailing his hand back down the contours of your body. His nose brushes up and down the side of your neck and jaw, occasional soft kisses being pressed to the sensitive skin there as he breathes you in.
You are floating.
His fingers meet your folds again, relentlessly teasing and stroking the softness of your labia, a flare of something coursing through you that stokes a fire no longer built of rage, but arousal.
Joel looks down the stretch of your body as he feels at your entrance, parting you with two fingers. Teasing, he swirls his finger tip just outside of you, collecting the veritable oil slick you'd generated in the last few minutes of his careful teasing.
“There we go. We got there, huh?” He almost sounds condescending and you want to slap off the smug look you know is on his face.
“Now. Here's what we're gonna do.” He murmurs into your ear as he still teases around your cunt, dipping a little further in but never down to a knuckle.
“You're goin’ to shut the fuck up and take what I give you. Then you're goin’ to go the fuck to sleep whether you like it or not.”
He pulls his finger from your cunt, and before you have a chance to protest the loss of sensation or his instruction, he’s slipping the slicked finger between your lips. Your brain stutters to a halt and all you can do is gently suckle on his digit, tasting the sweetness of your own pussy.
“That taste good?” He strokes your hair, your face, and a soft whine escapes you. “Yeah I know it does baby.”
He brushes your hair back as he takes his finger from your mouth and puts it into his own, tasting the remnants of you. You stare at him, dumb from sleep, dumb from the wetness you know must be dripping out of you.
“I know.” He coos as he sits back on his haunches. His heat is so far away now, and you almost whine again until you feel him notch at your entrance. Your eyes widen. “I know.” He pushes in the weeping tip of his cock - you don’t know how long he’s been hard but you can feel it- and slides in with a gentle thrust. Rocking his hips, you take more and more of him until he slides home and pushes his hips until they’re flush with yours.
You are so impossibly full, stretched without much warning, and your mind so deliciously blank that breathing has to become a conscious effort.
He pulls out slightly, giving you room to breathe, before pushing back in, deeper than before. “That's it. You take it. You're getting your medicine now, huh? I'm goin’ to come in this pussy and you're goin’ to go the fuck to sleep. Ain't ya? Huh? Answer me sweetheart.”
Practically going cross-eyed with the effort, you look him in the eyes. “Mhm.”
“Good. There's a good girl. Just take it and then you'll sleep. You been needin’ this. Too damn pissy for your own good to be able to ask for what you need.”
He’s fucking into you so deep, so gently that you can do nothing but quietly gasp with each rock of his hips into yours.
“Once you get some come in your pussy that'll send you right to sleep.” He’s right. You know he’s right and it’s all you want. You need it, but words are lost to you so you nod your head softly, before letting out a deep moan. He’s pushed himself even deeper and he’s holding there for a moment before releasing. He repeats the action a few times, and your moans get higher and higher pitched.
“I'm goin’ to get it nice and deep, just how you like it. This is where you need it, ain't it?” He pushes low on your stomach. He’s always been big, but like this he feels even bigger. You let out a whine. If you had the energy to sustain your rage and be fucked, you'd be furious at your own pathetic noises, but you were so past any of it.
“Yeah.” Too sleepy and too cockdumb, it’s the first word you’ve been able to utter for what feels like an hour.
“Oh, baby, I know, you're so tired.” He tuts and picks up the pace of his movements, his solid length slowly drawing out of your messy cunt before punching back in.
Maybe if you were even more tired, the smooth, rhythmic movement of his hips slapping against yours would let you drift off to sleep, but it has the opposite effect. You can’t possibly sleep now. You need him, you need more. He’s everywhere but not everywhere enough and your arousal pools and drips down from your needy hole, down the crevasse of your ass and onto the bed below.
Words are gone again, so you whine, high pitched and needy.
“You're taking your medicine so good baby. So good.” His words shoot right fucking through you. You could come. Oh fuck, you want to come. But you don’t know the words anymore - you don’t know any words.
So you whine again.
“Oh, it's okay, it's okay.” He shushes you, kissing your temple. “I know what you need.”
He doesn't tease. He simply brushes a hand down between your legs, never breaking the rhythm of his cock thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt. He splays his fingers around your pussy for a second, feeling his length as it slides in and out of you, collecting your wetness in the process.
Those same fingers trail up and find their place on your neglected clit, circling lightly.
He searches your face, waiting for the connection of his fingertips with your clit to register in your eyes. There it is.
“That's it, huh? That right there.” He adds a firmer pressure to his fingertips as he swirls them around your slicked clit. Your eyes have glossed over and you let out a keening whine at his ministrations, your pussy already twitching around him.
“Thank you. Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s words, so you’ll take it.
“Oh now she's polite, huh. Gettin’ what she needs and suddenly she remembers her manners.” He teases. Asshole.
He was so good at this. All of it. He knew the exact buttons to push, the exact way to get you wet, the words to say, the way to be. If you wanted it hard he'd give it hard, if you wanted it gentle he'd give it gentle. And this, some delicious no-man's land in-between where his movements were gentle but his words were somewhat harsh, was sending you over the edge.
The rhythm of his fingers and cock is so in sync, so perfect, that you feel your whole body begin to quake as the beginning of your orgasm flares through you.
“Oh that's it, you fucking come. You come. Didn't even know you needed it huh. Don't even know your own pussy like I do, baby. You needed all this. Needed my cock in you, feelin’ so good, needed to come around me.”
Your walls flutter around his rock solid length, gripping him, and your legs clench, trying to snap shut but unable with the press of his body between your thighs. Your orgasm washes over you, briefly blinding you and you feel Joel’s fingers and thrusts speed up, fucking you through it and rocking you back and forth as your mouth opens in a silent scream.
One ragged intake of breath later and you go limp against the mattress. Joel stills, removing his fingers from your oversensitive clit, stroking at your arm and making you twitch.
He nuzzles his nose into you and gives a deep press into you with his hips. You gasp and open your eyes. His face is softer now - no condescending wrinkle of his raised brows, no smirk.
“You gonna play stupid next time? Huh?” He softly traces a finger over your chin and mouth.
“No.” You try not to pout at him, you really do. You’re not sure you succeed.
“You gonna ask for what you need when you need it?” His finger moves to trace over your nose, your forehead.
You nod, soaking in the feeling of his hands, acutely aware of his cock still impaling you so deeply. “Mm.”
“Good. Good girl.” He mumbles into your mouth, kissing you, licking at the seam of your lips.
With a sudden movement he pulls out and snaps his hips forward, swallowing your gasp with his mouth.
You’re fucked out and exhausted, but he’s not finished.
“You're gonna take this come now.” He practically whispers it, and you want to scream with how it reignites every nerve ending in your body to his touch. “I'm gonna come in this pussy and then we're getting those panties on you.” His head ticks over to the dresser, where the drawer still lies open from earlier. Oh. You’d forgotten about that.
“Then, you're goin’ the fuck to sleep.”
“Mm.” You nod weakly. You'll do anything. Anything he says.
“We'll deal with the messy panties when you wake up, sweetheart. See how much of a mess I make in you.”
His movements barely speed up, barely get harder, but you know he's close. He’s been close for a while - he likes it when you fight but he likes it when you’re feeble too.
"Yeah. Ohhhh - fuck - yeah." He doesn't stop moving, fucking you in the same steady rhythm as he empties himself deep into your cunt, thick ropes of come filling you and making you feel even more impossibly warm and wet as it leaks out of you already, still stuffed full of Joel's cock.
"Fuck. There we go.” He says with a sigh, stroking your shoulder and kissing your neck. “There we go baby.”
His cock twitches as it starts to soften, but he holds it, and his come, inside of you for a moment until it’s an impossible task.
You’re delirious from the orgasm, from the constant rhythm of Joel’s fucking setting a metronome up in your body, and from so little sleep.
A deep kiss is pressed to your lips, you try to catch it and return the pressure, but your reflexes are so slow that he’s away and sliding out of you before you can even register what’s happening. Another stroke of your shoulder and his weight is suddenly off of you completely.
You could float away without him there to tether you down.
Distantly, you hear the slide of a drawer in the dresser. You're dozing when he slides one foot then another into the legs of your panties, before pulling them up your legs to your knees. Fingertips ghost up your legs, and meet at your dripping core. He looks at the mess made of your pussy, clicks his tongue, and he fingers some of the escaped come back into you with two thick fingers.
“Up.” His voice gruff with post-orgasm relaxation and his fingers still gently moving inside of you. You lift your hips, probably barely, but it's the most you can give right now. Joel shimmies them up the rest of the way with one hand, and pulls his fingers from inside you once they're settled in place.
He rubs the soaked seat of your clean panties. "We'll keep that right there, right where you need it.”
"Mm." You nod, barely seeing him now through the haze of your sleepiness and that post-fuck haze. He was right. You did need it. He was always right.
Another soft kiss is pressed to your temple, and you feel a soft caress across your arms, shoulders, neck, face.
Just as you register the cold you feel without him on top of you, you feel the weight of a soft blanket fall over you. Your eyes are impossibly heavy now, but you realize you haven’t been seeing anything for a while anyway. You almost don’t recall ever being angry - your frustration from the day flipped into arousal so quickly, and melted away with the waning of your orgasm.
“Sleep.” His voice is so deep and so inviting. Your body so relaxed and ready to give in to him, give in to sleep.
You’d been chasing sleep for weeks, only for it to evade you. Being given dregs of what your body would let you have. But this time, for the first time in weeks, you don’t let your eyes fall closed, you close them. You don’t let sleep take you, you take hold of it.
“Sweet dreams, darlin’.” And you’re gone.
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Coming Up For Air | s1
pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader
summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.
word count: 10.4k
warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, death of a spouse, slow slow slow burn, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 1x01, 1x06, 1x07, 1x08, 1x15, 1x16, and 1x22
a/n: I started rewatching Criminal Minds from the beginning, and this is what came out of it heh. This is the first part in a little series I'm starting that follows Hotch and his childhood best friend in the BAU, beginning with the pilot. If all goes well, this will continue through the rest of the show, with ~1 part per season :) Title is from Coming up for air by Signals in Smoke
series masterlist
You haven't used your oven in over a year. It's not that you don't like cooking - because you do - you just haven't had the time. If you could, you would blame it on the extra hours you have had to put in after starting at the BAU, but that wouldn't be fair. Your transfer to the unit was the only thing that got you through his death at all.
After your husband was shot and killed in action while tailing a kingpin of one of the New York mobs, you couldn't bear to be in this house at all. You had gone back home to stay with your father for a couple of months, but eventually you had to get back to your real life. With a month remaining on your bureau-mandated leave, you returned to the home you had shared, before one of the lower-level mob soldiers misfired -
You didn't let yourself think about it for almost a year, but time heals all wounds. The poets were right. At least you hope they are.
Even back at home, you still couldn't bear to be there alone, other than when you were sleeping. That's why your peloton was gathering dust and your kitchen went untouched, until just now.
So, of course, the call from the office comes when you're making dinner. It takes five minutes to change into slacks and a button-up, and two more to toss your half-cooked vegetables in the trash, before driving down to headquarters.
A fourth girl has been taken in Seattle, and the local PD only now decided to invite your team. You know the BAU isn't well-liked by the other departments, but that doesn't mean you aren't effective.
When you enter the building, you rush through the I.D. check and jog over to the lecture hall, where Morgan and Reid are standing outside of a neighboring office like children waiting for their father to come and get them.
Shooting them both a thin-lipped smile, you step inside just as they finish discussing the unsub's pattern.
"They want you back in the saddle," Hotch says to the man beside him after greeting you with a nod.
Your eyes are so immediately drawn to Hotch that it takes you a moment to realize that you recognize the man standing next to him. You haven't seen him since the day you were assigned to the BAU, mostly because you were technically transferred to this unit because of his extended leave.
What was supposed to be one month became six, before Hotch informed you that your temporary placement would be permanent, if you were willing to stay in Virginia.
It was a no-brainer.
You turn your gaze to Jason Gideon as everyone in the room stares at him expectantly. He looks self-assured, but you're sure the confidence is a front. "They sure they want me?"
"The order came from the director," Hotch says simply.
"Well," Gideon states, "we'd better get started, then."
Hotch glances over at you as everyone files out of the room and you raise your eyebrows momentarily, a quick check-in between the two of you. He nods imperceptibly and it's enough for now. He didn't tell you Gideon was coming back today, but now isn't the time to give him hell for that.
***
Hotch is the last to board the plane, and he takes his usual seat beside you, this time in the aisle, a few rows away from the rest of the team.
"I was going to tell you," he says as soon as you close the case file in your hands. "The section chief wants me to evaluate him to see if he's ready to return to the team."
"That's a lot of pressure." They have to know that Gideon will be able to smell him out within the day. "You sure it won't get in the way?"
Hotch makes that face you hate, the one that says he knows you're deflecting. "I was going to tell you."
It doesn't take much for you to forgive him. It helps that you trust him completely, especially after everything he has done for you.
"Still," you smile, bumping his shoulder with yours, "it would have been nice to know about the sudden change to my job security."
You're mostly joking, but his frown is genuine. "Don't be silly. You'll always have a place on this team."
He takes everything so seriously these days. You suppose it's only fair, given the files he has to sort through on a daily basis. Picking which case deserves the team's attention the most.
But he wasn't always like this. You're the newest member of the team, but you've known Hotch longer than any of them.
You still remember the first time you met him, at eight years old. He was your first real friend at school, and you became inseparable easily. Your shared love for The Beatles and Law and Order made you fast friends, and as you grew older, your interests shifted in tandem.
Sometimes when you look at him, you still see that little boy who knew too much, but still managed to always make you laugh.
***
The team disperses soon after you land in Seattle. You've never had to come up with a profile in one afternoon, but it's also been a long time since your ticking clock to find the victim was just over a day.
When Gideon and Morgan head to the latest crime scene, you join Hotch and Reid to interview the victim's brother. The moment the three of you step into his house, his dog, Sandy, starts barking up a storm.
"It's what we call the Reid effect," Hotch smiles, walking over to pet her. "Happens with children, too."
You can't help but smile as well, peering over at Spencer, who looks about as uncomfortable as he usually does.
It doesn't escape your notice that the brother looks looser now. Hotch has a way with people that traces back to his childhood self. He was always wiser than his years, something you chalk up to his need to grow up faster than he should have, but his paternal instinct comes from practically raising his brother, Sean, after his dad's untimely death.
The casual interview reveals enough about the victimology that when you head back to the station, Gideon calls the officers in to explain the profile.
You can feel Morgan's agitation wafting off of him as he watches Gideon state his assumptions with startling clarity and confidence. Hotch, on the other hand, looks contemplative, which reminds you that he's been tasked with the returning agent's evaluation.
He can see your furtive glances in his direction, even as you try to remain secretive about your interest in his demeanor. He presses his lips together to keep from smiling as he thinks about how lucky you are that you went into profiling and not covert operations.
You have never been especially good at keeping your own thoughts or intentions to yourself around him. While some would call that a weakness in this field, he sees it as your greatest strength, because it clearly shows how much he can trust you.
As a kid, you were outspoken about every idea you had, and you used your strength and willpower to look out for him when he needed it. It took him a long time to admit how much he used to need you (maybe too long), but you always knew.
***
Gideon's profile leads to the arrest of Richard Slessman and Tim Vogel, and Elle manages to save the last girl while she's still alive. You catch your breath for the first time in 36 hours as you stand with Hotch in the shipyard, watching the paramedics and local police clear the scene.
"What are you going to tell them?" you ask under your breath as his gaze turns to Gideon, who is getting patched up in the back of an ambulance.
He had goaded the unsub into shooting him instead of the girl, but your mind can't seem to focus on the silver lining.
Hotch sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, as though to hold his coat closed against the breeze. "They want to know if he's fit to be a field agent again."
Normally, you would give him shit for using that tactic. Avoiding a question by providing more information. This time, you know he's just thinking out loud.
"What would you say?" Hotch asks as Morgan walks over and sits on a barrel next to you.
"Gideon saved her life," Derek shrugs, his eyes flashing to you for a moment. "That's good enough for me."
Hotch seems to ponder this for a second. "Do you know what Gideon means in Hebrew?"
"Mighty warrior," Reid interjects, popping in to the conversation with the subtlety of a tiger.
You're confused at first, but then you remember the baby names book that was sitting in Hotch's living room the last time you visited him. "You cannot let Haley name your child Gideon."
Hotch laughs suddenly, and you can tell you surprised it out of him. Your chest warms comfortably as he smiles, his cheeks flushing softly in the chill air.
He looks over at Gideon again, deciding in real time that he's going to recommend him to come back to the team. He would never admit it to you or anyone, but he knows that if your position on the team was in jeopardy from Gideon's return, he wouldn't have been able to complete his evaluation fairly.
It was Hotch who recommended you for the open position after he was promoted into Gideon's role as unit chief. You deserved the spot, of course, but Jeff's death had still been fresh and he knew better than most how much the job can take one's mind off of the other aspects of their life.
While Hotch watches Gideon, you watch him. You can tell from the look on his face that it's a done deal. Jason's coming back to the team. It will be a change of pace for everyone, but that doesn't mean it won't be good.
Having joined the team right after the bombing, you saw exactly how Gideon changed after getting the profile wrong, but so did everyone else. What people didn't talk about was how Aaron changed too. Rising into the rank. Growing to fill the hole that Gideon left in the unit, but somehow also shrinking into himself at the same time, because that's what this job does to you...it takes and it takes and it takes until you have nothing left to give.
But sometimes that's what you need: to give something up so you know you aren't losing everything.
***
Gideon settles into the team faster than you anticipated, and soon it's almost like he never left. Even though you can see the vein on Morgan's neck pulsate every time he hijacks a profile, you can't help but appreciate the support he gives to Spencer and Elle, both of whom are becoming incredible profilers before your very eyes.
That's also why you find yourself a little worried when Hotch tells you that Reid failed his weapons recertification.
"I thought you said you were helping him practice," you say as the two of you walk past security and toward the bullpen.
"I was," he emphasizes, before correcting himself, "I did. I'm sure he was just nervous."
You nod, pushing open the doors and spotting Reid sitting quietly at his desk. "He can test again in two weeks. He'll be fine."
When Morgan hands him a whistle with a quippy joke, you sigh into your coffee tumbler, but don't bother stepping in. He's being childish, but if you try to intervene, it'll just embarrass Spencer more.
"Okay," JJ starts, "Franklin Park, Des Plaines. Yesterday afternoon."
She dives into the case, but you have already read the file (and you know Reid has too) so you scoot your chair over to his desk and lean forward so only he can hear you. "I failed my first weapons certification at the bureau too."
Spencer looks up immediately, his face colored with surprise. "Really? You're one of the best shots I know."
You smile with a shrug. "The tests aren't real life. When it comes down to it, I get the job done. Just like you will."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, but then his lips curve up into a small smile. You both turn your attention back to the front just as JJ finishes explaining the case details.
"Wheels up in 30."
The flight to Illinois is filled with heated discussions about the bureau's fruitless history of trying to profile long distance serial killers.
"L. D. S. K.s are so rare, we haven't been able to build a standard profile," Hotch explains as the jet reaches cruising altitude.
Gideon chimes in immediately. "Here's what we do know: they're always male, and they frequently have law enforcement or military experience, and they always contact the police or the media."
Elle looks confused and you echo her sentiment as you lean your hip against her armrest. "To take credit or relive the experience?"
"Both," he says simply. "All serial killers attempt to relive the ecstasy they get from their killings. Some use souvenirs taken from the victims, and others return to the dump site to interact with the body. Both modes require contact with the victim, contact which, by definition, long distance serial killers don't have."
"Our unsub hasn't contacted anybody," you point out. "What do we do until then?"
"Sometimes it's not what the unsub does that reveals the profile. Sometimes it is what they do not do."
Reid glances up from the file in his lap, and you notice that he looks at Gideon first. "He doesn't kill his victims."
"Underkill's a unique signature," Hotch ponders, standing up and walking along the cabin. He only paces when he's deep in thought. "The question is, does he shoot them in the stomach intentionally just to wound them, or is he just aiming at the biggest part of the target?"
The team is silent as you take in this new analysis. You're not surprised when Gideon is the first to speak up. "Specifically, does the unsub lack the skill to make the head shot, or simply the will to take it?"
When the plane lands, you check out the last crime scene before spending the day talking to the local police and the victims' surgeons at the nearby hospital.
That night, when you check into your hotel room, the click of the door lock closing behind you is a welcome relief from the tension of the day. Many of the Des Plaines police officers were unhappy with the team's initial assessment, because it heavily implied that the unsub may have been a law enforcement official himself.
You wash your face and change into a tee shirt and a comfortable pair of sweatpants, before climbing into bed and opening the case file back up again. The rest of the team has also gone to their own rooms, but you can't help but wish you had another set of eyes looking at this with you.
As though reading your mind, a knock thuds on your door and you stand up quickly, in case it's an emergency. When you check the peephole, you see Hotch standing way too close to the door.
Unlocking it slowly so you don't startle him, you open the door to find him in still in a full suit.
"Is there a problem?" you ask immediately. "Do I need to get dressed?"
He shakes his head, glancing around the hallway so quickly that you almost miss it. "I was just looking over the profile and I wanted your opinion on some thoughts I had."
The corner of your mouth twitches and you open the door further to let him in. He doesn't miss a beat as he takes a seat on the armchair in front of your bed and flips open his notepad.
"I was thinking about the bullet we recovered on the scene," he says slowly, like he's thinking through every word he's saying.
You nod, sitting on top of the bed covers and crossing your legs under you. "Garcia called after you left the station. The bullet was a .223 fired from the M-4 variant of the M-16."
"That means he's military," Hotch says, reaching his hand out without taking his eyes off his notepad. You close the case file you had laid out and hand it to him. "M-4 is a shorter barrel than the M-16, so it's less accurate and a lot harder to fire, especially at these distances."
"This level of skill indicates specialized training. That means..."
"It means the underkill was on purpose," Hotch says, finishing your thought. "What is he trying to prove?"
You purse your lips as he sits up in the chair to give himself room to remove his jacket. His pinstriped button-down is slightly crinkled under his arms, but you can tell it was freshly ironed this morning.
"Maybe he's in a fast-paced occupation," you suggest, "which would fit with the profile that he has a big ego."
"Then we're back to law enforcement."
You lean forward, your eyes following his hands as they fidget with his cuffs and undo the buttons, one at a time. You've always been attune to every one of his movements, but maybe it's just because you've spent so much time around him.
"Hotch," you whisper-yell, snagging his attention from your case file, which he tosses back to you.
He hums and you take that as an invitation to continue speaking. "Be careful tomorrow, when you're giving the profile."
One of his eyebrows lifts and you can tell he's holding back a smile. "It's just in front of the Des Planes PD. You'll be there too."
"It's not that," you sigh, shaking your head. "Everything about this profile points to the shooter being either current or former law enforcement. I'd be surprised if they didn't take it personally."
His eyes flit up to yours, his brow furrowing. "I can handle myself."
"I'm sure you can, Hotch," you say with a breathy laugh. "Doesn't mean I don't still look out for you."
He pauses and it's like his whole body takes a beat. "I know."
***
You're talking to Dr. Landman with Derek, Elle, and Jason the next day when a gunshot rings out through the hospital. Last you checked, Hotch and Reid were in the E.R., but you haven't heard from them since you arrived.
"It's Phillip Dowd," a nurse informs you when you meet with local police outside the closed E.R. door.
After a quick call to Penelope, the profile becomes clear.
"He joined the army at 18," Gideon recites, pacing around the room in a vaguely reminiscent manner, "went to ranger school, did 6 years before being dishonorably discharged in '95 for conduct unbecoming. Obviously lied about it, joined the Arlington P. D."
"You were right," the police captain sighs. "He was a cop."
His hopeless tone is disheartening, and you find yourself upset for not the first time that your team was correct in their assessment.
After the initial commotion, the E.R. is silent except for a few muffled voices. You can't hear what's being said, but the lack of gunshots or loud noises is all that's keeping you from falling apart.
"It'll be okay," you hear whispered from next to you. You turn to see Derek, who presses his shoulder to yours briefly. "Hotch will know what to do."
You know there's nothing you can do from out here, especially with how precarious the situation inside is, but doing nothing has never been your strong suit.
"I know," you tell him, echoing your thoughts. "I just wish we could help."
Derek cocks his head at the S.W.A.T. team readying themselves to break the door down. "We can help. We need to give Hotch and the kid time to wear Dowd down."
His tone is light and you feel yourself laugh, ignoring the thickness that swells in your throat. "That shouldn't take long."
Derek bumps your arm again in a silent extension of comfort, and you mouth a silent thank you.
You can feel Gideon losing patience as he reasons with the captain, but he eventually buys them three minutes to do what they can. When the final five second countdown starts, you unconsciously hold your breath, only to be released when Hotch's voice calls through the door.
"Hold your fire!"
Your breath comes out like a gasp and you squeeze Derek's arm before rushing forward. Hotch stumbles past you with a murmur that sounds obscurely like "help Reid", so you push your way through the throng of civilians moving to escape until you see him.
"Spencer," you gasp, crouching down to help him into a standing position. You would never admit it to him, but ever since he joined the team, he's been something of a little brother to you. "What happened in here? Are you okay?"
"You were right," he says with a surprising steadiness to his voice. "I got the job done."
You don't ask what he means, knowing that Hotch will fill you in when the time is right. Instead, you decide not to fight the vaguely maternal urge rising within you and you pull him into a tight hug. It's more of a quick squeeze, because you don't want to push past his physical boundaries, but he doesn't complain, instead looking over at you with a small smile that's more than enough for now.
***
You find Hotch where the departed ambulance that patched Reid up was parked. All of the hustle and bustle of the paramedics and local police officers and bureau agents comes to a standstill as you walk over to where he's sitting on the edge of the curb.
"I heard what happened," you say as a way to announce your presence. "Can I sit?"
He nods without looking up, and you crouch down next to him, settling on the curb with your shoulder pressed to his. You can feel the tension in his muscles as he grips the sidewalk, his palms digging into the concrete like he could break through if he pressed hard enough. "Reid.."
"..is fine," you whisper, nudging him so he looks up to where Spencer and Jason are chattering excitedly. "He's more proud than anything."
He doesn't say anything, so you bump your knee against his. "I guess all of the physical training classes you made him take at the academy paid off."
He knows you know exactly what is running through his mind, so he doesn't bother trying to articulate it. Instead, he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, and looks over at you. "Do you remember that self-defense class we took before law school?"
You're not expecting this question, and you almost laugh. "You mean the singular self-defense class you dragged me to before dawn in the summer before we started at Georgetown?"
He levels you with a look that you would think is serious if you didn't know him so well. "You don't regret it, though."
"No," you smile, your eyes blurring with emotion. That's where you met Jeff. "I don't."
He was your instructor that day. He only taught that class twice a week, between lectures at Georgetown Law, and it doesn't escape your mind that you so easily could've missed him. One day earlier or later and you never would've met him, never would've been his girlfriend, or his wife, or his widow.
Hotch remembers meeting him that day too. He had to literally come to your apartment and drag you out of bed to make the seven AM class that he had signed you both up for, and you had been grumpy the whole drive over.
There wasn't much, other than coffee, that could get you alert before eight in the morning, but the moment you walked into that gym, it was like you were wide awake. He spent the rest of the class trying not to look as the man he would later come to know as Agent Adler kept coming over to give you extra pointers, and he pretended that the coil of ice slithering up his spine was there just because he was watching out for you.
When he found out the two of you had started dating, he continued to pretend the nausea rising in his stomach was from the day-old sandwich he had had for lunch, because it wasn't fair. Especially since he was with Haley, and he was happier than he had ever been, even if the new law school course load was making it harder to see her as often as he wanted to.
But eventually, your happiness with him overpowered every protective urge he felt, and he realized that even if there was a feeling in his gut that he didn't recognize when he saw you two together, Jeff was perfectly suited for you.
***
"He's so gorgeous!" JJ coos, her hands twitching at her sides like she's trying not to reach forward and take the baby out of Haley's hands.
She brought Jack, their newborn son, in to work today to show the team, and Hotch looks prouder than you've ever seen him. "Thank you."
"If you find baldness and wrinkles attractive."
"Reid!" you chastise, swatting at him. He dodges your hands without even looking.
"Look at his widdy biddy nose," Garcia squeals, before turning to Morgan with an inquisitive look. "Don't you want one of these?"
He just laughs as he rests his chin on her shoulder. "Mm, I'll stick to practicing."
"Congratulations," Elle chimes in before returning to Gideon's side to continue discussing the new case that came in. She's always on top of things, and it's something you respect greatly about her.
"Thanks," Hotch smiles, his gaze returning to Jack after looking away for only a moment. Jack is like a siren, the way each of his little sounds or movements holds Hotch's attention so steadily. He's the most focused of all of you, but you've still never seen him this enamored. "She's amazing. I'm a little terrified."
"You're glowing," you tell Haley as the rest of the team heads to the briefing room. "How is it that you had a baby just a few weeks ago?"
"You're sweet," she smiles, before tilting her head forward. "Do you want to hold him? You're practically his aunt."
You gasp quietly, so as not to wake little Jack. "That is a title I will carry proudly. And yes, I would love to hold him."
Haley hands him to you slowly, and you make sure to support his head carefully as you cup your arms around him. He looks so much like Haley that you almost make a joke about Hotch's genes not even putting up a fight, but that nose...that nose has Hotch written all over it.
When you glance back to where the team left from, you see him turn back at the same moment and offer you an encouraging smile.
"How are you holding up?" you ask Haley, barely able to focus on your surroundings with a newborn in your arms. Maybe there is something to the siren thing.
"Jack's been incredible. He barely cries, it's kind of a godsend...but I do wish Aaron could take time off with me."
You give her what you hope is your most comforting smile. "We've been super swamped with cases here, but in all my years working with him, I have never seen him so eager to leave every night."
She laughs, a pretty sound you remember from your youth. "I know. I feel so unfair when I complain about these things, but I appreciate you humoring me."
"Not at all," you assure her, glancing back down at Jack, who is mid-yawn. "I understand completely. If I had one of these little guys, I wouldn't be able to think about anything else."
You hear her breath catch and you open your mouth to reassure her that it's fine, but she is already reaching forward to squeeze your arm. "You and Jeff would have made amazing parents."
When you both joined the bureau, you were so busy with work that kids weren't on your mind at all. It wasn't until you got settled at the BAU, and Jeff found his place with organized crime, that you even started talking about it.
You want kids, don't you?
Only a few. Maybe four or five. Yeah, five's a good number.
"I should get back to the team," you say softly, blinking away the memories.
Haley sees your face and she smiles sadly as she takes Jack back from your arms. "I'll see you soon. Tell him I'm heading home, will you?"
You nod and watch the elevator doors close in front of her, before joining the team.
***
"I can't believe you went bar hopping without me," Derek shakes his head, feigning offense as he leans so far back in his chair you're afraid it may tip over.
"I think hopping is kind of a strong word," you say, glancing over at Elle, who is perched on the edge of your desk. "We only had one bar in mind, but it closed earlier than we thought, so we went somewhere else after."
"This was a much needed girl's night," Elle grins, patting Morgan on the shoulder as he continues to pout. "We'll invite you next time."
"How was your weekend, Dr. Reid?" you ask, turning around to face him.
Spencer doesn't look up from his crossword.
You say his name again, recalling the attention of Derek and Elle, who had started talking about some trip they've been planning for what feels like months.
When he still doesn't look up, you pick up one of the BAU-provided pens on your desk and chuck it at him, just hard enough to bridge the gap between your desks, but not so hard that it hurts on impact.
"Ow!" Spencer yelps anyway, glancing up with a look that's somewhere between confusion and indignation. He picks the pen up off the ground and turns it over to see the tiny insignia on the cap. "This is FBI property."
"How was your weekend, Spencer?" you ask again, ignoring him. "Didn't you say you had some fun stuff planned?"
"I did," he lights up, instantly forgetting about the pen incident. "My local movie theater was showing reruns of the first season of the original Star Trek, so I got to experience it on the big screen."
Derek laughs and walks back over to his desk next to yours. "We have very different definitions of fun weekend plans, kid."
You're about to tell Derek that no one wants to hear what his idea of fun is when the office door upstairs flies open and Hotch and Gideon walk out.
Reid hands you back your pen, and Derek sits up in his chair so fast it's almost comical.
"We have another case," Hotch announces before coming to a stop.
Gideon takes it away. "Our unsub is male, intelligent, organized and methodical. He has the confidence of a man who's been killing for a long time."
"Only victim removed from the scene is Freddy Condore indicating some tie to him."
Hotch turns to you. "You, Elle, and Reid stay on Condore's background with Garcia. The rest of us will head to the crime scene."
You nod before standing up. "Let's go, kids."
Penelope's lair is just as eccentric as you remember it.
"Take a seat," she instructs before logging into her computer and opening up her criminal history database. "Just don't get too comfortable."
Your lips quirk up as Elle flashes her eyes at you, and you nod your head at the empty chair on Garcia's opposite side. Reid is already sitting on a desk chair by the back, spinning in aimless circles as he rattles off a list of markers to search for.
After a minute, Penelope stops typing. "Credit card receipts show Freddy loved crab cakes, preferred light beer and used to spend his Thursday nights with a woman in Fells Point."
You pick up a stress toy shaped like a tomato from one of her shelves and bounce it in your palm, just for something to occupy your hands.
"What about his associates?" Elle asks, grabbing a pen with a pom-pom on the end and poking it at Spencer's knee.
"Most of them have criminal records."
Elle glances up. "That much I guessed."
Penelope frowns, and looks pointedly at the pen in her hand.
"She's holding the tomato!" Elle complains, throwing a finger at you.
You lift up your hands in surrender, dropping the stress toy. "Thanks a lot, Greenaway."
"Anyway," Reid interrupts, to everyone's surprise, "One of these guys is particularly interesting. Pull up James Baker's rap sheet."
Penelope turns back to her computer as Spencer reads over her shoulder. "He spent time in juvenile detention for attempted murder, was released at age 21, and then subsequently arrested for, and this is in order, armed robbery, petty theft, burglary, narcotics sales, and rapе."
"What's so interesting about that?"
"When it comes to psychological behavior, anything is possible but this criminal history? It just isn't probable."
Elle nods in agreement. "I mean, as a minor, he began with attempted murder and then devolved into pettier crimes?"
"It's the criminal history of a fractured schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder," you sigh. "It just does not make sense."
***
Hotch calls you into his office when he and Morgan return from Baker's address. You can tell something is off before you even step through the door, so you shut it behind you and take a seat in front of his desk.
"What's going on?" you ask, your eyes glancing over his face to see if his micro-expressions can give you a hint. "What's wrong?"
He looks up with a sigh, his hands clasped on his desk. "Baker's place was an artificial dwelling, and the weapon we recovered on the scene was standard law enforcement issue."
It takes you a few seconds to comprehend what he's trying to say - a few seconds longer than usual - and your breath stutters in your throat. "He was undercover?"
"That's what it looks like," Hotch agrees. "I wanted to inform you before telling the rest of the team."
You nod, pressing your eyes closed for a beat.
He missed his pick-up, Mrs. Adler.
We'll call you as soon as we know more.
The memories start to flood back in and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter before opening them. Hotch looks blurry for a moment until your eyes adjust to the light again.
"Does organized crime know where he is?" you ask, desperately needing to fill the silence.
He looks down at the case file. "We assume so, but it's not like they would tell us. They weren't too happy that we were taking on this case at all, and now we know why."
"Maybe they'll talk to me," you suggest, even though the idea of talking to Josh Cramer makes you taste bile. You haven't seen him since a month after the funeral. It's not for his lack of trying, you just couldn't stomach looking at any of them after what happened. One missed call turned to ten and eventually they stopped trying.
There's a piercing pain behind your eyes and you squeeze them shut for a momentary relief. "It was only supposed to be three months."
Hotch's brow furrows and you don't look up at him just yet. You can already picture his expression, the anguish you know he feels for you whenever you bring up Jeff.
"It was a three month operation," you continue, knowing you won't be able to discuss it later if you stop talking now. "That's all we signed up for. Three months away from me and then he was on leave for the rest of the year, so that we could focus on us again. Maybe even start a family."
Your voice cracks on the last word and you tilt your head down to hide your face. He hates it when you cry, but that's not fair. He knows how important it is to get your emotions out, so they don't pile up inside of you, but if he had his way, you would never have had a reason to cry in the first place.
"I hadn't seen him in over a month when he was..."
He can hear the tightness in your voice and he resists the overwhelming urge to reach his hand out and take yours. You're sitting a foot back from the desk, and it's not he could reach you from here anyway, but his fingers still ache.
"I don't want to blame them, Aaron," you sigh. Your words sound watery, and he pulls a handkerchief out of his inside jacket pocket and hands it to you. He's almost surprised when you accept the gesture, pressing the cloth square under your eyes to catch the tears leaking out. You were so self-reliant as a kid, never wanting or needing anyone else's help. "I don't want to blame them, but I do. I can't help it, I just do."
Someone else would have consoled you. They would have assured you that feeling this way was natural, and that no one could blame you for feeling what you do, but that isn't who you two are. "Jeff wouldn't."
His name is like a dagger to your heart. You practically wince as Hotch digs further. "That team was his family, just like we are yours. He wouldn't blame them, not for this. Not for something he chose."
Something he chose. This is why you don't let yourself remember that day. This is why you kept that day - the day you got that horrible call - locked up inside your brain, where not even you could reach it. Because if you let yourself think about it and remember, then you will remember that it wasn't really Cramer or his unit or the bureau that you blamed. It was him.
For choosing to miss his pick-up. For choosing to go undercover. For choosing to join organized crime.
You take a deep breath and re-adjust yourself in the uncomfortable chair Hotch refuses to replace, even though it's literally splitting at the seams. Something about your tax dollars hard at work. "What are you going to do about Baker?"
He lets you change the subject. "We have to contact Agent Cramer before-
"What the hell is wrong with you people?"
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
"Sorry?" Hotch frowns, both of you standing up immediately.
Cramer doesn't take his eyes off Hotch as he seethes with anger. "I told you, this is my case! You ran my agent through IBIS?"
"Because I wanted to know who he worked for and now that I do, I'd like to talk to him."
"You don't have him?"
You can hear your heartbeat in your skull.
Hotch looks at you then, and finally Cramer notices your presence. "Y/N...it's been a while."
Your lips press into a thin line. "Almost two years." The anger you've been trying to avoid seeps into your voice against your will and you sigh, returning to the investigation. "How long has Baker been missing?"
"About 12 hours."
"You think he ran?" you ask, watching Cramer closely as his jaw ticks.
"No, Jimmy's too experienced to run without contact."
He realizes his misstep immediately and his shoulders fall. To his credit, he doesn't break eye contact, even as his expression softens. "That's not what I meant. All I'm saying is that I think someone's keeping Jimmy from calling in."
You can feel Aaron looking at you, but you avoid his line of sight. If you're going to have to interact with organized crime, you might as well make yourself useful. "We all want the same thing, Cramer: to get Baker back to his family."
You wait outside as he explains the situation in more detail to Hotch and Gideon, and you're surprised when he's the first to leave. "Can we talk?"
Hotch comes out behind him and raises his eyebrow for a fraction of a second, a check-in. Swallowing thickly, you nod your head and follow him down the hall to the top of the stairs.
"I'm sorry I haven't reached out recently," he says as soon as you're out of earshot of the others. "You know Jeff was one of our top guys."
Your eyes shut at his name, as though someone clapped their hands too close to your face. It's almost laughable how sure you were that you were past your grief. You passed the bureau's psych evaluation after your six month leave with flying colors (because your team practically wrote the answers yourselves), and as each new day passed and you weren't so debilitated by just the thought of him, you thought it meant you were fine. Because time heals all wounds. At least it's supposed to.
"I know," you whisper scratchily, before clearing your throat. "I know that. And it's okay. We've all been busy." You look down at the bustling bullpen where his agents are interacting with your team. "Clearly."
Then you remember you're job here in the first place. "We really are just trying to help. It wouldn't hurt to keep us involved."
Cramer sighs and you know he won't refuse. "We'll loop you in."
***
James Baker is found and Vincent Perotta gets taken into custody, but you can still hear the end of the interrogation ringing in your ears.
"You were just responding to what you learned, Vincent.
When you grow up in an environment like that, an extremely abusive and violent household... it's not surprising that some people grow up to become killers.
And some people grow up to catch them."
You can't pinpoint exactly what you're feeling, but if you had to guess, it would be sorrow. Sorrow for that little boy who got dealt the worst hand you can imagine, and still turned into the best version of who he could've been.
Hotch can't get the interrogation out of his mind either. He had grabbed his briefcase and headed out to the elevators as soon as Perotta was taken away, in the hopes of avoiding everybody. He's about to let out his breath when a hand reaches between the doors and sends them flying open again.
Normally your appearance is a welcome sight, but tonight, he's had enough talking. Perotta took everything he had to give, and then some, and he doesn't know if he has the strength to go through the proceedings again with you.
"I just want to get home," he says as you stand next to him without a word and face the doors. To my family.
You don't say anything as the little fluorescent floor number ticks down - has it always been this slow - and he feels his nerves tighten with agitation. You're never silent, especially not about something like this.
Just before the elevator reaches the second floor, you reach forward and pull the emergency stop button. He whispers your name, half irritated half relieved, and you step in front of him, focusing your eyes on his. It's a classic profiler technique, both to mentally establish trust and to physically block him from the keypad.
"You're a great father, Aaron."
His mind flashes back 25 years, but he squeezes the hand in his pocket into a fist to keep himself from succumbing to the memories. "I'm trying."
He knows what you're doing, and he would normally be open to a healthy exchange between two adults, but tonight he just can't. It's too fresh.
You seem to understand at least a fraction of what he's trying to convey. Your next words are gentle. "That already makes you a thousand times better than him."
That almost makes him smile. "You can say his name, you know."
You shrug, looking at him with a glint in your eye. "Honestly, I don't think I can. I'm afraid I'll turn into a pile of ash, with the fury your father instills in me."
That's what gets him. He coughs out a laugh that echoes around the elevator, and you return to his side, giving him a moment to breathe on his own.
This time, when his mind spirals back to his childhood, he's not as equipped to block it. The memories come in flashes, a blackening bruise on his abdomen, a split lip explained away through roughhousing in the backyard, the thin scars on his hands and elbows as he finally started to fight back. He would've taken it all forever if he had to, if it meant that he could keep the horrors away from the people he loved. "I really should go."
"Yeah." You push the emergency stop back into place and the elevator hits the ground floor in no time. "I'll see you tomorrow, Hotch."
He steps out, half expecting you to follow him. Instead, the doors close and he's by himself again, and he suddenly can't remember why he wanted to be alone in the first place.
***
When the Keystone Killer is finally caught after 18 years of inactivity, he finds himself expecting for there to be some sort of celebration, either in the form of a commendation, or a much-needed break. Instead, what he gets is a mountain of paperwork.
He usually doesn't mind the paperwork that comes after a long case. It's a helpful way for him to sort through his thoughts on what went down, and to learn from mistakes that were made along the way, whether in the profile or in the capture of the unsub.
Lately, paperwork has felt like an added torture to the long hours he already spends at work. It's not that he wasn't excited about going home before, but ever since Jack was born, he hasn't been able to get out of the office fast enough. But being the unit chief of the BAU has its responsibilities, and this is one of them.
He's drowning in consultation files and case reports when you knock on his door, two coffees in hand.
"Thought that was you," he says, finishing the sentence he was writing.
You frown, setting one steaming cup down on his desk. He hasn't even looked up yet. "How'd you know? Or do you just say that to everyone who walks in here?"
His lip twitches and he puts his pen down. "I could smell the coffee. It always smells the same when you make it."
"Oh?" You weren't aware you had a method. "And how's that?"
"Burnt."
You take the lid off your cup and chuck it at him with surprising accuracy. It would have thwacked him in the forehead if he hadn't swatted it aside with his stupid catlike reflexes.
"What are you working on?" you ask after taking a scalding sip of perfectly brewed coffee.
He looks up for a beat before diving back into the file he was skimming. "Paperwork for the Keystone Killer case."
"But we just finished that," you point out before reaching forward and taking the file out from under his nose.
He huffs. "I was...looking at that."
"This is a report on what happened a couple of hours ago," you say, ignoring his remark. "You can easily do this tomorrow, or later this week."
"It's fresh in my mind now. I don't want to forget any details."
You shrug in a motion that says 'fair enough'. "Or, you could actually go home before midnight for once."
You slide another file off the top of his pile and flip it open, reading over the notes Hotch has scribbled in the margins. He's so meticulous about his job that you almost forget he was promoted just a little over a year ago. He became unit chief at the same time that you joined the team, so you didn't get to see him in his early days, but looking at him now, you almost can't imagine it. It's like he's built for this, for taking responsibility and leading people with kindness and respect.
"Elle said something on the plane today," he says suddenly, jerking you from your thoughts.
You close the file and look up as he runs a hand over his head, pushing his thick hair back just for it to bounce forward again. "She said that she's scared she's going to look up and see that her life has passed her by while she was chasing monsters."
Something cold runs through your veins and you sit up straighter in your chair. "And what did you say?"
"I told her the truth."
You smile in an effort to keep your eyes from shining. "What, that we're all doomed?"
He looks at you candidly. "That this job will eat you up if you let it." Your smile falls and he continues. "You just can't let it."
"I'm sure Elle loved hearing that."
He shrugs. "She was surprisingly receptive."
That gets a laugh out of you, even if the good humor doesn't last long. "I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"This job, while also being a husband, and a father." You sigh, and you can almost feel the weight of the air as it leaves your body. "When I go home, I don't have to be anything to anyone. Most of the time it feels awful, but sometimes, after an especially bad case, I'm almost relieved when I can go home and just check out."
You aren't talking about him anymore, and he can tell. He doesn't mind, if this is what it will take for you to work through your emotions.
"We were gonna start trying for a baby."
That surprises him. Not that you wanted to be a mother - he knows that - but that he didn't know you were already thinking about it, especially because of how you grew up. You don't talk about it often, but after losing your mother to a drunk driver when you were ten, you almost transformed into her, becoming the emotional support for your family when there was no one else to fill that role.
You press your lips into a thin line and take a deep breath, your coffee cold and forgotten on the desk in front of you. "We had been talking about it for years, but with the paths our careers were taking, there just wasn't enough time before then." Your eyes look far away, and you don't seem to notice that your lips have unconsciously curved up into a reminiscent smile. "Jeff wanted five kids. Five. God, can you imagine?"
He can, but he doesn't say anything, because he knows you aren't looking for a response. Just for someone to listen.
"I'm an only child," you say with a laugh. "I don't even know what it's like to have one sibling, let alone four." But Jeff had come from a huge family, and he had wanted you to experience that. He loved how full his home always felt growing up, never without someone to talk to. Now you won't ever get to experience that. "I guess I just wish sometimes that we had tried earlier."
"You'll have it someday," Hotch says simply, practically reading your mind. "If that's what you want, you'll have it."
"I waited so long," you whisper, closing your eyes for a long moment. "I was just so afraid that I wouldn't do it right, because I didn't have my mother anymore to help me."
"You would've been a great mother," he assures you, his voice confident. "One day, you will be."
Your breath comes out like a gasp and you clear your throat to keep the tears at bay. "How do you know?"
"I just know."
***
When you push through the doors to the bullpen the next morning, you are greeted by a familiar head of blonde hair.
"Sean?"
He turns around slowly, clearly recognizing your voice, and pulls his lips up into a smile that you return. "Hey, Y/N, how's it going?"
You weren't close to him as a kid, mostly because of the age gap between him and Hotch. You had tried to make more of an effort after graduating college, but Sean was fierce in his convictions, and there were a lot of things he didn't understand about his childhood that you certainly weren't going to explain to him now.
"Good, good," you say, leading him away from the throng of staring women. You shoot them a look that makes them disperse. "You here for your brother? He's upstairs."
He nods, glancing up at the closed office door. You start to lead him to the stairwell when he stops in his tracks and turns to you. "What mood's he in?"
"Why?" you ask, your brow furrowing. "You got bad news? Nothing I need to worry about, I hope."
Sean shakes his head, glancing up at the closed door again. "Nothing like that. I'll just go up."
You let him walk up on his own, knowing he doesn't want you getting involved in whatever he's thinking about. Before you have a moment to catch your breath, the three women return to your side.
"That's Hotch's brother?" Penelope asks, standing so close you can feel her breath on your ear.
"Maybe Hotch is adopted."
"What do you mean?" you ask, unconsciously glancing up the stairs. "They're honestly pretty similar." You're only half joking. They don't look anything alike, but that Hotchner brand of righteousness runs deep.
JJ frowns. "I don't see it."
"Yeah, he looks...like that," Penelope murmurs, before looking at you. "Did you know him when you were younger? Was he hot then too?"
You choke on your own spit. "He was nine years old when I left for college, so...no."
Her eyes widen and she lifts her hands in surrender.
"Ooh, here he comes."
You look up to see Sean storming down the stairs, Hotch hot on his heels.
"Sean, listen to me."
He turns so fast, you're afraid they're going to crash into each other. "Don't profile me, Aaron."
Sean stomps out of the bullpen while Hotch watches him leave, and you can't get the striking feeling of deja vu out of your head. Two boys, 15 years younger than they are now, standing in the same positions, with the same looks on their faces.
You imagine that you and Hotch probably act the same way around each other as when you first met, at eight years old.
The memory comes easily, even with more than two decades of time standing in the way. The little boy with dark hair who had sat next to you on the school bus, just because there were no other empty seats available that day.
You hadn't said anything for the first few stops, just watched him out of the corner of your eye as he nodded his head unconsciously to the music coming out of his large headphones. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you and you tapped on his shoulder. "What are you listening to?"
He had taken his headphones off quickly, as though caught in the act. "What?"
You repeated your question before leveling him with a pointed stare that meant 'there is a correct answer'. You were a feisty kid, and you weren't always the best at making first impressions, so his steady response impressed you. "Beatles. Revolver album."
"I love that one!" you had gushed, leaning in closer without a warning to press your ear to one of the speakers on his headphones. "Is this Yellow Submarine?"
He had nodded, the confusion in his eyes slowly transforming into delight. "You know their stuff?"
"Of course. My favorite's Eleanor Rigby."
He had frowned then. "That one's too sad."
You weren't surprised by his opinion. You had yet to find a boy your age who could appreciate serious music, but liking The Beatles was a start, at least.
"I'm Y/N," you had said, extending your hand like you were starting a business meeting.
He shook your hand furtively. "Aaron."
"Maybe I'll see you around."
The school bus had stopped at your street then, and you had gotten up without another word to this boy, who would one day become your best friend in the world.
Luckily, the next day, Aaron chose to sit next to you again, this time with a second pair of headphones to attach to his compact cassette deck. Two days turned to three, and before long, you had a new friend.
***
"I can't imagine what two weeks away from this place is gonna feel like," you sigh, packing some essentials into your bag and snapping it shut. "I might actually miss you guys."
"Not me," Morgan grins, before pressing a kiss to your cheek as he zips around you. "Two weeks of pure heaven with nothing but young, beautiful adults looking to make vacation memories."
"Your friend's resort better be as nice as you say it is," Elle says sternly as she wiggles her finger at Derek, who is busy inviting Reid to join their vacation.
"Thanks, but I'm going home," he says quickly, without looking at any of you. "Have a good one, guys."
"I'll head out too," you announce, grabbing your things and following him to the elevators. "Wait up, Spence."
He doesn't seem to hear you, but you slip through the doors just before they close. "You okay?"
"Huh?" he says, finally looking up. "Oh, yeah. I'm just not looking forward to the Nevada heat."
You can tell he's lying, but you don't want to press him right before the long break. "You can always call me if you need anything. Seriously."
"Yeah," he nods. "I know."
You wave goodbye to him in the parking lot, and you're back in the silence of your home by the end of the hour.
The rest of your day is spent lazing around the house, and you're asleep when you hear a knock at your door. After Jeff's death, you started keeping your gun in your nightstand, more out of a general sense of security than any specific acute fear, but its proximity during late night calls has given you the peace of mind you needed to finally sleep through the night.
Lifting it from the drawer, you hold it behind your back as you tiptoe to your front door and look through the peephole. When you don't see anyone, you carefully pull the door open, only to find a small packet sitting on your welcome mat with your name scrawled on the top.
After bringing it inside the house and locking the door again, you pry open the seal and extract a large piece of paper covered in a series of numbers and dots.
That's when the phone rings.
***
"How's it going?" you ask Reid and Morgan as you enter the conference room where all of the Fisher King's clues have been laid out. Neither of them have taken their eyes off the paper you brought in since you tacked it up on the board.
As expected, Reid doesn't look up. "The answer to what book we need has to be in here."
"Yeah," Derek sighs, glancing over at you, "but we sure as hell can't see it."
"Yet."
You look at the numbers again, hoping that your short walk to the coffee station and back would have been enough to unlock something new in your brain. Nothing. "The answer has to be based on specific details of each person's clue." A small sound turns your attention to the couch, where Elle is lying on her side. "Is Elle asleep?"
"I'm awake!" she starts, sitting up lethargically.
At the outburst, Hotch walks into the room and points at her bags. "I'm sending you home. You need to get some rest."
"No-"
"We won't do anything without you, I promise."
"Elle, seriously, we're not any closer than we were."
She nods, her lack of sleep seeming to dawn on her as she yawns again.
"Anderson," Hotch calls out, before you stop him. "What is it?"
"I can take her home," you suggest, looking over your shoulder as she lugs her bags down the hall with bleary eyes. He looks like he wants to protest, so you speak up before he has the chance. "She barely knows Anderson. I'll make sure she's settled, and then you can send him to watch her house, so I can come back here."
"I don't know if that's a good idea," he sighs, his eyes still trained on Elle's silhouette lingering by the elevator. "We may need you here."
You cock your head at Reid and Morgan, who have been sitting in the same positions for so long, you're surprised their necks haven't locked. "It's like they said. We haven't made any progress in over an hour. I'm not helping here."
He still looks unsure, but you know it's just worry. He'll always worry about you. "Okay, go. Call me in an hour to check-in."
You dip your head in a nod and jog through the bullpen to catch Elle as she's heading out.
"So you're my bodyguard, huh?"
You laugh, pressing the button for the ground floor. "Something like that."
"Good," Elle says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn, "you're much more fun than Anderson."
"Prettier, too."
The car ride to her house starts off silent, but eventually you break your internal promise to let her come to you. "How are you feeling after last night?"
She just shrugs. "It was more annoying than anything. I'm just glad I got to enjoy at least some of my vacation."
"I heard there was blood all over your room," you point out lightly, trying to broach the subject in a delicate manner. "That can't have been fun to wake up to."
"It was all on the outside. That's part of why they weren't able to hold me. That, and Hotch's lawyer chops."
You raise an eyebrow, glancing over at her as you pull over to the sidewalk. "His lawyer chops?" You know he used to be a prosecutor before joining the bureau, but you never got to see his skills in action.
"Yeah," Elle gushes, her face brightening considerably, "you should have seen the way he walked in there. Those beat cops had no idea what hit 'em. He was in full prosecutor mode, went all rainmaker on them until they released me."
You can imagine it. If any of you were in trouble, he wouldn't let anything get between him and your safety. "I wish I could've seen that."
When you put the car in park, you help Elle with her bags and walk her up to her door, where she insists that she'll be fine on her own.
"I promised I would wait with you until another agent could come and relieve me," you emphasize, instinctively scanning the vicinity around her home as she walks inside and drops her things on the floor.
"In about thirty seconds, I'll be passed out on this couch right here," she points at the window seat behind her, "so you'll just be watching me sleep for an hour."
You open your mouth to argue but she cuts you off. "Y/N, I'll be fine."
If there's one word to describe Elle, it's stubborn, so you let her shut the door behind her and you walk back to your car. Even if she won't let you sit with her inside, you still can't bring yourself to start the ignition, so you lean your seat back halfway and close your eyes, just for a few moments.
You haven't gotten much sleep either, and you're about to doze off when you hear a loud thud from outside the car. Jerking up, you undo the clasp of your holster and push open the car door. The world is silent, except for the rustling of leaves in the wind, but you start making your way up the drive, just to be sure. There's another thud, quieter this time, and you reach for your sidearm as you ascend her porch steps. Then comes a gunshot.
You start running.
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x fem!reader#aaron hotchner x female!reader#hotch x reader#hotch x female!reader#aaron hotchner#hotch#criminal minds#elle greenaway#penelope garcia#spencer reid#derek morgan#jennifer jareau#jason gideon#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner series#criminal minds series#criminal minds season one#criminal minds fic#fic#criminal minds imagine#hotch fic#anchor series#anchor
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I think I NEED a some head canons about about Jason Todd meeting his lovely girlfriend at one of Bruces annoying get together at the opera where an ballet piece plays as entertainment, just with the slight specialty that she’s the ballerina
Btw love your work <3
Jason Todd Gala Meet Cute Headcanons
— To be frank, Jason Todd hates galas but when Dick doesn't want to go alone or when he wants to support Bruce or Cass he'll be there. Family is Family.
— When he first sees you his jaw nearly drops because he's never seen anybody as stunning as you. As graceful as a swan, you glide across the stage with ethereal elegance. Each movement is a dance of precision and passion, your body a canvas painting a story of love and longing. Jason Tood was now indeed a lovesick boy.
— You've got the poor boy hooked, watching you like you're his last meal. Even Dick could see, that you caught Jason's eye. At the end of your performance, you took a bow and you looked right over at him and smiled.
— He wasn't sure if that had really been meant for him but that didn't stop him from blushing a bit. So he's nearly on the floor begging Bruce for your name or to at least introduce him and he agrees just so Jason would calm down.
— Bruce invites you to join the rest of the gala if you're interested, since his son was very fond of your performance, "Oh is he the one with the little white strip in his hair? he's quite cute isn't he?".
—Dick's grinning ear to ear, watching his brother stare at you from across the room, while guides you to one of the private bathrooms. He'd never seen Jason so whipped for a girl who he didn't even know.
— Once you finally finished changing, you found yourself drinking a glass of red wine, standing in the corner alone. You usually don't come to events like these but since you were personally invited by Bruce Wayne you saw no reason not to.
— When Jason spots you from across the room, he debates on waiting for Bruce to introduce the two of you but just says fuck it and goes for it.
— "I didn't know ballerinas, came to galas like these, there's not much fun doll," he asks putting his hand out for yours. You hesitate but place yours on top of his, allowing him to kiss the back of your hand. "Only when pretty boys like you request for us," you say giggling, and now for sure you're fucked. Jason Todd wasn't just cute, he was hot.
— He butters you up by asking your favorite composer, "Well I've never performed any of his music but I'm quite the fan of Vivaldi" you say while he leans against the wall next to you. He asks the questions and lets you do most of the talking since he'd prefer to listen to you. By the end of the night, there was nothing Jason didn't know about you but it seemed like you hadn't gotten to know him.
— He had spent the whole night flirting with you and buttering you up and you're not even surprised when he asks to walk you out, "Why not but only on one condition, you have to take me out on a date and let me get to know you this time" and Jason had no objections to that.
— Now you've got the Jason Todd following behind you, people are whispering and watching the two of you. How'd you manage to pull one of Bruce Wayne's sons, especially the standoffish one? You weren't even his girlfriend yet and people couldn't stop talking about you and exactly what Jason wanted, well at least before he made you his.
#✩ kleo's kollection ✩#✩ just for you hun ✩#✩ here's a treat ✩#divider by cafekitsune#jason todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd x y/n#jason todd imagine#jason todd is red hood#red hood#red hood x reader#red hood x you#red hood x y/n#red hood imagine#dc x you#dc x y/n#dc x reader#dc comics#ballerina reader#dc characters#vivaldi
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Daily Ficlet
I'm challenging myself to write a little ficlet every day, using the prompts from this list. Today's prompt is coffee smell.
-
Eddie wakes to the smell of coffee.
That's not unusual for him. Wayne drinks coffee like water, has it both to wake up and go to bed. It's just that, usually, the coffee smell is fainter, having to make its way from the kitchen and through the door to his bedroom.
Did he leave the door open last night? That'd have been a bad idea, given what Steve and he got up to-
Oh. Oh shit! Steve and he-
Eddie cracks his eyes open finally. He's where he usually is when he wakes up; on the side of the bed closest to the door, on his stomach, arm hanging off the bed and face turned towards the door. The door, which is open, and Eddie knows he closed it because he remembers Steve pinning him against it as soon as Eddie had turned back around. Steve crowding into his space, one hand braced on the door beside Eddie's head, the other curling possessively on Eddie's hip. Steve dipping his head to nibble at his shoulder, before kissing and nibbling his way up Eddie's neck, jaw line, capturing Eddie's bottom lip between his teeth before kissing him properly, like Eddie has been wanting him to do since- well, forever probably.
He does a quick scan of the room, but Steve's shirt isn't on the floor by the door where Eddie had ripped it off him. And that. It's fine. Eddie's used to not getting the guy at the end of the story. There were no expectations, they didn't- well, there were promises whispered, but that's just. It's just the kind of words that slip out when wrapped up in the heat of the moment, yeah?
("God, you're so beautiful, Stevie. Beautiful and perfect for me." "Yes, yes, perfect for you. Wanna be. Wanna be perfect for you. Just you. Yours." "Mine. Just mine. You're mine, and I'm yours." "Yes yes yes yes!")
Just words said in the dark of night. Even if Eddie wants them to be real now. Wants to be Steve's and wants Steve to be his. If he just lays here, he can pretend a bit more. He can pretend that Steve's still asleep on the other side of the bed. That the door is open for any other reason than Steve slipping out while Eddie slept.
His other arm, the one trapped beneath him, is starting to get pins and needles, though, so he has to move. He heaves a sigh and digs his elbow into the mattress, using it as leverage to roll onto his back and away from the edge of the bed and-
"You awake babe?"
Eddie doesn't yelp. He'll deny it happening to the end of his days, but he wasn't expecting to hear a voice. Wasn't expecting- "Stevie."
"That's me," Steve says with a laugh. Steve, who has, apparently this whole time, been sitting up on the other side of the bed, Eddie's well-loved copy of The Hobbit in his hands, his shirt tragically back on. He tosses it softly towards the foot of the bed before shifting to drape himself across Eddie, propping himself up with an elbow near Eddie's head. Steve's other hand comes up to brush the hair from Eddie's face before trailing down his neck, across his shoulder, and down his whole arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before Steve tangles their fingers together and gives Eddie's hand a light squeeze that he reciprocates on instinct. It's the right thing to do, Eddie decides, because the smile the spreads across Steve's face is soft and so fond before disappearing from view because Steve lowers himself down to press sweet and gentle kisses to Eddie's lips, once, twice, thrice, before peppering kisses to every inch of Eddie's face he can. Eddie is expecting morning breath, but Steve smells of coffee.
A smile spreads across Eddie's own lips, and laughter follows, because this is so sweet, so fond, makes him feel so safe and loved that the joy Eddie feels has to break free from his body somehow. He chases Steve's mouth down again to kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth to chase the coffee taste. The kisses turn lazy and eventually Steve pulls back, a dopey smile on his face that Eddie is sure is also on his own face. "Good morning."
"Good morning indeed," Eddie says, his thumb rubbing softly against Steve's where they're still holding hands. "Why're you wearing your shirt?"
Steve gives a one shoulder shrug. "Didn't think Wayne would appreciate the view as much as you do."
Eddie blinks up at him. "Wayne's up?"
"He made the coffee that lured me from your bed," Steve says, and his tone is teasing but there's something in his eyes, in the way Eddie feels him tense just the slightest that makes Eddie think 'Oh!' again.
Eddie had been so sure early, that Steve would rather slink away before Eddie woke, but he thinks Steve has the fear of being kicked out now that he's awake. Of having overstayed his welcome, or pushed at a boundary he didn't know Eddie set. Can't have him thinking that. "Well, you're probably right, he wouldn't enjoy the view as much as I. You let me know if that ever changes. I'll not have an old man trying to steal my boyfriend."
That's the right thing to say, Eddie knows immediately. Steve settles completely against him in a way Eddie hadn't known was possible. It's not that Steve gets heavier as he lays across him more, but Eddie feels him press more into him somehow. Clutches tighter at their joined hands and leans back down to rubs his nose against Eddie's cheek. "Worry not, babe. There's only one Munson I want to call boyfriend."
And that. Well. How is Eddie supposed to not kiss Steve -his boyfriend- silly after that?
#steddie#my fic#just a lil ficlet#wayne's just out in the living room turning the tv up so he doesnt have to hear them making out
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not like you — r. cameron
part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. sorry this took so long y'all, school's been kicking my ass :')
❝ get my car door, isn't that sweet?
then pull me to thе backseat
no onе's ever had me, not like you ❞
pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!reader
context: after a few dates with rafe, he finally asks you to go midsummers with him as his girlfriend.
words: 2.9k+
warnings: jealous!jj, bitchy!kie, jealous!rafe, alcohol use, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral m receiving, pretty fluffy, SMUT with a cute little plot bc soft!rafe is soooooo bf material
"so… i've actually been meaning to ask you something," rafe pulls his truck to a stop in front of your house and turns to look at you.
it was the middle of the night and the two of you had just gotten back from getting froyo, after he texted you asking whether you wanted to go with him to get some on his way home from topper's.
"what's up?" you ask, eyes scanning his face, which donned a look of apprehension.
was he nervous?
a chuckle escapes his lips as he glances down, hand fiddling with yours on top of your thigh. "well, we've been going out for a few weeks now…" he started.
"yeah?" a small smile comes across your lips—never in a million years did you think you'd be making rafe cameron, of all people, act like this.
"and you've met my friends," his eyes meet yours, blue irises twinkling. "and my sisters…"
"rafe, what is it?"
"i was wondering if you'd consider going to midsummers with me," he says, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "you know… as a couple."
you tilt your head to the side, and kink an eyebrow. "rafe cameron, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"
he shakes his head at your teasing, and playfully rolls his eyes, thumb rubbing against the top of your hand. "depends, are you saying yes?"
"i don't know," you shrug. "i mean, you're a kook, i'm a pogue. we come from totally different worlds. not to mention i just got out of a year-long relationship and…" you trail off when the look on his face turns sour, clearly thinking you were serious.
"oh, i'm just kidding," you chuckle, nudging his arm.
"you're not funny," he tells you, but you know by the way his eyes light up again that he's relieved.
"i'd love to go to midsummers with you," you smile.
"as my girlfriend?"
"yes, baby," you nod, leaning in so your lips are just hovering above his. "as your girlfriend."
rafe closes the distance, lips meeting yours in a way that make all the butterflies flutter in your stomach, as his other hand comes up to tangle in your hair.
"come inside for a bit," you smile against him, lips only leaving his long enough for you to get the words out.
"your parents won't mind?"
you shake your head, "they're sleeping."
—
“y/n!” sarah immediately comes up to greet you when rafe opens your door and helps you step out, making sure your dress doesn’t snag.
“hey, sare,” you return her hug, but your eyes linger behind her head to john b’s parked twinkie in the parking lot.
…what the hell?
“hey, y/n,” when he rounds the twinkie, dressed nicer than you’ve ever seen him dressed, and comes over to stand beside sarah, it clicks in your head.
“no way,” you shake your head, eyes shifting between them when you break your hug with sarah.
sarah shrugs with a smile, hand intertwining with john b’s. “way.”
“but i thought you were with topper,” you say. “how did-“
“a’ight, as much as i’d love to hear about my sister’s love life, we gotta go,” rafe interrupts you, hand sliding across your exposed lower back, making your head turn towards him, as a chill runs down your spine, your weight shifting from one leg to the other.
“right,” you nod, his intoxicating presence completely making you forget about sarah and john b.
he gives you a small push towards the club and begins to lead you inside, sarah and john b trailing closely behind you.
once again, you’re caught off guard when you follow rafe outside with your hand in his, the back garden of the island club decked out in twinkling lights and hysterias like it was pulled straight out of a fairytale.
"holy shit," you mutter, causing rafe to look at you with a smile.
"you like?"
"are you kidding?" your wide eyes meet his, as you both descend the steps of the back porch. "this is insane."
"come on," he nods his head to the side, and begins leading you toward his dad, rose, and wheezie. "you can meet my dad."
while the two of you had been messing around for about a month now, and you had even attended a brunch at the club with him two weeks ago, he'd been apprehensive to officially introduce you to ward. not that you thought it was a big deal—everyone in the obx already knew who he was.
"dad," rafe greets him with a smile; you glued to his side. "this is y/n."
"so you're the girl i've been hearing so much about," ward smiles at you and holds out a hand. "ward cameron."
you place your free hand in his for a quick handshake, relief washing over you when you realize he isn't the monster you thought he was—at least, if he was, he surely hid it well with that friendly smile.
"y/n y/l/n," you tell him. "it's nice to meet you."
"you too," he nods. "nice to finally put a face to the name. you kids enjoy yourselves."
"thank you," you reply, as rafe pulls you away towards kelce and topper by the bar.
"well, well, what do we have here?" topper smiles at the two of you and sips on a glass of what you assume to be whiskey. "is it official?"
"something like that," you smile back, leaning into rafe and tilting your head up to look at him, his eyes twinkling as they locked with yours.
"y'all want something or what?" the sound of jj's bitter voice pulls you out of your haze, when he walks up behind topper and kelce and leans his hands against the bar counter.
there was just no escaping him.
his eyes meet yours when top and kelce step aside to give him a full view of you and rafe, dressed in matching colors with your hands intertwined.
a smug smirk comes across rafe's lips, realizing just how quickly the tables had turned. though he'd never admit it, he'd always had a thing for you ever since he saw you waitressing at the wreck that one time you agreed to help kie with the lunch rush. a part of him always hated that jj got to you first, but that didn't matter now. because he was the one standing beside you tonight. not jj.
"just a glass of whiskey for me, man," he says, before looking down at you. "anything for you, doll?"
"i'll take a glass of wine," you nod at him, pulling your eyes away from jj. rafe was the guy in your life now.
"you heard her," rafe tells jj. "and make it white wine. the most expensive kind you've got."
you playfully roll your eyes at his antics—he clearly just wanted jj to know how much he liked to spoil you—but don't argue when he hands you your glass.
"i'll be back," you whisper to him. "i'm gonna go find sarah."
"okay, baby," he nods, leaning down to place his lips on yours. "save me a dance, though."
jj rolls his eyes behind the bar and scoffs, tongue poking at his cheek as he poured another drink for kelce.
you choose to ignore him, and smile up at your new boyfriend instead. "you got it."
—
"is this a pogue reunion i see?" you couldn't help taking a detour from finding sarah to walk up to pope and john b by the grill that pope was working.
"maybe for you," pope shrugs, and john b agrees, pointing the neck of his beer bottle towards you before taking a sip. "we're together everyday."
"alright, touché," you nod, a hand reaching out to bump john b's chest. "i didn't know you cleaned up so well, dude."
"look who's talking," john b says, eyes trailing up and down the baby blue dress you're wearing. "you look more like a kook than anyone here."
you roll your eyes and shake your head. "shut the fuck up."
"i'm totally serious," he chuckles. "you look good, y/n. happy."
you sigh, not being able to help the smile that spreads across your lips. "i am."
"good," he returns your smile. "that's how it should be."
"and what about you?" you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. "mr. sarah cameron… how the hell did that happen?"
he shrugs, "i don't know, it kinda just did."
a small laugh leaves your mouth. "hmm. who would've thought, huh? you and me with kooks?"
"definitely wasn't on my list of things that would happen this year," he shakes his head, chuckling.
"where is she, anyway?"
"she went to go find you, actually," he says.
"damn, i should go find her then," you reply. "but text me, yeah? i've missed y'all."
half-engaged in conversation with topper and kelce across the garden by the bar, rafe's eyes focus on you, as you throw your head back in a giggle at something john b and pope had said, his grip on his glass tightening. his tongue moves to poke at his cheek when you throw an arm around john b in a hug, and then pope, the ugly green monster inside him threatening to make an appearance, as he brings the glass up to his lips and downs the rest of his whiskey.
"face it, man," jj tuts, refilling his drink when he sets it down on the counter. "she's known us longer than you. it's not gonna last."
"just fill up my glass and shut the fuck up, a'ight?" rafe throws him a glare. "no one asked you."
—
you enter the bathroom to pee after failing to find sarah again—where the hell could she have possibly gone?—the two wine glasses you had finally catching up to you.
"you've got some nerve showing your face here," kiara's voice fills your ears when you move towards the sink to wash your hands.
when you look up at the mirror, you find her standing behind you. "you're one to talk," you turn off the sink and reach for some paper towards to dry your hands, as you turned to look at her. "weren't you against all these events because they're so ‘tone-deaf'?"
she scoffs and shakes her head. "you're pathetic, you know that? taking jj from me, dumping him for rafe…" this psycho bitch. "then turning him, john b and pope against me…" wait, what? "i mean— seriously, y/n, are you really that desperate for attention?"
you let out a sigh to keep your composure—she wasn't worth the energy it took to stoop down to her level. despite what she and jj had put you through, you were happy. she wasn't taking that away from you.
"i hate to break it to you, but if the boys aren't talking to you, it has nothing to do with me," you tell her. "maybe they just realized who you really are." you shrug, taking a step towards her. "you're a shitty person, kiara. you can try and blame me all you want, but you dug your own grave."
"you—"
"lie in it," you cut her off. "and while you're at it, leave me alone."
you don't allow her to get another word in before walking away, leaving her alone in the bathroom with her own thoughts.
damn that felt good.
—
"hey stranger," you lean down and snake the arm not holding a glass of wine around rafe's neck, your hand landing on his chest, as he sat at an empty table with a glass of whiskey, sulking.
"done talking to your other boyfriends?" he asks, raising his glass up to his lips.
you tilt your head at him, eyebrows furrowing. "what?"
"i saw you flirting with john b and pope," he says, setting his drink down on the table, as his eyes finally met yours.
they didn't look angry though, more like… sad?
"you thought i was flirting?" you ask, moving to sit in the seat beside him. "they're my friends, babe. i haven't seen them in a while, we were just catching up."
"didn't look like that when you were giggling and hugging them," his eyes avert to his glass on the table, his finger tracing along its rim.
"oh my god," you chuckle, half-amused by his behavior. "are you jealous?"
"why would i be jealous?" he shrugs you off, still refusing to have his eyes meet yours again. "if it's them you want, that's cool."
you sigh, and place a hand on his. "come dance with me."
to your surprise, he doesn't resist when you take his hand in yours and stand up to lead him towards the dance floor, as the band began to play an instrumental rendition of taylor swift's you are in love.
your hands lock behind rafe's neck, while his hands snake around your waist, pulling you close to him, as the two of you slowly began to sway along with the music.
"you're crazy, you know that?" you ask, fingers entwining with the hair on the back of his head.
"how's that?"
"for thinking i'd flirt with someone else when i'm here with you," you say.
"they've known you longer than me," he shrugs. "it's not that crazy."
"i guess,” you shrug. “but you’re forgetting something.”
his eyebrows furrow. “what?”
“they’re not you,” your lips pull together in a smile. "i mean, sure, i've known them longer. yes, we're friends, but they don't hold a candle to you, alright? no one's ever made me feel the way you do."
and it was true. your entire relationship with jj, there was always an uneasy feeling in the depths of your stomach that made you feel like there was always someone else—and it was right, because there was kie. but with rafe? he made you feel like the only girl in the world. it was healing.
"not even jj?"
you chuckle and shake your head. "not even jj."
"and how do i make you feel, doll?" his head tilts to the side, an amused look on his face.
a smirk comes across your lips, eyes locking with his. "how 'bout i show you?"
—
"shit, baby, what's gotten into you?" rafe smirks against your lips, your body rolling against him and your fingers entwined in his hair.
the two of you were now in the backseat of his truck, tongues dancing together while his hands roamed over your body.
you shrug, jokingly. "wine."
"damn," he muttered. "should get you wine drunk more often."
without your lips ever leaving his, one of your hands trail down his body to slide over the hardness under his pants, eliciting a groan from him.
he pulls away and shakes his head at you, the look in his eyes hungrier than you've ever seen them. "don't tease me, pretty girl."
"i don't plan to," you smirk, hands coming between the two of you to begin unbuckling his belt.
you pull away from him and he leans back on the seat, as you position yourself on your knees, hands working at his belt to pull down his slacks and boxers. his cock springs free and you immediately wrap your fingers around it, rafe's hand landing on your ass to give it a squeeze.
you slowly lean down to take him in your mouth, your mouth swirling around his length as you cupped his balls with your hand.
"fuckkkk," rafe groans, hand trailing up to gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail. "just like that, doll."
you lick up his length and swirl your tongue around his tip, making his head tilt back as he began guiding your head to bob up and down.
you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat and you gag, only making rafe hotter.
you release him from your mouth, and tilt your head up to look at him as you began stroking his length up and down. "you gonna cum for me, baby?"
"uh-uh," rafe shakes his head and grabs your hand to stop you, before grabbing you by the waist to sit up so he could untie the back of your dress and pull it off you, until it's lying on the floor of his truck. "come ride me, pretty girl."
he guides your hips to move over him, and you place your hand over his shoulders, your soaked center hovering right above his length.
he doesn't give you the chance to tease him, and immediately pushed you down, his entire length sinking into you and making you throw your head back.
you begin rocking your hips against him and he groans, one hand moving up to grab your tit.
"oh rafe," you moan, your orgasm inching closer and closer as you tangle a hand into his hair and lean against him.
his lips connect to your neck and begins trailing wet kisses, his fingers pinching your nipple and heightening the pleasure you were already feeling.
"so close, baby," rafe whispers against you. "you gonna cum with me?"
"mhm," you nod, barely coherent as your high washes over you.
you tremble when rafe shoots his load and keeps you steady, his head falling against your shoulder.
"did that answer your question?" you pant.
you feel his smirk on your skin before he picks his head up to look at you. "oh yeah."
"and how do you feel about me?"
he brings a hand up and pushes you hair back, eyes scanning every inch of your face. "you're everything."
anddddd that concludes this little series... i think. i've considered writing an epilogue but it'd take place several years after this, so let me know if that's something y'all are even interested in. but until then, i'm very excited to start working on some new fics, so stay tuned :)
reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated <33
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tags: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @immyowndefender @chiaraanatra @ijustwanttoreadlols @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesgiirl @solanathascientst @10ava01 @werewhatkilledthedinosaurs @void21 @groovycass @azrielsgirll @rroslitas @crvptidgf @star-girl-05 @redhead1180 @shadyshadyy @prettypimpcess12 @emotionsmgcbabe @outerbankspov @letmeintourheart @ilyrafe @callsignwidow @zyafics
#rafe cameron#rafe#rafe obx#obx#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe x reader#rafe x y/n#outer banks#rafe outer banks#rafe smut#rafe fluff#cute rafe#rafe being bf material#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron fluff#obx fic
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jadey!! would you ever write something for spencer where reader gets tipsy/drunk and is all over him? i just think he would be so cute and flustered, especially if she isn’t usually this forward with him (either established relationship or mutual crushing!)
thanks for your request lovely♡ —you really want spencer to be your boyfriend. fem!reader, 1k
The smell of your lip balm is the very first thing Spencer acknowledges, rather than the soft press of your lips to his cheek, or your hand on his neck. When he does realise you're kissing him it's like a shock to the system; Spencer hadn't thought about what his neck might feel like to a new hand until you're cupping it sweetly, hadn't worried about the neatness of his hair before you ran a hand over it with reverence.
"Thanks for coming to pick me up," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Best boyfriend ever."
Which is a great sentiment and all, but Spencer isn't your boyfriend. He holds your back in one arm, the other busy strangling his shiny car keys, his mind racing. He isn't your boyfriend. Right? You have to ask someone for it to be official (according to Derek, Penelope, and Emily) (JJ was a little more lax about it) and Spencer's been too scared to ask you.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly. You're wobbly.
"Super drunk," you say, like it's one word, a diagnosable affliction. "Sorry."
"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to be sober for me to drive you home. I'm really glad you called me."
You're drunk enough to miss his confused tones. "No, I'm sorry 'cos I knew you'd say yes even though you hate driving. I honestly didn't even think you had a car."
Spencer pulls you closer as a couple stumbles out of the same bar you'd been inside of, though when he arrived you were sitting on the cold sidewalk with your knees pulled up and your dress slipping out of place. He adjusts his grip to put an arm under yours and begins leading you toward to the parking lot.
"Next time, I'll come inside to get you, okay? I don't think I need statistics to remind you that it's not safe to be inebriated by yourself in the city, especially now." It's pitch black outside, stars like a scattering of tint salt grains visible to only the most dedicated of eyes. "It's dangerous for you. I don't mind coming in to find you."
"You're the nicest," you declare, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.
He's fitter than he used to be, but Spencer doesn't have a chance of getting you to the car if you're not conscious. "Hey, keep your eyes open. It's not far, okay? Work with me."
"Will you call me something nice if I do?" you ask.
Spencer helps you down off of the curb and across a naked stretch of asphalt shining like grease in the light from the lamppost. "I'll call you whatever you want me to."
"You called me pretty on Thursday."
Spencer feels the heat of a blush blooming at your slurred proclamation but doesn't back down. "You looked pretty on Thursday. You look pretty every single day. Watch the curb."
"What about, uh, pet names?"
"Like what?" he asks.
"Like honey, and sweetheart. Angel, doll, dove."
"Is that what you want?" he asks, trying to sneak a look at your face. You're concentrating hard on your footsteps, your tall shoes slippery on the wet ground.
"If we're together…"
"Are we together?" Spencer asks. He shouldn't ask while you're drunk, and it's not like he's going to take your word for it now over any sober discussion in the future, but he wants to know.
"You don't think we're together?" you ask, frowning. He's horrified to see the crushed tremble in your lip.
"I haven't had the chance to ask you yet," he says quickly.
You sniffle, looking at him with a wide-eyed hope. "But you're going to ask me?"
"Yeah, I'm going to ask you." He lowers his voice. He's not afraid of other people hearing him. If anything, he's afraid you will. He's afraid you'll hear him and reject him, despite every sign that says you won't. "I've wanted to ask you for a really long time, but you're– I was scared. You're beautiful, and kind, and you make me feel like I've found something I was missing, now. I guess I thought holding off would change the odds."
"I thought you got banned from all those casinos," you say, clinging to his arm.
Spencer's nose wrinkles. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"You count cards and pr… probability," —you sound it out— "right? Have you not been doing that with me?"
Spencer stops walking to help you pull your jacket back onto your bare shoulder. It's too cold to stay out here long. "It's different. You're different."
"Oh." You smile at him dreamily. Eyes squinting until your lashes kiss in the corners, you smile like your lips have been stuck together with honey. You pout at him very gently, and he thinks you might want a kiss.
Spencer pats your back. "Come on. I'll take you home. You can sleep it off."
"Can I come home with you?"
He sees his car in the distance, a beacon of hope. "Yeah, if you want. But I don't have any pyjamas or anything for you."
"Not yet," you say.
Spencer goes pink to the ears, and unfortunately for him, you notice. You refuse to walk a step further, throwing heavy arms over his shoulders to beam at him eye to eye. Your fingers tangle gently into the ends of his hair and twist in circles that have butterflies exploding in his stomach. His breath catches when you tug on a strand, clearly bemused.
"I really want to be your girlfriend."
"I–" He swallows roughly. "I really want you to be my girlfriend."
"Will you ask me?"
"Tomorrow?" he asks delicately. He might be shy with you, but he has no qualms now showing you how vehemently he returns your affections, his arms curling slowly but surely behind your back.
You fall into his arms for another hug. "Yesssss," you cheer under your breath.
He sneaks a kiss against the shell of your ear. "Wanna go get something to eat first?"
You gasp like you've been offered the world. "You really are the best boyfriend."
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader
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— one more time
jing yuan has always considered himself to be a patient man, never failing to have a plan in mind and out of sight for unforeseeable circumstances. when it comes to matters involving you, however, he finds that he never has the time to think; not when he acts quicker than he can process.
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1k wc, fluff, kissing, very much pining jing yuan
A/N : holds this man gently as i stare at him doing his idles with big wide eyes and tears rolling down my cheeks (also yes this is me using the "idk how to kiss" "then i will teach u" trope as an excuse to write a kissing jing yuan fic bc i am delusional and proud🐥)
when jing yuan was reciting his usual pep-talk as he made his way to your decided meet-up spot (which included, but was not limited to: stay calm, cool, and composed— the triple-c, if you will — and don't make a fool of yourself, jing yuan), he figured the cosy picnic (date) arrangement would go smoothly and without a hitch. you would be there bathed in the artificial sunlight, fingers threading through blades of grass and then you would turn at the rhythm of his footsteps, that signature grin of yours on full display as he would attempt to calm his thunderous heart from spilling saccharine confessions accumulated over the last few centuries.
like always.
but very much unlike now, it seems.
in place of the predicted events he'd conjured up beforehand, the words “i don't know how to kiss” welcome him instead. (he just barely catches himself before the picnic basket in his grip goes tumbling across the grass.)
“...what?”
“right?” you huff, seated on the grass with your arms supporting your weight while bathed in the artificial sunlight of the luofu. “i've lived for this long, and yet i have never kissed anyone! wait, or maybe it's because no one wants to kiss me... am i that unkissable?”
“no!” is the immediate rebuttal which springs forth to the tip of his tongue, but he just barely catches himself. he's planned thousands, probably millions, of ways in which he could confess to you, but the timing has never been quite right. that, or the times where he was about to confess were interrupted; sometimes by some last minute calls, other times where he just misses the timing, but usually by yanqing unceremoniously barging in between you.
this time isn't any different either, because it is simply not quite right. there's something — something imperceptible yet obvious in the back of his mind, giving him the go-ahead on the perfect time to bleed nothing but the pure, unadulterated adoration you've inflicted upon him.
this time isn't any different either, but his mind goes blank, a clarity he has never felt before driving his senses.
“i'll teach you.”
it's a sudden offer, one he doesn't really know where he got the confidence to offer it from, and yet something about your stunned expression and his unusually calm heart seems... right.
“...you know how to kiss?”
“i know more than you do,” he counters. a triumphant grin tugs the corners of his lips when your mouth instantly clams shut at his words.
he waits for your response with baited breath. will you agree? will you refuse his, painfully obvious, advance? oh god what should he do if you say no? play it off as a joke? tease you for considering it? walk away in shame and cry about it—?
“alright then,” you say, and he blinks once, twice. “it's not like i have anything to lose.”
...is this a dream?
apparently not, as he now finds himself seated in front of you with the artificial sunlight doing little to help fend off the heat blooming along his skin. your eyes are closed with your body leaning towards him in baited anticipation, but his gaze hones in on the clench-unclench of your fists and your stiff posture.
unable to contain himself, he chuckles, “someone's a little tense.”
“ugh, cut me some slack! you're my first, so of course i'm nervous.”
your first. he's your first. yours. he's yours.
it's almost like a mantra the way he repeats your words (as well as varying renditions of them), one which does little to keep his waning self-restraint intact.
with a sharp inhale, he cradles your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting your head slightly to align better with his. if this were him any other day, he would have merely brushed this moment off as another one of his fantasies; an untouchable perception of what he wishes could be his.
this is not any other day, however, as jing yuan is hyper-aware of your light breaths fanning against his lips, the faint brush of his nose against yours, and your familiar scent which curls into him.
you, you, you. you are all he feels, all he can think of, even more so when he finally pushes forward into your awaiting silence and slots his lips against yours. it's a perfect fit, he thinks in what little room he allows for thought when preoccupied with your overflowing warmth and the taste of you on his tongue and the sheer euphoria which bubbles up when you hold onto him in response to his hands sliding up to cup your cheeks and holding you close.
he wonders if you can feel his centuries' worth of repressed affection from this exchange — if you can feel the desperation coursing through his veins as he leans into your touch. he already knows it's impossible though, for his love runs far too deep to be conveyed in just one singular moment.
“did you get that?” there's an ache in his heart when you part for air, but it's quickly forgotten when you blindly chase after him.
“one more time,” you whisper against his lips, his heart surging up his throat at your half-dazed eyes and tightening grip on his clothes. “i think you need to show me one more time.”
his waning self-restraint snaps.
“look at me,” he whispers back, voice hoarse with pent-up desire. his hands tilt your head up, guiding your gaze to align with his once more. before you can let a word slip through it's smothered, his lips crashing onto yours in an instant as he finds himself more determined than ever to leave you breathless with his adoration and have you focus solely on him.
if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33
#honkai star rail x reader#hsr x reader#jing yuan x reader#jingyuan x reader#honkai star rail x you#hsr x you#jing yuan x you#jingyuan x you#honkai star rail imagines#hsr imagines
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𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 ─ 𝐦𝐯𝟏
summary: where max verstappen is the subject of a love song from a singer who never writes love songs
pairing: max verstappen x american singer!reader
faceclaim: no one specifically but based off olivia rodrigo
note: me? writing max verstappen? smau fluff? on main? everyone look away.
dailyynupdates
liked by user33, user4, user16 and others
dailyynupdates yn was seen around monte carlo the past few days, taking pictures with fans and allegedly cozying up with three time world champion max verstappen
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user12 what is going on in the house of commons because this was the last thing i expected
user39 this is quite literally the most random pairing i've ever stumbled across
user91 how do they even know each other 😭
user63 right like...where did this even come from? how did it start? literally how did they meet? they could not be farthest apart in the sphere of famous people
user19 now who the hell is max verstappen and why is he with my wife?
user49 oh girl you have a lot to catch up on the max lore
user71 max is a formula one driver
user56 saying max is a formula 1 driver like he currently isn't dominating the sport to the point where people hates him saying he's making it boring since he keeps winning because he's just that fucking good that literally no other driver can keep up is kinda wild
user10 oh so our girl's new man is good at his job
user52 "good at his job might just be the biggest understatement of the century when it comes to max. man's a fucking beast at his job
user48 i dont have to see her with her ratty ex anymore omfg war is over
user93 dare i say...they're adorable
user82 yn being in an age appropriate, healthy relationship? i never thought the day would come
user74 we won for real 🥹🫶
dailyynupdates
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dailyynupdates max and yn in a video posted by yn's friend 😭
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user93 oh my god look at them 😭
user81 they look so in love i want to cry
user65 "maximillian, do i look pretty like this?" "you always look pretty" i couldn't quite catch what he said at the end but 😭😭😭
user85 dutch here and i believe he said "laiverd" which means darling
user75 this means so much to me
user65 you just made my entire week
user45 seeing her in love after all the shit men is healing a part of me i didnt know was broken
user53 max fixing her hood then kissing her cheek what if you just stabbed me
user31 every time i see these, i get the urge to take a shot of bleach 😀
sincerelyyn ✓
liked by conangrey, maxverstappen1, taylorswift and others
sincerelyyn can't have a conversation if it's not all about you
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yourfriend as the other person of those conversations, he's fine i guess 😒
sincerelyyn you know i love youuuuu
taylorswift love seeing you happy ❤️
sincerelyyn ❤️❤️
user73 mother is all of us
user63 you know it's real when it's taylor swift approved
conangrey i hate happy couples i hope you both trip 🫶
sincerelyyn die 🫶
user92 their friendship is everything to me
user15 not girlie trying to soft launch like we all don't know who it is 😭
user43 THEYRE SO ‼️🥵🥰⚠️
user65 you're so right
user24 i'm so happy finally seeing our girl happy 😭
user84 "someday i'll be everything to somebody else" YES YOU ARE BABYGIRL 😭
maxverstappen1
liked by sincerelyyn, charles_leclerc, landonorris and others
maxverstappen1 my american girl 🩷
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charles_leclerc i still can't believe this is happening
maxverstappen1 for someone who don't even follow me, you sure are early to my posts 😒
user91 max gagged him with that im afraid
landonorris please please max talk to her about getting me tickets 😭
user85 lando is just like us fr struggling to get guts tour tickets
maxverstappen1 no ❤️
landonorris 😔
sincerelyyn @landonorris let me get you in contact with my team 🤍
maxverstappen1 baby noooo
sincerelyyn be nice, max
landonorris HELL YEAH THANKS YN
user42 this is the crossover i never thought i needed
user66 max posting non racing content and being all soft in the comments for yn in what world am i in
user52 fr i feel like im in an alternate universe 😭
sincerelyyn love youuuu
maxverstappen1 love you more
sincelyyn i never knew love could be so golden till i met you <3
maxverstappen1 mijn hele hart is van jou, schat (you own my entire heart, darling)
user42 they mean so very much to me 😭
danielricciardo god the two of you make me nauseous
maxverstappen1 hating because you ain't us
danielricciardo im not liking that attitude, kid 😒
user71 daniel is so us
sincerelyyn
liked by maxverstappen1, taylorswift, yourfriend and others
sincerelyyn so american will be out on all platforms at midnight. a letter to the man i love, the only way i know how ❤️
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maxverstappen1 i adore you with everything in my being ❤️
sincerelyyn ik hou van je (i love you)
i hope you guys liked this as much as i loved writing it 🫶
#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 instagram au#f1 x you#f1#f1 social media au#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen instagram au#max verstappen x you#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen#max verstappen fluff
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