#(not saying that in an accusatory way but in a reminder kind of way)

[lovesickchoi]

📁 FILE 01: CHOI SOOBIN

⋆·˚ ༘ * After a missed anniversary and weeks spent out of sync, Soobin just wants to be close to you again—really close. No rush, no performance. Just you, him, and the quiet reminder that you still belong to each other.

✦ Love Language: Quality Time

pairing: soobin x reader ✮⋆˙✐ 3.8k

warnings: smut, f!reader, no protection, soft dom!soobin, sub!reader, cock warming, slight oral f!rec, praise, romance, no protection, finishing inside

🗂️ click to access all txt member’s files

˚₊ · »-♡→ main masterlist

The apartment is quiet when you finally come home.

Way too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavier than your bag slung over your shoulder, heavier than the late hour blinking back at you on the microwave clock.

Stepping inside, you make sure to lock the door behind you. You take off your shoes, drop your keys into the bowl, and glance toward the couch.

He’s sitting there, asleep—just barely. Half curled into the throw blanket, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he was waiting for you but gave up halfway through.

You stand there longer than you intend to, just wanting to watch him for a moment. He stirs before you can say anything, lashes fluttering, voice groggy.

"You're late again..." Soobin grumbles. It wasn't accusatory, just worn thin.

You give him a small apologetic smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't even get a lunch break today."

Soobin nods and tries to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks toward the TV, and the silence stretches on longer than you'd like. With Soobin's recent comeback promotions and your new late-night shifts at the office, quality time together was few and far between.

Even when you managed to spend time together, it was never just the two of you. There were always friends around, always the other members. Never a moment that felt truly yours—never a chance to just be alone with Soobin.

And still, he loved you with a quiet kind of devotion. Soobin would wait up long past midnight just for the quiet privilege of walking you to bed. Even the smallest moment alone with you was worth losing sleep over.

You were so used to running—meeting quotas, ticking boxes, always being on—that you hadn’t noticed how little of yourself you’d given him lately. Not your stories, not your softness. Not your time.

And apparently not even your memory for important days, like today.

You realize it the moment your eyes flick toward the calendar on the fridge. The date. Your heart sinks.

"Shit," you breathe. "Our anniversary..."

Soobin doesn’t even flinch. He just watches you quietly, eyes soft but ridden with exhaustion.

Your own eyes shift down to the uneaten container of food and unopened bottle of wine on the kitchen table—he waited to eat.

"You didn't have to wait."

He responds quickly. "I wanted to." Soobin doesn't say for you, but it's written all over his face. He'd do anything to savor a moment with you.

"I am so sorry, Binnie," you're barely able to get out. "I care about you so much. I would never..."

You feel a twist of guilt settle in your stomach, but he doesn’t pile on. Nor does he guilt you. That’s not who Soobin is.

“You didn’t forget because you don’t care,” he says softly. “I know you. You just… never forget things like that. I know how overwhelmed you've been.”

Soobin doesn’t say more. He just lifts the blanket, a wordless invitation smoothed between the wrinkles in the couch cushions. When you lie down beside him, it’s quiet again. The kind that’s warm this time—full of unspoken things and shared breath. His arms curl around you instinctively. He presses his face into your neck like he’s been holding in the need to feel you all week.

"I hate this," he breathes out, almost like he's embarrassed to say it. "Hate only seeing you like this."

You swallow hard, because you feel it too. You've never been good at this. Never been good at showing Soobin just how close you want—no, need—to be near him.

You try to apologize. To say something, anything about work. About your stupid boss, the lack of breaks, the lack of appreciation, the unpaid overtime.

And he lets you ramble on. Because this is his favorite thing in the entire world—hearing your sweet voice talking about your day, getting to hold you while you do it. His eyes are sparkling and trained on your face, attention undivided as you vent. Soobin's heart thunders beneath his rib cage.

You’re halfway through telling him all the messy details—words spilling too fast, casual but unfocused, like you’re trying to outrun your own exhaustion. There’s a thin sheen of energy in your voice, but it’s cracked at the edges. You yawn mid-sentence, barely stifling it behind the back of your hand.

Soobin notices the way you press on like you aren't seconds from collapsing. He always does.

You brush it off like you usually do, reaching for a water bottle on the coffee table, already moving on to the next thought. But before you can, Soobin gently lays his hand over yours.

“You’re tired.”

You blink at him. “I’m fine.”

“You come home and talk like you haven’t breathed in hours," he chuckles through a sigh. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a quiet hurt.

That makes you stop. Not because you disagree, but because he said it like he’s been holding it in for too long. You never really knew how to be present with him. Even in times like this, when you knew he needed it most.

He sits up straight, shifting his body to face you fully. His hand doesn’t leave yours.

“I know you don’t like stopping. I know being tired makes you feel like you’re falling behind. But I promise it's okay to slow down once in a while.”

"Binnie..." Your voice trails off.

“You didn’t forget on purpose,” he says again, because he needs you to believe it. “But I still need you. I still want today to matter. Even if it’s just here, like this.”

His voice dips, eyes searching yours. "I know we've both been working a lot. But to be honest, this has been really killing me. Can't we just take our time tonight?"

And then he’s pulling you in—slowly, gently—his arms around you. The kind of embrace that doesn’t demand anything, only offers.

You don’t fight it, don't say anything. You just let yourself sink into his chest, right into the warmth of him. It’s the only place where you don’t have to be composed or efficient or fine. You just needed to be his.

His hand slides up your back. “Just… be here,” he murmurs into your hair. “For a little while.”

And for once, you let yourself stay still. His lips brush the crown of your head, barely there.

You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. He doesn’t rush you. But when you tilt your head up to look at him, his eyes are already on you. Warm and desperate. It’s not lust, not at first. It’s pure longing.

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s trying to memorize you. You can’t help but lean into his angelic touch. Then his mouth is on yours. A slow and needy kiss that says I’ve missed you, stay forever.

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back even as his fingers slip under your shirt, testing you, as if he’s asking for permission with every touch.

You give it with ease.

When you shift into his lap, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck, the ache of it all hits him.

Soobin holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear again. His tongue is pressed between your lips, scaling every inch of your mouth that it can reach. An exasperated moan leaves you in a low sigh, and he swallows it down greedily. You unravel against one another, piece by piece.

The growing tightness in Soobin's pants presses firmly against you. You were beginning to throb for him and his attention alone. No distractions or distance, just this—focused and intentional.

Even though your lips moved unhurriedly, you have to pull away for air. But he doesn't let you escape so easily, keeping his forehead pressed firm against your own.

Soobin wants your attention on nothing but him tonight, that’s a promise he kept for himself. Before your mind can race, he's rubbing circles with his thumb over your leggings, stealing your mind away from stress and thoughts of work, locking them away where they’d be forced to put Soobin at the forefront.

Your leggings, usually an inconvenient barrier, were completely soaked through to the skin. It left Soobin no problem in rubbing every sensitive spot you yearned for him to reach.

A shaky breath leaves your lips. "Fuck, been needing you so bad. Been so stressed out." His eyes are trained on the outline of your folds, your cunt basically sucking in the soaked fabric and begging for his finger to follow suit. He wondered just how well you would suck his cock in if you were dripping and swelling like this already.

He groans loudly without remiss, throaty and strained, head dropping against your shoulder in self-control.

He continues to rub you lovingly, tearing his gaze from between your thighs to your face, smiling at the blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. His eyes flood with warmth when he speaks. "I want to do something."

“I’ll do anything,” you answer to him like you always have. Your time, your mind, your soul—he’s always had access to all of it, whenever he wanted.

Soobin’s smile spreads wide across his face, unable to contain it. His hands grip your hips before slipping beneath your shirt, slowly lifting it over your head with care.

Your breath catches. He looks almost shy when he speaks again.

“Can I just… stay inside you tonight?” His voice is hushed and reverent. “I don’t want to rush. I just—want to be close.”

A nod is all you need to deliver him. His hands are gripping just beneath your ass, standing up from the couch as he holds you. Your legs lock around his waist, keeping him close amidst the trek to your shared bedroom.

You noticed how deliberate Soobin was tonight—every step he took toward the bed felt endless. And when he finally lays you down against the soft cotton sheets, it’s like the world exhales. For the first time in a long time, you feel breathtakingly alive.

His movements flow into each other, rewriting time just to make this moment last longer. The only moment he disconnects himself from you his to peel off his own t-shirt. Your clothes are stripped from your body as well, more carefully than ever. Tender fingers work at the hem of your leggings, dragging them down your goose-bump ridden skin.

Soobin's lips are the only things moving quickly, wanting to feel your warm skin against them. He's kissing a trail across your chest, down your stomach, breath sucking in at the laced panties staring back at him.

The black material is sticky, soaked, and completely lost between your folds. Your head rested gently against a pillow slightly cocked to the side, peering down at him through hooded eyelids. He was so beautiful. All the time in the world belonged to you two.

"Mm, fuck baby," you're already whining out. Fuck these new schedules. Fuck your late nights. This is what you've both been denied for too long.

Large hands splayed across the curvature of your hips, gripping the flesh and securing you in place. Between your legs, he helped himself to one long, and slow drag of his tongue up your cunt. He breathed you in, fabric and all, with greed. It felt like a reward for the time he'd spent patiently craving for your presence.

Tender teeth got hold of your panties, dragging them halfway down your legs. A chill shoots up through you, his teeth grazing your inner thigh just enough. Soobin's fingers took over, sliding the material the rest of the way off.

One more lewd kiss against your cunt, this one hard and claiming, and he's up on his knees removing his sweatpants and underwear just as painfully slow. You'd never felt so prepared for Soobin in your entire relationship. Thighs and sheets stained with splotches of your sweet arousal, out of control.

Now fully undressed and erect against his toned stomach, Soobin takes his place next to you on the bed. He's propped up, back against the headboard, looking at you expectantly.

"Come here," his voice is so careful as he pats his lap. His voice holds the kind of care reserved for precious things.

You swing a leg over his waist with his help, straddling him where he sits. Soobin is silent, but his face says everything. His chin pressed to his chest as he looks between your legs, lips drawn rough between his teeth.

He keeps his hands at your waistline, lifting his hips just enough to align himself with your sopping entrance. You both hiss softly as the head of his cock slides against your folds, hot and thick. But he doesn’t push in just yet. He’s waiting for you again, asking for permission.

“Can I?” he whispers, even though you’ve already said yes in every way that counts.

You nod and sink down slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. Neither of you moves. You just sit there, wrapped around him, buried in each other.

Your walls clench instinctively, and he emits a broken groan. But he doesn’t move, he doesn't fuck up into you—just presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes.

This isn’t about sex for either of you. It’s about connection. Closeness. The ache to feel like you still belong to each other. Skin on skin, hearts syncing with every breath, you melt together until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

Soobin stays nestled inside your warmth for so long that you begin to lose track of time. His hands draw lazy circles over your back, his lips brushing your shoulder in silent worship. Your arms hang around his neck, holding him close. Every now and then, your walls flutter around him, and he exhales a quiet curse into your skin.

Every moment spent inside you is marked by a kiss—some soft and delicate, others deep and bruising, left like claims on your neck. Soobin's voice is hushed, whispering over and over how much he adores you. His hands roam your body like he's rediscovering it all over again, tracing every dip, outlining the shape of you with his touch. He’s etching you into him.

Eventually, the stillness turns to tension. You shift your hips just slightly and feel him twitch inside you. His breath hitches, and you notice.

“Don’t do that,” Soobin murmurs, voice taught with restraint.

Your faces are pressed close, cheek to cheek. He can feel the graze of your hardened nipples against his chest, your shaky, uneven moans fanning hot against his ear. And suddenly, he’s entirely too aware of you—of how impossibly tight and perfect your body feels around him, like you were made to fit just like this.

"Sorry, Binne." You don’t mean for it to come out as a whimper, but it slips, drenched in need. “I’m just so full…”

You try to remain still, but your eyes are already glassy with want. And when your lips find his again, more desperate this time, he gives in.

He starts to move, gently at first. Rolling his hips into yours like it’s the first time all over again. You can tell he's afraid to shatter the moment, but can’t help needing you more.

Soobin's hand finds your hair, gripping firmly—not to dominate, but to really see you. He pulls back just enough to watch your face, to pass every wave of pleasure back and forth between your eyes. He makes love to you like he’s savoring it, dragging his cock in and out at the perfect angle, hitting your g-spot again and again with a patience that feels more like devotion than control.

But it’s not enough, not with how he feels inside you. How his cock stretches you open just right, how his eyes celebrate every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

So you shift again—this time intentionally—lifting your hips just slightly before sinking back down. The friction makes your mouth fall open, a soft moan filling the air.

Soobin groans, his hands flying to your waist. “Baby…”

But you’re already moving again. A slow, teasing roll of your hips that pulls breathless curses from his lips. Your hands brace against his chest as you rise onto your knees and start to bounce—gently, at first, letting yourself adjust, letting the stretch fill you again and again. His cock drags along your walls in the most maddening way, kissing your sweet spot again and again.

His fingers dig into your sides, but he doesn’t stop you. He wouldn't dare. Instead, Soobin just watches you with his lips parted, chest rising and falling with every bounce. The expression on his face is pure awe. He can’t believe this is real. Spending time with you has never felt this heavenly. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, voice trembling as your thighs work to keep the pace. “So big…”

He sits up more to meet you halfway, arms wrapping around your waist as his mouth finds your chest—kissing, sucking, biting gently at your sensitive skin. Every time you sink down, his cock hits deeper, and the pleasure tightens in your belly like a fuse burning too close to the edge

“Just like that,” he breathes, kissing up your throat. “You ride me so well, baby. So fucking good for me…”

Your movements grow faster, more desperate, chasing the high together. Each bounce has you both gasping, moaning, gripping onto each other like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

His hands slide up your back, anchoring you to him, and when your forehead presses to his, his voice is barely audible.

“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.” Soobin’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you squeezing tight around him. The sudden surge of pleasure makes your entire body jolt—your thighs trembling, your rhythm faltering.

“F–fuck!” he cries, his voice cracking as his core tightens beneath you. One hand claws at your back, desperate to ground himself, while the other keeps working your clit, coaxing you closer to the edge with each drawn-out stroke.

Your body trembles in his lap, chest heaving as you ride the crest of sensation. His name leaves your lips in a gasp, hips stuttering as you start to unravel for him. But Soobin doesn’t let up—he leans in, kissing you fervently. His voice is gravelly in your ear.

“That’s it, baby… you’re doing so good. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And you do—your whole body shaking as pleasure rips through you, fluttering tight around him, squeezing him so perfectly he groans through gritted teeth. Your forehead drops against his shoulder, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. Soobin holds you through it, murmuring praise into your hair, letting you ride the waves until your hips finally still.

But he’s still hard, still tucked deep inside you. You blink, dazed, and meet his eyes.

“Soobin—”

“Not done,” he breathes, cupping your cheek. “Let me love you a little longer.”

He shifts, lifting you slightly before guiding you down onto your back, never slipping out. His body settles over yours, and he kisses you so slowly you forget how to breathe. It’s not rushed, none of this was. He wants to remember every expression and sound you make beneath him.

Soobin starts to move again, hips rolling deep, cock gliding into you with a drag that has your toes curling. Each thrust is slow yet hard, filling you to the brim. He's making sure you'll feel him for days.

“Still so wet,” he whispers, voice shaking from restraint. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod with teary eyes, hands gripping his shoulders as he begins to fuck you just a little harder—still slow and sensual, but with the kind of focused passion that makes your whole body scream.

His lips find your neck again, then your jaw, then your mouth, speaking softly with his pressed on yours. “Want you to feel everything, baby. Want you to remember this whenever our schedules are busy.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, clutching at him.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he promises instantly, fucking into you with a little more urgency. “I’m right here. You’re mine.”

You moan his name again as he rocks into you, shifting his angle just slightly to hit your g-spot head-on. The overstimulation begins to take you over. Your back arches off the bed, and he catches you with one arm wrapped beneath you, pressing your bodies flush together, like even air between you would be too much distance.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, watching your face. “So good for me.”

You barely manage to choke out a response. You’re too full, too overwhelmed, and too wrapped up in the heat of his body and the impulse in his gaze.

He slows again as he nears the edge, you for a second time that night. Thrusts going deeper, heavier, until you’re clutching his hair, pulling him closer, whispering into his ear, “I want you to cum inside.”

Soobin groans deep in his chest at your admission and presses his forehead to yours, breathing unevenly.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

It only takes a few more slow, grinding thrusts before he’s burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you, arms shaking as he holds you close. His lips tremble against yours, his moans drawn out and desperate as he fills you. The inappropriate sounds quickly have your own, blinding orgasm flowing from you with ease.

He still doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he kisses you again, even sweeter, before shifting both of you onto your sides, tangled together, still joined.

You’re panting, but your heart is calm. You feel full in every way, wrapped in his warmth, your body and soul entirely his. Soobin strokes your hair, nose brushing your cheek.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers. “Let me keep you.”

You nod, one leg hiked over his hip, arms tucked against his chest. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he murmurs, breath hitching when your walls flutter again. “Fuck. You’re still gripping me so tight…”

You press your face into his neck, smiling softly. “That’s ‘cause I want you to stay.”

He chuckles, fingers tracing your spine. “Then I will. All night, baby. However long you’ll have me.”

You both fall quiet, still connected, warmth shared between flesh. The room feels sacred, filled with love, comfort, and the kind of silence that means everything. You make a mental note to call out of work the next morning.

Soobin stays inside you until you’re both asleep—bodies tangled, time slowed, nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

tags: @bunnysoonie @zznblr @twilght-talks @gyudollies @beomgyusluver @dawngyu @boba-beom @taebatu @simpforseoho @another-lemon-tree @yyeonbinn @chubichubs @jooyeonsvape @txt-thelmi @zorange13 @jellyyjn

feedback/comments/likes are always appreciated <3

[uncanny-tranny]

Life Tip: If you don't menstrate (regardless of your gender/sex and why you don't menstrate), carry around pads and tampons and supplies like that if you have friends or loved ones who do

I've had plenty of women who expressed to me their struggles around menses and their cycle, and I've always felt guilty that I didn't ever have anything with me (even if they didn't specifically need my help). In a world that often doesn't offer affordable/free menstral products, it can be hard for those to have supplies (especially if they have irregular/unpredictable or heavy cycles!). Having a friend who would be able (and willing) to spot a product or two might really ease the stress of menstruation

[keferon]

Inspired by the ask about Ratchets “How to hold a human class”

———————————————————————

“Kid! C’mere!”

Deadlock twitched a finial in Ratchets direction. He wasn’t quite ready to stop sulking contemplating by his spot next to the pond but Deadlock also didn’t want Ratchet to yell at him again.

Actually yell at him.

Deadlock hadn’t meant to piss the medic off, he was actually trying to help in the moment. Ratchet said he needed to get something on the catwalk so Deadlock did the natural thing and grabbed Ratchets arm to put him up there. He’d barely lifted him off the ground when Deadlock felt the shock of pain shoot through Ratchets field a split second before he shouted in pain. He immediately let go which resulted in Ratchet landing hard on his hip.

After which Ratchet flew into one of the most genuinely angry rages he’d ever seen. He’d called Deadlock every variation of “reckless” and “irresponsible” imaginable. Any thought of justifying himself withered under not so much Ratchets scolding, as the faint feeling of pain and concern that bled through the rage like a new layer of paint slapped on before the first layer could dry.

Deadlock retreated into himself and fled the hangar. Flipping endlessly between “I didn’t mean to!” and “That doesn’t matter slaghead!” Through his mind and the night.

It was morning, and Deadlock was determined not to be a coward at the very least. Whatever punishment Ratchet had decided on Deadlock would respect. Even if it was something as spark crushing as “leave and don’t come back.”

Deadlock followed Ratchet, who was favoring his right hip, back to the hangar. Deadlock kneeled and waited for his sentence.

“Okay. We’re gonna go over some ground rules and basic human anatomy so what happened yesterday doesn’t happen again.”

Deadlock’s finials popped straight up. His mouth open to say something but nothing came to fruition.

Ratchet waved his hand through the air, “You didn’t know and you didn’t mean it. We both know it was an accident but if you really want to make it up to me then pay attention.”

Deadlock closed his mouth and nodded quickly.

“Good. Now gimme your hand.”

Deadlock complied, keeping his hand lax as Ratchet manipulated it to wrap it around his arm the same way from yesterday.

“Okay, don’t do anything yet but explain to me why you grabbed me this way.”

Deadlock cycled his optics for a second while he thought.

“Cause your arm is a convenient handle?”

Ratchet breathed out his nose slowly.

“And do normally pick up other mechs that way?”

“Yes?” Sort of. Deadlock didn’t really interact with minicons. Or maybe they just avoided him.

“This makes more sense then.” Ratchet said, swinging his arm and Deadlocks hand slightly.

“Metal can take that kind of torque without easily bending or tearing . Humans are not made of freakin metal kid. We’re a lot of soft tissue wrapped around a hard skeleton. The skeleton is basically a bunch of individual struts held together by soft connective tissue. That tissue is normally pretty strong when it’s pulled the normal way.”

Ratchet leaned slightly in Deadlocks grip, “This. Concentrates all of that weight into a single joint. Now technically, my shoulder can hold my entire weight but not at such a sharp angle to my body.”

Ratchet removed his arm and began to reposition Deadlocks hand to lay flat and palm up.

Ratchet pointed at Deadlock with an accusatory finger. “Rule Number One: Always fucking ask for permission first!”

Ratchet turned and sat on his hand, scooting backwards until his back rested against Drifts thumb. “If you do need to lift a human, best option by far is just holding your hand steady and letting them climb on.”

Deadlock shifted his hand to more comfortably hold the medic. Ratchet was both squishier than he was expecting and more solid. The sensation kind of reminded him of a big warm gel packet. “I think I’m getting the picture. So what should I do if I don’t have time to ask or you can’t answer?”

Ratchet sighed and Deadlock could actually feel him deflate. His face twitched in barely restrained amusement. Ratchets face twitched in the exact opposite of amusement.

“Pick up humans around the center of mass as much as you can. Try not to pick them up by the limbs. Do not ever pick one up by the head or neck.”

Ratchet shuffled in his grip, and maneuvered Deadlocks fingers to wrap around his torso while keeping his arms free. “Now, very slowly. I want you to gently tighten your grip. Stop the second I tell you to. Got it kid?”

Deadlock’s processor glitched for a second. Logically, he understood what Ratchet was teaching him. How and why. But. He’d just hurt him. And not only had Ratchet put himself back into Deadlocks grip of his own volition. Ratchet was specifically putting himself in an even more vulnerable state then almost loosing a limb. Deadlock didn’t even feel a hint of fear in his field. All he could feel was Trust and Patience and Care, as if Deadlock was the one putting his literal life in someone else’s hands.

“Got it Ratch.” His vocalizer came out staticky.

Deadlock closed his grip at a glacial pace, there was much more give than he was expecting so it caught him off guard when Ratchet finally said “Stop.” Deadlock froze.

“This is about how far you can go before it gets uncomfortable.” Deadlock’s processor skipped again, because holy Primus that was almost no effort whatsoever. Good to know how close he came to maiming him yesterday.

“Start again.”

What?

“What?”

“There’s a lot of give between comfortable and painful. I want you to have a frame of reference for both. I’m going to stop you before anything gets damaged kid, trust me.”

Slowly, Deadlock increased his grip again. It took about another minute before Ratchet stopped him again.

He breathed out in a controlled wheeze, Deadlock could feel Ratchets pulse against his palm, only marginally faster then when they started. “And that’s the upper limit. Don’t do this shit unless you need to.”

Deadlock relaxed his grip and Ratchet slipped off his hand.

The medic took a minute to breath and roll his shoulders.

Then, Ratchet laid down on the ground.

“Okay. Final exam. I’m going to pretend to be unconscious and you’re going to pick me up.”

Deadlock actually did start laughing at that point. Starting as silent shaking and then slowly building into not-quite villainous cackling. There was just something so absurd about the situation that all the tension from the preceding day unraveled until Deadlock was also lying on the ground. Vents whining and vocalizer mostly static by the time he started to calm down again.

Ratchet had sat up and was calmly watching him. The only physical tell Deadlock could see was a faint twitch of Ratchets mouth resisting the urge to smile. But Ratchets field radiated Fondness.

“You supposed to make that noise?”

Deadlock reset his vocalizer, “Yeah, it’s just been a long time. Are you ready?” He said rising up on his elbows.

Ratchet flopped down again.

“You’ve got ten minutes and you aren’t allowed to drop me.”

Deadlock grinned like a menace, and wondered if he could talk Ratchet into any extra credit classes.

AHW THIS IS SO LYLHKGKGNH DEADLOCK COMPARING HUMAN BODY TO A GEL PACKET HE LP

[robo-writing]

DOFP! Logan trying to dye his grey streak because “it makes him look older” with a girlfriend that threatens to break up with him if he so much as opens the bottle ❤️

The scene before you almost sends you into cardiac arrest—no, it almost sends you to the pearly gates at the mere thought. Questions swarm you, plague your mind with endless why’s and how’s but soon you narrow it down to one definitive question—

“Logan, what the fuck are you doing?”

He stands in front of the mirror, brush in hand, still unsure whether or not he should raise or lower his hand—or rather, if he’s even allowed to make a move at all. “I’m…dyeing my hair?”

You scoff, moving towards him in what feels like a single step. “Yeah, I can see that—why?”

The words are pointed, accusatory. You can see the hint of a smirk rising on his lips before it’s quickly extinguished by the smoldering look you give him. For once, he decides not to be a smartass and give you a straight answer.

“Well, it’s kind of dated, ain’t it?” He sighs, running his fingers where the silver stands against the black. “Makes me look like I’m ancient.”

“That’s because you are ancient,” you retort.

He scoffs, eyes rolling back. “Funny—but I’m serious doll. I don’t want you to look at me and see an old man.”

The thought never crossed your mind that Logan might be self-conscious, confusion written on your face. “Old man?”

“Yes, old man,” he continues. “It’s…a reminder. Like I’m not good enough.”

Your confusion is at an all time high, but he continues anyway. “I know you could probably find someone better—younger, for sure. I just…I don’t know. Just want you to stay, I guess.”

His words ring in your ears, but they take a while to register. The absurdity of it, even the concept of you leaving him…it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

“So, you think I’m gonna leave you just because of a grey streak?”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

You shake your head, pulling the brush from his hands. Your fingers trace his face, the crows feet that line his eyes when they close, the slight wrinkles that form when he leans into your touch with a smile.

“Lo, you are an old man.”

His eyes open, eyebrow raised towards you. “Way to boost my confidence—“

“—Shh,” you interrupt. “I’m not finished.”

Lips pursed, he nods and stays silent as you continue.

“You’re an old man Logan, but you’re also my old man,” you whisper. “I love you for all of you—and everything that comes with you isn’t something I’m willing to part with. You could be as wrinkly and grey as you want and it wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

The change is instant, his face softening as you pour your heart out. The sudden confidence practically glows from him, large hands reaching up to cradle your face. “You really mean that, huh doll?”

A nod. “Every word.”

His eyes dart to the bottle of hair dye, and with a shrug he snatches it from the counter and throws it into the trash. “Guess I won’t need this anymore.”

“Good choice.” You say, walking back into the living room. “Besides, grey looks good on you.”

————————————————————————

“Oh, and Logan?”

“Yes doll?”

“If you ever try a stunt like that again you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month.”

“….Yes ma’am.”

[vortexonsaturn]

House is an atheist. We know this. He tells us often, with bitterness and certainty. He rejects the idea of God, of souls, of cosmic meaning. He dissects faith like he dissects symptoms: a fragile delusion, beautiful maybe, but ultimately dangerous. For House, belief is the enemy of truth. Religion is a sedative for the desperate. He doesn’t believe in miracles—he performs them under fluorescent lights, scalpels, and sarcastic monologues.

And yet, the entire show is draped in religious imagery.

The irony is deliberate. The tension is constant. House, M.D. is not a show about religion, but it is deeply religious in structure and tone. It’s a modern-day gospel about suffering, sacrifice, and the endless question of whether redemption is possible for people who are fundamentally broken.

And at the heart of that contradiction—at the center of House’s reluctant, silent religion—is Wilson.

Wilson, the oncologist. The caregiver. The forgiver. The one person who doesn’t try to fix House, just stays. In House’s world of godless suffering and brutal honesty, Wilson becomes the impossible constant. A living parable. A symbol of grace. He is not just House’s friend—he is House’s church. The only place he returns to. The only place he trusts.

Despite everything he says, House believes in Wilson the way people believe in God—not in certainty, but in need. In faith. When everything else fails (medicine, logic, self-destruction) it’s Wilson’s presence that remains. Not because he proves anything, but because he chooses to stay.

Wilson is where House goes when nothing else makes sense.

And this is where Amber enters—because Amber is crucial to understanding the show’s theology.

Amber isn’t just Wilson’s girlfriend or a romantic foil. She’s a vessel. A sacrifice. A holy symbol burned into the center of House and Wilson’s dynamic. She represents the cost of belief. And her death is House’s Fall.

Amber is cast in religious imagery from the start—sharp and shining, dressed in clean lines, commanding presence. She’s the only woman who matches House in intellect, in stubbornness, in biting wit. But while House uses those qualities to alienate, Amber uses them to love. To claim. She chooses Wilson with a kind of divine certainty, and House both resents and envies it.

And then she dies—because House called her.

Because House, in a drug-fueled haze, reached out for Wilson and accidentally destroyed the one person Wilson loved most.

Amber becomes a martyr. She dies for House’s sin. The sin of needing Wilson, of being selfish, of reaching out without understanding the cost. Her death is sacrificial. She absorbs the consequences of House’s weakness. And it shatters Wilson’s faith. In House. In meaning. In everything.

But here’s the terrifying, beautiful part: even then, Wilson comes back.

Not immediately. Not easily. But he returns. He forgives. He chooses House again, knowing the damage he can cause.

And isn’t that what religion is, at its most painful?

The choice to return.

The choice to love something that hurts you.

The choice to find meaning, even in suffering.

From that point on, House is haunted—literally and metaphorically. Amber appears to him as a ghost. A judge. A reminder. Her presence during his Vicodin-fueled breakdowns is a vision, not unlike biblical visitations: accusatory, radiant, always asking questions he doesn’t want to answer. She becomes a conscience, a prophet of pain. Not just Wilson’s loss, but House’s guilt made flesh.

And House listens.

Because he believes her.

Because he believes in what she represents: that his actions matter. That pain has consequences. That love, once given, leaves an eternal mark.

That’s the thing. For all his denial, House’s life is shaped by faith—just not in any god he’ll name.

His god is Wilson.

His gospel is logic.

His demons are guilt, pain, and the memory of Amber in that white, frozen bus.

His sacraments are Vicodin.

His confessionals are sarcasm and silence.

His moments of worship are quiet, rare, and often happen when Wilson isn’t looking.

But it’s faith all the same.

When Wilson gets cancer, everything crashes again. This time, House can’t save him. There’s no diagnosis to solve, no miracle to pull from his bag of tricks. He is powerless. Human. And finally he understands the most terrifying truth of all: he can’t live in a world where Wilson doesn’t exist.

So he dies. Or pretends to.

He sets fire to his life. He lets everyone believe he’s gone. He chooses exile, isolation, and total obliteration of self—all so he can spend a few final months beside the man who has always been his moral center, his constant, his quiet divinity.

That’s not just friendship. That’s religion.

A god falls from the sky. A believer lays down his crown. A sinner chooses love over truth. A cynic learns how to pray—not with words, but with presence.

And isn’t that the most blasphemous, beautiful faith of all?

[steddiealltheway]

It’s a cold Wednesday night in January that has Eddie turning the thermostat up and allowing the government supplied heat to fill the trailer. He glances up at the vents and gives them a quick middle finger, wondering if they bugged the place to observe him or make sure he isn’t spreading their secrets.

He doesn’t really care at this point if they’re watching though. They already held him at the hospital for long enough, poking and prodding as if he wasn’t even human. But he didn’t turn into a vampire or some shit because of those damn bats. No. The jagged, ugly scars littering his body served as a lovely reminder that he was ultimately human.

Eddie glances at a nearby mirror and cringes at his face, taking a look at the long scar running down his cheek, jaw, and neck. The Corroded Coffin guys all said it made him look metal, and he would throw in a, “Hell yeah,” before smoothly changing the subject to something that didn’t involve him for once.

He takes a finger and slowly trails it over the pale pink skin, wondering if there will ever be a day he won’t notice it.

“Eddie,” Steve calls out gently from the room down the hall.

Eddie jumps back and glances toward him, hand falling to his side and flexing uncomfortably as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“You okay?”

Eddie smiles and gestures toward the thermostat. “Damn thing wasn’t working for a minute there. You’d think with the amount of hush hush money they were able to pay all of us, they’d be able to give me and Wayne a better trailer.”

But Steve only crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, eyebrows raising gently. It’s not entirely accusatory, but it’s clear that he doesn’t believe a thing Eddie’s saying.

Although they’ve grown close while going through the same treatment and tests in Owen’s new secret facility, it still surprises Eddie how easily Steve can read people. More specifically, how easily he can read him of all people. “Just got lost in thought,” Eddie confesses while making his way back to his room as he sees Steve squint at the lights in the living area.

Steve steps out of the way as Eddie brushes by him and closes the door. He hope it’s enough honesty to end the conversation.

“What were you thinking about?” Steve asks, ignoring the signals Eddie is giving him.

Eddie sighs and runs a hand over his face and climbs back into his bed, quick to pull up the blanket around himself in an attempt to get some much needed warmth while simultaneously covering his scars from Steve. “Stuff.”

Steve rests his hands on his hips for a second and stares, mouth opening and closing for a moment before deciding against whatever he was going to say. Instead, he climbs into the bed with Eddie and joins him under the blanket, keeping enough distance so they’re not touching, but they can still feel each other’s body heat.

Eddie glances over at him, noticing the way the one lamp turned on in the room gives him a nice golden halo. He looks gorgeous and untouchable - exactly how Eddie used to think of him through high school and sometimes even now. The perfect golden boy. But despite the name Eddie gave to him years ago, he can’t ignore the flaws that Steve possesses, yet they somehow make him even more perfect to him. Or maybe just human.

Eddie shakes his head and glances away. He wishes Steve came over to smoke so Eddie could blame the drugs on the way his thoughts race when he’s next to him. Instead, he has to face up to his enormous crush on the perfect golden boy.

“Have any plans for Valentine’s Day?” Steve asks out of the blue.

Eddie snorts and glances at him, only to laugh harder when he sees the adorable look of confusion on his face.

Steve’s brows furrow but the edges of his lips quirk up. “What?”

Eddie pulls a strand of hair in front of his face to try to hide his wife smile. “Kind of random, don’t you think?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I never said I was great at starting conversations. But I was just thinking about what holiday is next.”

“The worst one,” Eddie complains.

Steve turns toward him. “And why’s that?”

Eddie sighs and let’s himself go on a tangent. “It’s the one day of the year where people feel like they have to do all this shit for their partner, and the rest of the year, they think they can just get by doing the bare minimum. And people are left realizing what it would be like if their ‘other half’ actually put in an effort day to day. And then for all the single people, it’s a day where love is shoved in their face, and they have to feel bad and sometimes disgusted by all the public displays of affection going on around them and… I just hate it all. The stupid chocolates in the red heart boxes and the teddy bears and big heart shaped balloons and roses…”

“I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions about Valentine’s Day,” Steve says with a laugh.

“Well, now you do.”

They both sit in the silence for a few moments, Eddie thinking about all the other things he didn’t even touch on about Valentine’s Day that he hates, while Steve is probably taking in everything he just said.

Steve bumps his shoulder and asks, “So, I’m assuming that means you have no plans.”

Eddie laughs. “That’s what you got out of that?”

Steve shrugs and looks away with a smile.

Eddie glances at his clock and notices it’s technically Thursday now, and in these early hours, Steve will usually either silently fall asleep or he’ll lay awake in the silence until one of his thoughts has to make itself known.

Either way, Eddie knows he’ll be up for a few more hours, but he’s never regret the sleep he’s lost since they’ve made this silent arrangement.

The bed shifts, and Eddie follows Steve’s lead, laying down fully and staring at the ceiling, trying his best not to reach out for the hand laying beside his. He wonders if he should add something to the ceiling like some type of mural with stars and whatnot.

He tilts his head to the side, envisioning how it would look in the lamplight since he and Steve refuse to sleep in the dark. Or maybe it’s just Steve and Eddie’s picked up on the habit of leaving the lamp on.

“Do you think you’ll make plans?” Steve asks quietly.

Eddie turns to look at him, at a lost for a moment before realizing he’s still on the Valentine’s Day subject. He smiles sadly, “No.” Steve glances over at him and holds his gaze, expecting more. Eddie sighs and gestures at himself. “I mean, I’m not exactly what people want to bring home to their parents at the moment plus with the,” he gestures to his face and drops his hand quickly, averting his gaze back to the ceiling.

He hopes Steve will let it go and not connect the dots back to earlier.

A silence settles between them, but Steve’s gaze burns into the side of Eddie’s face. Then, he finally asks, “Is that what distracted you earlier?” When Eddie doesn’t answer he continues, “I saw you looking in the mirror, and I know you usually go out of your way to avoid them.”

Eddie wants to question how Steve noticed, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up about something that was just passively rather than intentionally observed. “Yeah,” Eddie states simply.

The bed shifts as Steve turns on his side to fully face him. “And you really think you can’t get a date because of them?”

Eddie sighs and rubs both of his hands over his face. “Steve, who is ever going to love me like this?” He turns and continues, “Privately, yes, someone could maybe get past the scars. But in public? You really think someone is going to be proud to say, ‘Here’s my boyfriend,’ and show off me?”

“Yes,” Steve says instantly as if he has no doubt in the world.

Eddie turns away, trying not to get choked up about it. Because how can he explain to him that while it’s nice that Steve has that confidence in him, Eddie wants Steve to be the one to be proud of him. To want him like that.

“Do you think my scars make me unlovable?” Steve asks.

“No! Jesus, Steve,” Eddie rushes to say and turns to him. He reached out and lays a hand over his side, feeling the way the skin puckers under the thin t-shirt. “These are metal as hell. Hot even. They make you more lovable if anything.”

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and slowly pulls it off his side to hold it up, the scar on it being presented out to Eddie. “And this doesn’t make you more lovable?”

“Steve…” Eddie protests quietly as Steve pulls his hand close to stare at it.

“The scars you got protecting us. You think those make you less lovable?” Steve asks, pulling his hand close enough that his lips ghost over the skin.

Eddie lets out a breath that sounds like Steve as Steve presses a soft kiss into the tough skin. He stares at Eddie with a worried look in his eyes as he whispers, “Too much?”

Eddie shakes his head, too stunned to get the words out.

Steve intertwines their hands and pulls Eddie’s arm toward him. “These scars,” he says kissing the next one on his forearm, “Are beautiful on you.” He moves on to the scar on his elbow stretching to his bicep, lips trailing against the sensitive unmarked skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “How could anyone hate these?” He asks leaving three soft, lingering kisses before shifting on the bed to hover above Eddie, still holding his hand but now against his stomach so he can press a kiss against his shoulder. “These scars show everyone what you were willing to sacrifice for us.”

As Steve moves to the scar on his neck, Eddie’s head drops back, giving him more access as he groans out, “Steve.”

“These scars,” Steve says, kissing up his neck over and past the scars, “Are exactly,” he murmurs as he kisses past his jaw and peppers kisses up his cheek, “Why I love you,” Steve finishes by pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth near where the scar that Eddie traced earlier ends.

Eddie glances up at Steve as he hovers over him, trying to make sense of everything he’s saying until it finally clicks. “You love me?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods and squeezes his hand before letting it go so he can lightly caress his cheek. “I have since you decided to be a hero and sacrifice yourself. Which was exactly what I told you not to do by the way.”

“I’ve never been great at following rules,” Eddie breathes out and reaches a hand up to run through Steve hair. “Steve?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you, too,” Eddie confesses.

Steve smiles and asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He pauses before adding, “You know, one time when I was little, I captured a squirrel and it may have attacked me and left a scar on my lip.”

Steve laughs. “Is that so?”

Eddie smiles and nods.

Steve’s eyes dart down to Eddie’s lips and he moves his thumb to swipe over his top lip. “You know, I think I see it.”

Eddie debates telling him that it was actually his bottom lip, but instead he just breathes out, “Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks with a teasing smile.

“Steve.”

Steve keeps smiling as he hums, “Hmm?” When Eddie huffs, Steve fakes surprise with a gasp, “Oh. You want me to find the picture for you!”

Eddie groans, “Steve!”

“Uh huh?”

Eddie huffs and cups his face. “You are infuriating.”

“Is that s-”

Eddie interrupts him by taking matters into his own hands and leaning up to kiss him. He feels Steve smile against his lip before finally kissing him back.

Steve pulls away and breathlessly asks, “So, do you think you’ll have plans for Valentine’s Day now?”

Eddie’s head thumps back on the pillow. “Oh my god.” Steve laughs. “Oh my god!” Eddie says and shoves Steve off of him only to roll over so he hovers above him. “You were trying to ask me out this whole time?”

“No, I just wanted to know your opinion of Valentine’s Day.”

Eddie gives him a light punch to the arm and smiles wide as he stares down at Steve, lying beneath him in the golden lamp light. His perfect golden boy.

“I still hate it by the way. Even if I have plans now,” Eddie comments seriously.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put in the effort year round for you and make sure to keep you away from the public that day,” Steve says running a hand through Eddie’s curls before tracing it down the scar on his cheek in a way he thought no one would be able to do - lovingly.

Eddie leans down and gives Steve a quick peck. “I’ve also got some scars on my hips I might want you to check out.”

Steve laughs loudly and pulls him into a kiss that truly makes Eddie breathless, all while tracing his hand over the scar on his cheek. And for the first time, Eddie learns to love the scars adorning his body.

[honeyncherry]

we never tell - joe burrow

summary just when you think you've made it through the night, joe is there and sure to remind you its not quite over yet

content swearing

New message from joeyb_9 

The notification lights up your screen just as you finish wiping down the last dish.

Your stomach tightens, fingers hesitating over the phone before you finally pick it up. You don’t know what you’re expecting. You do know that you shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You swipe it open.

@joeyb_9: Didn’t think I’d see much of u today

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

He didn’t think he’d see you? He came to your family’s Thanksgiving and didn’t think he’d see you?

@y/n.y/l/n: Crazy how that happens when our families are basically married to each other

You hit send, locking your phone and setting it back down on the counter before you let yourself spiral over a stupid message from him.

Not even five seconds pass before the screen lights up again.

@joeyb_9: Fair point

@joeyb_9: You always this friendly?

Your lips press together.

@y/n.y/l/n: You always ignore people at dinner and then text them like you didn’t?

@joeyb_9: Didn’t ignore you

@y/n.y/l/n: lol

@y/n.y/l/n: You didn’t even look at me

@joeyb_9: Wasn’t exactly a conversation we could have at the table

A sharp exhale leaves your lips and you scoff. 

The dining room is a mess of conversation — overlapping voices, the steady clink of silverware against porcelain, wine glasses being refilled before they’re even half empty.

Your dad is deep into some long-winded retelling of a work story, his hands gesturing wildly as if the stakes were much higher than they probably were. Your aunts, on the other hand, are locked in their own debate about the stuffing — one of them insisting it’s too dry while the other swears up and down that it’s the exact same recipe as last year. Neither is backing down, and at this point, it seems more about winning than the actual food.

Across the table, your brother is already making his way through his second plate, eating like he’s in some kind of race against himself. You glance over, watching as he shovels another ridiculous forkful into his mouth, barely pausing to breathe.

"You know you can breathe between bites, right?" you mutter, stabbing at a green bean with your fork.

He barely looks up, reaching for another roll with his free hand. “You know you can mind your business, right?”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother responding, turning your attention back to your plate. Same Thanksgiving, different year.

A loud clearing of someone’s throat is heard over the noise, the voices don’t die down immediately, but they stagger. Some people go quiet, others still finishing their sentences before realizing that, once again, Grandma has something to say.

Your uncle lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh, here we go.”

Your grandma straightens in her seat, chin lifted, looking around the table with an air of great importance. "I need to say something," she begins, pausing dramatically.

Your mom, sitting beside her, closes her eyes briefly, already bracing. "Mom—"

Grandma holds up a hand, silencing her. "No, no. This is important." She turns toward the center of the table, her expression serious. “I just want to know who the hell thought it was appropriate to put marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.”

Everyone is silent, but then, a loud slap against the table.

"I knew you were going to say that!" your aunt exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger across the table.

Your mom groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Can we not start a fight over—"

"It's dessert on top of a vegetable!" your grandma argues. "You people are ruining Thanksgiving traditions!"

"It's literally been on the table every year!" your dad points out, exasperated.

"Not in my house growing up!"

At this point, you’re biting back laughter, watching the same exact argument unfold like clockwork. Your cousin, never one to miss an opportunity, leans in and whispers dramatically, “Did you guys know Grandma fought in the Sweet Potato Wars of ’67?”

You break, laughing into your drink and instinctively glancing toward your brother expecting to meet his eye and exchange that familiar look that says, here we go again.

But he’s not looking at you.

Instead, he’s leaned over toward Joe, whispering something, shaking with quiet laughter.

Your stomach tugs in a weird, unexpected way.

You turned back to your plate. Suddenly, you weren’t as hungry anymore.

@y/n.y/l/n: And this is better?

@joeyb_9: You’re still talking to me

@joeyb_9: aren’t you?

@y/n.y/l/n: Maybe I’m just bored

@joeyb_9: That what you’re telling yourself?

@y/n.y/l/n: What do you want?

@joeyb_9: Good question

@y/n.y/l/n: ok

@joeyb_9: You looked good today

@y/n.y/l/n: You wouldn’t know. You weren’t looking at me, remember?

@joeyb_9: That’s what you think?

The smells from the kitchen spilled out through the open back door — roasted turkey, warm spices, something sweet still baking. You’d been relieved when everyone had migrated outside.

The annual Thanksgiving football game is in full swing, sneakers tearing up damp grass, voices carrying through the night. 

Your dad and Jimmy have stationed themselves on the deck, arms crossed, tossing out unsolicited coaching advice like they’ve been recruited as official gameday analysts.

“You gotta lead that throw,” Jimmy calls, shaking his head.

Your dad gestures toward the field, like he can physically direct them. “That’s what I said!”

Your brother, who is actually playing, doesn’t bother responding.

You barely look up, fingers absently scrolling over your phone screen. It’s not that you aren’t listening, you are. 

You’re just not engaged.

Your mom and Robin are curled up nearby, wine in hand, tucked into their usual spots on the patio couch. The way they settle into conversation is so natural, so effortless, it makes you feel like an intruder in your own space. Or maybe just… out of place.

You shift, adjusting the blanket around your legs. You don’t know why you feel like this.

You hate last night.

Your grip on your phone tightens, scrolling a little more aggressively, eyes flicking past posts you aren’t even reading. You’re trying to be present, trying to ignore the restless feeling in your chest, but it’s not working.

Letting out a slow breath, your focus shifts to the conversation beside you, forcing yourself to engage.

“You’ve been on that thing all afternoon,” your mom says, nudging your leg with her foot.

You blink, “I’m literally outside.”

Robin smirks, adjusting her blanket. “And yet? Somewhere else entirely.”

Your mom hums knowingly. “Let me guess, keeping tabs on the Black Friday sales?”

You don’t correct her. You let her believe it, let her think your head is full of discount codes and online shopping instead of the mess it’s actually in.

You don’t mean to be short with them.

You know they’re just making conversation. But everything tonight is rubbing you the wrong way, and you feel bad for it, for the way you’re snapping when you don’t mean to.

But you can’t help it, either.

Robin tilts her head toward the field. “You know, it is funny, though.”

Your mom raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

Robin nods toward the game, toward your brother, toward Joe. “We’re officially running out of single people at Thanksgiving.”

Your stomach tenses.

“Oh, you’re right,” your mother muses, too interested now. “Jamie’s married. Dan’s married. Most of your cousins, too.” She shifts slightly, gaze flickering toward you. “That just leaves you three.”

Your jaw tightens.

Robin grins. “The last ones standing.”

You hate this conversation.

You sink further into your blanket, resisting the urge to disappear into the couch. “We are not having this conversation.”

Your mom shrugs, sipping her wine. “We’re just saying.”

Robin leans in slightly. “So? No one new this year?”

You force yourself to keep your voice even. “No.”

“Not even a little crush?”

“No.”

Robin smirks. “Not even an almost crush?”

You glare at her.

She laughs, leaning back in her seat. “Fine. Stay mysterious.”

Your mom’s attention shifts, watching the game again. “Maybe next year.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe next year you’ll mind your own business.”

They both laugh, you exhale, relieved that the topic has finally died before it could go any further.

“Hey!” A voice from out in the yard shouts over. "Heads up!"

You barely have time to react before something slams into your shoulder.

Of course.

Because why wouldn’t it? Why wouldn’t the night end like this, with you getting blindsided by a football while you’re just trying to mind your own business? The impact is jarring, a sharp sting spreading up your arm. Your phone slips from your hands, landing screen-down on the deck with a sickening thud.

Pain flares up your arm, not unbearable, but sharp enough to make you grit your teeth. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself not to react, because the last thing you need is for someone to make a thing out of this.

Too late.

Your dad and Jimmy immediately cut their commentary short, their attention snapping toward you.

“You alright?” your dad asks, stepping forward.

Jimmy crosses his arms, shaking his head. “Damn, kid. Didn't even see that one coming, huh?”

You wince, rubbing your shoulder. “Nope.”

There’s movement near the deck.

You don’t react at first, too busy flipping your phone over, stomach unclenching slightly when you see the screen is fine. But then, as you exhale, a shadow falls over you. 

Someone bends down, fingers curling around the football where it landed.

For a second, you don’t recognize him.

Then, you do.

Joe.

His fingers flex around the leather, his grip tightening for half a second before he straightens. He doesn’t say anything right away. Doesn’t acknowledge the way the air between you feels heavier now. Then, finally, his eyes flicker to your shoulder. Quick. Assessing.

"You good?"

You nod, swallowing. "Yeah."

@y/n.y/l/n: That’s what I know

@joeyb_9: Then you don’t know shit

@y/n.y/l/n: wowww

@y/n.y/l/n: Poetic.

@joeyb_9: I try

The conversation pauses.

@joeyb_9: You’re still mad

@y/n.y/l/n: no

@y/n.y/l/n: I’m not mad

@joeyb_9: Could’ve fooled me

Ironic.

@y/n.y/l/n: You fooled me first

@joeyb_9: That what this is about?

Your pulse kicks up.

You don’t respond immediately, wondering if it’s better to not acknowledge it and just forget about him entirely.

@joeyb_9: I didn’t mean to ignore you.

@y/n.y/l/n: you did though

@joeyb_9: It wasn’t like that

@y/n.y/l/n: Then what was it like?

@joeyb_9: Idk

@y/n.y/l/n: lmfao

@joeyb_9: I didn’t think I was allowed to look at you.

You roll your eyes

@y/n.y/l/n: And who made that rule?

@joeyb_9: You did

The house had finally, somewhat, settled.

You’ve found a rare moment of peace, curled up in the living room, sinking into the plush couch with a blanket draped over your legs. The dim glow of the lamp beside you casts a soft haze across the room, and for the first time all day, you exhale fully.

You lean your head back, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Loud, shuffled footsteps enter the room, voices crashing through your quiet.

Your brother.

Drunk. Loud. Laughing.

And right behind him — who else would it be but Joe.

You grit your teeth, already regretting not just going to your room.

Your brother stumbles in first, dragging Joe along like whatever conversation they were having outside couldn’t possibly wait. 

“No, I’m just saying you think you’re cold under pressure, but I swear to God, I have never seen someone panic harder than when you—” He breaks off, already laughing, shaking his head as he collapses onto the couch. “When you tried to kill me with the damn garage door last summer.”

Joe exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he drops into the armchair across from you. “Was not my fault.”

Your brother snorts. “Dude. You hit the button while I was still under it.”

Joe shrugs. “You shouldn’t have been standing there.”

Your brother nearly spills his drink as he gestures toward him. “You literally looked me in the eye before you did it!”

Joe grins, barely suppressing his laughter. “Didn’t know it moved that fast.”

They’re so loud, their voices bouncing off the walls, filling the space you had just been enjoying. You sink deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket higher, willing them to shut up.

It doesn’t work.

You glare at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You last maybe thirty more seconds before you decide you’re done, tossing the blanket off yourself and standing up.

Neither of them notices at first — Joe is still shaking his head at whatever dumb thing your brother just said, your brother is cracking up like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

But as soon as you step toward the doorway, your brother finally registers your movement.

“Where you going?”

You pause just briefly, glancing back over your shoulder to respond, and that’s when you catch Joe already watching you.

He’s leaned back, arms resting casually on the armrests, a lazy kind of amusement in his gaze. 

You roll your eyes, tearing your gaze away from him as you turn back to your brother.

“Away.”

Your phone buzzes again.

@joeyb_9: You left realll quick 

@y/n.y/l/n: Wasn’t in the mood for ur drunken convos

@joeyb_9: I wasn’t drinking 

@y/n.y/l/n: And yet you were still saying dumb shit

@joeyb_9: 😂

@joeyb_9: You wound me

@y/n.y/l/n: good

@y/n.y/l/n: I intend to

@joeyb_9: You like messing with me, don’t you?

@y/n.y/l/n: mmm

@y/n.y/l/n: a little

@joeyb_9: That’s cute

@y/n.y/l/n: You’re annoying

@joeyb_9: You’re still talking to me

@joeyb_9: Wyd rn tho

@y/n.y/l/n: why

@joeyb_9: Think you can sneak out?

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Azerbajian GP Weekend

Masterlist

Thursday had arrived, and so had the media frenzy. It was the traditional pre-race press day, and the interview room was buzzing with journalists and cameras ready to capture every word and reaction. I was scheduled for a multi-driver interview, paired with Franco, Carlos, Max, and Oscar—a mix of veterans and rookies, all bringing their own energy to the room. I was feeling confident, prepared to answer whatever questions were thrown my way, until I noticed a few familiar faces among the journalists—faces I remembered from whispers in the paddock.

After a few light-hearted questions aimed at Carlos and Max, the interview shifted gears when a well-known journalist turned to me with a sharp look in his eyes.

“So, Y/N,” he began, voice dripping with a tone that already felt accusatory, “there’s been a lot of talk about your rapid rise to F1, especially after missing significant time in F2. Some might say that… connections or publicity stunts might be part of the story here rather than pure skill.” He leaned back, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What do you say to people who think you’re here for PR reasons, rather than merit?”

My stomach clenched, but I kept my face calm. This was it—the subtle way they were calling me out, questioning if I was here because of talent or if I was just a “diversity hire” in a sport still catching up with the times. I could feel the tension in the room rise as Carlos and Max glanced at me, both of them experienced enough to know what it was like to be grilled by the press.

I took a deep breath, feeling Franco’s reassuring presence beside me. He shot me a quick nod, like he was silently encouraging me to respond.

“Well,” I began, keeping my voice calm and steady, “I think every driver here has something to prove. Racing is about results, and I’m fully prepared to show what I’m capable of on the track. I know there’s a lot of speculation, and it’s natural—every driver faces it at some point. I’m here because I’ve earned this seat. And I’ll keep proving that every weekend.”

The journalist wasn’t done. He leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “Still, disappearing for months mid-season in F2 and then suddenly being ready to jump into F1… it does raise some eyebrows. Care to elaborate on where you were?”

My heart raced. Memories flooded in—of the sleepless nights by my mother’s side, of the last few precious moments we shared. I felt the urge to defend myself, to tell the whole story right there, but I knew better. I took another breath, holding my smile steady.

“As my former team and I have always said, I was undergoing extensive training to prepare for the reserve role I’d committed to with Aston Martin. My team has full confidence in me, and that’s all the focus I’m giving it,” I replied, keeping my tone professional. I felt proud of my answer, but I could tell the journalist was disappointed by my restraint.

Max jumped in, breaking the tension with his classic cool-headedness. “You know, there are always rumors about all of us. It’s all just noise until we’re on track, isn’t it?”

The journalist backed off slightly, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Franco shot me a supportive look, mouthing a quick “Nice one” as the attention moved to another driver. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay composed. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of all the reasons I was here.

After the interview wrapped up, Franco walked over and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Forget him. That was out of line. You handled it well.”

“Thanks,” I replied, my voice a bit shaky. “I just didn’t expect that to hit so hard, you know?”

He nodded, his eyes kind. “I know. But you showed them that you belong here. Keep doing that, and everyone else will see it too.”

As we left the interview room, Franco nudged me, a curious look in his eyes. "Did you notice how quickly Max jumped in? It’s like he was standing up for you."

I shrugged, glancing back at the room we’d just left. "I don’t know if it was for me specifically," I replied. "Max just seems to hate when journalists get too personal. He probably saw the question as crossing a line. He’s always been a no-nonsense guy."

Franco didn’t seem convinced. "Maybe, but... he didn’t have to say anything at all. A lot of other drivers wouldn’t." He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. "Look, I’ve been around these drivers a while now, and I know how they talk. I think Max might be one of the few drivers who’s actually looking at what you do on track, not paying attention to those rumors.”

I hesitated, not sure how to process that. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But why would he? He doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe he’s seen the work you’re putting in,” Franco said thoughtfully. “He knows what it’s like to face doubt—he started young too. Besides,” he added, “Max respects hard work. He wouldn’t have stood up for you if he didn’t think you’ve earned your place.”

I wanted to believe Franco, but I couldn’t help being skeptical. “You might be giving him too much credit,” I said. “Honestly, I still think it was more about hating the question than defending me.”

Franco laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Max isn’t exactly Mr. Empathy. But I think he respects that you’ve been keeping your head down and just focusing on racing. People who’ve been on the grid longer can spot real talent, and he wouldn’t bother standing up for you if he didn’t see something there.”

I looked down, smiling to myself. The thought that Max might see past all the gossip and actually believe in my abilities was… a little surreal. But if Franco was right, it meant something. "You know," I said quietly, "maybe that’s enough for now. If I can prove myself to someone like Max, maybe that’s all I need to do for the rest to start paying attention."

Franco nodded. “Exactly. Let them talk. Just keep showing up on track and doing what you do best. You’re already turning heads, whether they admit it or not.”

We walked on in comfortable silence after that, both of us aware that this race weekend would be another chance. Another shot to show everyone—including myself—that I had a place here, no matter who questioned it. 

We parted ways minutes later, Franco being asked to return to his garage for a filming session between him and Alex. I decided to walk around the paddock a bit more —given that most if not every interviewer was in the interview room right now— I had a chance to relax by myself with a nice little undisrupted wandering walk. It didn’t last long however before I was seemingly cornered by the same man who had stood up for me before. Max Verstappen had spotted me from across the paddock and beelined his way right towards me. 

I froze for a moment, a bit caught off guard. Max was one of the last people I expected to seek me out, especially after that brief encounter in the interview room. He was known for being straightforward, but also for keeping to himself, so seeing him walk toward me like this felt... unexpected.

As he approached, I straightened up, unsure of what to say. Max had that usual intense focus in his eyes, but his expression didn’t seem as cold as it often did. He came to a stop in front of me, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” he said, his tone casual but direct. "How are you holding up?"

I blinked, momentarily surprised by the question. "I’m good," I replied quickly, forcing a small smile. “Why do you ask?”

Max looked around the paddock, as if checking to make sure no one else was nearby. When he turned back to me, he spoke a little lower. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not letting the stuff they’re saying get to you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What stuff?”

He shrugged, his expression softening a little. “The gossip. The rumors. People are always going to talk, especially when there’s something new, or something they don’t understand.” He paused for a second, looking at me seriously. “But you’ve been doing well. I can see it.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was... unexpected, to say the least. Max wasn’t exactly the type to give out compliments, let alone stand up for someone in public, especially someone like me. The fact that he was acknowledging it so openly made me second-guess a lot of my assumptions about him.

"Thanks," I said, my voice more tentative than I intended. "I appreciate it."

Max nodded. "I know how it feels to be judged before you even get the chance to show what you can do. It’s not easy." He paused again, and then, almost like an afterthought, added, "If you need someone to talk to or whatever, don’t hesitate."

I was caught off guard once more. Max Verstappen, offering to talk?

"Uh, thanks," I replied, this time more confidently. "I think I’ll be alright, but it’s good to know."

He gave me a small nod, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Good. Keep your head up, alright? They’ll respect you, eventually. Just keep showing up.”

With that, he turned and walked off, leaving me standing there a little dumbfounded. The last thing I expected was for Max Verstappen to go out of his way to check on me, but now I was left wondering if there was more to him than just the hard-as-nails racer everyone saw on TV. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as bad as the rumors made him out to be either.

BIG TIME SKIP 

After Qualifying, I couldn’t help but smile—P10! I’d made it into the top 10, just behind Franco who had secured P9. We were both on cloud nine and decided to grab dinner together to celebrate. We were walking out of the paddock, laughing and joking, when I suddenly heard someone shout Franco’s name.

“Franco! Where are you going?” Lando’s voice rang out across the busy paddock.

Both Franco and I turned, surprised. We saw Lando and Oscar jogging toward us, the latter giving me a fleeting glance. Lando, on the other hand, didn’t spare me a single glance. His eyes were locked on Franco, his tone sharp.

Franco, clearly still riding the high of a great qualifying result, gave him a friendly wave. “Hey, just heading out to grab some dinner. Want to join us?”

Oscar’s eyes lingered on me for a brief moment, and I could swear I saw something akin to pity flicker across his face, but it disappeared so quickly that I couldn’t be sure. Lando, however, didn’t acknowledge me at all, his gaze still glued to Franco.

“I’m good,” Lando replied curtly, his tone flat. “We’ll catch up later. But I’ve heard... you two are quite the topic today.”

Franco shot me a quick glance, clearly uncomfortable, but said nothing as Lando’s words hung in the air. I could feel his eyes shift between me and Franco, clearly sizing up the situation. The tension was palpable, and I knew exactly what he was referring to. The rumors.

“So, uh, what’s it like?” Lando continued, his voice now almost too casual, his gaze flicking over to me. “Being the new face around here, with all the... stories going around?”

Oscar, standing silently at Lando’s side, seemed content to watch the exchange, though his eyes flicked to me, then back to Lando. I could tell he wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was headed.

I wasn’t sure if Lando was looking for confirmation or if he was trying to provoke a reaction, but either way, I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The judgment in his tone wasn’t subtle, and I wasn’t about to let it slide.

“Stories?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow as I turned toward him. “What kind of stories?”

Lando shifted uncomfortably, clearly caught off guard by my question, but he quickly recovered. “You know,” he said with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “The whole... why you suddenly disappeared from F2, then came in and replaced Stroll and all that. Guess people are curious and there are a lot of people willing to tell their stories to fill that gap in.”

Oscar’s eyes darted between us, a slight frown tugging at his lips, but he said nothing. I could see the judgment in Lando’s face now, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“I’m not here to entertain gossip,” I replied, my voice steady but firm. “I don’t know where these ‘stories’ came from, but you’re feeding into them just like everyone else. How about you let me speak for myself? Maybe then you’ll get the real story.”

Franco opened his mouth to speak, likely trying to defuse the situation, but I held up a hand to stop him. I wasn’t going to let Lando get away with it.

“If you really think that just because of my background in this sport, you’re going to judge me on rumors instead of what I can do on track,” I said, my tone cutting through the air, “then maybe you should reconsider how much you actually know from sources that don’t include bias perspectives.”

Lando’s face twitched, and for a moment, I could see the flicker of realization in his eyes. He wasn’t used to being called out so directly. But he wasn’t backing down either.

“Look, I didn’t mean—” he started, but I cut him off sharply, my tone colder than before.

“No, you didn’t mean it,” I snapped, my eyes narrowing. “But you’re still doing it. So maybe before you speak about things you clearly know nothing about, you should think twice. Because I’m not here to be the subject of your gossip.”

The air between us grew tense, and the silence stretched on. Oscar, who had been quietly observing, exchanged a glance with Lando but stayed silent. I could feel the weight of Lando’s eyes on me, but I refused to back down.

“Is that really how it’s going to be?” I asked, my voice hard. “You think you can just judge me based on some rumor mill nonsense without even knowing me? Maybe you should consider that there’s more to me than whatever the hell people want to say about my past. What happens on track is all that should matter. But if you’re still buying into that crap, then maybe you’re not the person I thought you were.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, and I could tell that I had struck a nerve. He didn’t immediately respond, instead glancing at Oscar, who now had a slightly concerned look on his face. Lando shifted on his feet, clearly unsure of how to respond to someone calling him out so forcefully.

“I get it, alright?” Lando muttered, but there was no real sincerity in his voice. “But you’ve got to admit, there’s a lot of speculation.”

I rolled my eyes, the frustration bubbling up inside me. “Speculation is exactly what it is. And it’s none of your business, Lando. What matters is that I’m here, racing, and proving myself every time I get behind the wheel. Maybe if you focused more on that, you’d see it for what it is, instead of judging me based on some stupid rumors.”

I paused for a moment, letting the silence linger between us before I spoke again, my voice sharpening. “And honestly, with all the rumors floating around that you’re a big fan of Trump after some of the things you’ve said in Miami? I’m not surprised you’re so quick to jump on the bandwagon and believe whatever fits the narrative. It’s easier to go along with what the media says, right? But I don’t listen to that stuff. I judge people by their actions, not by what the tabloids want to spin. You don’t know me, Lando, so stop acting like you do.”

I could see him bristle at my words, and for a moment, I could tell that what I said hit harder than he expected. It wasn’t about defending myself anymore—it was about standing up for the idea that I wouldn’t let others define me, especially when they hadn’t bothered to get to know the real me.

Lando’s expression flickered, a mix of frustration and something else—something I couldn’t quite place—passing across his face. For a moment, he was silent, clearly trying to process what I had just said. But I could tell I had made him think, even if just for a brief second.

He didn’t immediately apologize, which told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t ready to back down yet. But I wasn’t done.

“Just stop hiding behind your assumptions, Lando,” I added, my voice firm. “It’s not a good look. You can’t just brush off people based on things you hear when there’s no real truth to it. It’s lazy, and frankly, it’s disappointing.”

Lando stood there, looking caught off guard by my directness. He wasn’t apologizing, not really. But I could see that I had planted a seed. Maybe it would take a while for him to truly get it, but at least for now, I had made my point. And I wasn’t about to let anyone walk over me—especially not when I knew I was capable of so much more than the rumors said.

“I... didn’t realize it was that big of a deal,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “I’m just trying to keep up with everything going on around here.” “Well, try harder,” I shot back, my tone biting. “Because if you can’t see past the rumors, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

With that, I turned away, my heart still racing with anger. I didn’t want his apology, not really. I wasn’t looking for anyone’s approval. But I wasn’t going to let anyone make me feel small just because they couldn’t look beyond what they heard. I walked away, leaving Lando and Oscar to whatever thoughts they were processing, knowing that I had made myself clear.

Franco, who had been watching from the sidelines, gave me an approving smile as I returned to his side. I didn’t need to look back to know that the tension between Lando and me wasn’t going to disappear anytime soon. But that was fine by me. It was time for me to prove myself on the track, and if Lando and the others had to learn the hard way, so be it.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Exchanged clothes [S. R] Bolinus brandaris part. 2

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

word count: 4.6k

part 1

summary: a small act of kindness leads to a rather peculiar confession

A/N: Okaay, some people showed interest in a sequel to this and I thought I'd do it, I hope you like it enough. Oh and we are still with baby Spencer, later I will write about the second and third seasons (and as I progress in the series, lol)

taglist: @the-ginger-draws @skievers @c-m-stuff

The days passed, the cases continued, and the level of trust in the friendship between you and Reid only grew. Working at The Behavioral Analysis Unit was complicated and exhausting in many ways, which sometimes made you wonder how he managed to put up with all that, because, although you weren’t an old woman, you did have two years more experience compared to him. It's also not like it was your fault that he was a genius and he went to work for the FBI at an extraordinary age. So every time something happened, you were there for him and he was there for you. The whole team really cared about the two of you (and JJ, the third youngest) while still trusting in your abilities to face challenges. And just like in a family, everyone could also notice the existing tension between you and the doctor, because although, at least on your part, the feelings had been there for a long time, they had become more obvious to the rest since of the trip to Miami.

"Good morning" you had greeted part of the team that day, a few weeks after the trip, more energetic than the others would have expected. Neither Hotch nor Gideon were around, for obvious reasons, so it was only when you passed Reid's desk that you stopped, running your hand affectionately through his hair “Hey, Doc.”

"Hello," he responded immediately. Spencer didn't like it when his hair got messy, but he could take it if it was you, just as he could take your constant hugs or the drawings you sometimes made on his hand when you were bored during meetings. Of everything that happened between you, little managed to bother him, almost as if the interactions he avoided with others were something natural with you around.

Although he had stopped wearing his scarf daily, he still wore it at least once a week as a reminder of how special it was to him, and fortunately that day was the chosen one.

“Do we have a case? Or do I just bury my nose in these reports?” you muttered to the others, but they denied "What of that do you say no to?"

"Today they will be documents" JJ spoke kindly.

"Why do I have so many?"

“Because I passed you some of mine,” Morgan sneered and you gasped, completely offended. You whispered something accusatory in his direction that made Spencer laugh from the next desk, and then he reached over to take just under half the folders.

"I will help you"

"Oh no, no, Reid. It's okay,” you said, your voice softening noticeably, as you placed your hands over his to try to stop him.

"It's nothing, I'll finish them in a jiffy"

"Why don't you ever offer to help me, huh?"

“You manage pretty well on your own,” Spencer teased at your friend, now making you laugh. You still had your hands on his under the excuse of collecting your reports and, perhaps unconsciously, both of you postponed the moment for another few seconds, looking into your eyes with a small smile until he finally managed to keep the material that he had stolen from your desk.

"Thank you," you said, so softly that only he could hear you.

Looking at your coworker had already become something of an obsession. You liked his gestures, how he looked away when he spoke, his nervous ramblings, and the straight hair that he apparently was letting grow, but what you liked the most were his hands. When he was explaining a profile, he always communicated a lot with his body language and honestly, the swaying of his hands, combined with the tranquility in his tone of voice, was very hypnotic to you, as if keeping the attention of others was something inescapable for him, although it was probably easier to keep your attention specifically. Right now, while everyone was minding their own business, you were watching sideways as he ran his middle finger over the printed lines. It made you nervous to see the delicacy with which he moved across the sheet of paper and inevitably your mind traveled to inappropriate corners related to that movement, which embarrassed you to the point of blushing. Thank heavens he was too focused to notice you, so you forced yourself to work on the few reports Reid had let you keep.

The days were very rare when no cases appeared, but you were grateful that they existed because sometimes it was necessary to take a breather. Seeing so many bodies, so much blood and so much inhumanity was something you never quite got used to, although having good teammates in your unit made it more bearable. So that night nothing stopped you from finishing right on time, with a little back pain from sitting all day, but also quite calm.

"I'll see you tomorrow, rest"

"Are you going to your apartment?" Spencer asked, rushing towards you with his coat in hand and the briefcase slung over his shoulder, and you nodded Can you wait for me to go together?”

You looked at him, more confused than you wanted, but you said yes. It's not that you were upset or that you didn't want company, but that you were curious as to why he might have offered to do it.

"Thanks again, for earlier," you said, once both of you were outside. You lived a few streets from the office and you could get there in less than 20 minutes by taking a subway station, which fortunately was the same one he took.

“Okay, they were too many for you. I mean, it's not that I think you can't do the job, you're very capable, it's just that I thought it was too much workload for just you and I… well, I could help you so I did it” with that Reid held up a hand to downplay the matter and smiled at you.

“Why have we never thought about walking to the subway together?”

"I don't know either," he said. You felt a gust of wind hit the both of you so you hugged yourself to try and get some warmth and even though Spencer wasn't the best at reading social cues he managed to figure out what you had and what he needed to do 

“Here” he murmured, as he spread the coat and put it on your shoulders.

“Oh no, no, no, Reid. I'm fine"

"In fact, if you don't use it you can catch a cold and although there are very few cases in which there are complications that lead to death, the symptoms last about a week and you can infect several people during the first days, so you not only you would be taking care of yourself but also the rest of the team” he informed you. That made you smile, and you found that behind all his scientific mumbo jumbo, he was trying to take care of you.

"It's a little big on me," you laughed, reaching into the sleeves with some help from him.

“You look pretty” he blurted out from his lips, completely entranced by you “Well, the… the coat. It looks good” he tried to fix, but you laughed at the compliment that you definitely wouldn't pass up.

"Aren't you cold?"

“No, my shirt and vest help,” Spencer replied, showing you the long sleeve of her white shirt. “I also have my scarf, did you forget it?”

"The best choice in all your outfits" you joked, reaching out a hand to feel the soft fabric of the garment and looking at him, with that cute shy smile "What will you do when you get to your apartment?"

“Huh, probably get some sleep. I haven't been resting properly in the past few days."

"Nightmares again?" you sadly asked. Spencer had talked to you superficially about it a few days ago, although you thought that he had suffered from this disease for much longer than he wanted to admit. He didn't answer verbally, he just nodded his head and you thought he didn't want to delve into it “I think I'll spend a while in the bathtub and then I'll sleep. I'm exhausted"

“You close doors and windows before you sleep, right?”

"I do," you assured him.

“Do you also take your cell phone with you to call in case of emergencies?”

"Huh, yeah"

"Good. Take care of yourself” he insisted. Those didn't sound like random recommendations and that puzzled you a bit.

"I do, Reid," you replied softly. When you noticed that the concern in his features did not leave him, you thought it would be prudent to ask him why that was "Are you worried about something?"

"No, it's not that" he hastened to answer. You still had a few blocks to go to get to the subway and only a few passers-by walked the streets, besides you.

“Are they unsub then? Anything in particular that worries you?"

"It's nothing like that. It's just…” he gasped, still unsure to continue, “if I tell you, you'll think it's silly”

"Of course not. Tell me, what is it?" you asked. He was internally debating if he should tell you what he was thinking and he was convinced a little when he felt your hand on his arm, as if prompting him to speak.

“Yesterday I…” he started to say “I had a nightmare. I dreamed when I arrived at the office I found out that something bad had happened to you. And… I don't know, it felt very real and I couldn't get it out of my head” he admitted. You understood that perhaps it was the reason he had wanted to accompany you, as if he feared that someone might stalk you on the way.

“Spence” you murmured gently, as you pulled him a little in your direction to place one hand on his bicep and the other on his forearm “Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to me. My apartment complex has a good security system and I always carry my gun, if something happens on the street, I will know how to deal with it. They're just bad dreams, I have them sometimes too” you said to reassure him. You felt quite comfortable walking in that position and you continued a couple of steps holding him like this, looking for some negative sign from him, but it never came. With the closeness he managed to feel a little less fear, reminding himself that what tormented him were fantasies of his own mind, that if they were analyzed with a little more detail they were an unconscious reflection of how much he feared losing you.

"I told you it would be silly"

"It is not. It's quite sweet, actually,” you smiled, moving your thumb up and down as you smiled at him. In that position your face was at the height of the boy's shoulder and it was enough for him to turn his head to reach your forehead, so he wondered how much you would bother if he left you a kiss there. He wanted to, but held back.

“I just thought I should tell you. For you to be careful"

“Same to you, Reid. You have a rather peculiar ability to get into trouble” you exclaimed accusingly, because in a couple of cases the man had already managed to get on your nerves.

The position turned out to be cozier than you expected and you continued walking the rest of the streets towards the subway in silence. He concentrated on the feeling of your body so close to him and your hands gently holding him, while you lost yourself in thought wondering what you really felt about your coworker and what he felt for you. Spencer would look at you from time to time, analyzing your gestures and enjoying the sight of you wearing his clothes, something he didn't think would affect him the way he did.

“Did you know that railway suicides have a very small percentage in the country's suicide rate?” he told you, while the two of you looked at the subway tracks that you were waiting for. You had had to distance yourself to be able to pay the pennies for the ticket and you had decided to place your hands in the pockets of your borrowed coat, caressing the lining fabric with your fingers.

"I had no idea" you muttered. You were a little surprised that he always had an interesting fact about literally anywhere you were and you loved hearing him tell you “It must be horrible. And very sad"

"Even the government allocates certain resources to pay for psychological therapy for drivers who witness these suicides"

"Well, at least it comforts me to know that part of my taxes ends there," you joked bitterly and the train stopped just as you finished saying it. Reid let you first into the nearly empty car that would take you home, and along the way you continued to talk about less unfortunate things, like the dinner choices you were planning or the TV shows that were likely to be airing when you arrived.

Having those little quiet moments with him made you feel lucky and the laughs he managed to get filled your chest with joy, making you completely forget everything related to work. The voice in the wagon warned that your stop was next and an anticipated sadness invaded you.

“Be…”

"Be careful, I know" you smiled. Since you were already on your feet, so as not to miss your stop, you crouched down to give him a quick goodbye hug “See you tomorrow. Try to sleep and if you have nightmares you can call me, okay?" you muttered. He nodded from his place as he watched you leave towards the platform and leaned out the window to see your figure disappear into the distance.

Neither of you two realized that you had kept his coat until you got home.

As of that night, that coat returned to see the doctor's closet on very few occasions and the purple scarf went on to have joint custody. He had found out that if he loved anything more than wearing the clothes you gave him, it was seeing you wearing them, causing him to come up with totally pathetic excuses to accomplish that. 

"It's a bit cold" "Purple matches your clothes" or simply "keep it, it looks better on you than on me"

It soon became a habit. During the cases, when you two were apart, it was a little comforting to have something of him with you and when he came home, he would enjoy breathing in the smell of your perfume impregnated on the fabric.

After a few weeks you realized that, without a doubt, you were so in love with him. And when he realized the same thing, he was completely terrified.

“Reid” you greeted him one morning, catching up with him as he poured himself a coffee and analyzed a piece of bread that had surely been sitting there since the day before. Hugs when seeing him had also become a habit, quite nice from the man’s point of view "I have something for you"

"Again?"

"Oh yeah," you smiled. Lately you had been filling him with small gifts and most of them quite rare, but which he kept suspiciously in his desk drawer. And it's not that he didn't appreciate it, but that he was beginning to feel guilty for receiving so many and not having given you any yet. "Give me your keys," you asked and he obeyed without even questioning you. Once you had them in your hand, you took a strip of colored beads from your pocket that you added as a key ring, while he looked at you with some confusion.

"What's that?"

“My friend asked me to babysit her daughter this weekend and we went crazy with crafts. So I thought I'd do this to you” you muttered. He took a closer look at the keyring and noted that you had included his favorite colors, purple and green, as well as a heart-shaped bead at the end. "I know it looks like a preschool kid's creation and if you're embarrassed to wear it you can throw it away”

"No, I like it. It's pretty,” he smiled, running his long fingers over the beads. Satisfied with the answer, you took out your own keys and proudly showed them to him.

"I have one just like it," you said happily. That was true, only yours was made of pink and blue, and the way you said it completely touched the man.

"You make me think that there is still goodness in this world, you know?" he exclaimed, so sincere and without thinking that he surprised you "I loved it, thank you very much"

"Now that I think about it, it's like one of those friendship bracelets you make at summer camp”

“I never went to a summer camp”

"I don't know why I'm not surprised" you laughed and would have continued the conversation if it hadn't been for Hotch's interruption.

“We've got a case. Conference room in 5”

Sometimes you forgot that the real reason you were there was the criminal profiles and not seeing Spencer Reid every day.

You just woke up one morning and knew you had to tell Spencer how you felt about him. As you said before, Spencer seemed to have a special magnet for trouble and proof of this were the cases in which he had to perform dangerous tasks that you knew no one else could do. When he had to get on that train with Ted Bryar you'd gone crazy and last week when he'd watched that cult boy on Massanutten Mountain threaten Reid with a gun you decided you'd had enough.

He had expressed concern for your well-being on multiple occasions, but what about his? Didn't you have the right to care about him just as much? every time he came back you wanted to throw yourself into his arms and whisper in his ear if he was okay, to maybe leave a kiss or two on his cheeks. But every time he came back you just cheered with the rest of the team and barely had contact with him beyond a squeeze on the shoulder and a sincere: I'm glad you're okay.

So you thought that if you wanted to have that kind of privilege over others the only alternative was to profess your love to him in the hope that he would feel the same way and you could work something out.

Spencer, for his own part, also had his epiphany and as much as he tried to avoid it he ended up asking Morgan for advice, who was the only person he thought would be suitable to talk about this kind of subject. Surprisingly, Derek behaved discreetly and really gave the doctor valuable elements to understand one of the few sciences in which science was almost obsolete: love.

Going back to recently acquired habits, walking together to the subway was another one of them. Sometimes this was interrupted because he or you stayed longer than the other, but except for those cases it was a regular activity.

So that night, when you two were walking to the station, your mind was immersed in remembering the speech with which you planned to tell your friend.

"You're very quiet today," Reid observed, taking you by surprise. In a few months he had already learned very well some traits that indicated that something was wrong with you.

“Sorry, I… I have a few things on my mind,” you apologized, but Spencer didn't know what to say because he also had his own things on his mind. He was desperately searching for a way to put into words what he felt, but he kept wondering, could that be explained? All attempts at reasoning became useless with you near him, maybe that's why he couldn't think of how to tell you "Reid, I don't think I've ever asked you, but have you ever had a partner?"

"Like… couple?" he asked, trying to make sure you were referring to the same thing he thought.

“I know it sounds weird, but it just… made me curious,” you exclaimed, shrugging and then crossing your arms in an attempt to comfort yourself. Reid fondly watched how your arms were on that purple scarf and felt a little motivated to speak.

“Huh, in that case, yes, something like that. I dated two people when I was in school, but it wasn't anything serious, just a few kisses” he explained to you and you failed to contain your laughter, maybe because of the way he had explained it. Spencer blushed to his ears and smiled reflexively at your smile. "Don't tease!"

"I don't" you defended yourself. Another person walked down the sidewalk and he reached out his arm to move you protectively in front of him, so when you came back to his side you took advantage of the distance between you, to the point where your shoulder brushed against his arm.

"And you?" he asked after a while of silence "Have you had many boyfriends?"

"The truth? not so many. With most of them I lost interest after the first date and the others left me when they found out I was in the academy. Apparently armed women aren't very attractive” you smiled. You had asked about his romantic history, and incidentally talked a bit about yours, only to open the topic and somehow feel that your confession would not be so out of place.

“There are studies that indicate that women take longer to fall in love than men, perhaps that is why you lost interest quickly. For you it takes about 6 or 8 dates to decide if you want something with a person, because you are more selective and better analyze personality traits in men. But they only care that the girls are… well, pretty” he murmured, with a smirk “On average it takes women 134 days to fall in love while men only 88”

“How long have you and I known each other?”

"It must be like... a year and a half now" he exclaimed, mentally doing the math "Why?" he continued legitimately confused. For the genius that he was, Reid was naive at times.

You looked down at him and for a second thought that even with those bags under his eyes and the stubble he hadn't shaved, Spencer was the most handsome man you'd ever met. Not receiving an answer, he looked at you and was surprised to see the sparkle in your eyes.

"Okay, can we stop here for a moment?" you asked. You knew you were probably going to chicken out if you didn't say it right then, even if that closed beauty salon you were standing in front of was an unromantic place. "I need to tell you something”

You had said it with determination, but once you were face to face, your mind went blank. You panicked: how were you going to tell him? What was the right thing to say? What reaction did you expect?

But Spencer, noticing the silence, decided to be the first to speak.

“Noradrenaline is a neurotransmitter that produces excitement and effusivity, increases heartbeat, blood pressure, causing sweating of hands and flushing. High dopamine levels generate a need to be with the person that releases it and is related to serotonin, which generates well-being, optimism, social closeness, and reduces discomfort and anger. Phenylethylamine makes everything more intense, makes us feel more motivated and optimistic and finally, oxytocin is the love hormone par excellence, it occurs when we have a bond of trust with people or when we feel a strong attraction. Sometimes it is also released when we embrace the reason for our affection” he had said that so hastily and waving his hands, that he could only show how nervous he was. He inhaled to catch his lost breath, then finally made eye contact with you, taking a moment before continuing, “What I'm trying to say is…you make me feel all of that. You alter my chemistry in ways I've never thought of and… and I… go all goofy and don't know what to say…”

"Spencer" you interrupted him "You mean you like me?" you asked gently, because you knew that when he started to wander sometimes you needed to bring him back down to earth. Reid looked at you tight-lipped and nodded slowly.

You were silent for a second, trying to process what he had just told you, and he got even more nervous than he was.

“But I think that after all this what I care to know is… if you feel the same way. Or in the worst case, if you think you might feel something like this”

“A total chemical mess for you?” you exclaimed amused. One of your hands went to his and you gently held it, taking a step closer to him. “I'm sorry, Reid. I feel it every time I look at you, that you hug me, every time I give you those silly gifts and see the smile on your face. Everything in you causes me that"

"Are you serious?" he asked, wanting to be completely sure what he was hearing. You laughed and wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him into a hug.

“Of course I do. Before you said all that I was racking my brain trying to find a way to tell you how I felt."

“Did you know that this is a phenomenon? There are those who call it the tuning fork effect, which is when two people connect the same idea at the same time, almost as if they had been thinking at the same frequency.”

You chuckled and buried your head in his neck, letting go of his hand so you could hug him properly. He wrapped both arms around your waist and buried his head in your hair, willing to say nothing more for fear of ruining the moment. All the fears you had had were being buried with that contact, because now you had the certainty that what you felt was mutual.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours, just listening to the gentle beating of his heart and enjoying the sense of security that being in the man's arms made you feel.

"I really like you" you broke the silence, with a whisper, making him smile.

"I think the most logical step from here would be to ask you out on a date, no?" he muttered. You pulled away enough to look at him, but still leaving your arms around his shoulders.

“I don't want to have to wait. Let's go for a burger"

"Don't you prefer somewhere more... formal?"

"Leave formal places for proposals, handsome," you said in a playful voice, caressing his cheeks with your extended palm and he made a mental note that this Italian restaurant he was thinking of inviting you to would be the ideal place to ask you to take the next step, when the time was right. 

“I still have to take you on at least 6 dates, to be sure”

"Fuck the statistics, I don't need that burger to know I'm in love with you," you said and he grinned from ear to ear.

“I know a place with an excellent health label and organic food, it is a few streets from here”

"I follow you" you answered cheerfully "On one condition"

"Which?"

"Let me hold your hand," you asked softly and Reid wasted no time in fulfilling your wish, leading you to the restaurant that way.

And at the end of the night, when you stole a kiss from him, he couldn't have felt luckier.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

What remains of us, pt. 9

Summary: Wally is desperate to understand what's happened, only to find out he's in a hole of his own making and Y/N might not be as forgiving.

Warnings: death, angst, mentions of mental health issues and suicide, fluff, mentions of a SCHOOL SHOOTING, swearing

Word count: 4.1 k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

She didn’t allow her eyes to linger on Wally, even though the pull was undeniable, almost painful in its familiarity. Her gaze was fixed on Xavier - steady, accusatory, a desperate attempt to ground herself before the storm erupted from within.

But she felt him.

Wally.

Her Wally.

The same Wally who now stood so casually close to Maddie. Too close.

Wally’s Maddie.

Maddie’s Wally.

The names tangled and twisted in her mind, like barbed wire wrapping tighter around the memories she cherished and held close to her heart. Suppressing the bitterness rising in her throat, she swallows hard. Her jaw clenches so tight it threatens to crack teeth.

“Well?” Her voice is sharp, barely restrained, and far more brittle than she’d like it to be.

“I got worried,” Xavier admits with a sheepish shrug, his eyes darting away, unable to meet hers for long.

It’s the first time in six years she’s beaten him in a staring contest. That should mean something. It doesn’t.

Raising her brows with the kind of disbelief only betrayal can birth, Y/N crosses her arms tightly over her chest; not in defense, but in desperation, holding herself together by a thread. “About?”

“You went into your scar. And I realized…you didn’t know what you were walking into.” He rubs the back of his neck, fumbling for words. “I’m sorry I called him. I just…I worried you’d get stuck.”

That’s when Wally steps forward. There’s an edge in his posture now, taut and territorial. His eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but confusion, followed by a flare of something darker. Jealousy. It radiates from him like heat.

“Why would you be sorry for telling me?” he demands, incredulous. “I’m her boyfriend.” He looks at Y/N, voicing it again as if to remind them both. “I’m your boyfriend!”

“Are you?” she finally turns to look at him, really look. Her voice is quiet, but the question lands like a slap.

And when he sees her eyes, his breath catches. That isn’t the pain of the scar reflected back at him. No… this is something else. Deeper. More personal. Raw. The anguish is evident behind the beautiful eyes he's written cheesy love songs about. For the first time ever, he's on the receiving end of this look, and her eyes are mirroring the pain he seems to have caused.

“What did I do?” His voice trembles, barely more than a whisper, soft, almost reverent. Like if he speaks too loudly, she might shatter.

She doesn’t answer him.

Instead, she looks at Maddie. At the way Maddie’s eyes widen slightly, like she knows something happened, something not meant to be seen. She glances at Wally again, at Xavier, at the others.

“I’m not having this conversation in front of an audience,” she mutters, voice thick with restraint.

She turns to walk away, spine stiff with pride, but Wally’s there in an instant, wrapping himself around her like a lifeline. His arms cage her in, desperate and trembling. He presses his forehead to her shoulder, clinging to her like a man slipping beneath ice.

“Don’t leave,” he breathes. “Don’t leave me.”

She untangles herself from him like she’s pulling stitches from a wound that never stopped bleeding. Her hands tremble. Her face is unreadable for a moment, then... resigned. Broken.

“I’m not the one who left.”

“You almost did!”

“I’m not the one who lied.”

“Lied?!”

“Despite my better judgment,” she says through gritted teeth, “I’m still here.”

Wally runs a hand through his hair in frustration, his entire body pulsing with disbelief. “You don’t want an audience?” he says with a bitter edge. “Fine.”

Without another word, he grabs her elbow and pulls her through the wall, into the classroom that once meant something to him. The one he associated with beginnings. Hope. He first saw Y/N dangling from a pole right outside the window of this classroom. This is where his afterlife truly began.

He makes sure the door seals behind them before he rounds on her, eyes wide with confusion and hurt.

“Now tell me,” he seethes. “What exactly did I lie about that was so bad you decided to leave this world without so much as a goodbye?”

Her lips part, then press together. Her gaze tracks across his face, tracing every freckle, every scar she once memorized. Once. Now, every feature is a question mark.

“You could have moved on ten years ago,” she begins, her voice low and shaking. “Your door opened — opened — but every time we talked, you never once mentioned it.”

“I was scared -”

“You said you never went to your scar,” she spits. “You said you didn’t know how to get through it!”

“I know. You’re right. I’m sorry -”

“You lied when you said she didn’t mean anything anymore.”

His brows knit, a moment of genuine confusion.

“What?”

“You told me you were over her.”

“Maddie?”

“Actually, not just that you were over her!” she snaps. “You told me you loved me, but the moment she’s in the building, you disappear! Like I don't matter.”

She turns away, fists trembling, heart screaming. Her voice cracks on the next words. “God, I hate that I sound like this. Like some jealous teenager.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” she hisses. “But the way you looked at her…the way you laughed, Wally…” Her breath catches. “It didn’t feel like friendship. It felt like I was just… filler. A placeholder. Like you were just passing time with me until she walked back in.”

“That’s not true.”

“Right.”

“It’s not!” Wally shouts. “I was catching up with an old friend—”

“An ex,” she cuts in sharply, spinning to face him. “Let’s not downplay it.”

He throws his hands up. “Hardly! We had maybe a month!”

“And yet she means more to you than I ever could have imagined.”

“It’s just…she was there at a crucial moment, okay?” he stammers. “She was the reason my door opened.”

Y/N’s face goes pale. The words strike like a bullet.

“Fucking great,” she mutters, laughing bitterly. “She’s the reason you found peace? The reason you were ready to move on?”

“No! That came out wrong -”

“Or maybe it was perfectly right.”

“Y/N, no! I swear to you, I don’t love her! You’re the one I love. I always have.”

“How can I believe that?” she asks, eyes brimming with tears. “After all the lies? After hiding something that big from me for years?”

“You don’t have to believe my words.” He steps closer, hands trembling. “Just believe what you felt in your heart. I’ve shown you, Y/N. Every single day, I…”

She cuts him off with a voice full of venomous heartbreak.

“The problem is…my heart? It’s gone.” Her voice cracks, and her eyes lock on his like a final goodbye. “I’m dead. And you’re the one who pulled the trigger. Maybe not with a gun, but with lies. And cowardice.”

He crumbles. “Don’t say that.”

“I asked you never to lie to me.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“For lying… or for getting caught?” She tilts her head, arms folded over her ribcage like she’s holding herself together.

“I’m sorry for both!” he yells. “I would have told you when you were ready, but you weren’t! You weren’t, Y/N! I didn’t want to overwhelm you!”

“So now it’s my fault you kept things from me?”

“No! That’s not what I - God, you’re impossible!”

She smirks through her tears, sharp as glass. “At least I’m not a liar.”

And that’s the moment the silence hits them like a slap.

He’s left staring at her, furious, broken, unraveling, while she turns away, hiding the fresh tears spilling heartbreak from her eyes.

Neither of them knows how to fix this.

But both know they’re standing on the shattered remains of something that once felt indestructible.

The silence stretches between them like a noose, tight and suffocating.

He stares at her back, Y/N’s shoulders rising and falling with every shallow breath. Wally’s jaw trembles as he watches her, this woman who had once made the afterlife something to look forward to.

He steps forward hesitantly, the weight of everything he stands to lose crashing down on him like cold water.

“I love you,” Wally whispers, his voice cracking at the edges.

He moves slowly, cautiously, like she’s a doe in the woods, and if he gets too close, she’ll vanish. His palms are out slightly in front of him, not reaching, not begging, just showing that he means no harm.

She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t move either. Her silence is louder than any scream she could throw at him.

“Nothing I did was ever meant to hurt you,” he continues, softer now. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and it kills him that she doesn’t even acknowledge it. Doesn’t even look at him.

And then he hears it, the quietest sniffle.

It punches the air from his lungs.

She's crying.

Because of him.

His knees almost give out. It’s like someone cut the strings holding him together. His breath hitches and he presses a fist to his mouth, desperate to hold in the sob rising in his throat.

God, he did this.

She’s falling apart, his girl is suffering and it’s his fault. Every time he’d chosen silence, every truth he tucked away in fear, every moment he thought he was protecting her by lying… this is where it led.

It throws him into the deep end, drowning in regret, lungs burning for oxygen that doesn’t exist anymore. Not without her.

And then… she turns.

And he sees her.

Truly sees her.

Her eyes are wet, rimmed with red. Her lips tremble with the effort not to break down completely. But it’s the look; the look in her eyes that shatters him beyond repair.

It’s not anger anymore. It’s betrayal. It's proof he’s failed at what he wished to be – a reliable shoulder to rest her head on.

She has a haunted look of someone who gave everything they had and was left behind anyway.

His whole world caves in.

If he could, he’d take it all, the pain, the doubt, the torment, and carry it on his own shoulders until the end of time. He would bleed himself dry if it meant she could smile again. But he can’t. All he can do is stand there and witness the aftermath of his own wreckage. What can he say or do to help now? How can he show her she’s the only one he’d damn his soul for.

Watching the wreckage he’s caused…God, it’s unbearable.

“Y/N…” his voice is a breath, a plea, shaking like leaves in a storm. “Please…”

Her jaw tightens, the tears spilling freely now, and she shakes her head like she can’t even look at him without remembering everything.

“You broke me,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I trusted you with everything, Wally. Everything. And the worst part? I believed you. I defended you in my mind every time Xavier gave me a reason not to. I always gave you a chance to explain, never second guessed your words.”

Wally flinches like her words slice into his skin, akin to knives. And they are. They carve into him, leaving wounds he’ll never fully heal from.

“I loved you so much,” she continues, her voice rising in anguish. “And now I don’t know if any of it was real. I don’t know if we were real.”

Wally shakes his head, stepping forward again, desperate. “We were real. We are. Every kiss. Every laugh. Every song I wrote for you, it was all real, Y/N.”

Her lips quiver. “Then why does it feel like I was just… convenient?”

“You weren’t,” he says fiercely. “You were more inconvenient,” a smile slips past before he continues. “You were everything. You are.”

Her face crumples like she’s trying to hold back another sob but can’t, and Wally can’t take it anymore. He falls to his knees, his hands shaking as he clutches the edge of the desk behind him.

“I know I fucked up,” he chokes. “I know I did. I thought I was doing the right thing by waiting. By not forcing you into something you weren’t ready for. But I was scared too. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You lost me anyway,” she whispers.

And that’s the worst part. She’s not yelling anymore. She’s not accusing. She’s just… tired. Hollow.

And he’d rather be cursed to haunt this classroom for eternity than watch her fall out of love with him right now.

Wally stays there on the floor, gasping for a breath that won’t come, watching the love of his life break apart because of his mistakes. His heart aches so badly it feels like it’s going to tear out of his chest.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, voice nearly inaudible. “But I’ll spend forever trying, if you let me.”

Her back is to him again. Her fingers grip the edge of the windowsill as if the glass might hold her together. Her silence screams louder than before.

And for the first time in his afterlife, Wally doesn’t know if she’s going to turn back around.

It was raining that day, mist surrounding the school, blurring the world just enough to make it feel like a dream. Y/N had found herself in the art room, pacing in frustration after a particularly brutal memory resurfaced when she returned to the spot she died in once more. Her knuckles were white from gripping the edges of a desk, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the pain still fresh in her heart.

And then there he was…Wally… leaning in the doorway with that familiar crooked smile and a sketchbook tucked under one arm.

“You trying to sand this desk down with your bare hands, sunshine?”

She had glared at him at first, cheeks flushed and eyes wet. “I’m not in the mood.”

Wally had nodded like he understood. Like he always did. Without saying anything else, he crossed the room, pulled a chair beside her, and sat.

Just sat.

After a while, he opened his sketchbook and flipped it around.

It was a drawing of her. Not one of those flattering, model-perfect sketches, but real. The little crease in her brow when she was lost in thought. The soft way her hands curled when she was resting. The hint of a dimple that only showed up when she laughed without restraint.

“You make the afterlife better,” he’d whispered, not even looking at her as he said it. “You make me better.”

Her breath had hitched.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t press. He just sat there, her storm made calm by his stillness.

She had kissed him that day, soft and slow and with every ounce of trust she’d barely learned to give again.

She remembers thinking: this is what home feels like.

But now?

Now, she can barely look at him.

Wally still sits on the floor, shattered in the quiet aftermath of his plea. The room feels frozen, time suspended between the echoes of his guilt and the lingering thunder of her pain.

Y/N turns slowly from the window, the light catching the tears still clinging to her lashes.

She looks at him and her heart clenches. Because he’s still him. Still Wally. But they are not them anymore. Not in this moment. Maybe not ever again.

“I used to think you were the one good thing in all of this,” she says, voice low, barely more than a breath. “When I died… when everything else fell apart… you were the only thing that made it feel like maybe this wasn’t just punishment. Made me think you’re a gift...an apology from the heavens for a life lost so young.”

He lifts his head, holding onto every word like they’re life rafts.

“I trusted you,” she continues, her voice growing steadier. “I let myself trust you, even when every instinct told me not to. And now I feel like a goddamn idiot.”

Wally swallows hard. “You’re not. You’re not.”

“I was,” she fires back, bitter. “Because I thought I knew you. I thought if anyone could be honest with me, it’d be you. I asked for one thing, Wally. One. No lies.”

“I didn’t lie to hurt you -”

“But you did hurt me!” she yells, stepping forward suddenly, hands clenched at her sides. “You kept things from me, you made decisions for me. You treated me like I was something fragile, and now look at me!”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

“How am I ever to trust you, Wally?”

He stands slowly, but he doesn’t reach for her. He knows better now.

She stares up at him with tear-rimmed eyes, her voice trembling. “You told me I was everything. But the second she walked in, I watched you light up like you’d just seen the sun again.”

Wally shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to address first – the lies or Maddie of it all. “That’s not what that was. It wasn’t!”

“It felt like it,” she says, quieter now. “And maybe that’s the worst part. That I can’t even trust my own feelings around you anymore. I feel weak…You make me weak.”

Silence again. It fills the room like a cruel joke. His hands twitch like he wants to touch her, to take some of the weight from her shoulders, but he doesn’t dare.

Then she whispers, “Was I just your second choice?”

He blinks, stunned. “No. God, no.”

“Then why did it feel like you were ready to run back to her the moment you saw her again?” Her voice is hoarse. “Why did I feel invisible the second she laughed at one of your dumb jokes?”

Wally steps closer now, trembling. “Because you don’t know the truth, Y/N. I was happy when I saw her. Not because I wanted her back, but because I got to tell her about what I have now. With you. And I took her to the boiler room, where she died because she needed to face her trauma. But I swear I talked about you the entire time. ”

She frowns, uncertainty flashing across her face.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” he adds, hands flexing at his sides, “I’m a fucking mess, okay? I’ve spent years terrified that I didn’t deserve what we had, that one day you’d wake up and realize I was just some dumb teenage jock who could never be enough for you.”

Y/N stares at him, torn between disbelief and reluctant understanding.

“And when you went into your scar… when I thought you might not come back…” He swallows hard, tears slipping down his cheeks again. “It broke me. I started unraveling. I couldn’t even remember what to do to enter your scar and Maddie helped me.”

She doesn’t respond right away.

“I really want to believe you…”

He flinches. “But I don’t have the best track record right now.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” he whispers again, softer this time. “And I know that doesn’t fix any of this. But it’s the only truth I have left to give.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

And Wally?

He stands in front of her, quietly waiting.

For forgiveness. For rejection. For something.

Because whatever happens next, it’s in her hands now.

The vacant look in her eyes flickers, melting into something softer, something more human, but no less agonized. Her brows twitch, lips parting slightly like she wants to speak but the words are too heavy to lift. Her arms wrap tighter around herself, as if trying to hold in the ache threatening to split her in two.

Agony twists across her face. Not loud or dramatic, quiet, suffocating. The kind that settles behind the ribs and coils around every breath like a vice. She doesn’t cry. Not anymore. She just looks exhausted. Like her soul has been wrung out and left to dry.

There’s a constant, dull ache knotted in her chest, a phantom hand clenching her heart in a grip that won't let go. Her breath stutters, fragile and uneven, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to move on from someone she loves so deeply it feels like she was created just to find him.

She had been blissfully, stupidly in love. Certain…so certain he would never be the one to blindside her. And now she’s standing here, hollowed out by the very person who once made her feel full.

She should leave. Her mind screams it. Go. Move on. Find the door and let it close behind her. Let the past rot like it always intended to. But that idea is nothing but a joke. Because even if she found the courage to step through that final door, she knows she’d leave half of herself behind.

Wally holds that half.

Her soul had ached for him from the moment they met. Something primal, magnetic. She fought it at first, scared to lose herself to someone. But when she finally gave in, it wasn’t a crash, it was a surrender. A quiet, desperate giving of her heart in trembling hands. And she hadn’t regretted it.

Not until now.

She sees it so clearly, how she let herself fall with her eyes closed. How she let his words weave a reality she wanted so badly to believe. She had loved him so much she chose not to see the truth.

Now, she sees it all.

Her mind claws at her chest, desperate to protect her heart. Reminds her of the danger he poses, the pain he’s capable of inflicting with the flick of a truth withheld. But her heart? Her heart doesn’t give a damn. It’s never cared about danger. Never cared about the bruises or the cracks.

Because what does a heart care for safety when it’s already burned to the ground? What does it matter if it’s broken, as long as it gets to be held again by the one it beats for?

The heart is reckless. The heart is stupid. The heart cannot be trusted.

But God, it’s powerful.

Her gaze lifts to meet his, eyes glassy with unshed pain. “I love you too,” she breathes, voice low, raw, like the truth is cutting its way up from her throat. “I’m just not sure I like you right now.”

Wally’s eyes widen, and the breath he’s been holding spills out in a shaky sigh. He nods, almost too quickly, clinging to the crack of light in those words like a man trapped for eternity in darkness. “We can work with that,” he whispers. “Just… give us more time.”

She presses her lips into a trembling line and sucks in a deep, uneven breath. Her shoulders roll back, her chin lifts just slightly, like she’s bracing for a blow. “You’re asking me not to let go yet?” Her voice wavers, eyes searching his. “To stay here… and close the door to moving on?”

Wally takes a slow step forward, his voice barely audible. “As selfish as it sounds… yes.”

Then finally, slowly, she lowers her arms and lets them hang at her sides, trembling.

“I’m scared,” she confesses. “That if I stay, I’ll lose more of myself. That loving you will keep costing me pieces I can’t get back.”

Wally exhales shakily, stepping even closer now, cautiously, like she’s a candle flame he doesn’t want to snuff out. “Then I’ll help you find them again. All the pieces. Even the ones I broke.”

Y/N’s lip trembles. She’s seconds from unraveling completely. But she doesn't step back.

“You better mean that,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper.

“I do,” he swears, and his voice breaks in the middle of it. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

She doesn’t throw herself into his arms. There’s no cinematic kiss. But she doesn’t run, either. Instead, she lets the silence settle between them once more.

But this time, it’s not silence made of grief. It’s made of possibility.

Still fragile. Still breakable.

But no longer shattered.

PART 10

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— you taught me secret language you know i can’t speak with anyone else ; don’t let your self-doubts and insecurities win or else you’ll not going anywhere

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

It’s been four days. And you couldn’t shake the embarrassment from your last interaction with Tsukishima. Confessing your feelings to him that night, sitting together in his car as he celebrated your birthday—just the two of you with muffins and a simple bracelet gift—felt like a mistake now. The memory haunted you, the weight of your words and the silence that followed too overwhelming to face.

So, you did what you thought was best: you shut him out, distancing yourself in every way possible. You even archived his chat on your phone. Out of sight, out of mind. The thought of seeing his name sent your heart into overdrive, and you couldn’t afford distractions, not when you were already drowning in assignments. It was easier to pretend he didn’t exist, to focus solely on your work, but it wasn’t sustainable.

Your assignments had become your life. The deadlines, the stress—they consumed you. You threw yourself into your studies to the point of exhaustion, trying desperately to escape the lingering thoughts of him. It was easier this way. Easier to lose yourself in the endless tasks than to deal with the complicated mess of feelings you didn’t know how to untangle.

Still, there were moments when you couldn’t help but remember how he used to help you. Tsukishima would explain things in a way that made everything seem so simple, without the frustration or pressure that usually came with your academic struggles. He’d lend you his old notes, give you study references, and somehow, just knowing he was there made things less stressful. But now, those memories were just a painful reminder of how much you missed his presence—his calm, straightforward way of teaching that made everything feel less chaotic.

But missing him didn’t mean you were ready to face him again. Not yet.

Tsukishima had noticed the shift in your behavior almost immediately. The night you confessed your feelings to him in the car, when he celebrated your birthday privately. You were so vulnerable, admitting how you felt, and all he did was sit there in stunned silence. No words of comfort, no response. He just shifted silently, unable to process it in the moment.

He regretted it now—every second of it. The way he just let the moment slip by without saying anything, how his silence had caused this distance between you two. He didn’t mean to hurt you. The truth was, he hadn’t been expecting the confession. It caught him off guard, and instead of addressing it like he should have, he shut down. Now, that silence was haunting him.

Every time he pulled out his phone to message you, he hesitated. His fingers would hover over the screen, typing out a few words before deleting them again. What was he supposed to say? Hey, why are you avoiding me? It sounded accusatory in his mind, like he was placing blame. But that wasn’t it. He didn’t want to push you away further.

He’d already sent a couple of messages, simple ones—checking in, asking if you wanted to study together or meet up for lunch—but every time, he was met with silence. No response. It was like you had vanished. He even thought about messaging Yamaguchi to ask if he had noticed anything different, but that felt like a step too far. He didn’t want to seem like he was overthinking things.

It wasn’t just about the confession anymore—it was about how he missed you. He missed your presence, your questions, the way you’d show up stressed with assignments, and he’d offer to help. He missed being the one to simplify things for you, to lend you his old notes and references. It was a strange kind of absence, one that gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.

Tsukishima found himself lingering in places where he knew you’d pass by—near the class hall, at the library, even by the volleyball court—hoping for a chance encounter, hoping for the opportunity to casually start a conversation. But every time he saw you, you’d turn the other way, or walk faster, or pretend to be engrossed in something else.

And that stung. More than he expected.

One night, as he sat alone in his apartment, his phone resting on the table in front of him, Tsukishima stared at your contact. The chat was quiet, no new messages. He felt the weight of the silence, the kind that crept into the spaces between his thoughts and made him restless. He wanted to send you another message, but what could he say that he hadn’t already?

Finally, he picked up his phone, taking a deep breath before typing out something simple, something that wouldn’t seem too desperate.

Hey, I haven’t seen you around lately. Everything okay?

He hit send before he could overthink it, before the nagging voice in his head could convince him otherwise.

But again, there was no response. No ‘read’ notification, nothing.

For the first time in a long time, Tsukishima felt uncertain. He wasn’t used to feeling like this—like he was waiting on something beyond his control. And it unsettled him.

He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. But here he was, sitting in his quiet apartment, wondering why the silence between you felt so loud.

---

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi had just finished volleyball practice, the cool evening air brushing against their skin as they exited the gym. They were chatting casually about their next tournament, already making plans to grab snacks at the culinary festival. The smell of grilled food was enticing, and Yamaguchi was in high spirits, talking about the strawberry tanghulu he was craving.

As they turned a corner in the hallway, a sudden collision interrupted their conversation. Papers flew everywhere, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves in autumn. The three of them froze for a second, momentarily stunned by the abruptness of the accident.

You were kneeling on the ground, hurriedly gathering your scattered notes, mumbling an apology under your breath. “I’m so sorry, it was my bad—”

Yamaguchi, always quick to help, was the first to kneel down, reaching for your papers. “No, it’s okay. We weren’t paying attention either,” he said, offering you a kind smile as he handed over the documents he had gathered. Tsukishima followed suit, quietly picking up a few stray papers, though he paused when he realized that you still hadn’t noticed who you had bumped into.

You kept your gaze lowered, focused on reorganizing your papers, as if determined to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “Thanks,” you mumbled, taking the stack from Tsukishima’s outstretched hand, not even looking up at him.

For a moment, he stood there, his hand lingering in the air. Your voice had been quiet—almost too quiet. Tsukishima’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you, searching for something in your demeanor. You were more flustered than usual, your movements rushed, as if you were eager to flee from the scene.

“I gotta go. Thanks for your help,” you said quickly, pushing the papers into your bag. Your voice was strained, and before either of them could say anything more, you straightened up and took a step back.

But Yamaguchi wasn’t ready to let you leave so easily. “Hey, wait,” he called after you, his tone light and inviting. “Do you want to grab some snacks with us? There’s a culinary festival at Hall B. They’ve got all sorts of good stuff.”

You stopped in your tracks, hesitating for a moment. Tsukishima noticed the way your shoulders stiffened, your hand clutching your bag tightly. Slowly, you turned to look at Yamaguchi, and then, reluctantly, your eyes shifted to meet Tsukishima’s gaze. His expression was sharp, intense, as if he were waiting for something—anything—from you.

Your heart clenched in your chest. The memory of that night in the car came flooding back—the night you confessed, laying your feelings bare, and all you received in return was his silence. The hurt you felt then rose to the surface now, simmering beneath your skin. You couldn’t stand the way he looked at you, the same cold, unreadable expression. You blinked a few times, trying to push the emotions down, but the frustration bubbled up, filling you with a sudden rush of anger.

“I… I have something to do, unfortunately. Sorry, maybe next time,” you stammered, your voice a little too stiff, the smile you forced onto your lips weak and fleeting. Without waiting for their response, you turned on your heel and walked away, your pace quickening with every step.

Tsukishima’s gaze followed you until you disappeared around the corner. His fists clenched at his sides, a quiet frustration settling over him. He didn’t like the way you had avoided his eyes, the way you had brushed off Yamaguchi’s invitation, but what bothered him most was the tiredness he saw in you. You looked worn out, emotionally drained, and it struck something deep inside him—a protective instinct he wasn’t used to feeling.

Yamaguchi let out a confused hum, frowning slightly as he watched you leave. “What’s up with her?” he mumbled under his breath, turning to Tsukishima. “She didn’t even look at you… that’s not like her, is it?”

Tsukishima pushed his glasses up, trying to mask his own unease. “She said she has something to do.”

“Yeah, but she seemed… different,” Yamaguchi pressed, his brow furrowing. “It’s not like she’s close to me or anything, but she usually doesn’t act like that. She’s always polite and thoughtful. I don’t know, it just felt off.”

Tsukishima didn’t respond immediately, but the tightness in his chest hadn’t eased. He hated how helpless he felt right now, how every part of him wanted to chase after you and explain himself—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. You had your reasons for leaving, and he wasn’t about to make things worse by pushing you when you clearly didn’t want to be around him.

After a moment of silence, Yamaguchi spoke again, this time his tone softer. “Did something happen between you two?”

Tsukishima tensed at the question, his shoulders stiffening. He didn’t expect Yamaguchi to be so direct, but the concern in his friend’s voice left no room for dodging the truth.

With a heavy sigh, Tsukishima relented. “Yeah… something happened.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widened slightly in surprise but he remained quiet, waiting for Tsukishima to continue.

Tsukishima hesitated for a moment before explaining what had happened in the car that night. He told Yamaguchi about your confession—how you’d poured your heart out to him, and how, in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t known what to say. The weight of his silence, and how it had clearly affected you since.

Yamaguchi groaned loudly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Tsukki… why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I wanted to,” Tsukishima muttered, his voice edged with frustration. “But she ran away before I could even process what she said.”

“Ran away?” Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow, biting into his strawberry tanghulu. “You’ve been an athlete since high school, Tsukki. Don’t tell me you couldn’t catch up with her.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and Tsukishima sighed deeply. His gaze shifted downward, lost in thought. “It’s not that simple. I mean, I know I’m interested in her. She’s been on my mind more than anyone else… and after what happened with that drunk guy in the park, I just—” He paused, the memory of that night flaring up, the fear he felt seeing you in danger.

Yamaguchi looked at him, a knowing expression crossing his face. “You love her, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima groaned again, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “She’s only 20. What if she’s just confused about her feelings? I don’t want to be that jerk who takes advantage of someone who isn’t sure.”

Yamaguchi’s expression softened, and he let out a deep sigh. “I get that, but maybe you’re overthinking this. If she confessed to you, it means she’s thought about it.”

Tsukishima’s expression didn’t change. “Her mom controls so much of her life. She hasn’t even had the chance to figure out what she really wants. I don’t want to get in the way of that… she deserves more than being tied down by someone like me.”

Yamaguchi looked at him incredulously. “Now that doesn’t sound like you at all. Since when did you let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

—-

You sat nestled between the library bookshelves, your legs folded beneath you, your head resting wearily on your arms. The pressure of your biochemistry assignment had drained you, particularly the report on Protein Biochemistry—analyzing enzyme kinetics and purifying a specific protein. You had to design the experimental process for extracting, purifying, and characterizing a recombinant protein, including interpreting results from chromatography, electrophoresis, and spectrophotometry. The sheer volume of data, graphs, and analysis overwhelmed you, and after hours of staring at equations and assay results, your body gave in.

Your papers had spilled out around you, strewn on the floor, as your mind drifted off—not into sleep, but something close enough. Earphones were still in your ears, faint music playing, trying to provide a sense of calm that the stress had stolen from you. You had only meant to rest your eyes for a minute. Yet, here you were, curled up and barely holding it together in the dim light of the library.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps on the library's quiet floor snapped you from the haze. It wasn't deep sleep—you had only let your eyes close momentarily—but it was enough to make the sound of someone nearby feel like an intrusion. You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you blinked your eyes open, you saw Tsukishima crouching beside you, one of your crumpled assignment pages in his hands.

"Are you gonna sleep here?" His voice was soft, laced with sarcasm, but somehow not as cutting as usual.

Your eyes widened slightly, startled by his presence, but you quickly collected yourself. With a silent nod of thanks, you gently took the paper from his hand, avoiding his gaze as you gathered the rest of your scattered work. You could feel his eyes on you, watching as you stuffed everything haphazardly into your bag. You didn’t want him to see the state you were in—exhausted, frustrated, and on the brink of breaking down from the weight of the assignment. It was easier to avoid him than to admit how much his presence affected you lately.

You stood up, checking your phone: 7 PM. Five hours had passed since you first sat down to tackle your work, and the time had flown by in a blur of confusion and growing anxiety. Your back ached from sitting in the same position for too long, and you stifled a groan as you slung your heavy backpack over your shoulder.

Tsukishima let out a small sigh as you brushed past him, clearly annoyed that you were still avoiding him. He stood up beside you and followed as you began walking toward the exit of the library.

After a few moments, you noticed him still walking next to you, matching your pace, and before you could ask why, he handed you a bottle of water. The gesture caught you off guard.

You hesitated, but then you mumbled, “Thanks,” as you took the bottle from his hand. You hadn't realized just how thirsty you were until now, the dryness in your throat suddenly impossible to ignore. You took a long sip, your steps continuing in silence beside him.

It wasn’t until you had nearly reached the library doors that Tsukishima finally spoke again. "I want to talk to you," he said, his voice a little firmer this time.

"About what?" you asked, your tone clipped as you kept your eyes ahead, unwilling to look at him directly.

"You know what," he said, the irritation creeping into his voice. You could tell that your avoidance had worn him down, and his patience was running thin.

That anger that had been bubbling beneath your exhaustion finally surfaced. You stopped walking, turning to face him. "Your silence has been clear enough for me," you bit out, your voice trembling with the frustration you’d been holding in.

You turned to leave, but Tsukishima’s hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. "Come on, you’ve been avoiding me for days. And we both know it's hurting us equally,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You pulled your wrist from his grasp, turning on him with a glare. “Fine. Talk now, then,” you snapped, your heart pounding. “Tell me it was casual for you to save me, help me, hug me, kiss my hand, let me sleep on your arm—”

“I like you too,” he interrupted, his voice steady, but there was an unfamiliar vulnerability in his eyes. “I like you too, okay?”

The world seemed to stop in that moment. The words you had been longing to hear felt like a balm to your aching heart, but the frustration remained. You felt tears prickling your eyes, the exhaustion and emotions mixing together as your breath hitched. "Then why didn’t you say anything?" you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks now that the dam had broken.

Tsukishima stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your face, gently wiping away the tears with his thumb. His touch was so gentle, so unlike the sharp edges of his personality you had grown used to. “I didn’t expect it from you. I was going to confess too, but… as a man, I was offended you made the first move.” He let out a small sigh. “That’s not an excuse, I know. I shouldn’t have left you hanging, confused.”

Tsukishima’s voice dropped, a subtle mix of uncertainty and self-reflection. He gazed down at you, his usually confident demeanor softened. “Do you really think you like me?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly. “I mean, I was a jerk. A grumpy TA who gave you hard days. I made things worse for you when you were already struggling…”

His words trailed off, and he looked away for a moment, as if trying to process his own feelings. "You deserve better than that."

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by his sudden vulnerability. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite everything. “But you helped me through things I was struggling with… even when you didn’t have to,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Tsukishima chuckled softly, his thumb continuing to wipe your tears away. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in an embrace that felt so natural, as if this had been waiting to happen all along. His fingers combed through your hair as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, breathing in your scent, his hold on you tightening as if he feared letting go.

“Okay, okay, stop crying,” he teased lightly, though there was still softness in his voice. “I told you, I like you too.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, wiping your own face now as you calmed down, still buried in the warmth of his chest. There was a comfortable silence between you as he held you, and you felt like you could stay there forever, the world outside fading away.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your face still flushed from crying but with a small smile tugging at your lips. “So… does that make you my boyfriend now?” you asked, your voice soft but with a hint of playful curiosity.

Tsukishima couldn’t help but smile at your question. He chuckled softly, shaking his head before nodding. "Yeah," he said, his voice filled with amusement and affection.

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr @thechaosoflonging @monya-febrjack

[gullemec]

Responsibility

Bitten - Part IV

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A glimpse into the beginning of your working relationship with Joel. Rare moments of relief scattered amid pain. You try to break through the impenetrable forcefield that is Joel Miller.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gun use, description of injuries, Tess is here <3 (and a little mean but she's allowed), 24/7 365 ANGST, blood

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 8.3k

A/N: I'm going to try and get these chapters out on a more reliable schedule going forward! I just finished golden cage so of course i have to start another series alongside this one lol. big love to everyone who's commented/liked/reblogged or otherwise shown love for this series!

You squint against the sunlight reflecting off the painfully bright glare of fresh snow. The first snow of the season. The stark white landscape stretches out around you, broken only by the dark skeletons of bare trees clawing endlessly up into the pale blue sky. 

A bonafide Montana winter. 

It’s beautiful in a way that feels cruel, indifferent. The kind of beauty that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold the map in your hands, the stiff paper crackling in the stillness. You trace the crisscrossing roads and the snaking blue lines of rivers, trying to pinpoint your location. If your navigation is correct, and there’s a decent chance it isn’t, you’re a couple of days’ hike from the Wyoming border.

You huff out a breath, the air materializing in front of you in fleeting clouds before dissipating into nothing. The cold bites at your exposed skin, seeping through your mismatched layers of clothing.

Joel walks a few steps ahead, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the snow, his rifle slung low across his back. The weight of his presence is as steady and unyielding as ever. It’s a quiet sort of reassurance, even now, even after everything.

You’d left the cabin early this morning, Joel sufficiently convinced that you’d healed enough to travel again. The weight of your pack digs into your shoulders with each step, the dull ache in your side a persistent reminder of how fragile you still are. But you don’t say a word about it.

You can still feel the way Joel’s hands had ghosted over your side earlier, inspecting your stitches, his touch tentative and fleeting as he helped you prepare for the journey. It sent shivers down your spine, a sensation that was both delicious and unbearable.

In another life, that touch might have meant something different. Something softer. The way a lover might gently wake you, their fingertips trailing over your skin with reverence. But here, now, it’s tainted. Blood-stained. An act of survival, not intimacy. Of necessity, not affection.

The pain flares again as you shift the pack on your shoulders, but you stifle the wince before it can reach your face. You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

Because you know Joel would stop if you asked.

He’d find you both a safe spot to rest, grumbling all the while about how you’re slowing him down, about how daylight’s burning. But he’d do it. Without hesitation, without complaint that mattered.

And that’s exactly why you don’t ask.

His care, however gruff and begrudging it seems on the surface, is a kindness you’ve decided you don’t deserve.

You glance up at him again, his figure framed against the stark white of the snow. He’s quiet, as he often is, his focus ahead as though the horizon holds all the answers. There’s something almost comforting about the way he carries himself, all rugged determination and quiet strength. 

Your North Star. Strong and dependable and a thousand miles away. 

The space between you feels lighter than it did before you reached the cabin. Ever since the night he held you after your nightmare, the tension had eased. The conversations felt lighter, his gaze less accusatory. Still, there is an undeniable distance here that neither of you knows how to cross. 

The fresh snow crunches underfoot, the only sound in the otherwise silent wilderness. You focus on it, on the rhythmic sound of your steps and his, on the steady cadence as you push forward. Anything to distract yourself from the gnawing ache in your side and the heavier ache in your chest.

Your eyes drift back to the map in your hands, the lines and symbols blurring as your eyes readjust. Wyoming is out there somewhere, a distant promise of… what? Safety? Redemption?

You’re not sure.

It was what all the rumours said, what you’d heard from fellow QZ residents.

Heard they’ve got a place out in Wyoming. Some kinda safe haven. No FEDRA, no ration cards. Just people lookin’ out for each other.

"Sounds like a fairy tale,” Joel had said when you first told him about it.

And it had seemed like a fairytale back then, but it was enough. Once upon a time, it was enough.

…

You were perched on an overturned crate, tucked in the shadows of the alleyway behind Joel’s apartment. The cold, wet air seeped through your patched coat and settled in your bones. You were distantly aware of the distant hum of generators, the barking shouts of FEDRA soldiers. Always in the periphery. Never for a moment were you allowed to forget where you were, this hellscape of endless grey. The skies, the crumbling building facades, the soot-streaked faces and desperate eyes of the people you passed on the street. It all faded into the same monotonous shade of fucking grey.

You inhaled deeply, your lip curling with the rot and diesel that constantly tainted the air around you. A woman down the alley cursed as she spilled water from her ration jug. The sound of a scuffle broke out somewhere further down the street. Life in the QZ was a constant grind, a relentless struggle just to eke out another day of painful existence.

That was why you were there that day. A promise of something better, if only marginally. A tiny spark of something new, something exciting, to disrupt the miserable monotony.

You hunched forward, rubbing your gloved hands together for warmth. Your fingers traced the map Joel had sketched for you earlier. Routes through the city, marked with coded notations on where and when to avoid FEDRA patrols. It was all a blur of lines and numbers you still hadn’t fully decoded.

The sound of boots crunching on debris pulled your attention. You tensed automatically, only relaxing  when Joel stepped into view. His presence was steady, familiar, despite everything. Your newfound friendship, if you could even call it that, was barely a few months old, but he put you at ease regardless. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head for you to follow as he strode toward the mouth of the alley. His hand rested on his hip near his pistol. Always prepared, always scanning.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, glancing back to make sure you were keeping up.

As you rounded the corner, you saw her. Tess. She leaned so casually against the brick wall, but there was nothing relaxed about the way she watched you. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes scanning you from head to toe. She radiated a cool, unspoken authority, and you immediately felt like an intruder in a sacred space.

She eyed you up and down, the mask of cool indifference never leaving her face.

Then she turned to Joel, like you weren’t even there.

“You serious? What the hell is she doing here?”

Joel huffed. “She’s resourceful,” he said. “‘Sides, we need an extra pair of hands.”

“An extra liability, more like,” she snapped back.

Joel didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, but his jaw tightened. “She’s good.”

She turned her full attention to you then, and the weight of it made your stomach churn. “What’s your story, then? Joel might think you can handle yourself, but I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

Her words were biting, but it was the way she said Joel, so casually, so familiarly, that caught your attention. You weren't sure why it stung, but it did. Like you were peeping through a window, trespassing into something you didn’t fully understand.

“I can hold my own,” you said quickly, straightening your spine. You tried to keep your voice steady, to sound confident, in spite of the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve been outside the walls before. I know what I’m doing.”

Tess arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that so? And if things go sideways, what then? You planning to scream and hope Joel comes running?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Joel cut in before you could speak.

“She ain’t some kid,” he said. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Tess’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shifted her weight, clearly biting back whatever barbed remark she wanted to throw at him. Instead, she turned to him, voice dropping to a clipped tone. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in someone you just met.”

“She’s earned it,” Joel replied, leaving no room for argument.

There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, a brief but loaded silence that spoke of history and mutual understanding. It wasn’t lost on you, and though you didn’t want to dwell on it, you couldn’t help the tightness in your throat.

Tess finally sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Fine. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

Joel gave a curt nod, and the tension between them seemed to ease, though Tess’s wariness didn't disappear entirely. She turned back to you, her expression still hard, but her tone less biting. 

“Stick close. Don’t do anything stupid. And for God’s sake, don’t get us caught.”

You nodded quickly, your pulse still racing. “I won’t.”

And you didn’t. For a few good months, the three of you managed to function as a team, A tense, fragile team, but a team nonetheless.

You tried to find your place in their dynamic, but you always felt like you were treading on thin ice. Tess’ coldness toward you never thawed, her clipped words and skeptical glances a constant reminder that you were an outsider here. And Joel… Joel never wavered in his defense of you. At first, it brought you comfort, but with time it only seemed to aggravate the rawness you felt, a constant reminder that you were an intruder here.

You watched them carefully, studying their rhythm, desperate not to disrupt the well-oiled machine of their partnership. Tess moved with a confidence that came from years of experience, efficient, calculating, always one step ahead. Joel was her counterbalance, quieter but just as capable, following her lead without question.

So where did that leave you?

You noticed the subtleties between them, how Tess would already be at Joel’s apartment when you arrived at the crack of dawn, leaning casually against the counter like she belonged there. The way her hand would brush his arm as they planned jobs, the easy familiarity in their movements. The quiet, murmured exchanges you weren’t meant to hear, their words too low to catch but their meaning clear in the way they glanced at each other.

At first, you ignored the uneasy twist in your stomach, brushing it off as your misplaced sense of intrusion. After all, they had history. You were the newcomer, the outsider trying to wedge yourself into a partnership that didn’t have room for a third wheel. It made sense that Tess would resent you, that Joel’s defense of you would only deepen the divide.

Later, with the gift of hindsight, you would realize that what you were feeling was jealousy, pure and green.

You hated yourself for it, for the bitterness that crept into your thoughts, for the way you resented their bond even as you relied on it. But the feeling was there, buried deep, a quiet truth you couldn’t bring yourself to face.

Whatever semblance of teamwork and trust the three of you built together came crashing down on a grey, overcast winter day.

You were in Quincy, delivering goods to a warehouse. It was a beast of a thing, a decaying skeleton of its former self, all broken windows and rusted metal and cracked concrete floors. You stuck to the shadows, three sets of boots crunching softly along the concrete. Tess led the way, her gun drawn, eyes sharp as they scanned the interior of the warehouse. Joel trailed just behind you, close enough that his presence felt like a shield at your back.

The buyer, a sketchy looking man named Lyle, stood at the center of the warehouse, flanked by two burly men. 

“Right on time,” Lyle said, his voice carrying a false cheer, grating against the tension in the air. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “Tess. Joel. Nice to see you. And… your friend.”

Tess didn’t respond, stepping forward to place the duffel bag on the table with a thud. “Let’s just get this done,” she said curtly, unzipping the bag to reveal the neatly packaged supplies inside. Pills, antibiotics, ammo. The usual. 

Lyle whistled appreciatively. “Looks good. Real good.” He waved a hand toward his men, who stepped forward to inspect the goods. Tess’s hand twitched near her holster, but she didn't draw. Her entire body was rigid, her eyes watching vigilantly.

Joel shifted beside you, his eyes scanning the shadows. He spoke low as he leaned toward you. “Keep your eyes open. Somethin’ feels off.”

Your grip tightened on the pistol in your hand, the weight of it uncomfortable in your hand. You've always been better with a blade, but they'd insisted on you taking a firearm. You nodded silently, your heart thudding in your ribcage as you followed his eye line.

The tension in the air snapped like a rubber band breaking when one of Lyle’s men drew a knife from his belt.

“Don’t move,” the man snarled, lunging toward Tess.

Chaos erupted instantly, everything happening before you in slow-motion. Tess ducked and slammed the man’s wrist against the edge of the table, the knife clattering to the floor. Joel pulled you behind a cinder block pillar, his rifle already raised as gunfire rang out. The second bodyguard fired blindly into the shadows, his bullets sending sparks flying as they grazed the metal beams.

Lyle scrambled backward, shouting orders at his men, but Tess was already moving. She drew her pistol and fired once, twice, dropping the knife-wielding man where he stood. Blood sprayed across the table as Lyle dove for cover.

“Move!” Joel barked, pushing you toward the side exit as gunfire erupted at your back. You ducked, your pulse roaring in your ears as you sprinted across the open space. Tess followed close behind, firing off shots to cover your retreat.

A bullet whizzed past your shoulder, causing you to stumble, your breath catching in your throat.

“Joel! Grab her!” Tess shouted. 

Joel grabbed your arm, steadying you as he fired a shot over his shoulder. The echoing crack of the rifle drowned out the chaos for a moment, your vision narrowing on Lyle collapsing to the ground.

The three of you burst through the side door into the cold night air, your lungs burning as you ran toward the tree line. The warehouse disappeared behind you, the sound of shouting and gunfire fading away like a spectre.

By the time you reached the outer fence of the Boston QZ, your breath came in ragged gasps, your limbs heavy like lead. The distant glow of the QZ’s lights were a beacon of safety, but the nearby cacophony of a FEDRA patrol sent a chill down your spine.

“Shit,” Tess muttered, her face flushed from exertion. She glanced at Joel, her eyes narrowed. “We can’t go through the main gate like this. They’ll search us.”

Joel nodded grimly, eyes scanning the perimeter. “There’s a blind spot near the east fence. Should still be clear.”

The three of you crept along the fence line, your movements slow and deliberate. A soldier came scarily close, his flashlight sweeping across the ground. You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold steel of the fence until it was gone.

Joel pulled out a pair of wire cutters from his pack and quickly cut a gap in the chain-link. He motioned for you to go first, his eyes flicking between the fence and the empty street behind you.

You crawled through the gap, wincing as the rough edges scraped against your coat. Tess followed, her movements quick and efficient. Joel came through last, yanking the cut section back into place before leading you both into the shadows of the QZ.

By the time you made it back to Joel’s apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You slumped into a chair near the table, your body trembling from the cold and the strain. Tess, however, was far from calm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, rounding on Joel as soon as the door closed behind him. “Bringing her into this was a mistake.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening as he set his rifle down. “She did fine.”

“Fine?” Tess let out a bitter laugh, throwing her hands up. “We almost got killed out there. You think that’s fine?”

“You don’t think I know how close that was?” Joel’s voice rose, frustration spilling over. “It was her first time gettin’ caught up in anything like that.”

“She shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” Tess shot back. “You’re too damn soft on her, Joel. It’s going to get us all killed.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and though neither of them looked at you, their argument made your face feel hot. You sat frozen in the chair, feeling like a scolded child.

“Enough,” Joel said, his tone warning, dangerous. “This ain’t about her and you know it. We got the job done. That’s what matters.”

Tess shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re blind when it comes to her. And one day, it’s going to cost you.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, pausing only to shoot Joel a look filled with equal parts anger and disappointment. “Don’t call me for the next one.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the room in heavy silence. Joel didn’t move for a long moment, his hands braced against the table as he stared down at the scratched surface.

You cleared your throat, your voice shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Joel looked up, his expression unreadable. “Ain’t your fault,” he said gruffly. But the weight in his voice told you he didn’t entirely believe it.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Joel glanced at you, his dark eyes shadowed and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off, the way he usually did, but instead, he straightened up, moving to sink into the chair across from you. He looked tired, more tired than you’d ever seen him. It tugged at something deep inside you.

“Should be askin’ you that,” he said gruffly, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his face. “Wasn’t exactly a smooth run.”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Shaken up, maybe, but… it could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, his brow furrowing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he nodded, though it felt more like he was convincing himself than agreeing with you.

“Tess didn’t mean what she said,” you offered, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it. “She was just… angry. Scared, maybe.”

Joel let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Oh, she meant it. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ when it comes to Tess.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “She’s right, though. I shouldn’t have brought you along.”

The words hit like a small blow, even though you knew he wasn’t  trying to hurt you. “I can handle myself,” you said quietly, your words as weak as you felt.

“I know you can,” he said, a surprising gentleness in his tone that caught you off guard. “Doesn’t mean I like seein’ you in danger.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist, not with guilt, but with something else. You glanced away, unsure how to respond, and your eyes landed on his hands, still resting on the table. They were scarred and rough, calloused from years of hard living, but they seemed to tremble as he flexed them.

“Joel…” you began, but you didn't know where you were going with it. You just knew you didn’t want the conversation to end here, not with so much unspoken between you. “Do you ever think about… leaving? The QZ, I mean.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, startled, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest as he considered your question.

“More than I’d like to admit,” he said finally. “But it ain’t exactly easy, headin’ out there on your own.”

“Not on your own,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I mean… if you had someone with you.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, studying you. You could see the wheels turning in his head, the way he weighed what you were saying in his mind. “Wyoming,” he said after a moment, almost a whisper. “You said before that there’s a place out there. Safe. Quiet.”

The idea still sounded too good to be true, and yet you felt a flicker of hope ignite deep inside you. “Do you think it’s real?” you asked, leaning forward.

Joel shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling wearily. “Don’t know. But…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the table between you. “Might be worth findin’ out.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, this new idea settling between you, fragile and precious. The idea of Wyoming felt like a tiny light in the vast darkness you’d been living in, and you could tell Joel felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it outright.

“Would you… go?” you asked hesitantly. “If you had the chance?”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. “Only if I had a damn good reason,” he said softly.

You didn’t know what to say to that, the implication of his words weighing on your mind. He looked at you like he was about to say something more, his lips parting, but then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he leaned back.

“We should get some sleep,” he said abruptly, his voice taking on that familiar gruffness that felt like armor. “You should stay here tonight, s’past curfew.”

You nodded, the sudden shift leaving you feeling unbalanced. As you stood and moved to Joel’s couch, you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his eyes on you heavy and lingering. But when you glanced back at him, he’d already turned away, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at his hands.

As you pulled a blanket over yourself, you couldn’t help but think about the way he looked at you. Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. You didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but the thought of Wyoming and the small glimmer of hope it brought was enough to let you close your eyes with a little less dread.

Weeks later, the three of you stood in the shadows of a decaying old workshop on the edge of the QZ, a chain-link fence separating safety from the chaos awaiting you just a hundred feet away. The night air was heavy with the smell of oil and rust, the distant sounds of dogs barking and the creaking of a loose gate in the wind.

Your nerves were on edge.

Tess pulled the strap of a worn, overstuffed pack off her shoulder, thrusting it toward Joel. “Here,” she said curtly. “It’s not much, but it’s what I could scrape together.”

Joel took the bag without a word, his face unreadable in the dim light. He rifled through the contents briefly — a couple of cans of food, a few water bottles, a box of ammo, and a battered first aid kit.

“Should get you through the first few days,” Tess added, crossing her arms. Her tone was brisk, but there was an edge to it, like she was biting back something more.

“Appreciate it,” Joel said, his voice low.

Tess’s eyes flicked to you then, her expression hardening. “You’d better know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said, her words directed at you like a warning. “This isn’t a walk in the park. You screw up out there, and it’s not just your ass on the line.”

“I know,” you replied softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Tess huffed, shaking her head as she took a step back. “You’d better,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on all of you. Tess’s eyes lingered on Joel for a moment, her jaw tightening. “This is stupid,” she said finally, voice cracking just slightly. “You know that, right?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, his whole demeanour was quieter. “Yeah. I know.”

She exhaled, her frustration palpable, but there was something else in her expression, something softer, something she was trying not to let slip. “Fine,” she said, her voice hard again. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

She turned away then, but before she left, she paused, looking back at Joel, her eyes narrowing. “She’s your responsibility, Joel. Don’t forget that.”

Joel met her gaze, and for a moment, the two of them seemed locked in some silent conversation, something beyond your understanding. Finally, he nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

“I won’t,” he said..

Tess looked like she wanted to say more, but she just shook her head and walked away, her boots crunching against the gravel as she disappeared into the shadows.

You and Joel stood there for a long moment after she was gone, the night suddenly feeling colder and quieter. He shifted the bag on his shoulder and glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“You ready?” he asked.

You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah.”

Without another word, the two of you slipped through the hole in the fence and into the darkness beyond, leaving the QZ, Tess, everything behind.

…

Joel sidles up behind you, arm reaching around you to splay his thick fingers against the map. The sudden proximity jolts you. You didn’t even notice him moving closer.

“If we head West, we should hit Laurel by tomorrow afternoon,” he says, his finger tracing a path across the creased paper. 

Your heart stutters against your ribs, caught off guard by how near he is. You barely manage a huff in response, unsure whether it’s meant to acknowledge his words or simply expel the air that had caught in your lungs.

The two of you had always avoided cutting through towns if you could help it. Towns and cities meant more infected, more danger. But supplies were running low, the strain of your injuries and convalescence having burned through food and medicine faster than either of you had planned. There wasn’t much choice left.

You fold the map and tuck it into your pack, slinging the strap over your shoulder with a grimace you do your best to hide. Joel’s eyes flick toward you but he doesn’t comment. He just turns, leading the way through the snow laden forest.

The crunch of your boots is crisp in the soft powder, cold air biting at your cheeks. Joel keeps a few paces ahead, shoulder squared and posture tense as he scans the treeline. You trail behind, just focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, the ache in your side having grown less angry, but no less prominent in your mind. You grit your teeth and push on, refusing to let yourself slow him down.

Joel stops suddenly, raising a hand to signal you to halt. Your body tenses, eyes shifting around, scanning for danger. Your ears strain for the telltale sounds of crunching snow that don’t belong to you or Joel, or worse, the dreaded chatter of a clicker.

Instead, he gestures toward a tree to your right. Frowning, you follow his line of sight.

There, perched on a low-hanging branch, is a cardinal. Its feathers are vibrant, blood-red against the oppressively grey sky. The bird tilts its head, its black eyes sharp as it seems to observe the two of you.

“Pretty, ain’t it,” he murmurs.

You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of his observation, the softness of his voice. The gruff, angry man beside you, the man who had seen and done more horrible things than you could ever fathom, was captivated by something so small, so fleeting. All you can do is nod.

For a moment, the weight of everything fades. The two of you stand there in silence, watching as the cardinal flits from one branch to another, its red wings fluttering like a heartbeat against the pale backdrop. The world is quieter, softer, like the forest itself is holding its breath with you.

“Used to see these all the time back in Texas,” Joel says after a beat, and he seems distant. “Sarah… she loved ‘em. Used to try and draw ‘em in with feeders she’d make outta old milk jugs. Never caught one up close, though. They’re too skittish.”

His words hang in the air. He rarely shares these memories with you, and you hang on to every word when he does. He’s mentioned his daughter to you before, always in brief moments like these. You get the sense that she’s always there for him, her presence on his mind like sunlight glittering on the surface of water. He doesn’t need to say it outright for you to know this is why he keeps himself locked up so tightly. You don’t blame him. All the same, you soak up these moments, eager for any glimpse at the man behind the mask.

You glance at him, your throat tightening at the wistfulness in his expression. He isn’t looking at the bird anymore but somewhere far away, lost in a past you don’t dare intrude upon.

“Sounds like she was creative,” you offer tentatively.

Joel’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She was.”

The cardinal takes off then, its wings beating a hurried rhythm as it disappears into the trees. The spell breaks, and Joel clears his throat, his face hardening as he turns back to the path. “C’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.”

You press forward, the jagged outline of a town materializing on the horizon. It jostles something in you, the sharp edges and uniform structures standing in stark contrast to the gentle, organic lines of the wilderness you’ve grown used to. Civilization, or what’s left of it, always feels wrong somehow, an intrusion into the quiet simplicity of nature you’ve grown accustomed to.

As you approach a wide, frozen stream, Joel barely hesitates. He steps onto the ice, the frozen surface groaning ominously beneath his boots. He mutters a string of low curses under his breath, each step calculated, his weight shifting carefully as he crosses. When he reaches the other side, he turns back to you, leaning down and extending his hand.

“Here,” he says.

You hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. There’s a flicker of doubt in your mind, about the ice, about touching him again, but it disappears as you meet his steady gaze. You take his hand, his calloused palm warm against your cold fingers.

He pulls you forward with surprising ease, your feet barely skimming the fractured ice before you’re safely on solid ground again. For a moment, you’re both still, the sound of cracking ice behind you the only reminder of what you just avoided.

“You’re not exactly light on your feet,” you say, the words slipping out unbidden, a teasing edge to your tone.

Joel’s brow quirks, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and unamused. “Careful,” he says dryly. “Or I’ll make you carry my pack.”

The faintest twitch of a smile plays at his lips, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh, a real, genuine laugh that feels strange and foreign in the cold, bleak air. The sound surprises you, catching in your chest like it doesn’t quite belong, but it feels good too, like a tiny spark in the frost.

Joel glances at you then, and for a moment, something in his face softens. His eyes linger, almost like he’s startled by the sound you’ve made, like he’s pleased to have coaxed a laugh out of you in spite of everything. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, a sliver of warmth piercing through his usual stoic exterior.

It’s only then that you both seem to realize he’s still holding your hand. His grip is firm but not uncomfortable, his fingers rough and steady around yours. The air between you shifts, quiet tension creeping into the space where laughter had been just a moment before.

For a second, a single, fragile heartbeat of a second, neither of you moves. The world seems to still around you, the weight of his hand grounding you. Your heart stumbles against your ribs, and you wonder if he feels it too, this strange, magnetic pull between you.

But then Joel clears his throat and lets go, the moment snapping like a thread. He steps back and turns on his heel, grunting as he throws the weight of his pack over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking ahead, all clipped and businesslike again. “We gotta find a place to hole up before the sun sets.”

You linger for just a moment, your hand still tingling with the memory of his touch. Then you follow, trudging after him as the skeletal remains of the town grow larger in the distance, your laughter left suspended behind you in the quiet hush of the snowy woods.

…

After another hour of walking, a house emerges from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette solid against the gray afternoon sky. From the road it's nearly invisible, its walls obscured in a cocoon of bare branches and evergreens. 

It’s a small, squat thing, but it's far more intact than other buildings you’ve found. The doors hang evenly on their hinges, and thick wooden boards cover the windows, their nails weathered and rusted but sturdy. The yard is overgrown, wild grass and weeds creeping up the sides of the structure, but the way the house seems untouched by chaos makes it feel eerie, like the world forgot about it.

Joel tests the front door, his hand on the knob as he presses his shoulder into it. It resists at first, the wood swollen with age, but eventually gives way with a loud groan. The air inside is stale and heavy, a mix of dust, old wood, and trapped moisture. You step in behind him, your boots stirring motes of dust in the dim light.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet.

The house’s interior tells its story in whispers. The furniture is faded,  but still arranged neatly, as if the people who lived here meant to return at any moment. On the mantle above the fireplace, you notice a line of framed photographs. You brush the dust from one and see the faces of a family — two parents and two children — smiling wide in a life that feels impossibly distant. One of the frames lies face down on the mantel, as though someone had grabbed it in haste but abandoned it at the last moment. You don’t lift it up. It doesn’t feel right.

In the kitchen, Joel checks the cupboards. Most are empty, but a few hold scraps of a previous life. A half empty can of powdered milk, long expired, a rusted tin of coffee grounds, a jar of pickled vegetables gone cloudy with time. The table is small, meant for four, and one of the chairs is tipped over on its side. Still stuck to the fridge is a child’s drawing, its colors faded but still vivid enough to make out, a stick figure family standing in front of the same house you’re in now, the sky above them filled with round, yellow sun.

“People lived here for a while,” Joel mutters, running his fingers over the table's edge. His voice is quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb whatever ghosts still linger here.

In a small bedroom down the hall, you find more signs of hurried departure. A child’s bed is unmade, the blanket half-dragged to the floor. A teddy bear lies abandoned in the corner, one of its button eyes missing. A suitcase sits on the bed, half-packed with clothes. Joel picks up a shirt from it, holding it up to the light. It’s small, too small for an adult. He doesn’t say anything as he sets it back down, but the look on his face is heavy.

In another room, the master bedroom, you find a calendar still hanging on the wall. The month is January, the year faded but unmistakably long past. A series of dates have been circled in red, the ink and smudged. On the dresser sits a journal, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Joel opens it but flips through it quickly, not stopping to read the words. He mutters something about not wanting to pry, but you catch glimpses, notes about food supplies, weather conditions, and, in the margins, small, hopeful scribbles.

Made it another week.

Still safe.

Might try for the city tomorrow.

The bathroom is where things went wrong. The mirror is cracked, shards of glass scattered in the sink. A first-aid kit sits open on the counter, the contents rummaged through. Dried blood stains the edge of the sink and the floor near the tub. Whoever had lived here fought hard to stay alive, but the obvious suddenness of their departure fills you with unease.

As you and Joel reconvene in the living room, the weight of the house’s story presses down on both of you. It’s clear that a family had tried to make this place a haven, holding on for as long as they could before something — Infected? Raiders? Pure desperation? — forced them to flee. Dust and decay have claimed the house now, but the traces of the life lived here remain like ghosts.

Joel moves toward the boarded windows, peering through the cracks at the encroaching dark. “This’ll do for the night,” he says finally. “Better than sleepin’ out in the open.”

You nod, but your eyes linger on the family photo still sitting on the mantle, the faces smiling back at you as if to say, We tried. We did our best.

You wonder if that’s all anyone can do anymore.

The two of you make quick work of clearing the house. It was a process you and Joel have done so many times it’s practically second nature now. Every door cracked open with cautious hands. Every corner checked with calculated, trained eyes. In the end, the place is wholly abandoned, untouched for years except by the slow creep of decay.

You settle on staying in what must have been the parents’ bedroom for the night. The windows were already boarded up, and Joel adds a thick blanket over them to keep out any sliver of light. He pushes the sagging mattress against the door, reinforcing it with a dresser he drags across the floor with a grunt.

Now, he’s sitting against the wall, his rifle disassembled in his lap, your lantern’s weak orange glow glinting off the polished metal as he works. His movements are methodical, his focus trained on the task like it’s the only thing keeping him in the present moment. You sit against the opposite wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring at him. You’ve been staring for what feels like forever, the words you need to say swirling in your head, their weight pressing against your chest like a stone.

And maybe it’s the brevity you felt earlier, or maybe it’s the way these walls feel protective, like the love that filled this house once upon a time has lingered, but something pushes you to test him.

Finally, you take a breath, steeling yourself. “Joel,” you say softly.

His hands pause briefly, but he doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

“Can we… talk about what happened? Back in the woods?”

His jaw tightens. His hands resume their work, but there’s a stiffness in the way he slots the bolt back into place. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he mutters. His guard is completely up.

You knew he’d respond like this, knew he’d deflect. But you’re not letting him off that easy, not again.

“You know that’s not true. I almost — I should’ve died that night, Joel.” You say. You’re getting frustrated now.

Joel doesn’t respond, his face tight, his hands working with a little too much force.

The words float in the stale, dusty air. His jaw works, and though his hands keep moving, they’re rougher now, more forceful. You wait, but he doesn’t respond, the silence stretching long and thin like a thread about to snap. So you fall back to that old, reliable method for forcing Joel to talk to you, the foolproof way you coaxed him out of his shell all the way back when you were barely more than strangers in the QZ.

You piss him off.

“You promised me. If it came down to it… You wouldn’t let me turn.”

That does it. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, a storm brewing in them. “And you’re sittin’ here breathin’, ain’t you?” He’s being defensive now, but you know, you know, it’s an act. He’s trying to cover up what he really feels. “What’s there to say?”

You don’t flinch, holding his stare defiantly.

“And what about what I said?”

He freezes, the pieces of the rifle stilling in his hands. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, his shoulders tense and his breathing shallow. Slowly, he sets the rifle aside and runs a hand down his face.

“You were bleedin’ out,” he says quietly. “People say all kinds of things when they think they’re dyin’. Don’t mean nothin’.”

The cadence of his voice hits your ear first, the way his Texan accent filters in more strongly when he’s angry. But then his words settle, and they sting.

“Don’t mean nothin’?” you echo, an edge creeping in. “You think I didn’t know what I was saying? That I didn’t mean it?”

“You didn’t,” Joel snaps, raising his voice now. “You were scared. Hell, you were half outta your head from blood loss. You —” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to physically push the memory away.

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, the surge of betrayal snapping you upright like a bolt of lightning. The anger burning in your cheeks feels alive, a force of its own, crackling and untamed.

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” you shout, your whole body trembling. “You don’t get to act like none of it mattered!”

Joel’s eyes flash, and in an instant he’s standing too, his broad shoulders tensed and looming. “You think I don’t know what mattered?” he fires back. “You think I don’t remember every goddamn second of that night?”

“Then why are you doing this?” you demand, breaking under the weight of your frustration. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“Because it don’t matter what you said, or what you felt!” Joel yells, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him this angry. “It don’t change what I did! I should’ve done what we agreed. Should’ve stopped it right then and there.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you feel the heat of your fury drain away, leaving only an aching, hollow hurt. You stare at him, the space between you shrinking and yet feeling impossibly vast.

“You really think it was a mistake?” You feel exposed now. “Letting me live?”

Joel flinches, his expression crumpling for just a moment before he wrestles it back into something harder, more controlled. But it’s too late. You’ve seen it. He looks like a man drowning, like the weight of everything he’s carrying is finally dragging him under. His gaze flickers to the water-stained ceiling, desperate for some kind of escape, but there’s nowhere to go. No way out.

You watch him, a storm of emotions churning inside you, and for a fleeting second, hope flickers to life. Maybe he let you live because he couldn’t bear to lose you, because some part of him believed in the impossible, that against all odds, you’d survive and get a second chance.

But the memory of his face in the early morning light, when he saw you alive, pierces through that fragile hope like a blade. 

There was no reverence in his expression, no relief. 

Only fear. Only disgust.

The thought sinks into you like poison, twisting and bitter. Maybe he hadn’t spared you because he cared, but because he was too weak to do what had to be done. Maybe he’d been tricked, by your desperate, pleading words, or by his own fear of being alone again, of losing everything again.

Your mind spirals further, darker. If he’d known then what you’d become — this strange in-between state, not fully human, but not quite a monster — would he have made the same choice? Would he have let you live if he’d known what would become of you?

The bitterness curls inside you, ugly and hateful. At least you’d had the courage to be honest, to say what you felt, even in the face of death. Joel, for all his strength, couldn’t even bring himself to admit why he’d made the choice he did.

“You’re wrong,” you say, willing yourself not to let your words crack. “I meant what I said. I meant all of it.”

Joel finally looks at you, his expression taut, torn between anger and something far more vulnerable. His jaw tightens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Don’t,” he mutters, warning. “Just… don’t.”

But you can’t stop now, not when the ache in your heart feels like it might split you in two.

“Maybe you couldn’t pull the trigger then because you didn’t see me as a monster,” you press, stepping closer to him. “But I do, Joel. I know what I am now. You can just admit it.”

He flinches, his composure cracking, his brows pulling together in a way that betrays the cool, guarded exterior he always tries so hard to maintain. For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck, like your words have landed somewhere deep, somewhere he can’t protect.

“You’re not a damn monster,” he growls, but he lacks the bite he had earlier. “Now quit.”

“Then why do you look at me like that?” you fire back, needing him to answer the question that’s been clawing at you. “Why is everything different now?”

“M’not lookin’ at you any kinda way,” he says, his tone softer than you expected but still edged with finality. “Ain’t no use diggin’ it up, talkin’ it to death. I’m here. You’re here. Let’s just leave it at that.”

His words don’t quell your hurt. They’re unsatisfying and incomplete. Your heart aches with frustration. 

“That’s not an answer, Joel.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”

You don’t let up. “Why do you do that? Why do you shut me out? Just tell me the truth.”

He exhales, the sound more weariness than anger. “What truth, hm? That I messed up? That I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ half the time? You think I got all the answers? I’m just tryin’ to keep us alive, alright? That’s it.”

“It’s more than that, Joel, and you know it.”

His eyes snap back to yours, and for a flicker of a second, you see a crack in the wall he keeps so firmly in place. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he’s locking himself away again.

“You’re wastin’ energy on somethin’ that don’t matter,” he says all rough, like gravel scraping across your heart. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than what you think I’m feelin’ or not feelin’.”

For a moment, it looks like he might say something more, his lips parting as if he’s on the verge of spilling something he’s been holding back. But then, just like always, he shuts it down. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch as if he’s physically closing himself off from you.

He stands abruptly, startling you. Pulling his sleeping bag from his pack, he tosses it onto the floor with a thud. “Get some rest,” he says, not looking at you as he busies himself unrolling the bag. “We’re headin’ into town tomorrow. Long day ahead.”

The lantern flickers as he reaches out to snuff the flame, plunging the room into near darkness. He climbs into his sleeping bag, his back turned to you, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

You sit there for a moment longer, your heart pounding in your ribcage, staring at his rigid form as he settles into place. Whatever you’d hoped for, an answer, a crack in his armor, anything, it feels further away than ever.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whisper into the dark, not even sure if he can hear you.

He doesn’t respond. The only sound is the rustle of fabric as he shifts, facing further away from you, retreating into the unreachable parts of himself.

Taglist: (if you would like to be added just lmk!)

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

[aperrywilliams]

Satellite Call. Part VI: Let Me Hold Your Hand Again (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Words count for this part: 4.5k

Series summary: Your world crushes when Spencer is arrested. Between finding a way to get him out and keeping you afloat, there is something else you need to focus on, too. And even when you thought things couldn’t go worse, a tragedy makes you question if you can make it through.

Part VI summary: THIS IS THE END. After your encounter with Cat Adams, everything goes down quickly. You're in the hospital, and Spencer has been released from Milburn with a lot of questions and the fear that maybe he can't talk to you ever again. Life would be merciful enough to give you a new chance and start?

Series warnings: ANGST (with CAPS). 18+ (MDNI). Some heavy topics will be discussed and shown here. Prison arc, but mostly from Reader's perspective and Emily’s. More detailed under the cut.

Spencer lies to his wife. Drug consumption (against their will). Pregnancy symptoms. Spencer is in jail for more than three months. Hospital visits, doctor’s info dumping (not accurate). Alcohol consumption. Arguing. Strong language. A lot of crying. Emotional breakdowns. A car crash happens (as in the CM storyline). Character dies. More hospital things. Miscarriage. More angst. Depressing symptoms. Mourning. Self-doubt. Suicidal ideation, and almost consummated. Emily is everyone’s emotional support.

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Between a mix of autopilot and mental overdrive, Spencer arrives at the hospital. He frantically asks for you at the front desk, and before the nurse can answer, he sees Emily at the end of the hall. JJ and Luke come after him. Spencer literally runs up to Emily while JJ explains to the nurse who he is and why they are there.

“Tell me it’s not true. Tell me she’s okay.” His voice pleads for some kind of reassurance. Spencer still can’t make sense of why you are where you are or if any of this is even real.

“We don't have news yet. They are not sure if she’ll respond to the treatment,” Emily tries to explain.

“But- but why? I mean, JJ told me about Cat, but - is it true? Is she - was she-?” Spencer sputters all the words at the same time.

Emily lets out a deep sigh, guiding Spencer to sit.

“We need to talk.”

Spencer's heart shatters with every word Emily says, explaining and telling him everything that's happened to you over the past few months. It's a lot, and he doesn't know how to take it all in without thinking about all the pain you've been through and the possibility that you may not make it out alive.

Now, many things make sense to him, like why you seemed hesitant the times you visited him, why you stopped visiting him at some point, and why you wrote that letter.

Spencer can’t stop the tears from running down his cheeks. Fuck, he wants to scream, he wants to kill Cat. He wants to turn back time and never even think about going to Mexico.

“What did I do, Emily?” Spencer sobs. He feels so responsible for your current situation.

“Don’t say that. No one could have anticipated what would happen.”

Emily fully expected this. The moment Spencer knew the truth, he’d take responsibility for it. It's the reason why you didn't tell him about the accident and the baby before.

“If she dies, I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Spencer cries, burying his face in his hands.

“Hey. Don’t think that. You need to think about how you're going to be there for her from now on,” Emily reminds him, trying to pry his hands out of his face.

“But if-“

“She's strong. She's been all along. It's my fault I left her alone after seeing Cat,” Emily shakes her head. “That moment was too much, even for her.”

“Why did you let her, Em? We know the kind of psycho Cat is.” Spencer’s voice isn’t accusatory; it's pained than everything.

“I tried, believe me. But you know your wife, Spencer. She thought it was the only way to save you. And I hate to admit it, but in a way, she was right.”

You did put yourself in that situation to save him, even if it would hurt you. And it did. You tried to mask it, but it clearly affected you.

What happened to you was a mistake? Was it an intended action? Emily doesn't want to venture, but she’s afraid of how you will deal with this if you make it alive.

Spencer doesn't know what to do with himself. He grasps the fact that he’s a free man but feels the weight of what he has lost and is in danger of losing. You were pregnant, for fuck sake! You did everything by yourself. And still, in the grieving process, you exposed yourself to Cat Adams in full vulnerability. He doesn't deserve you.

“I know what you are thinking,” Emily prompts once she sees Spencer going quiet for too long.

“You should have told me.”

“What could you possibly have done, Spencer? She knew better than anyone where we were standing. I can assure you it wasn't because she didn't want it.”

An hour later, the doctor who is treating you walks into the waiting room and calls your name to your relatives. Emily and Spencer stand in no time.

“He’s the husband; I’m her friend,” she explains. The doctor nods and checks his clipboard before meeting their waiting gazes.

“She’ll be okay,” he starts, and that sole phrase makes Spencer and Emily exhale with relief. “It wasn’t easy to clean her system, though; it almost compromised some vital organs. We found some recent internal injuries, and they bleed, too. Her chart says she was in an accident, and she had a miscarriage.”

Emily nods in silence, and Spencer clenches his jaw and fists.

“I wouldn’t take this lightly. Mistake or not, she almost killed herself. Her healing process won’t be easy.”

“We know, doctor. And believe us, we’ll do everything to help her,” Emily states.

After some explanations about your medical treatment from now on, the doctor allows Spencer to see you. Although you’re still sedated and sleeping.

Spencer can’t help but think how peaceful you look, almost as if you were sleeping on any other day. But he knows better. He knows now. There hasn’t been peace in your life for months.

Looming, he takes in you. Your face is pale, and there are evident traces of dark circles under your eyes. But none of that matters. You’re breathing, and Spencer can’t be more grateful for that fact right now.

It has been months since he last touched you. Gently, he reaches his hand to your face, caressing your cheeks. He has missed you so much. Even if you aren’t aware of it, Spencer traces soft patterns on your skin, admiring you as the most delicate wonder in the world. To him, you are everything and more. No words could ever fully express how deeply you are ingrained in Spencer’s heart and life. You have spent time together, sharing glances, fears, and dreams. That connection was enough for him to fall for you. It gave him the courage to ask you out for the first time and the strength not to faint when you kissed him first.

You have never faltered in your relationship with Spencer. You never got a single doubt about how you felt for him. Since Spencer met you, he knew you would be his rock. As a friend first, then as lovers, ending up tying your life together as husband and wife.

He has been your rock, too. In desperate times when you have felt lost, drained, and confused, Spencer has always been there, happy to know you trust and rely on him.

So why did he not do the same when his mother’s health worsened? He didn't because, even for you, it would have been too much—not for lack of strength on your part, but unfairness. It wasn’t fair to you to carry the weight of his decisions about Diana.

It's a cruel joke that tells itself: you did carry it anyway.

Spencer leans to examine your breathing better and holds your hand. It's cold, but Spencer is confident he can provide some of the warmth you need.

“Baby, I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere; I promise I’ll never leave you again. I’m so sorry. Please, come back to me.”

You can’t reply, but the steady rise and fall of your chest reminds Spencer he has a chance to tell you everything he has to say and what you need to hear.

To seal his promise and plea, he leans a bit more and plants a lingering kiss on your forehead.

“I love you. So much. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

-----

The sterile smell is the first thing you notice when you get into your senses. You recognize it. You’re in a hospital room. How did you get here? The last thing you remember is being on your couch. And the crying, the intrusive thoughts, the desperation to make them go away. You remember the whiskey bottle. And the pills. After that, it’s just a haze.

Now, you can hear the constant bip emanating from the machine controlling your vitals. You’re alive. Your heart is beating.

The next thing you notice is the warmth of a hand over yours, which contrasts with the cold in the room. It’s nice. It’s comforting. You recognize that touch. Spencer.

Slowly, you open your eyes, and they fix on the man looking at you—his mop of curls, his glassy eyes, his stubble. And everything comes at once. In no time, tears start to roll from your eyes.

“Hey, hey. Are you in pain?” Spencer softly asks when he notices that you are squeezing your eyes shut, trying to stop the tears.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I’m so sorry.”

"No. No, no, no. Don't.” Spencer rushes to say, stroking your hand with his. He wants to hold you, to stop your pain, but how? He can’t even fathom the extent of your inner wounds.

"I - I lost her. It's my fault."

A sharp jab reaches Spencer’s heart at your words. ‘Her.’ You’re talking about your baby. But it's a grief he’s not allowed to feel at this moment. You are all that matters right now.

"No, it's not. Please, don't think it is."

How can he convince you none of this is your fault? Words are not enough, he knows, but he has to try.

"I couldn't keep her safe. It was my job to keep her safe,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “And look at me. So weak, look what I did.”

"It's alright. I promise it's going to be alright.” Not letting go of the hold of your hand, he uses the free one to wipe your tears. His own blurring his vision.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I -” You try to think what to say, but your brain is still in a haze, and it's difficult to articulate words. The meds you’re on make you feel quickly tired and sleepy.

So drained and confused, you can’t even fully grasp the fact your husband is there, as a free man, with you. You try to keep your eyes open, but it's hard. Spencer notices.

“It's okay. Close your eyes, honey. You need to rest. I’ll stay right here.” After kissing your forehead, he keeps softly stroking your cheeks. The motion is so comforting that in no time, you surrender to slumber.

When you wake up again, Spencer is sleeping, curled uncomfortably in the chair next to you. The light seeping through the blinds tells you it must be daytime, probably morning, due to the golden reflection on Spencer’s hair.

Taking a deep breath, you try to assimilate the fact that he is really there. And you are, too. And everything unsaid is still uncharted territory.

“You’ll get your back hurt sleeping there,” you say, voice hoarse from not talking for hours. Spencer blinks his eyes open, and a smile is on his face when he sees you awake.

“It's not that bad,” he dismisses. You know he’s lying. “Do you need anything? Are you thirsty? Are you hungry?” he asks, shifting in the chair to a sitting position and shaking off the sleep.

“Water would be okay.” Even if you’re not dehydrated, thanks to the IV, your mouth feels dry. Spencer is on his feet to fill a cup with water and hand it to you.

After drinking a few sips, you shift uncomfortably in bed. It's been hours since you have been there - you don’t know how much, but your body feels it.

“How can I help?” Spencer asks, and you shake your head.

“It's okay. I just need to stretch my legs a bit.” Dangling your feet out of the bed, you sit on the edge, curling your toes. You’re dressed in a typical hospital gown. It feels itchy, but it's not your concern right now. Spencer follows your moves with his gaze in silence. He’s happy you can stretch and move, but he is worried about how to go now.

In your sitting position, you inspect your husband’s appearance. His disveleshed hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble adorning his chin. Probably, he’s in the same clothes he had yesterday when JJ, Luke, and Garcia picked him up.

Some treacherous tears start rolling down. You are still an emotional mess. You bite your lower lip, trying to stop the crying, but it’s useless. Without a word, Spencer shorts the space between you both, enveloping you in a tight embrace. An embrace that took months to happen. An embrace you longed for so long. If only things would have been different.

“It’s okay. It will be okay,” Spencer muffles his words in your hair, kissing the top of your head. You can’t help but cry harder. “Let it out. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

It’s hard to think of not having this pain inside. You want to believe his promise, though. Burying your face in his chest, you allow yourself to cry openly. Surrendering the control you have been trying to keep to stay afloat.

“I missed you.” Your voice is barely audible, but Spencer can hear you.

“I missed you, too. So so much,” Spencer whispers, softly but surely. Spencer needs you to know he never stopped thinking about you and missing you.

You can’t tell if it lasts seconds or minutes, but feeling Spencer’s arms around you brings some truce to your inner emotional battle. Sadly, you can’t stay like that forever. Parting from him, you look at him deep in the eye. Spencer strokes your hair, trying to figure out what you are thinking.

"Are you not angry with me?" Your voice is barely there as if you’re afraid of his answer. Spencer frowns at you.

"No. Of course not. Why would I?”

"I didn't tell you. And - and when it was too late, I didn't tell you either."

Spencer cups your cheeks so you can look at him. "Hey, I know why you did it. I understand."

But it's not enough for you.

"Stop! Please, just stop!" you complain, shaking his hands off of you. Spencer steps back a bit to give you some space.

"What?"

"Stop being nice and understanding! Be mad at me! Yell at me! I lost our baby! I almost kill myself! You should be furious! You should leave me. I don't deserve to be forgiven. Just - just do something! Hate me!"

Your words break Spencer’s heart. How could you think you should be hated? None of this is a reason for him to hate you or blame you. It's the opposite. You need to see it. Spencer takes a step closer to pry your hands, covering your face as you start crying again.

"Do you really want that? To hate you for carrying our child? For having an accident when you were only trying to do the right thing? For trying to protect me from the pain? For holding the weight of grieving alone when it was me who should have been here by your side?"

You know what he’s doing. But you can’t let him. It's not his fault, either.

"You couldn't."

Spencer cups your face so you can look at him.

"And yet, it's unfair you had to bear everything alone. If I have to hate someone, it's me. I wasn't here when you needed me the most! What kind of husband am I, uh?“

You shake your head, grabbing his hands off of your cheeks and resting them on your lap. You don’t want him to take the blame.

“You were locked, Spencer. It was on me.”

“For my own bad decisions. It's unfair. Don’t tell me it is not unfair.”

Spencer’s voice cracks. The feeling of failure creeping inside of him. He couldn't protect you; he couldn't keep you safe.

You can’t form a reply to him. No, when another question is still plaguing your mind. A question with an assumed answer, heavy enough to push you into a spiral that almost ends with you six feet under.

“Is that psycho really having your baby?”

Spencer’s features harden. Emily told him about ‘Cat’s confession.’ For a moment, Spencer almost loses it, thinking about the possibility of it happening. But from what Lindsey admitted once she was in Rossi and Matt's custody, Cat is lying. The father's identity remains unknown, but Garcia is making progress, checking all men who interacted with Cat in the past months.

“She is pregnant. But it's not mine. What she told you, it never happened. Lindsey confirmed it.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That bitch got me. She planted the seed, and I couldn't help it. What a good FBI agent I am,” you mock, averting your gaze.

One of Spencer’s hands leaves the grip on your lap and flies to your chin to look into your eyes. “Don’t say that. You saw what she wanted you to see, and it's not on you. Everyone could have tripped with that kind of unsettling information. She wants to punish every human being that has crossed her psycho self.”

“You by proxy because of me. I knew that, but I bit the bullet anyway.”

Pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, Spencer shakes his head. “It doesn't matter. What really matters now is it is over.”

A deep sigh leaves your lips. Maybe it's over. But how can you continue from here? It's like Spencer can hear your thoughts.

“We’ll figure it out. Now, it can be hard to see it, but I know we can figure it out.”

-----

Spencer doesn't leave your side in all the 36 hours you stay in the hospital. He is with you when the doctor comes to talk to you to explain the next steps in your physical recovery. He is right with you every time the nurses come to check on you. He is also there when Emily comes to see you before you can be discharged.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asks. To say you are thankful for Emily is just a tip of the truth.

“Relieved,” you say, looking at Spencer. “Em, I’m sorry for putting you in all this stress.” It's a meek apology, you think, but it's something. Prentiss huffs.

“You two made me age ten years in five months, you know? But I’m glad to have you both out of the woods.”

“Thank you, Emily. For everything.” This time, it’s Spencer who speaks. He reaches for your hand and gently squeezes it. God, it's so good having him here and feeling his touch.

“You are part of my team and, above all, my friends and family. And considering that, I need to talk to you guys about what comes next,” she announces. “I know what you are going to say, but I need you to trust me on this.”

You and Spencer raise an eyebrow but nod and wait for Emily to continue.

“You are going into mandatory leave from this moment. For a month, to begin with. But not only that, you both are instructed to go to therapy sessions.” Emily says, and you both want to protest, but she doesn't let you. “Please, don’t fight me on this. I know you guys, and you need to realize you both went through a lot in the past months. And you can’t do this alone.”

“We have each other,” you say, and Emily nods in agreement.

“And that's wonderful. But I also know you need to fight the guilt you both are feeling right now. For the sake of yourself and your relationship. You need to acknowledge, really acknowledge, none of this is your fault.”

Spencer can’t help but downcast his stare to the floor. You focus on the wall in front of you. Emily directs her gaze to you.

“It's not your fault not having Spencer out sooner. And it's not your fault what happened in the accident. And about what went on with Cat? You are a human being; you have the right to be vulnerable. But you also have to know you are not alone on this.” 

Her words go to Spencer now. “You feel remorseful for doing what you did to help your mom for being away from your wife with all the turmoil happening. I’m sure you felt you needed to do more to protect her. But you must comprehend that there are things out of our control. And you have a new chance to make it right. Guys, you need each other, but you need to reconcile and reconnect to yourself. That's why I’m asking you to do this.”

Leave it to Emily Prentiss to say the right thing at the right moment. You and Spencer understand why she’s doing this. It's very expected, considering everything you both have been through.

You promise Emily that you’ll exactly do what she asked. Once she leaves the room, you will be ready to be discharged. As you start dressing, Spencer is in the nurse’s station, helping to fill the needed papers.

Anderson is waiting outside to drive you both home. You are very grateful, considering neither Spencer nor you have your car there, and your exhaustion is enough to prevent you from getting behind the wheel.

In the car ride, Spencer’s arm doesn't leave the grip around your shoulder, posing loving kisses on the top of your head from time to time. A reminder that he’s here with you and he is not going anywhere now.

But passing the apartment threshold is another hard test for both of you. It’s a place where Spencer hasn’t been in five months. It’s a place where you were two days ago and made a mistake in the heat of your own vulnerability. It’s something hard to come to terms with.

Hand in hand, you walk into the open living room. It's still a mess from the day Emily and Tara found you passed out on the couch. Fortunately, there are no traces of the whiskey bottle or the pills’ container.

Spencer’s eyes rack over the shelves and walls. There were no major changes in them. But then his eyes spot the closed door in the guest room, and his throat tightens. He knows what is in there; you told him at the hospital about how you were preparing the nursery. You pick up how his glance stares at the door.

“I haven't been able to get in there yet without breaking down,” you tell him, and Spencer’s eyes snap at you. The last thing he wants is to expose you to something that might make you upset now.

“We don’t have to.” Spencer is sincere, and you know he is, but you also know what has to be done and that he deserves to know all of it and be part of it. “We can spend the night in another place, I can talk to-” you squeeze his hand and shake your head to stop him talking.

“Spence. No. We need to. I need to.”

Spencer searches for any sign of aversion or doubt, but he finds none. You’re right. It has to be done. Slowly but surely, you both open the door and take a step forward into the room. It’s still decorated with bright walls and furniture all over: shelves, a dresser, a crib, a swing chair. You can feel the lump forming in your throat, as you can feel Spencer’s hand shaking on yours. He’s trying to keep composure for your sake, but it’s proving to be hard. You turn to see him, your own eyes glassed for the tears that push to get out. With a hand on his cheek, he leans on your touch, breathing shakily.

With no words needed, you both hold each other as you cry. It’s the first moment in which you feel you can grieve together. Not only the life that was lost, but also the months being apart, the sorrow for the lies told, the truths untold, and the pain of not having each other.

When the tears subside, you look each other in understanding. It’s going to be hard, but you’ll try harder.

That night, you talk until the sun is almost rising, wrapped in a blanket and the comfort of each other's arms on the couch. You tell him everything, show him the ultrasounds and spill your guts about your encounter with Cat Adams. For his part, Spencer recounts his days locked in Milburn, and the things he did and almost did. You dissect each part of the past months, and you have never been more relieved than you are right now. Spencer can tell, because he feels the same.

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer asks after you go silent for a moment longer.

“I - I’m just -” You sigh, trying to collect your thoughts. Shifting to look up at Spencer, you tighten the grip on his shirt. “After everything, how will we make this work again?”

“You mean ‘us’?”

“Yeah. Us. Our life. Yours and mine, together and individually. Spencer, we are so broken right now. And what about the guilt? I can’t stop thinking about what Emily told us, and she is right, but I can’t just shake off this feeling.”

“Neither do I,” Spencer admits. “That's why we need to work together on this. I mean, there will be days I’ll be in my lows; others, you’ll be in yours. I guess the difference is in not carrying the weight alone.”

You ponder his words. You know life won’t be the same as you had before. It would be naive to think so. But life is giving you a second chance to make it count. To not take for granted anything. In your husband’s arms, the love of your life, you can only think of how everything could have been worse than it got. It’s not about fool’s comfort, it’s about the acknowledgement of having a future to write—a different one.

“Together,” you add. Spencer nods, caressing your chin. It feels right—like it's supposed to feel when you are safe. 

“I love you,” you whisper, as if it's the most secret confession you have ever made. Spencer’s face lights up, looking at you with adoration.

“And I love you. Always. Past, present and future.”

For you that is enough. Rough patches ahead are for sure, but tonight you’re not alone. Tonight you’ll indulge yourself in the safety of your satellite call.

-----

“This is one’s for the lonely child

Broken-hearted, running wild

This was written for the ones to blame

One who believes they are the cause of chaos in everything

You may find yourself in the dead of night

Lost somewhere out there in the great big beautiful sky

This is so you’ll know the sound

Of someone who loves you

From the ground

Tonight you’re not alone at all

This is me sending out my satellite call.”

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Previous

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Series Taglist: @strawb3heart @lunaryoongie @bwlol7

[marsi-is-depressed]

Finding a Family series. Chapter 10: She has a daughter?

The reader finds a baby in the woods

The night was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that amplified the faintest of sounds. The reader ventured out under the cover of darkness, the dire wolf and Caraxes both left behind, much to their visible displeasure. This was her time—time to roam the common parts of Westeros without the weight of expectation or constant eyes watching her. She walked briskly, keeping to the shadows, her steps soft against the uneven ground. The distant hum of insects and the occasional rustling of leaves were her only companions.

As she neared a clearing nestled between the trees, the faint cry of something caught her attention. It wasn’t the cry of an animal, yet it wasn’t quite human either—or so it seemed in her mind. Her heart clenched as the sound vaguely reminded her of Ember’s final cries. Compelled by curiosity and a gnawing sense of dread, she followed the sound, her steps quickening as the crying grew louder. She froze as the clearing opened up before her, moonlight casting a pale glow over a scene that made her blood run cold. A body lay slumped against the base of a large tree, lifeless and battered, cradling a small, squirming bundle. The cries grew louder as she approached cautiously, her hand instinctively reaching for the bundle.

A newborn.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the tiny, helpless baby wrapped in tattered cloth. Its cheeks were red from crying, and its little fists flailed against the air. The reader’s heart ached as she crouched down, gently prying the child from the lifeless arms of its mother. The baby quieted almost immediately, its cries turning to soft whimpers as she held it close, cradling it against her chest.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

The reader quickly swaddled the baby as best she could with the fabric she had, rocking it gently to soothe its remaining distress. Her mind raced with questions. Who had left the child here? Why? And why did she feel such a deep, almost instinctive need to protect it? Realizing she couldn’t linger in the clearing, she adjusted the baby in her arms and began the trek back to Dragonstone, her heart pounding as she thought about what she’d say to her parents—especially her father.

Arriving at the castle, she kept her steps quiet as she moved through the halls. The baby had fallen asleep, its tiny head resting against her shoulder. She felt a strange mix of calm and urgency as she made her way to her father’s chambers. Reaching the heavy wooden door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in,” came Daemon’s voice, groggy but alert.

She pushed the door open, stepping inside with the sleeping baby still cradled in her arms. Daemon, seated by the fire with a goblet of wine in hand, immediately straightened when he saw her. His eyes flicked to the bundle in her arms, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. “What’s this?” he asked, setting the goblet aside and rising to his feet.

The reader walked over to him, her movements deliberate as she carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal the baby’s face. “I found them,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Out in the forest. Their mother… she was gone. Dead.”

Daemon stared at the child for a long moment, his face unreadable. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against the baby’s soft cheek before looking back at his daughter. “And you brought it here?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was curious, perhaps even a bit awed.

“I couldn’t leave them there,” she said firmly. “They were alone. They needed someone.”

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied her, his gaze softening. He could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce protectiveness that mirrored his own when it came to her. “You did the right thing,” he said finally, his voice low. “But this… this will raise questions.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, her grip tightening around the baby. “They’re mine now. I’ll take care of them.”

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re stubborn, just like your mother,” he said, though his tone was laced with affection. “And you have my heart, my brave little dragon.”

At that moment, the baby stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Daemon reached out again, this time holding his arms open. “Here,” he said, his voice gentle. “Let me hold them.”

The reader hesitated for a brief second before carefully passing the baby to her father. Daemon cradled the child with surprising ease, his expression softening as he looked down at the tiny face.

“Strong little thing,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What will we tell Mother?” the reader asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Daemon looked up at her, his smile widening. “Leave that to me,” he said. “You’ve already done enough for one night. Get some rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The reader nodded, her exhaustion finally catching up to her as she watched her father hold the baby. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt a sense of calm. She had done something good, something right. And with her father by her side, she knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As she turned to leave, she glanced back one last time. Daemon was still holding the baby, his gaze full of warmth and pride. It was a sight she’d never forget, one that made her feel stronger, braver, and more capable than ever before.

The following morning, Rhaenyra entered the chamber where Daemon and their daughter had spent much of the night with the newborn. Her expression was one of mixed confusion and concern as she laid eyes on the tiny bundle in Daemon’s arms.

"Whose baby is that?" she asked, her voice sharp and demanding. Her gaze shifted between Daemon and their daughter, trying to make sense of the scene.

Daemon, calm as ever, gestured toward the reader. "It’s hers now," he said simply. "She found the baby in the forest, abandoned and alone. She saved her life. Now, she’s made it clear that she won’t leave the child’s side.”

Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily speechless. She turned to her daughter, whose protective stance over the child left no room for argument. "You... plan to keep this child?" she asked, her tone incredulous.

"Yes," the reader replied firmly, her eyes narrowing slightly as if daring anyone to object. "She has no one else. I’ll take care of her."

Rhaenyra looked at her husband, searching his face for some sign of opposition, but Daemon merely shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "She’s a Targaryen through and through," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Stubborn and determined. There’s no talking her out of this."

Rhaenyra sighed, clearly torn. While she admired her daughter’s fierce loyalty and protective nature, she couldn’t help but worry about the burden such a responsibility would bring. But she also knew there was no arguing with her family once their minds were made up.

The next day, the reader took the baby from her father, her heart swelling with warmth as she looked down at the little girl’s tiny face. She decided it was time for the child to meet the creatures who had become her closest companions. Wrapping the baby securely in a soft blanket, she set out with a sense of purpose.

Her first stop was Caraxes, who lay basking in the morning sun. The red dragon lifted his massive head at her approach, his sharp eyes softening when he saw the bundle in her arms. The reader stepped closer, carefully unwrapping the baby just enough for Caraxes to see her.

“This is Rowena,” the reader said softly, the name having come to her in a moment of clarity the night before. “She’s part of our family now.”

Caraxes sniffed the baby curiously, his hot breath ruffling the child’s blanket. The baby let out a tiny coo, and to the reader’s delight, Caraxes lowered his head, letting out a gentle rumble as if welcoming Rowena into their strange little circle.

Next, the reader introduced Rowena to the direwolf, who had been lounging near the great hall. The wolf’s ears perked up as the reader approached, its sharp eyes immediately fixating on the small bundle. The reader knelt down, allowing the wolf to get a closer look. The direwolf sniffed the baby cautiously before letting out a low, approving whine. With a wag of its tail, the wolf seemed to accept

Rowena without question.

Finally, the reader made her way to the cliffs, where the giant squid often lingered near the water’s edge. She approached carefully, holding Rowena securely in her arms. The sea was calm, and as if sensing her presence, the squid’s bright orange eyes appeared just below the surface. Slowly, a single tentacle rose from the water, reaching toward them. The reader held her breath as the tentacle brushed gently against Rowena’s blanket. The squid seemed to examine the child with a surprising amount of care, its movements slow and deliberate. When the baby let out a tiny giggle, the reader couldn’t help but smile. The squid let out a soft, resonant hum, its tentacle retreating back into the water after a final, gentle touch.

Later that day, the reader sat in her chambers, cradling Rowena as she prepared to feed her. Daemon entered, watching silently for a moment before clearing his throat. "You should give her to a wet nurse," he suggested, his tone neutral but firm. "It’s how things are done. She’ll need proper nourishment."

The reader shook her head stubbornly, holding Rowena closer. "I’ll feed her myself," she replied. "She’s my responsibility, and I want to take care of her. I’ll find a way."

Daemon frowned, crossing his arms. "And how do you intend to do that? She can’t survive on stubbornness alone."

The reader sighed, setting Rowena down in a small makeshift cradle she’d prepared. She fetched a small bowl of cow’s milk and a spoon, determined to make it work. Sitting back down, she carefully spoon-fed the baby, her movements slow and deliberate to ensure Rowena didn’t choke.

To her relief, the baby took to the milk, her tiny hands clutching at the blanket as she drank. The reader smiled, a sense of pride welling up inside her. "See?" she said, glancing up at her father. "I can do this."

Daemon watched her for a long moment, his stern expression softening. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You’re more like me than I realized," he said quietly. "And that’s both a blessing and a curse."

The reader looked up at him, her eyes filled with determination. "She’s mine, Father," she said. "And I love her."

Daemon nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Then you’ll have my support," he said. "But know this—raising a child is no easy task. You’ll need more than just love. You’ll need strength, patience, and a willingness to make sacrifices."

The reader nodded, her gaze never leaving Rowena’s tiny, peaceful face. "I’ll do whatever it takes," she said firmly. "She’s worth it."

Daemon smiled faintly, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He could see the fierce love and determination in his daughter’s eyes, and he knew that Rowena was in good hands. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, as a family.

The night was still, the castle bathed in the pale light of the moon. The reader woke to the sound of soft, plaintive cries filling her chambers. Instantly alert, she moved to the cradle where Rowena lay, her tiny face scrunched in distress.

“It’s alright, sweet one,” the reader murmured, lifting the baby into her arms. She swayed gently, humming a lullaby, but the baby continued to fuss. Deciding a change of scenery might help, she wrapped Rowena in a warm blanket and stepped out into the quiet halls of the castle.

The walk was peaceful, the soft echoes of her footsteps the only sound aside from Rowena’s occasional whimpers. The reader found herself wandering toward the dragon pit, drawn to the comforting presence of Caraxes. When she arrived, the massive red dragon lifted his head, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He rumbled a low, welcoming sound, his tail curling closer as if to shield her from the cool night air.

“Hello, Caraxes,” the reader said softly, stepping closer. She settled onto the ground near his side, resting her back against his warm scales. Rowena, soothed by the dragon’s presence, let out a soft sigh and drifted back to sleep in her arms.

The reader gazed down at the baby, her expression a mix of love and uncertainty. She gently adjusted the blanket around Rowena, ensuring she was snug and warm. Then, with a heavy sigh, she looked up at Caraxes.

“Am I doing this right?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Am I a good mother?”

The dragon tilted his head slightly, as if he understood her question. He let out a low, resonant hum, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath her. The reader smiled faintly, taking the sound as reassurance.

“It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “I love her so much, but I keep wondering... will I be enough for her? Can I protect her the way she deserves? She’s already been through so much, and she doesn’t even know it.”

Caraxes shifted slightly, his massive body curling closer around her in a gesture of comfort. The reader leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence. She looked down at Rowena, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and determination.

In the distance, hidden in the shadows, Daemon and Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold. They had woken to find their daughter’s chambers empty and had followed her tracks out of concern. Now, as they stood together, observing her with Caraxes and Rowena, they felt their hearts swell with pride.

“She’s remarkable,” Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes glistening with emotion. “I always worried about her—about how she’d handle the expectations placed on her. But look at her. She’s doing this her way, and she’s thriving.”

Daemon nodded, a rare, soft smile crossing his lips. “She’s strong,” he said. “And stubborn as hell. She didn’t need a husband to step in and do this for her. She’s proving that every day.”

Rhaenyra rested her head against Daemon’s shoulder, her smile matching his. “It seems she didn’t need a husband after all,” she said softly.

Daemon chuckled, pride evident in his voice. “No, she didn’t. She’s Targaryen through and through. Fierce, independent, and capable of anything.”

As they stood together, watching their daughter and her makeshift family of dragon, direwolf, squid, and now Rowena, they felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Their daughter was carving her own path, one filled with love, courage, and determination. And they couldn’t have been prouder.

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The sun was beginning its slow descent when the reader found herself returning to the clearing where she had first discovered Rowena. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the scent of wildflowers. She approached the spot cautiously, her heart heavy with unspoken gratitude and sadness. The body of the woman who had cradled Rowena in her final moments was no longer visible beneath the soft blanket of nature. Grass and wildflowers had grown around her resting place, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere. The reader paused, marvelling at how life had embraced death in such a tender way. Kneeling down, she reached out a hand to touch the flowers, intending to pay her respects. Just as her fingers brushed a delicate petal, a rustling sound from nearby startled her. She froze, her head snapping up to see a stag stepping gracefully into the clearing.

The animal was magnificent—its coat sleek and shimmering in the dappled sunlight, antlers reaching skyward like the branches of a great tree. It seemed to regard her curiously, its dark eyes calm and intelligent.

Uncertain at first, the reader rose slowly and, remembering stories of old Valyria, offered a respectful bow. To her surprise, the stag lowered its regal head in return, as if acknowledging her gesture. A soft laugh escaped her lips, the moment so unexpected yet oddly comforting.

“You’ve been watching over her, haven’t you?” she murmured, stepping closer. The stag didn’t move, standing still as she reached out to touch its warm, smooth coat. Its body radiated a comforting heat, and she felt an overwhelming sense of peace as her fingers traced along its fur.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around its neck in an impulsive hug. “Thank you for keeping her safe until I could find her. She gave me Rowena, and I won’t ever forget her sacrifice.”

The stag remained still, almost as if it understood her words. When she stepped back to leave, she felt the weight of its gaze on her. As she walked toward the edge of the clearing, the soft sound of hooves followed behind her. She turned to see the sandy-coloured stag trailing her, its serene demeanour unshaken.

“Are you coming with me?” she asked, smiling faintly. The stag flicked its ears, as if in affirmation. “Alright then. Another friend, I suppose.”

By the time she reached the castle, twilight had begun to paint the sky in shades of gold and purple. The stag still followed her, stopping only when she entered the gates. Its calm presence gave her a strange sense of reassurance, as though it were a guardian sent by the gods.

Inside, Rhaenyra stood at her window, as she gazed out at the grounds below. When her eyes caught sight of her daughter returning, followed by the elegant stag, she laughed in disbelief.

“Daemon!” she called, still chuckling as she motioned for him to join her. “Come see this!”

Daemon entered the room, Rowena cradled protectively against his chest. “What is it now?” he asked, only to stop short when his gaze followed Rhaenyra’s pointing finger. His brow rose in amusement as he spotted the stag standing just beyond the gates, its regal form perfectly silhouetted against the evening light.

Shaking his head with a soft laugh, he looked down at the baby in his arms. “Rowena,” he said with a smirk, “it looks like you have another friend.”

Rhaenyra leaned against him, a smile playing on her lips. “Our daughter seems to have a gift for collecting the extraordinary.”

Daemon nodded, his expression softening. “That she does.”

As the stag settled itself outside, content to remain near the castle, the family watched with quiet wonder. The reader, unaware of their observation, turned back to the stag one last time, offering a small nod of gratitude before stepping inside to check on her baby.

The presence of the stag, like all her newfound companions, was yet another testament to her unique connection with the world around her—a bond forged by compassion, courage, and the strength to embrace the unknown. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The grand dining hall was filled with the hum of voices, the clinking of goblets, and the scraping of silverware against plates. The entire Targaryen family was gathered once again for what should have been a peaceful dinner. The reader, seated beside her father Daemon, was mostly silent, trying to focus on her meal and avoid the glares and whispers she often felt from certain family members. The dire wolf lay quietly at her feet, its large head resting against her knee for comfort, while the stag had stationed itself just outside the hall’s open balcony, its presence still a topic of awe and confusion for the others.

But peace was never guaranteed at a Targaryen dinner.

Aemond’s sharp voice cut through the chatter like a blade. “It’s truly remarkable how you’ve surrounded yourself with beasts, cousin,” he said with a sneer, looking directly at her. “A dragon, a wolf, a stag—and now I hear whispers of some mythical sea creature you call a friend. It’s almost as though you’re collecting animals because you can’t connect with people.”

The reader tensed but didn’t look up, choosing instead to cut her food into smaller and smaller pieces. Daemon, seated beside her, narrowed his eyes at Aemond but held his tongue for now, his hand resting protectively on the arm of his chair.

Aemond wasn’t done. “Tell me, cousin,” he continued, leaning forward with a mocking smile, “is this your grand plan? To live out your days surrounded by animals, so you can avoid the inevitable truth?

That you’ll die alone, just like the beasts you seem so fond of?”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to slice with a blade. All eyes turned to the reader, some filled with curiosity, others with pity.

She opened her mouth to respond, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt, but before she could say a word, a faint cry echoed through the castle halls. Rowena.

The reader’s heart leapt in panic as she immediately pushed back her chair, the direwolf standing to follow her as she bolted from the room. She didn’t bother excusing herself properly, her sole focus on the baby.

The sound of her hurried footsteps faded, leaving the dining hall in stunned silence.

Aemond smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “What was that noise?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Daemon’s chair screeched as he stood abruptly, his expression one of barely restrained fury. “Careful, boy,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, her tone sharp. “That cry,” she said, her gaze fixed firmly on Aemond, “was her daughter.”

The collective gasp that rippled through the room was nearly deafening.

“Her what?” Alicent exclaimed, her voice incredulous.

“She found a child,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice steady despite the surprise around her. “A baby girl. She’s named her Rowena, and she is her daughter now. Aemond,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “you would do well to remember that when you speak about her life.”

Back in her chambers, the reader burst through the door, breathless and worried. Rowena’s cries filled the air, frantic and piercing, and the reader quickly crossed the room to the crib. The dire wolf followed closely, sniffing the baby protectively before lying down nearby.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the reader cooed, scooping Rowena into her arms and cradling her gently. “What’s the matter? Did something scare you?”

As she rocked the baby, whispering soothing words, Rowena’s cries began to subside. The reader kissed the top of her head, marveling at how small and fragile she seemed in her arms.

And then it happened.

“Mama,” Rowena said, her tiny voice soft but unmistakable.

The reader froze, her eyes wide with shock. For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it, but then Rowena’s lips moved again, repeating the word as she reached out a tiny hand to touch her mother’s face.

“Mama.”

The reader’s heart swelled, tears springing to her eyes as she smiled down at the baby. “Well done, you clever girl,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You said your first word!”

She kissed Rowena’s cheek, holding her close as joy replaced the hurt and frustration that Aemond’s words had stirred in her earlier.

Meanwhile, back at the dining hall, the room was buzzing with murmurs as the family digested the revelation about Rowena.

“How does your daughter have a baby?” Alicent demanded, her voice laced with confusion and judgment. “Who is the father?”

“There is no father,” Daemon replied bluntly, his tone daring anyone to question further. “She found the baby abandoned and brought her home. She has taken on the responsibility of raising her, and as far as I’m concerned, Rowena is as much a Targaryen as any of us.”

Aemond scoffed, his jealousy and bitterness still simmering beneath the surface. “So, she’s playing mother to a child that isn’t hers? How noble. Perhaps she should focus on herself before pretending to be fit for such a role.”

Daemon’s hand slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Say another word about my daughter, Aemond, and I’ll show you what it means to cross a dragon.”

Rhaenyra placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm, though her own patience was clearly wearing thin. “Enough,” she said firmly, silencing the room. “We will not discuss this further. Rowena is family, and that is the end of it.”

As the dinner continued in strained silence, the reader sat in her room, Rowena now sound asleep in her arms. The direwolf watched over them both, its golden eyes glowing softly in the dim light.

The reader couldn’t help but think about Aemond’s words, how they had cut so deeply despite her best efforts to ignore them. But as she looked down at Rowena, her heart swelled with love and determination.

“I’m not alone,” she whispered to herself, pressing a kiss to Rowena’s forehead. “And I never will be.”

The dining hall was still a flurry of murmurs and whispered conversations when the reader reentered, cradling Rowena in her arms. The baby, now calm and content, nestled against her chest, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of her mother's dress. The direwolf followed closely behind, its quiet but commanding presence silencing anyone who dared to whisper too loudly.

As she approached the table, all eyes turned to her. The once-familiar stares of judgment and curiosity were now mixed with something else—shock, disbelief, and for a few, a hint of admiration. She held her head high, ignoring the tension as she took her place between her parents, Daemon and Rhaenyra.

Rowena, seemingly unaware of the heavy atmosphere, lifted her head slightly, her big, curious eyes locking onto Daemon. A wide, toothless smile broke across her face, and she let out a delighted giggle, reaching her small hand toward her grandfather.

Daemon, who had been wearing his usual stern expression, softened instantly. A rare smile spread across his lips as he reached out a finger for Rowena to grab, her tiny fingers wrapping tightly around his. “Well, aren’t you a charmer,” he said, his voice low but warm.

Before anyone could comment, Rowena suddenly turned her head and waved a small hand in Aemond’s direction. The gesture was innocent and childlike, but it immediately drew the attention of the entire table. Aemond’s expression shifted from his usual cool indifference to something closer to unease, as if he wasn’t sure how to react. Alicent, seated beside him, looked equally startled.

“Even the baby is more courteous than her mother,” Aemond muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Daemon.

“Enough,” Rhaenyra snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Alicent, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, cleared her throat and asked, “And what of the mother, dear? You said you found her. What happened to her?”

The reader hesitated, her fingers brushing over Rowena’s soft curls as she gathered her thoughts. “The mother was… gone when I found her,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the somber memory. “She was lying in a clearing, and the grass and flowers had grown over her. It was as if the earth had claimed her, wrapping her in beauty. It was… peaceful.”

The table fell silent at her words, the vivid imagery leaving a mark on everyone present. Even Alicent, who was often quick to judge, looked contemplative. Rowena shifted in the reader’s arms, her small hand clutching at the fabric of her mother’s dress as she let out a small, sleepy mumble. The reader glanced down, brushing a gentle hand over the baby’s cheek. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

Rowena’s head tilted upward, her drowsy eyes meeting her mother’s. Then, clear as day, she mumbled, “Mama.”

The reader froze agin still suprised when hearing her speak, her small voice a mixture of tiredness and affection. “Mama.”

The room collectively held its breath.

Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with astonishment. Daemon, equally stunned, looked between his daughter and the baby, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically tender.

“She spoke,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling. “Her first word…”

She pressed a kiss to Rowena’s forehead, holding her close. “Well done, my clever girl,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re so smart.”

The baby nestled against her mother’s chest again, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the reader’s dress as her eyes fluttered closed, clearly worn out from the excitement.

At the table, the reactions varied. Rhaenyra’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her heart full of pride for both her daughter and her granddaughter. Daemon, though outwardly composed, couldn’t hide the pride and protectiveness radiating from him. Alicent, on the other hand, looked conflicted, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she was wrestling with her feelings. Aemond remained stoic, though his jaw tightened at the sight of the tender family moment.

“I suppose that settles it,” Daemon said after a moment, his voice breaking the silence. “Rowena is family, through and through. There’s no questioning it now.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder. “She’s one of us,” she said firmly. “A Targaryen in every way that matters.”

The reader smiled softly, her gaze fixed on Rowena’s peaceful face. Despite the tension and challenges she had faced, this moment made it all worthwhile. Her daughter’s first word was proof that she was doing something right, that the love she poured into Rowena was making a difference.

The direwolf, sensing the calm that had settled over its mistress, rested its head on the floor beside her chair. The stag, though still lingering outside, stood tall and vigilant, its presence a silent reassurance.

As the meal slowly resumed, the reader stayed seated, her focus entirely on Rowena. The weight of Aemond’s earlier words still lingered, but they felt distant now, overshadowed by the love and support surrounding her.

Daemon leaned over, his voice low enough that only his daughter could hear. “You’re doing well, little one,” he said, his tone filled with pride. “Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes glistening with gratitude. “Thank you, father,” she whispered.

As the evening unfolded, the reader gently handed Rowena to her father, Daemon, who took the baby with surprising ease. His movements were tender, a far cry from his usual fiery demeanour.

Rowena’s small hands immediately reached up to his face, exploring the strands of his silver-white hair, tugging them with curious fingers. Daemon chuckled softly, a sound that was rare and cherished.

“You’ve taken a liking to my hair, haven’t you, little one?” Daemon murmured, cradling Rowena closer. The baby giggled, her head resting against his neck as she continued her playful exploration.

The reader sat back, her gaze fixated on the scene before her. Watching her father interact with her daughter filled her heart with a warmth she couldn’t quite put into words. Daemon, so fierce and untamed in most circumstances, held Rowena with the gentleness of a man entirely smitten.

Rowena eventually shifted, her tiny body moving to sit on Daemon’s lap. Her big, curious eyes darted around the room, taking in the faces of the Targaryen family members seated at the table. When her gaze landed on Aemond, the room seemed to hold its breath.

The baby and her second cousin locked eyes, both wearing expressions far too serious for such a small child. It was as if they were engaging in a silent battle of wills, a staring contest that neither seemed inclined to lose. The reader bit back a smile, her eyes darting between the two.

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, Rowena stuck out her tiny tongue at Aemond, the playful gesture utterly unexpected. The room erupted into soft laughter, and even Daemon let out an amused chuckle.

To everyone’s astonishment, Aemond’s stoic facade cracked for a fleeting moment. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in what could only be described as a reluctant smile. The reader’s eyes widened, and her astonishment must have been palpable because Aemond immediately schooled his expression back to its usual detached demeanour. His single eye darted to the reader, and when he noticed her, along with the stag and direwolf silently watching him from the corner of the room, his jaw tightened.

The reader arched a brow at him, her amusement evident. “Did you just smile at my daughter, Aemond?” she asked, her tone teasing but warm.

Aemond huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did no such thing,” he said curtly, though his ears reddened slightly, betraying his embarrassment.

Daemon, still holding Rowena, smirked at Aemond’s discomfort. “Admit it, brother. You’re smitten with the little dragon.”

“I am not,” Aemond retorted sharply, though his gaze flicked back to Rowena, who was now babbling and clapping her hands on Daemon’s chest.

The baby’s antics seemed to diffuse the tension in the room, her innocent joy infectious. The direwolf, sensing the calm, padded closer and lay down at the reader’s feet, its watchful eyes fixed on Rowena. The stag, still standing by the window, observed with quiet dignity, its presence a reminder of the unusual but undeniable bond the reader shared with her growing family of creatures.

As Rowena continued to babble and explore her surroundings from her perch on Daemon’s lap, the reader couldn’t help but marvel at how naturally her father had taken to being a grandfather. His gruff exterior melted away in Rowena’s presence, replaced by a side of him the reader rarely got to see.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you, my clever girl?” the reader said softly, leaning forward to brush a stray curl from Rowena’s forehead. The baby responded with a delighted coo, her small hand reaching out to grab her mother’s fingers.

Daemon glanced at his daughter, a rare softness in his gaze. “She takes after you,” he said, his tone carrying both pride and affection. “Strong-willed and utterly unyielding.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with love for both her father and her daughter. Despite the challenges and the constant pushback from certain family members, moments like this reminded her that she had created something beautiful, something worth protecting.

As Rowena shifted her attention back to Aemond, the reader leaned back in her chair, watching the silent exchange between her daughter and her uncle. She couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for her little girl, but one thing was certain: Rowena was already leaving an indelible mark on everyone around her.

Even on Aemond, whether he wanted to admit it or not

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The moon cast its soft glow over the gardens as the reader carried a fussing Rowena in her arms. The baby's cries were growing louder, and the reader gently rocked her, humming a lullaby under her breath. The large stag followed silently, its regal form illuminated by the pale light, and the reader glanced at it with curiosity.

“Do you think she’s drawn to you?” she asked quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. “Or is it me? Either way, I think you might mean something to her, old friend.”

Rowena’s cries softened as they reached a quieter spot by the cliffs. The stag lowered itself to the ground nearby, its watchful eyes fixed on the mother and child. The reader let out a small sigh, grateful for the calm. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, her sharp gaze cutting through the shadows, and her suspicion was confirmed when

Aemond stepped into view.

“Are you following me again, Aemond?” she asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. She adjusted Rowena in her arms, shielding the baby from the cool night air. “I don’t have time for your comments tonight.”

Aemond tilted his head, his single eye gleaming in the moonlight. “You misunderstand me,” he said smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back. “I only wish to speak with you.”

“I doubt you have anything to say that I want to hear,” the reader replied curtly, turning away from him and walking further toward the cliffside.

Aemond’s footsteps followed close behind. “I mean no harm to you or the child,” he said, his voice steady. “But surely you can see that this... arrangement is unusual. You carry a baby not your own, one you found under circumstances that would raise questions. You cannot expect the rest of the family—or the court—to accept this so easily.”

The reader stopped in her tracks, spinning around to face him. Rowena stirred in her arms, letting out a soft whimper as if sensing her mother’s irritation. “I don’t care what you—or anyone else—think,” she said sharply. “This baby is mine now, and no one will take her from me.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Even if it invites danger? Even if it puts a target on your back?”

The reader narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening protectively around Rowena. “I’d rather die protecting her than live a life dictated by fear and judgment,” she snapped. “If you have nothing helpful to say, leave us alone.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the cliffs, seeking the one place where she felt truly at peace: the sea. She knew the kraken would come if she called, and tonight, she needed its calming presence more than ever.

As she reached the edge of the cliffs, she looked down at the dark waves crashing below. The stag stood a short distance behind her, its antlers gleaming in the moonlight. Rowena was quiet now, her small hand clutching at the reader’s dress as if seeking comfort. The reader took a deep breath and murmured softly, “Come to me, old friend.”

The water rippled unnaturally, and moments later, the familiar orange tentacles emerged, followed by the Kraken’s massive head. The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto her, its presence both imposing and strangely comforting. Rowena let out a delighted coo, reaching a tiny hand toward the Kraken as if recognizing it. The kraken responded by lifting a tentacle gently toward them, its movements slow and deliberate.

Behind her, Aemond stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he watched the massive sea creature interact with the reader and the baby. “Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath.

Unbeknownst to Aemond, Daemon was not far behind. The moment he had noticed the reader’s empty seat at dinner, he had excused himself from the table. After a brief conversation with Rhaenyra, they both realized Aemond’s absence as well and exchanged a knowing glance. It didn’t take long for Daemon to follow the trail of his daughter, his instinct sharp and unerring.

When he arrived at the cliffs, his breath hitched at the sight before him. His daughter stood confidently at the edge, holding Rowena close while the kraken loomed in the water below. The stag stood nearby like a sentinel, and Aemond was to the side, his expression torn between shock and something like awe.

Daemon’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Step away from the edge, both of you,” he called out, his voice firm but laced with concern.

The reader turned, her face softening when she saw her father. “We’re fine, Father,” she assured him. “The Kraken wouldn’t hurt us.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he approached, his gaze flicking to Aemond with a hint of suspicion. “And what are you doing here?” he asked sharply.

Aemond straightened, his usual confidence returning. “I was merely ensuring your daughter wasn’t putting herself—or the child—in harm’s way.”

Daemon scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. “How noble of you,” he said sarcastically, before turning his full attention to the reader. “You should’ve told me where you were going. You scared your mother half to death.”

“I needed some air,” the reader replied, her tone defensive but not unkind. She glanced back at the kraken, which had retreated slightly but still lingered near the surface. “I needed to see it again. It... calms me.”

Daemon’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But next time, don’t go alone. You’re not the only one who loves that little girl. We’re a family now, and we protect each other.”

Rowena chose that moment to let out a happy squeal as if agreeing with her grandfather. Daemon chuckled, reaching out to take her from the reader’s arms. “Come here, little dragon,” he murmured, cradling the baby against his chest. “You’re far too young for these late-night adventures.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude for her father’s unwavering support. Even as she faced the challenges of her unconventional life, she knew she could always count on him to stand by her side.

As the family made their way back to the castle, the stag followed at a respectful distance, its silent presence a reminder of the strange but undeniable bond that had formed between them. And though

Aemond trailed behind, his thoughts remained conflicted, his gaze lingering on the kraken’s glowing eyes as they disappeared beneath the waves.

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The day was calm, with the soft golden light of the afternoon casting a serene glow across the landscape. The reader had set out once again, the loyal stag and direwolf following close behind. This time, she was determined to find more information about Rowena’s origins, to piece together the fragments of the life the baby had been torn from. The spot where she had found Rowena was overgrown with grass and wildflowers, a quiet and somber beauty.

The reader knelt by the spot, her fingers brushing the petals of a wildflower as she whispered, “I’m sorry you had to go this way. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

The stag stood silently nearby, its antlers shining in the light, while the direwolf sniffed the air, ever alert. The reader moved to explore further, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground as she made her way through the glade. She paused at the crest of a hill, scanning the area for any signs of human presence, but the landscape stretched on, untouched. Just as she turned to move downhill, her foot caught on a loose patch of grass.

She stumbled and let out a surprised yelp, tumbling forward. The hill was steep, and she rolled down awkwardly, landing in a heap at the bottom. Groaning, she pushed herself up, brushing dirt and blades of grass from her dress. The dire wolf had already made its way down, sniffing her as if to ensure she was unharmed, while the stag remained at the top, watching her descent with its usual serene gaze.

“Of course, I had to fall,” she muttered, shaking her head. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, then froze as something in the distance caught her eye—a small cottage, nestled in the trees.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is this where you lived?” she whispered, more to herself than to her companions. With a sense of foreboding, she walked toward the cottage, the direwolf padding silently by her side.

When she reached the door, it creaked loudly as she pushed it open. The air inside was stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of death. The sight that greeted her made her breath hitch. Two more bodies lay inside—a man slumped over the table and a small child curled up near the hearth, their presence a grim testament to tragedy.

The reader pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. She took a shaky step forward, her gaze scanning the room. The cottage was humble but had the clear marks of a family life once lived: a simple wooden table, worn chairs, a hand-carved crib in the corner.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brushed over the table’s surface, lingering on a small wooden carving that had been left there. It was shaped like a stag, its edges smoothed from wear. She picked it up, a lump forming in her throat.

“Rowena will love this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll make sure she knows it came from you.”

She searched the cottage for anything else that might hold meaning—a blanket, a keepsake—but most of the belongings had been too worn or ruined to salvage. Clutching the wooden stag, she stepped outside, the weight of the family’s loss pressing heavily on her chest. The stag was waiting for her by the door, its calm presence a strange comfort.

When she arrived back at the castle, the sun was beginning to set. Daemon was outside, holding Rowena in his arms as he paced the courtyard. The baby was cooing softly, one tiny hand reaching for his long, white hair. When he saw the reader approaching, his eyes widened in alarm.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, his tone sharp with worry. “You look like you’ve been wrestling boars.”

The reader glanced down at herself, realizing how dishevelled she must have appeared—her dress was wrinkled and dirt-streaked, her hair a tangled mess. She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I just fell down a hill.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “You’re not usually this careless. What were you doing out there?”

“I was looking for answers,” she admitted, holding up the small wooden white stag, different to the one behind her. “I found the cottage where Rowena’s family lived. It was... hard to see, but I found this. I think it might have been hers.”

Daemon’s expression softened as he looked at the carved toy. Rowena, as if sensing the moment, reached out her tiny hands toward the object. Daemon carefully placed it in her grasp, and the baby immediately brought it to her mouth, gnawing on it with a toothless grin.

The reader couldn’t help but smile. “She likes it,” she said quietly.

Daemon studied his daughter’s face, his gaze flicking to the stag and the dire wolf that stood nearby, ever faithful. “You’ve taken on a great deal of responsibility,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

“More than most would.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “She deserves it,” she said simply. “She deserves a family that loves her.”

“You’ve given her that,” Daemon said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And you’ve reminded me what it means to protect what we love.”

Rowena giggled, clutching the wooden stag tightly in her small hands, and the reader felt a sense of peace settle over her. Despite the hardships and the unanswered questions, she knew they were building something beautiful—a life worth fighting for.

[qwordavoider]

I've seen a couple of people interact with this post about 8x10, so I want to add this to the archive of times Eddie made everything all about him. This one will be longer than the other examples, of course, because I’m still upset about it. So my thoughts on THAT scene in 8x17.

8x17 SPOILERS AHEAD

At Hen’s house, Eddie mentions that he’s worried about Buck being so worried and later is hoping that she’ll tell Buck about the job for him. Then, in the confession booth, Buck mentions how he keeps trying to reach out, but that everyone is sliding away. So they both acknowledge that Buck has been trying to talk with everyone, maybe not always in the best way, but he was trying.

Then in the fight Eddie says Buck would’ve made Eddie taking the job back in El Paso all about him. When Buck literally congratulates him prior to him saying that. Why don’t you believe what your best friend is telling you to your face prior to you expressing your concern about his reaction?

Buck didn’t even accuse Eddie of not telling him. He just said congratulations. Then Eddie is the one who brings it up by asking, “Who told you?” Like he had been trying to keep it a secret.

From there they both escalate it a little because they are both upset. Buck because he feels like everyone is tiptoeing around his back. And Eddie I guess because he’s upset that Buck is upset that no one told him?

Then, after Eddie says he knows Buck would’ve made it all about him, comes my favorite line of the scene (heavy on the sarcasm): “Trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley. A tragedy in 97 acts.”

As if he didn’t just lose Buck, didn’t just lose his father figure?? Or that he has been telling anyone and everyone that he is the only one suffering. Buck literally went to Chim on the roof to help talk him down and work through some of the stuff about Bobby! He HAS BEEN REACHING OUT, not dragging everyone into his grief. And I will remind you, these accusations are not based on an actual conversation Buck and Eddie have had. This is all anger over a HYPOTHETICAL scenario in Eddie’s mind where he decided he knew exactly how Buck would react.

And then Eddie brings up the spiraling and how no one knows how to talk to Buck about it. I know this show likes to handle conflict off screen, but have we seen anybody TRY? Has anyone tried to talk to Buck or are they all just scared he’s going to react with emotions? Once again Eddie flips the script on Buck as if it is somehow his fault that the rest of the team can’t figure out a way to talk to him.

After that, we get Buck getting defensive and saying he’s sorry Eddie's sad and that Bobby was important to him too, before Eddie says, Buck's not the only one that lost him. Which is fine to acknowledge when you’re airing things out like this, IF Buck had been only focused on his own grief and no one else’s. Even then, I would argue that everyone has a right to be selfish when they are grieving a significant loss like this. But we know that Buck has been worried about everyone else, because MULTIPLE PEOPLE SAID IT THIS EPISODE.

So in this context, it makes no sense to be so accusatory towards Buck, because Eddie could’ve expressed his own feelings about losing Bobby without making it all Buck’s problem. Sounds like there were multiple opportunities. Plus, Eddie was talking about his feelings with Hen and Karen. So it’s not like Eddie wasn’t talking to anybody. And there is ABSOLUTELY NO REASON that Eddie should be backing him into a corner and getting in his face.

“Really? Cause you never asked what it was like.” I’m sorry, Eddie, but you, Buck, and Hen have expressed that Buck is checking in on you. Maybe he didn’t ask you exactly about the phone call, but that’s not necessarily on him because Buck’s not going to be able to think through exactly what your experience was. If you’re worried that Buck is too worried about everyone, obviously, he has been asking you some kind of questions about how you’re doing. At any point after he checked in, you could’ve brought it up to get support, but you didn’t.

At a certain point, Eddie needs to take ownership of his own grieving process because it’s not all on everyone else to know exactly what he is feeling. Talking about all of his feelings is hard, I get it. But he can’t blame people for not asking him about a very specific moment that none of them had to go through and therefore wouldn’t think to ask.

And after Eddie expresses those feelings (as he should be able to) Buck APOLOGIZES and says “I know he was important to you too.” Even though I would argue he doesn’t have anything to be sorry for, he still apologizes for not directly acknowledging that Bobby was important to all of them. And it’s not like Buck did the opposite where he was saying Bobby was important to him and him alone.

Then, when Eddie admits he wonders if he had been there if it would’ve changed anything. Which again is a completely normal thing to feel! He is allowed to wonder and have regrets, but when Buck reacts and gets defensive, I feel like most people who are friends grieving a mutual friend/important person in their lives, one would say something along the lines of “I’m sure you did everything you could, but I still feel like I should’ve done something.” To reassure the other person that it’s not their fault.

But no, instead we see Eddie say, “I don’t know Buck, I wasn’t there.” In a tone that makes it feel like he very much did think that Buck didn’t do everything he could. And then leaves. Which again could be his grief and anger taking over in that moment, but he NEVER ACKNOWLEDGES IT LATER.

He writes the note about going to their airport which in ANYONE'S mind means that he is leaving. Then, when Buck is surprised to see him there, Eddie gaslights him into thinking that it was Buck's fault for reading the message wrong and that he never said anything about going to Texas.

“Heard some dick was being mean to you. Thought you could use some cheering up.” YET ANOTHER example of Eddie removing himself from accountability and not apologizing for his mistakes. And a little side note, he definitely had planned to bring Chris to LA for a while before he actually got there. Because it's not like it would be easy to pull Chris out of school and book a flight and get him to LA without some kind of advanced warning. He would definitely need more than the 12 hours max that probably passed between the fight and Eddie going to the airport to get him.

Despite that, he uses it like a peace offering to Buck, as if he had planned it as an apology. And then Buck, later in the scene, calls Eddie a good dad, so clearly it worked in Eddie's favor (which I hate).

And then Pepa comes in and has a two-minute-long conversation with Buck that appears to help? It could be that Buck is isolating himself from the 118 because he feels guilty. But I feel like he has been shown that the opposite is true. Again, he's been reaching out. So maybe he has just been hiding his true feelings in those conversations, but you're telling me that no one thought to push a little harder? So I'm glad Pepa talked to Buck, and trust me, I loved that conversation, but I just find it weird that he had to talk with her. Or at least felt like he had to because everyone else was not sure how to talk to him, and talking about him behind his back.

So basically, the fight scene is Eddie once again shifting the blame onto everyone else, without opening up about his emotions in a healthy way, while simultaneously making it all about him and painting himself as the only victim in the situation. And failing to acknowledge the impact that had on his supposedly best friend of 7, almost 8 years, the next time they see each other.

[chaifootsteps]

One thing TADC will always have over HH/HB is that it makes people smile. It’s nice to talk about. It values kindness in a corrupted unhappy place. It cherishes mercy empathy and hope. There is no turbulent “discourse”. The other two shows make their audiences fight, bicker, bully each other, get angry with each other, and say abusive things. The viewers treat each other the way the characters treat each other actually: self victimising, gaslighting, accusatory, ie terribly.

What made me notice this was when a YouTube reviewer I enjoyed made a video about HB (yes, it was about that character) the comments were all fighting to defend their golden boy because his abuse and his difficulties reminds them of themselves, and this made them try to silence others including the speaker, because that characters abuse of others, reminds them of their abuser. But when TADC came around, and the YouTuber discussed it, we were all collectively calm and happy. Discussing Ragathas welcoming behaviour, and Kingers kindness toward Pomni despite the pain he’s been through driving him mad.

It’s the difference between tackling heavy abuse topics badly — just for shock views and forced sympathy to cover up bad things the character have done, versus handling them with tact and care. Lest they have a negative effect on the audience. If you write a character as an abuser then try backtrack and say he’s actually the victim and the abuse was out of context or all imagined in our “bigoted” “media illiterate” heads, it requires a lot of gaslighting and it divides the audience into chess pieces. Medrano turned her fandom of confused impressionable empathetic people into a war zone with her as the leader, and I think it’s unforgivable. Countless people have said they feel very gaslit and manipulated by this show, into believing something that wasn’t true. That’s a terrible way to make your audience feel.

Couldn't have said it better, Anon.

TADC is a show about human kindness, and Goose is constantly demanding kindness -- or at the very least, halfway decent behavior -- from her fandom. Vivzie rewards bad behavior in her fandom members and actively pushes them to be worse. The results are plain as day.