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icarryitin · 6 months ago

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Episode 16: Pretty

spencer reid/gn!reader

i realised i’ve done a lot of introspective narratives about Feelings™️ but not a whole lot of interaction so pls have some as a treat ilu🧡

series masterlist

word count: 1.9k // warnings: there is so much pining in here it could be a forest

summary: Late nights in strange towns lead to the most unexpected conversations and confessions.

You can’t sleep.

Sheep have been counted over, and over, and over again and still, it evades you. For a day where you’d been looking forward to nothing more than collapsing into bed at the end of it; you’re not best pleased. It’s a rough case as it is, you don’t want to be sleep deprived on top of everything else. But it just isn’t happening.

You count seventy three individual little swirly panels on the ceiling before you decide to get up. A walk might go a fair way to unravel your nerves enough to get a couple of hours, at least you hope it will.

With your jacket thrown over your old college hoodie, you don’t bother changing your sweatpants for jeans, and just slip your feet into your boots. Garcia would be outraged at the clashing colours. The look won’t win any best dressed awards, but at this time of night you’re more concerned with clipping your holster in place. You’re not taking any chances. Especially not with the victimology of this case - although you do have the advantage of knowing the Unsub is out there somewhere. It’s still not an overly comforting thought. But you’re out of options, it’s this or counting the rest of the ceiling panels and, frankly, you’re sure you’ll go blind if you have to stare at plaster swirls for much longer. So you tuck your phone and room key into your coat pockets, and leave the dingy little room behind for a while.

The hotel is, thankfully, almost completely dead, save for the night manager dozing at the front desk. Faded carpet plush under your feet, you’re quiet as you descend the stairs to the lobby and its dimmed lights. The world is dark outside the front doors and you hesitate. Is it really the best idea? To walk around in a city that’s home to a serial killer whose victims bear a striking resemblance to yourself? No, no it’s not. Especially not at, you tug your phone out of your pocket to check the time - jesus, two o’clock in the morning.

��Hey, you.”

It would honestly be wrong to say you’re not expecting his voice - if you were to guess which of the team would still be up and about at this time of night, you’d pick Spencer. It’s a no-brainer.

“Hey, me. Couldn’t sleep either?” Your smile is more strained than you mean for it to be when you turn it to him in response, he must have just come back, snuck in unnoticed while you were glaring at the time on your phone. He’s similarly dressed, coat huddled around mismatched pyjamas, another victim of case-induced insomnia then. His eyes are tired, they are more often than not these days. Yours aren’t all that better.

There’s a comfortable moment of silence where you just exist together, in the hushed quiet of the hotel lobby. Breathing in the calm of the night. It almost makes up for the chaos you know awaits the team in the morning.

“Is it nice out?” You ask, toeing the carpet with your scuffed boot.

“You’re not going for a walk, are you?”

“I’m armed, genius, and I’m twice as scary as anything out there.”

Spencer just huffs your name through an exasperated sigh and looks at you as you waltz past him with your hands in your pockets, turning at the waist to watch you go.

“So come with me.” There’s the vaguest hint of a teasing smile on your lips as you walk backwards towards to the front doors. He’s still not moved when you spin on your heel to push them open and walk off into the night - but you could live a hundred lives and still know the footsteps that follow you down the concrete steps anywhere.

He’s not exactly intimidating, but having him by your side in the small hours makes you feel safer than the weight of the gun at your hip ever could. You try not to think too hard about what that means.

“How many ceiling panels are in your room?” Your breath puffs out in a cloud, words winding around each other in the chill of the just about morning.

“A hundred and nine, if you count the ones that are cut in half.”

“Damn, I gave up at seventy three.”

“I’m not sure how much I believe that, I’ve never seen you give up on anything.” Spencer kicks a pebble into the road at the same moment your feet stop working.

To think he’s paid enough attention to you to notice a thing like that. Maybe you should expect it, especially being part of the team that studies human behaviour, but it still takes you by surprise. The idea that he could, would want to, notice things about you. It’s borderline dangerous. Stubbornness isn’t cute - you’ve been accused of being like a dog with a bone when it comes to your theories more than once. But the way he says it so casually yet so reverently, like it’s something to be proud of, like it’s something he admires. You just about manage to get your legs to cooperate before he can realise you’ve fallen a step behind.

He offers his elbow to you, an uncharacteristic first move, and you almost don’t know what to make of it. Spencer doesn’t initiate contact, ever. Or at least, you’ve never known him to unless it’s to check your tac-vest, and yet here he is. Hands in his pockets, sticking his arm out for you to take. You’re sliding your own arm through his before you even really realise it. Well, it would be rude not to wouldn’t it? When he’s offered so kindly?

In the name of safety, presumably. When there’s a killer on the loose and you just so happen to fit the victimology. Keeping you close is a precaution. You steer the conversation towards the case, if neither of you are resting then you might as well be trying to unravel the latest psycho’s motivations. Another precaution, although a little selfish this time around, to save your heart from falling even further for the man beside you.

“Statistically, people who are attractive are targeted more often that those who aren’t. This Unsub isn’t exactly going against the grain, he’s picking pretty victims.” He rattles off the thought as though it doesn’t threaten to stop your heart in your chest.

It was Spencer who’d pointed out the striking similarities between you and the victims in the first place.

“Doctor Reid, do you think I’m pretty?” Your scandalised gasp matches the hands you press against your chest in faux-shock. And, for once in his life, he doesn’t seem to have any words. He just stands there beside you, gulping like a fish. You like him too much to leave him squirming any longer than he already has.

“I, uh-“ He scrambles for a response.

“Because you’d be right, I am pretty.”

The answering chuckle you get is enough to encourage you to link your arm back through his.

“What you’re saying is,” You press on, shaking off the moment, giving him the time to recover, “There’s no shock factor. Single bullet to the head, dumped unceremoniously with the trash. There’s nothing that says ‘hey look at me’ about this guy.”

Spencer hums in agreement, suddenly very interested in his shoes as they traipse along the drizzle dampened pavement beside yours, and the conversation lulls. But you don’t mind. It’s never an uncomfortable silence with him, it never has been. You’re both more than content to just exist in the same space together - his is a calming presence, for all his nervous energy. There’s never any expectation to be anyone but yourself when you’re around him, no judgement, no pressure.

You’re more than happy to trundle along beside him between the streetlights, dodging puddles, the weight of your linked arms nestled comfortably between you. Except, you’re a profiler. So, for all his valiant efforts to keep your suspicions to a minimum, they’re just not quite effective enough. One glance at his face confirms that he’s thinking far too hard about something. You let your shoulder knock into his, your elbow in his side jolting him out of his thoughts.

“You’re doing it again.” It almost feels blasphemous to disturb the peace that’s settled over you.

Spencer releases his lip from between his teeth.

“There’s something we’re missing.”

“We’ll find it. With fresh eyes in the morning, I bet it smacks us right in the face.”

He doesn’t look like he believes you, and you’d have to agree with him there, but the furrow of his brow relaxes at your gentle reassurance. That’s enough for the moment.

A car door slams up the street and makes you both jump. For all the security the gun at your hip awards you, you’re still a little on edge. It’s just you, Spencer, and the door-slammer on the street - though the stranger seems to be so absorbed in his own world that he barely registers the pair of you. While you’re both fairly confident that the man walking towards you isn’t the Unsub, Spencer tugs you closer into his side by your linked arms all the same. He makes sure he’s solid where he stands between you and the passing stranger, even though you both know he wouldn’t stand a chance in that fight with his lanky frame. There isn’t a bit of you that minds the protection. Something catches in your chest, blooming, warming you from the inside out. It’s dangerous.

You’re not sure when you looped back onto yourselves, but the shadow of the hotel looms and suddenly there’s plush carpet under your feet again. Part of you is glad that your chances to embarrass yourself tonight are numbered. He’d be kind enough not to point it out if you did, though.

The elevator is too close to the front doors, there aren’t enough storeys to pass to get to the floor commandeered by the team, and your rooms are the first in the hallway. Doors opposite each other, the irony of the parallel isn’t lost on you. But it’s so rare that you get to spend time with him without any external pressures of a case or the prying eyes of more than a few colleagues. It feels a little unfair that the time has gone so quickly - an hour, your phone confirms when the screen lights up as you fish around in your pocket for your room key. There’s that pang in your chest again, the one that makes you feel like an impatient child. You know you can’t have him the way you want, you know why you can’t, you know it would probably end in heartbreak for everyone. But god, do you want him. It’d be worth every painful second.

Spencer’s voice across the hall stops your hand, room card outstretched halfway to the scanner in your fingers.

“For the record, I do.”

He’s chewing his lip again.

“You do what?”

You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. But neither of you will admit to it out loud. So it just hangs there, in the air between you, as you stand in front of your respective hotel room doors for a moment longer. And then he’s in his room, and you’re swiping your own keycard through the slot, and you’re shut away again. No less wired than you were when you left - but it’s hard to find it in yourself to worry about the sleep you definitely won’t be getting tonight, there’s no doubt about that.

Because Spencer Reid thinks you’re pretty.

if you’re reading this then thank you i love you i owe you my life i can’t wait to put these guys in more situations 🧡🧡🧡

#i rly thought i was gonna get this posted on friday and then decided i hated half of it huh #i still don’t know if i like chunks of this BUT we move #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #the canyouniverse #lou is writing

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r1elle · 6 months ago

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i literally wrote this at 1 am after staring at my ceiling wondering if men were real .. anyway, enjoy my little drabble!

childhood best friend kageyama who doesn’t know where it all started.

i mean, since when did you suddenly become so.. genetically pleasing to look at? (his words.) i mean, you were always pretty, but something about you after this sudden predicament of his made it all so different.

and why are all the things you liked, —from snacks, accessories, and etcetera, all stashed away in some hidden drawer in his room?

he doesn’t know why and how these things even came to be.

oh, poor him, not knowing why he’s getting so agitated and temperamental at your gawking over to some celebrity crush of yours as he watches you hang up posters of said crush.

“he’s not even all that. he’s probably a horrible person behind those cameras.. don’t trust what you see.” he says, sitting at your newly decorated room. tsk. this room was way better when you didn’t pay attention to those lame male celebrities.

as you protest and defend your new crush, kageyama can’t help but notice the shine in your eyes, accentuating the already beautiful colour that rested in it. stupid sunlight beam coming from your slightly open blinds.

he merely scoffs,

not because of your nonsensical (his words, again..) rambling,— no. rather, the way your features looked so alluring under the sun just made him even all the more frustrated.

seriously, are friends supposed to feel this way?

poor tobio. guess he’ll just have to wait until the day he angrily confesses his love comes.

———————————————————————————

my 2020 self is laughing at my 2024 self rn (i swore to myself that wouldn’t go back to this era again)

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fieldofdaisiies · 4 months ago

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A Bargain

paring: Azriel x Reader | type: angst | words: 2,2k | warnings: this story explores a little darker themes like the loss of eyesight due to fire. thank you so much for beta reading @moonlightazriel me helping me get back into x reader writing💛

Fire. Nothing but unbearable heat and blinding light, like icy spikes piercing your skin. The brightness was overwhelming until everything went dark. Blank. Plain. No colour. No shape. No figure. Only darkness. And deafening silence.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Your fingers start to tremble around the book the moment a soft breeze brushes your legs and tells you that somewhere in the Library a door was opened. Your senses, touch, hearing and scent, have sharpened once you‘ve lost your eyesight and you are immediately alerted that someone is here. In your personal space, in your sanctuary, at this time. During the night!

You draw in a deep inhale, move your feet apart so you stand in stance. Your fingers curl into a fist and then–

“Who is there?” you find yourself asking despite the unease brewing inside of you. You know that no one who could cause harm could technically enter this place, but still you always want to know who is close. Who is coming, so you can prepare yourself. Brace yourself.

Fear is rising within you because whoever is nearing you has loud footsteps — it is a male most definitely and if there is one thing in this world you almost fear as much as fire it is men. You try to steady yourself, listening closer, trying to make out if the steps sound familiar (if they belong to the general of the Illyrian armies) but they don’t. He walks slower, and his boots have a different sound when they pad over the library floor. It must be someone else and you—

Someone nears you and the words to ask again who it is die in your throat that suddenly seems so dry. You turn your front to the shelf, hoping to maybe go unnoticed, but the Mother doesn’t hear your prayers. A person halts next to you and you flinch, sucking in a sharp breath of air. Your body is trembling as you press against the shelf, grinding your teeth so hard your jaw starts to ache.

Your throat works on a swallow and some more silent prayers leave you that whoever is close just walks by and—

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” a gentle male voice says, interrupting the tense silence. The air whooshes out of your lungs, your blood chilling because you know there is no escaping now that he has seen you. But somehow, all worry and fear seems to dissipate when he speaks up again. He has no brutal voice, there is nothing harsh or hard in it – it sounds melodic. Almost like the voice of a singer. “I apologise, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I had no idea someone was still around at this time.”

You hesitate before you turn around or give the stranger an answer, but something soft, almost like a feather, brushes your lower arm. It is nothing more than a breath, like a cloud, it may be—

A shadow. And it is soothing and gives you a feeling of comfort. You have felt it before, shadows, like a cat's tail brushing your legs.

“You are the Shadowsinger, right?” Slowly, you turn to him, remembering Gwyn’s stories about the male with the dancing shadows around him who is training her now and who has sometimes come down here to collect books. You should have remembered his footsteps!

“I am a shadowsinger, yes,” the male says, “but you can call me—” His voice cuts off momentarily. And you know what he has realised. His eyes have probably landed on yours and he realised that you can‘t see. That you are blind. And that since the fateful day almost a decade ago.

“Azriel,” he eventually finishes, finally having found his words to continue.

You inhale a deep breath, and say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Azriel. I am Y/N.” A smile appears on your lips. “How can I help you?”

"I am here to pick up some books Gwyn suggested to me." The shadowsinger keeps his polite distance, you can feel that, his stance broad but not intimidating and you are thankful for that. Despite his kind aura, he is still a male, a stranger, and you always have to be careful. You can’t ever risk anything again. Never again.

“Gwyn said I would find them somewhere around here, but I truly have no idea where I should start to look.”

A grin tugs at the corners of your lips at the mention of her name. Gwyn is your closest friend down here and you love her like a little sister. "She is very fond of you, Shadowsinger,” you say, voice tinged with admiration.

You can’t see the smile appearing on Azriel’s face but you can feel it, how his heart is filled with relief and joy at your revelation.

"She is quite talented," Azriel comments.

"And beautiful…" Your voice almost gains a dreamy touch, and you place the book you have been holding the entire time back on the shelf. Azriel doesn’t say anything, and you know where his thoughts have gone to.

"My eyes may no longer be able to see, Shadowsinger, but my heart can. And that’s how I know that the priestess is beautiful - she has a soul of pure gold."

"I think she isn’t the only one down here who this applies to." This time he takes a small step forward, only a little, while trying to calm his vividly swirling shadows. You can feel them brush against you and his scent fills your nostrils - cedar and night-chilled mist.

They try to stretch out while he tries as hard as he can to hold them close.

"Are you talking about Merrill?" A little mischievous giggle leaves you right after you say her name and it even draws a chuckle from Azriel. The sound is wonderful, rich and deep, beautiful.

"I think you know exactly who I am talking about."

You feel how a blush warms your cheeks and quickly avert your gaze. "Which books do you need?"

He tells you which ones he is looking for, speaking slowly, and in his wonderful, deep voice. You know immediately where to find them all, having memorised every small detail of the Library,

“Follow me.” You set out with a smile, waving at him to come and follow you. You have ventured through the corridors filled with hundreds of bookshelves and thousands of books many times and know exactly where and when you have to turn.

You can’t see it but you feel his curiosity, his slight astonishment about you and it makes you giggle. You walk swiftly, your robes swishing over the floor when you turn one corner after the other and finally arrive at your first destination. Your fingers trail over the backs of the books, touching and feeling the binding until you grab two books and hand them to him.

The next ones are on a lower floor and the last one even lower.

“Why are you here at this time of the day?” you find yourself asking him, walking down a narrow corridor. You have come to like narrower space because they make you feel more secure than wide, open spaces. “Or rather night, Shadowsinger.”

“I could ask you the same - why are you awake at this time?” You can hear the amusement in his voice about your little bantering, and a smile appears on your face, but fades when you start to answer. “It is calmer at night - no rustling pages, no shuffling feet, no hushed conversation. I can focus easier during this time of the day.”

“That’s understandable,” Azriel hums, “that’s partly why I prefer night over day. No rushing, loud people, no bright lights, no— I am so sorry. I didn‘t mean to—”

“Don’t apologise. You can see and you are allowed to be affected by light. It can be too much, I know this, I used to be able to see it once too.”

“I still should be more careful with my words.”

“I don’t want you to be. I want you to be yourself. You are a polite male and I am not made of glass. I don’t break so easily, so please, speak your mind.” You hand him a book from a shelf, after letting your fingers trail over the spine to make sure it is the right one. “I have always preferred night over day. The people are more relaxed, nothing is rushing them and they are not so loud.”

“I understand. I prefer it when it is calm too.”

“Unless there is music. Have you heard Gwyn sing?”

“I have,” he says with fondness.

“And do you sing too? You are a shadowsinger.”

There is a pause and you worry he won’t answer at all, but—

“I do. Sometimes. Only when I am alone.”

You hum in answer, not wanting to push him to sing for you although you are dying to hear it. It must be wonderful with his deep tenor and his velvety voice.

“Is there a chance one can hear one day?” Your lips quirk into a bright grin.

“No, but maybe one day in the far far future.” He blows out a long breath. “Now I have a question for you.”

You brace yourself, lifting your chin to face his face, making out nothing but blurry surroundings. You would love to reach out to trace his face, his shoulders, to feel what he looks like and try to picture him in your mind.

“Would you like to join the other priestesses, Cassian and me for training one day?”

Your heart slams to a halt, pondering. Somehow you would love it — leave this pöace for once, but training? You hesitate, the word yes burning on your tongue, but you swallow it down. It would be useless. There would be nothing you could do and you would only make a fool out of you. So instead of agreeing, you curtly shake your head and take a step back. “A kind offer, but I must decline.”

“Because of—”

“Yes, Azriel. Because of my eyes. I can’t see, which means I can’t train.”

“That’s not true. Yes, you can’t see, but for training you don’t only need your eyes. Let me put together some exercises and in return you join us for the next training. I can prove to you that you are just as capable at training and fighting as the others are.”

“Is this a promise?”

“We can make a bargain if you like.” There is a hint of amusement in his voice that makes a silly, little grin appear on your lips and erase the former worry etched upon your features. You reach out your hand.

“A bargain it is - I‘ll join you for training, and in return you will sing for me.”

There is a pause and for a moment you worry that he won’t agree. That it was a silly idea and he will be offended and just leave it. You don’t want whatever has started between you here not to end already. You want to—

“I accept.” Azriel also extends his hand and the moment your palms touch, lightning zips between your hands. It runs throughout your entire body, but it is not the only thing you can feel. There are scars. Scars that adorn his palms, most definitely his whole hands and your heart cracks. What has been down to him? How did he get them?

Your thoughts are swiftly cut off when lightning zips between your palms and then you feel it, like a warm and thin strap something curls around your upper arm and you know it, the legends are true — when you make a bargain you‘ll receive a tattoo as a testament of it.

Azriel has fallen silent the moment your hands part and you wonder if he is examining the tattoo. You wish you could see it, know what it looks like, and admire it.

“Let me describe it to you,” Azriel starts, and then you feel how he gently takes your arm, lifting it slightly. “It‘s a thin silver band around your upper arm, almost invisible, and where the two ends meet there are three small stars. The first is slightly larger than the second and the third one is the biggest.” He strokes his thumb over your arm, a natural action he probably doesn’t even notice but your hair starts to stand on end.

“Mine is almost identical to yours. It is in the same place. Only that the band looks slightly broader.”

“I think I would love it if I could see it.”

“I am sure you would.” You can hear the smile in his voice and return the gesture. “I love it.”

So can hear him shift, moving a step away from you. “I think we should both sleep now, Y/N, but I‘ll see you tomorrow for training. I‘m sure Gwyn can lend you something to wear if you only have your robes.”

“I will ask her.” You pull your lower lip between your teeth when nervousness about the following day starts to trickle in.

“Perfect, until tomorrow then.” He hums. “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Shadowsinger.”

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22 @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @cadiawrites @bookishbroadwaybish @tele86 @fuckingsimp4azriel @berryzxx

#azriel x reader #azriel #azriel acotar #acotar #acosf #azris

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punkpandapatrixk · 6 months ago

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🧜🏻‍♀️What’s Your Signature Style? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

I promise you that you can be “THE” SLAYEST when you rock a style that is your own. A style—or styles—that is your own is one that reflects outwardly the core essence of your Soul Expression.

If you know yourself, and acknowledge your unique Light, there is not a trend or fad in this mortal realm that could ever shake your confidence in what you’re already doing!

Remember, trend-makers are never individuals known to follow trends to begin with! Are you a satisfied with yourself for being a trend-follower? Gosh, that's such loser NPC behaviour. I know you're so much more than that, you su-su-su-Superbeing❣️❣️

SONG: Supernova by aespa

MOVIE: 千年女優; Sennen Joyuu (Millennium Actress) (2001)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Bitch Barbie

VIBE: Jackie (2016)

core spiritual essence – Knight of Wands Rx

YOLO, Spiritual Gangsta! You’re a badass bitch who’s actually a lot nastier and vainer than outer appearances may give LMAO You’re such a drama queen, too. You wake up in the morning and ready to stir up some shit. You’re naughty. You’re playful. You’re creative and a bit of a prankster to the detriment of some of your closest friends. And if you have an enemy, you’re the type that’d pour gasoline on their motorbike and let them catch fire on their own!

You really like colourful stuff. Since you were a kid, you’ve always been interested in cute or weird shapes and bling knickknacks. Colours and shapes are integral to your fashion expression as a means to let your passion through. From another angle, this is also how you show people not to take you lightly. You’re attracted to weird or bold shapes and vibrant colours because they also send word to the outer world that you’re not one to mess with.

You LOVE being seen as a weirdo. It benefits you to be seen as a BITCH, too. This is a form of self-preservation AND protection. You want to weed off boring people who are only there to feed off your precious spiritual creative aenergy! You’re the school’s boss bitch who says, ‘You can’t sit with us,’ to practically everybody because you value only strong and weird, high-quality bitches who are just like you. Deep at your core, you keep to your tribe and will protect them with your Life <3

people’s first impression – XIV Temperance

You’re an enigmatic character who’s admired and feared at the same time. Because you have such a strong presence, unbeatable charisma, people can’t help but be attracted to your aenergy. And for the most part, you’re really somebody who has a pleasant smile and good manners. People’s first projection of you might be along the lines of being a good gal LMAO You seem at first glace a temperate person who adheres to social protocols. I mean, that’s only because you’re chill~

But try and get on your bad side? The psychopath takes over. You’re very serious when working towards your goals and you don’t like it when people bother you with unwarranted criticisms or unsolicited advice. You like figuring things out yourself unless you ask for other people’s opinions. When people see this side of you, then they understand you’re not all that friendly or welcoming and that they’ve been blinded by their own expectations.

From afar, people can tell you’re meant for great things in this Life. Since you’re quite unapproachable to many, they may never say this to you but they gossip amongst themselves and speculate about what such a unique person like you could achieve in this world. They shudder when thinking about all your potentials! How can such a smart badass even be real?? It feels so unfair…

fatal attraction! – Ace of Pentacles

You’re the type that should never buy fake designer items. Buying cheap-ass things that are your style is one thing, but buying fake luxury items? NAH, NO. Your Venus will cry. Check out what your Venus sign says about your values as a person and try to match your fashion style with that. For the majority of you tuning into this Pile, being bold in all the ways that suit you is the way to go. Price is not necessarily key here, it’s boldness that plays into your self-expression.

You’re the kind of person who can wear colours and accessories that usually will make other people look like clowns XD People wonder what enables you to pull off those strange colours, shapes or combinations, not knowing it’s your CONFIDENCE in yourself being able to pull them off that makes them work. It’s the RIZZ, baby~ No matter what you look like, no matter your size and skin colour, you have the power to make WHATEVER you wear on you look like something they show on the runway.

I betcha you get a lot of requests to model for your photographer friends? XD Some of you reading this have even modelled casually before. And some of you are meant to be scouted into the modelling or fashion industry in general! If not to that degree, you’re still the kind of person who could make occasional appearances on fashion magz or insta or have your face be a poster for something quite creative. You should charge good prices for your contribution to people being able to sell their shit! v$o$v

A MILLION DOLLAR STYLE~🔻💙

vanity – Silver Geographer (Francis Drake)

sassy – Priestess of Integrity

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Pile 2 – Brooding Maniac

VIBE: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

core spiritual essence – 4 of Cups

You one spooky bitch XD But truly, your Soul is full of colours if only people could see it! It’s just that these are colours most people won’t understand or even approve of. You possess the ability to feel and process immensely complex emotions as well as thoughts. It’s more like you think in feelings even if you identify as someone very logical. Your emotions often get heavy if you don’t learn to control them. And…you’ve really taken it to quite an extreme how well you can control or suppress your emotions now.

Some of you reading this probably have strong Earth placements, especially Capricorn, but could also have some Scorpio and Aquarius influences. The way you feel your emotions is quiet and almost…jaded. I think your Soul gets easily tired by Humans for their lack of intelligence but also for their lack of appreciation for different varieties of Beauty. You think most people are narrow-minded; just thinking about it is super exhausting.

That’s why you don’t easily show your colours to everybody. People’s disapproval of the depths of your emotions could kill your spirit on a daily basis. You’d rather not deal with that, so then you chose to sport a lot of black in your outer appearance. You could also be the type that chooses solid or ‘dull’ colours like grey or white, essentially to just…not tell people anything. The only other way you actually show your emotions, in a subtle way, is through some colours that could be found in your accessories and…HAIR <3

At least some of you dream of having colourful hair if only your society or workplace would allow that XD

people’s first impression – 8 of Cups

Instantaneously, people get this impression that you’re elusive as fuck. Like, you’re not exactly unapproachable—no, no—it’s more like, even if people try to talk to you, they already think you’re the type that won’t respond too well. You seem like you don’t talk much if at all, and people get this feeling that you’re uncomfortable with being talked to. Kinda feels like, you’re ready to flee the scene the moment someone comes up to talk to you BUHAHAH Most likely because you give off this nervous/awkward energy in social situations XD

As for your fashion, you dress so uniquely, out-there-ly, alien-ly, and people simply can’t catch up. They know they won’t be able to copy you, at least not properly. You possess a strong and unique aura that shines through your fashion sensibility and you don’t even try that hard if you’re being honest. And yet, anybody who tries to emulate or copy you will 100% look like a cheap knock-off of whatever style you’re rocking.

There is something about you that screams ORIGINAL. And yet, this is mostly caused by your lack of interest in other people’s business. You have this cold, detached aura that makes you stand out in a crowd exactly because you don’t give a fuck. At first glance, people think it’s your fashion—your clothes and accessories, your hair or nails that make you look ORIGINAL. Maybe even you think that. But no, it’s your brooding AURA that says so. You’re a maniac who ain’t interested in mingling, that’s why~

fatal attraction! – Queen of Wands

You’re a divisive character who’s either despised or admired, to an extreme. There’s no in between. Seems, indeed, like some Scorpio/8th House aenergy or some harsh Plutonian aspects XD To varying extents, and depending on your mood on a given day, people’s extreme reception of you could be mentally draining. The way I see it, you yourself don’t even understand why people are damn drawn to you. You kinda wish people would leave you alone. At least the ones you don’t care about.

But…you definitely are incredibly pretty. You have a very attractive face, you know that? And then there’s your fashion sense that tells the right kind of people that you truly are a creative/artistic person who has many stories to tell because you feel very deeply. And yet, you don’t talk to people at all and that’s mystifying. Meanwhile, the haters are also attracted to your aenergy because something about your originality is a direct insult to their lack of AUTHENTICITY ho ho ho~

You give people a reason to connect and unite in their petty hatred and that’s very refreshing for those types of people to talk about LMAO Ain’t you a hero, my dear? Anyway, this may sound so random but I’m getting that you might wanna hang out at some art gallery or library? You could meet someone or see an ad/announcement for an event that could change your Life for the better! Your brooding style could get you some unique opportunities that could potentially make you very happy <3

A MILLION DOLLAR STYLE~🔻🧡

vanity – Silver Alchemist (Ramon Llull)

sassy – Priestess of Inspiration

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Pile 3 – Plutonian Siren

VIBE: Flesh and the Devil (1926)

core spiritual essence – 8 of Pentacles

Daym, you’re a total hustler babe, aren’t ya? For one, at the core of your being you know that you were born into this world with a strong purpose. When you were a kid, you probably didn’t have the words to describe this knowing but it was clear to you that you weren’t supposed to fit in or be ‘normal’, whatever ‘normal’ meant within your norm XD You’ve always been the kinda person who deviated from your mainstream society. You couldn’t help it; you just had to be an anomaly.

Truth be told, you’ve a strong Sirenian spirit (if that’s even a word). You’re like a combination of a bitch barbie and a brooding maniac. You’ve a strong dark Plutonian and chaotic Neptunian aenergy about you and this is SCARY to a lot of people. If you grew up in a toxic household, I betcha an adult in your ‘family’ despised you for just being you. Could be a mean uncle or auntie as well if you had a good relationship with your own parents ;P

Did you know that in some literature Sirens were actually not mermaids? They’re more akin to evil harpies? XXD You’re an evil harpy at your worst and a singing mermaid at your best. I tell you people shouldn’t mess witcha. The karma will be heavy on them because you essentially come from a strong lineage of powerful witches! <3

people’s first impression – 9 of Cups

Wherever you are in the world, when you walk, you’re like a dream come true. You possess a natural charm that transcends race, culture, localised standards or whatever. In every situation and all nations you are beautiful, magnetising and charming. Your sheer existence makes people daydream. I’m sure you’ve heard this a lot, ‘You smell really nice.’ ‘Y/N always smells nice.’ ‘When you’re around it always smells nice.’

You’re so fucking unreal for this mortal world. Due to your Neptunian aenergy—could also be strong/significant 12th House placements—people project on you without a care for your feelings. Or should we say, they project on you without a care for their own safety? When somebody crosses the line, you snap like a sea dragon and they’re done, forever LMAO

As much as people are intrigued by you they are afraid of you. There is this depth to you that makes people suspect that once they’re in they’re never gonna be able to crawl out of your aenergy field. You’re kinda like Tomie now that I think about it. So the ones who are able to sense this swirling darkness in you will try to steer away from your charm~ Good for them because most of the time, you don’t even like it when people are up in your ass non-stop XD

fatal attraction! – 5 of Pentacles Rx

Of all the Piles, your natural charm is definitely chaotic. It’s almost demonic! Yours is a fatal attraction for sure because you will cause insanity in the minds of whoever tries to get a taste of your aenergy. And you’re out here chillin’, completely clueless as to what’s going on with the idiots around you. Why’s everybody simping? I ain’t even do nothing.

For whatever personal reasons, most people have this fantasy about you saving them from whatever boring Life they’re living. Some really sick minds could expect—even demand—you to be their stupid little Pixie Dream Girl when in reality you’re the FURTHEST thing from that. People could get SO dangerously unreasonable when it comes to desiring you.

I’ve got to say that you’d better protect yourself good, girl. Do everything in your power to steer away from bitter and jealous aenergy, because the people under your involuntary spell might indeed endeavour to cause you harm. Beware of men who could assault you and women who would trick and tarnish your reputation. I’m reminded of this quote by Claude Debussy:

‘People don’t very much like things that are beautiful… they are so far from their nasty little minds.’

For being such an unrealistically beautiful creature with an aura of mysticism, lots of people are attracted to your magnificence because they want to make it their own or destroy it, not because they appreciate your existence. Be selective with who you allow to get to know you~ <3

A MILLION DOLLAR STYLE~🔻💚

vanity – Green Astrologer (Robert Fludd)

sassy – Priestess of Love

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[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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Simmer #7

CH7. Spice Box | The Menu [4.1K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Eddie held the door open for you as you approached the trailer, hand waving you in as he smiled, shy.

The trailer was tidier than you’d ever seen it before, a valiant effort made in anticipation for your arrival. The usual piles of washed laundry were moved from the dining booth bench, the ashtrays moved from the living room coffee tables. The trailer was unusually quiet, smelling like mountain cedar, if the can of air freshener on Wayne’s armchair was anything to go by.

You did your usual, despite the way you felt like you were there for the first time. For a first date. But you toed off your shoes by the door and lingered in the kitchen, fingers twisting together as you wondered what came next. This? This part was new, this was different.

Eddie smiled shyly as he followed behind, hands skimming your shoulders as he squeezed past you and the counter, opening the fridge. The white-yellow glow filled the room, clashing with the pink sunset that came in from the living room blinds.

“Okay, what are you feelin’?” Eddie said into the refrigerator, his fingers tapping on the door. “We got stuff for omelettes, I could do pasta, oh, hey, I make a mean gnocchi.” Eddie emerged with a quart of pesto, wiggling one of the diners' plastic containers at you.

You smiled, shrugging easily because you’d be happy with some toast if it meant Eddie kept looking at you like that. You leaned against the dining table edge, lips pressed together and trying your hardest to keep it together. Eddie looked too pretty in the sunlight, that peachy pink golden flow, the last rays turning his brown eyes the colour of caramel as he looked at you.

“I don’t mind,” you told him softly, “anything you make will be good.”

Eddie grinned, bashful, cheeks pink and he held his hand out to you, coaxing you into holding onto his fingers so he could tug you forward. You were supposed to look in the fridge too, check out the mountains of fresh ingredients he liked to pack into it, the tubs of homemade sauces and pickled veg. But instead, you stumbled into the boy, socked feet touching his boots, knees bumping.

It was awkward in an innocent way, your smile shy and matching Eddie’s, his faltering a little when he realised how close you were. His hand held yours a little tighter and when he realised you weren’t moving away, well shit, he didn’t bother to either. His fingers twisted in yours, thumb running over the backs of your knuckles and he swallowed hard as he looked down at you.

“Uh, we could, uh, I could make some lasagna. Or, or a stir fry?” Eddie stumbled over his words, brows furrowed in concentration as he studied each part of your face. The line of your nose, the fan of your lashes, the curve of your lip. “If you want. I don’t, I don’t mind cookin’ whatever.”

You felt bolder than ever when you let your hand slip from Eddie’s and climb up his forearm, finger wrapping around the cords of muscle there, thumb rubbing at the sensitive skin on the inside crook of his elbow. It made the boy still, lips parting in surprise. It felt nice to be this close, chests almost touching, Eddie’s hand falling to hold your waist instead, fingertips pushed to the soft cotton of your sundress.

“I’m not, I’m not really all that hungry, right now,” you told him softly. You were nervous, wondering if this was supposed to happen this way. If this was supposed to happen this soon. But you couldn’t bring yourself to step away.

The refrigerator door was still open.

Eddie nodded, agreeing. “Yeah, sure. No, same. We can eat later, if you want.” You watched his Adam’s apple bob, felt his fingers squeeze a little tighter at the plush of your hips. “How’s your head feelin’?”

You smiled at his concern and met his gaze. This much eye contact wasn’t all that surprising but the fact you hadn’t been interrupted yet by someone yelling about hot dog bugs or asking where the napkin refills were was. “It’s fine,” you promised him. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

A lie, it was a little tender. But definitely no concussion. You’d iced it when you’d gotten home but for a shorter time than you should’ve, too preoccupied with the idea of jumping into a warm shower and shaving every inch of your leg in preparation for your date. If anything, the idea of spending time alone with Eddie was what had your head spinning.

“Good,” Eddie nodded and you could see him thinking, too much, before he sucked in a quiet breath and lifted a hand to cup the back of your neck. His hand was big enough that it curled all the way round, his thumb tucked into the space under your ear, right along your jaw. You wondered if he could feel your pulse - he probably could. You wondered if he could feel that way it was fucking racing. “Doesn’t hurt, if I do this?”

You were scared to move, worried if you shook your head it would break the spell, scared that Eddie would stop touching you. So you whispered instead, one word on a shaky breath that made Eddie’s eyes get a little wider. “No.”

Eddie pushed his thumb to your jaw a little firmer, suddenly not as worried about touching you, holding you now like you wouldn’t shatter underneath him. “So this is okay?” He whispered back and oh my god, it was more than okay, it was exactly what you wanted and you were still in the middle of his kitchen with the refrigerator light casting over your socks, your shins.

You licked your lips and gave a small nod, eyes trained on his mouth and you heard the boy suck in a breath. “Yeah, it’s okay.” You swallowed, throat bobbing and Eddie felt it under his hand, the movement making him dizzy. “More than okay.”

His thumb moved up, skimming over the apple of your cheek, fingers fanning out over the side of your neck until they were pushing into your hairline and pulling goosebumps from your skin. You didn’t realise you were both walking you backwards until your hips hit the counter. It was a soft bump, everything Eddie did was gentle and his eyes were watching yours the entire time, searching for any hesitation.

It’d been a while since he’d been in a situation like this, but he was pretty fucking positive there was none there.

You confirmed his thoughts by clinging to the front of his shirt, fingertips tugging the material so he’d take the hint and move closer, meeting his chest with yours and it was as much of a first move as you could manage. Shyness still swallowed you, your heart beating embarrassingly fast and all you wanted to do was push up onto your toes and press your lips to Eddie’s but if he rejected you now - for whatever reason - you think you’d have to quit your job and move back to Chicago.

Your back was against the worktop edge, softened only by the way Eddie let his other hand cup your hip and your chest was against his, chin tilted up to look at him, eyes half lidded and matching his own. You could see every freckle, the fan of his lashes, a tiny silver scar on the left corner of his bottom lip that you’d never noticed before. You wondered if he was close enough to feel the heat from your face, the way your bones must’ve been rattling from the thunder of your heartbeat.

It was delicious, the way he crowded you, thumb pushing into your cheek so you’d tilt your head up for him, noses almost brushing now, just waiting for something to give. It had been two months of working alongside Eddie Munson, two months of being his friend, learning how he worked, what each of his smiles meant, how lucky you were to receive one.

Two months of wondering how much longer it would take until he would kiss you.

He licked his bottom lip, tongue peeking out just slightly, eyes studying every move you made, so hesitate, so unsure, as if the way you were pressing yourself against him wasn’t enough of a clue. “We could, uh,” Eddie cleared his throat, nervous. His hand was squeezing the dough of your hip over your dress, the soft material bunching in his palm. “We could watch a movie, if you wanted.”

He said it so distractedly that you were sure the boy didn’t actually know what he was asking. Eddie’s pupils were blown wide, eyes dark, a familiar sight except there wasn’t the haze of smoke between you both now. You smiled, nervous and shy and giddy and brave all at once.

“I don’t wanna watch a movie, Eddie,” you breathed and out and the boy folded, the boy melted like butter under the hot sun and you saw his brows draw together, his tense shoulders fall in relief and then he was nodding, eyes on your mouth and moving closer and closer—

“Oh, thank fuck,” he sighed in return, pushing into you in a rush, his lips crashing to yours before he even finished talking.

It felt like kismet, that first kiss. It felt like it was supposed to happen, because after your heart soared and your stomach somersaulted, Eddie moved his head one way and tilted yours the other, drawing him closer still with your fingers hooked into the collar of his T-shirt. He made the softest noise, nose pushed to your cheek, his thumb dragging over the corner of your mouth and when you gasped for him, his tongue touched your bottom lip, a silent question.

More?

You parted your lips for him, kiss deepening, Eddie’s hand on your waist gripping you tighter as your tongue licked over his and you couldn’t remember when kissing someone felt like this. It felt like a summer heatwave, like someone taking care of you, it felt like a bowl of the most perfect food pushed in front of you, like cracking your fucking head off a table and watching the world spin.

There wasn’t any noise in the trailer except for the hum of the still open fridge door and the soft, breathy sounds from both of you. A sigh, a gasp, a muted groan. It was easy to get caught up in it, no one to interrupt, a whole evening, just for you two. It was a long time coming, a simmering pot, finally bubbling over and when you let out a little moan when Eddie’s hand trailed from your jaw down to your neck, fingers splayed over your throat, the boy pulled back to pant heavily and swear.

Any shyness you’d ever felt was gone with the way he was looking at you, curls falling across flushed cheeks, lips swollen and probably a matching yours. You reached for him, desperate, your hands tangling into his hair as you tried not to pout. “Don’t stop. Please, Eddie,” you whispered and your voice cracked with need and god, it made Eddie’s eyes stutter shut, jaw dropping before tensing.

“Fuck, fuck,” he was whispering, moving back to you with an eagerness that was almost overwhelming.

You thought he was going to kiss you again, but he ducked just slightly and you squeaked when you felt his palms, warm and calloused and so fucking big, wrap around the backs of your thighs. He hauled you up, setting you on the edge of the kitchen counter so you were at his height and both of you ignored the angry squeal of the coffee container, the bread bin and mug stand as your body pushed them out of the way. A new pace was set now and Eddie’s mouth was back on yours before you could ask.

A desperate, messy kind of kiss, deep and longing and all tongues and teeth. The boy nipped at your bottom lip, groaned when you whined and you didn’t even think twice about bringing your legs up to his hips, caging him in and pulling him against you until you felt the scratch of denim again the cotton of your underwear.

It should’ve been too much too fast, it should’ve.

But it wasn’t.

“This okay?” Eddie asked you breathlessly, words gasped between kisses. He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your hot cheeks, thumbs soothing over the apples of them. His forehead pressed against yours, a grounding touch. “We don’t have to— just tell me if you wanna stop, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut because you were already pulling him back to you and Eddie followed willingly, one hand dropping to your knee, coasting upupup until he was squeezing at the dough of your thigh and groaning into your open mouth. You felt like a couple of teenagers, making out somewhere you weren’t supposed to, getting felt up by your crush in his parents kitchen. It made you dizzy, it made you wet, embarrassingly so. A dirty, hot throb that wrecked your body and lit up, electric, every time Eddie touched you somewhere new.

He didn’t go any higher, his hand stayed there, respectful as he could be when you were kissing him like you didn’t ever want to stop. A few inches below the hem of your dress, practically a gentleman, but his tongue was doing wonderful things against yours and when you rocked yourself a little, using your arms around his neck to press yourself against him, Eddie’s own hips canted forward and he moaned.

It made it easier to drop his other hand from your neck, fingertips skimming just along the curve of your breast before he was dripping your waist and pulling you into him. It wasn’t the best place to be grinding against each other, not when the sofa and his bed were both so close by. But the height of the counter made for the perfect kind of friction and it was dizzying being so close, to be so wrapped up in Eddie. He smelled the same, like lemongrass and smoke and a little bit of cologne.

And when you gripped his curls a little tighter than before and tugged, Eddie fucking whined into your open mouth, barely kissing, just panting into each other's lips and his gentlemanly touch on you wavered. His hand skirted up, fingers sliding under the hem of your red dress and when they skimmed over the elastic edge of your underwear, he was swearing, eyes squeezing shut tighter and raking his blunt nails back down your thigh.

You shuddered, ripping away from Eddie’s lips to suck in a breath but the boy only moved to your neck and you keened at the touch, opened mouth kisses along the line of your throat, his tongue peeking out to lick across your skin, teeth grazing and fiu let him, head thrown back until the already tender spot hir against the kitchen cabinets.

It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

Not when Eddie was dragging his fingers across the neckline of your dress, pushing your sleeve out of the way to expose your shoulders, kissing and sucking at the crook of your neck, mouthing his way down your chest, no bra straps to get in his way. You sighed, the sound coming out with the letters of his name, a noise that made him groan aloud and fuse his lips back to yours, your fingers splayed out over his jaw so you could keep him there.

You were on fire. It was hotter than being in the kitchen. The simmering pot was spilling over now, the flames were licking higher and the lid of it was crashing to the floor, jolting you back to reality.

You pulled back, sucking in air, eyes unfocused and the world was spinning too fast and god you just needed to—

“We should slow down,” Eddie gasped, sounding as wrecked as you felt. His hands were still on you, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, two hands smoothing up and down your thighs. “Fuck, you’re— that was—”

“Yeah,” you agreed and god you sounded drunk. “I know.”

You tried to diffuse the heat, tried to turn down the flame so everything went back down to a simmer, smiling softly as if the kitchen was on metaphorical fire and Eddie wasn’t harder than he’d ever been in his life. “Umm, do you, d’you wanna eat now?”

Eddie laughed into your neck, cheeks flushed rosy pink and he was hot all over, breathless and the happiest he’d been in a long time. He hummed, nodding before he pulled back, dotting a kiss to your lips, much more chaste than before. He couldn’t help himself, placed another on your cheek, your jaw, the slope of you nose too.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grinned. “How does a grilled cheese sound?”

You laughed too, nodding, because you didn’t think you’d be able to focus on chopping up ingredients or kneading out a dough right now either. “You gonna make it real fancy for me?”

Eddie beamed, brows scrunched together in disbelief, like he was shocked you had to even ask. “What? Sweetheart, please,” he pushed one last kiss to your lips, grimaced at the open fridge door and kicked it shut witn his foot. “S’gonna be the fanciest grilled cheese you’ve ever had.”

—————

“You have a hickey,” Robin poked at your neck, stating the news very matter of factly as she leaned in between the drivers seat and yours.

You batted at her hand, eyes wide, cheeks hot as you leaned back to glare at her. “What? No I don’t.”

Steve snorted and pulled into the diner parking lot, joining Eddie’s van and the other few cars that were waiting for a late breakfast. “Wow, that sounded so believable,” he deadpanned. “Enjoy your hot date with the chef last night?”

The day after your dinner with Eddie only egged on your good mood. A bright day, with blue skies and warm air, the kind of Sunday morning that was straight out of a photograph, big white clouds, sunflower fields in the distance, the smell of coffee and waffles coming from the diner doors.

Eddie had dropped you back at your apartment late, later then he should’ve when he was starting work at six am the next day but you’d stayed to eat grilled cheeses on the sofa with him, pretending to watch some B-roll horror movie as you talked about everything and nothing, legs draped over his lap.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tried to say but your words got tangled in a grin and they came out too happy, making Steve’s eyes roll as he climbed out of the car.

“You’re a fuckin’ awful liar,” he told you over the roof and Robin snorted in agreement, bending down to peer at her reflection in Steve’s window. She snapped her gum, baby pink against rose coloured lip balm and flipped Steve off when he popped her bubble. “And we’re all late, ‘cause someone couldn’t find their keys, c’mon.”

It felt like a proper friendship, the way you walked around the side of the diner with Steve and Robin, jostling each other and laughing when they took it too far, the girl shrieking when Steve pulled her into a headlock, encouraging you with a grin to give her a noogie. And the laughter bled into the kitchen when you all stumbled into the fire exit door reserved for staff, smoke breaks and crying sessions in the alleyway. But the laughter stopped when you caught sight of Eddie at his station, whisking a bowl of egg yolks and butter, exactly like you expected him to be at eleven am on a sunday.

You didn’t expect the girl, though. Or recognise her.

Strawberry blonde and petite, her uniform shorter than yours, her elbows leaning on Eddie’s station as she beamed up at him. She was pretty. Really pretty.

She turned at the noise of the three of you coming into the kitchen, laughter still on Steve’s lips, a faux argument brewing between him and Robin as they tailed off towards the lockers. You stayed standing, a little shocked. You weren’t sure why, you knew there was staff you hadn’t met before, seasonal members of the diner who split their time between Jim’s and other jobs. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

She was just— standing too close to the boy you spent the night making out with.

Eddie had put down the bowl and whisk, cleaned his hands on the front of his apron and smiled at you, his face lighting up at the sight, a genuine slice of joy in what was about to be an awkward moment. He said your name, almost shy, looking like he didn’t know how to greet you.

“This is, uh, this is—” he gestured to the girl, trailing off when she bounced over to you, hand extended.

“I’m Chrissy, it’s so nice to meet you,” she gushed. “You’re new, right?”

“Uh, kinda,” you laughed a little weakly. You didn’t feel new anymore. You felt like you belonged. You told her your name, even though she’d already heard Eddie say it. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

No one else really knew what to say then and your plans to greet Eddie with a kiss seemed ruined. The boy looked at you as if he were thinking the same, his smile lopsided and sweet. But he dished the eggs into a pot and started scrambling them, brushing away a stray curl with the back of his hand and he asked you, “have you had breakfast?”

You rolled your eyes, affection lingering there and you relaxed a little, knowing this routine, loving this routine. You grabbed your apron from the hook, tying it round your waist as you brushed past him, a hand skimming his lower back, the closest thing you could do to a greeting.

Chrissy tracked the movement with curious eyes.

“Not yet,” you told him softly and you ached to perch yourself on the stool by his station - your stool - but Chrissy had already walked back over and claimed it. “You gonna tell me off?”

You said it shyly, a hint of flirt there, cheeks warm and smile soft as you gazed up at the boy. Eddie responded in kind, the tips of his ears turning pink and he tried to scowl at you, brows pinching together but he grinned like he couldn’t help it. “I would, if I knew it would work,” he smiled down at you, head tilted to the side all lazy. “You want some eggs? Or I could make you some pancakes?”

And before you could tell him that eggs were perfectly fine, Chrissy’s voice interrupted, she was pushing herself onto the table, leaning on her hands, cheeks coloured with a pretty pink blush and squished together. “Don’t tell me I leave for the summer and you’ve got another favourite waitress already,” she pouted, lips shiny and glassy and pink. “I thought I was your number one, Ed.”

Her words made you feel too warm. That rolling heat that creeped across your chest, your neck, your face. An awfully uncomfortable sensation, anxious, unsettled. You tried to laugh when she did, but the sound came out weak, stilted. Chrissy was looking at Eddie, confident, playful, so sure of herself.

She looked at him like she really knew him, like there was an inside joke that you didn’t know about.

You backed away, ignoring how Eddie’s hand tried to catch yours. “Uh, I’m actually not that hungry,” you smiled but it wavered. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Thanks though. I’ll, um, I’ll catch up with you later. It was nice meeting you, Chrissy,” you nodded at her, hoping she didn’t see your glassy eyes before you turned and left them in the kitchen.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson au #linecook!eddie

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dumbseee · 1 year ago

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stalker. pt.4.

previous.

charles leclerc x reader. / carlos sainz jr x reader.

fc: lalisa manoban.

liked by carlossainz55, francisca.cgomes, landonorris and 3 719 000 others.

y/n: when you tell him paris is your favorite city so he takes you to paris the next day 🤭

fan1: charles could never

liked by y/n.

fan2: carlos is the real deal

fan3: my girl is thriving and i’m here for it

fan4: i don’t know if i want to be y/n or carlos tbh

fan5: god i see what you do for others…

fan6: i need a carlos

fan7: y/n stayed with charles for three years and homeboy never took her anywhere, but in a month only carlos managed to take her to her favorite place

fan8: that’s what you deserve girl

fan9: i’m so jealous

landonorris: i can fit in a luggage so next time hit me up mate

carlossainz55: i’d probably ship you to nicaragua on purpose

landonorris: and that’s why i prefer charles over you

fan10: not lando and carlos fighting in the comments lmao

fan11: carlos came out straight off a book wtf

view all comments.

carlossainz55 just posted a story!

caption: vacation with fam <3

"can i talk to you, dear?" reyes warm tone made you smile, you sat up from your deck chair and made some place for the woman. she sat next to you and smiled. she was so kind to you, even though you met a few hours ago, she welcomed you into her family with open arms. "are you enjoying yourself, bella?" the nickname made you chuckle as you nodded, you didn’t know why but next to her you felt like a kid. "don’t be shy!" she laughed, pushing you slightly with her shoulder. "sorry. spain is amazing i really like it." reyes nodded. "great, because it seems like you’re going to be around here often now." she winked at you which made the both of you laugh.

"you know, you’re the first girl carlos brings home." that actually surprised you, carlos always had that don juan image in your mind which made you think he’d have way more exes. "believe it or not but carlito is pretty shy, and before you he always declined the blind dates his father would set him up for." the woman smiled and looked at her son who was fishing with his father a little bit far away from them. "he told me about you way before you two started dating though." "really?" she nodded and took your hand. "it was love at first sight for him." you could feel your cheeks getting hotter and red, you looked up at carlos who was now dancing with a big fish in his hands, he turned around and showed it to you and reyes. "look what i got!" he shouted, you clapped for him while his mom was laughing. "when i see him like this, it reminds me of when he was a little kid, running around and messing with his sisters." you didn’t know what to say so you just squeezed her hand. "you like him a lot, i can tell. if my son has been in love with you for so long, that means that you’re a good person too. so i trust you with him."

liked by carlossainz55, anasainzvdec, reyesvdec and 2 810 001 others.

y/n: congratulations to the newlyweds 🥺🫶🏼 may your marriage be fulfilled with love and happiness!

anasainzvdec: you’re an angel y/n, thanks you!

carlossainz55: 💛

fan1: y/n being accepted by the sainz warms my heart for some reasons

fan2: awww she was invited too

fan3: carlos and y/n next 🤪

liked by reyesvdec.

fan4: not reyes liking all the comments about y/n and carlos, she’s so cute

fan5: yellow is your color!

fan6: noooo but carlos inviting y/n to his family vacation and to his sister’s wedding is so cute

fan7: omg y/n blonde era??

fan8: this girl can pull off every colour it’s insane

fan9: meanwhile charles never took y/n to meet his family, they had to accidentally run into each other in monaco to actually meet…

fan10: y/n really is glowing these days omg

fan11: y/n post charles is my favorite y/n

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charlesleclerc just posted a story!

caption: 💭

taglist: @ferrariloverr @kimi240302 @rosekar16 @ironmaiden1313

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

Hey!! I saw your posts about colour blind!reader and reader with hearing problems and i really love them, I have to wear hearing aids myself so it is really lovely to see some representation!! So I was wondering if you could do remus x reader (or any marauder i don't mind) where the readers hearing aids broke and remus has to help them communicate for the day while they wait to get them fixed? If you aren't comfortable with that don't worry<33

I'm so glad you liked them sweetness, thanks for requesting! Unfortunately I don't have anyone in my life who uses hearing aids that I could consult about this, so I had to rely on the internet and apologize for any inaccuracies <33

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 653 words

“Moony,” James says, cocking his head at you inside Remus’ car. You’re sitting placidly in the passenger seat while the car trembles with bass. “What’s she doing?”

“She likes the vibrations,” Remus replies, carrying a giant tupperware container of chili. Ever since he moved in with Lily, James has taken to “accidentally” making too much of nearly every meal they have so that his friends are forced to come over and take home leftovers. (“I thought the recipe was supposed to be tripled,” James had said over the phone. “You’ve gotta take some off my hands, Moony, it’s gonna go bad.”)

“She’s gonna be shaking the whole block if she turns that up any louder,” Sirius says, following them out of the house. “How can she stand it?”

“Hearing aids broke yesterday,” Remus explains, opening the passenger door. James flinches at the sound that bursts out, and Remus hands you the chili before reaching around you to turn down the dial on the radio. “We’re waiting for the shop to call so we can pick them up,” he finishes.

You wave at the boys, and they wave back with smiles somewhat bemused.

“How bad is her hearing without them?” James asks concernedly.

You go to respond, having read the question on his lips, but Remus sets a hand on your shoulder.

Hold on, he signs to you. This will be more fun.

You roll your eyes, but play along with his game, letting Remus speak for you as if you can’t do it yourself.

“She can’t hear much of anything,” Remus says. It’s the honest truth, though he neglects to mention that you’re still perfectly capable of speaking and also quite skilled at reading lips even without the aids. “Some loud noises or things with a deep pitch, but not enough to make out speech.”

“Huh,” James says. “Well, tell her I hope she enjoys the chili.”

This is great, Remus signs to you. I never get to practice.

You’re mean, you sign back, even as your lips twitch at the corners.

“She says she’s sure she will,” Remus says. “Thanks for saving us some.”

James grins. “No problem.”

“If she really likes vibrations, she should come take a ride on my bike sometime,” Sirius suggests, and he’s smiling, because he knows exactly how Remus will feel about that offer. Remus hates the idea of even Sirius, let alone you, on a motorcycle. “Tell ‘er, Moons.”

You’re already looking at Remus with a mischievous smile.

No way, he tells you. Not happening.

Buzzkill, you fingerspell.

Remus shrugs, and he doesn’t need to sign anything for you to read and what about it? in his expression.

“Ooh, they’re fighting,” Sirius deduces, laughing darkly. “This sign language stuff isn’t so hard to pick up on, is it Prongs? You can get the general meaning from their faces.”

Remus plasters on a smile. Not hard? I’ve been learning for two years, he vents to you.

You give a little laugh. Don’t listen, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But at least tell him I said thanks for the offer.

Remus turns to Sirius. “She says fuck you.”

You make a sound of offense, slapping Remus’ arm lightly.

“Okay, okay,” he relents. “She said thank you for the offer. But no.”

“It’s crazy,” James says with a little smile. “Everything you’re claiming she says sounds exactly like what you would say if you could choose, Moony.” He glances at you, and you raise your eyebrows like I know, right?

“Alright, we’d better be off,” Remus decides, shutting your door for you and rounding the front of the car. “Thanks for the chili, Prongs. And Pads, your bike is banned to her, so don’t offer again.”

“Buzzkill,” Sirius calls after him, but Remus pretends not to hear, shutting his door.

“Hey,” you say, your voice a bit louder than you’d usually allow. You’re grinning at Remus. “That’s exactly what I said!”

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year ago

Text

Put it on me - Roronoa Zoro x Reader

SUMMARY: A shared stash of moonshine leads to you pouring your heart out to Zoro. Despite his rather cold exterior, he takes your words seriously and asks you to put some of your burden on him if it ever gets too heavy.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.8k

Brought to you by my obsession with this painfully relatable song:

“Save some for me.”

Zoro’s voice wakes you up from the trance. You’ve been mindlessly drinking and reminiscing about the fight for what had to be at least two hours now. Enough time to slur your words and muddy your thoughts but the latter, as welcome as it would be, doesn’t seem to come. Flashes of scenes and echoes of voices still haunt you.

The swordsman nudges the axe you used to crack open the barrel. Quite crude but it works as it should - both a plug and a tap, depending on the blade's position. A spicy, dry stench fills the air as Zoro pours himself some of the dark-coloured moonshine.

He takes a large swing of the mysterious alcohol and winces. Very unlike him. A troubled cough escapes his chest.

“What is this?” he asks.

“The nightmare of hangovers yet to pass, I like to call it.” Used to the questionable taste of the beverage or simply numb due to your current state of light intoxication, you’re unbothered as you take another sip. The liquor burns your throat right down to your stomach. You can almost feel it wreaking havoc on your organism. Good. “We’re both alive and not blind, so definitely not methanol. Maybe it tastes like mouldy socks but it gets the job done.”

Zoro sits down on the ground next to you. His body is suspiciously close to yours, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, but you’ve grown used to it. It’s an open secret between the two of you - he’s allowing both himself and you this kind of intimacy as long as it remains unaddressed. If it did, he’d have to admit he’s not as aloof towards you as he likes to make himself look and that is not something Roronoa Zoro has the courage to confess.

“Why are you drinking alone?”

“I’m not. You’re here,” you say as you gently poke his arm.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Zoro takes another sip and winces again but not as much as before. The ‘mouldy socks’ flavour is growing on him. Or maybe it’s the alcohol content?

“You can’t fool me,” he says in a low, serious tone. “Something’s on your mind.”

Zoro looks at you out of the corner of his eyes. His gaze is bright, perceptive. Even if you try, you can’t lie and convince him that everything’s in order. It seems that Zoro already knows your mood is foul, just can’t quite put his finger on the why. For a man who claims to be unbothered and uncaring, he sure does spend a lot of time and energy and studying your little habits and quirks. One might even say he appears to have a particular affinity for you.

“I ate shit back in the village,” you mumble without looking at him. You almost puke bolting down the rest of the dark moonshine. “Complete failure. Embarrassing doesn’t cover even half of it.”

Stumbling over the air and your own feet, you get up and pour yourself another cup of alcohol. You can see Zoro’s troubled gaze following your movements but he doesn’t say anything or try to stop you, although he’s sure you’ve had enough of strong drinks for the night.

“You did fine,” he says awkwardly. Despite meaning his words, niceties still have a problem making it through his throat. “Aside from leaving your left flank wide open but you’d have to die and be reborn to stop doing that.”

Sitting back down next to Zoro, you lose your balance and fall on your backside. Some of the moonshine spills and soaks your shirt. You don’t care about the stain for now but you surely will in the morning when the putrid smell fills your bedroom and refuses to be washed out.

“It was everything but fine,” you scold him.

Surprised, Zoro looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. Never before has he seen you so hung up about mistakes. Normally, you’d shrug and laugh and just say something along the lines of “shit happens, we’ll be better next time”. Still, no matter how much he racked his brain, he simply couldn’t think of anything in particular that could get you like that. Nothing about the day and its battles stands out to him.

“Nami getting hurt was my fault,” you admit. “Luffy and Usopp too. Shit, everything was my fault.” Out of frustration, you rub your face with your free hand.

“Nonsense,” he easily dismisses your self-blame. “You couldn’t have known about the whole human-turned-arsenal crap.” Zoro takes another swing of the mysterious moonshine. This time, he doesn’t wince or cough. Mouldy socks are beginning to taste like champagne. “I don’t think anyone could,” he adds quietly.

You hit the floor with a clenched fist.

“But I did, Zoro,” you drone your words. The image of the pirate captain is clear as day before your eyes. “That’s the thing. The moment I saw that man I knew something was wrong. He moved in a strange way and the way his clothes fit him… It was right there, in front of me. And I was blind like a drunk bat stuck in a pile of cow dung.”

“Hunch isn’t exactly the best strategy. You might as well have been wrong about him and attacked an innocent man.”

“Well, he wasn’t innocent, was he, Zoro?” The anger is rising within you. Why wouldn’t he just accept your fault? Why is he so frustratingly stubborn at putting the blame elsewhere? “I could have prevented all of this or at least given us an opportunity to prepare before Usopp got half of his bones broken with a cannonball. And all of this, Nami nearly dead, because when my moment came, I failed. I hesitated. I questioned my judgment. Like I always do.”

The wooden floor is hit yet again when you look for a way to let out your anger.

“I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but,” Zoro makes a pause and clears his throat,” you’re being too hard on yourself.”

A silence falls between you.

The air in the cramped storage room is stuffy, soaking with a plethora of strong smells: damp wood, smoked fish, the dark liquor you’re drinking with the swordsman, aged cheeses that Sanji seems to be a fan of, roasted coffee beans… But all of those aromas are strangely comforting to you, the smells that remind you of a gathering of adventurous underdogs that have grown to be a family.

A gathering that you’ve almost killed today with your incompetence.

“Truthfully, I wish I was like you,” you finally break the silence. Zoro gives you a questioning look. “You never fail, always prepared and ready to fight. Even when you do make mistakes, which is rare might I add, you can prevent anyone else from getting hurt because of you. I wish I had the power to always do the right things and do them well. When will a day come when I finally know how to act? What to do? I make the same stupid mistakes over and over again and nothing seems to change no matter how hard I try. Maybe I’m just broken and you lot are doomed for hanging around me.” For a moment, you look into your cup. Your reflection in the dark beverage is rippling, making your face hardly recognizable. Just like when you compare who you are to who you should be. “At least in my mind, in my fantasies, I'm the hero that saves me,” you whisper to yourself and down the rest of your drink. It’s easier to be delusional when you can’t string a coherent sentence.

The realization hits Zoro like a derailed train. Of course he’s never seen you get hung up over your mistakes - you’ve been holding it inside, beating yourself up away from everyone’s eyesight. Your otherwise happy-go-lucky exterior is a mere facade, the face of someone you’d like to be. And the more you realize it’s not your true face, the more upset you get. How long have gone holding yourself to an impossible ideal? Hating yourself for being anything but perfect and imposing?

How heavy is the real burden on your shoulders?

"I'll do it for you,” he offers quietly.

Your confused gaze meets the confident glint in his eyes. He looks sure of himself - more certain than he normally is. A smile threatens to pull up one corner of his lips.

"Do what?" you ask.

"I'll be the hero that saves you."

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips and echoes throughout the small storage closet. The sound bounces off the wooden walls and comes back to you with a certain depth and delay, making you feel as though it’s the world laughing at you and the poor sod that offers to help you - you don’t hold hands with someone who easily catches on fire, burning everything around them. That’s just stupid.

“Thanks but that still makes me the world’s biggest loser who can’t put the money where their mouth is and is stuck in a perpetual cycle of doom.”

You look away, staring ahead, but Zoro’s eyes linger on you. Sure, he can fight pirates and animals and fishmen and all the strange horrors lurking in the world but how in hell is he going to fight something immaterial? How powerless he feels with three swords at his side and yet no way to fight the foul-tongued beast in the back of your head.

"Just put it on me," he presses on. "If you need help, put it on me. If you're going through Hell, put it on me.” Then, to your surprise, he firmly grabs your hand, squeezing it in a meaningful manner. “Seriously."

You try to wiggle your palm out of his hold but it proves useless - his grip is iron, although not painful. No matter how much you’re enjoying this uncharacteristic intimacy, you know better than to get used to it. Zoro deserves better than to be the victim of your ricochet.

“You’ve got enough on your head already,” you say in a stern voice. “My own bullshit is the last thing you need.”

For the first time in weeks, Roronoa Zoro smiles. It’s not a smile of amusement, of being entertained. No, it’s a smile of seeing something, or someone, he holds dear. In other words, it’s not his mind that rejoices but his very heart and soul.

“I want to worry about you,” he confesses.

Tears are prickling at your eyes and you’re doing everything you can to keep them from falling. Alas, you’re quite far from sober and self-control is not an ability within your grasp. Your face feels hot as teardrops slowly roll down your cheeks.

A bitter scoff leaves your lips. “It will be an unending horror.”

“I’m not afraid,” he reassures you casually. “And we’re in the middle of the sea. I’ve got time.”

Hesitantly, you rest your head against his chest. Zoro welcomes the gesture, letting go of your hand and putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to himself.

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tinydefector · 2 months ago

Note

Psst , The human affect last one where after MC post those spicy pic's, imagine the new of it on Swerve bar's DRAMA and Chaos 😂😂😂 I want to see the reactions

Who's servos- Human effects

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: taking about explicit photos, light smut, hand humping, Drunk robots.

I added a sprinkle of Dratchet in here because I love these old men. So enjoy the boys reactions to the Ambassador's photos.

Masterlist

__________

Swerves Bar is overly loud as mechs argue amongst each other as they try to figure out what bot was shacked up with the Ambassador, everyone looking at the photos as they try and figure out who's servos they are.

"I'm telling you, those are Rodimus' servos for sure!" someone slurred, slamming their drink. "Only he's got servos that colour!"

“Ah no, Animus has the same coloured Servos!”

“Don't look at me im on the Ethics committee, and whoever is involved in this clearing doesn't care about the ethical side of interspecies relations which we have no knowledge on!” Animus argued back the moment his name was mentioned

“What if it's UltraMagnus who painted them so he doesn't get caught!” Aquabat chimed in trying to be part of the conversation.

"As if!" another scoffed. "Ultra stick-up-the-tailpipe would never. My shanix are on Atomizer." Gears states into his drink.

At the counter, Rodimus nursed his engex with a scowl. "Sure as Frag wasn't me, i'd be boasting about that in person!, plus the servos don't have the detailing I have!" He argued back.

Drift flashed a sly grin. "Oh I don't know, Roddy - they do raise an interesting point. You are the Mech they spend a lot of time with who's captain of the ship, and I believe you'd keep it a secret to spite everyone" the ex con was Overcharged himself, drifting from where Rodimus sat and where Ratchet was sulking over his own drink.

"It has to be one of the senior staff," argued Hound. "They've got the most face time with the Ambassador."

"Don't discount the scientists," Brainstorm countered. "Interspecies collaboration is crucial work." A collection of them look at Brainstorm for a kilk.

Nautica scowled as she passed by. "We all know you have no tack Brainstorm."

Tailgate tugged Rewind's arm anxiously. "Do you think we'll get in trouble for looking? I didn't mean to pry, honest!"

Rewind shook his head. "No, its publicly posted with consent, pretty sure if the Ambassador had issues with it High command would have dealt with it already "

Beside them, Swerve studied the photos intently. "Maybe I should invite the ambassador for drinks. Get to chatting, see if we could get them to spill."

"No harassing them," Rodimus warned, stealing Swerve's datapad. "Now let it go, mechs. Their choices aren't anyone's business but their own."

Skids appeared at Drift's side suddenly. "Can you believe it, Drift?, who do you think it is?" He waved a datapad at the speedster, proudly displaying an image.

Swerve perchs up his field mischievous. "Any guesses on the lucky mech, Drift?, we're Taking bets" He states in singy song tone.

“C’mon Tailgate, don’t be such a prude,” Skids nudged the minibot to look at the photos as he ducked shyly behind his engex. “Ain’t you curious?”

Swerve flashed a waggle. "C'mon Drift, place your chips! I got hot odds on Roddy, Crossblades, or maybe even that slippery therapist Rung."

Hound elbowed in, visor blinding. "Do they show interface arrays? Wonder how alien bits compare!"

Drifts optics focus in on the holos taking in the Ambassador and the servos, Drift felt his energon run cold as his optics focused unmistakably on the servos in the image. Oh, he knew those battle-worn appendages all too well - how many vorns had he felt their merciless precision upon his mesh, heard their owner growl his name through the throes of overload?

But dear Primus, how had the Ambassador come to possess Ratchet's severed servos? A flash of memory surfaced - hadn't Ratchet left them in medical incase he ever had to use them again. after the massacre at Delphi.

He snuck a surreptitious glance at Ratchet through the chaos, the grumpy Medic seemed to slouch more in his seat while spilling a bright green mixed high grade. A smirk spread Drift's lips. “ don't Bet Swerve” he states. Rising smoothly, making a beeline for Ratchet with the holo in hand.

Ratchet glances up when he sees Drift, had the CMO not been so drained and worried he might have smiled at Drift, but with everything that had happened with Traxies his systems were running full alert. "Well well, look who finally noticed me," Ratchet remarked dryly as Drift slid into the seat beside him, weariness pulling his field taut as ever-tightening screws. "And just what have you got there that's got your relays in a twist?"

Drift took a moment to slowly moving to straddle his conjunx lap, teasing whispering to him as he handed over the holo. "Funny thing - seems our dear Ambassador has found a new use for those old servos of yours, though how, I couldn't say..." Ratchet whipped his gaze to the image, intake dropping open at the sight of all-too-familiar digits wrapped intimately around supple flesh. His fans stuttered violently.

"The pit...how in Primus's name did they get a hold of my old servos?!" He rasped, snatching the holo to pore over with widening optics. Somewhere in the drunken din, Drift managed to slap a servo over Ratchet's mouth before he made a scene.

Drift leaned close, vents puffing hot against an audial. "Well? Care to make a claim, or shall mystery have them all in a tizzy?" he purred silkily. Ratchet grimaces, field warming ever so slightly beneath its veneer of exhaustion. "None of their business," he grumbled, staring pointedly at Drift.

Drift chuckled, glossa flicking coyly over his dermas. "Aw, don't be like that. You know you're enjoying the thought of having every optic in this bar on you, imagining all the sinful things you'd do”

A rumbling growl escaped Ratchet's intake. "And you'd best mind your tone, or you'll find yourself in need of a medical. Again." But his field betrayed amusement Drift's optics glinted knowingly. "You say that like it's a chore, but we both recall how creative your medical procedures can be...especially with an eager patient beneath those adept servos."

"You're like rust" Ratchet huffs but lets Drift continue, his mind does start to wonder about how soft the Ambassador looks. "Honestly, you're worse than the younglings sometimes, Drift." But his digits had already found their way to rest in the seams of Drift’s hips.

The Ex con nuzzled closer still, voice playful even in his overcharged state. "How you wound me, doctor." His servo crept daringly across Ratchet's plating, tracing patterns. "Just imagine - that soft little frame. The sounds you could coax from those lips..."

A shiver worked its way through Ratchet's struts, betraying his fraying self-control. "You really are determined to get us both in more trouble than we can handle, aren't you?" But his engine revved eagerly all the same. Drift purred contentedly as deft medic's digits found all his sensitive nodes just right. "Mm, you say trouble but I know how you enjoy a challenge, doc."

His field pulsed hot as his imagination, arousal spiking at thought of the Ambassador with them. "Just picture it - that lithe organic frame writhing between us, so curious and willing to learn." Drift continued to grind against Ratchet's servos. "You'll get us both in the brig, get back to my Hub you're overcharged" he huffs out.

________

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mikiruie · 3 months ago

Text

𓈒⠀⠀⠀⠀︵︵ ⠀◟ † ◞ ⠀︵︵ㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀𓈒 ⠀

THROUGH THE WIND AND RAIN . . .

── TOBIO KAGEYAMA ﹕ 影山飛雄 ┊͙ HAIKYUU!! ◝✩

𓋜 hq. masterlist // general masterlist.

premise. even while seperated by thousands of miles of stretching oceans— there is solace in the rain’s shared song.

content. fiancé!kageyama / f!reader. fluff. established relationship (engaged). LDR + ali roma!kageyama (reader lives in japan, ≠ being japanese). lovesick!tobio :3 !!

word count. 7.6k

soundtrack. absence of you : grentperez.

écoute chérie! ᰔ this fic ended up being a lot longer than i intended . . . anyways !! first fic on this bloggie yayy ‹𝟹

22:58

“Is it also raining over there?”

Your head turns away from your open laptop screen and towards the windows of your apartment, watching as the trickling rain pours down outside your house.

With the curtains drawn open, you have a perfect view of the cars that pass by— watching and listening as their tires splash through the puddles of water that have formed on the street’s open roads, hearing light taps against your windows as streams of droplets hit the streaked, rain frosted glass.

You hear the faint tinkling of showering water vaguely in the background of Tobio’s call too, and your head tilts obviously at the sound, something that your fiancé manages to pick up with ease as he looks behind him towards where you’re staring out at his dark balcony’s windows.

“Oh,” he murmurs lightly, turning back around to face you (or more accurately, his phone screen that has you on it). “It’s raining here too— in Italy, I mean.”

Tobio’s shakily-hand held phone camera soon leaves the dining table it was propped up on, the front view getting covered by the palm of his hand as he makes his way across his living room and over to his balcony, the curtains closed and sliding door locked.

“I don’t know if you can see it that well,” he mumbles. The door to the outside deck unlocks with a light click as he steps outside, slippers padding softly against the smooth stone flooring of his apartment once he crosses over the lip of the door’s frame and onto the balcony. “But it’s pretty heavy over here.”

He flips the camera around, holding the phone up and moving the curtains out of view to show you the rain outside his own home, and just like he mentioned it’s much harsher than your rain back in Japan.

Against the reflective light of the moon in Rome’s night sky is a cascade of water that bombards you from all sides, droplets heavier than the rain you have back in Japan, hitting the cobblestone walkways outside of Tobio’s house with a resounding echo.

The rain falls at a much, much faster pace too as it almost seems never ending, the millions of raindrops bouncing off one another nearly blending into the sound of a single mass against the inky backdrop of the night sky— like a wind chime.

It’s a full moon tonight you realize as Tobio slowly maneuvers his phone around for your convenience, showcasing not only the torrent of rain that blinds his frosted windows but also the surrounding cityscape of his apartment.

You’ve only ever seen it in the daytime through brief glimpses during your facetime calls, but now without the sun and brilliant blue skies as its backdrop it looks completely different, dipped and steeped in a vat of red wine with only the moon and the street lamps to light the way.

You find that by craning your head just a bit to the sides that the raindrops have a special sheen to them, almost holographic in their nature. Single masses that have no one colour to them in their true nature, shimmering with a mirage of light in the afterglow of Rome’s street lamps.

Fractals of tiny rainbows burst at the sides of the water’s tension, and each droplet magnifying the light of the moon and lamps tenfold, merging into what seems to become a single stream of glimmering gold.

Perhaps it’s just a trick of the barely visible light light, or maybe something to do with the fact you’re on a crinkly video call— but the shifting perspective of the iridescent water droplets glowing in tune with the speckles of centuries old stars in Rome’s barely lit skyline is incredible to witness up close, and you’re almost jealous that this is the sight that Tobio gets to fall asleep to just outside his window every night.

The rain pour oddly likens to the same scene you’d get if you took a quaint little snow globe and shook it around vigorously in the palm of your hands, watching as the faux snowflakes inside swirl and whoosh around in the glass dome before falling slowly back down to the base of the globe, the flurry of white snow reminding you of the rain drops you’re bewitched by.

You look down at the engagement ring that sits on your finger, given to you by Tobio two years prior. Smoothing your thumb over the ornately cut princess-styled gemstone on the gold band, you realize it also bares a striking resemblance to the tiny raindrops just outside both of your windows.

Like a little piece of the quiet scenery you get to both wear together, even when far apart— and the constant downpour of rain on both ends of the call may be a reminder of that fact.

Tobio eventually shuts the door with a shiver running up his spine, bringing you out of your thoughts as he steps back inside his apartment.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, breaking the silence. His eyes flit back to the now closed glass door, gaze lingering as the camera slowly begins to walk away from the view— you wonder if he was also admiring the rain shower along with you.

“It just gets kind of cold having it open when it rains.”

“It’s okay,” you smile, still mindlessly fidgeting with your ring. It fits much better on your finger now than before, courtesy of your fiancé having it re-sized for you when you last visited. It’s no longer constricting to wear, yet still loose enough for you to twirl around for fun.

A part of you thinks that Tobio ensured that for you unknowingly.

“We wouldn’t want you to get sick now during the season, would we?”

With a laugh muffled behind pursed lips he sits back down at his small dining table again, the feet of his chair scratching against the hardwood flooring when he scoots the chair in forward, carefully propping his phone upright against his napkin holder. “Y’know, I wasn’t prepared for Rome’s weather at all when I came here.”

“The weather here is a lot more turbulent than in Japan,” as if to perpetuate his point further, the rain in the background seems to pick up speed, the faint tapping against his window from the droplets now turning into more thunderous thumps.

Amused, you shift up against the pillows of your bed, adjusting your laptop sat atop your blanket. Tobio’s lips unknowingly jutt out into a pout seeing you all warm and cozy in bed without him, though if he were to do the same right now he’d probably pass out in the confines of his sheets while still on call with you.

It’s one of the reasons he’s calling from his dining room table and not situated nicely inside the cocoon of his freshly washed bedsheets.

Although tempting, Tobio wants to make sure he gives you his full attention whenever you both call, considering both of your busy schedules and the time zone differences between the two countries you currently occupy makes it hard to coordinate a set time to call each day, and ultimately your lifestyles can’t afford daily calls much to both of your chargins.

It usually boils down to ‘literally whenever we are both free,’ though he admits it’s not nearly as often as he’d like it to be.

Free can mean many things, and unfortunately for Tobio you refuse to call him while you’re in the shower (he doesn’t understand that one, he’s seen all of you and then some anyway), or while grocery shopping (something about you needing full concentration to select the perfect box of plump, sweet strawberries, whatever that means.

Strawberries are strawberries, no?)

“Well how are you holding up over there?” A playful grin slowly spreads across your face as you mess around with the facetime filters, giving Tobio a few silly cat ears and a tail as you sift through the available options.

Your finger drags along the trackpad of your laptop as you doodle away funny little shapes and swirls beside Tobio, giving him a bright red clown nose and some pink cheeks for funsies while he in your mind remains oblivious to your actions.

You let out a quiet giggle to yourself when his facetime background changes from the interior of his Rome apartment to a poorly edited in beach scene ripped straight from Google images, complete with his own coconut drink and a straw on your end of the call.

Tobio’s lips curl in on themselves, his teeth biting at the lower one as if he’s containing a smile of his own while you hum delightfully in idle tranquility, seemingly unaware of his gaze on you.

You’re acutely conscious of it though from the way his head dips down, using his bangs to mask the barely passable snicker he disguises as a poorly trained cough before regaining his posture, a gesture he inherited from his sister.

“Is it hard living by yourself? Living without me?”

Tobio’s shoulders lift in a mild shrug, and the green screened background near his back and arms glitches whenever he makes even the slightest movement. “I wouldn’t say that,” he jokes, stretching up against the backrest of his chair, muscles still sore from his practice matches earlier in the day.

A whine escapes past your pouted lips at his quip as you jeer back to him. “You’re making me feel sad now! Next time I’m not going to pick up your call no matter how many times you spam text me.”

“Hey, hey hey now . . .” His camera suddenly falters, stumbling in on itself from how hard he jerks his dinner table in shock before falling flat on its face, your inexplicable laughter ringing through loudly from the phone’s speakers and into his ears as Tobio props the device back up, fingers covering the camera momentarily before it eventually stabilizes again.

Now it’s his turn to sulk, the corners of his mouth visibly drooping into a slight frown as you continue to chuckle at his misfortune. If he dipped his head any lower, you’d be able to see his blush along the curve of his neck.

“That wasn’t very nice, love” he grumbles, slumping back down into his chair as you smugly hum in response. “Well you’re not being the sweetest either right now, Tobio.”

“Fine,” he sighs, crossing his arms. The loose home shirt he wears flexes with each movement he makes, “I’m sorry— will you still call me tomorrow?”

“Of course,” relief flashes in his eyes for a split second as his chest rises and falls with each breath, “Did you think I was actually not going to pick up?”

“. . . Only a little.”

“I would never do that to you,” Your tongue blips out to him on camera, all pixelated as a small clump of red dots inside his phone’s screen and Tobio can’t help but hide his bashful smile behind his hands again at your cheekiness. “How could I say no to your face?”

“You just did nearly two minutes ago.”

“Well that was two minutes ago!”

The both of you fall into another cesspool of bubbly giggles as you bicker back and forth with one another, your voices accompanied and carried across the oceans with the help of the rain in the background. The white noise drowns out the rest of the world, allowing the two of you to focus solely on one another’s prescience in the few hours you have together in comfortable solitude.

Tobio tells you everything during his calls— and you really do mean everything. He lets you know of every brand deal he’s received, how he figured out that he was putting weight on the wrong part of his foot whenever he dug a ball and now his receives are getting much better now (you can hardly believe that he thinks there’s still even more to himself that he can find improve upon) and the mundane details of his day to day life in Rome as well too.

He told you a few days ago through text that it’s currently raspberry season in Italy which starts in May, the miscellaneous message soon accompanied by a cute photo of him and his teammates out raspberry picking in a large farmer’s field in the countryside of Rome as a team bonding exercise.

You saved the adorable sight almost immediately into your photo album, sometimes finding yourself opening your phone several times throughout the day just to peek at it again whenever you missed his presence.

Now instead of the baseball cap and wicker basket he carried with him in the photo earlier in the week, he sits in front of your laptop screen, fingers reaching below the camera for a moment before coming back up to pop something into his mouth.

Your head cranes a little to the right instinctually, trying to catch a glimpse at what he’s eating before realizing you can’t actually do that over facetime.

“What’re you eating?”

“Raspberries,” he mumbles through a mouthful of them, taking his phone and showing you the inside of the bowl in his hands, light blue on the outside and white in its interior that’s filled to the brim with the fruits. “Ushijima-san told me they’re high in fiber, vitamin C and K.”

You’re reminded of the photo he sent you a few days prior, giggling to yourself in giddy happiness at the fact that he must be eating the fruits he picked with his teammates. “Y’know you can also eat them just because they’re tasty, right Tobio?”

He pops another one into his mouth, cheeks puffing out on the right side like a chipmunk as he chews. “Well, that too is a plus.”

Tobio’s bowl is nearly filled to the brim of the fruits, a hefty serving you presume for a seemingly late night snack for the star athlete. You question his unusual timing since the Tobio you know is all about order in his regimen when it comes to maintaining his healthy figure for volleyball.

“I wanted to feel like I’m eating with you,” he timidly admits when asked, and you tease his sincerity before an idea comes to mind, your fiancé’s head cocking to the side once he sees you leap out of bed in a hurry.

“Wait a second, stay right there!” You shout to him before your body quickly leaves the frame of your laptop screen, leaving Tobio in a stunned silence as he attempts to call back out to you, the padding of your footsteps against the floorboards of your home soon disappearing along with your figure too.

“I’m not going anywhere, babe—” he mutters to himself, squinting at his phone screen as he tries to figure out where you scurried off to. The door to your room is left slightly ajar, but the darkness of your hallway shrouds the rest of your household in his sights.

His eyes take a preliminary glance around your room to fulfill your absence in stead, his view confined to the singular angle your laptop can show him from on your bed as he attempts to scour the small window space he can, checking and noticing for the subtle changes you’ve made after your recent weekly room clean up.

Tobio finds that you swapped out your old floor length mirror for a new one, since the old one had a crack in it after it unfortunately fell during one of your last facetime calls.

He takes note of the many papers that pile on top of one another on your work desk, and his brows furrow at the sight. He hates to think of how easily it could be for you to slip into accidentally overworking yourself now that he’s not around to reprimand you, though he’s not one to talk about maintaining a healthy work-life balance either with volleyball.

Tobio’s gaze soon drifts away from the seemingly massive mound of manila folders and printer paper before stopping momentarily. His eyes glance downwards, a wicker basket woven flower pot caught in his sights, before crawling back up again.

There, sitting on your desk right beside your printer is a familiar looking potted plant; its white petals shimmer beautifully underneath the glow produced by your room’s ceiling fan’s cheap LED light bulb, the golden spun colour of the flower’s bulbs emerging from inside the core atop their green stems.

Three heads of pretty, flowered plants are neatly laid in the small bed of soil in the pot, the dirt dark in colour as the flower’s roots soak in the hydration-rich nutrients from the loam.

Tobio recognizes the species immediately, drinking in its innocuous appearance in your room— the Madonna Lily. Italy’s national flower.

He coughs up his raspberries in a fit of momentary shock, reveling in the discovery as he shoves his phone closer to his eyes to inspect it further. The plant seems well taken care of, blooming well even in a confined office-bedroom space. A small spritzer bottle filled halfway to the top with water sits just beside the stunning flower, meaning you probably had watered it not long ago before your call with him.

Its leaves are vibrant and healthy, and the blossoms open up to the ceiling, revealing their bright golden bulbs from inside.

Tobio’s seen and been given many a white lily in his time playing for Ali Roma, he can barely keep track of the massive bouquets he receives from sponsors and fans at every game with the gorgeous flower, all beautifully tied together with long satin bows accented in the colours of white, orange and green for his beloved team within the confines of clear, wrinkle-less cellophane.

But the lone pot in your room calls out to him especially, it’s beauty and obvious care and attention gone into helping it flourish outshining even the most spectacular of floral arrangements he’s ever been given.

He’s heard from a few of his native Italian teammates that the white lilies of Italy symbolize rebirth and are frequently associated with the rejuvenation of the soul— but they also resemble both everlasting purity and commitment.

And if Tobio had to describe you in two words of his own, he’d pick those qualities of the stunning lily to do so.

A few beats of silence pass of him admiring the quiet entity of life before he hears your rapidly approaching footsteps again, jerking his head away from his phone screen and sadly having to tear his eyes from the plant as the door to your bedroom swings wide open, revealing your pajama-clad self once more as leap back onto your bed, a big bowl with the same familiar fruit he was just snacking on sat in the lap of your legs, the traces of water on your just-washed hands bringing heat to Tobio’s cheeks.

“What’re you doing?”

You hum mindlessly as you fluff up the pillow behind your back for a moment before turning back to him and beaming.

“I’m going to feed you raspberries through the screen,” You take one of the nice big ones for Tobio out of the bowl and show it to your camera, letting your fiancé see the fruit from all angles. It’s plump and juicy, and the nice red colour to it and size is deserving for Tobio, you bet it’s as sweet as him.

You still feel the leftover water residue on the fruit’s surface from when you washed them underneath the pads of your fingertips as you steady the bowl and lower it down to Tobio’s mouth on your screen.

“Say ahhh!”

Even while within the confines of his own home, a blush spreads across the expanse of Tobio’s neck and the apples of his cheeks at your actions, shyly opening his mouth for the camera, head pivoting around his dining room like he’s worried some paparazzi is going to catch him being all cute and sappy.

He straightens up when your hand suddenly retracts from the camera’s view, taking with it the raspberry as your saddened face takes center stage on his phone screen.

Tobio’s eyebrows cinch together worriedly, confused at the sudden change in demeanour. “Why’d you stop, love?”

You huff, cheeks puffing out in an adorable show of stubbornness. Tobio wishes he was there to pinch them in person, and he refrains from reaching out and doing it himself.

“You’re not saying ahhh!”

He sputters a bit on his end of the call, scarlet blush spreading to the tips of his ears. “Do I have to . . .”

“Yes, it’s part of the experience!” You make a point to pick up another juicy raspberry for yourself from your bowl, saving the one previously meant for Tobio and popping it into your mouth, audibly singing in delightful praise at its taste.

“Now open wide, Tobio! Say ahhh~”

The adam’s apple of Tobio’s throat bobs in your peripheral as you lift the same raspberry from earlier up to your camera again, slowing inching to where Tobio’s mouth is hung open on your laptop screen before he closes around the berry, pretending to chew and savor it’s taste as you gleefully giggle at the sight of the ever blossoming red that crawls down his neck and all across the top half of his chest visible through the cut outs of his home shirt.

“It’s yummy,” you hear him whisper, voice low and intimate in the tranquility that lies between you two, feeling separated only by a flimsy screen and not by several countries.

He can taste the tangy sweetness from his raspberries previously still left on the tip of his tongue, though he likes to imagine that it’s left behind from the digital raspberry you shared with him just now.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips subconsciously, swiping across the bottom lip to capture any lingering flavors of the fruit remaining. “I did tell you awhile ago that the raspberries are in season this time of year, right?”

“Yep!” You pop the ‘p’ in your sentence with a giggle, “Don’t you remember the photo you sent me? Of you and your teammates out raspberry picking!”

His eyes roll to the ceiling of his apartment in thought as he recalls the last few days, thought bubbles metaphorically popping up above his head before he lets out a noise of confirmation. “Oh, yeah I did send you that. I’m surprised you remember.”

“You only sent it like, four days ago Tobio.”

He shrugs it off easily, ignoring the pale blush that dusts his nose and cheek bones that you had recalled that photo he sent you on a whim as an update to his life in Italy, and he takes another raspberry out from his bowl, letting the sourish-with a tinge of sweetness flavour of the fruit pop in his mouth once he bites down on the morsel.

The two of sit in comfortable silence as you pretend-feed each other raspberries, with you “feeding” Tobio most of yours and he reciprocates whenever you give him one.

“It’s so we’re even,” he digresses afterwards, and while you eventually do feast the raspberries you hand to Tobio through the scrithy facetime call screen, Tobio saves the ones he feeds you on his end of the line— placing them back into his bowl after you fake swallow the fruit, letting it fall back into his bowl and choosing a different fruit of his own to bring to his lips.

In his mind those berries are specially reserved for you only, and even if you can’t eat them yourself, Tobio doesn’t feel it right to eat them.

The freshness of the raspberries on your tongue sweetens your video call with Tobio just a little more when it seems as the sounds on both your ends heighten frighteningly, the quality of your screen becoming diluted as time rolls on through the thunderous booms that peer outside your windowsill.

Rain hurls down from the sky, blanketing both your hometown and the capital of Italy in its wake, but it’s Tobio it feels as though you’ve both made a small little space for yourselves to shield each other from the storm.

“I saw you on the news again today,” you hum contently as the two of you snack on your raspberries against the backdrop of rain on both your calls, Tobio’s being obviously louder as the storm outside continues to grow more tumultuous the longer your call stretches on for.

This is probably one of your longest video calls together so far, almost reaching three and a half hours when you check the time at the top of your laptop. It’s a surprise that your dingy cell service has managed to hold on for this long in the weather’s conditions.

“They were talking about how your contract with Ali Roma is ending soon, and speculating when or if you’ll renew it.”

Tobio freezes up when you mention the news broadcast, almost scared of speaking up with his throat feeling tight, mouth running dry as he stiffens up his posture. A distinctive trait of his you notice when he’s nervous. “Yeah . . . yeah I’ve been hearing about that too.”

“I mean, it is about you,” you chuckle to yourself, a bit too causally compared to how Tobio feels inside. “So! Have you decided if you’ll stay there for another term?”

“It depends,” he swallows down his worries, eventually gathering the courage to ask “will you be upset if I do?”, hesitance laced in the throes of his words as he waits for your reply in skittish tensity.

It’s been hard for Tobio to dance around the subject ever since news broke out, and everytime he calls he’s unsure how to bring it up.

Ali Roma has helped in advancing his career tremendously, and he��d love to keep moving up the ranks and continue playing on the world stage alongside his teammates— but then there’s you, across the sea waiting for him at home. Cheering him on from not the stands of an Italian stadium but on the couch in your shared home in another country, rooting and whooping at a TV screen whenever he’s up to serve.

He’s been telling his social media managers to try and quell the spread of rumors before he decided on accepting another contract term, scared of you finding out and expressing your displeasure about the renewal before he had a chance to talk it out with you.

Despite Tobio’s endless passion and drive for volleyball, he knew that his heart belonged with you— and he wanted to ask how you felt about the decision before he had the final say.

It’s been nearly three years since he asked you the fateful question of if you’d take his hand in marriage.

He still remembers the way he almost foolishly dropped the ring when he got down on one knee, clumsily taking the box out of his suit jacket’s pocket and hastily recited the lines he had practiced for over a month about your importance in his life and how grateful he would be to marry you— and the way you graciously accepted him with open arms before he was even done speaking.

He also can recall clearly how you nearly knocked him over onto the ground by the sheer force of your glee alone, too enraptured by the high of the moment to notice you had basically caged him in your arms on the dirt trail of your home town’s park.

And while you’re as sweet, loving and as patient as a person can ever be, what with letting him play overseas and all (you’re a literal angel in Tobio’s eyes), Tobio knows that with time, patience can be worn down like running water in a riverbank, smoothing over the stones and pebbles that have sunk to the bottom.

It erodes away the longer you stretch it thin, and your three year engagement anniversary is coming up soon, and yet he’s not there with you. Instead, he’s in Italy, furthering his goals while you’re home, hard at work on your own he knows but he fears that his constant absence has taken a heavy toll on your heart.

He wonders if you’ve grown restless of waiting for your fiancé to come back to your awaiting arms, and if you’re just too nice to admit your frustrations to him directly whenever you call.

And the thought of that worries him. You’ve always been the one in the relation to anchor Tobio’s incessant and seemingly never ending worrying, being the stability he needs when his insecurities overshadow his rational thinking, and it’s more often than not that you’re practically the one holding him together better than himself whenever he’s overseas.

(it’s embarrassing to admit himself how much of a driving force you are in his life.

The gentle guiding light he needs when he goes tunnel vision and can’t see straight or think clearly).

It was you after all who suggested he take the leap of faith to move to Rome and play for Italy, you who gave him the push of encouragement he needed to further his career even when it seemed to go against your own best interests.

And while you’ve reassured him several times over that the length of his stay in Italy and your prolonged engagement means absolutely nothing to you, Tobio worries that soon, you’ll become tired of waiting for a day that will potentially never come.

His greatest wish is to marry you proudly in front of all your family and friends, to entangle your paths forever with each other while you exchange vows written for one another underneath a pretty white arch— and how is he supposed to do that when he’s thousands of kilometers away from you across the sea?

“Hm? No, of course not,” Your airy voice cuts through the rapidly growing thoughts in his head, head tilting on his phone’s screen. Your brow raises slightly as you question him. “Why do you ask?”

“Did you think I was going to be mad at you?”

Tobio brings a hand up to his neck, brushing at the recently buzzed off sections that are already starting to grow back after his most recent haircut. “Uhm, if I say maybe— or wait, if I say no will you—”

You interrupt his soon to be nervous rambling firmly but gently, shushing him with a soothing series of “Hey, listen to me” coupled with a few chants of his name, as if you were calming down a scared, jittery kitten.

Your lips purse in thought, contemplating your next words carefully. You know how Tobio can get about topics concerning your long distance relationship, eventually being able to settle him down so you can speak.

“Tobio,” you start, and his ears perk up intently at his name. “I knew because I know you like the back of my hand, you’re always so nervous to talk to me about anything relating to your work— I also knew about the renewal for a while now.”

“Really?” His eyes widen in shock, and he grabs his phone instinctively as he shoots up out of his chair, the screech of the legs against his floors echoing in the background. “But I haven’t decided on anything yet because—”

“Because of me, am I right?”

Tobio can’t find any way to argue against you when you smile at him so sincerely, it almost feels unreal for him the way you so comfortably can say what he’s thinking.

You don’t look angry, frustrated or even upset in the slightest even if he was technically hiding the news from you so he could bring it up at the right time.

Just what did he do to deserve you?

Thunder booms outside his Rome apartment, the rain crashing down louder than before. The storm must be picking up in strength, and your call’s audio grows distorted and scratchy on his end of the call— the bars of cell service at the top right of his phone are depleting quickly, the connection crumbling with each second.

After a few pressing minutes of “Hello? Tobio, can you hear me?” and “No, not really— wait now I can” from both of you, you finally manage to get a clear, concise point across to your nervous wreck of a fiancé.

“You don’t have to be so paranoid about what I will think,” you tell him, putting the bowl of raspberries off to the side of your lap now as you scorch closer to your laptop, allowing Tobio to see you more clearly now.

“That’s your decision to make, and I’ll support you no matter what.”

Heat singes across your cheeks dreamily at your next words, and you’re a little embarrassed at how your eyes grow glassy at the recollection. “Though, I do appreciate how you always wait to consult me first.”

Your hand goes to caress the outline of his cheek in your laptop’s screen, as silly as it may be to anybody who would witness it, it’s the closest you can get to the real deal in your current circumstances.

Tobio reacts accordingly as if he can feel it himself, stiffening at the gentle brush of the back of your fingers against his skin, and he wishes so desperately to be able to lean into its touch.

He settles for resting his cheek in the palm of his hand as a substitute.

“You’re so sweet, Tobio.”

The tips of Tobio’s own ears bloom a deep shade of crimson red in response, the few parts of his collarbone that you manage to see underneath his navy t-shirt blushing a slight hue of pink as well against his skin as he shyly murmurs a quiet “I miss you a lot, y’know. . . ” amidst the thunderous applause of the whipping winds and roiling crashes of water that pound outside his windows.

He can hear the trees thrashing around outside, their leaves swaying violently against the brick walls of his apartment.

Tobio reaches over to turn up the volume of his phone more to hear you more clearly, not wanting your voice to become drowned out by the storm raging on outside. When he sits back up in his chair, he has to take a moment to calm his racing heart, the thumping beat loudly booming in the back of his mind.

“It doesn’t feel right without you here with me,” he admits, gaze downcast into his hands, clasped into one another as he stares into the abyss of the empty crevices of his palm’s folds. In his mind he imagines his left hand as yours, intertwining with his own so he could run his thumb over the jewel of your engagement ring.

He misses the cool feel of the gold against your warm skin, hoping to one day be able to feel that with your wedding band instead. “I guess that’s why . . . I always want to ask you for permission before I decide.”

His hands clam up uncharacteristically, sweat pooling at the pads of his fingertips. He wipes them in the fabric of his home sweats to dry them, staining the grey linen.

“You— you’re more important to me than volleyball . . . ”

Your heart skips a beat. Then two more, swelling up tightly at his words.

You’ve always known Tobio to be a bit tentative than others about how he phrases his words, him being self-aware that at times he can come off as a bit too forward or overly aggressive on something if his stances are not structured correctly.

Whenever he speaks to your friends, fans or even in his own interviews with highly esteemed reporters, he always takes a deep pause, letting their own questions ruminate in his mind so he can come up with a cohesive response, one that isn’t too self imposing.

But to hear him say something assuredly, even with the unconscious stutter in his words has your face singeing with heat, and the sight of Tobio’s furious blush makes you incessantly wish that you were right beside him to pull him into a long, heartfelt embrace, arms wrapping around your own forearms to satiate the desire.

Goosebumps litter the surface of your skin, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the patter of rain blares through your eardrums.

Tobio’s eyes peer back up to meet your own, and he sees that through the crunchy quality of your laptop’s monitor, your mouth opens to speak. “Tobio . . . I—”

And in an instant, the heralding tone of the call dropped notification pings through his device’s speakers, and Tobio’s jumping out of his seat in a moment’s notice once your face no longer occupies his phone screen.

He swipes downward from his screen, with a tab saying your call together ended at four hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Muttering out low curses in quick succession, he quickly checks his phone app, seeing that your call was severed. The cell service bars at the top of his screen flicker between two and three, the weak connection only further emulated when a large flash of thunder strikes outside his apartment with the enslaughg of heavy downfalls of rain drops pooling in large puddles outside on the roads and sidewalks.

Three booms of thunder follow suit in the course of the lightning, their resounding echo feeling akin to an earthquake and enveloping his house from all sides.

His apartment feels much smaller now with the sea of sounds that crash around just past his brick walls and glass windows. It’s so loud outside now he realizes, monstrously so now that your calm voice no longer accompanies him, and the resounding silence of his apartment now feels empty without your presence.

The vast distance of ocean that separates you two seems more intrinsically noticeable now to him, and Tobio wonders if you feel the same on your end too back home when the line dropped and you could no longer see his face on your own laptop.

“Fuck,” Tobio’s thumb hovers over the call back button, ready to start up another glitch-filled video call when he’s nearly startled once more when his phone buzzes back to life, with your contact name soon flashing across the top of his screen.

He picks it up almost immediately, clearing his throat before speaking.

“Hello?”

“Tobio!” You chirp from the other end, and even without the video accompanying it he can still see and hear the way your smile reveals your teeth in a happy grin and your eyes crease at the ends from glee.

You sound just as relieved as he does, though a lot more sure of yourself than he does. Tobio wonders how you can still remain so chipper after all that while he feels like he’s been left on a lone lighthouse on a rock in the middle of a sea-born typhoon.

“Sorry, the call must’ve dropped! I couldn’t video call you back with my bad service so this is the best I can do,” your voice trails off towards the end of your sentence, your smile audibly dropping to a half one in its stead. Tobio’s tongue clicks against the porcelain of his teeth, swallowing and clearing his throat once more.

He wants to make you feel better, lift up your spirits the way you do his even when the stormy night sky has plans otherwise for him.

“It— it’s okay,” he recites in his mangled attempts to assure you, “the storm outside for me is pretty bad right now, so I probably wouldn’t be able to video call anymore too . . .”

Your disheartened “Aww” from the other end nearly breaks his heart into two, and he can practically envision the way your lips tug downwards, demeanor visibly deflating when he reaffirms your suspicions.

You bounce back quickly though, with a “don’t worry about it,” soon followed by “we can call back when the storm clears up tomorrow, okay?”

He lets out a low hum of agreement, and silence blankets over your call again as the two of you wait and see who has the gall to hang up first.

Neither of you wish for your time spent together to end so abruptly due to the rain, though it’s not anything that’s in your control either.

Once Tobio moved to Italy, the ball was no longer in your court. And the two of you have to rise early for your respective careers tomorrow (technically, now today) as well, once you take a glance at the wall mounted clock in your room that’s almost struck close to twelve in the morning by now.

“So . . .” you drawl out of awkwardness, and Tobio coughs into his closed fist. “. . . So.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles meekly, “do you know what time you’ll call me?”

“No,” you tell him sadly, “but as soon as I’m off work, I will.”

“You promise?” He knows it’s childish to ask you ‘to promise’ him such a thing (he’s twenty-eight now for god’s sake), but he can’t help it when you let out a little giggle, his ears burning red again at your giddiness. “Yes, Tobio. I promise.”

“Okay,” his lips purse, but before he can speak you cut him off unknowingly with words woven from the sweetest honey imaginable, causing him to suck in a hasty breath of air in an instant.

“I love you, Tobio.” You sigh, twirling the ends of your hair around your finger as your gaze lingers on the lily sitting atop your desk.

It’s not a replacement for your beloved fiancé, but when the odds are stacked against you, anything to keep a piece of him close to home helps.

“And I miss you, so . . . so you better do your best on your new contract renewal! You gotta beat Shoyo-kun during the next volleyball game or else we’re never going to get married at this rate!”

“O— of course I will!” He sputters out nonsensically as you burst into a fit of laughter once more, knowing that all it takes is saying his old high school rival’s name in the same sentence as volleyball for him to get pumped up.

“Like hell I’ll let stupid Hinata beat me at an international level!”

“Yeah!” You cheer for him, smiling through your teeth into your phone screen, “And then you’re going to come home and marry me, you got that!”

He almost doesn’t seem to know what he’s even agreeing to, only giving you a solid “Yeah!” in return. He might not know what it is right now, but you know that his subconscious does, and that’s enough for you to rest easy for tonight.

“Hehe, okay then! Bye Tobio! I gotta sleep now, mwah!”

You blow him a quick kiss through the line before ending the call immediately afterwards, giving him no time to respond other than a sharp “What— huh?!” before you’re throwing your phone across your bed and burying yourself into your pillows and bedsheets, lightheaded as you inhale the scent sticking to their threads.

It only smells of you now.

You miss when the linen of your bed and the seams of your cushions didn’t just carry your scent; when it also included his as well, back when he slept comfortably next to you and was freely able to wrap his arms around your figure as you both drifted off to dreamland in the comfort of each other’s body warmth.

You miss the liveliness that Tobio brought to your shared home. You fondly remember waiting for him to come home from late practice just so you could indulge yourselves in each other’s presence after his shower, and sending him off in the early morning as you too went about on your own commute to work on your own.

Rain drops hammer down harshly outside your window, and while it may have been a nuisance to deal with any other day and was also the main culprit of your early-ending call, it seems oddly calming now— knowing that on the opposite end of the earth, the rain kisses down on Tobio’s roof top too.

A piece of you stretches from one country to another, showering your love for him even when your eyelids are heavy, voice afflicted with a groggy strain as a yawn slips past your lips.

You’re too tired to take off your engagement ring, normally keeping it tucked away in its velvet box for safekeeping in your bedside drawer as you sleep but for tonight, you choose to absentmindedly play with the gem on the golden band whilst taking a look outside the window through your open curtains.

The night is dreary and stormy, skyline painted a vivid ocean of black and dark blue-ish tinted purple. You can’t even see the thunderous cumulonimbus clouds overhead, the only visible sign of the rain above are the droplets that manage to stain your window prettily in their wake.

Your breathing stills as you settle yourself in bed, readying your mind and body for the long day ahead tomorrow, the rain acting as a backdrop of white noise that carries many sounds in its stormy, splendorous path.

And now, it simmers to a blur in your mind as sleep overtakes your body, and you wait patiently for the rain to carry away your goodbye kiss off to Rome thousands of miles away for your sweet, hotheaded and lovestricken fiancé.

The thunderstorms you and Tobio both bare tonight aren’t the same at all, though it wasn’t always this way.

And you hope that soon you won’t have to bare yours alone, no matter how much the rain crashes outside or the whirlwinds whip and threaten to pull down withstanding trees to the ground with their strength.

Under the storm clouds overheard your roof, the rain’s cataclysmic song sings you to sleep in an odd fashion.

Thunderous, constant, breathtaking and everlasting— all the qualities you find in a certain setter currently situated in Central Italy, who waits for the day he’ll be able to fly back home to you, so that you can be underneath the same clouds and domes of rain together once more.

reblogs ++ comments are greatly appreciated !! ꒰ ˆ ᗜ ˆ ˶ ꒱

#haikyuu x reader #kageyama x reader #tobio x reader #haikyuu fluff #kageyama fluff #tobio kageyama #kageyama tobio #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x you #haikyuu!!#haikyu x reader #haikyuu kageyama #ハイキュー!! * ( hq!! )#𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 ﹕ 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 ৻ꪆ

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ivetried27nameswhataboutthis1 · 1 year ago

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Weems: For our new anti-terror-safety class, you will defuse a fake bomb as a partner exercise. You have to be in sync on this.

Wednesday: Why would anyone want to defuse a bomb?

Enid: Focus, Wednesday. I think I got this. On the count of three, we will each cut our grey wires. One, two-

Wednesday: Wait, wait, wait. Grey wire? I only have green, red and yellow.

Enid: That’s weird. I have light grey, medium grey and dark grey.

Wednesday: Enid, are you colour blind?

Enid: Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.

Wednesday: Is that the reason you are dressed like that?

Enid: What do you mean? We are dressed the same.

Wednesday: Enid, my dear, my heart, my soul, my love. Don’t you ever say such a mean thing to me ever again. That was totally uncalled for.

#why is it an anti terror safety class you ask?#bc i needed it for the prompt and i’m tired #i can’t think of anything else #besides #isn’t this the american way of education anyway?#wednesday #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wenclair #wednesday netflix #wednesday series #wednesday 2022 #wednesday x enid #enid x wednesday #incorrect wenclair

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dalamjisung · 2 months ago

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A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 4: Pushing the limits

genre: mostly fluff... with a tiny bit of angst because I just can't not write angst LMAO

word count: 5861

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: for once, you have a good day. and you feel untouchable. until, that is, you're not.

a muted shade of green masterlist

previous chapter // next chapter

author's note: sorry for the delay on the update, but it's finally here! I'm excited to see this story evolving! what are you excited about with this chapter? Let me know in the comments! <3 if you want to join the taglist for this series, please let me know in the comments!

It’s weird to think that once upon a time, you lived in New York.

You had always loved the city in all its might. A lot of people complained about the grey, tall buildings, but you used to think that the colour suited you. That the lifeless of it all didn’t really matter, because life was all over New York City. The bustling of the people, the voices and languages mixing in every block, the smell of food from the falafel carts in every corner; sure, the city was dead, but my god were the people alive.

You were alive, back then.

So much so that you think you might have attracted the dead, because the night you met Josh was a night you felt invincible. You felt like you had enough power in you to light up the entire grid of the city that never slept, so when he approached you, with his light blonde hair and bright blue eyes, you were up for the challenge. Even your friend was impressed when you didn’t coil away from his eager hands, and maybe she regrets it now– maybe she curses herself for not pulling you away from him, for not stoping you when you left with him. Maybe she hates herself for what she let you do back then, but the truth of the matter is that even if she had tried, you don’t think she would’ve succeeded.

Josh was different than most guys you knew, but that didn’t mean much– your aversion to human interaction had always plagued you when it came to romance and friendships. Alas, you found your similars; you met people who loved book just as much as you and you found your place with a selected few. You didn’t mind, not having all that many friends when you had an amazing handful instead; they were all loyal, understanding, and kind, much like you.

Meaning that Josh wasn’t. But you didn’t know that at first, too blinded by the flowers, and the expensive dinners, and the beautiful gifts. Whenever you remember them– the moments, the memories, the things– you’re washed by a sense of shame and embarrassment unlike anything else you felt before. You’d like to stand up for yourself and deny it, deny all of it, say you’re not materialist like this, but that would be a lie. You are a bookseller, for crying out loud. A collector. For you, mementos mean something; the feeling of something familiar in your hands, be it the weight or the texture or just the shape, enough to bring back moments that are long gone in the hands of time. Objects and souvenirs are the next best thing you have to a photo album of memories that can’t be captured by a camera, and you are not ashamed of it.

What you are ashamed of was how easily you fooled yourself for him. For Josh. It was all those damned fairytales you’ve read growing up, it had to be. Or maybe it was his friends and their comments of how perfect you two were together. Whatever it was, it had to be something. You’d hate to believe that you were shallow enough to endure him on his worst days just because of the things he gave you on his good days.

Naturally, Josh was a much more extroverted personality. Keeping up with his social life was exhausting. Every night there was something to do, a dinner, a party, a meet-up. And those weren’t all that fun, either, though you learned to fake it pretty well. During these public appearances, you let yourself believe that yes, you two were this amazing power couple. You allowed yourself a moment to push away from all the regret and just enjoy the small things– the touches, the fleeting kisses, the loving nicknames. Because you knew that once you got home, all of that would fade and disappear until the next event you’d be forced to attend.

The question that most people asked was why did it take so long for you to leave him, why did it have to be that bad before you allowed yourself to go; and the answer was always the same: you don’t know. You don’t fucking know why you stayed with him, you don’t know why you loved him, you don’t know anything except the fact that you did– you did stay, you did love him, you did everything you wished you hadn’t. And it still led you to that night, to that rotten smelling taxi, to you crying in a red eye flight, to you landing, lost and hurt.

Because that night might have been the first time he laid his hands on you, but you doubted it would be the last. And it was up to you to do something about it.

————————————

“Y/N? Are you up?”

It’s a rhetorical question more than anything– you’ve been awake all night and Spencer knows. He blinked awake with every twist and turn, and in the morning, when his alarm went off, you were stiff on your side, trying to pretend you’re asleep.

This has nothing to do with him. Last night, things ended in a positive note. After he showered, he came to bed to find you still wearing his FBI hoodie, and the smile on his face was enough to have you smiling too. You fell asleep to the sweet sounds of him reading you The Illustrated Man. Ray Bradbury is a common name in your guys’ conversations and it’s cute how he spends almost fifteen minutes looking for one of his books in the mess that are his shelves. According to him, they used to be alphabetised by author’s last name, much like in your store, but because of the time you’ve had in there, things have gotten a little… messy. You have a habit of reading different things at the same time and Spencer finds that adorable, even if it breaks his system with how you leave books scattered around the house.

“Yeah,” You call back, meeting his eye when he pops his head through the door. His hair is pointing in all directions, and you can smell food coming from the kitchen. “Are you cooking something? Spence, you said you don’t cook, what are you doing?”

“I’m a thirty year old man,” He said, laughing at how you push the duvet away so desperately you trip on it to run to where you assume the fire is. “Careful! Oh my god, Y/N, you’re breaking my heart here, I’m not burning anything!”

It’s not your fault that your mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario. From all the stories you’ve heard, all the ones that ended in disaster were set in his kitchen. “Spence, you could’ve woken me up,” You shake your head when you see that he actually just made toast with butter and jam. “I would’ve made you something to eat.”

“You’re not my maid,” He says, standing behind you with his hands in his pockets and this is when you notice– he’s wearing sweatpants. Previously, when he was sick and you brought him medicine, he was wearing casual clothes too, but you were too busy fussing over him to fully appreciate the beauty that is Casual Spencer. His grey sweatpants and crumpled white t-shirt are enough to have you blushing and averting your eyes. In your store, he is excited. At home, he is relaxed. Those are two different things in the best of ways. “And I wanted to… talk.”

Immediately, you have alarm bells ringing in your head and he notices it. It’s kind of funny, how you learned to read Spencer while he is reading you– you know when things set him off when his eyes widen a little, like a little tell he does every time. Maybe you’re better at this than you think, proud of yourself when he immediately waves his hands in the air, a desperate gaze in his eyes making you snort. “No, no, no,” Words fall from his lips a bit too fast for you to not trip up on them. “No, it’s nothing like that! It’s nothing bad, I just want to know how you’re doing and… check in on you.”

“You want to check in on me?” You shouldn’t sound this enamoured, and you hate yourself for it. For the first time, you two are having an open conversation about what is happening and you want to make sure you’re present and paying attention.

“Of course I do,” His mumbling is barely audible from the living room, but when he yelps ouch and turns around with a plate of toast and coffee, you hear him loud and clear. Words mean a lot for someone like you, someone who lives off of them, but actions might just mean more because of who they are coming from. Because of his shy nature, when Spencer is direct and a bit more abrupt, it means something– it means that he is angry, or happy, or emotional, or dedicated. You like that he is dedicated about this; about you. It’s selfish in nature, but it’s true– him making you breakfast, him fussing over you, him trying… it’s all just Spencer’s way of showing that he is serious about this, and you don’t mind one bit. “Here you go. Eat up.”

Instead, you show him you’re serious too. You smile, and wait until he has grabbed his own food and joined you on the couch, to start talking. “Spencer, thank you,” You whisper, looking down at the little space that keeps you two apart as a reminder: things might be getting better, and they might be on the mend, but there is still a long way to go for things to get great.

Surprisingly enough, though, it’s quite easy to forget about Cat Adams when she’s not harassing you with unwanted gifts or letters, and it feels quite powerful to do so. Just like how easy it was to forget Josh when he couldn’t call you anymore, or touch you anymore, or scream at you anymore. What felt like the weight of the world on your shoulders now is simply the touch of a butterfly, floating away as soon as the moment of overthinking and anxiety is done. Some days, it lasts longer than others, and those are the bad the days. But on the better days, the ones that you are able to busy yourself with your store, your crush, your family; yeah, those are the days that Josh and Cat simply can’t get to you.

Today is a better day.

Hell, you might even dare to say that today is a good day, and more and more, you realise just how rare they are. So for today, you don’t allow the ghost of past and future lives to haunt you. For today, you’ll enjoy the blessings of the present.

“Thank you for… helping me through all of this,” You continue, sipping on your coffee to try and keep your hands busy and away from his. After you got a little taste yesterday, feeling the warmth of his palm enveloping yours, you can’t help but want more. You want more touches, more smiles, more sneaky glances. You just want more Spence, however you can have him. “You didn’t have to help me through it all like this. And you certainly didn’t have to come back in the middle of a case just because of this whole mess. So thank you. This really means a lot. You… You mean a lot to me.”

“Y/N, I didn’t come back because of this situation, I came back for you.”

All air is knocked out of your lungs when he says that. In a very Spencer fashion, he doesn’t say it like a confession, like it’s a secret he couldn’t keep it inside anymore. This is nothing more and nothing less than a fact, like all the many others he has told you in your year or something long friendship. He came back for you, and the Earth is round. He came back for you, and the Russian Orthodox Church excommunicated Tolstoy. He came back for you, and Plank’s constant is a fundamental universal constant that defines the quantum nature of energy and relates the energy of a photon to its frequency.

Simple as that.

“I came back for you,” He says again, nervous finger ripping his toast apart until there is no longer a toast there anymore, just bits and pieces of what it once was. Cleaning your hands from crumbs and butter, you gently extend your arm, wanting to show him support in the best way you know how to. But then you remember: Spencer is a germaphobe. He’s reserved and he prefers to wave rather than shake hands, and you pause, hand hovering over his in unsureness. Just as you’re about to pull away, he moves, a flash of limbs and plates that leaves you not time to react.

Spencer is fast and it actually surprises you to see the clumsy man being so agile. He takes a hold of your hand and the familiarity of it all spreads a blush through your body. Even if he had stopped then and there, giving you just this little taste of affection, you would be happy. The way your cheeks flush to that rosy tone he loves so much and never says anything is enough of a hint to how you’re feeling, and this time around, Spencer wants to push the limits just a little bit, just a little more. And it’s obvious by the way his eyes shine with a mischievous glimmer of intent, grabbing you into him until your bodies crash together.

This is the first time you two hug. It’s the first time your arms go around his shoulder, and it’s the first time his arms hook under yours. Spence hugs you like he needs to hug you, face rubbing on your neck like he’s trying to bury it there and hide from the whole world. Like you can actually protect him, and this time, you actually think you can. Your hands move up and down his back, a soft touch for the man that hated them so much. Sadness sweeps through you when you think about little him, avoiding touches and waving from afar instead. “Spence…” You mumble, pushing away for a second to try and talk to him, but he is quick to hold you in place.

“Stay,” The way his voice breaks off makes you hug him even tighter. “Please. I… I’m happy you’re here.”

“Spence, what’s going on?” Maybe it’s good that you can’t really look eye to eye. Those honey orbs, always so shiny and expectant, render you defenceless every time.

He takes a moment to answer and you know he’s thinking, the machinery in his head whirring to lifer. “When you called me that night, I think my heart stopped. I thought… I thought something had happened to you, and I couldn’t… be there. I couldn’t be here. And it broke my heart, because this is my fault. It’s my fault that you’re scared and that your entire life changed, and I’m just really sorry, Y/N.”

That is a hard pill to swallow. You knew he was feeling guilty; you know more about Spencer than he thinks you do– but what you didn’t know was that he was feeling bad. “Spence, I’m okay. And I’m safe. All because of you. I… I’ve been doing some research, and I know this is not usually something that would take priority for the FBI, considering that besides a note, Cat hasn’t really done anything to me, and if it wasn’t because of you, I’d probably be going through all of this alone.”

“You are a priority to me.”

“I know that now,” You whisper, shaky fingers raking through his hair in a desperate attempt to calm him down, praying, begging, hoping he won’t ask you to stop. “At… first I did blame you a little. Like, not blame you, but… it was like I couldn’t separate you and what was going on and I was angry and upset and I’m sorry too. I pushed you away when I think we both needed some support from each other, and I didn’t mean to make you worry even more, you have to believe me, I swear!”

You don’t know when the roles reverse, but it’s like a war of tug, sometimes you pull and sometimes you get pulled, and right now, Spencer is pulling you into his arms with the strength of a man who needs you. “No, Y/N, no no, you don’t have to apologise! This… God, this is a mess.”

Chuckling with him feels better than chuckling at him, and you take the moment to just enjoy the feeling of being in his arms with no rhyme or reason. “It really is, but it’s our mess and I think that, all in all, we’re dealing with it quite well, Spence.”

Everything about that moment is soft. The light is trying to come through the curtains and you smile to yourself. Spencer has always been stubborn about sunlight and he prefers the apartment on the darker side, but you can’t help but let your fingers move from his shoulder, dragging the tips all the way from his shoulder, down his arm, and extending to the end of the curtain, hooking them on the corner and raising a little bit. “It’s a nice day out…” You mumble more to yourself than him.

“Do you want to go out?” Spence asks, raising his head away from your shoulder to look at you, but you just shake your head. “What do you want to do? I have the day off today, so we can do anything you want, I swear.”

“Hmm, can we go to the store?” Sure, it’s not the most exciting thing ever, but you miss it. You miss your books that you keep in a special corner behind the counter, and you miss the deliveries that are probably pilling up with your neighbour. The question is more amusing than anything, though, because you know the answer already.

And him shaking his head only confirms your theory. Even though you know, you’re still frustrated. “Spence, please…”

“Y/N, your house is above your store,” He does seem to be upset with his own answer, and though that does not make you feel any better, you at least know he understands where you’re coming from. “We can’t risk it right now. Cat just sent a note straight to your address, and we don’t know if she knows you own the store or not, or if she has a partner working with her from the outside, or–”

“I know, I just– I don’t want to lose my store. It’s all I have.” The way your fingers fidget, playing with each other in a familiar nervous manner that you’ve surely picked up from him, has Spencer reaching out to hold your hands with both of his. It leaves you a bit breathless to notice just how big his hands are, covering yours completely.

“You will not lose your store. I will not let that happen. But I think this could be a good chance to maybe think about a hiring a manager or a helper for a while. Temporarily! Just until we can make sure that you are safe.” Without noticing, his thumb slides over the top of your hand, a calming back and forth that eases the frown on your forehead when you think about a stranger at your store. “Just someone to be with you when the store is empty, Y/N.”

Logic is on his side, as usual, and although you would never consider this under normal circumstances, you are reaching a point in which there are no other options. “A couple of days ago I sold out of stock for the first time since opening the store. I’m finally turning profit after being barely able to keep the place afloat. I love my daily routine there. I can’t let her take this away from me, Spence.”

“And she won’t. But don’t you think the help will be good? With new stock coming in and the reading events you wanted to prepare, having a trusty helper will save you some stress. And we’ll have Penelope run a check on every candidate!”

“I don’t know… is it fair for me to get someone involved in… this?” He instantly knows what you mean. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course you can. I understanding this was not in your plans, and I know you love your job and your routine and we’ll make a new one for you! We’ll create a schedule and we’ll alternate days so that you don’t have a predictable location and-and we can make it a fun thing, you know? Creating the week’s schedule, like the Sunday crossword! We could do the schedule on Saturdays and the crossword on Sundays– what do you think?”

You think this is a plan. A future plan. A future plan that is reliant on the fact of you still living in his apartment and part of you hates it, because part of you, a big part of you, wants to go home and stop feeling like such a burden to him. But then there is the smaller part of you; the part that likes waking up and hearing his hoarse voice first thing in the morning; the part of you that feels spoiled with the breakfasts in the couch; the part of you that hasn’t really been loved in a while and really missed it. That is the same part of you that swoons every time he smiles at you, and you nod, and nod, and nod. “That sounds perfect,” You whisper, looking around the living room and seeing this future he talks so much about. It truly does sound… “Perfect.”

That afternoon, he helps you write a job ad for a store manager. It’s fun doing this with him because you get a chance to pick that brain that always amazes you so much. “No, no, you should give them a feel for the store,” The way his breathing hits the nape of your neck with every word he says while reading over your shoulder makes you shiver. “Oh? Are you cold?” What you miss is the the little smile he gives you from behind, turning to quickly grab the blanket you left on the armchair to cover your shoulders.

“But I don’t want them too comfortable, it’s still my store,” You grumble, leaning back without even thinking about it. You are both by the kitchen counter, and you’re sitting on a stool with Spencer right behind you, so when you fall back, arms curling around your body and wrapping the blanket tighter around you, you fall right onto his chest. The shattered pieces of that wall you two had between you two lay on your feet, no completely gone but simply lowered; the jitters of having him so close, the anxiety of maybe having him pull away, the strong beat of his heart right on your back. It’s all there, and it all amplifies when his arms wrap around your waist. It’s too careful, the way he holds you; too light and gentle and oh so slow. You just want him to hug you like he did before, to show you more of that hidden strength he kept suppressed all the time. Spencer is not dominant by any mean, but he isn’t someone to be walked all over, either, and the more that Cat pushes you, the more you are starting to see him push back.

And you love when Spencer push back.

“Okay, focus!” His voice snaps you back to reality, so close to your ear and his chin digging on your shoulder. It’s cute how he likes to fit his face in the little nook of your neck, between your cheeks and shoulders, and it’s… oddly intimate. The kind of intimate that makes you tense up a little just at the thought. “Hey… I know this is a big step for the store, but I’m proud of you. It’ll be great to be able to share the responsibility of the place with someone else. A team is not so bad, Y/N.”

If he is any indication of what is like to have a partner, if having Spencer by your side and ready to back you up is a little taster of what being on a team is like, then he might just be right. “I know, I just… this is my baby, you know? I moved to Washington with a backpack and an email from the agent to lease the place and there is a lot of effort and emotional energy and money that went into this!”

“You moved to Washington with just a backpack?”

Curiosity is a natural response for a man like Spencer. He is curious about virtually everything and anything, and it makes your heart beat faster, every time, when he asks something to you. It feels like a sign of trust, that he is willing to actually learn from you, to listen to you, and to store all you say into his hungry brain. This time, however, when your heart speeds up, it doesn’t have those same palpitation of adoration, those same butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Instead, it feels like there’s a rock, heavy and cold and hard, being thrown around your gut, all sharp edges and precise hits. “I, uh,” Immediately, you want to move– you want to push your hair back or scratch the mysterious itch on your nape or rub the tension off of your forehead– but then you remember that he is an avid reader. And that, apparently, you are his new favourite book.

You try to play it cool, hand coming back down to the laptop’s keyboard to type out some basic information on the store and the schedule. “Yeah, it was a weird time,” And that’s all you say on the subject, even if the way he squints, those molten brown eyes running over every inch of you that you’re sure he has committed to memory, tell you that he has gotten much more information than you were willing to give. “Okay, I think it’s ready?”

He knows what you’re doing, but he doesn’t care. Uncomfortableness is written all over you, from how your shoulders hunch forward to how you stick your hands between your thighs to stop them from fidgeting. Spencer is very careful of your self-awareness. He has seen you shut down before and he knows the telling signs– you pull away, withdraw back and back and back, until you disappear in the background of your anxieties. The last thing he wants is for you to not speak to him again, arms squeezing you a bit close in fear that you might just get up and leave him behind again. Having you sit on the armchair, so close yet so far while he slept in the couch next to you, had been hard. Incredibly hard. And Spencer isn’t sure he can handle that again.

So he lets it go.

He hums, and nods, and lets you think you’ve fooled him. He lets you think that you’ve successfully whisked his attention away from the topic he wants to chat through and dissect so badly. “Looks great,” It’s cute how fast he reads the ad, and before you can overthink about it, he clicks ‘send.’ “Spence! Oh my god!”

“You weren’t going to do it,” He laughs, shaking his head and turning the stool so that you two are face to face. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

“It’s okay,” You whisper, breath hitching on your throat with just how intensely he’s looking at you. There is tension between you two, strong and growing, and it’s not the first time you’ve noticed it.

Sometimes, you think that this weird connection dates back to the first few months you knew each other. At first, it was about stupid things like what authors were truly considered cult or what were the best tropes. Banter, with Spencer, was always fun, like a little debate filled with smiles and giggles and… privacy, almost. Intimacy. It’s like every time you two talk a bubble forms around you, and no one can steal his attention. He is present, at all times, and it makes you feel like you matter; it makes you want to be present, too, happily listening to his rants and lecture with attentive eyes. Sometimes, you even pulled out a little notebook after he was gone to work, noting down the facts you’ve managed to remember, and whenever you were a bit bored, you would pull your notes out and read them over, smiling at the memories of him. The memories of him that are now locked in the drawer behind your counter. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I need to go get some stuff from the store,” You mumble, looking up at him with begging eyes. “I know you said to keep out, but please, Spence, I need more clothes and I need my things.”

It doesn’t take much convincing to have him ready to go, and you are almost giddy at the sight of Spencer in jeans. Everyone can, or at least they should, see beyond the slacks and the sweater vests. Underneath it all, you know there is a man who needs some tender loving– you know there are scars, maybe visible, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. Without his tie and his button ups, Spencer is just like any other guy, and the walls come down. Right now, he is Spence, your favourite customer and the guy that makes your heart beat faster, and you kind of love that you get to leave Agent Reid behind for a day or two.

“Let’s go, Spence!” You call, excited to get out of the house for a bit. The fresh air coming in from the open window teases you enough to have you stomping, shouting for him again. “Spencer!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” His laughter echoes in the apartment and you smiled when you see him grabbing his phone and keys.

This is too good to be true. It has now been eight days since the initial package you received in Spencer’s name, and as much as you know his intentions are good, you do wonder if maybe he is going a little overboard out of guilt. “I’m so excited to go to the store with you again!” You shriek, going down the stairs with him in tow. You’re not really looking where you’re going, constantly turning back to look at him just to catch a glimpse of that adorable smile he tries to hold back.

“Y/N, watch out–“ In all fairness, Spencer tries to reach for you and hold you back, but the moment your feet touch the ground floor, your body hits another with such impulse that you sway back into Spencer’s hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yeah, I’m–“ Turning to the person, a young woman with an expression of as much shock as yours, you immediately start to apologise. “I’m so sorry! Oh god, I’m so sorry, I–“ “Don’t worry at all,” She smiles and picks up her boxes again. “I couldn’t see because of the boxes, it’s my fault.”

“Are you moving in?”

You know that tone of voice. It’s stored in your brain as the tone of voice you never wanted to hear again, after hours of it back at the BAU office. “Hey, come on,” You whisper, allowing him lightly.

“Yes! I’m moving into apartment 13. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Abigail. Do you guys live in the building?”

“Oh, I uh, I’m just–“

The way he slips his hand in yours, fingers folding with yours. “Yeah, we live upstairs,” He says vaguely, slowly continuing to walk own the hall. “We’re a bit late, but it was great meeting you Abigail. See you around.”

You barely have time to wave before he has you out in the street, phone out and ready to go. “Sorry, I just need to call Garcia for a second. Go ahead, yeah? I’m right behind you, I promise.”

Under his watchful eyes, you take the lead in making your way to the bookstore. The sound of his shoes crackling in the sidewalk behind you is comforting. “I’m going in, just call out for me when you’re ready, okay?”

As soon as you get inside, it’s like you’re home. The books are everywhere, and you feel their warm embrace as they whisper stories in your ears. You’re like a hurricane in there, moving around with such trained expertise that no one could ever contest that you belong there, in your sacred place. Your backpack is by the counter, slowly filling up with books you want to take with you, and you enjoy the fact that Spencer is busy to check your emails for online orders and stock. So far, no big losses have taken place and you’ve only been closed for a couple of days, but you are realistic about the future of this place and you know this cannot continue. The more you see the store suffering from all of this, the more you agree that having someone mind the place while you’re out might be a good idea. Hesitancy still swirls in your heart, but you’ll do anything to avoid the heartbreak of losing your bookshop.

You don’t turn around when the bell rings. “Spence, I might need a couple more minutes–“

“We got to go. I’m sorry Y/N, we need to go, grab whatever you can.”

A sharp exhale escapes you like a knife just wedged itself in your lungs. “What’s going on?”

“Officer Kaper just called for backup,” Everything is fast again, moving forward, forward, forward, and Spencer knows how overwhelming this must be, specially after the slow and soft morning you two had, but he is working on a one track mind. He needs to get you out of there.

“Backup?” Cars honk while you two cross the street in a hurry. “Spencer, stop running, stop! What’s going on?!”

He doesn’t answer you until you’re both in his apartment, door locked and phone in hand, nervously squeezing it while he paced around.

“Spence,” You call again, careful with how you approach him when he is trying so hard to keep control of himself. “Spence, I– What’s going on?”

His eyes tell you everything. In those whiskey coloured pupils, you see the hurt and the pain, and you see the hesitation. One hand moves to push his hair back, frustration lacing every movement he makes, from walking to the couch and letting his body plop down to how his head hangs low.

“He’s on his way to the hospital. His house got broken into and… we have no confirmation, but we think it’s–“

“Fucking Cat.”

---------------------------------------

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