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just-dreaming-marvel · 1 day ago

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A Princess & Her Knight ~ 13

A PRINCESS & HER KNIGHT MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 1,880ish

Summary: A plan is set in motion to keep you and Logan a part.

Notes: This chapter is a little shorter as I'm setting up for the next thing...

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

After breakfast the next morning, you found Peter waiting outside your door. Not Logan. Peter. He straighten when he saw you, offering a soft smile.

“I was hoping I could accompany you today,” he said.

You blinked once. Not because it was strange. But because he had never done that before. Not without prompting. Not without a reason.

“Of course,” you said, not letting your guard down.

Peter offered you his arm. You hesitated a moment before taking it. Not because you wanted to, but because you could feel the eyes watching you. You walked in silence for a bit. The air between you felt overly choreographed. HIs touch too light, his step too matched.

“I’ve been thinking,” Peter’s voice was gentle when he spoke again. “We haven’t had much time to be… us. Outside of all this.”

You glanced sideways at him. “We’ve barely had time to be anything.”

He smiled like you’d made a joke. “I’d like to change that. I haven’t made it easy. But I want you to know, I see you. Not just the title. Not the pressure. You.”

It was the kind of thing a devoted fiancé should say. It should’ve made your chest warm. It didn’t. It made your skin itch.

“That’s… sudden,” you replied.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s just late.”

The two of you passed a cluster of servants, heads bowed as you walked by. And you felt it again— that tug of being watched. You glanced around. You didn’t know where Logan was. He was always near and you hadn’t seen him all day. Peter led you to the council chamber doors, then turned to face you fully. His expression softened, more than you had ever seen.

“Let me try,” he pled. “Really try.”

You hesitated, because something inside you told you this was rehearsed. And something in your chest— wished— ached— that it wasn’t. Still, you nodded.

“Alright,” you agreed.

~~~

It started small. Missed breakfast. A servant who ‘forgot’ to relay your schedule. Logan didn’t think much of it at first. The castle was large. The council kept changing meeting times. Things slipped through cracks.

But by midmorning, the cracks had become trenches. Logan arrived at the chamber where you were supposed to be meeting and found it empty. He checked the library, the gardens, the private galleries. Nothing. You weren’t to be found.

And the guards at each post? Avoided his eyes. At the corridor near the council chamber, he stopped a young steward carrying s scroll bundle.

“Where is she?” Logan’s voice was sharp.

The steward froze, trembling slightly. “I— I’m not sure, Sir,” he responded. I was just told to deliver these to the second-floor antechamber.”

“Is she there?”

The boy didn’t answer, just hurried off. Logan stared after him, a cold pressure blooming from deep within. Something was wrong. The castle didn’t move this way unless it was told to. And he’d been doing this long enough to recognize a pattern. You were being moved around without him. Logan returned to his post near your quarters— but the door was locked, and the guards wouldn’t meet his eye yet again.

“She’s not inside, Sir,” one of the guards spoke up.

“Where is she?” He asked, the question becoming second nature.

“We weren’t given the location. The Prince is handling her schedule directly today.”

Logan’s jaw locked. “Since when?”

No answer. The guard looked down. Logan stepped back, turned around, and marched down the hall. He knew that this wasn’t a mistake or carelessness. This was purposeful. They were isolating you from him. And he didn’t know what scared him more: that someone wanted him out of the way or that you might have told them to do it.

~~~

Evening had begun to settle in. You walked slowly through one of the castle’s upper corridors. The meeting you just exited was still spinning through your mind, your shoulders aching from too much smiling and not enough breathing. But one thought kept resurfacing, louder with each passing hour. Where was Logan?

You hadn’t seen him all day. He wasn’t outside any of your meetings or close behind you during your walk through the gardens. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Where he always was.

Peter though, he’d barely left your side all day. He was still there, walking beside you. He didn’t make any move to speak, like he could sense your spiraling thoughts.

“I haven’t seen Logan today,” you quietly stated.

Peter glanced at you, calm as ever, hands folded behind his back. “I’m sure he got caught up in something.”

“Without telling me?”

He gave a slight shrug. “It must’ve been an oversight.”

You stopped walking. “He’s my knight. He’s never just gone without reason. Without me being informed.”

Peter stopped too, turning to face you completely. His expression remained open, attentive— concerned, but not alarmed. “I understand why that’s unsettling… But maybe… Maybe this is what needs to happen. You and I, we’re meant to be a team. You’ve leaned on him for a while.” You stiffened slightly. “I’m not asking you to stop trusting him. I’m asking you to start trusting me.”

Your breath caught in your chest. The way he was speaking sounded so gentle, so supportive. But something behind the words felt off.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” he continued. “You don’t have to lean on the man whose loyalty will always be to his sword.”

Your gaze sharpened. “That’s not who is is.”

“I’m sure. But it’s what the court sees. And perception is everything.” He took a small step closer— not imposing, but confident. “Let me be what you need. Lean on me. That’s all I’m asking.”

You looked past him— toward the windows. The sun had fully set. And for the first time all day, you realized how deeply you’d missed Logan’s presence. Not for protection or formality. But because you didn’t know how to breathe right without him there. Still, you gave Peter a little nod.

“Alright,” you breathed out.

Peter offered his arm again and you took it without hesitation.

~~~

Logan turned the final corner with quick, heavy steps, boots echoing down the stone corridor. His jaw was set, his eyes tired but alert— sharp with frustration and worry. He’d searched every wing of the castle. No answers. No explanations. And now, finally, as the night dragged in— He found you. At the far end of the hallway. Standing outside your chamber doors. With Peter.

Logan slowed to a stop. His stomach twisted as he took in the scene. Peter stood comfortably close, speaking softly, his hand lingering against yours as he bid you goodnight. And then— deliberate and smooth— he took your hand, bent slightly, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“Sleep well, Princess,” Peter wished softly.

You gave Peter a soft smile, small and polite. But before you could respond, Peter turned, saw Logan, and smirked. It was quick. The kind of smirk shared between men who understood each other far too well.

“Sir Logan. Good evening,” Peter said his words like a challenge.

Then he walked past, slow and unhurried. Logan watched him go, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Then his eyes turned to you. And his heart cracked just slightly at the sight of you. You were angry or afraid. You just looked… exhausted. To him, you were clearly tired of the choices, the weight, all of it. Logan moved forward slowly, keeping his voice low.

“They’ve been hiding you from me,” he said.

“I figured,” you replied softly.

“Are you okay?”

“I… I… it’s been a lot.”

“I didn’t stop searching for you.”

You nodded, chest tightening. Your fingers trembled slightly as you rested them on the handle to your room. Logan noticed. He always did.

“You need to rest,” he stated simply.

You looked backed at him— eyes heavy, posture a little too still. “Logan, I need—“

“No.” His voice wasn’t commanding, but gentle. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

You hesitated and then nodded. Logan stepped forward, brushing his hand against the door just beside yours— not touching you, but close enough to make you feel steadier.

“Will you be…?”

“I’ll be right out here,” Logan promised.

You exhaled slowly before stepping inside. Logan stayed still for a long moment, letting the silence settle. Letting himself believe that you were safe behind that door, in these walls of this castle.

“Touching, really.”

The voice came from down the hall. Logan turned to see Victor, sauntering toward him, arms folded, a cruel smile curling on his face.

“She does have a way of making you look like a fool, doesn’t she?” Victor continued. “Tell me, brother— how many nights have you stood outside her door? How many times have you played the loyal hound while she’s promised to someone else?” Logan’s jaw flexed, causing Victor to chuckle. “She might not wear the right yet, but she’s already begun dancing to his tune. And still, you wait. For what? A stolen glance? A touch? A whispered thank you?”

“Careful, Victor,” Logan warned.

“Why? You’re not going to deny it. You’re not going to throw the first punch. Not here, where the walls have ears and she’s just on the other side of the door.” Logan’s hands curled into fists. But he didn’t move. “You can’t save her from this. Any of it. Not this time.”

Logan finally took a step forward. “Tell me what they’re planning.”

Victor chuckled, shaking his head. “Now, what’s the fun in that?” Victor turned on his heal. “Sleep well, brother.”

Logan stayed still outside your door. His mind was whirling with Victor’s words and his growing desire to get you out of Dolad before it was too late.

~~~

Despite Logan’s best efforts, Peter was still able to keep you away from him for a majority of the next few days. Logan tried not to show his anger, especially in the moments he was around you. He was growing more concerned for you. Each time he saw you, you looked more worn down, less like yourself. He absolutely hated it.

You hated it too. The lack of him always being nearby, seemed to be taking a physical toll on you. Peter though, was more attentive than ever. Walking you from meeting to meeting. Surprising you with tea in the gardens. Taking an interest in your interests. He was just always there instead of Logan. Trying to be the fiancé and partner he should have been from the beginning. Slowly, you began to stop questioning, falling in line like you were always taught to. You actually began to wonder if Logan was even trying to remain by your side.

It was about a week later when a knock came at your door one morning. It wasn’t Logan’s. It wasn’t familiar at all. It was sharp, insistent. You pulled your or be tighter and opened it to find a guard standing with two others behind him. Eyes hard. Posture stiff.

“Your Highness,” the guard said, in deeply serious tone. “We need you to come with us.”

“What?” You questioned. “What is going on?”

“There’s been a breach. A security matter.”

Your heart began to pound. “Where’s Logan?”

The guard paused. “He’s the matter.”

next chapter >

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tolkpopfan · 9 months ago

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I can’t get rid of the feeling of “I’ve had enough vacation now, I’m ready to go home” because I’m struggling with the fact that this is not vacation, I am not going home, technically I live here now and I have to get used to it. It also doesn’t help that this is a place I’ve gone on vacation before.

It’s not all bad, my new mattress is a full that is twice as thick as the twin I had at home (single rooms get full sized mattress and double rooms get twin beds). But I’d rather go home and sleep in my old bunk bed than here in this place that always has the air conditioning running (a noise I’m not accustomed to), because otherwise it gets too hot. I don’t miss my parents too much but I miss the feeling of control and familiarity from being home because every thing here is so new and so out of my grasp. I’ll get used to it, but it’s hard. And it doesn’t help that I have no friends and most people my age don’t seem interested in making new friends because they don’t need new friends after already having been here a while

#I feel too old to be as scared as I am #which is silly #because there’s no age limit to being afraid #but most people in my situation are 18 year olds #and most people my age don’t seem to be interested in reaching out #being a transfer student is hard #because on one hand I have all these academic and life skills I learned while staying home at community college #and on the other hand #it makes it hard to find people going through the same thing as me #I hope I don’t feel isolated for too long #because I can tell that this feeling will get really heavy after a while #at least I have kitty cat #I don’t know what I’d do without her

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painsandconfusion · 1 month ago

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Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

#sand speaks #writeblr #writing advice #writing warm up #writing #writers #on writing

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a-very-fond-farewell · 1 year ago

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went to the city, me. fell in love with ALL the pretty women, me. much struggle.

#I felt like a bog creature the whole time #looking up was misery to me. there were pretty ladies everyfuckingwhere #I cannot be trusted in public. I will melt to the ground #the friend I met after 4 months was like: mate u ok?#and I was: I cannot compute today #anyway. I did find time for the gender dysphoria to hit. STILL. who would have thought??#but I said fuck it #I haven’t been to the city in 4 months. I will not let my bog self make me feel like shit today #I finally got to eat sushi :D #the perks of that country life style ik #so. anyway. don’t self-isolate for too long folks! go out and live #or you’ll end up like me with 1 close friend I get to see three times a year and 3 online friends that live too far away for me to hug ;-;#to said friends I will say:#one day I shall tackle you and cover you in affection. hopefully soon 😈🔥#in the meantime.. for whoever is reading this:#I hope you have a good rest of your day. that your crops are watered. that your creativity leaves you satisfied & excited for what’s to come #see u soon :)#sneaky niki

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solxamber · 4 months ago

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'Elloo! :D I saw your requests open, can I request some hcs or short imagines for the first, second, and third years, separate characters?? Or you can just do it as a single scenario with all the characters. They're (Their??) reaction when they've realized the things reader/Yuu had to go through starting from the very beginning ,when they first got transported to the school. Like, the shock of not being able to go home, new environment, the fear-- just the emotional and mental turmoil reader/yuu went through starting from the beginning.

Also, as time goes by it just gets worse and worse along with all the overblots and stuff that got reader/Yuu over the edge. And now the students kind of help?? Or at least try to soothe or comfort the reader I guess??

Does this make any sense?? I dunno :'D

I want me some angst hehe >:]

But if this is kind of too much then it's okii if you wanna skip this one, I love the effort you put into your writings! <3

I kinda just wanted to ramble and yap about this idea I had hehe

Toodles!

thank you!! and i'm sorry it too so long, but i hope you like it <3

They realise what you went through - All NRC + Rollo + Neige + Grim, Staff

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle doesn’t realize the extent of your struggle until much later, likely after witnessing you reach your breaking point. The way you bottle up your emotions reminds him of himself before his own overblot, and it fills him with guilt. He prides himself on upholding order, but he feels like he failed to notice the chaos within you.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Riddle asks, voice trembling as he stands before you, his normally stern expression soft with regret. He places a hesitant hand on your shoulder, unsure if he has the right to offer comfort after overlooking your pain for so long. “I… I should have noticed. I’m sorry.”

Riddle dives into a methodical plan to ease your burdens. He takes on your academic concerns, ensuring your assignments are manageable and offering personal tutoring. When you’re overwhelmed, he insists you take breaks in Heartslabyul’s peaceful rose garden. While he’s not good at openly expressing affection, he’s steadfast, always by your side with words of encouragement and warm tea.

Trey Clover

Trey picks up on your struggles sooner than most, his observant nature allowing him to notice the small cracks in your demeanor. He doesn’t pry but stays close, offering quiet support until he realizes you’re beyond your limit. His heart aches knowing you’ve been carrying so much without asking for help.

“Hey… you don’t have to pretend everything’s fine,” Trey says softly, kneeling beside you as you sit slumped in an empty classroom. His usual calm demeanor is tinged with concern. “I’ve seen you pushing yourself too hard. You’re not alone in this, you know.”

Trey becomes your sanctuary. He’s the type to cook comforting meals for you, often sneaking you your favorite desserts. He encourages you to talk at your own pace, listening without judgment. Trey also ensures you’re surrounded by people who care, gently urging you to spend time with friends so you never feel isolated again.

Cater Diamond

Cater doesn’t fully realize how bad things are until he catches you breaking down when you think no one is watching. The sight hits him hard—he’s used to wearing masks himself, but seeing you put on a brave face while falling apart reminds him of his own struggles.

“Whoa, hey, hey…” Cater’s voice is unusually soft as he crouches in front of you, the playful lilt replaced with genuine worry. “You’ve been holding all this in, haven’t you? Man, that’s not healthy… You should’ve told me!”

Cater becomes your cheerleader, using his energy to lift your spirits. He takes you on spontaneous outings, distracting you with fun activities and selfies to remind you of life’s lighter side. When you need to vent, he’s surprisingly patient, letting you talk without interruptions. His go-to phrase becomes, “No filter, just let it out. I’m here.”

Ace Trappola

Ace is the last to understand the depth of your pain, brushing off your struggles as stress until you finally snap. Seeing you cry or lash out leaves him dumbstruck—he’s not used to serious emotions and struggles to process it at first. But beneath his awkwardness, he genuinely cares.

“Whoa… I didn’t think it was this bad.” Ace rubs the back of his neck, guilt clear in his expression. “Look, I’m sorry if I made things worse. I didn’t mean to. I just… didn’t know.”

Ace sticks close to you in his own Ace-like way. He cracks jokes to make you laugh and distracts you with playful banter, but he’s also there for the serious moments. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, he drags you outside to play a quick game of basketball or to look at the stars, insisting, “You’ve gotta clear your head, or you’ll go crazy.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce notices your struggles but doesn’t know how to approach you about them. When he finally sees you crumble, it makes him feel like he’s failed as your friend. His protective instincts kick in, and he becomes determined to help you in any way he can.

“Wait—you’ve been feeling like this the whole time?” Deuce’s voice is thick with emotion as he looks at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve done something! I’m supposed to have your back!”

Deuce takes your well-being seriously, to the point of overcompensating at first. He insists on walking you to class, carrying your things, and defending you against anything he perceives as a threat (real or imagined). Over time, he learns to provide quiet support, sitting with you during tough moments and saying, “We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is a perceptive man, even if he acts otherwise, but your struggles slip under his radar for too long. It isn’t until he notices how you’ve stopped rising to his teasing or how the light in your eyes has dimmed that the gravity of your situation hits him. It reminds him of his own sense of isolation, and the guilt gnaws at him.

“Tch. You think you’re the only one who has to deal with this crap?” Leona’s voice is gruff, but there’s no malice in it. He sighs, sitting beside you under the shade of a tree. “You should’ve said something sooner, herbivore. Doesn’t mean you have to carry it all yourself.”

Leona doesn’t coddle you, but his actions speak louder than his words. He offers his presence, silently inviting you to nap in the botanical gardens with him when you need a break. If anyone dares to make your life harder, Leona handles it with a quiet, lethal efficiency. “Rest up. You’re not falling apart on my watch.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie notices your struggles quickly, but his initial reaction is to brush it off as normal stress—until he sees you genuinely hit your breaking point. It stuns him; he’s used to dealing with hardships himself but hates the idea of you enduring the same without support.

“Oi, don’t do this to yourself,” Ruggie says, his usual playful tone replaced by something softer. “You’re not alone, y’know? I don’t let my people suffer in silence. That’s not how we roll.”

Ruggie uses his resourcefulness to lighten your load however he can. He sneaks you snacks, takes care of tedious tasks for you, and even makes you laugh with his sharp wit. When you’re overwhelmed, he shares stories of his struggles to show you that it’s okay to lean on others. “You’ve got me, okay? I’ll make sure you’re okay, promise.”

Jack Howl

Jack notices the signs of your stress early on, but he hesitates to bring it up, unsure if it’s his place. When he finally realizes how deeply you’re struggling, it stirs a protective instinct in him, and he immediately resolves to do whatever it takes to help you.

“You should’ve told me,” Jack says, his voice low and filled with regret. His ears twitch as he glances away, guilt etched across his face. “I could’ve helped. You don’t have to do this on your own anymore.”

Jack becomes your steadfast support, encouraging you to exercise or go for runs to clear your mind. He’s a calming presence, offering quiet companionship when words aren’t enough. “You’re strong, but you don’t always have to be. Let me help carry the weight, okay?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul prides himself on noticing vulnerabilities in others, but your ability to mask your pain throws him off. When the cracks finally show, it shakes him deeply, reminding him of his own insecurities and the times he felt powerless.

“I didn’t realize…” Azul murmurs, his hands wringing nervously as he looks at you with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I should have seen it. I’m sorry—for everything. Let me help you now.”

Azul’s approach is practical and calculated, but it’s rooted in genuine care. He offers to take over responsibilities or negotiate solutions to ease your stress. When you’re overwhelmed, he’s unexpectedly tender, sitting with you in his VIP room and reminding you, “Even the strongest need someone to lean on. You’ve been there for others; let us be here for you.”

Jade Leech

Jade notices your struggles early but refrains from intervening, assuming you’ll reach out when you’re ready. When he realizes how much you’ve been bottling up, he’s surprised and slightly guilty for not addressing it sooner.

“My, you’ve been carrying quite the burden,” Jade says, his usual calm tinged with regret. “It seems I underestimated just how much you’ve endured. Forgive my oversight.”

Jade is a master of subtlety, offering comfort in ways that feel natural and unintrusive. He invites you on quiet walks through the woods, using the serene atmosphere to help ease your mind. When words are needed, he listens attentively, his soothing voice offering reassurance. “Do not hesitate to lean on me, should you need support. I’ll always be here.”

Floyd Leech

Floyd doesn’t realize how bad things are until you completely snap, and even then, it takes him a moment to process that your outburst isn’t just a temporary mood. Seeing you so broken flips a switch in him, his usual playful demeanor replaced with a rare seriousness.

“Shrimpy, why didn’t you say anything?” Floyd’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, his sharp eyes scanning your face. He pouts, but there’s no mischief in it—just genuine concern. “You don’t gotta handle everything alone, y’know?”

Floyd sticks to you like glue, his unpredictable nature becoming a strange source of comfort. He drags you out for spontaneous adventures, insisting that fun will help you feel better. When you’re feeling low, he’s surprisingly gentle, wrapping you in a tight hug and muttering, “I gotcha, Shrimpy. Nobody’s messin’ with you while I’m here.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is always full of energy and positivity, so it takes him a while to notice the depths of your struggles. When he does, he’s devastated, blaming himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Wait—you’ve been feeling like this?” Kalim’s eyes widen, tears threatening to spill. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve done something to help!”

Kalim does everything in his power to brighten your days. He showers you with gifts, invites you to lively parties, and insists on spending time together to lift your spirits. When he realizes that quiet support means more than grand gestures, he sits with you, holding your hand. “You’re not alone, okay? I’ll always be here for you.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil is highly observant, and while he notices your struggles early on, he assumes you’re managing on your own until he sees how much you’ve truly endured. It reminds him of his own bottled-up frustrations, and guilt eats at him for not acting sooner.

“...I should’ve known,” Jamil mutters, his voice low and filled with regret. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “I’ve been through this too. I know what it’s like to feel trapped. I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner.”

Jamil’s care comes in quiet, thoughtful gestures. He prepares your favorite meals, arranges peaceful moments away from the chaos of NRC, and ensures you never feel overwhelmed alone. “You’ve done more than enough. Let me take care of things for a while.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil’s sharp eyes catch the signs of your struggles quickly, but he initially brushes them off, believing you’ll overcome them like any challenge. When the full weight of your burden becomes clear, he’s horrified and deeply regretful for not intervening sooner.

“I failed to notice something so glaringly obvious,” Vil says, his tone laced with self-reproach. “That’s not acceptable—not as your friend and certainly not as someone who should’ve supported you better.”

Vil approaches your comfort with precision and care, determined to help you regain your footing. He insists on self-care days, encourages you to vent your frustrations, and teaches you grounding techniques. “You’re stronger than you think, but even the strongest need rest. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Rook Hunt

Rook is attuned to the emotions of those around him, and your pain does not escape his notice. He marvels at your resilience but is deeply saddened that you’ve been enduring so much without seeking help.

“Mon cher trésor, your suffering… it pains me to think I let you endure this alone,” Rook says softly, his gaze earnest. “You’ve carried a weight that no one should bear by themselves. Allow me to lighten your burden.”

Rook’s support is poetic and heartfelt, crafting moments of beauty to remind you of the world’s wonders. Whether it’s a bouquet of flowers, a handwritten letter, or a quiet moment under the stars, he ensures you feel cherished. “You are not alone in this grand stage of life, and I shall remain by your side as your steadfast ally.”

Epel Felmier

Epel is initially too caught up in his own frustrations to notice the extent of your struggles, but once he sees you falter, his protective side kicks in. It reminds him of his own insecurities about being underestimated.

“Aw, geez, why didn’t ya say somethin’?” Epel frowns, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re always lookin’ out for us, but ya never let anyone do the same for you. That ain’t fair.”

Epel takes a straightforward approach, offering to help however he can. He sticks close, ensuring you never feel alone, and encourages you to vent when needed. “You’re tough as nails, but that doesn’t mean you gotta do it all by yourself. We’re a team, remember?”

Idia Shroud

Idia is slow to notice your struggles, being so wrapped up in his own world, but when he realizes the extent of your pain, it hits him hard. He sees a reflection of his own struggles in you and feels immense guilt for not seeing it sooner.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Idia mumbles, his voice trembling. His hair dims as he nervously fiddles with his tablet. “I should’ve… I don’t know, paid more attention. I’m sorry. I—I wanna help, if you’ll let me.”

Idia comforts you in his own awkward way, creating a safe space where you can relax without judgment. He shares his favorite games, shows, and quiet moments, offering you an escape from the chaos. “You don’t have to be ‘okay’ all the time. Just… take it easy for now. I’m here if you need me.”

Ortho Shroud

Ortho is one of the first to notice your struggles, his advanced sensors picking up on changes in your emotional and physical state. His concern is immediate, and he wastes no time in seeking to help.

“You’ve been so sad for so long, haven’t you?” Ortho’s voice is soft, as he hovers close. “I wish I could’ve made you smile sooner. I’m sorry you’ve been hurting.”

Ortho’s comfort is warm and reassuring, filled with optimism and boundless energy. He’s always ready with encouraging words, small gifts, or simply a cheerful presence to brighten your day. “You’re not alone! I’ll do everything I can to help you feel better, okay?”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus has always sensed something amiss about your emotions, his acute sensitivity to auras making it impossible for him to overlook your struggles. However, he hesitates to approach, fearing he might overstep or worsen your burdens. When he finally understands the depth of your pain, he is both heartbroken and determined to help.

“You’ve been enduring this in silence?” His deep voice is laced with regret as his green eyes soften. “If only I had been more attentive, perhaps I could have eased your pain.”

Malleus ensures you feel his unwavering support. He invites you for peaceful strolls under the stars, shares his favorite quiet spots, and reassures you with his calming presence. “You are precious to me. Whatever darkness surrounds you, I will remain by your side until the light returns.”

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia has lived long enough to recognize the signs of emotional turmoil, and it pains him to see you suffer. While he often masks his seriousness with cheerfulness, he doesn’t hesitate to step in when he sees you reaching your breaking point.

“Oh, little one, you’ve carried such a heavy heart all this time.” His playful demeanor fades into solemnity as he places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”

Lilia comforts you with wisdom and warmth, drawing on centuries of experience. He shares stories to make you laugh, cooks (albeit questionable) meals to distract you, and offers sage advice when you’re ready to talk. “Life’s trials are harsh, but you’re stronger than you know. And if you need someone to lean on, I’ll always be here.”

Silver

Silver is observant despite his drowsy nature, and he’s one of the first to notice your growing exhaustion. When he realizes the extent of your suffering, he feels deeply remorseful for not acting sooner.

“I should have seen this sooner,” Silver says quietly, his tone filled with regret. “You’ve always looked out for others… I should’ve done the same for you.”

Silver stays by your side, offering silent, steady support. He doesn’t push you to talk but is always ready to listen when you’re ready. His calm demeanor helps ground you, and he often sits quietly with you under a tree or by a calm lake. “You’re not alone. I’ll protect you—not just from danger, but from this weight you’re carrying.”

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek’s initial reaction is frustration—not at you, but at himself for failing to notice your struggles while being so focused on Malleus. His loyalty shifts into overdrive as he becomes determined to help you.

“You’ve been struggling this much, and I didn’t see it?!” Sebek’s voice is loud, but there’s a rare softness in his expression. “That is… unacceptable. I failed you as a companion.”

Sebek’s attempts to comfort you are a bit clumsy but heartfelt. He insists on helping you with daily tasks and loudly declares his commitment to your well-being. Despite his rough edges, his sincerity shines through. “Know this: I will not allow you to suffer alone any longer. You have my loyalty, now and always.”

Rollo Flamme

Rollo’s disdain for magic only deepens when he realizes how much you’ve suffered due to the chaos and overblots of NRC. His concern for you is genuine, though it’s laced with anger toward the school and its culture.

“This place… It’s a cesspool of disorder and harm,” Rollo says, his voice cold yet trembling with suppressed emotion. “You’ve been caught in its web for too long. You deserve better.”

Rollo’s comfort is practical and protective. He tries to create a sense of normalcy for you, offering quiet, structured moments away from the chaos. His words are sharp but sincere. “You deserve a life of peace and stability. If you can’t find it here, I’ll do what I can to give it to you.”

Neige LeBlanche

Neige is quick to notice your distress, his naturally empathetic nature making him keenly aware of your struggles. He’s horrified to think of you enduring so much alone and wants to do everything in his power to make you smile again.

“Oh no… You’ve been feeling like this?” Neige’s voice is soft, his eyes brimming with concern. “You don’t deserve to carry such sadness by yourself.”

Neige’s comfort is gentle and uplifting. He sings for you, offers kind words, and encourages you to express your feelings without fear. “You’re so strong, but you don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to let someone take care of you for a change.”

Grim

Grim initially doesn’t notice your struggles, his focus often on his own ambitions and mischief. When he finally realizes how much you’ve been enduring, he feels both guilt and panic.

“Hey… You’re not okay, are ya?” Grim’s ears droop as he looks up at you, his voice unusually soft. “Why didn’t ya tell me? I—I’m supposed to be your partner!”

Grim becomes fiercely protective, sticking by your side at all times. He tries to cheer you up with his antics and insists on being your “emotional support boss.” “You’re stuck with me, got it? So don’t go actin’ like you’re all alone. I won’t let ya.”

Staff:

Crowley

Crowley prides himself on being the "benevolent" headmaster, but when he realizes how much you’ve suffered under his care—or lack thereof—he’s struck by a rare pang of guilt. While he’s not one to admit fault outright, he becomes visibly uncomfortable with the weight of his oversight.

“My dear, you’ve been carrying all of this on your shoulders?” His dramatic flair falters for a moment, his usual exuberance replaced with awkward sincerity. “I… suppose I may have been a tad neglectful in ensuring your well-being.”

Crowley tries to make amends in his own roundabout way, offering resources, extended accommodations, or attempting to be more attentive (though his efforts are often misguided). “Rest assured, I shall personally oversee that you are well cared for! You have my full support—within reason, of course.”

Divus Crewel

Crewel is not one to tolerate weakness, but when he sees the toll everything has taken on you, his stern demeanor softens. He’s the type to take immediate, no-nonsense action to ensure you’re taken care of.

“You’ve let it get this bad without saying a word?” His sharp tone is laced with frustration, but his eyes betray his concern. “Pup, I thought I taught you better than to carry burdens alone.”

Crewel’s approach is practical yet caring. He insists you rest, brings you comforting meals, and ensures you know you’re valued. “You’re stronger than you think, but even the strongest need support. Lean on me, pup. I’ll make sure you’re back to full strength in no time.”

Mozus Trein

Trein is a man of wisdom and observation. He likely noticed your struggles but respected your space, waiting for the right time to step in. When he realizes the full extent of your distress, he feels deep regret for not intervening sooner.

“I should have addressed this earlier.” His voice is steady but tinged with remorse. “You’ve faced more challenges than any student should. It’s a testament to your resilience, but it shouldn’t have come to this.”

Trein offers gentle guidance, providing stability and reassurance. He shares stories of his own trials and reminds you that even the hardest times pass. “Life is fraught with difficulties, but you’ve shown remarkable courage. Allow others to help shoulder the burden—you need not face this alone.”

Ashton Vargas

Vargas isn’t the most emotionally perceptive, but when it finally clicks that you’re struggling, he’s hit with a wave of guilt. He immediately shifts gears, trading his usual boisterousness for genuine concern.

“Whoa… I had no idea it was this bad,” Vargas says, his brows furrowed in concern. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would’ve helped in a heartbeat!”

Vargas focuses on physical activity as a form of comfort, encouraging you to blow off steam in healthy ways. He also offers constant positive reinforcement. “You’re tough, kid, but even the toughest need a break. Let’s get some fresh air and clear your head—you’ve got this!”

Sam

Sam has always been attuned to the emotions of others, so when he realizes the depth of your struggles, he feels a pang of regret for not stepping in sooner. His usual upbeat demeanor becomes tinged with quiet sympathy.

“Well, well… Looks like someone’s been carrying more than their fair share.” His voice is soft, his usual grin replaced with a concerned expression. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Sam provides comfort through small but meaningful gestures, like preparing your favorite treats or giving you space to talk. He reassures you with his calming presence and wise words. “Don’t keep it bottled up, friend. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s valid. I’m here to help you through it.”

Masterlist

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darkbluekies · 6 months ago

Text

In the hands of a madman 2024 ver

Doctor!yandere oc x reader

Summary: a doctor is very peculiar about his favorite patient, and senses a threat once they disobey him.

Warnings: yandere, poison, murder, cuff restraints

Word count: 2.4k

You gag.

“Yes, yes, I know”, he coos, grimacing and removes the wooden stick out of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

You're left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Why does he always stick that thing as far down your throat as humanly possible? You thank heavens that it’s not one of the needles extracting blood from your arm, although you’re sure that’s what’s waiting tomorrow.

“Still nothing?” you ask cautiously.

He meets your eyes and you know immediately. You sigh heavily. Your heart sinks to your stomach.

Every three months, he’s doing all sorts of tests to see if you’re getting better — or what’s what he’s saying. Every three months, Dr Kry has to check every vital sign on you to make sure that his sickness isn’t getting out of his control. But you don’t like them. They hurt. Badly.

“Will I ever get to go home? I want to.”

Dr Kry sighs and sits down on his rolling stool, coming over to your bed.

“I know you do, but you that’s not possible”, he says apologetically. “You know that too.”

“Yeah, because you keep reminding me”, you mutter.

“That’s better than giving you false hope, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that drive you insane?”

It would, but you don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need to.

“I want to go home!” you say again, louder this time.

“Saying it louder won’t make you better or me change my mind”, Dr Kry says.

You sigh and press your palms to your eyes, trying to press the tears back into your eyes before they escape. You’ve been here for too long by now. You’ve been isolated for so incredibly long. ALl you want is to go home. You know no one, talk to no one beside him. The proper, sophisticated man who’s stiffer than a stick. Dr Kry sighs and moves closer.

“I know that you’re disappointed”, he says and puts his large hand on your shoulder. “But this is for the best. “I don’t want you to get worse.”

“I hate these fucking tests! They hurt.”

“I know.”

He glances towards the white air purifier on the shelf beside the bed. The poisoned air purifier. He’s always making sure it’s not too much, not too little. Just the exact amount to keep you where he wants you — weak and vulnerable, dependent on him.

“I know it’s hard”, he says encouragingly. “I know that you’re in pain, but you’re doing so good. You can always call for me if you need me, okay? I’m available all day and night for you.”

You press forward a smile, but can’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over you. Why did this happen to you? Where did you go wrong to end up here? How could a sore throat get you bed bound in a hospital room? If only you knew.

“Let’s get you tucked in again”, Dr Kry says and helps you lie down in bed. “You shouldn’t be putting to much pressure on your body.”

He pushes up your pillows, having you lie in a 45-degree angle. It helps you breathe at night. He always tucks the blanket close to your body, as if you were a butterfly in a cocoon. He gives you a small smile before standing up.

“Please don’t go”, you whisper. “I don’t want to be left here.”

The man looks at you, studies you carefully before nodding and sitting back down. He wipes your lonely tear with his finger. He looks at his wet finger, thinking.

“I feel helpless”, you admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever get well again.”

Little do you know that’s exactly what he wants.

“It’s okay, Y/N”, he says. “I will take care of you. I will stay with you until you’re well again.”

He has to force back a smile.

“I don’t want to do these anymore”, you say monotonously.

“I know you don’t, but you have to”, Dr Kry says apologetically and moves closer to the bed on his rolling stool. “They’re important.”

“They hurt …”

“I know, but you’re doing so good, okay? I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a small, painful smile.

“I’ll sit here until you fall asleep, don’t worry”, he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes slowly. He fades out.

He takes blood tests the following day. Needles, pain.

“Now, you need to take a nap”, he says and tucks you in.

The daily afternoon nap. You hate it, but he insists. While you sleep, he’s out taking care of other patients that are not you. He hates it, hates wasting his time and skill on people that aren’t you. Those patients are one time patients that are there for surgeries, consultations or checkups. No long term patients that have to stay in the hospital. Everyone gets to leave after he meets them. Everyone but you. You stay.

You keep your eyes closed until Dr Kry leaves the room. Quickly, you sit up and get out of bed. After all these fucking tests, you’re deserving of something else than the tasteless cardboard Dr Kry gets you. Just one brownie. Something that has sugar. And maybe some coffee for caffeine too.

Quietly, you sneak out into the corridor. There’s something about these sterile passageways that makes the hair on your back stand on its end. Is it the dehumanized area or the fact that you’re never allowed here? Is it nerves or excitement? Whatever it is, you decide to speed up your steps and hurry towards the elevators before anyone sees you. They’ll tell him. Just as the doors are about to close, someone stops the doors. A boy dressed in a similar hospital gown as yourself forces his way into the elevator. He gives you a rushed, apologetic smile.

“Sorry”, he says sheepishly. “I am in a hurry.”

“What happened to you?” you ask and smile halfly.

“I escaped from the therapist. A real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help but giggle. The young man licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair.

“Have you met her?” he asks. “The therapist?”

“No”, you say.

You haven’t met anyone but your stiff and proper doctor.

“Don’t”, the young man advices you and leans his back against the wall. ��She’s mental. I honestly think she should be the one getting interrogated — not me.” He looks at you, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Do you meet others?” you ask.

“In the lounge. Have you been there?”

You shake your head and lower your eyes.

“Did you just arrive?” the man asks.

You shake your head again.

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

The elevator stops and the doors open at your floor.

“Are you going to the cafeteria?” the man asks.

“Yes”, you reply.

“I’m coming with you. Maybe you can help me blend in.”

“Okay.”

The boy seems frantic, but happy. Running on adrenaline and excitement. Together, you walk through the hospital to the cafeteria and realize that you don’t have any money. Your shoulders fall. Did you come here for nothing?

“Aren’t you going to order something?” the young man asks.

“I don’t know”, you reply quietly.

Before you have the time to come up with a lie why you can’t order anything, you recognise something in the corner of your eye. A blonde man dressed in a white robe. You feel your blood run cold.

“What do we have here?” Dr Kry asks and you have a hard time reading his tone or facial expressions. “What do you think you are doing out of bed?”

He walks over to you and grabs your shoulder. You flinch. His grip is … tight. Painful.

“You’re supposed to rest”, Dr Kry says shortly.

He looks at the young man. His eyes seem to go right through him.

“Where are you supposed to be?” he asks.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry gives him a cold gaze before grabbing your upper arm in a tight grip. He doesn’t say anything as he starts to pull you with him. His steps are quick, steady. Angry.

“Doctor …”, you try.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry pushes you into the elevator and presses the button. He doesn't let go of your arm.

“Doctor, I’m sorry”, you say.

He still doesn’t answer. You barely dare to look at him. There’s something about his face that scares you. It's stoic, unreadable. But he oozes anger. Like a dark cloud.

The elevator stops, the doors open. His tight grip remains as he drags you back into your room.

“Lay down”, he instructs shortly.

You do, too scared to disobey. Dr Kry walks past you, to the drawers by your bed. He rips out two leather bands that look like belts for dolls. Before you're aware of what he's doing, he's strapped one of your wrists to the bed railing.

“Wait, doctor-”, you blurt out.

“Be quiet.”

He locks your other wrist to the other railing. You tug at the restraints, and find them secure.

“Are they too tight?” Dr Kry asks, still with that short tone that sends icy needles down your spine.

“Doctor, what are you-?”

“Answer the question. Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He turns to his desk, ignoring you.

“Doctor, I'm sorry”, you say.

“You broke my trust”, he says without giving you any attention. “It's important, for your healing, that you do not deceive me. I need to be able to trust that you do as I say. How many times have you done this?”

“Only this time, I promise.”

He doesn't answer. You feel how your eyes fill with tears. Your body is in such a vulnerable state that your body betrays you. You didn't want to upset him, didn't want to put your own health at risk by doing this.

“I'm sorry, doctor”, you sniffle. “I didn't mean to break your trust.”

He sighs and turns his head to look at you. His blue eyes soften and he rises from his chair, coming over to your bed. He can't stay mad at you, not when you're clearly dumb. You don't understand, he can't be mad at you for not understanding. He should — and is — mad at himself for not foreseeing these situations and making sure you don't do it.

“You know that I only want what's best for you, don't you?” he asks and wipes your tears with his hand.

“Yes”, you reply.

“In that case, I want you to never repeat this mistake. Mistakes are forgivable, but they should be minimized, do you understand that?”

“Yes. Do you forgive me?”

He has to force back a smile. You're so unbelievably cute.

“Yes, I do forgive you”, he says.

“Can you take off the restraints?”

“No. I might forgive you, but I need you to know what happens once mistakes occur. This is the consequences that follow. If I can't trust you to be where I want you to be, I need to take precautions to make sure you are.”

You lower your gaze.

“Who was that, by the way?” he asks. “That young … man. Why did you speak to him?”

“I don't know, he took the same elevator as me.”

“I don't want you to speak with him again. If he's the one they're looking for, I don't want you getting influenced by his reckless ideas.”

“I don't get to speak to anyone, anyways.”

“And that's how it should be. We don't know why you're sick, and you shouldn't contaminate someone else.”

“What about you, then? You can get sick too.”

“I'm ready to take that risk.”

He's too nice, you think. All he wants is to take care of you and you put his selfless risks to hell when you decide to disobey him. How horrible of you.

“Now, you need to take that nap for real”, he says. “I will sit by my desk. If you need something you can just let me know.”

He walks back to his desk and sits down, starting to file some paperwork. You tug at the restraints. You're not going anywhere.

When you’ve fallen asleep, Dr Kry makes his way through the hospital. They’ve captured that young man and put him back into his room … and Dr Kry wants a talk with him. He opens the door quietly. The young lays in bed, sleeping. Dr Kry circles around him, taking a good look at him. Did you find him cute? Hot? Did you like talking to him? Did you think that he was better than him? Did you enjoy those ten minutes with him more than these months with Kry? Do you want to meet with him again? He glares at the sleeping man. Dr Kry walks over to the supply closet, an identical to the one in your room, and takes out one of the spare pillows. Silently, he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow and presses it over the young man’s face. He widen his eyes, pulled out of his slumber. He screams against the pillow, his voice getting muffled in the fabric.

“Normally, I’d make this easy for you”, Dr Kry grunts as the man starts to fight against him. “Out of pity, but you don’t deserve that mercy.”

He screams in confusion, fear. Dr Kry can make out words. What. No. Help. Stop.

“Just give in and give yourself that mercy”, Dr Kry continues. “If you continue to fight against me, you’ll be in more pain.”

The man cries. Dr Kry breaks out into a smile.

“You’re going to die either way, you can choose to end it quicker.”

The young man doesn’t seem to get the memo. He continues to fight, cry, plead. He drinks it all in. The horror, the helplessness. The dear in headlight. He has seen the light in people’s eyes disappear multiple times during his job as a doctor. To see the moment someone becomes just a piece of flesh. He has never enjoyed it as much as now. The man stops moving. Dr Kry removes the pillow and takes a step back, looking at the lifeless body. He breathes out. Finally, he can calm down.

And now, all he needs to do is to make sure he can not be traced back.

He finds you sleeping soundly as he comes back to your room, wrists still locked to the sides of the bed. You make his heart ache. He sits down beside you, brushing his fingertips over your cheek.

I control your life, my little one. You’re going to say with me and I’ll take every repercussion to make sure you don’t disappear.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere doctor #yandere fics #yandere oneshot #yandere oc

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yandere-daydreams · 7 months ago

Text

Screening: Dracula (1931).

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader (HxH).

Runtime: 1.8k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Obsessive Behavior, Threats of Physical Violence, Slight Gore, and Mentions of Death.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You could feel his eyes burning into you from the other side of the abruptly-too-short table, the chill of the marble slab where it threatened to press into your midriff, but you did your best to ignore both. The table had already been set by the time you were called down to the dining room, a small army of silver platters arranged neatly in the space between you and him. You hadn’t eaten since the night before, but you weren’t hungry. Even if you had been, it was hard to imagine forcing yourself to choke down anything aside from your own anxiety. You were tempted to try your luck with the generously poured glass of wine to your left, but to drink it, you’d have to reach for it, and to reach for it, you’d have to lift your hands from where they were balled in your lap and you couldn’t do that because your hands wouldn’t stop fucking shak—

“Is the meal not to your tastes, dear?”

“It’s perfect,” you responded immediately, beaming. You grabbed the wine glass before you could hesitate, drinking as much as you could stand to. Chrollo’s ever-present grin had taken on a contented lull by the time you set it down. “Remind me to thank the chef before I leave. That is, if I ever actually manage to catch him.” And then, with a forced laugh, “That is, if this storm ever lets up long enough for me to get out of here.”

As if on cue, thunder clapped outside, followed shortly by a bolt of lightning bright enough to cast the dimly light dining room in a vibrant silver haze. You shrunk into your seat, but Chrollo’s dark eyes only seemed to brighten. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t run into a member of my staff, yet. It’s been… how long? Four days?” Six. Come midnight, you’d be celebrating your week-long anniversary. “I hope you don’t think I’m keeping anyone away from you deliberately. Not that I’d mind keeping you to myself.”

It took everything you had to smile rather than cringe, to laugh rather than bury your face in your hands and scream. A day ago, you would’ve found your host’s nonchalance charming, but it was hard to find someone charming when the thought of meeting his eyes made you feel physically sick. It was hard to believe you’d been so thankful when you first turned-up on the doorstep of his dark, empty countryside mansion, when you realized you wouldn’t be at the mercy of an ancient, self-isolating millionaire but a man around you own age who, as far as you could tell, was as flustered to see you as you were to need his help. You explained that your car broke down about half a mile down the road, and he invited you to spend the night before calling for help at a more reasonable hour. The typhoon had rolled in not long before sunrise, and, well…

Again, thunder crashed and rain pelted the mansion from all directions. This time, you flinched into your seat before you could stop yourself.

It was your own fault, honestly. It’s not like there weren’t signs that something was wrong. Chrollo was charming, but he was off-putting, too. He seemed to treat the concept of personal space as more of a suggestion as a rule, whether that meant seeking you out in the tightest corner of the mansion’s sprawling library just to share a sofa truly meant for, at most, one person or letting himself into your room at night as if he couldn’t tell the difference between two in the afternoon and two in the morning. He claimed to have a full staff, and yet, you’d never run into any maids, butlers or cooks – never saw anyone who wasn’t Chrollo. His clothes always seemed to be either strange or ill-fitting, like he was wearing items from someone else’s closet, and more damningly, he didn’t seem at all suspicious of you, the stranger he’d allowed to stay in his home for nearly a week, now. No offense was particularly jarring, but it should’ve added up. You should’ve noticed sooner.

The only thing you could do, you figured, was bid your time and sneak out in the early hours of the morning. The landlines were down and you didn’t have cell reception, but the next house couldn’t be that far away, and you doubted Chrollo would follow you into the storm. Or, you hoped he wouldn’t, at least. You couldn’t really do much more than that.

“So,” Chrollo went on, and you made a point of nodding and smiling like he’d just said the smartest thing you’d ever heard, “When did you find the bodies?”

Immediately, your expression fell. A second later, you noticed that your hands had stopped shaking, but only because you’d lost the ability to move entirely.

When you finally regained the will to speak, it was all you could do to spit out something pathetically noncommittal. “...I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“Don’t be shy. I promise, I’m not mad, just curious.” He paused, letting his eyes bore into you. “You left the door unlocked.”

Ah.

The basement door, to be more specific. Calling what you’d found ‘bodies’ might’ve been a little generous, too. What little had been left of each corpse was already so badly deteriorated that it would’ve been impossible to tell which detached hand might’ve belonged to what disembodied torso. That was probably your fault, too. If you’d known to be wary of Chrollo, you would’ve known better than to follow him into the one place he’d asked you not to go, the one place he seemed to always disappear to when he wasn’t breathing down your neck.

“This morning,” you admitted. “I was bored and looking for you. Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing that it took me this long to realize you were a…”

You trailed off, but Chrollo was more than happy to finish in your stead. “A member of the Phantom Troupe?”

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from buckling – your mouth falling open as you stared at him, wide-eyed. “Oh my god,” And then, after burying your face in your hands, “I thought you were a fucking vampire, you goth prick.”

That was enough to earn an airy chuckle from Chrollo, any condescension hidden well underneath wry amusement. While you tried to recover, he went on. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you that I don’t actually live here. In truth, I only arrived a few hours before you did – long enough to dispose of the residents and staff, even if getting rid of their remains has been an…” For once, his eyes shifted away from you, skirting to the left. “An ongoing process.”

With a shallow sigh, he pushed himself to his feet rounding the table and falling into the chair closest to you. Dinner, if he’d ever had any interest in it at all, was thoroughly forgotten as he propped an arm on the edge and rested his chin on his knuckles. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not being more upfront. In a line of work like mine, it’s so rare to find an opportunity to play house.”

So, he was a thief. No, it was more than that – he was a world-class thief, with worse crimes under his belt than a handful of homicides and the wrongful imprisonment of one confused civilian. God. This was bad. You should’ve left earlier – as soon as you found the bodies. You should’ve never gotten out of your car at all.

Slowly, you straightened your back, keeping your arms crossed as you glared half-heartedly. “Are you going to let me leave?”

He hummed, drumming his fingers against his jaw. “Now, why would I go and do something like that?”

Your heart sank in your chest. “You’re going to kill me, then?”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.” It was uncanny, how little his demeanor changed prior and post to his confession. If anything, he seemed even more smug – like he was basking in your apparent terror. “As if I could be so wasteful. Besides, I was under the impression that you’ve been enjoying out time together.”

“And I was under the impression that you weren’t a serial killer!” You threw up your hands, agitation quickly overshadowing the worst of your nerves. “Things can change!”

“I suppose they can.” He was so frustratingly calm. If the memory of his dissected victims wasn’t burnt so deeply into your mind, you would’ve rolled your eyes. “And eventually, things will. You don’t think I plan to keep you trapped in this estate forever, do you?”

Rather than dwell on the implication, you moved on swiftly. “If you’re not going to hurt me, you can’t stop me from leaving. The storm can’t be more dangerous than spending another night with you.”

Somehow, his smile only seemed to grow that much wider. “Did you know that the majority of deaths related to natural disasters are from delayed attempts to evacuate? There are all sorts of threats – flooding, debris, sinkholes…” He brightened with each listed hazard, and you tried (and failed) not to picture yourself drowning in muddy rainwater. “Oh, and sickness, of course. Spend enough time in the rain and it won’t matter if you eventually find shelter – you’ll die of pneumonia in a matter of weeks.”

“You don’t know—”

“And, for the record, I said I wasn’t planning to kill you. You never asked about anything else.” He let out a dry chuckle. “I’m sorry, but I sure you understand. It’d just be irresponsible to promise that I’ll never have to, say, dislocate your ankle to stop you from making a very brash, very unadvisable decision.”

“Like calling the cops.”

“Like trying to go outside in a very bad, very easily deadly storm,” he clarified. “You can contact anyone you’d like, but please, try to be considerate. I’m going to run out of room in the basement eventually.”

This time, when you melted into your seat, it wasn’t out of reflex or anxiety, but in a deliberate effort to put that much more distance between him and you. “I… I don’t want to get hurt, and I don’t want to die,” you admitted, taking longer than it should’ve to say something so glaringly obvious. “Tell me what I have to do to make that not happen.”

Yet another clap of thunder. This time, the lightning didn’t so much as tint his soulless eyes. “Straight to the point, as always. I like that about you.”

For the first time, he seemed to hesitate – a pink haze spreading over his pale cheeks as he reached out and laid his hand, almost gingerly, over yours. His trepidation was short-lived, though, only lasting up until the second you tried to pull away and he had an excuse to intertwine his fingers with yours, his grip tight enough to bruise.

“Why don’t we get to bed, darling?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #hunter x hunter #hxh #hunter x hunter x reader #hxh x reader #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer

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unequivocallyreid · 8 months ago

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Why Didn’t You Tell Me?

it has been SO long... i was suffering from serious writers block but it think i'm finally out of it :)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer Reid used to be your best friend, but things changed. How long can you pretend that you don't love him before it ruins you?

warnings: angst! (with a happy ending), smut (unprotected piv), character loss, mention of Maeve, very sad Spencer, mental health struggles, drinking/bar scene, light choking, fighting, slight praise kink

wc: 8.8k 🤗

i’m very proud of this one! i hope you love it!

Every morning when you wake up, you feel a familiar and creeping sort of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Don’t get the wrong idea; you love your job. You love helping people and stopping horrible people from ruining any more lives, but the creeping feeling and desire to get out is always in the corner of your mind. Anyone working in this field would tell you that. There’s no absolute separation between you and the victims and their families. You take all of them home with you, and you just have to learn how to deal with that and not let it eat at you.

It doesn’t help that it’s an isolating job as well. The last time you were in a serious relationship was in college. Now, every date you have ends in disappointment. Not only do you lack interest in most of the men and women, but it couldn’t go anywhere even if you did. 75% of your time is spent in the office, on a jet, or hundreds of miles away from your home.

All of this contributes to the feeling, but the worst part of your job is Dr. Spencer Reid.

He’s secretive and dismissive and just about the most attractive person you’d ever seen. You honestly don’t know what is worse: his constant physical presence in your life or the fact that you can’t stop thinking about him no matter what you do. You’ve tried to get over it; you’ve buried yourself in work, lamented to your friends, and gone out on dates (all with guys that looked vaguely similar), but nothing has worked. All his worst traits grate your nerves and light you up at the same time.

The worst part of it all is that it wasn’t always like this. When you first joined the BAU nearly two years ago, you and Spencer got along well. You were friends, he talked to you about his life, he understood you, and you really severely fell for him. He became your best friend.

Everything changed around six months ago. Spencer started to develop migraines, and as those developed, he started distancing himself from you. He became snippy and closed off, he started hiding things from you, and he stopped talking to you about life outside of Quantico. It was like overnight, you became nothing to him, and you really didn’t understand. Everyone else on the team got the same old Spencer, but you went from his right-hand man to someone he only spoke to when it was necessary.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be vilified. You know, realistically, he can and should be able to decide who he wants to be close to, but working with a man who unknowingly broke your heart was close to the hardest thing you’d ever done. So, you decided hating him was easier. The real emotions you feel toward him sit somewhere inside you, but they have been covered by manufactured distaste. Addressing the actual feeling would hurt too bad, so you pretend to hate the things you used to love.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the last case you worked on: helping Spencer save a girl he met about six months ago, a girl he loved. You tried to stay collected, you said nothing when Spencer assisted when he shouldn’t have, and goddamn, did you do everything in your power to find that girl. Maeve. She was perfect for Spencer, and you saw that immediately. Everyone did. The sight of him sobbing in front of her body is one that will never leave your mind.

Now, two weeks later, no one has heard from Reid. The only indication that he hasn’t abandoned his life altogether is the absence of the gift baskets on his doorstep that Pen leaves daily.

Nearly everyone has been to his apartment, but they are met with a closed door and have yet to receive a response. Everyone but you.

Penelope is the first to bring up your lack of appearance at the end of a long day of paperwork.

“Y/n, please, you just have to try. No one is getting anything from him.”

“I really don’t think my presence would do any good,” you pause for a moment, trying to collect the thoughts running through your head like a freight train. “Me and him haven’t been close in a long time, Pen.”

Before you can continue, she cuts in, “Everyone has tried, Y/n. Hell, I’ve even considered tracking down Gideon, and I really, really do not want to do that.”

She pauses for a moment before looking up at you with a pout on her face, “Please, Y/n, for me. I can’t bear the thought of him in there all alone, just wasting away in grief.”

For someone who claims not to be a profiler, Penelope knew exactly what to say to get you to agree. She’s the only person in your life who you told about how you felt, though you’re sure everyone else (aside from Spencer) knew: you’re shit at keeping secrets.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

She nearly bursts with excitement, “Thank God-“

You cut her off before she can finish, “But I’m telling you, I’m not the person he wants to hear from right now. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Yes, yes. I just want him to know we all want him to be okay.”

Before you can hurry out of the office to follow Pen’s instructions, she stops you and hands you a basket full of assorted snacks and fruits.

“Make sure he eats!”

The walk up to Spencer’s apartment is a hard one to take. The smell of his building hits you as soon as you step into the lobby. From there, everything rushes back at once. Memories of nights you spent watching reruns of Doctor Who or listening to him prattle off about whatever he last read assault you with every step. As you slowly make your way up, you start to question why you agreed to do this in the first place.

You feel a lot toward Reid. More than you should and less than you could. But all that care and feelings that are so close to love aren’t enough to make you forget why you’ve been trying to hate him for so long. He deserted you without an explanation and cut you off without a warning. You spent weeks (three months) crying over him like a love-struck teen. So, as much as you want to hold him and comfort him, you know it’ll hurt you to do so. Penelope sent you, with the whole team’s approval, you’re sure, to try to patch up a broken heart he got loving someone else. There’s a sickness in your gut, but it’s not enough to stop you from rapping your knuckles against his door.

“Spencer? It’s Y/n.”

There’s no response.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I want to make sure you’re alright. Can you tell me you’re alright?”

Again, nothing.

You know he’s there. Despite your lack of communication, you know Spencer well enough to know that he would never leave his life behind entirely. That being said, your next few attempts at garnering a response are unsuccessful.

You decide to try one final time before just leaving the basket alone on his doorstep and texting Pen it was a bust.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you now, and I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling.”

You don’t exactly know where this is headed, but you continue on regardless.

“I know you’re in there, and I know you can hear me, and I know you’re hurting. You shouldn’t- I don’t want you to be alone right now, Spence. You can either unlock your door, or I can pick it, but I’m coming in one way or the other. You know I will.”

You wouldn’t, actually. It’s a last-ditch effort, and it’s met with the same silence you’ve heard on the other side for the past ten minutes. You’re about to turn to head back down the stairs when you hear the very faint sound of a deadbolt turning.

There’s no other sound or movement, and for a moment, you think you might’ve imagined the sound, but you try the handle anyway. It turns, and the door slides open. You take a step in.

“Spencer,” you call out to him.

You don’t see him at first in the mess of his apartment, but when you do, you feel a crack form in your heart.

Beyond the clutter of his entryway, you see his back on the couch. His frame looks smaller than you’ve ever seen it, and you can see his legs curled into his chest. You set down the gift basket by a collection of others on the entry table and walk over to him. Slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a lost dog, you creep in front of him.

His head is down, and his gaze stays trained on his knees.

You reach out your hand and lay it over his. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Spence, I’m so glad you opened the door.”

You didn’t plan out what you would say, but ‘sorry’ feels redundant and useless.

You go on, “I’m here. I- I don’t know what to do or say, and I’m sorry that I don’t. I can get someone else for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

You wait for him to say he wants Penelope or JJ, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. You start to move to get up, figuring you could clean up a bit and try to make him something to eat, then go, but he grasps your arm before you can.

He looks up at you, and his eyes hit you right in the gut. They’re bloodshot and sunken but still beautiful.

“Stay. Please. I just- I need to know I’m not dreaming. I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

His voice is croaky from disuse and breaks at the end, but it’s so heartbreakingly earnest that you feel your breath catch. You move from your crouch and sit beside him on the couch; your hand is still in his.

You stay like that for a long time. His breathing is shakey and uneven, and every so often, his body shakes with what you can only assume are sobs. You stay pressed to his side the whole time, thumb rubbing back and forth over his hand.

Eventually, you speak again, “I’m gonna get you some food, Spence. You should eat.”

He says nothing back, but he does loosen his grip. You push yourself up from the coach with a promise you’ll be as fast as possible.

His kitchen is nearly empty, and you hope he’s been eating from the baskets. Still, you find enough to make noodles and butter, and you figure the carbs should help his energy some.

You return with the bowl. Spencer hasn’t moved, but his head follows you as you walk back over to him.

“It’s not fine dining.”

He studied you for a second, and you catch a glimpse of the old him in his eye.

“You did the same thing when I was sick on a case a year ago.”

You smile at his recollection.

“It helped you then.”

The rest of the night is spent mostly in silence. Occasionally, you tell him something to try to remind him that you’re there and that you won’t leave as long as he wants you there. Eventually, you get up from the couch again.

“Spencer, it’s too late to still be awake.”

He nods and still says nothing, but he is far more receptive than before. You reach your hand out to him to help him up from the couch, and he takes it.

He leads you to his room at a slow pace. His head stays down as you both take a seat on his bed, hands still interlocked. Being in his bedroom is odd for you. You’ve been to his apartment quite a few times before he disappeared from your life, but you never breached this space. It’s all very him. Almost surprisingly cozy, with books scattered around nearly everywhere there’s space.

You take in the moment for a beat before saying, “I’m gonna head home, Spencer, but please call me if you need anything at all. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

This makes his head snap up, and his eyes lock with yours.

“Please stay.”

That’s all he says, but every part of him is pleading with you. It’s not a good idea, and you know it. You’re the only person he’s seen in days, you aren’t close anymore, and you don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch tonight.

“Spencer, I don’t want to sleep in your living room tonight. I’ll come back.”

He pauses for a moment, “You can stay here with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

Your heart cracks again. There was a time when this was all you wanted. It’s still, deep down, all you want, just not like this. You know he doesn’t really want you there and he’s not himself. But you aren’t strong enough to say no, so you don’t.

He gets you clothes to wear, and you change in his bathroom. You come out and find him in his bed, laying with his back to you. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but you get into bed next to him anyways. There are a thousand thoughts racing through your head, but the prevailing one is how badly you want to touch him, to hold him, to make him forget, just for the night. You stay still, though, confined to the edge of the bed and start to count to drown out the noise.

Though, you can’t drown out his voice, saying, “Can- Could you hold me? I think that everything feels better when you touch me.”

Another crack. By the end of this, you know Spencer Reid is going to break your heart all over again.

When you wake up the next morning, Spencer is still asleep. You sneak out of his room and call Hotch. When he answers, you tell him Spencer has let you in, and you ask for time off to try to help. You can tell from his voice that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but he grants you it anyway.

Much of your day is spent like the night before. You stay next to Spencer, and you cook for him after leaving to pick up clothes and groceries. Then, you get him to shower and wash his hair. He sleeps with his head in your lap, and you feel like a fucking idiot at first, but as long as it’s helping him in some way, you let it happen.

That’s the thing: you don’t really know how to help him. You know he isn’t the type to talk about something until he is entirely ready, so all you can do is add something domestic and bright to his life while he grieves. It’s all you can think about in the moments of silence. Hell, you even read to him to try and get your mind off of it, but it barely helps.

The night is the same. You change in different rooms and slip into his bed at different times. You feel dirty for imagining what it would be like if the circumstances were different: if he wanted you like you have wanted him for the past two years. You hold him against you, and you pray for sign that you should be there.

The sign comes the following morning when Derek calls you.

“Y/n…”

You can hear his teasing tone over the phone.

“Hi, Derek.”

“What are you doing, mamas?”

You sigh, “What do you mean?”

You’re playing coy. You know he’s wondering why you’re at Spencer’s house, picking up the pieces, but you won’t be the one to bring it up.

“Why’d you ask Hotch for the week off, Y/n?”

Another sigh, “You know why, Derek. I just, I want to help him.”

“I know you do, Y/n, I know.”

He pauses for a moment, and you let the moment fill with silence.

“I know you care about him. We all care about him. But who is taking care of you?”

“I am. I can take care of him, and I can take care of me.”

“I know you can, but I don’t want you to get hurt, Y/n. Don’t let this be something that hurts you.”

“It won’t. I- You have to- Fuck, I’ll be fine. He’s not fine. I don’t care about me or any feelings that may get hurt right now. I’ll be fine.”

There’s another bear of silence, “Okay, Y/n. Just know you’re allowed to tap out.”

You try to think of anything else to say, but nothing comes, so you say your goodbyes.

You won’t need to tap out. You can take care of him and be good to him and ignore the other feelings you have. You can be good.

The call does make you think it’s time to push, to try harder, to help him get better. So, you approach him that day before bed, before he tucks himself into your arms and falls into a fretful sleep.

“Spencer?”

He takes a moment and then responds, “Yes?”

“You have to talk about it. I think that you need to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be to me but to someone.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and your breath is caught in your throat, waiting for him to say anything.

“I- I don’t want to,” his voice cracks while he says it.

“Spence, you can’t come back if you don’t. You can’t move forward if you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

A ringing echos in your ears.

“You don’t mean that. She- she would want you to keep going.”

Wrong thing to say.

“You don’t know anything about what she would want.”

He’s seething now, below the surface, but smoke has started to plume from his ears. Still, you don’t stop.

“Spencer, everyone knows that. No one would want you to put your life on hold.”

He speaks his next line through his teeth, “You don’t know anything, Y/n.”

You’ve never heard him sound so angry.

“Spencer-“

“No, just stop. You don’t know her. You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. You don’t know anything. I don’t even know why you’re here. I don’t want you here. You can't be what I need.”

The ringing in your ears is louder.

“Spencer, please. Just-“

“No!” His voice is raised now, bordering on a yell, “I don’t want you here. I want you out, Y/n.”

This has to be what shell shock feels like. The ringing, the tingle in your limbs, and the heat in your face. You don’t know how you are moving, but you are.

His voice is echoing in your head, or maybe he’s still talking, but you can’t tell either way. The only thing you can focus on is how Spencer sounded like he hates you and that Morgan was right about the hurt.

You spend the next day trying desperately to shut down the noise in your head. It doesn’t work. The day after is the same. And the days following that. You ignore calls when they come, you ignore the texts, but you can’t stop looking at your phone for a message from the man who fills your thoughts.

Spencer doesn’t call, obviously, and you have to sit with a pit in your stomach while you beg yourself to just get the fuck over it. Two years of reckoning with the severity of your love, months of watching him live happily without you, and it’s the three days you spent trying to help him feel incrementally better that floor you.

You feel like a dumb teenage girl with so much love and nothing to do with it. On top of everything, you feel selfish. Spencer lost the love of his life forever, and you’re nursing the worst heartbreak of your life because a boy will never want you and never has. Still, you send out prayers for him over and over. You hope you’ll see him in the BAU again, even if his eyes glaze over you. Hell, even if they look at you with hate the way they did two days ago. You just want him to function. You want him to be good and eventually be happy. You try to go to bed with soothing thoughts, but you end up with a mantra of his name.

You wake to your alarm and dress for work before you realize you aren’t actually supposed to go back yet. You never set a date to return. You wanted to be open as long as Spencer needed you. You’re supposed to be with him. You’re supposed to be helping and not tapping out. But you aren’t.

You have no reason not to return to the bullpen, so you do. You walk in and feel eyes on you. You wait for Morgan to call out to you, but he doesn’t, so you follow the feeling.

Your breath catches in your throat; it’s Spencer. He’s sitting at his desk, paperwork spread out, and he doesn’t look away from your gaze; he just holds it. His face is unreadable, and yours is definitely not, so you look away first. You don’t look up again until you reach Hotch’s office. You knock and hear him call out to come in.

“I’m back if that’s okay.”

He looks up at you, and you want to cry. You know he can read you. He has always been the best at it.

“Are you okay with that, Y/l/n?”

You lock eyes with him, “Yes, sir.”

It’s no use; he knows your tells and you aren’t being honest.

“Alright, conference room in five.”

Whatever he sees in your face, he ignores and takes you at your word, but there’s a warning in his tone. He knows when to let things go and when to push. More than that, though, he knows you’d never let something like this affect your work.

The first case back is in Maryland, and the one after is in Austin, and the next is in Philadelphia with The Replicator. The job takes you all over the country, and the cases blend together. You don’t speak to Spencer through all of it. You’re never partnered, never work together, you sit on opposite ends of the jet. You don’t even speak at Strauss’ funeral. It’s radio silent, and everyone notices it, but no one brings it up.

In that time, you allow yourself to slip away slightly. You don’t go out with the team, you see Pen at nearly half frequency, and basically, the only time you speak is on cases. It’s stupid and melodramatic, but you call it healing. Derek tries to reason with you, JJ sticks to you a bit more than usual, and Penelope calls you virtually whenever she can, but their efforts are mostly in vain. This is your way of protecting yourself. You feel like you have to isolate in order to improve, and you know, given time, you will come back to yourself.

Penelope’s insistence that you go to her Day of the Dead celebration breaks your distance.

“Y/n, please come. I know you aren’t going out, but you have to. I know you have people to honor, and I need you there.”

You sigh, “Whose going, Pen?”

“The team, which you are a part of, so you must be there.”

“I don’t think I can do that. I promise you I will celebrate with you. I’ll help you set up, just please don’t make me go.”

Penelope pauses, but the glint in her eye keys you into the fact that she is not interested in giving up.

“We miss you, Y/n. Everyone loves you and misses you. You’ve been living this stupid, isolated life, and it’s time for you to come back. You are not this person. I refuse to believe it. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

Maybe you don’t have the energy to argue, or maybe you know she’s right, but you agree to go.

The thought of seeing him makes your heart race, and the clock you keep glancing at makes it worse. Just a few more hours before you're trapped in a confined space (Pen’s beautiful home) with a man you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You busy yourself with preparing. Lights are hung, food is made, and you make a trip to the store while Pen sets up her remembrance table. When everything is said and done, you can’t help but feel this is the most beautiful thing you’ve been a part of in a long time.

The first knock comes at 7:30 exactly, and it’s Hotch and Rossi. They are followed closely by Blake, then Derek and JJ. By 7:00, the atmosphere is light and loving, and you feel a bit of your anxiety let up as the minutes go by without Reid. But, eventually, the knock comes, of course it does, and you move into a corner as Spencer walks in. You feel a shift in energy, though you doubt it’s palpable for anyone else. Rossi is the first to make his way over to you, and his presence comforts you nearly immediately.

“How you doing, kid?” His voice is soft like he’s speaking to a scared rabbit.

“I’m better,” you say, and it’s about as honest as you can get. As much as you’d like to think he knows nothing about what’s gone on, you’re smarter than that. He’s the best profiler on the team, and he’s always known when someone was off with you. Even so, you are better than you were, even if you aren’t quite good, and you know he believes you.

There’s some idle conversation between you before he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. I don’t know when, but I will. Eventually, I will.”

It’s good enough for him, and you move on easily, which surprises you.

Right before Pen gathers you all to present your photos, he says, “Sometimes we think we’ve seen the whole picture, but we miss a big part. People do things because they don’t want to be hurt, but those things hurt them more. Just, be open.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but you hope you will.

Penelope presents the first picture, which shows her parents. JJ honors her sister, Derek, his dad, Hotch Haley, and Rossi, Hernandez; then it’s your turn. You place down a photo of your best friend. You hadn’t talked much about her, but you think of her daily. She passed a few years before you joined the BAU.

“I was lucky to have someone that hurt that much to lose.”

That’s all you say, but it’s enough for you, and it would be enough for her.

Spencer is last. He places down a picture of Tesla and a picture of Maeve. Your heart is heavy for everyone.

The night dwindles from there. Hotch and Rossi say their goodbyes, and Rossi gives you a knowing look as he leaves. You just smile. You stay for a few minutes after, but eventually, you move to leave as well.

You make it down Garcia’s porch before you feel a hand grab your arm. You turn, and it’s Spencer’s face you see.

“Would you- Do you think you could come over? Do you think we could talk?”

The feeling you have walking up to Spencer's apartment is similar to what you felt the last time. You’re incredibly anxious, but at least you know you’ll be let in this time.

The drive over was silent. Spencer had taken the metro to Penelope’s, so he rode with you. It wasn’t necessarily awkward. There was just an understanding that the car wasn’t the place to begin your conversation.

Now, as Spencer unlocked his door, it’s one of those rare moments you felt starved for words, and you know it’s because you’re scared you’ll say the wrong thing and face the same reaction that you did the last time you were in his home.

He leads you to his living room and motions for you to sit, and you do. The two of you are on opposite ends of his couch while you wait for him to say something.

His first words are airy and light, “Thank you for letting me talk to you.”

You look at him but remain silent, waiting for him to go on. All you can think about is why he wants to speak to you at all. The last time you spoke, he made it incredibly clear he did not want you in his life or around him at all.

Before you can think about it more and let your anger and sadness build, he speaks again, “I feel really stupid right now. I kind of feel stupid whenever I’m around you recently.”

He pauses momentarily before going on, “I’m so, so sorry, Y/n. About the last time we spoke. I’ve been thinking about it pretty constantly for the past few weeks.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you can’t get there before he’s off again.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you anymore. I don’t think I’ve known how to for a long time. I just, I need you to know how sorry I am for speaking to you like that.”

He takes a shakey breath but keeps going, “That wasn’t me, and that isn’t how I feel. I’m just unbelievably sorry, Y/n.”

He stops there, and you work to collect your thoughts.

“I know. A part of me knows, at least, that you didn’t mean it. I just wanted to be there for you, and hearing that made me- I just- I think it made me hate myself for wanting to be there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m unbelievably sorry.”

“You didn’t talk to me for months, Spencer. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why you let me in in the first place. I thought you hated me.”

He’s silent for a long minute.

“I never hated you, Y/n. I just stopped knowing how to act around you, and then I met Maeve. I fell so deep into it that I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I- And I just started to feel like you didn’t want me to speak to you, so I didn’t. But, when you came here, after everything, I guess I just felt like you were the only person who would get it. You never, no one on the team ever treated me or talked to me how you did. I just wanted that.”

Tears had begun to well in your eyes now. A part of you gets what he means, at least about letting you in, but the other part is so confused as to why he stopped being comfortable around you.

“I don’t understand, Spencer. Why did you stop knowing how to be around me?”

There’s desperation in your voice that makes you sound like a stranger to yourself. Maybe you’re a stranger to everyone right now.

“I uh, I don’t really know.”

“That's not fair, Spence.”

You’re crying now. Just a little bit, but you can feel the wetness on your cheeks. You can see that you are by the look on his face. He looks broken, and you know it's a reflection of your own image.

You wipe your face, “Thank you for apologizing, Spencer. I just, there are parts of this all that I don’t understand, and if you can't explain them to me, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Y/n-,” he calls out your name like a prayer.

“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to say anything more. We talked, and things will go back to how they were eventually.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

You smile sadly as you get up to leave.

“I am, too, for what it's worth. For whatever I did to make things change in the first place.”

You leave it at that, and it takes everything in you not to look back as you leave his apartment.

Things do get easier after that. Not completely. You still love him, and it hurts, but it helps to know he doesn’t hate you. He talks to you some, cordial things, and you do the same. You're sure your teammates still sense something is off, but this works for you. Right now, it works. Getting over him, not loving him anymore, is going to take work, but eventually, you know that you won’t hurt anymore.

Shortly after you and him talked, you started going back out with your friends. Spencer joined periodically, but that was normal. Bars were never really his scene.

Tonight, everyone gathers at your local pub. Your last case was particularly grueling, and you all need a way to blow off some steam. It's fun, and you feel good, even with Spencer sitting across from you. You feel proud of yourself for getting to this point.

JJ and Penelope feed you drinks to try and get you to dance, and you let them. Tonight feels as good of a night as any to ‘get back out there’ as Pen says. So, you do. You dance with them, and you ward off the other cops and agents around you who try to pull you away from your group. You aren’t interested in that. Right now, you're just having an appropriate amount of fun for a woman 15 feet from her boss.

Time goes by quickly, and by the time you get back to the table, you, Derek, Penelope, and JJ remain. He tells you that Hotch, Rossi, Reid, and Alex left a few minutes before. The conversation between you flows for a while, up until the drinks loosen Penelope up enough to bring up what you were pretty sure the team designated a no-no topic.

“Y/n, you have to talk about it.”

You’re still laughing as something Derek said when you reply, “What?”

“You know what. You and Boy-Genius. What on Earth happened? You went from ice-cold to semi-friendly. None of us saw it coming.”

“Babygirl-,” Derek tries to stop her, but you cut him off.

“No, it’s okay. I have to talk about it at some point, and I think right now is the only time I’ll be tipsy enough to let you get it out of me.”

You're still laughing slightly, but the pit that's lived in your stomach for the past few months starts to rear its head.

“After your Day of the Dead party, he asked to talk to me. I went to his place, and he apologized. I don’t really understand what he said or what he meant, but I can’t be sad about him forever.”

Pen perks up a bit at that, “I knew that party would bring good things!”

You giggle a bit at her outburst, but then JJ asks, “What did he say?”

The faces around you all tune in at that. You know they don’t see this as gossip. They care about you both too much to trivialize it like that.

“He just said that he stopped knowing how to act around me, and he didn’t know why, but then he met Maeve, and I guess it didn’t matter so much after that. He was my best friend, and then he was nothing.”

JJ shares a glance with Derek and then speaks, “Oh, Y/n.”

“What?”

After a beat, Derek says, “He didn’t just not know how to act around you.”

Now you're confused, “What do you mean? I talked to him, that's what he said. He didn’t know why. I mean, he knows everything and didn’t know why he didn’t want to be around me anymore. How fucking stupid is that.”

You laugh again, but it does come off as genuine in the slightest.

“Y/n, he probably doesn’t really know why. At least not fully. For someone as smart as he is, the kid can be really stupid.”

“Stop being cryptic.”

Derek sighs but goes on, “Pretty girl, pretty boy was in love with you. Probably still is. He just didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”

“No. That's not true.”

You look at the others around you, but their faces are serious.

“He loved Maeve. He loves Maeve. That, that doesn’t make any sense.”

It's JJ’s turn to talk now.

“He definitely did love Maeve, no one is denying that, but we all saw how he was around you. His whole relationship with her was safe. He couldn’t be hurt by her rejection every day because he had no way of seeing her. With you, he could.”

Your mind is moving a mile a minute, “Did he tell you guys this?”

Penelope puts her hand over yours and says, “He didn’t have to, love. We all say the way he looked at you and acted around you. The way he talked about you. That boy was head over heels.”

“Guys, I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do, but this isn’t real. Spencer doesn’t- this is not real.”

“Y/n, pause. Think about the way he acted around you, the things he said. Think about how Reid is.”

You hear what Derek said, but it all sounds faint like someone stuffed your ears with cotton while you weren't paying attention. All you can focus on are the different scenes running through your head, the scenes of your life with Spencer in it. How he memorized your coffee order and brought it for you every day, how he never shied away from your touch despite his aversion to contact, how he consistently went out of his way to protect you on the field. At his house after everything, the way he clung to you and wanted to be held. How he said in his own words, “You can't be what I need”; not “you aren’t,” but “you can’t.”

Your whole world is crashing down in this bar, and you can’t do anything to stop it.

“Y/n?”

JJ’s voice snaps you out of your spiral.

“Just go talk to him.”

You nod mutely, and you get up.

Everything in the last ten months of your life has led you to the exact spot you were when everything blew up in the first place: Spencer’s door.

This time, you aren't too worried about him not letting you in. If anything, it's the opposite. Him opening this door could open a hundred others, and you don’t quite know if you are ready for any of them. You sit there and sit there and sit there, trying to work up the courage to knock, though you aren’t sure it's there to begin with. Right as you're about to walk away and decide you’ll come back another day, his door swings open.

“Y/n?”

His face is lit up with shock, and you notice his hand that is not on the door is holding his pistol.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t answer, “Why did you open the door?”

He sets his piece down on the entry table before responding, “I heard footsteps in the hall and saw they stopped here. I was anxious. 50.3% of home invasions happen between 8:00 pm and 7:00 am.” He cuts himself off there, “Y/n, why are you here?”

You didn’t pay attention to anything he said. All you could think about was the way his lips were moving and the way his eyes locked onto yours as he talked.

“Do you love me?”

That is not what you wanted to say.

His lips fall open as he takes in a sharp breath, “What?”

“Or I guess did you love me? Before everything? Because Derek and JJ and Pen, they all said that you loved me, and now I can’t think about anything else, Spencer.”

He doesn’t speak, but you don't really give him a chance to.

“I just, I know I sound crazy right now, but I feel fucking crazy. I keep going over everything in my head, and I have been, for the past year I have been, but now it’s all different. It's all different because they said that you loved me, but you didn’t think I’d feel the same way.”

Here, you do pause, but he still doesn’t say anything, so you go on before you can stop yourself.

“Because if that's true, Spencer, it's just- I did. I do. And if it's not, then please just tell me so I can stop feeling this way.”

He sounds resigned when he says, “Y/n,” and you feel like you know what that means.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I'm doing this. You don’t have to say anything. Actually, please don’t say anything. I don't think I can hear it. Just pretend I never-”

He cuts off your ramble, “Y/n, stop.”

You draw your eyes from the floor, look up at him, and find something in his gaze you have never seen before. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you, and it takes everything you have not to look away. His hand raises to cup your jaw, and your skin lights on fire. Before you can process what he’s doing, you feel his lips press against yours, and something clicks. At first, his touch is light, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But, when he grasps that you won’t, he presses himself to you harder, and all you can think about is how nothing has ever felt so right.

His lips move against yours, and you don’t know how you're managing to reciprocate because it feels like everything in your body has gone fuzzy. The kiss is by no means long, but it feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls away, you’re breathless.

His forehead stays connected to yours, and he whispers, “I do, Y/n, love you. I have.”

You don’t feel the tears on your cheeks until he’s wiping them away.

“Oh, Y/n.”

“Did you know? That you did? Is that why…”

You trail off, hoping he’ll pick up on what you're asking, and he does.

“I didn’t at first, or I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it happened. I got scared, so I ran. I just never thought that you could feel the same or that I was hurting you. I didn’t realize that. I just thought I was doing what was best for us. I felt guilty for being in love with my best friend.”

“And Maeve?”

“I loved Maeve. I’ll always have love for her. I was trying to move on, and I thought I could eventually be with her and be around you without it hurting. I wish I would have told you this before.”

“You’re telling me now. That's enough.”

This time, it's you who pushes your lips to meet his. Your arms snake around his neck, and his fall to your waist. You follow when he pulls you into his apartment and closes the door. There is still pain on both sides, but you can feel it dissipating as you cling to each other. You’re just two broken people who have finally found a way to each other.

This kiss is different, hungrier. Neither of you pulls away for longer than a few seconds as you navigate your way from his entryway to his couch. Every touch is desperate like you're searching for something you never knew existed until now. His hands pull you closer and closer until he's pulling you on top of him, and each of your legs rests on opposite sides of his hips.

Your lips break from his for a moment, “What do you want, Spence?”

His reply is instant, “You.”

From there, things move faster. Your hands unbutton his shirt and push it from his shoulders while he undoes your pants. There are moments of awkwardness that come with exploring another for the first time, but it feels good. His hands trace over your hips and push further until you're left on top of him in only your underwear and bra. He takes you in like you are something to be marveled at, and you know your eyes reflect the same adoration.

You raise yourself off of him and work to get him in the same state of undress as you, and when you position yourself on top of him, you feel his length press against your center. The two thin layers of fabric do little to hinder the intensity as you rock into him. He lets out quiet moans at the action as his lips trace down your neck and over your collarbone.

His breath ghosts over you and makes you shiver when he asks, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His hand moves between the two of you, and his fingers find your clit easily, rubbing circles over the fabric of your panties. You pant his name against his lips at the action. You feel like your whole body is lit up, and under any other circumstance, you'd feel embarrassed at how worked up you are, but you can’t seem to care.

After a few moments, he lifts you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he positions you below him on the bed, removing your remaining clothes in the same motion. The new setup lets you grip him, and he feels big in your hand. His fingers resume their previous assault before dipping down into you. You cry out at the feeling of him inside you, slowly pushing in and out, finding a spot that makes your legs start to shake. He’s relentless in his pursuit and all you can muster up the energy to say is his name.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.”

It's somewhere between a whimper and a whisper, but the sound of his voice causes you to clench around his fingers.

He picks up on this, of course he does, and quickens his pace as he coos at you.

“So pretty like this. I’m so lucky.”

You’re embarrassingly close already, so when he moves his thumb over your clit to rub circles as he fucks into you with his fingers, you come undone almost instantly with a warning and cry of his name. He works you through your orgasm, all while whispering praise in your ear. Once you come down from your high, you start to push his boxers down his legs, but he stops you before you can fully.

“We don’t have to do anything more, Y/n. I liked just making you feel good.”

“I want more. I want to feel you if you want that too.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I couldn’t regret this, Spencer. I love you. I want all of you.”

It's the first time you’ve actually said those three words to him, and it feels so fucking good to say.

“I love you, too. God, so much.”

With that, he positions himself back on top of you, running his fingers over your slit gently before gripping himself.

“Do you have a condom?”

“I might somewhere, but I have an IUD, and I’m clean. I can try to find one if you’re more comfortable with that?”

“IUDs have a failure rate of around .05% and are largely considered the most effective form of birth control, so uh, as long as you're okay with it, I am.”

You smile to yourself at his statistic but nod, “I want to feel you, Spencer.”

He returns your smile before rubbing his length over your entrance a few times and slowly pushing himself into you just slightly. He teases you, or maybe himself, for a moment before fully entering you. You push your hips up to meet his, and feeling him in his entirety makes your jaw fall open. He’s big, and you feel unbelievably full.

He waits a moment for you to adjust before he starts to develop a rhythm. His hands are everywhere, but his eyes are focused solely on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a moment of your reaction to him inside of you. To be fair, you are probably putting on a good show. Every movement he makes hits you in exactly the right spot, and you don’t think you could be louder if you tried. You can feel the leg he’s not holding up against his shoulder shake against the bed. Your first orgasm has made way for your second to be incredibly close.

“Spencer, please.”

You’re crying out, desperate for a little more to push you over the edge.

“What do you need, baby?” His voice is tight like he’s not far himself, and it sounds better than anything you’ve ever heard.

“Harder. Please, harder.”

He takes your direction immediately, rubbing circles on your clit with one hand while he thrusts into you with a bruising force. He’s fucking you like he wants you to remember the feeling long after he stops, and you know that you will. Everything about it is overwhelming: his smell, his pace, his eyes. You are covered in him, and he is covered in you.

After a moment, the hand he had on your stomach trails up to grasp lightly at your throat, and you fall into feeling. You can’t warn him that you're about to come before you do. The feeling is white hot. Bigger than your first, and the fact that you're coming on him sends you into overdrive. You can feel his hips falter for a moment, but you're lost in a daze, crying out his name.

He pumps into you a few more times before he follows suit. He pulls out, and you feel stripes of his come paint your cunt and lower stomach as he finishes with a moan of your name.

He falls next to you on the bed, and it takes you both a few moments to collect yourselves and catch your breath.

Once you do, the only thing you can think to say is, “I love you.”

It feels like those are the only words circling around in your head at the moment. Some mixture of his name and that declaration. While you know you each said it before, that your profession was the exigence of the sex you just had, it feels uniquely vulnerable to say now. It’s like the moment you just had together could have changed things or made him realize that he doesn’t actually love you after all.

That shoe doesn’t drop, though. Instead, you hear the three words echoed back to you by a man who, 6 hours ago, you thought would never, ever say them.

You turn to face him, and the love on his face feels like it could knock you out. He’s looking at you and smiling in a way you haven't seen in a long time.

“Will you let me clean you up?”

You know that part of the reason he’s asking has something to do with the likelihood of bacteria growth or something like that, but you think it's mainly that he wants to take care of you. Him wetting a rag and running it over you feels intimate in a different way, in an excruciatingly gentle way. Personal in a way that makes you feel like nothing between you could ever be wrong again, and maybe that's naive to think, but you feel hopeful regardless.

Once he finishes, he takes his space back next to you in the bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms, and it's different than it was all those months ago. This time, you know that he won’t push you away and that you won't hurt yourself by being next to him. This time, you just tuck yourself into him, and you let him whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you begin to drift off. This time, it feels like peace.

The following day, you wake up to Spencer still next to you, looking incredibly soft in the early morning light. You search for a moment to find your phone in the piles of clothes and are greeted with a text from Pen.

How did it go????

You smile before turning your phone off and climbing back into bed next to the man you love. It couldn’t have gone better.

all done! yay!!!

i hope you guys love it!! i’m not 100% happy with the ending but i’ve been writing this for so long and just needed to be done.

this is my first time writing angst on here and my longest fic, so PLEASE tell me what you think! all (nice) feedback is welcome and i love to hear from you guys!! :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #fic rec #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to enemies to lovers #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic rec

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gukcnt · 7 days ago

Text

01 | SHADOWS OF OBSESSION ⭒ JJK

“You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands or the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

pairing — criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre — criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, possessive!jungkook, angry!jungkook, graphic violence, blood and gore, unhealthy obsession, both characters have traumatic backgrounds, dark themes, injury, several mentions of blood, medical procedure, mentions of death and murder, emotional manipulation, smoking, isolation and vulnerability, mild sexual tension, dangerous attraction

wc — 5.3k

a/n — I decided to bring back this series because you all adore it so much, and so do I, absolutely love this couple, and I hope you all will show SOB the same love you gave it before. Love you all !! <3

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The city was alive in the night; the air filled with the smell of trash and the metallic scent of blood.

Jungkook leaned against the wall, his black leather jacket clinging to his broad frame, the hard wall grounding him in a world that had never once shown him kindness. A cigarette between his lips, he exhaled, blowing the smoke out lazily. In his thirty years of life, he has always found himself involved in things related to violence.

Tattoos all over his neck, chest, and arms—all of them a story of his scars, betrayal, and a revenge that ran through his veins. His dark, messy hair fell over his dark eyes that flickered with a cold sharpness.

He was orphaned at ten, raised in the city, and being a street kid has taught him to steal, fight, and survive before he even learned anything about the world itself. The streets were like his mother, who taught him harsh and unforgiving things, also teaching him that trust was a trap and love a lie that blinded people. He had seen several people get betrayed due to their kindness, and such harsh experiences have taken away his own childhood and innocence.

The memory clung to him: when he was sixteen, he had taken his first life—a rival gang member who decided to come at him with a knife. He still felt the spray of blood on his hands and the feel of a dying man’s throat, the way his own heart had pounded not with fear but with power.

Now, years later, his name was a whisper of fear in everyone’s mouth, his frame moving like a shadow through the city, a criminal now who lives for himself and no one else, his heart long gone and made of stone now due to his hope being taken away. Redemption wasn’t something he believed in at all; he thought it was a lie. All he had in his life was his revenge, which burned every time he got a new scar or got into a fight for blood.

Tonight, that need burned further. His latest deal with a rival has gone to shit, a betrayal that left him with a bullet in his arm and a fresh urge to use his own knife to dig into someone’s flesh. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed his hand to the wound. The pain was dull, something he was used to from years ago. But the blood loss was fucking with him—his head was hurting and his vision blurred. He clenched his jaw tightly, with a glare.

“Fucking cowards,” he rasped, voice dripping with venom, “you think you can bury me?”

He flicked his cigarette to the ground; the alley he was in stank, and even though his mind was fogging, he scanned the area sharply, high on alert. His enemies were out there searching for him.

“Come on then,” he sneered, his eyes dark, “I’m right fucking here.”

But his body was betraying him. His knees buckled, and he had to grip the wall for support. Blood dripped even faster now, pooling on the dirty ground. He needed to move and find a place to treat his wound. His hands tightened around the knife in his pocket that was always there, always supporting him at rough times more than anyone ever did.

“I’m not dying tonight,” he growled, “not until I have buried every one of you.”

۶ৎ

Across the city, your calm world couldn’t have been more different. At twenty-two, you were a medical student; that’s why your life is a mix of late-night study sessions with textbooks and your own thoughts. Your tiny apartment was a haven for you. Its walls were cream-colored, with curtains that swayed with the breeze. Your bookshelf was full of several novels and medical books. You were shy, an introvert, your voice a soft murmur, only rising when you had no choice. Your world was gentle, fragile, nothing compared to the brutality of Jungkook’s life.

You were orphaned at fifteen, and you have learned to live life alone, your heart bruised, but it kept you going. Your parents died from a car crash, with no other family of yours to lean on. You filled the ache and emptiness in your heart with dreams of becoming a doctor. You wanted to heal; fix others' wounds even when your own still ached.

You were innocent in a way Jungkook could never grasp, your eyes always bright with hope and your heart too soft and open despite all it endured. You shied away from the crowds and found peace in books over people and blushed or felt embarrassed at even the smallest attention. Your days were always simple, following through the same routine: classes, study, and nothing more.

Tonight you were walking home after class, tired to the bone. Your backpack is heavy against your shoulders, stuffed with books and notes. Your mind was already thinking of your bed and cozy blankets. The street was still, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and a distant traffic noise.

Your heart felt light, with a rare flicker of happiness—the exam went well today, which you had been preparing for an entire week, a small win in your life.

You hummed softly, your steps quickening as you neared your apartment. Your hand digging in your bag to bring out your keys

“Almost home,” you murmured, a habit from years of talking to yourself. The thought of sinking into your warm blankets, forgetting about the world, brought you peace.

Then, a shadow moved, almost subtly but enough to make your heart jump. You froze, fingers clutching the keys tight. Your eyes darted to the alley across the street, and there he was. A tall, broad man, his muscles bulging from how tightly his jacket hugged him. His right hand gripped his left arm; blood dripped slowly, staining his hand in the process as well. The sight hit you, with the air carrying the sharp smell of blood.

You gasped silently, a trembling sound slipping out before you could stop it as you felt fear gripping your chest. The man still hasn’t noticed you yet. Your heart pounded loudly, your legs screaming to run to bolt for your apartment and lock the door before the man can even get a small glance of you. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a nightmare.

A whimper lodged in your throat as the man slowly lifted his head, his eyes—dark with a mix of something wild—locked onto yours, and it was like you were caught by a predator. You couldn’t breathe, your body no longer your own, just from his simple stare. He was danger in human form, and every instinct screamed for you to flee.

But then you saw it—the sway of his body as blood oozed out from his fingers, and the sight twisted something inside you, a small flicker of sympathy in between your fear. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was dying.

Your mind was a mess. Run. Lock the door. Call the cops. He will kill you. But another voice spoke inside you: he’s bleeding out, you can help him, and you’re almost a doctor.

You breathed shakily as your hands shook. You decided to take a hesitant step forward and then another, each one a battle against the fear in your heart. You stopped several feet away, close enough to see the way his chest heaved with shallow breaths, sweat beading his forehead, but far enough to run if he lunged. The distance was nothing close to a shield, useless against a man like him.

“Hey,” you called with a trembling voice, barely heard in the night’s silence, “you’re hurt. Badly. You need help.”

His head snapped up with narrowed eyes, and he scoffed with a low growl, sending a shiver down your spine. “Mind your fucking business, girl,” he rasped, his voice thick with pain and venom.

“Go home and play with your dolls.” The words stung as heat crept up your neck. You weren’t a child, but his tone made you feel small, like a little mouse.

Normally, you’d shrink from rudeness, but the blood—God, the blood—held you there. It was starting to pool at his feet until all you could smell was the metallic scent and a hint of cigarette smoke. He was hurting, and you couldn’t walk away. Not from this

“I’m a medical student,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even though it trembled slightly, “you’ve been shot. You’re losing too much blood. You’ll die without help.”

His lips quirked as his eyes flickered with something sharp and amusement, “You think I give a shit about dying, little girl?” He said, his voice amused, “I’ve been dead for years. Walk away before you join me.”

His threat made your breath catch as your nails dug into your palms. His words were not just a warning but a promise, and you believed him. He could snap you like a stick, and no one would know.

But you saw the tremor in him, the way his fingers slipped, blood flowing faster, and it kept you rooted to your spot. You were shaking, but you couldn’t leave him, not when you could help him. Your knowledge and hands could stop the life draining out of him.

“I live right here,” you said, pointing towards your apartment, your voice firm in a way you never thought was possible. “I have supplies. I can stitch you up and stop the bleeding. Please… let me help you.”

He stared at you with his heavy gaze, almost like he was stripping you open and bare. His black eyes were pulling you in, and you almost thought he’d grab you and end you right there. You held his stare despite your heart pulsing loudly and goosebumps erupting all over your arm.

Then he laughed, a harsh mocking sound that filled the night, bitter and broken, like he was laughing at the absurdity of you.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said, shaking his head. “Stupid or suicidal, I can’t decide. Fine, princess. Lead the way, but don’t cry when you regret it.”

The words were a dare that caused you dread at the pit of your stomach. You nodded, barely, and with a shakiness you turned towards your door, your keys trembling as you unlocked it. His large presence was behind you, and you wondered if you’d just invited death into your home.

۶ৎ

Your hands shook as you opened the door of your apartment. The air inside was warm, mixing with the scent of the lavender candle you’d left burning. His heavy boots hit the floor with each step. You flicked on the light, your room a soft world of light colors and pink pillows, a stark contrast to the man standing in its center. His blood started dripping onto your rug, staining it.

“Sit,” you whispered, pointing to the soft couch.

Your heart was racing, and you wondered if he could hear how hard your heart was pounding or if he could smell the fear and stubbornness inside you. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he obeyed and sank down onto the couch with a grunt as blood smeared the couch. You winced, your tidy instincts pricking, even now.

You hurried to your bedroom. Your medical kit was under your bed, packed with tools—antiseptic, bandages, and other items all neatly arranged. Your hands shook as you pulled it out, carrying it back to the living room.

Your mind was screaming that you were crazy to let this man inside your house—this bleeding, dangerous stranger. You, the girl who flinched at loud voices and who loved to stay alone, were ignoring every instinct to help him.

He watched you return, his gaze heavy, tracking all your movements as you tried your best not to meet his eyes because you were already trembling. You knelt before him, the rug under your knees, and set the kit on the table. The air was thick and silent. You opened the kit as your fingers moved carefully, bringing out bandages, tweezers, and other necessary things.

“Why the hell do you have all this?” He asked, his voice as always carrying that mocking edge but with a hint of curiosity, “Are you some kind of wannabe surgeon, playing doctor in your pretty little apartment?”

You kept your eyes on the tools, your cheeks pinking at his words as you nibbled your bottom lip, a nervous habit that caused Jungkook’s nostrils to flare instinctively.

“I’m a medical student.” You uttered quietly, even though it wavered slightly, “I need those for practice and to learn.”

He snorted, “Of course you are. Little Miss Perfect saving lives with her pink things. You think you’re going to fix the world, don’t you?”

Your fingers paused, his words cut deeper than you realized, hitting the hope you held that was the dream of healing a world you barely knew. You didn’t answer, focusing on his wound, his skin warm and rough.

The bullet had torn through his shoulder, leaving his flesh raw and bloody. You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting as you wondered, how did he end up in such a situation? Was he a victim, or did he do something to get shot? Your inner thoughts hinted at the second option. You shook your head, setting the thoughts aside, focusing on his wound, your training kicking in.

The room felt smaller as you worked; the walls felt like they were pressing in. You cleaned his wound, wiping away the blood, which revealed the damage. You grabbed the tweezers, your hands steady despite your chest pulsating, and leaned closer with a shallow breath. His arm was all muscle, veins bulging under his inked skin, and your lips parted unknowingly.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet yet dark, making your skin prickle, “helping someone like me. You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done. You’re too soft, too…”

He paused before talking again, “Innocent, and the world’s going to eat you alive, and you’re out here patching monsters.”

The tweezers hovered above his wound, his words sinking in. You lifted your head, locking eyes with him. His irises were nearly black, burning with an intensity that stole your breath.

“Maybe it will,” you whispered, “but I can’t just walk away when someone is bleeding like this, not when I can help.”

He laughed bitterly, “You’re going to regret that, sweetheart. Kindness like yours doesn’t ever end well. You think you’re saving me, but you are just calling danger your way.”

The words hurt, but you pushed them aside, focusing on his wound. You dug the tweezers into his flesh, searching for the bullet. He didn’t flinch, his face remaining blank; his lack of reaction surprised you. A reminder of how different he was, how hardened by a life you couldn’t imagine

His eyes never left you, watching your trembling fingers, the flush on your cheeks, and the way your lips parted as you focused. It was as if he was memorizing you, his gaze burning through you as a knot tightened in your stomach.

The candlelight painted his face with a soft glow, catching all the sharp angles and a faint stubble that you can see now that you are so close to him.

You found the bullet, small and glinting, and pulled it out as more blood oozed out. You quickly put pressure on the wound to stop the blood flow, and the contact sent a spark through you, sharp and unsettling. His arm was warm, and you pulled back quickly, your cheeks warming.

“You’re shaking,” he said lowly with a growl, “scared of me, aren’t you? You should be”

You swallowed, your throat dry, and focused on stitching his wound. “I’m not scared,” you whispered, knowing very well that you were lying. “I just… want to help.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make you jump, “you’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes and the way you’re shaking. You don’t even know me, and yet here you are letting me bleed all over your little apartment. Why? What’s wrong with you?”

Tears brimmed your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see. “Nothing wrong with me,” your voice cracked. “I just believe in helping people. Even someone like you.”

“People like me?” He leaned closer, his face just a few inches away from yours, his breath fanning against your lips, smelling of cigarettes and something so uniquely him. “You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands or the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

Your heart pounded; his words terrified and hurt you even more, but you refused to pull away, your own confidence shocking you. You met his gaze with wide, glistening eyes, “But I’d rather be naive and help than hurt someone.”

He went quiet after that, his eyes searching yours, his own mind full of confusion because he wasn’t used to such innocence and fragility. Then he leaned back, with a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

You finished the stitches, your fingers quick despite your racing thoughts, and wrapped his arms in a bandage. Your hands lingered too long, his heat soaking through you, and you pulled back with a racing heart.

You stood, legs shaky, and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen. When you handed it to him, your fingers brushed his, rough and calloused, and you nearly dropped the glass, a gasp escaping.

“You need to rest,” you said, avoiding his eyes, your voice barely audible. “Moving too much will tear the stitches. You’ll bleed again.”

He didn’t answer, just stared, his expression unreadable as his fingers curled around the glass. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and pressing into you. You mumbled something about getting a blanket, your voice tripping. You fled to your bedroom with pink cheeks, your heart pounding. The door clicked shut, but it did nothing to block out his eyes or his voice, the way he’d filled your space with a threat you couldn’t name.

۶ৎ

The first light of dawn crept through your curtains. The air was heavy with the lingering smell of antiseptic and blood, a reminder of the stranger who’d invaded your quiet world. You lie in bed, your body still, breath shallow, thinking any sudden movement will bring the man back from the darkness. Sleep didn’t come to you easily last night; your heart was pounding the entire night, caught between fear and a strange warmth you couldn’t place, something that made your skin prickle.

His rough touch felt like it still lingered on your fingers, his dark, almost black eyes still haunted you, those eyes that seemed to see through you, into you, almost unraveling secrets you didn’t know you kept.

You clutched the sheets tightly; it grounds you against your thoughts. Your mind replayed his low mocking voice that made your stomach twist. “Kindness gets you killed, little girl.” The words echoed, and you wondered if he was right that your softness is a weakness that will eventually get you into danger.

Finally, you couldn’t stay in bed any longer. You swung your legs over, your bare feet hitting the floor. Your faded baby blue sleep shirt clung to your frame. You crept towards the living room, each step slow and cautious, your heart pulsating so loudly that you were sure it would betray you if he was still here.

The living room glowed softly in the morning light. Your eyes darted to the couch, and breath caught in your throat. It was empty. The stranger was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, leaving no traces of him, almost like he was a part of your dream you’d woken up from. The only proof of his presence is the blood-soaked rug and the blanket you’d given him; it was folded neatly, as if he’d meant to erase his presence himself.

You stood frozen, your fingers twisting your shirt in order to ground yourself. The silence was too loud, and you should’ve been relieved—he was gone, you were safe. But a strange ache settled in your chest, something unnamable. It wasn’t just fear, not entirely. It was the ghost of his presence, the way he’d filled your little space with danger and threat, leaving you both shaken and alive.

“Who are you?” you croaked, your voice breaking the quietness. The question hung there, unanswered. Why was he shot? Was he a criminal or a murderer? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, goosebumps erupting.

You’d been reckless, letting him in without a second thought. Your need to help had blinded you to notice the danger. And yet the memory of his intimidating presence, dark eyes, and inked skin made your cheeks flame. You let out a shaky breath, pressing your hands to your face, wanting it to go away, but it stayed against your will.

You sank onto the couch; it was still warm from where he’d been, his scent lingering—cigarette and something darkly masculine like him that made your pulse quicken.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself. “He could’ve killed you. He could’ve…” Your words trailed off, imagining his hands, calloused and tattooed, around your throat. But instead of fear, the thought sent a strange warmth pooling in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it.

You stood, needing to move, to shake off his spell. You paced the living room frantically. The blood on the rug is a constant reminder of his presence. You grabbed a sponge and cold water from the kitchen and scrubbed the stain. Your movements were desperate, your breaths coming out in shaky gasps.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you chanted, tears pricking your eyes. You didn’t know if you were crying for your naivety or for the stranger and the way his absence left you feeling hollow.

When the stain was as faded as possible, you sat back on the floor, your chest heaving with your pants. The room felt too big, too empty. You hugged yourself, seeking comfort.

“He’s gone,” you whispered, as if saying it out loud would make it real, erase the memory of him, the gravel of his voice, and his intense eyes. “He’s gone, you’re fine, you’re fine.”

But you weren’t fine. You felt exposed, like he’d peeled all your layers and seen the soft, trembling thing beneath. You stood up on shaky legs, moved to the window, and pulled back the curtains. The street was quiet, no sight of him, gone with the night. But everything in your place proved that he’d been real, that you’d touched the edge of something dangerous and lived.

“Why did I do it?” You whimpered, “Why didn’t I just walk away?” You pressed your forehead to the glass, your breath fogging it. You’d always been the good girl, the one who helped and believed in healing. But now that belief felt like a curse that could’ve cost you everything, even your own life. And yet, the thought of him bleeding alone, dying—it twisted something inside you, something that said that you’d do it again, even now.

You turned away from the window, body restless with an energy you didn’t understand. You needed to study and focus, reclaiming the quiet life you are so used to. But your eyes caught the blanket and the rug again. He was gone, but he’d left a mark, a question that burned your chest. Who was he? And why, despite everything, did you hope to see him again?

۶ৎ

Jungkook’s world was full of edge, a place full of spilled blood and betrayal, where trust was a debt paid in bodies. But you—you were a soft, maddening intrusion he couldn’t cut away. He tried to push you away in his chaotic life, to forget your memory under the weight of his revenge. He hunted his enemies through the city, his gun heavy and a knife in his pocket.

But no matter how many bodies he killed, your face lingered—your wide, innocent eyes, the way your hands trembled as you stitched his wound. It drove him crazy, a memory he couldn’t break, pushing him deeper into his own darkness.

He soon started watching you, not by choice but by need, like a starving man drawn to you. The city at night would hide him as he stood across from your apartment, a cigarette between his lips. He would lean against a lamppost, exhaling smoke. His muscles would twist as well, his tattoos itching as if they felt your presence as well and how they affected him.

Your routine became his obsession. At 7:30 am, you’d leave the apartment, backpack over one shoulder. Your hair, often loose, as you tucked it behind your ear, a habit of yours that Jungkook learned. He memorized the way you paused while walking, your lips moving slightly as you talked to yourself; he noticed even the simplest detail.

By 8, you were at the university, getting into the lecture halls where he couldn’t follow, though he pictured you there, bent over a notebook, with a pen or pencil between your lips when you were in deep concentration, that act of yours that tightened his jaw and always boiled his blood enough to kill a man.

Evenings, you would always visit the library. He’d linger outside watching you read with your head down, pink lips moving as you read the words, that tongue peeking out sometimes when you licked your lips, his cigarette crumbled in his tight fist at the sight

Other times, you’d stretch, your sweater riding up to reveal a small bit of the soft skin of your waist. It was a reminder of your vulnerability, how fragile you were, and it made his blood boil with a mix of protectiveness and possession. He hated it—hated you for being so breakable and unaware of the constant danger around you, the one that was stalking you.

Fridays were his favorite. You’d stop at the campus café, walking in. You always ordered the same thing; he memorized that as well—iced tea and a strawberry pastry. You would drink the tea contentedly, sitting by the window, hands wrapped around your mug.

Once you licked icing from the cake off your thumb, your tongue quick, Jungkook snarled from where he stood. He wanted to barge in, to wipe that sweetness off your lips himself, to taste the sugar and you on his tongue as well. The thought was sharp and dangerous, and he forced it away, his teeth grinding.

“Why can’t I stop?” he muttered, his voice a growl. “You’re nothing. Just a girl. A fucking distraction.”

But you weren’t. You were like a poison, one he craved even if it would kill him eventually. He learned everything about you. Your favorite books—romance novels and your thick medical textbooks. Your scent—floral lotion, sweet and clean, always clinging to the air in your space along with your clothes and blankets.

The way you blushed, the rare softness of your laughter that angered him wanting to see it often—he craved it even though it felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. How you hummed softly when you cooked, a melody that he always strained to hear even from outside your window. He hated how you made him weak, how you made him want to see you happy, make you smile, and the things he’d sworn off completely from his life.

He was jealous of everything, jealous of anyone you even glanced at, even though it didn’t mean anything. His hands twitched towards his knife, wanting to kill and carve out the flesh of the male professor you had or the guy who helped you carry your bags that day.

You didn’t interact with a lot of people in general, so he held back. During his time of stalking, he realized exactly how much self-control he had else he would have been on a killing spree of any males who even dared to breathe near you, and that included items you wore or touched; yes, he was fuming towards even those, because even such items didn't deserve your touch. He was going crazy, his own possessiveness towards you angering him, but he cannot stop it, even if he wants to.

He also knew that you were alone, no family, your parents dead, and your life was only held by small dreams. It pissed him off at how exposed you were, how easily the world could crush you. He could crush you. The thought was a dark temptation, one he fought every time he saw you.

He watched you from everywhere possible: alleys, rooftops, a presence and a shadow of someone you felt but couldn’t see. You often felt your skin prickle and goosebumps arise all over your body from the feeling of constantly being watched. You’d pause sometimes, your movements pausing, your eyes scanning the darkness, feeling the weight of someone’s stare, brow furrowed

He'd hold his breath, blending into the darkness, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the pull you had on him without realizing.

“Look at me,” he’d rasp quietly, his voice rough with longing and hate. “See me, damn it!”

۶ৎ

One night, he’d learned about your student loans, the debt that kept you up at night, your window open for him to see as you stared at the bills. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, eyes welling with unshed tears.

It was a weakness he couldn’t ignore, a crack to a part of him he’d buried a long time ago. The next day, without thinking, he acted. He left an envelope on your doorstep stuffed with an insane amount of cash, your name written in his sharp handwriting. The bills were blood money from his world. He told himself it was a debt repaid for the night you saved him.

But when he saw you find the money, your eyes wide, fingers trembling as you counted the bills, he felt a twist in his chest, a sick pride, and a hunger to see that look on your face again.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” He hissed, watching you from a distance, the envelope pressed to your chest as tears of gratefulness streamed down your face, “You’re going to ruin me, and I’ll ruin you back.”

He kept doing it, leaving cash when you weren’t home, each stack a claim, tying you to him. He’d watch you use the money, paying your rent and loans. Your eyes are bright with relief but full of confusion.

“Who are you?” You’d whisper to yourself, voice soft and trembling as you clutched the money in your hands. The softness of your voice made his fists clench.

“I’m your fucking shadow, princess,” he wanted to say, the words stuck in his throat, “and you’re mine.”

As time went by, his obsession grew, a beast fed by every glimpse of you. “I don’t need you,” he snarled, his voice loud in the empty alley, “I don’t need anyone.”

But he did. He needed you something fierce, and it was a truth he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much blood he spilled. You were his weakness, his obsession, and he was a man drowning in it, watching you from afar, his soul in a war he couldn’t win.

────

taglist: @minewlove @wintaemoonjen @chaelvrx @nanisblogg @slutology00 @kelsyx33 @furioustrashlover @jjeonjjk7 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @asyr97 @ttanniett @yunhoswrldddd @jeonzll @endlesslysassy @elmarimochi9513 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lisax-30 @moodytangerine @taetaecatboy

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marvelstoriesepic · 27 days ago

Text

Wear My Heart

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Reader (Soulmate Au)

Summary: Bucky discovers his long-lost match in a client. But is he even meant to have you with the mark erased from his own body?

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst; loss of limb (non-graphic); prosthesis; PTSD; lots of self-worth issues; insecurities; mild reference to past violence (non-graphic); mentions of self-isolation; chronic loneliness; Bucky is going through some feels

Author’s Note: We had him as a tattoo artist yesterday and we have him as one today haha. This sweet request comes from my beloved tumblr husband! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

He sees you before you walk in.

A blur of reflection in the glass door, sunlight making your hair beam, fingers adjusting the strap of your bag.

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Steve has booked this appointment under your name, and Sam had dropped too many hints over the past few weeks that you’d be coming in soon. Nat had rolled her eyes and told him flatly, that either he’d speak to you or they’d all die of secondhand tension.

So now you are here.

And he’s pretending not to care. Pretending to hear the buzz of the needle. The only thing that grounds him anymore. Pain turned into art. Wounds etched into skin like a creation. And he’s great at this because he’s better at translating pain than he is at speaking.

He prefers ink to people. Needles to names. He prefers silence.

“Bucky?” You’re saying his name as if it’s a question, like maybe you’re still not sure you’re in the right place.

He looks up.

And the moment your eyes meet, there is something inside him that flickers. Like a lightbulb that hasn’t been touched in years. Dusty. Forgotten. Still warm.

He nods. Just once.

You smile. Small. Polite. Nervous.

He doesn’t return it. Can’t.

Because your smile, although timid, is the kind of thing that stays with you - like smoke in his lungs. It fills the spaces where oxygen used to be.

He’s never properly spoken to you, but he’s seen you before - at Steve’s apartment, at Sam’s cookouts, in Nat’s too-casual Instagram stories where he already acknowledged how beautiful your smile is. How beautiful you are.

He remembers thinking you got a laugh like a sunrise, making darkness irrelevant.

He remembers thinking you’d never look at someone like him.

He remembers looking away.

He never said more than a word to you. Never trusted himself to.

You’re too good. Too light. And he’s not.

He knows you are out of his league. And maybe you didn’t even notice him. Maybe all the times he saw you - laughing in Steve’s kitchen, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s couch, reading some ancient paperback by the window - he was just a background blur in your story.

So he kept his distance.

It’s easier that way.

“Uhm, hey,” you start a little nervously, and he could kick himself. “I have a design I've been working on for a while. Steve said you might be the right artist for it.”

You hand him a sketch. He barely glances at it. His fingers don’t fumble but something in his chest does.

And then you move. Rolling your sleeve up. Exposing skin.

And Bucky stops breathing.

It takes a second for his mind to catch up. Another second to realize what he’s looking at.

But when it hits him - it hits.

Like an avalanche in his throat.

There, inked into the soft skin of your upper arm, is a mark he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

His mark.

The same symbol. The same twisted loops of black that curved into his skin when he was six years old. The same mark he stared at for years like it might offer answers. As though it could explain why he always felt like a half-finished sentence. As though it might lead him to someone whole.

It used to be on his left arm. Right over the muscle. He remembers tracing it absently during lectures, during subway rides, during troubled nights when he couldn’t sleep.

It disappeared the day he lost his arm. Gone. Stolen. Scrubbed clean as if he never had a soulmate at all.

He remembers crying - not for the pain, nor for the loss, but because the one thing that tethered him to hope, to someone, was just gone.

He decided then that he was meant to be alone. That fate had made a mistake. That maybe his soulmate was already dead. Or that she had moved on. Married someone else. Tattooed over the mark. Or worse, that the person meant for him would never find him, spending her life thinking she was alone. Marked for no one.

He wonders if you ever felt that way.

He wonders if you still do.

He keeps his face neutral. Professional. He’s good at this. But inside he is crumbling like never before. Collapsing. Splintering into a thousand broken pieces of before and after.

You are talking. He hears the cadence, the warmth, but the words are fog. All he can focus on is the mark. The one thing he never thought he’d see again.

And now you are standing in front of him. And you are real. And the mark is right there on your arm, the exact shape and size of the one that used to be his.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

You’re here. You’re real. You’re his.

And he says nothing.

He stares at it as if it’s a hallucination. But it’s not.

His lungs are tight, cold, hollow. He feels his prosthesis twitch, the phantom ghost of muscle memory in the one he lost.

“This is where I was thinking it would go,” you say, pointing gently to the space around the mark - your mark, his mark, both your marks - “I think it’s one of those soulmate mark things. I got it when I was six. My mom said she always believed in them, that one day I’d meet someone with the same mark. You know, something about being made to match.” You laugh a little awkwardly, tugging your hair behind your ear, probably wondering why you told him this.

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring.

You let out another awkward, breathless laugh. “I’ve never actually seen it on anyone else, though. Guess it’s just one of those things.”

Your words bruise him deeply.

He wants to scream. Wants to tell you everything. That you’re walking around unknowingly wearing his heart. That once, when he was a different man, that mark was the only beautiful thing left of him.

But his mouth doesn’t move. It’s dry.

Because how do you tell someone you lost the piece of yourself that was meant to find them?

What do you say to someone who doesn’t know they’ve been saving your life just by existing?

So he nods. Again. Always nodding. Always hiding.

He’s just the weird guy with the metal arm and the bad temper. The broody dude with a shop sitting behind a laundromat and too many shadows in his eyes. You don’t know that he’s been dreaming of you since he was a kid - before he lost everything but the pieces he could still carry in his chest.

You don’t know that he’s already met you in a hundred quiet ways.

Every time you laughed from another room. Every time he caught you humming while helping Steve cook. Every time Sam made a joke and you leaned in toward the warmth of it instead of away.

He almost speaks. Almost. But the words stick.

You don’t push. You sit. You trust.

And he works.

He sets up the station. Puts his gloves on, machine humming. He doesn’t make eye contact again for the rest of the session.

His fingers don’t shake but his soul does. He lets you sit close, lets you talk about what the design means to you and how long you’ve waited.

And all he wants to do is scream.

What do you say to someone who might run, if you told them the truth?

He tattoos the design carefully.

You wince once and his heart jumps like it wants to protect you from everything. He places his metal hand lightly on your shoulder. Usually, he avoids touch, but you don’t flinch.

That alone nearly destroys him.

You’re so close. Your heartbeat. Your breath. And he keeps thinking about the mark, about the fact that it once lived on his body. About how it had to be removed, torn away, for you to finally appear.

Maybe that’s what fate is.

Maybe it’s not a gentle thing.

Maybe it breaks you before it brings you what you need.

He is memorizing you.

Every breath. Every glance. Every shift.

It feels like something long buried is waking up inside of him. Something ancient. Something inevitable.

When it’s over, you thank him. You say it’s perfect. You pay and leave and smile and wave and tell him that you hope to see him at Steve’s soon and he stands there like a ghost.

He can’t tell you.

Maybe he isn’t even meant to tell you. Maybe fate’s hands were clumsy with him. Maybe it’s not that he lost the arm, or the mark, but that he was always meant to. Maybe that’s part of the story.

Maybe the universe never meant for him to find you. Only to know you exist. Only to touch what he could never keep.

Because what if he tells you?

You might look at him with those lovely wide eyes and smile, say finally, say yes.

But you might also tell him no, look at him with disgust, with disbelief, with disappointment that he is the one you get when you could have gotten someone so much better.

He can’t survive that. He knows it. The heart he stitched back together with flayed rope is easily able to snap when pulled too tight. He’s been holding it together with black thread and stubborn silence and ink. Ink. Always ink. The only thing that doesn’t lie.

He breathes as if he’s drowning. He thinks of your hand on his. The way you smiled. The way you trusted him without knowing why.

He didn’t see the way your eyes softened when he touched your arm. As though his hands were made of something other than metal and self-hatred.

He didn’t see how you leaned in a little closer when he spoke, how you tilted your head as if memorizing the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t see your hesitation at the door. The way you linger. The way you open your mouth to say more but then close it again.

He doesn’t see any of it because his mind is too loud. Too cruel. Too consuming.

It’s whispering to him, claiming that he’s not the man you were meant for. He lost his mark. He lost his right. This isn’t his story anymore.

Maybe the universe gave you the mark and took his, on purpose. Maybe it’s symbolic. Maybe it’s a warning.

Maybe you’re supposed to move on.

Maybe he is supposed to stay behind.

So he watches you go.

Only after the door clicks shut does he exhale.

He peels off his gloves with trembling hands. Walks to the back room. Opens the drawer he hasn’t touched in years.

There, under a stack of unused stencils and crumpled paper towels, is a single sheet. A sketch. Faded. Old. Drawn by hand.

The mark.

He lays it flat on the counter.

His chest feels like it’s holding a thunderstorm. Not lightning. No, that would be beautiful. There only are clouds that never break. Rain that never comes.

His eyes close.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself feel it. Everything. Hope. Fear. Longing. Grief. Wonder.

He presses his palm over the place where his mark used to be. Where his flesh used to be.

He found you. It’s you.

And you don’t know.

But he does.

He brushes his thumb over the lines of his sketch and thinks that he could love you.

That he already does.

And then he thinks, that maybe he was never supposed to.

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himasgod · 11 days ago

Text

LEONA X READER

Where you have insomnia

Where Leona goes to Ramshackle when his instinct tells him you can't sleep again

Stablished Relationship! No warnings, just Leona and u cuddling. Doing a comfort one cuz i feel like dying this days

Ramshackle was quiet—too quiet. But the silence wasn't peace.

It was isolation. The kind that pressed on your chest and refused to let you breathe.

Grim was asleep, snorting at the foot of your bed.

You rolled over in your bed for the fourth time in half an hour, eyes burning but not from tears—just exhaustion. Exhaustion that never seemed to end. Your body begged for sleep. Your mind, however, had other plans.

Every creak in the old dorm echoed louder in the dark. The walls groaned. The windows rattled slightly in the wind. And yet, the worst noise was the one inside your head—thoughts racing, regrets repeating.

The ceiling above your bed was a familiar canvas of shadows now. You counted the same cracks in the same order.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-four cracks, twenty-four failed tries at sleeping. Great.

You didn’t hear the tapping at your door at first.

Not until it came again, firmer this time. Rhythmic. Familiar.

Three knocks. A pause. Two more.

You bolted upright.

“…Leona?”

Another knock. And then a drawl, muffled through the door.

“Who else would come all the way to this haunted dump at ass o’clock?”

You opened the door.

The sight of Leona leaning lazily against the ledge, wearing a worn-out hoodie over his uniform slacks, his green eyes glowing in the moonlight—it never failed to steal your breath.

“Do you know what time it is?” you whispered, shocked but not unhappy.

He smirked. “Do you?”

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in, tail flicking behind him as he landed with a soft thud on your creaky floorboards. His eyes swept over your dimly-lit room—bare, dusty, but still unmistakably you.

“You couldn’t sleep again,” he said plainly, not as a question.

He always knew.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling small.

“Yeah. Again.”

Leona sighed. “Figured.”

You hesitated by your bed while he dropped himself into the armchair near your bed like he owned it, lounging in his usual half-asleep posture. He didn't say anything else for a moment—just let the silence settle. The real kind of silence. The kind that calmed rather than smothered.

“…Did you really walk all the way from Savanaclaw?”

You stared.

“…Why?”

Under that cool expression, something soft shimmered.

“…‘Cause you never ask me to come, herbivore. But you always look like you’re hoping I will.”

Your throat went dry.

Leona didn’t do sweet words. He didn’t do romance the way people expected. No flowers. No public affection. But every time he showed up like this wordlessly, instinctively, like your suffering pulled him from wherever he was, it was clearer than anything he could’ve said.

He didn’t wait for you to respond. Just patted his lap with a single flick of his fingers.

“C’mere.”

You blinked.

“…Your lap?”

“Yeah. Got a better pillow than that lumpy mattress. Unless you’re planning to stay awake just to be polite.”

You hesitated for a beat longer before walking over.

Slowly, shyly, you sank onto his lap, and he adjusted with you like it was the most natural thing in the world—pulling you close, one arm wrapped lazily around your waist, the other resting behind his head.

His body was warm. His perfume filled your nose and slowed your heartbeat.

“…You do this a lot,” you whispered into his chest.

“What? Show up?”

You nodded. “You always come when I can’t sleep. I don’t even tell you.”

He hummed, more rumble than voice.

“Call it instinct.”

You rested your cheek against his shoulder, voice quieter. “Or care?”

A long pause.

“…Don’t push your luck.”

You smiled into the fabric of his hoodie.

But then, softer: “I just… I don’t want to burden you.”

Leona made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat.

“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

You were quiet.

He let the silence hang for a moment before adding:

“…Look, I’m not good at the sweet stuff. I don’t know how to say the right things, and I’m not about to turn into some sappy prince from a fairy tale.”

“I know.”

“But I do know this—when you can’t sleep, it messes with me too. Makes me restless. Puts this tight twisted ache in my chest. And I hate it.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Because it’s you,” he said, finally meeting your gaze.

“And I hate seeing you look so tired… so worn down like this place is eating you alive.”

Your breath caught.

He reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, then resting against your cheek like you were something precious and fragile and his.

“So if curling up in this old chair with me helps you sleep, even a little… then I’ll do it. Again and again.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The tears in your eyes were quiet and warm—nothing dramatic, just a slow release of something you hadn’t even realized you were holding in.

You shifted, pressing your forehead to his chest, and whispered:

“Stay the night?”

He closed his eyes, voice low and dry.

“I wasn’t planning to leave.”

You fell asleep with his arms around you.

#leona kingscholar #leona x yuu #leona x reader #leona kingscholar x yuu #leona kingscholar x reader #leona comfort #twst x reader #twisted wonderland comfort #twisted x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted one shot #twst x yuu

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zillychu · 1 year ago

Text

I’ve gotten a WAVE of asks about this AU, so I decided to flesh it out some more and answer some of those questions!

I’ll probably polish this extended summary up at some point and submit it to AO3. But for now, here’s a rundown of my thoughts–please feel free to send more questions! I’ll update this post if I get any more. But if you’re someone who wanted to write fic for it, don’t worry, you don’t need to take my headcanons as gospel. It’s a pretty basic AU honestly lol

Summary:

The portal accident results in a violent explosion that wipes out the whole block, and condemns all of Amity Park. Danny haunts the city for 100 years, before Sam and Tucker find him.

Setup:

In the 1920’s, 19-year-old Danny went into the incomplete portal on his own, hoping to help out his parents. Ripping the portal open through unnatural means created a huge burst of energy that resulted in a massive explosion. A good portion of the Amity Park population died, many were injured, and the ones on the fringes relocated–Amity was quickly deemed too dangerous due to the excess ectoplasm in the area that attracted ghosts.

While the disaster was in Amity, the fallout was seen around the globe. Before, natural portals were rare, short-lived, and rarely allowed ghosts to fully slip into our realm (the most severe cases being on par with poltergeists that most people didn’t believe in). Now, natural portals pop open frequently around the world, large enough to allow the entirety of a ghost into the physical plane. They’re more common the closer you get to Amity, but they happen enough elsewhere that this change was something of a small apocalypse before people settled back down and found out how to combat at least some of their new, permanent neighbors.

Danny is unaware that he’s only half-dead, believing he’s a full ghost. He ends up sticking around Amity, unintentionally making it his haunt. His grief and guilt over causing the death of his loved ones (and many others) makes him isolate and avoid human contact. Though he has, at times, scared nosy people away from the city in a mix of territorial instinct–and to get them to leave before a less friendly ghost finds them.

Ghosts are much more of an uncontested danger in this AU. Lesser ghosts are practically mindless, and while stronger ghosts are capable of reason, their interests are limited. They’re highly territorial, possessive, and often destructive. Most worrisome is that they also like to snack on the life force of anything alive. No one is sure what dictates a ghost’s propensity to attack or hunt the living for their life force since ghosts don’t exactly experience hunger. At least, not the way we do. If a human is rescued before their life force is fully drained, they can make a full recovery–though humanity has still not yet found what this “life force" is.

And since the Fentons’ research died along with them, there aren’t many tools available to the public to protect them from ghosts. Most homes have standard ghost shields and some weapons are available on the market, but certified ghost hunters are required to take care of anything more powerful than your average spook.

Sam and Tucker met in high school, and are now rooming together for college very close to the Amity border. Rent is surprisingly cheap when you’re a stone’s throw away from a condemned area crawling with ghosts. Sam is the one who drags Tucker along with her fascination over finding out more about the city, and its largely mysterious demise. Sam is aware of the danger, but feels ghosts have a place in this world just like everything else, and does exercise caution–like one would while foraging in the woods with a known tiger population.

What she and Tucker weren’t expecting was to run into a ghost that felt almost human. One that hasn't hurt them, not for lack of trying–while being powerful enough to walk past ghost shields without so much as a flinch. The long white hair is familiar in the whispers of the ectobiologist community, but there’s no way it could be the rumored ghost king Phantom, right?

About Danny:

He has very long hair, claws, and black sclera. His hazmat suit is more torn and ragged, with exposed hands and feet that fade into a burnt black.

His hair tends to float a lot on its own. It can start morphing into fire under duress.

He does still technically have gloves and boots, they've just charred and melted into his skin towards the ends. He can't take them off in his ghost form. His hands and feet have a leathery texture that's tougher than the rest of his skin.

The white of his hazmat suit is both supposed to look like flames, and also a battered look representing his more violent, explosive death.

Overall, he appears rather listless and sad, with an unnerving air of danger around him–even for a ghost.

Danny’s “ghost sense” comes out as white smoke.

He does breathe black smoke at times, usually when agitated.

He's already fought and defeated Pariah Dark by the time Sam and Tucker find him, technically making him the Ghost King. This is heavily speculated by ghost experts, despite there being no real proof beyond a massive battle that scarred Illinois. He has not donned the Ring or the Crown, and captured sentient ghosts are hesitant to answer questions surrounding him. Danny basically has the throne but doesn’t do anything with it, and finds it meaningless enough to routinely forget he has the title. He only fought Pariah because he knew otherwise, humanity would have perished. A lot of ghosts are scared of him because he's so hard to figure out, and he's strong.

Danny is usually very quiet and speaks softly, because his lungs were damaged in the blaze that half-killed him. He's technically healed since becoming a ghost, so it's more of a compulsion due to the traumatic memory. That, and he’s just… very forlorn and distant, shy around humans who don’t seem to understand how dangerous it is to keep hanging around him.

His memories pre-accident are extremely fuzzy. He knows the very basics of who he was, but specifics have been muffled due to trauma and isolation. He routinely forgets human habits, etiquette, etc. and tends to act more like a full ghost with some odd quirks.

He does try to scare Sam and Tucker off numerous times. Unfortunately for him, they realized they shouldn't have been able to escape a ghost that strong–but they did, because he let them.

Sam and Tucker think he's mute at first! He doesn't speak a word to them until several encounters later, when he fumbles his whole scary act and saves them from another ghost.

He’s still half-ghost, though he doesn’t figure this out until Sam and Tucker come along trying to unravel the mysteries behind the Amity catastrophe. Physically and emotionally, he’s been stuck for 100 years–so his human form is still 19. It’s unclear at this point if he can age normally like a human as long as he stays in human form, or if he’s immortal.

Danny's family did not turn into ghosts, though he sometimes worries he'll find them in the afterlife as shells of their former selves. He doesn't know if it's better or worse that he's not sure he'd recognize them.

(Danny also still has some living family. Take a guess.)

Yes, he knows how to Wail. Understandably, he very rarely uses it. You do not want to witness this.

Danny :) is not immune :) from the allure of eating a human's life force :)))

#danny phantom #au #zilly art #I just wanted to draw a boy with long hair and claws how did this happen #fire core au

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magnolia-among-the-stars · 2 months ago

Text

twin sized mattress (rafe cameron)

summary: What happens when one moment you’re coming home to change for a secret date, and the next you’re being dragged away to a "wilderness therapy camp" with no warning, no goodbye.

Kitty Hawk isn’t a camp. It’s a prison disguised as a lesson, a place designed to break people like me. No contact. No escape. Just rules, isolation, and the constant reminder that this is my fault.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I last saw Rafe Cameron. Maybe he moved on. Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m gone.

But if he does? If he finds out where they sent me? Then I don’t know who should be more afraid—me… or the people keeping me here. based on this request

word count: 6590

trigger warnings: forced disciplinary camp, isolation, emotional manipulation, toxic positivity, gaslighting, coercion, PTSD-like symptoms, mentions of forced labor, exhaustion, restricted food, physical abuse (in the altercations with the security team)

A/N: i take this topic so seriously because I know that even though Kitty Hawk is a fictional location, there are real camps out here that are doing this. there's a few real impactful documentaries on netflix (among so many others) that talk through the horrors of these programs. Please take care of yourself in reading this - I'm really proud of it but it is a much heavier topic.

I never thought my parents would do it. Truly. I mean, of course I thought it was possible. Hell, they’d threatened it the entirety of freshman year. That was the year John B’s dad disappeared, the year that Kie went off to Kook Academy. It was a rough year for all of us. So sure, they’d threaten the idea if I kept hanging out with ‘that Maybank kid’, if I kept up my ‘attitude’ or my ‘late night sexcapades’ as my mother called them.

I could still see her face, just last weekend in the kitchen pouring another cup of coffee. The night before, we’d been out at the Boneyard having a few beers. I could still see the pinch in between her brow, could still see the tremble in her upper lip as she scolded me. “Keep this up, see what happens. I swear, if I wake up one more time in the middle of the night to find that you are still not home…if I find out you were partying with those criminals - you are done, do you hear me?”

We’d always landed somewhere between Pogues and Kooks, having moved here after my dad took a job in the Coast Guard but living on The Cut to save on moving costs. I’d always found myself at peace with the Pogues, surfing during the summer days and boating in the evenings. It was always lighthearted. Work hard, play harder. I should’ve known it would bite me in the ass someday.

Dripping from the rain and in desperate need of a change of clothes before heading out, I didn’t even have a chance to tug my key from my pocket when the door swung open wide.

A strange man stood in the doorway, staring down at me menacingly. I raise a brow, try to peer around the behemoth of the man. “Am I at the wrong house?” I mumble, backing up a little bit to get my bearings. My back slams into something dense and I turn, noticing another man with his arms crossed. “What the–,” my heart drops to my ass and bile rises in my throat.

It’s a blur after that of hands on skin, flip flops displaced on the wet grass, of screaming and promises and begging. Bruises form from kicking against the car door, from punching against the glass. I get a glimpse of my mother sobbing on the porch as I’m driven away in a black SUV, my father wiping his mouth.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I have just enough time to stare down at the incoming text message. I just parked, let me know when you get here?

I try to quickly press out a response, send an SOS but I’m not quick enough. The man sitting to my left snatches it from my grasp and all hope of escape, of stopping the nightmare of some therapeutic wilderness camp for troubled teenage girls.

______

It feels like too much time passes in the dark of the woods by the time I see the sign, illuminated by solar lighting on the side of the road. Kitty Hawk. The hellscape that Kie’s parents had threatened a few months back. At least Mike and Anna had come to their senses that listening to your child had been the solution to their rebellion instead of a traumatic kidnapping and manual labour. How peachy.

Bigfoot pushes me from the slick leather and out of the car, wrapping a stiff hand around my bicep and all but drags me up the dirt path to a cabin at the top of the hill in the center of the facility. It’s dark; rows of evergreen cabins line the paths through the trees. It’s too quiet, the only sound coming from any direction were crickets and a quiet echo of shouting. Creepy.

Inside the main office, a woman with a toothy tight smile and tired eyes tells me that this is a chance at redemption. “This is a chance to right your wrongs, to really make something of yourself.”

“I’ll pass,” I tell her, nodding absentmindedly at the cat bobble head that sways on her desk. “I should really be getting home…I’ve got a date.”

“You do…with your future.” She covers it with her hand, forcing me to look up at her. Her smile tightens, stretching too far. “And I have high hopes for you,” she says.

“No, like an actual date, it’s important,” I say, blinking a little and frowning. I think of him, sitting out on the beach waiting for my text message. He’s probably looking out at the ocean, watching the storming waves and wondering if I’m blowing him off, if I’ve finally called off whatever it is that we had before things could get serious; before we told anyone anything. Probably wondering if I was coming to my senses. What Pogue would ever want to get into a serious relationship with the Kook Prince anyway?

“Sweetheart, we need you to work with us here. Alright? We can work together to make things better, okay? Can you trust us?” the woman says, leaning forward like we’re friends.

I stare at her for a moment, disturbed by the optimism. “I need to atleast make a phone call.”

She shakes her head, waving to the goof in the corner standing at the ready. “Patients cannot use their phones or have contact with anyone for the first six weeks of the program-,” she continues to rattle off a series of rules. They go in one ear and out the other.

And when Sasquatch finally comes in to drag me off to a cabin, all I want is Rafe’s hands on me instead. And when I lay on the thin mattress on the bottom bunk in the overcrowded girls’ cabin with springs digging into my back, I try to imagine the soft sand underneath me and the scratchings on the plank of wood above the stars. I try not to think about how heartbroken he must be, not knowing that I’d been sent away.

____

Days pass in a daze of survival; of medication trials, gaslighting unqualified therapy and lots of splinters. Between group sessions of talking through our wrongdoings and ruthless workouts to ‘sweat out our sins’, the counselors are convinced that becoming lumberjacks will cure us of whatever illness has caused our disobedience. My hands quickly become calloused from the endless hours of splitting wood with an old axe, my shoulders sore from carrying logs to and from one site to another. There’s no real structure, just ragged breathing and murmurs of toxic positivity quotes that hard work builds character.

No one talks about the horrors of being taken from their homes and families, of the depression that causes them to act out. I watch a girl, maybe a year younger than me, sway on her feet. She’s holding an axe that’s longer than her arm and I worry she’ll hurt herself. I step forward to steady her, slip the axe from her loose grip.

Betsy Sue or whatever the fuck her name is steps back with a wide gaze.

Big Boss Man appears almost out of nowhere and rips the axe from my grasp. He tucks my arm behind my back, like I’m a threat to his stature.

“Threatening a counselor in your first week,” Betsy Sue says, shaking her head and scribbling something on her stupid clipboard. “That’s two weeks in the Reflection Cabin for you. I hope you’ll take that time to really think about how you want your experience here to go,” she says through clenched teeth.

“No, no - I wasn’t even threatening you-, no, get off,” I try to shove their hands away like a scared cat. “She was going to pass out, you barely feed us-,” I grunt as I’m shuffled through the woods, kicking and screaming. They close me inside the dim cabin, leaving me to the dust glinting through slips of light from under the sealed windows. They’re cracked open just about two inches, allowing the cool breeze to seep into the room like a crushed straw. I notice the lack of sheets on the thinner mattress and the state of the dirty toilet. Fuck.

—

It's been days since he’s heard from you. Rafe Cameron wasn’t someone who normally got left on read and yet that alone didn’t even cause him to stop thinking about you. He didn’t know how it happened but he knew that your laugh is infectious. He had never pictured himself settling down and yet, he had thought about what size your ring finger was.

You’d been around Sarah ever since Ward’s death…the first time. One of the annoying Pogues who’d been treasure hunting around Kildare like you were Jack Sparrow and yet, he couldn’t help but search for your face in a crowd. And one late night, long after he and Sarah had agreed to be in each other’s lives, he found you staring up at the stars on the patio. The rest of the Pogues were passed out throughout Tannyhill from a night of partying but you? You were curled up on a covered wicked chair, hair twisted into two lazy braids and hand deep into a bag of cheese puffs.

“The hell are you doin’ out here?” he grunts, looking at the mess your friends had left.

You just crunched away, unbothered by his tone as your dirty orange fingers pointed up at the sky. “Meteor shower.” You held out the bag for him, “Wanna watch?”

Rafe didn’t know what he was doing when he settled down below the wicker chair, shoulder bumping yours as he stared at your dirty fingers holding the big bag. “Those are disgusting,” he mumbles, staring at your profile and the way your lips curled up.

“And?” you said, turning to look at him with a raised brow.

He felt like he could kiss the smirk off of your face. So he tried. And you tasted like artificial cheese and malibu. He swore he fell in love. And then you stood him up, there on the beach a few nights ago. And then he noticed that you hadn’t been around the house with his sister either, nor at the farmer’s market with Kie and Cleo, not even at the marina with the boys.

Were you avoiding him? What the hell had he done to deserve the silent treatment and a no show. It wasn’t like he could just straight up ask Sarah where you were hiding. You’d never really gotten to the point of making it official, of sharing with your friends that you’d done the unspeakable. You’d gotten involved with Sarah’s recovering assaholic of a brother.

It’s not until a few days of stewing later that he decides he can’t take it anymore, that he can’t move on until he’s seen you. That what you guys had felt too real for him to just shrug it off. When he walks into the kitchen though, he’s not expecting the whole clan to be there again. But he counts only six and deflats until he hears their conversation.

“They said she went on a trip to go visit family out of state,” Pope shares, leaning down and shaking his head.

“There’s no way she would’ve left without telling someone something,” Sarah shakes her head, leaning on John B. “It’s just not her.”

“You don’t think they could’ve—,” JJ drags a finger across his throat and gets a few groans, a pinch from Kie.

“JJ, not funny. No, the only thing that they’ve ever threatened her with is–,” Kie looks up at the sound of Rafe’s footsteps, catches his curiosity. “Rafe? What are you doing here?”

“Where is she?” he asks, crossing his arms. Sarah notices the strain of emotion settling into his jaw, his hands tucked into themselves to stop from shaking. She tilts her head in realization, she’s always been too perceptive.

“We don’t know,” she says. “But from the way you’re shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you have something you’d like to share with the class.”

Rafe huffs out a sarcastic noise, somewhere between an amused snort and an annoyed laugh. “Cute, real cute. Your little friend was supposed to meet me out on the beach the night of the storm. Never showed. So, because she won’t answer my calls or texts – you can tell her that she can come out of hiding now and tell me to fuck off like an adult.”

“The night of the–oh my god,” Kie covers her mouth. “Dude, her parents pulled the trigger.”

“I knew it,” JJ shouts, slapping the countertop in confirmation but Kie shuts him down.

“No, listen, her parents told her two weeks ago that one more late night and they were sending her away to Kitty Hawk. That’s the day that we were stranded on Figure 8 because someone-,” she looks at JJ, “forgot to put enough gas in the Snapper.”

Rafe stiffens, guilt washing through him for thinking that you would’ve walked away without a single word. He’s reminded of the soft commentary woven into your conversations; that your parents were absent, harsh.

“You really think her parents would send her away?” John B asks.

“Yes, 100%. My parents got the name of the place from her mom. They’ve been threatening it for a while now. We just laughed it off…”

“Lets go get her,” Rafe blurts out. The whole group turns in confusion at his outburst, watching as he grabs his wallet and keys from the bowl on the counter. He looks like a man on a mission and they freeze. When he realizes no one is moving, he glares. “What are you all looking at me like that for? Do you want to go rescue your friend or not?”

They share a look, a six way silent debate and decide that no matter how strange it is – having Rafe Cameron on your team was better than against.

—

I don’t know how much time passes, unable to tell the difference between sunshine through the dirty windows and the beaming lights spotlighting movement through the facilities. I start to get restless after a day of reflection, pacing up and down the rows of empty bunks and reciting all the joyful things waiting for me outside the doors of the cabin, outside the walls of the camp.

Two days later, one of the fake therapists comes in with another stupid clipboard to chat through my diagnosis. She gives me some mumbo jumbo about defiance and attention-something or other. I’m too distracted by counting the steps it takes to make it around her and through the door. How quickly could I run to the gate and get to the main road…could I flag someone down in time?

I wonder if anyone even realizes I’m gone. Do the Pogues think I’ve just left without a word? Does Rafe? Are they looking for me?

She asks me a question, calls my name.

I run for it. I should’ve tightened my shoelaces.

Stumbling over myself, losing the momentum of surprise, Jack and the Beanstalk easily grasp onto both my arms and shove me back into the cabin. I struggle in their painful grips, swinging wildly to see if I can break free. It’s futile and eventually Beanstock just tosses me harshly to the ground. I lay there longer than expected, stomach aching from my one meal a day. My arms start to bruise from the handling and a hopelessness washes over me.

“I was really hoping you would’ve made some progress but it looks like you’re still unwilling to let us help you,” the woman clicks her pen and tucks her clipboard snug under her arm. “We’ll try again next week, hmm?” She turns to leave, taking the big brutes with her.

I scramble to my feet, desperate to stop the door from closing. The light is snuffed from the room, the heavy sound of a padlock grinds against the wood and I’m alone again. “No, no, please,” I shout, slamming against the sturdy framework.

I didn't get a meal for a long time after that. I notice a subtle shift in lighting outside and if I squat near the two inch opening, I hear a buzzing noise that almost seems like a shift in setting. I scratch a notch in the wood of a bunk post when I hear it. The bologna and melted cheese sandwich is not nearly enough to make my stomach stop hurting and my throat is too raw from screaming to be able to enjoy the meal.

—

The drive to Kitty Hawk is tense and quiet, Rafe’s knuckles turning white at the thought of you being forced from your home. Kie had filled him in on all she’d heard about the program, the mocking website with the sense of community and enthusiasm for growth. It made his stomach churn.

He checks the rearview mirror, ensuring your loyal and idiotic friends are still behind him in the Twinkie. Sarah watches the stiffness in her brother’s movements, the tension in his limbs. She ponders a little, feeling bold with just the two of them in the car. “So,” she takes a sip of water, “how long have you guys been seeing each other?”

Rafe’s head snaps toward her, eyes flickering back to the road as he tries to collect himself. “Seeing who?”

“Rafe, I’m your sister. We may have been at odds for a long time but I know when you’re tucking something away because you don’t want someone to see you vulnerable,” Sarah says. When he says nothing in response, she smirks a little, looks out the window.

“It’s been a few months,” he says, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth. He taps his fist against the steering wheel, frustrated with his honesty. Rafe feels like he’s betraying your trust a little, sharing a secret you both hadn’t agreed to share. “We weren’t official…not yet anyways.”

“But you lo-,” she stops herself, not wanting to scare him off, “you care about her.”

Rafe gives her the side eye, noticing the signage up ahead for the damn camp. “I love her,” he admits, turning into the place. He watches as the twinkie rolls off to the side, leaving just the two of them puttering down the dirt road. He stops for a second, foot hitting the break impulsively. He’d just gotten his sister back in his life, finally getting on good terms with her. Rafe couldn’t lose another person. Not with all that he’d done to make amends. “Are you…are you like, mad?”

Sarah looks at him with a softness that he still wasn’t used to. He didn’t know where she’d inherited such a look, not having been raised with it himself. “Rafe, she’s been lighter and brighter in the last few months than I’ve ever seen her. I’m going to make the assumption that you have a lot to do with that.”

“Really?” He can’t help the smile that stretches across his face, the burning in his cheeks at the admission.

“Yes, really,” Sarah laughs, amused at the site of him being bashful. “And you’ve become way less snappy and more tolerable, so I’m happy as long as you’re both happy.” She covers his hand with hers, smiling “Let's go get our girl.”

He nods, squeezing her hand and starting to drive up to the men walking around in front of the gate ahead.

“So like…do you…have a plan?” Sarah asks, tensing as they wave them to a stop.

“We’re going to buy the camp,” he says, rolling down the window and looking over at her. He looks over the stern man, feeling a subtle rage underneath the surface of his skin. But Rafe is Ward Cameron’s son after all and he knows how to manipulate his way through a deal. He’s made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t be that person anymore, wouldn’t become his dad. But sometimes, the toolbox comes in handy for the greater good.

“This is private property,” the man grunts, nodding to the road. “You’ll have to turn around.”

“We’re here to meet with the director of the camp about an investment deal,” Rafe says, oozing with an authority that Sarah hasn’t witnessed in quite some time. It sends a wave of discomfort over her but she stays quiet, letting him work. “Elliot Calloway?”

“Investment deal? You?” the man says, raising a brow and looking back at the other security.

“Yeah,” Rafe pulls his business card from his visor, flashing it at the guy without care. “My family is pretty big in the development?”

“Mr. Cameron, give me just a moment,” the man’s tone changes, stepping away to radio someone. He comes back after a few minutes, nodding to the gate. “Central building just beyond the parking lot with the buses. Mr. Calloway will meet you there.”

—

I sit against the wall under the windowsill, staring absentmindedly at the door frame. I try to listen for the hum of the lights switching, swaying absentmindedly to a tune stuck in my head. My head lifts at a voice dancing through the wind outside. It’s a newer voice, unique from the roulette of voices that I’d gotten used to in the time since arriving at camp.

The first thought that runs through my head is that the new voice is Rafe. The thought that follows is that I have gone crazy. The voice is gone before I can even stand and try to peer out the window. It would be a waste because I was certain at this point that I was forgotten about, that no one was coming to save me. This was my new reality.

My delusions prove correct because the voice doesn’t come back, doesn’t drift through the window as time passes. What does come back is the hum buzzes and another sandwich – just cheese this time – is slid through the door. The cabin gets chilly as I deconstruct my sandwich on my lap, ripping parts of the bread away and eating slowly to pass the time.

There’s a commotion outside the door and I glance up from the slice of American cheese when I hear the padlock click open, hear the hinges squeal. There’s a stream of light that hurts my eyes as the door is pushed open but it's gone as quick as it came. My shoulders tense as a figure ducks a little, coming closer in the dark of the cabin. I stay pressed against the wall, deciding that a splinter from the unfinished framing is better than whatever the security guard is up to.

“Please, I promise not to try to escape,” I whimper, scrunching my eyes shut in hopes that this is all just a terrible nightmare.

“Well, that’s a waste I guess.”

I blink, eyes straining in the dark to look for a sign that I’ve officially lost my mind, that I’ve started to hallucinate in the solitude of isolation. He’s kneeling down a few steps back, dressed in the classic black uniform of a guard. “Rafe?” My throat tightens, the dam breaking as all the feeling rushes back through me.

“You didn’t think I’d let it slide that you missed our date, did you?” he murmurs, crawling forward to wrap his arms around me, pulling me into his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, tensing against him. I melt into his warm, finally feeling protected in his caring embrace. He smells like the beach and feels like home.

Rafe’s hands slide under me as he tugs me forward, pulling me into his lap. I can’t stop the sobs that wrack through me, trying to cover my mouth so that no one will hear how loud I am. It’s scary how much I had convinced myself that I could survive without softness, without being held in a way that wasn’t aggressive, and wasn't forceful.

“How many days has it been?” I sniffle a little, shaking.

Rafe reaches up to wipe away the tears, cradling my cheek as he searches my face. It’s easy to recognize the frustration in his brow, the tension in his jaw. “It’s been a week but we’re breaking you out of here, okay?” He rises to his feet, picking me up with ease. He takes my hand and guides me to the doorway.

My stomach churns, heart racing as I suck in a breath. Something deep inside panics and I tug at his arm, hesitating in the middle of the cabin. “Wait, wait,” I whisper, staring at him wide-eyed.

Rafe looks back at me, tugging a little on my hand. “Doll, c’mon, we don’t have much time.”

The way he tugs at my hand causes my throat to tighten again and I pull back, like his touch burns my flesh. I hold my hand against my chest, curling into myself. “Rafe…I don’t…” I start to say, losing my breath. “I don’t…what if they–”

“Shhh, shhh, hey–hey,” Rafe steps back cautiously back into my personal space, hands up as if he’s trying to show me he means no harm. His blue eyes are flecked with worry as he takes in my state. “What did they do to you?”

I don’t know how to respond, the nightmare of the apparent week since I’d last seen him dying on my tongue. I open my mouth but nothing escapes me. I look down, feeling so unlike myself.

Rafe steps closer, slowly moving his hands to hold my face again so he can stare down at me. His thumbs smooth over the apples of my cheeks, his skin cool. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here but I promise you, no one comes near you again – okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, looking up at him.

Rafe nods, gives me a little smile and checks his watch. He looks to the door and starts to move with a little more intention. He can peel the black hoodie from his slender torso, checking his watch one more time. “You trust me?”

I nod without hesitation. “More than anything.”

He steps forward, pulling the hoodie over my head to cover the stupid Kitty Hawk uniform from view. It’s dark only for a moment before I’m staring up at his face again. I’m swimming in cotton, the clothing big enough that it covers my shorts. Rafe takes care as he brushes his hands along my neckline, freeing my hair from the collar. “Alright, here’s the plan. We’re going to head into the woods down by the water…it seems like no one really goes down there. We’re not gonna run, that’s going to draw attention to us,” he rushes to explain.

I can’t help myself, rising up on my tippy toes and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for coming to get me,” I whisper, fingers poking out to clutch at his shirt. Before he can respond, before he can react - there’s a loud burst of noise outside in the distance. I gasp out as we’re suddenly engulfed in darkness. “Rafe?”

“That’s our cue,” he says, sliding the hoodie over my head and lacing our hands together. “Once we get outside – don’t stop moving, okay? Head down and don’t let go of my hand, alright?” I nod, trying to ignore the thoughts racing through my mind and how hard my heart beats in my chest.

Rafe turns to the door and squeezes my hand tightly before pulling it open. It’s pitch black outside but I can hear loud shouting. “Tug that door shut, okay?” he says.

I pull the handle to shut the door behind us as we take off down the creaky stairs, trying to take slow breaths as I keep my eyes on the ratty sneakers I’ve been issued. Rafe’s grip is firm as he leads me quickly along winding paths and between cabins as if he grew up at the camp. I can almost see the opening in the trees that leads down to the water when he pushes me hastily behind a cabin.

“What tha’ hell is goin’ on?” he shouts to someone, his voice disguised with a deep drawl.

I worry that they’ll notice he’s not one of them but my shoulders relax a little when whoever he’s talking to sounds like they haven’t stopped moving. “I think a transformer blew, the generator’s old.”

“Where you need me?” Rafe responds, stepping a little out of my view and I have to press against the cabin to stop myself from following him.

“Get the mouthy one from isolation, bring her for count in the mess hall,” the man responds, his voice further away as he leaves the conversation. I taste bile in my throat at his words, breath hitching as Rafe’s ‘assignment’ to get me. There’s a ringing in my ear and I sway, dizzy with fear. I jump a little when his fingertips brush my wrists.

“Hey, hey, you still with me?” he bends a little so he’s eye level. His voice is soft. “What did I promise you?”

“No…” I swallow. “No one will come near me again.”

“No one will come near you again,” he repeats, nodding in agreement. “You ready, brave girl?” I nod, feeling a rush of adrenaline as he pulls me back onto the path and we move at an intentional pace toward the treeline. I can see more flashlights, zipping across the area as we step out of the view of the cabins. I stumble a little, tripping on roots as we move closer and closer to the water. The rough and rocky path turns soft, making it hard to keep a quick pace.

“Rafe, how are we going to get back home? The water is the opposite direction from the main–,” my mouth falls open, seeing the outline of a few small boats beached ashore.

Rafe turns to me once we are at the shoreline, winking. His hands smooth over my waist to pick me up and into the boat. “Duck down, okay?”

I slide down against the seat, trying to steady my breathing as he pushes the boat slowly back into the water and jumping in once we’re floating far enough in the middle of the water. I watch the way he reaches down and tugs on the pull-start with purpose. Panic settles in my bones when nothing happens.

“C’mon,” he says, tugging again. He tries again. Nothing. “Son of a bitch.”

“Hey, what are you doing?” someone shouts from the beach. Flashlights shining over Rafe and along the boat, shouting as Rafe tries again to start the dinghy. I notice the split second of fear on his face as he struggles to tug the pull-start one more time. Coming back to myself, I stand up and shuffle to his side.

His hands are shaking as he frantically tries to start the boat. “Hey, get back here,” a man shouts, water splashing as they rush into the water to catch up.

“Let go,” I mutter, pushing his hands out of the way to grab the handle. I give it one swift tug and breathe out in relief when the engine roars to life. Rafe grabs the helm and quickly steers up away from the man, causing him to stumble into the water behind us. As the camp and the security disappear the further we get, the more weight lifted from my shoulder.

I tuck my face in my hands, feeling shocked that Rafe actually just pulled a near prison break to come get me. My chest rises and falls as I wipe away my tears.

“Hey, are you alright?” Rafe says, fingers stretching over my thigh.

I can’t respond, hearing a low whistling noise over by the shoreline. My shoulders tense until I see six idiots, jumping and waving in front of the Twinkie and Rafe’s truck pulled over on the side of the road. A laugh escapes me as the boys jump onto the weeds, helping Rafe pull us ashore. JJ ushers me out of the boat and the girls all engulf me in a hug, echoing their relief that we’re safe, that I’m safe.

I turn around, seeing Rafe biting at his thumb as he speaks with John B in hushed tones. He turns back to us, catches my eye.

“Hey, we should get the move on…that security could be sending someone along the water to find you,” Pope interrupts, pointing toward the road that leads back to the camp.

“I feel awful leaving everyone else behind,” I admit, still staring at Rafe. “We should call someone.”

“Don’t worry,” JJ says, climbing into the Twinkie, nodding to Rafe. “Your boyfriend has that covered…its a…it’s a good plan – even I can admit.”

I turn to look at Rafe, feeling the heat rush to my face at the word boyfriend. He just smirks, nodding to the truck. “C’mon, I’ll explain on the way.” I look at Sarah, sitting in the passenger seat in the Twinkie. She scrunches her nose, a wide smile on her face.

“Go,” she says, “we’ll catch up to you.”

I turn to his truck where he’s waiting for me with the door open. He helps me up into the seat, standing there as I tug the seatbelt down to buckle in. I’m hyper aware of his frame, so close to me. “Rafe,” I call out his name, pulling him from what looks like a trance. He blinks, big blue eyes looking up at me in a way I hadn’t seen before – in a way that up until a week ago, would’ve scared me.

He nods, swallowing and closing the door so that he can run around to the driver’s side. He takes off down the road, not even wasting time in pulling his seatbelt on.

“Seatbelt,” I murmur as we peel off onto the main road. When he doesn’t respond, I say it again a little louder.

Rafe gives me a look, huffs and begrudgingly yanks it down with one hand. I reach over the bench, taking it from him and pulling it the rest of the way to clip into place. “What a waste this romantic rescue mission would be if you ended up through the windshield in the getaway?” I say, smiling a little as I settle back into the leather seat.

“It was pretty romantic, huh? Who would’ve thought – me, a romantic,” he says. The tension seems to dissipate a bit, the safety of his truck a veil of relief. Inside, we’re just…us. But things feel different from the last time he’d drive me around, taking me for a late night rendezvous to the beach. Now, he’s the guy that ran toward danger to save me. He’s the guy who set a plan in motion to break me out of an at-risk youth facility.

“I did,” I whisper, looking forward as the words strip me vulnerable. “So, what’s this good plan you’ve come up with?”

“I tried to buy the camp,” he says, causing me to look over at him in shock.

“What?”

Rafe looks over at me, grinning. “You heard me.”

“You were going to buy my way out?”

“Hey, contrary to popular belief, I do try these days to go the legal route first,” Rafe says, holding his hand up. “But the director was taking too long to agree to the deal so we hitched this plan to break you out as a backup.”

“So he didn’t take the deal,” I say, turning to look at him. “How much did you offer?”

“Oh no, he took the deal. I gave him a good faith deposit of 250K in a briefcase. The sleazy bastard nearly fainted. I told him I’d–,”

“Rafe,” I hold a hand up, speechless. “A briefcase?”

He glances over at me and keeps going, not phased by my surprise. “Yeah, I said I’d wire the rest of the money over but it’d take a day or so to confirm with the bank but we could make a gentlemen’s agreement. And in the process, he disclosed all the legal troubles he’s been riddled with in the process of closing the deal. Which was bold considering I,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls a tape recorder out with a grin, “Got this from my dad’s office before we left.”

He clicks the play button and we listen as the man discloses a few lawsuits and unpaid debts he has lingering, how much of a relief it will be to get the place off his plate. My mouth falls open as Rafe stops the tape, placing it in the console. “So we are,” he glances over at me, triumphantly, “are heading to the air strip to meet Shoupe and give him this evidence. And while Shoupe works with the SBI to dismantle Kitty Hawk, we’ll be under witness protection until the trial…but you wouldn’t have to testify unless you wanted to. I made sure that Shoupe knew that.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. “Witness protection? Where?”

“Wherever you desire,” he looks over with a cute smile, scrunching his nose. “Sarah’s already made the call. Pilot will be waiting for us on the runway. Shoupe won’t tell your parents until we’re situated.”

I’m at a loss for words as I try to take in what he tells me. He glances over at me, face falling a little.

“You…situated,” I stutter out, breathless. I try to process his words, process what he’s done. My pulse races. “Pull over,” I blurt out weakly, palms sweaty as I glance behind us and notice the empty stretch of dark road.

“Are you alright?” he repeats, looking repeatedly between me and the road.

I click the button to release my seatbelt as Rafe turns the wheel in a haste. “Are you sick?” I don’t answer him, reaching up a hand as we pull onto the shoulder. Dust kicks up around the truck as he pushes the stick into park, watching me wide-eyed. “What the hell is hap–,”

I tug his face toward mine, pressing my mouth to his with a fierceness that I’d never felt before. It’s quick and I pull back, breathless as I search his face. It felt like my nerves were on fire as we kissed, fanning an ember into a flame of desire.

Rafe’s pupils are blown as he reaches forward and yanks me firmly back toward him. We lock lips. It’s messy and rushed and passionate. His hands find my thighs, scooping me up so I’m flush against him.

There’s a searing heat and for the first time, it’s clear that it’s not just sexual tension. It’s survival. It’s praise and gratitude. It’s a confirmation that I’m real, and a guarantee of more. We jump a little, pulling apart when the truck horn blares out in the dead of the night – prompted by my ass.

It causes me to giggle, nuzzling into his neck with a snort while sliding from his lap to sit beside him. Rafe combs his fingers through my hair, unable to control his own laughter. I snort again, leaning into his bicep and looking up at him with a loving gaze. “Was it your idea to blow up a transformer?”

“Well that was really Maybank’s idea…but it did the trick,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead and putting the truck back into drive before taking my hand. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

well, i'm in love. if you would like to make a request, i write for all the main characters of obx and you can send them here or let me know what you thought of this story :)

#rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron #obx #obx imagine #obx fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader

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eowynstwin · 3 months ago

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peristalsis - iv

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." social isolation. self loathing. hint of neurodivergent reader. manipulative soap. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

The other side of the bed is empty the next morning, when you wake up.

You feel it as the dregs of sleep slough off—an absence of weight. The heavy drape of the bedsheets around you. The lone sound of your own breathing, and nothing more—

It shouldn’t punch a hole in your chest. You shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. What is for other people is not for you.

But you are. It does.

The little speck of hope that has survived every attempt of yours to exterminate it had flared a little brighter, fed by Johnny’s attention. A distant star in a clouded sky, finally reaching earth with its light. Stupid. You know better by now, and it should too. You’ve done this before, a hundred different times, a hundred different ways. The outcome is always the same.

You sweep your hand over the empty spot—

It’s still warm.

Your eyes snap open. At the same moment, you hear movement from somewhere else in the cottage, and then, through the open bedroom door, the warm aroma of coffee and cooking food wafts in.

You sit up. Pull the sheets up with you, clutched to your chest.

“Johnny?” you call. Tentative. Unsure.

“Aye!” a cheerful brogue responds from the kitchen. “Don’ move a muscle, I’ll be right there.”

Something sharp and hot pushes through your veins; the corners of your vision darken with it.

You realize you’ve stopped breathing, and inhale. Your need to be contrary subsumes completely underneath your shock. You sit completely still, suspended in place, as something sizzles in the kitchen.

He traipses into the room in nothing but an apron, carrying a tray with two plates of food and two mugs of coffee, which he sets on the end of the bed before he slides into the empty spot beside you.

You stare as if at a wild animal—if he notices your surprise, he doesn’t take it into account as he curls an arm around your neck.

“Mornin,’” he says, dragging you in for a kiss.

A long kiss—his mouth parts yours to permit his tongue, which he slides against yours as his fingers press upward into the soft underside of your chin. He inhales deeply before his lips leave yours, and you reel, listing toward him, as he pulls away.

“Sleep well?” he asks, hand dropping to your sternum to drag his fingertips between your breasts.

You blink several times. “Uh. Yes.”

“Bet you did,” he says with a grin. Then, he taps your neck—ink-blotting soreness with ungentle fingertips. “Sorry about this. Got too into it.”

He does not sound sorry in the slightest.

“It’s fine,” you say anyway, still blinking in whiplash.

He leans away to pull the breakfast tray up into both of your laps. “Made a classic English breakfast this time, but you eat what you like, bonnie.”

A classic English breakfast turns out to be eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, seared cherry tomatoes, and toast, which Johnny digs into with the gusto of the starving. You select a crunchier-looking strip of bacon and break it between your teeth, but you don’t pay much attention to the taste.

Johnny. His mohawk is mussed from the night’s sleep, and other than the apron, he really does appear to be completely naked. It seems like the first thing he did, when woke up, was not shower or dress, but head to the kitchen to start cooking.

For you. Again.

“Why?” you ask aloud.

He turns to you, one cheek rounded with food, dark brows lifted over bright eyes. “Hm?”

“Why did you make breakfast? You could’ve just left.”

Surprise on his face, freezing his expression. Then, consternation, dragging it down. “I wouldnae do that to you, bonnie.”

He says it so gravely—as if even the notion that he would make an early getaway amounts to betrayal on the deepest level.

“It’s,” you say, “it’s fine. It’s not like this…like…”

Like this meant anything. But didn’t it? You meant to punish yourself, with him as your scourge. A necessary reminder—a bitter pill you must swallow, over and over again.

Who better to deliver it than Johnny, because, hopes aside, he with his rockstar grin and wandering hands had not given off the slightest indication that he would stay the morning after a one-night stand. Let alone get up before you to make breakfast.

You had relied on that.

“I wouldnae do that,” he repeats.

Instead—here he is. Warm, bare shoulder against yours. Lashes dark over an insistent gaze.

You break eye contact, looking at your plate. “Whatever,” you say, for lack of any other response.

You pick at your food—it’s good, same as the meal he made you last night. Not pretentious, like he’s trying to impress you, but genuine and hearty. Tasty, the way breakfast in bed should be.

Puzzle pieces forced to fit together, despite belonging to different areas of the composition. A round peg the perfect diameter for a square hole. Incongruous. Confusing. Untrustworthy.

You continue to study him out of the suspicious corner of your eye as he goes back to eating, though it isn’t exactly any hardship. It seems to be a rare sunny day on the island, with warm, buttery light streaming in from the window. It catches the dark hair on his forearms, casts the sculpted expanse of his freckled shoulders in stronger repose.

You see it again—the wound on the side of his head. Nearly hidden by the dark stubble of shaved hair, but not invisible.

“What happened?” you ask.

He looks at you with a question on his face, and then sees the direction of your gaze. He nods to himself, as if he’s been expecting you to ask this whole time.

“Told you I served,” he said, setting down his fork. Then he notices you aren’t eating much. “Ach, bonnie, don’ let it get cold. You eat, and I’ll talk, aye?”

Begrudgingly, you spear some egg and clamp it between your teeth. He smiles indulgently, and continues.

“So you met Price. Was on an operation with him in London. Chasin’ this real bad fucker in the subway tunnels. He was tryin’ to set off a bomb, but we got to him first. Well, we chased him off the payload, anyways, n’ I’m demo, so I’m the one can defuse it.”

He looks at you. You bite down on a corner of toast.

“Guess he figured that part out, ‘cause not long after I get to the wires he comes back. Nearly takes Price out, so I get after him. Stupid mistake. Price can take care of himself, an’ we had backup. Fucker ended up shooting me in the head.”

Halfway swallowing that same bite of toast, you choke. “You—you got shot in the head?”

He nods. “Aye.”

You look again at the scar near his temple. A starburst, in a whorl of dark hair. Dead center in the silhouette of his profile, as if a paper target at a shooting range.

“Johnny—how the fuck are you still alive?”

He leans back against the headboard, folding one arm behind his head, exposing a thatch of curly dark hair in his pit. He runs his hand through the back of his mohawk, mouth canted at an angle.

“Got no fuckin’ idea, bonnie,” he says.

The expression on his face is, perhaps, the most human you’ve ever seen it. Consternation, maybe. Confusion. Aggravation. You’re not sure what you would call it, but just looking at him, you understand that that exact question is one he’s been asking himself since it happened.

Asking, without finding an answer.

“I’m,” you stammer, “I’m sorry. That’s a stupid thing to—I’m sorry.”

He turns to you and smiles. Chagrined, but forgiving. “It’s all right, bonnie. Have some coffee for me, why don’t you?”

You lift a mug and sip. He’s added cream and sugar to it, the way you’d made it yesterday morning.

“So, I survived it,” he goes on. “Woke up in the hospital a few days later. One in a million chance, they said, but I still had to learn to walk again, an’ I was out. Out, out. Medical discharge, thank you for your service, enjoy the rest of your life. The boys went off to kill the guy in Kastovia or Russia or somethin.’”

Quick as the bullet in his brain. Matter-of-fact. The story ending without him, with no hand reaching out to pull him back in.

Well, not quite—

“And then John Price came here with you,” you say.

He gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes; strained, much like the only smiles you have to offer these days. “Nah. Came out by myself. He came after I’d been here awhile. Told me he was ‘worried about me.’”

The way this conversation is supposed to go, this would be the part where you would say of course he was worried.

“But he didn’t get it,” you say instead, seeing it etched into the grooves of his expression.

Johnny, in exile, alive when he shouldn’t be. Reckoning with the fact that everything he cared about did not care nearly as much about him. Figuring out how to live without anyone else.

Breakfast turns inert on the plate when you look down at it.

“No,” Johnny says, private and intimate, thick as molasses. “He didnae.”

“You seem okay now,” you say, diaphragm pushing the words up your trachea like debris on an incoming tide.

The Johnny you know—the smug, satisfied prick able to laugh at anything and everything—slides back into place.

“Yeah, can’t hide that from you, can I, bonnie?”

He looks at where you’re still holding the sheet to your chest, to the imprint of his teeth on your neck, and then back into your eyes. You know exactly what he’s about to suggest, and you intercept as he opens his mouth to suggest it.

“I’m still eating breakfast,” you say, forcing a whole cherry tomato into your mouth. It pops and squirts between your teeth.

He grins—too knowing. “Ah, that’s alright. M’ takin’ you to Callanish today, and I’ve got a’catch your supper first,” he says.

With that, he slides the tray fully onto your lap and rises, stretching his arms above his head with his back to you, tensing and releasing the muscles as if for your benefit.

“Callanish?” you ask, swallowing.

“Aye, on Lewis.” Then he turns around and, beating a forkful of eggs halfway up, kisses you on the mouth. “Why don’t you take a walk? Pretty today. I’ll be back ‘round noontime.”

Something hard in your chest, held tight between your lungs. Pressure bending the lid upwards.

“I didn’t say I was going,” you reply, but Soap just laughs at you.

He disappears from the bedroom, and you hear him retrieving his clothes from wherever he’d thrown them the night before. You start to shake with the effort of holding in, listening with straining ears as he dresses.

“Left some lunch in the fridge for you!” he calls, and in a stroke of bright luck you hear the front door open and shut before there’s any chance for you to respond.

Wind strokes its fingers through the thatches of the roof. Stillness retakes the vacated space.

You eventually bring the dishes to the sink, tray held in front of you like a shield, as if wary of some predator hiding just around the counter. You approach the fridge and crack it open carefully, imagining a wire you don’t want to snap. There’s a sandwich on the middle shelf, sitting on a plate, wrapped in cellophane.

It breaks open.

Finally, you are alone.

You take the walk.

The sky is nearly cloudless, and the sunlight has transformed the island’s greys into a storm of jewel greens, with what is likely the last warm breeze of the year dancing across fronds of tall grasses. Clouds tower in the sky as if composed and painted there. You lock up the cottage behind you and find a walking trail to put your feet on.

Johnny.

It’s as quiet on the island as you’d hoped. No road noise. No humming power lines, or distant radio on someone else’s balcony. You can hear tiny insects singing together in the sedge, sea birds calling to each other. The voices of colliding winds arguing like old friends in the wide sky above you.

No other walkers on the path. It’s out of season for tourists, the nice weather a rare gift for the people who belong here and them alone.

Johnny.

You’ve tried to be happy. You have.

All you know is that when things start going well, it doesn’t last long.

You don’t know when it began—years ago, maybe, when you first noticed it. The pattern. Something you think of as a chill; rapid cooling, thermal shock cracking the facade.

It happens like this: you find out about group chats you aren’t a part of. Dinners you weren’t invited to. Conversations you might’ve enjoyed, that happened without you.

A problem. A serious one. But you were solution-minded.

For a long time, you puzzled it out. Acknowledged that the common denominator was you, in every circumstance—and so you looked at yourself. Found your flaws. Stared open-eyed into the mirror and confronted your own lack, internalized that no one owed you what you wanted from them just because you wanted it.

Love is action, isn’t it?

So you tried. You really did. You wrote down people’s birthdays. You invited them out for coffee. You commented on their Instagram posts. You messaged first, every time you’ve thought of them, memorized details about their lives, gave them plenty of space to talk about themselves—

After all, no one wants a friend absorbed in themself. People like to be remembered. Thought of. Considered.

You read books others recommended. You watched their favorite movies. Spent evenings catching up on shows they liked so that you could always have something to talk about with them, because that’s how it happens, right? Mychorrizae for the roots between trees. Fertilized ground.

It worked, for a while. And you nurtured the hope that, perhaps, there would be space for you, that something wonderful might eventually germinate.

Maybe conversations would loop back to you. Maybe all you’d done would be returned in kind.

Exhaustion bared a preliminary truth: it would not.

Puzzling more. The next solution presented itself—people don’t stand in front of mirrors all day. If all you do is echo them, what interest will they have in you? You provide nothing new, nothing more than what they already have.

Human beings love novelty, after all. Something new and shiny to turn in the light at different angles. You needed to gleam so brightly that what you’d been seeking all along could see you well enough to find you.

So you worked on yourself.

You took classes you’d been swearing to take for years. Joined a gym looking for endorphins. Dove into crafts, walking groups, trivia nights at the bar. Wrote out a cleaning schedule for your small apartment and kept to it. You spritzed your pillows with lavender, and ate more fruit.

Joined forums for things you liked. Got certifications for work and then chased down the raises they entitled you to. Went to interesting restaurants, found tiny little card shops or foreign grocery stores to explore. Learned to make Pad Thai from scratch.

Rounded yourself out. That’s what you did—you took the raw block of yourself and chiseled down into it, to set free whatever you found inside.

For another while, it was enough. Endorphins make people happy, and all that. And it seemed to be enough, becoming to attract; drops of water usually obey the laws of cohesion.

Only, in the middle of it, you observed the exact same phenomena as before.

Mirrors of yourself in others. People making the same efforts—which bore a richer harvest than you ever had available to reap. Bounties so plentiful they could barely hold it in their arms.

And you, close beside them, trying, and trying, and trying.

Hairline cracks forming.

In the end, still alone.

The teeth of the preliminary truth fit into the lock holding all the rest, and turned open the latch. They flooded your stomach in a rush, expanding, shattering their container, so abundant that they left no room for anything else. And they all connected, ligaments spiderwebbing inward to an undeniable nucleus—

There is something deeply, deeply wrong with you.

Invisible to you, but obvious to everyone else. A thing you cannot fix. A thing you cannot medicate. A thing you cannot self-care away. Unobservable when you look at it; happening just outside your perception.

Something you manage to hide, even unaware of its existence, only for a short while, before it spills out of you and makes a mess for all to see, entirely without you knowing it.

You do not know what it is. You’ve looked and looked and looked for it, and have not found it. You’ve sanded all the edges of yourself, hoping you might unknowingly catch it—but whatever it is must grow back, like a lizard’s tail or the arm of a starfish.

It must be ugly. It must be so shocking that when it rears its head, people feel so sorry for you for bearing it that they’d feel guilty rejecting you outright, and so they recede from you slowly. Masking pity with compassion, and hoping you won’t notice.

There is nothing good enough about you to accommodate for whatever it is. No matter what you do, you cannot make up for it.

So here you are, on a dying island in the North Atlantic. Far away from temptation—from what you can only, inevitably, ruin.

Hounded by a man who it would be madness to think cannot see that.

You watch one foot swing in front of the other, barely leaving any prints in the hard, packed soil exposed by every walker who’s come before you. You hadn’t brought sunglasses with you, assuming that you wouldn’t need them, and the late morning light is too blinding to look too far ahead of you.

Johnny.

It isn’t about you, whatever his interest is. You see that very clearly now.

You picture him—a special forces grunt, riding high on his own masculinity, suddenly cut down. Ripped away from everything that made him him. Cut off from anyone who might be halfway capable of understanding how that might feel.

And you—a lone woman, marginally fuckable. Obviously flawed goods. An empty well of self-esteem waiting to be filled.

Someone he can impress with a wink and a flex, and make himself feel better taking care of.

He’s enjoying getting to play suitor—that’s all. You don’t think you’ve seen many women your age on the island, so for him, this must be a rare opportunity. You can’t, you suppose, blame him too much. You understand what he’s doing, and why.

You’ve done it yourself. Chosen a likely candidate and thrown all your feelings at them until you’ve felt better.

That’s how people are, in the end—that’s how you are. People look to others to get what they want out of them, and in Johnny’s case, he’s getting it. Not even two days, and you spread your legs for him. You let him come inside of you with barely even a token fuss, because he felt you up and smiled the whole time doing it.

He’s using you. The same way you’re using him.

It’s a shitty thing to do. You are a shitty person for doing it.

And so is he.

Maybe that’s why you’re letting him.

When you return to the cottage, you find the door unlocked, and Johnny on the couch with a romance paperback open in one hand. He turns to grin at you when you walk in, and tosses the book on the coffee table without marking his place when he rises. Today, he’s wearing a dark sweater over yet another kilt, but this time—

“Your—fur, thing, is missing,” you say, in lieu of greeting.

He looks down at his hips, patting his thighs with his hands. “My pelt? Ah, yeah.” He grins. “Threw it off in a hurry, can you blame me? Couldnae find it. I’m no’ worried, it’ll turn up. You ready to go?”

You frown. “I guess.”

“Good! I packed your bag for ya already, but you migh’ wan’ to check if I missed anything.”

Your frown harder. “You—what? You packed my bag? Why would I need that?”

You swear his eyes twinkle at you. “Is a six hour boat ride up to Lewis, hen, an’ six hours back, no’ counting how long y’wanna stay at Callanish. Probably dock overnight.”

“I never said I wanted to go!” you snap, marching past him toward the bedroom.

“A’thought we were past that!” he calls after you.

You find your carry-on open on the bed, and furiously upturn it, dumping everything out—it disgorges its contents like intestines spilling from a slit belly. Three romance novels. Toiletry bag, phone charger, jewelry bag, a shirt mismatched to a pair of pants it’s crumpled up with. One pair of socks. No bra, no panties—and you think Johnny might have a shred of decency after all, but when you go to your suitcase, you find your carefully folded rows of underwear haphazardly unfolded, thoroughly pawed through anyway.

Johnny comes into the room as you stand up with appropriate undergarments in your hands, ire shoving smog from your lungs.

“You’re no’ gonna need those, bonnie,” he says with, the ever-present smirk.

“Fuck you,” you snap. You have never wanted to slap someone so much in your life, but somehow, you know he would catch your wrist in the attempt, and just use his grip to pull you in.

And you’d let him.

“Yeah, that’s why.”

You scoff, and go to repack your bag, folding your clothes and tetrising everything together so it will stand on its own when put down, ignoring Johnny’s leering until you turn around. You make no effort to hide how much you’re grumbling about fucking assholes with fucking boats thinking they’re going to get laid again just because they got their dick wet once.

You sling the carry-on over your shoulder once it’s packed and zipped—fully intending to complain the whole way, even as you go along with his nonsense.

It doesn’t feel good, exactly, but you don’t quite feel your stomach up in knots. You feel clear, at least. You know what’s going on. You know the limits of this dynamic. You can deal with it.

“Oh, one thing,” Johnny says, then sticks one hand into a pocket in his kilt.

He withdraws your phone.

Whole again, back together with a gleaming new screen. Nested back in its protective case.

“Saw you dropped it, so I took it to Castlebay to get it fixed,” he says, holding it out to you like a dog proud of the task it’s completed. “No’ a lot of signal ‘round here, but wanna make sure you can get to me if you need to.”

The words enter your hearing like cotton swaps, blurring the deeper they penetrate. You take it from him without a word. You tap the screen—there almost certainly had been signal in town, and repair places usually charge phones for free.

Nothing.

Just the time, and the stock background you never changed.

Stone lungs in your chest. In—one, two three. Hold. Out—three, two, one.

“Thank you,” you say, the words dropping like pebbles from your tongue.

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerily. “An’ I didnae know wha’ y’liked to read so I picked my favorites.” He quirks his brows. “Thought we migh’ get some ideas.”

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”

He makes you brush past him on your way out of the bedroom, and follows on your heels close behind, enough that you can smell him, axe and diesel and salt spray and all.

Too close—because, when you catch sight of something odd, you stop in your tracks, and he runs into you, having to catch you before he knocks you over over. Hands wrap warm around your upper arms, big enough to shackle.

There—wedged in the lintel, above the front door. Barely visible from this angle. A sliver of white spattered with grey. You’re not sure what you’re seeing, until—

“Johnny, is that your—pelt?” you say, frowning.

You point toward it; Johnny’s chin rests on top of your head, hands squeezing. Chest hot at your back.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “How did that end up there?”

It looks well-packed into the angle of the thatch roof meeting the wall; nothing tossed away in a hurry, the way you imagine Johnny undressed the previous night, could have ended up where the pelt is now.

It was obviously shoved there.

Moonlit eyes dance in your dreaming memory.

You turn around to look at him. You open your mouth to speak, but there are no words waiting to leave it—and he beats you before you can come up with any.

“Why don’ you head down to the beach, an’ I’ll lock up here?” he says, looking down at you with pleased, half-lidded eyes.

A killer whale will toy gleefully with its prey. For hours, flinging it back and forth, punting it through the air with powerful flips of its tail. Whatever animal unlucky enough to have encountered it has no escape—it spends its last moments thrown skyward, soaring through the only habitat it could never understand, before spinning back down to sea, pulled back home by gravity’s ignorant love.

Too stunned on impact to be able to swim away. Still breathing—the body unaware that its life has already ended. Until the teeth closing around its neck is the only mercy it will beg for.

“Okay,” you gasp out, stepping back away from him. He watches as you escape, smiling slightly. In no rush.

Out the cottage door and down the path on shaking legs—you retreat to the kayak waiting on the sand, heart pounding against your sternum again, bolting from something that isn’t chasing you. Your nerves feel raw beneath your skin, unclosed circuits buzzing.

The short burst of warm weather is rapidly cooling; a passing breeze carries the chill of a cold night oncoming. You realize you left Johnny’s jacket in the cottage, but—you’re not going back for it. You don’t want to see whatever you left behind there.

Then you hear Johnny’s footsteps approaching. You jolt, tense—readying to flee. Turning, all you see is him holding the plated sandwich as he crosses the beach, jacket draped over the bend of his elbow.

“Forgot some things after all,’” he says, grinning—teeth clean and sharp.

“Oh,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice, “yeah.”

You take it from him, and see that your hands are shaking. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

If he notices, he’s probably enjoying it.

“Let’s get goin’ then!” he enthuses, taking your bag and setting it in the kayak.

There is no pelt around his hips.

next chapter early access

a/n: I won't lie, this was a rough one to write. Part of the prose of this chapter is inspired by september is a weary month by Yasmin Belkhyr. Not sure if this is the proper attribution but it's all I can find.

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #the person in the image isn't meant to be reader—just to communicate the feeling #we FINALLY get to the original pitch lmao #anyway WOOO it's done

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atlabeth · 3 months ago

Text

something about her

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: you’re reminded why you’re really here while spencer does some unwanted self reflection.

a/n: things have been a little too fun and fluffy around these parts so i had to fix it. it’s easy to forget you’re still dealing w a stalker when you’re busy living in denial <3 enjoy the mess! this whole thing is in spencer's pov bc this all got soooo far away from me

title from the song by stephen sanchez

wc: 5.3k

warning(s): things start to ramp up! stalking, anxiety, lowkey panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, r almost has a panic attack, alcohol/mentions of alcoholism, the usual. but more bonding!!

Spencer can’t sleep.

He’s tried every trick in the book. Counting sheep, counting to one hundred, counting to one hundred backwards, going through the alphabet, going through the alphabet backwards, methods with actual scientific research backing them—none of it works. He’s stared at the ceiling for most of the night.

He feels like a hypocrite most of all, preaching the importance of adequate sleep when he’ll be lucky to get five hours. But it looks like you barely sleep as is. He probably should keep preaching to you.

There’s a myriad of reasons to explain it. His hyperactive brain has been responsible for many restless nights. He’s still in unfamiliar territory, and he hasn’t gotten used to sleeping on this bed yet. Lest he forget, he’s your first and only line of protection here from your stalker. That’s enough to keep anyone awake, even FBI.

But then there’s also… you in general.

Spencer can’t say he tries not to think about you, because this past week it’s felt like the only thing he’s thought about.

It’s practically impossible, even before you were shoved into this house together. You have a way of tunneling your way into a person’s mind and refusing to leave—especially his.

Again, it’s easy enough to pass off. You’re the only ones here, and the time you’re not spending alone you’re spending with each other. Your only choice beyond isolation is to talk to Spencer, and it seems you’re slowly moving past preferring it over him.

But he doesn’t think he can just pass this off.

He can’t get your smile out of his head. Your moments of levity are so few and far between that it makes them shine bright as the sun. Spencer has learned he loves how you look when you’re happy. He just wishes it wasn’t such a rarity.

Gideon’s lecture rings in his ears. He really had two jobs—keep you safe, and don’t fall for you. Hopefully he only fails the one.

It’s not like he has to worry about it, though. You might not hate him as much anymore, but you still don’t really like him. As much as it bums him out, it’s for the best. It means that in a week or two, when the team has caught the unsub and all this is over, you can both go your separate ways and you’ll never have to see Spencer again.

That bums him out even more, though.

He lets out a long sigh. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. JJ, Elle, now you—Morgan would say he really knew how to pick ‘em. Girls who didn’t like him back.

Just then his phone rings, jolting him out what could have been a convincing play for sleep if not for his thoughts, and he groans a little. Spencer fumbles around for it without lifting his head from the pillow, only turning slightly so he can flick it open and place it against his ear.

“Gideon, why are you calling this early?” he mumbles.

“I hope you’re treating her well.”

The gravelly voice through the speaker is a shock, and Spencer doesn’t really process it. His brain still hasn’t turned on.

“Gideon?” he asks again.

“I know you ran away. Trying to protect her like you have any right.”

His blood goes cold as the words finally register.

This is their unsub. This— this is your stalker.

“What do you want?” he asks, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his words.

“You’ve hurt her the same way he has,” the voice continues. “He’s ruined our lives and you don’t care.”

Spencer’s mind is simultaneously blank and running wild. He knows he should try to profile him or talk to him to get something out of him but— but all he feels is anger.

“What do you want?” he repeats, louder this time.

“Think about your priorities, Agent Reid. I’ll be watching.”

The disconnected tone blares in his ear before he can say anything else, and Spencer stares down at his phone in confused annoyance.

What kind of bullshit game is this guy trying to play with you?

First he stalks you for a month—possibly months— then sends pictures of you to your door, then forces you into hiding and now he’s just mocking you like this?

If Gideon is the goal, this bastard is doing a great job of dragging you along.

Spencer’s heart jumps into his throat all of a sudden. You.

He grabs his gun off his bedside table then lunges to the door with all the athleticism of a newborn baby giraffe, nearly tripping in his haste to get out into the hallway. He slams your door open once he gets to your room, and the relief that floods through his body when you shoot up from your previously sleeping position is almost dangerous.

“Spencer?” you grumble, still completely out of it as you rub your eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You’re alive. You’re okay. You’re still here.

He opens his mouth to respond, still kind of out of breath, when his phone rings again. Spencer takes it out and is already pressing it to his ear.

“What the hell do you want from her?” he barks. The absolute nerve of your stalker to call back—

“Reid, it’s me.”

It’s Gideon’s voice that comes out of the speaker this time, and Spencer feels the wave of red hot rage boiling in his stomach crash against a wall of confusion.

“I—” He swallows deeply, his eyes flicking over to your befuddled expression momentarily before he feels himself flush bright red and look away. “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

“You got a call?”

His blood runs cold. “You mean you got one too?”

Gideon curses and he hears him move around. Pacing in his bedroom, if Spencer knew anything about him. “Tell me my daughter is safe.”

“She— she is,” he stammers. “I’m with her right now.”

“Spencer, what the fuck is going on?” You’re sitting up now, much more aware than you were fifteen seconds ago. “Why do you have your gun— why are you talking to my dad?”

“Do a perimeter check,” Gideon demands. “If he’s there—”

“I know.” Spencer looks back at you and sighs. “You should talk to her.”

“I know,” Gideon echoes. “Let her stay on the line with me while you figure things out.”

He nods and takes the phone from his ear. “Gideon wants to talk with you.”

You’re standing up now, a dumbfounded expression on your face. “Hold on, you still haven’t answered me! What is going on?”

“I got a call from our guy,” he says. Your eyes widen and he can see your chest still. His heart clenches at the sight. “Gideon did too.”

“What?” you breathe. “Wh— what did he want?”

“To scare you.” Spencer holds up his gun. “Can you hide in the closet while I do a perimeter check?”

You scoff. Your demeanor is still shaken, but the fire is more prominent. He’s started to admire that about you. “Spencer, I am not hiding in the closet.”

“Then lock yourself in the bathroom again!” he exclaims. He doesn’t mean for the outburst, but he can’t help it. “Just— I can’t focus if I’m worried about you, and right now the only thing I can think of is how worried I am about you, so I need to know you’re safe while I do this.”

You stare at him, and Spencer stares right back, if a little frantic. He feels his chest rise and fall from the force, a stark contrast to your still body—similar to the panic he knows is in his eyes to the steely cool of yours.

“I’m not letting you potentially face an insane stalker by yourself,” you finally say.

Spencer huffs. “I am an FBI agent. I’ve faced worse things than insane stalkers.”

“We’ve been together this whole time,” you insist. “We— we can do this together too.”

He looks at you again—he can tell you’re not going to move on this. Spencer eventually sighs and holds the phone back up to his ear.

“I’m assuming you heard that?”

“Let her go with you,” Gideon says. “It’s riskier for her to be on her own than outside with you. But stay on the line, and stay alert. Nothing can happen to her—do you understand?”

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” he says. “I meant what I said.”

“...Good.”

Spencer holds the phone out to you again, and your lip curls.

“I’m not—”

“Come on,” he interrupts, gesturing with his head into the hallway.

Your annoyance melts into acknowledgement when you realize he’s not blowing you off again, and you nod as you take the phone. Spencer wraps both hands around his gun as he starts moving, you matching his pace as you follow him.

“Yeah, Dad,” he hears you say behind him. “I’m here.”

This is what he meant by you needing to stay behind. He’s worried about you more than anything, yes, but he also can’t help but listen. Spencer has very keen ears, to everyone’s simultaneous disdain and appreciation on the team—it makes him a very good asset in the field, but also a very good asset when it comes time for office gossip.

“No, nothing’s happened yet. Yes— yes, I’m okay, I promise. Spencer’s done an annoyingly good job of keeping me safe.”

Once Spencer reaches the door, he peers through the peephole to make sure their unsub isn’t embarrassingly obvious. It’s clear, and he turns to face you and raises a hand, then places his finger on his lips.

“Uh— I have to go dark for a sec,” you say. “We’re checking the perimeter. Don’t worry, I’ll scream if anyone tries to kill me. Be back soon.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and nod at Spencer, and he holds his breath before he opens the door.

The frigid air hits both of you at once, and he hears then sees your sharp exhale of breath. It’s been a while since either of you have been outside, but it’s good to know he hasn’t been missing superb weather.

“Stay close and stay quiet,” Spencer whispers. “I’m your only line of defense out here.”

He expects you to shoot back with some remark, but you merely nod in response. Spencer hopes he hides the shock he feels before he turns away and starts walking.

Dawn isn’t for a few more hours—the only real light source is the moon high in the night sky. It doesn't exactly help his nerves to be doing all this in the dark, but part of him is almost thankful to be doing this. Spencer doesn’t know how to deal with you or any of the emotions you stir inside of him or the sleepless nights you cause because he can’t stop thinking of you—but he knows how to do his job, and he knows how to do it damn well.

He just wishes it didn’t have to come with the unfortunate side effect of you being in immense danger.

But Spencer does his best to push those thoughts to the back of his mind—right now, he has to have one focus.

And he does. The two of you stick close to the side of the house, his eyes darting all over as he tries to dig out any details, any possible sign that the unsub was here. The ground is still a thin layer of mud from the storm last night, so it should be easy to find footprints. Spencer’s Converse aren’t doing a great job at keeping him upright—slipping in front of you is too embarrassing for him to even think about.

All of a sudden, he stops, his arm shooting out in front of you. You don’t realize it for a second and you run into him, your hand wrapping around his arm on instinct to steady yourself. If he wasn’t so shocked at what he was looking at, he would have been bright red over it.

“What the h—”

“Footprints,” he whispers. “Th— they’re almost gone, but—”

“He was here?” you interrupt. Fear spikes in your voice and your grip tightens on his arm.

“Last night, maybe.” Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, how he feels—he’s not going to make you feel worse. “The rain probably washed most of them away.”

“Spencer—”

“I am surprised these are still here, though,” he continues. “The rainfall was really heavy. I wouldn’t expect them to stay in mud like this—”

“Spencer, look where we are!” you exclaim, gesturing hard with your other hand. He realizes that you’ve let go of his arm by now, but he pushes it out of his head and looks.

“The window to your room,” he says. The blinds are closed and the lock is in place—he’s made sure every night—but there are small enough gaps between the shutters.

“He was watching us last night!” Your breathing is starting to come heavier and faster now. “We talked about all that shit and he was just here watching and we didn’t even fucking know!”

You’re on the edge of hyperventilating. Spencer has got to get you down or else you’re going to have a full blown panic attack out here.

“Hey, hey— look at me.” He says your name and that, if anything else, gets you to listen and meet his eyes. They’re filled with an unbridled fear he hasn’t seen in you until now. “Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of this. He’s not here.”

“He was watching us—”

“And we’ll figure out what to do next. But you have to stay calm. You can’t let him win.”

You’re still harried, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your eyes dart all around. Spencer says your name softly, tucks his gun into its holster, then takes your hands in his, hoping that it gives you something to focus that isn’t the rest of this.

“Just look at me,” he says softly.

You suck in another shaky breath, but you’re not as frantic as before. You at least look him in the eye, and you don’t wrench your hands out of his grasp. Progress, if nothing else.

“Breathe with me.”

You nod—still panicked, but better. Spencer breathes in deep and you do the same, following as he counts up and down with his fingers. It takes a few rounds, but eventually, he’s gotten you off the edge.

Spencer says your name again, just as soft as before. You’re still breathing slowly in and out.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” you murmur. “I—”

You’re interrupted by the phone you both forgot was in your hand, Gideon’s voice muddled as it comes from the receiver. You rip your hands out of Spencer’s as you come back into yourself, shaking your head and blinking a few times while you take a few steps away from him.

“I’m here, Dad,” you say. “We— we’re okay. No, nothing happened.”

Spencer blinks too. He looks down at his hands, then glances at you, then shakes his head. He walks back over to the footprint and crouches down, trying to keep his mind clear. He commits every detail he can to memory, doing his best to ignore the conversation with your dad in the background.

Well, he tunes in a little. He can’t help it—he wants to make sure you’re okay.

“We found a footprint outside my room,” you’re saying. “Spencer thinks it’s your guy. I have no idea. Yes, we are. You don’t have to be so pushy.” You sigh and he feels your gaze on him. “Spencer, we have to finish this up. Dad wants us back inside.”

He clears his throat as he nods a few times. “Let me get a picture of this first.”

You hand him the phone and Spencer snaps some photos from a few different angles, hoping forensics will be able to get anything out of it. He hears Gideon’s voice again and he holds it to his ear once more.

“Gideon?”

“Reid, get her back inside,” he says. “We can’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“We haven’t finished securing the perimeter,” he says.

“Then finish it and get back inside!” he exclaims. “You have proof that he was there—”

“We don’t know it’s him,” Spencer interrupts.

“We know there was somebody there!” Gideon shoots back. “I’m not risking her, and from what I’ve heard, you don’t want to either.”

Spencer feels his cheeks warm as he looks back at you, and he pulls his gun back out of its holster. “Come on. We have to finish this up.”

“That’s what I said,” you mutter, but you follow him without further protest.

The rest of the check goes by quickly without any other distractions or surprises, and soon enough you’re back inside. While Spencer chats with Gideon, updating him in a calmer manner on everything with the phone call and the footprint, you’re ruffling through the cabinets.

Eventually, he sees you pull out a bottle of clear liquid from the corner of his eye. He frowns and realizes that it’s vodka.

“It’s 4:29 in the morning,” Spencer says, cutting off Gideon almost absentmindedly as you pop the bottle open.

“And we found out that this place isn’t nearly as safe as anyone thought,” you respond sharply. “I think that warrants some drinking.”

“That means that you should have a clear mind,” he says. “Alcohol impairs your brain’s communication pathways, as well as your judgment and coordination.”

“I’ve gotten drunk before, genius,” you mutter as you search for a glass. You end up choosing a the mug you used for coffee the other morning then start pouring. “Enough to know it’s what I need right now.”

“It can also cause mood swings,” Spencer says. “I think that’s the last thing you need right now.”

You roll your eyes, not even bothering to look back at him as you finish pouring a concerning amount of liquor into the mug.

“What is going on over there?” Gideon asks. Spencer remembers he’s holding the phone and he puts it back to his ear.

“I think your daughter is an alcoholic,” he comments.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you say sharply. “I just can’t focus on all this right now.”

“It’s best if she gets some sleep,” Gideon says. “All of this is likely terrifying to her, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.”

Spencer’s mind flashes back to your near panic attack—your wide eyes full of fear and harried breathing that only made you hyperventilate more when you realized you couldn’t control it. It’s too easy to think of you as some untouchable being from the way you interact with him, bothered by nothing and no one.

The mask cracks on rare occasion. It makes you seem frighteningly real.

“You’re right,” Spencer nods. You sip your drink without flinching. He doesn’t think he can even call it a drink if it’s just straight liquor. “We could all use some sleep.”

“Just make sure she’s safe,” he says. “Make sure the whole place is secure. We’re not—”

“Taking risks,” he finishes. “Believe me, I know.”

Gideon is silent for a second, and Spencer takes the time to look at you. The bags under your eyes are even more prominent, and there’s a haunted glint in your eyes as you stare at the wall. You shiver ever so slightly, the outside chill still lingering on your skin. You’ve got pajama pants on but just a plain tee. You didn’t have time to put a sweatshirt on before he pulled you outside in the mania of it all.

You really are beautiful—but you’re so damn tired.

Spencer realizes that all he wants to do is give you some respite.

“I’ll call you back later, then,” Gideon says. “To check in.”

“Okay.” Spencer’s throat bobs as he averts his eyes from you. “Get some rest too, Gideon.”

The other end hangs up without a response. Spencer stares down at the phone for a few seconds then sighs before he tucks it back into his pocket.

“What’d he want?” you ask.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking vodka out of a coffee mug at four in the morning.”

You frown. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“None of this is good for me,” you enunciate. “What did my dad want?”

“I’m serious,” Spencer continues. “Drinking on an empty stomach can lead to low blood sugar— drinking at this hour is going to completely disrupt your circadian rhythm.”

“You know what else has disrupted my circadian rhythm?” you ask mockingly. “Being here. Having a stalker. Finding out that said stalker was also here, watching us. I think that’s a little worse for me than the alcohol.”

Spencer stares at you, and as you’re prone to do, you stare back. Eventually, he shakes his head and looks away, deciding to quit while he’s ahead.

“He wants you to get some sleep,” he says. “Wants us both to.”

You scoff and shake your head, downing much more vodka than you should in one go. Again, you don’t flinch—for a schoolteacher, you handle your liquor very well. “Like I’d get to sleep after this.”

“It’s important,” Spencer insists. “You’ve gotten— what? Three hours of sleep?”

“Well, all this excitement has woken me up,” you say.

“Well, I’m tired,” Spencer says. “So I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He starts to walk to his room, figuring that you need time to cool off, when—

“Wait.”

Your voice is oddly strangled, and Spencer stops in his tracks.

“I—” you stop and sigh, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Our rooms are close to each other,” he says. “I’ll be able to hear if you yell.”

You rub your eyes as you let out another haggard sigh. “I can’t stand to be in that room, Spencer. Not knowing that— that he was right there.”

Spencer can’t look away from you. Your eyes glint with tears you’re trying to hold back, but you’re laid bare in a way he knows you hate.

You’re being pushed to your limits against your will, and it kills him that he can’t do anything to help you. Honestly, sometimes he feels useless being stuck here while the rest of the team is out there actively working to help you. All he can do is stand around here and annoy you.

Except you want him there. For the first time since all of this has started, you want him there.

It’s the only thing he can do for you right now. How can he refuse?

“Okay,” he says softly, and he nods. “Okay. We can share my room tonight.”

The tension in your shoulders fades ever so slightly, and you—thankfully—set the mug down. “Keep your gun close.”

“I’m not sure you want me shooting when I’m sleep deprived,” Spencer says.

Your lips twitch just so, and Spencer’s heart skips a beat. He can’t help it.

He should have known he was in too deep the moment he stepped into this house with you.

“Very cozy,” you say.

“It’s the same as your room,” Spencer responds.

You shrug. “It’s messy. Makes it feel like home.”

He feels his face flush. “I haven’t really been focused on keeping things clean.”

“Relax.” You sit down on the bed. “I’m not judging you.”

“Good.” Spencer glances at you as he moves his bag off of your side of the bed. “Because that would be very rude after the generosity I’ve shown you.”

You laugh and Spencer finds himself smiling at the sound of it. He’s glad he’s turned away, and he’s glad he manages to push it away by the time he’s turned back around.

You’re wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants now, and it’s strange to see you look so… soft. Every part of you is so sharp, some of it jagged—sometimes you harden around him, sometimes you mellow. He’s a bit tired of the back and forth.

Maybe that’s what makes him speak up.

“I’m tired of us always being at odds.”

Your eyebrows rise and you look at him. “Really?”

Spencer nods, his will bolstered. “Really. We have a nice talk one night, and I feel like we’ve had a breakthrough, and then you go back to hating me the next morning. I’m— I’m sick of it.”

He expects you to shoot back with some mocking comment like you always do, making fun of him for wanting more than what little you give him. But instead, you lay back against the pillows and shrug.

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod. “I’m too tired to want to fight right now.”

“You’re the one that always tries to fight me.”

“Aren’t you fighting me right now?”

Spencer shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You chuckle. “Still fighting.”

He stares at you. As usual, you stare back, but this time you can’t fully bite back your smile. For some reason, that gets Spencer to break. He smiles too, and he settles down on the bed next to you. There’s a pillow buffer between you, but it’s still a lot closer than he’s used to.

Well, he did hold your hands earlier, but that’s because he was bringing you down from a panic attack. That doesn’t mean anything.

“What a day,” he mutters.

“And it hasn’t even started yet,” you muse. “I don’t know how you do this kind of shit every day.”

“I’m not really the target of any of this,” he says. “I usually stay behind the scenes. I’m good with geographical profiles, not chasing down unsubs.”

You look over at him. “You haven’t really talked about anything you do for the BAU.”

Spencer shrugs. “I thought it would be a sore subject.”

You pause. “You’re… probably right.”

“I figured.” He chuckles, then glances over at you. “But you already know enough about me. You said you would talk about your job. Teaching, and your kids, and all that.”

Your eyebrows rise. “You actually care?”

Spencer gives you a look. “I thought we were past that part in our friendship.”

“We’re not friends.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, but you go on anyway. “I’m a highschool teacher in Fairfax. You know Mount Vernon High?”

Spencer nods. “I know the name of every high school in Virginia.”

“Of course you do,” you huff. “But that’s besides the point. I did my student teacher hours there, and they offered me a full time position. I took it, so I guess I’ve been there since senior year.” You purse your lips. “It’s a little depressing when you look at it like that.”

“Then don’t look at it like that,” he say. “You said you loved your job.”

“I do!” You smile again, a bit lighter this time. “My teachers were a huge part of my life, especially in high school.” The lightness fades some, but he notices how you try to hide it. “If I could help even one kid the same way my teachers helped me, then I would have done something with my life.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Spencer says. “I don’t think I ever would have guessed you were a teacher.”

“Oh, please,” you say. “You’re a profiler. You’d figure it out.”

“You wouldn’t know I work with the FBI at first glance.”

“Well, I’m not a profiler. Besides,” you tip a shoulder, “I have the ulterior motive of wanting to introduce kids to the wonders of physics.”

Spencer’s eyes light up. “You’re a physics teacher?”

“I teach a load of science classes, but I carry the banner for AP physics.” You huff a laugh. “You’re probably the only one that doesn’t sound lame to.”

“I love physics!” he exclaims. “I’ve got a PhD in engineering, remember?”

You smile— no, you actually grin at him, and he can’t believe he finally broke through the barrier with science.

“Trust me, I’d love to talk physics with you, boy genius, but—” you’re interrupted with a yawn, and Spencer resists the urge to do the same— “but I think I’m actually about to fall asleep.”

Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh. He realizes that he’s relaxed while you’ve been talking, limbs looser and fully laying back against the pillows.

“This was actually part of my master plan to get you to rest,” he says. “Talking science always works with the team.”

He sees you smile out of his peripherals as you lay fully down, can feel every shift of your body against the mattress while you try to find a good position.

“It wasn’t you,” you say. “It was the vodka.”

“Of course,” he agrees.

Silence falls over the room as the two of you settle in. You take off your sweatshirt, a slight shiver running through you once you’re back in your tank top. Spencer removes his glasses, and he blinks a few times to adjust to the blurriness.

The bed is big enough for you to both have your own space,, and you’re both careful to keep your backs to each other. The silence is comfortable despite the previous animosity. Maybe all it really did take was for him to start talking science.

Eventually, though—

“Thank you, Spencer.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. “I— I know you don’t like me. So it means a lot that you still do all this for me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, taking your words in. The mingled sounds of your breathing are really the only things filling the room, and he can feel your weight against the mattress. It’s all oddly intimate.

“You’re wrong.” He’s almost surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I do like you.”

Your shock shows through the silence. Spencer takes his chance.

“You’re going through something no one should ever have to experience, and you’re doing it with someone you think stole your life from you.” Spencer shifts ever so slightly. His hands feel inexplicably clammy. “It was unfair of me to take Gideon’s side so often.”

“Still.” Your words are muffled as you speak half into the mattress. “We have more important things to worry about. It was unfair of me to spend so much time giving you shit. You— you didn’t even know I existed until a month ago.”

“But now I do.” He pauses. “And I’m glad I do. So you can start looking forward instead of always looking back.”

Again, silence. It lasts so long Spencer wonders if you’ve fallen asleep. Your breathing is thankfully steady (a side of him is always focused on your breathing just to make sure) and you don’t shift much, so he wouldn’t be surprised. You were exhausted—

“Spencer?”

His eyes open. He didn’t even realize they had closed. You sound half-asleep, your voice nothing more than a whisper. He wishes more than anything he knew what was going through your mind right now.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

His heart stutters so blatantly he’s sure you can hear it. Spencer honestly doesn’t know what to say—his mouth is so dry he doesn’t know if he can say anything.

Spencer thought you hated him. You thought Spencer hated you.

It’s ironic.

“Me too,” he eventually manages.

But there’s no response. You must’ve already fallen asleep again, just conscious enough to say a few words. The rude awakening mixed with the fear and alcohol couldn’t have done you much good.

Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat and closes his eyes again, trying not to focus on you. It’s practically impossible.

He’s glad, at least, that you’re able to sleep. You deserve to rest more than anyone.

Eventually, the sound of your breathing lulls Spencer to sleep.

You were the one thing he didn’t have on his list.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #gideon!reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #x reader #sadie writes

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