#bc everything is MEMORIZED AT THIS POINT

[they-didnt-last]

anyone interested in talking about the iconic 2000's middle-grade-bordering-on-ya book series gallagher girls??

[studioboner]

..

[braisedhoney]

do you have a watercolor brand rec? 👀

i'm actually a really big proponent of using whatever's convenient for you, fr. brands vary in price depending on where you're buying them/where you live, what's available, etc. sure there are definitely differences between them, but especially when you're using professional materials it's actually more rare to pick something bad than to stumble on something serviceable.

(whoops this one got long too. under the cut it goes.)

some brands do, admittedly, do certain things better than others. sennelier (a french brand) is known to go down kind of pale/less saturated on the first wash, but they build really really well in glazes and have a luminosity to them that gives paintings a really interesting depth.

daniel smith (an american brand) has one of the largest collections of colors available i've ever seen and their earth tones are gorgeous and really unique.

QOR (not sure where they're based?) has WILDLY saturated colors that bloom so much it kind of looks like fireworks, same with roman szmal.

holbein (a japanese brand) doesn't move much in water at all and thus offers a lot of control to the user instead at the cost of more abstract or dynamic movement in water.

schmincke horadam (a german brand) was hailed as the holy grail of watercolors for a while for their fine pigments and wild dispersal, but that's kind of chilled out these days since so many new players became beloved staples, and some people aren't fans of wild blooming to begin with. in a similar vein, winsor and newton (english brand) has a very extensive history and honestly works as a super "traditional" pick with few surprises but a solid foundation—and none of that is considering the wild variations in properties between student grade paints or the many types of handmade ones that hit the market lol. some brands make great pro but weak student lines, and vice versa.

buuuuuut.

all of that is pedantic when you're starting out, and honestly if you're asking this you're probably looking to get into watercolor. at beginning or intermediate stages where you haven't gone down the fixation rabbithole, all of tha information is more likely to confuse you than help, especially if you don't know what you like or dislike about watercolor yet.

at beginning stages whatever established pro or student brand is available to you is probably good enough to build fundamental knowledge on.

my actual, legit advice is to pick a few colors you like, then if another brand has what you want get it from them. get a small set if that helps and just build with whatever you find lacking, whatever you aren't using can be replaced with something that appeals to you more. there's no need to stick to one specific brand name just because. just don't pick the super chalky ones that come in those huge art packs with the round pans, and you should be fine (and even then, i've seen some people do great art with those! i just don't like when it comes off like dust on my fingers lol.) general rule of thumb i follow is that if they have accurate pigment and lightfastness information, you're going to be fine.

art isn't really all that exclusionary when you do it for fun, it's just an environment where people started making stuff for smaller and more specific audiences to cater to preferences lol. hell, paint with coffee if you want to. life's short and painting is fun, might as well enjoy it for a while.

oh, but do use good paper. blah blah, you've probably heard it before, and trust me we're all just as horrified as you that watercolor paper is so goddamn expensive. but you could literally have The Nicest Paints In The World and they'd look terrible on bad paper that won't let you use the techniques people try to teach you. if you have to pick between good paper and mediocre paints vs bad paper and excellent paints, pick the paper. trust me.

[that-wizard]

gorgeous game. I'll accept no criticism

[wintrbears]

Universal Truths | JJK

Summary: You took the risk of falling in love in a world where your perfect match is decided for you by the universe itself. When a name you never could've predicted appears on your wrist, you do everything you can to stop the inevitable.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, (Brief) Taehyung x Reader

Genre: Soulmate AU, Boyfriend's Best Friend, Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Word Count: 19.3k+

Warnings: swearing, drinking, partying, yelling, crying, lying, heartbreak, physical pain, injury, burning sensations, cramping, chest aches, lose of appetite, vomiting, insomnia, mentions of UTI and mono, emotional cheating (kinda), a break-up, loss of friendship, use of pet names (baby, pumpkin, princess), soccer, use of sports lingo, fear of heights, tattoos. SMUT: one-night stands, kissing, hair pulling, fingering, hand job, oral sex (both receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (she's on bc), missionary, dick riding, big dick!jk bc I'm nothing if not accurate, cum swallowing (m & f), spitting, gagging via hand, cream pie, scratching, aftercare, please lmk if I missed any!

Author's Note: I've returned from my mandatory military service (writer's block) after over two years. I'm very excited to be writing again and hope you all love this one as much as I do. It's my first time posting smut that I've written so I'm v nervous and would appreciate any feedback on that or the story as a whole. Please, please let me know what you think :)

Your thighs are growing sore from the metal of the bleachers digging into them. Taehyung warned you to bring your bleacher seat, but in your rush out the door tonight you forgot it. Shifting uncomfortably, you rise up just enough to readjust your clothes to create a barrier between you and the cold steel.

The girl next to you chuckles at your situation.

You don’t know her very well and honestly you barely remember her name. Jisoo? Jihyo? It isn’t in your best interest to try and memorize the many women who accompany you to these games.

As if to make matters worse, it’s a night game, and the brisk wind of nighttime is nipping at your thighs through your jeans. 

What’s-her-name is wearing a skirt and tights, even though you told Jungkook to tell her she should dress warmly. You’re too nice for your own good; trying to keep these women comfortable while they cheer for your team for the sole purpose of spending their night with the star player afterwards.

Jeon Jungkook is only a sophomore, while your boyfriend, Kim Taehyung, is a junior. Nevertheless, Jungkook can only be described as a goddamn soccer prodigy, and as such he has garnered most of the attention since joining the team. 

It’s certainly no skin off your back. You don’t need hordes of women trying to get at your man. Jungkook can keep all that attention for himself. Which he does. Joyously.

There is no resentment or judgement towards Jungkook for the fact that you come to these games with a new woman every week. Some would even say he’s making smarter choices than you are by having a serious, long-term boyfriend whose name isn’t tattooed on your wrist. 

At some point during young adulthood a name appears on everyone’s wrist indicating who their soulmate is. Impossible to predict nor refute, they could be a stranger you’ll meet down the line, someone you’ve known since childhood, or anything in between. Many people, such as yourself, allow love into their hearts regardless of the impending reveal of one’s soulmate. 

Truthfully, if Taehyung isn’t your soulmate, you don’t know who the hell could be. A perfect match doesn’t even scratch the surface of him. He’s attentive, always catching on when your mood shifts. Considerate, asking for your input over the most menial decisions. And loving, holding you close and providing you with unyielding affection. Taehyung will do whatever it takes to bring you happiness and you strive to reciprocate that.

You were introduced to your now-boyfriend by none other than Jungkook. The pair are childhood best friends who’ve been playing soccer together since they could kick a ball. It was over freshman orientation weekend after you and Jungkook were assigned to the same icebreaker group. Upon mingling for the day, Jungkook served his best friend to you on a silver platter and the rest is history. As soon as you saw his boxy grin, being around him became a non-negotiable. 

There is a piece of you that refuses to admit your soulmate could be anyone else, but the rest of you knows how great the possibility is. A gnawing anxiety finds its way into your bones every once in a while. 

Your fingers dance across your wrist in thought, pressing down against your vein to feel your pulse. 

When you look up, it’s just in time to see your boyfriend’s best friend scoring a goal. Ji-something stands up to cheer as loud as she can. The soccer field is large, but not that large. She only needs half the volume to get her message across. 

You chuckle at Jungkook’s entire face going red when he hears her holler. He scratches the back of his neck as he returns to his position for the next set of plays. 

Eyes perusing for a familiar head of black curls, you find your boyfriend in his defensive position. A smile creeps in without you realizing as pride swells in your chest. You clap when he successfully prevents the other team from scoring, but don’t make yourself as known as your companion. 

A wishful sigh breaks you from your admiration. 

“I wish Jungkook would settle down like Taehyung has,” the girl pouts. 

“Well, I think he’s trying to spare both your feelings, don’t you think?” You’ve had this conversation one too many times with one too many girls. “Neither of you know if you’re soulmates and getting into a relationship could lead to heartache.” 

“Then why did you do it?”

That’s a great question, and one you wish you knew the answer to. Your nature is cautious and you've always been prudent when it comes to love. Prior to college, your plan was to remain single until your tattoo materialized. There were hookups occasionally during your high school years, but never once breaching into the realm of dating.

“I just fell in love, and the idea of not being with him hurt more than the possibility that he isn’t my soulmate.”

“Wow,” she stares in awe. “That’s so romantic.”

You only grant her a nod before reverting your attention back to the game. It’s nearly over now which means you can finally get your arms around Taehyung and hold him close for the rest of the night. 

The team is victorious as usual and the players gather around in the center to celebrate their victory with an indiscernible cheer. Leading your companion down the bleachers, you wait at the separation between the stands and the field as both boys come jogging over.

Taehyung’s smile is radiant as he beams. He pulls you in for a kiss immediately once he reaches you. You’re giggling against his lips as he pecks you repeatedly in quick succession.

“Proud of you, baby,” you whisper into his mouth. 

You steal his hand from behind your head to lace his fingers with yours. When you glance over, Jungkook is speaking with his woman-of-the-week. Although, you aren’t sure you can describe her eager rambling and his mindless nodding as a conversation.

Taehyung’s knowing chuckle meets your ear.

“They never learn,” he says.

“Oh no, she knows she’s disposable,” you correct. “She just wants him bad enough not to care.”

“JK,” Taehyung grabs the younger one’s attention. “We’re gonna grab dinner, you and Jiseon wanna join?”

Wow, you feel like such an asshole. If Taehyung can remember her name surely you should’ve. 

“Nah, we’re good.” 

Jungkook winks at his friend and you feign a gag sound. Sticking your finger near your mouth for dramatic effect. Jungkook only rolls his eyes before waving goodbye. The brat didn’t even thank you for entertaining his little fling tonight. Unbelievable. 

Besides his questionable choices in sexual partners, you genuinely enjoy Jungkook’s company. You aren’t necessarily close, but he’s around enough that you know his favorite food and band. You know that he’s sweet and caring towards the people in his life. And he certainly doesn’t mistreat the women he spends his time with. There is a thick boundary laid before anyone ever steps foot inside his apartment. His girls know exactly what they’re signing up for. 

After dinner, Taehyung walks you back to your place while reminiscing over the most exciting moments of the game. You listen intently while swinging your connected hands back and forth between you. 

He spends the night like he often does after a Friday night game and you wake up together just in time to catch brunch at the closest dining hall. 

While you dress in the comfiest outfit you own, your boyfriend’s voice is telling someone where you’ll be. He ends the call with a quick goodbye before leaning in the doorway of your bathroom.

“JK’s meeting us for brunch, if that’s ok?”

“Is his girly friend joining?”

“Nope,” he says with a pop of his lips. Your head hangs as you chuckle. Figures. 

When you turn around, Taehyung is admiring you like you aren’t in an old hoodie and sweatpants. His hands reach for your waist, pulling you closer and enveloping you into his chest. You sigh, resting your head where his heartbeat can be heard.

“I love you, pumpkin,” he says with a kiss to your hair. You rest your chin on his sternum to get a better view.

“I love you more, handsome,” you reply. 

He kisses you briefly before dragging you from the warmth of your apartment to eat some poorly-made pancakes and instant eggs. 

The dining hall’s familiar scent infiltrates your nostrils. Frankly, you’re starving and need to consume something before the hangry version of you comes out to meet the world. 

You and Taehyung are already eating by the time Jungkook comes in through the large glass doors. The boy looks a mess; hair pointing in a million directions, hoodie barely on and revealing part of his stomach above his joggers, and a purple bruise sits to the left of his throat. 

“Wow,” you say as you chew through a pineapple slice.

“Yeah,” he says with a boyish smile, his body leaning against a chair back. “It was fucking awesome.”

“Ew,” you groan. 

Taehyung cheers for his friend, high fiving him as the younger one takes a seat. 

“Hyung, you wouldn’t believe the shit she did with her —”

“No, no, stop that,” you scold him before he ruins your breakfast. “We’re eating.”

“So? There’s nothing gross or bad about sex, Y/N,” he argues.

“You’re right, but I don’t need to hear about your sex, okay?” 

“I, for one, would like to hear about it,” Taehyung responds. You gawk at him from across the table. “What? Maybe we could learn a thing or two.”

“Tae!” 

Jungkook’s hearty laugh only furthers your annoyance. Once he leaves to get food, you point your fork at your boyfriend in a silent warning before continuing to eat. 

There’s a party tonight at another teammate’s off-campus house. Taehyung begs you with his big, adorable puppy eyes and you instantly fold. They are your only kryptonite and you agree without another thought when he asks to go. 

You travel hand-in-hand back to your apartment after brunch so you can finish some homework before the party. With a kiss and a promise to pick you up at 8, he heads home.

The biology homework for your mandatory gen-ed is staring you in the face. It’s the last of your assignments to complete before you’re free to get ready. A groan passes through your lips while you tip your head back in frustration. Science is so not your thing and this is the last class you’ll ever have to take on the subject. There is a high probability of the course tanking your GPA this semester. 

Chewing on your lip, your phone teases you with its presence. There is someone you know who's a biology major, but you’ve never asked him for help before and you aren’t sure you can handle the teasing that will follow if you do. 

You curse as your fingers find his contact before you can change your mind. You’ve never once called or texted him separately, only ever in a group chat with your boyfriend and a few others. 

He answers after a couple rings, but his voice is laced with confusion when he does. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you stretch the syllable as far as it can go.

“What’s up?”

“Jungkookie…” you play coy. “Could you possibly help me with something?” 

“What is it?” 

You hear shuffling on the other end, as if he’s already getting up to fulfill your request. 

“My bio homework,” you answer. “Can I just send you a picture of it or something and you can tell me the answers?”

He chuckles, low and soft.

“Sure.” 

You cheer to yourself, kicking your feet and flipping off the paper in front of you that will finally be conquered. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you shout.

“Mmhm, just send it over.”

You do so as soon as you hang up. It’s barely been fifteen minutes when the photo returns, this time with answers added next to each question. 

You throw your head back and resist the urge to literally kiss the photo on your phone screen. This assignment has haunted you for days now. Vowing to repay Jungkook in kind, you complete the worksheet to match his answers before heading to the shower to get ready. 

When Taehyung arrives at 8, you still have to finish putting on your jewelry. He smirks knowingly at your consistent lack of punctuality. His body takes purchase on your bed while you adjust the final details of your outfit. 

It’s nothing special, just a sweater and a skirt, but you can tell it does something for your boyfriend by the way he eyes you from his position. His legs are spread, feet firmly planted as he licks his lips. Ever the temptress, you situate yourself on his lap when you’re finished.

His hands instinctively meet your thighs, rubbing them as he eyes your lips.

“Careful, baby, we have somewhere to be,” he says.

“Do we, though?” 

You tilt your head without breaking eye contact. He answers with a nod, but his lips are already ascending on the junction between your neck and shoulder. You moan appreciatively, resisting the urge to move against his crotch. 

The kiss is far too short and light for your liking, and once he’s satisfied with his teasing he stands to leave. You groan and give him your best pout. Adorably pleading with him for more affection, but he merely tsks at your antics before tugging you out of the apartment. 

The party is heard before it’s seen. The bass of the music is vibrating the floorboards as you walk inside. Taehyung leads you in by your hand and you greet his teammates and their partners or guests for the night on your way to the kitchen. 

He pours you both a drink into dinky plastic cups and hands one of them over. The first sip burns, but the next couple are smoother as you acquire the taste. 

You traverse the party together as normal, mingling for a while and dancing together for a spell. After a couple hours, Taehyung joins his team in a beer pong tournament while you head to the porch for some fresh air.

You rest your elbows on the hardwood railing and let your heavy head fall forward. Truthfully, you aren’t that drunk, but stuffy heat from the house mixed with alcohol isn’t doing you any favors. 

The door behind you opens, and none other than the friendly-neighborhood fuckboy comes tumbling outside. When he notices your presence, he sighs in relief and joins you at the railing.

“Who are you running from?” 

“Jiseon,” he answers. You giggle. That would explain his antsy behavior. 

“Let me guess, she didn’t take the ‘one night only’ hint,” you say. He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Aw, poor you, it must be so hard to have an endless amount of women at your disposal.”

He turns towards you, leaning sideways against the railing so he can face you.

“This isn’t my preferred method of human connection, you know,” he says. “I would love nothing more than to have what you and Taehyung do. All I want is for my soulmate’s name to show up so I can finally seek the comfort of their arms instead of whatever random girl is chasing after me that day.” 

“Then why don’t you try with someone to have what Tae and I do?”

“Because I don’t want to get my heart broken,” he answers truthfully. “Not that you and Tae will, I just —”

“No, it’s okay.” You turn to face him as well. “I know it’s a possibility.” 

“It may seem backwards to you,” he adds. “And it’s not like I don’t enjoy casual sex. I do.” Your eyes roll back on reflex. “But I don’t sleep around because I’m insatiable or abundantly horny. I’m just lonely.”

You frown, never realizing the extent of Jungkook’s feelings on the matter. One of your hands reaches out to grasp his tattooed wrist.

“You’ll find her someday soon, Jungkook,” you offer with a smile. “And she’s gonna love you.”

If only you knew just how soon he would find her or that he already knew her.

You finish the night off with a brief makeout in the downstairs bathroom. It’s not the most romantic or pretty location, but you’re too intoxicated at that point to care when Taehyung’s lips are on yours. 

He walks you home and ensures you enter your apartment safely before retreating back to his own. You fall into your bed with a plop, the soft blankets surrounding you with warmth and comfort. Nuzzling into your sheets, you’re in dreamland before you can notice the black ink slowly darkening on your skin.

Upon waking up, your headache is the first to greet you. Feet finding the floor through half-closed eyelids, a groan erupts from your chest as you stretch the sleep out of your body. Your eyes are still barely open as you trudge to the bathroom to see the aftermath of last night.

Unfortunately for you, the version of you from last night forgot to take off her makeup. You gently wash away the dried mascara and lip gloss before applying some product. The entire routine is complete before you ever notice the new addition on your skin. It’s only once you brush your teeth and your wrist is in your direct eyesight that you see it. 

You yelp, your toothbrush falling from your mouth and clattering in the sink. Your first instinct is to try and wash it off, as if it’s some cruel prank someone pulled. As hard as you possibly can, you run your wrist under the water and scrub at the name staring back at you. You even add soap, as if that will somehow reverse what you already know to be true. 

“No, no, no,” you chant desperately. “Please,” you beg to whatever or whoever is in charge. 

After scrubbing until your skin is bright red and burning, you finally turn the water off. Your hand shakes almost violently from the fear and adrenaline coursing through you. Pressing your finger down over your vein, you close your eyes in an attempt to bestill your racing heartbeat. 

It’s as useless as scrubbing, and when you open your eyes and look into the mirror, a cry breaks from your body as you collapse into your bathroom carpet. You hug your knees to your chest, keeping your eyes tightly shut as tears escape them. This has to be some sick nightmare. It simply can’t be reality. 

The weight of the truth is pushing you down below the surface of your tolerance. It feels like you’re drowning, swallowing gallons of water and burning your esophagus in the process. Your body couldn’t produce enough tears if it tried. The soul-crushing emotions are too insurmountable. 

The sound of your phone ringing brings your heartbeat to a grinding halt. Your eyes find the source atop the bathroom counter. All you can do is stare helplessly at destiny calling. You already know who the caller is because soulmate tattoos always appear in pairs. 

Attempting to settle your breathing, you crawl to where you can reach your phone from the floor. The vibration of it against the marble is identical to your shaking hand as you answer it. You inhale three shaky breaths before moving it to your ear. 

“Y/N.”

His voice catapults your heart completely out of your chest. You’re unsure where it’s gone, but you know it isn’t inside you anymore. The urge to cry again is so forceful you have to bite down on your lip to restrain yourself. Even then, when you respond, your voice breaks over the words.

“What do we do?”

As you speak, your eyes fall to your wrist again. There, in small, black, cursive lettering is the last name you ever expected to find.

Jungkook

“I’m going to come over, alright?” 

You’re nodding before remembering he can’t see you. 

“Okay,” you whimper. And then, a voice you don’t believe is your own says, “Hurry, please.”

It’s damn near impossible to lift yourself from the floor. You feel concrete in your bones and lead in your blood. Tears are staining your cheeks, but you barely register it over the sound of your thoughts running wild. 

The knock on your door arrives quicker than you expect, but then again you did tell him to hurry. An unfamiliar feeling spreads through your chest at the thought of him rushing to you. Ignoring the way it reminds you of butterflies, you finally stand to answer the door. 

You think your soul must have been replaced with someone else’s. Taehyung is the only person your heart has ever somersaulted for. Your sweet, adoring, funny, and wonderful boyfriend. His smile comes to mind and it constricts your airway. 

Does the soul bond really reconstruct your emotional landscape that quickly? The answer comes as soon as you open the door. 

You’ve seen Jungkook at least 500 times over the course of a year and a half and locked eyes with him even more often than that. You did so just last night on the porch. Seeing him on the opposite side of your door should be simple. Yet, nothing prepares you for the swarm of emotions you feel when you finally see him. 

It’s as if the world has tilted on its axis, but not as if it’s suddenly spinning the wrong way. No, it’s as though this whole time it has been wrong, and only now is it right. You hold your breath without meaning to. Your very soul yearns to leap from your body just to get an inch closer to him. 

Jungkook’s eyes are blown wide, pupils dialated to the point where you can’t tell where his irises begin. His face is flushed, but you’re unsure if it’s from seeing you or the method of speed he used to reach you. His inhales and exhales are shallow, forced out only by muscle memory. You notice his hands are shaking where they rest limply by his side. They twitch towards you before he’s closing them into fists. 

“Holy shit.” 

It falls from your lips before you can stop it. The feeling is a riptide pulling you under without anything to stop it. 

Jungkook inhales deeply at the sound of your voice, as if it was the one thing he needed to hear. He steps into your apartment and closes the door behind him. You take a parallel step back to hold the distance between you. Your own body scolds you for doing so. 

It isn’t for long, because when Jungkook reaches out slowly to take your wrist in his hand, you melt. Your body succumbs to the feeling of his touch the way it feels to slip into a warm bath. Your mouth is releasing a sigh of relief before you can tell it not to. 

He observes your skin curiously, taking in the view of his name written there. His thumb delicately traces the curves. His eyes are misty and filled with something unreadable.

“Jungkook,” your voice comes out so small. His eyes find yours and you come to realize how much his heart is breaking, too. “We should talk.”

Hand dropping yours, he nods and follows you to your couch. Although you were the one who suggested a conversation, words die in your throat. The silence stretches between you like molasses.

“I…” you try to find the right words only to realize there are none. “I love him, Jungkook. I can’t — god — I can’t hurt him like this. I don’t want to lose him.”

“I know,” your companion nods solemnly. “I can’t either.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I’ve known him since I was four. He’s the only reason I even started playing soccer.” A deep breath. “He’s my best friend.”

Your head finds your hands as you fold yourself in half, letting your elbows meet your knees. The pain in your chest reverberates through your entire system. You didn’t even know heartbreak could carry a physical ache. 

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” 

You’re crying into your hands. You can’t catch your breath for the life of you. The sobbing is painful in your throat. A firm hand finds your spine, gently moving up and down in the only way it knows how to console you. The touch leaves a warmth in its wake that you’ve never experienced before.

“We can’t tell him,” you whisper into your hands. Looking up, you find Jungkook’s eyes again. “We just have to pretend like this never happened.”

“Y/N, you know we can’t do that,” he replies. “Bad things happen to people who ignore their soul bond.”

“I don’t care. The universe is fucking sick and twisted and I’m not going to give it what it wants,” you say. Then, after inhaling and allowing your thoughts to rationalize, you continue. “We just continue on like nothing is wrong, but we spend more time together. Find excuses to hang out as the three of us. Maybe that will be enough to keep the bond from retaliating against us.” 

Jungkook looks skeptical, he tilts his head and tongues his cheek in thought. 

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” you respond. Then, despite your best efforts to stop your mouth from opening, “you're not going to keep sleeping with other girls, are you?” 

He shakes his head without missing a beat.

“No, I could never do that,” he answers. You despise the feeling of relief that washes over you. 

“I’ll have to think of something to tell Tae. Say I have a UTI or something,” you muse. 

“No, Y/N, you don’t have to do that. It’s different,” Jungkook argues.

“I couldn’t,” you reply. “The thought of… of him making love to me when I have someone else’s name, your name, on my wrist makes me sick to my stomach.”

Taehyung’s ears must be burning because your phone rings and his face lights up the screen. Shattering your heart in its entirety when you see the goofy smile in his contact photo. Glancing towards Jungkook, you get up to take the call elsewhere.

He tells you he wants to study together after lunch. The thought of seeing him right now nearly sends bile up your throat. It will be too suspicious for you to say no. It’s the weekend and you never shy away from spending time together. You follow through with what you discussed and ask if you can invite Jungkook. You lie through your teeth and say it’s because you need help with biology. He thinks nothing of it as he replies with a sweet "of course." 

Therein begins your corrosive web of lies. Time moves normally, even though you feel anything but. Everyday a new lie tumbles from your lips like smoke. You feel yourself choking on it as it suffocates you from the inside. You vastly underestimated how hard your body would fight you for rejecting your soul bond with Jungkook. 

At first, it was tingling when you kissed Taehyung or an ache when you held his hand. But slowly, it got worse. After a few weeks, you couldn’t kiss him without a burning sensation on your lips. By the end of a month, holding his hand sent a stinging cramp down your arm. You explained you couldn’t have sex due to a UTI. Later, you claimed you couldn’t kiss because you caught mono. 

After six weeks, the aches and pains don’t just happen when you’re with Taehyung. They start happening simply because you’re away from Jungkook. 

You miss one of your morning classes because the cramping in your abdomen is so bad you can’t leave your bed. Dinners go uneaten because you can’t help but throw up the contents of your stomach. One night, while watching one of their soccer games, you leave because the most painful ache you can imagine is surging through your chest. You spend the evening alone, clutching your heart as you cry to whoever may be listening that this isn’t fair.

Jungkook isn’t doing much better, he tells you. His grades have begun to drop and he’s missing practices left and right. One day you see him limping across the courtyard. He tells you he pulled a muscle at the gym doing something he’s done a million times. That he can feel himself getting weaker everyday. 

The pair of you try your hardest to stall the effects by spending as much time together as you can. You don’t think you’ve spent alone time with Taehyung in weeks now. You sit next to each other at meals with your friends. He comes over to study whenever he’s free. If he’s going to a party, so are you. 

It’s not enough, because the physical closeness doesn’t make up for the emotional distance. You know it’s only a matter of time before nature forces you to confront what you’ve been avoiding. 

You’re sitting on Taehyung’s lap in the basement of a teammate’s house. The three Motrin you took beforehand aren’t helping the cramping in your legs nor the burning that follows Taehyung’s touch along your thigh. Jungkook is next to him, an uncomfortable scowl written into his features. It’s almost permanent these days. 

During a lull in the conversation, Taehyung leans forward to brush his lips on your neck. You yelp and stand abruptly from the sharp pain his kiss causes. Taehyung looks at you in concern, grabbing your hands to make you face him.

“Baby?” His eyes are so soft and loving when he peers up at you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you lie as you massage your neck. “I just need to hit the restroom real quick.”

Jungkook’s eyes are swimming with distress as they follow you out of the room. 

Forcing open the sticky bathroom door, you shut it behind you and brace yourself on the sink. When you look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman looking back. She’s skinnier than you, face pale, eyes hollow and devoid of light. You breathe deeply and are about to return when the door opens.

Jungkook moves as quickly and quietly as possible, peering out for any onlookers before shutting and locking the door behind him. Your body relaxes, your breath leveling, your nerves taking a rest from their constant anxiety. 

“Are you alright?” 

His hand is halfway in the air when he speaks, as though to reach out, but he changes his mind and lets it fall to his side. 

You respect his hesitation, but you can’t do this a second longer. Grabbing his hand back, you place it on your cheek, covering his fingers with your own to hold it steady. His eyes widen momentarily before relaxing and gazing around your face.

“I am now,” you whisper. It’s true. His touch feels like aloe in the summer. The warmth of him is so comforting you could fall asleep standing up. 

He licks his lips and you can see the gears turning inside as he analyzes your expression. You blink slowly, cat-like, and realize you don’t need words to communicate because he does precisely what you want him to. 

His forehead presses to yours and your lungs sing as they finally work unimpeached. Tension releases from Jungkook’s body as his shoulders slump forward. You know how terribly you both need this, and yet your betrayal to Taehyung feels venomous. A moment of serenity passes over you in the silence of the room. It’s a welcome reprieve from the chaos your lives have become. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you admit. “Everyday just gets harder. My heart feels like it’s going to rip out of my chest every second I spend apart from you.”

His head twists against you, his eyes opening to catch your gaze. There’s an intensity in his stare you’ve never seen before. You’re on a precipice together, and Jungkook is like a dam just waiting to hear you say the word so he can break. 

“Tell me what you want, Y/N,” he says. 

“It’s not about what I want,” your tone is harsher than you hoped. “It’s about what I need.”

His other hand curls into your shirt near your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies are touching. Your free hand finds its way to his chest, fingertips passing over unfamiliar territory.

Jungkook sighs deep in his chest.

“I could stay like this forever,” he tells you. “Feel like I’ve been drowning and I can finally breathe again.”

Your eyes snap shut as you will yourself not to cry. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be and there is nothing you want more than for everything to go back to the way it was. But your harsh reality is staring you down and sinking its teeth into your jugular. The universe is sucking you dry and soon there will be nothing left. 

“We'll tell him tomorrow,” you announce. The finality of it constricts your airway. Jungkook is pulling you into him before the first sob even exits your body. He wraps his arms around you as a hand finds home in your hair.

Your tears soak Jungkook’s shirt where it rests against his shoulder. Every single drowning emotion comes out in slamming waves, pushing you up against a rocky shoreline. It shuts down your nervous system and disrupts your mental state. 

When the sobbing subsides, Jungkook gently lifts your head and his free hand swipes away at the tear stains still present on your cheekbones.

“It’s going to be alright,” he states. “And don’t ask me how I know,” he smiles just a hair. “I don’t. I’m just hopeful.” 

You laugh for what feels like the first time in forever. It’s short and quiet, but it’s enough for Jungkook’s smile to grow.

He lets you exit the cramped space first, waiting a few minutes before exiting and finding a spot elsewhere so he has an alibi. You return to Taehyung feeling a mixture of dread and relief. Tomorrow could very well be the worst day of your life, but at least this nightmare will be over. 

When you kiss Taehyung goodbye that night, you do it through physical ache, but knowing that it will probably be your last hurts worse than anything else. 

You cry yourself to sleep because it’s the only way you know how to cause enough fatigue to fall into slumber. 

The following morning you text Jungkook and Taehyung asking them both to come over. At this point it’s routine for the three of you to hang out so it goes unquestioned. When they arrive, you make yourself busy in the kitchen so you don’t have to touch your boyfriend unnecessarily. You also need the extra time to mentally prepare yourself. 

Placing two hot bowls of ramen in front of them, you take a seat on the couch as far from Taehyung as possible. Jungkook sits in a chair just across from you. 

“Pumpkin, you didn’t have to do this,” Taehyung says as he slurps his first bite of noodles into his mouth. 

Jungkook is staring into the familiar food with a faraway look. You gesture for him to eat, but his response is a shake of his head.

“So, why’d you want us here on this lovely Saturday?” 

Your gut twists at the notion of today being lovely. Taehyung is clueless that you’re about to shatter his heart in your hand. Yours has been slowly deteriorating all this time. 

“I actually have to tell you something, Tae,” you start. His eyes glance at you briefly, nodding for you to continue while he eats. “You should probably put that down.” 

Taehyung stops mid-bite, slowly setting the bowl back on the coffee table without breaking eye contact with you. 

“What’s going on?” He questions as his eyes flit to his friend sitting silently across from him. Jungkook doesn’t dare look up as his eyes find something on the floor to distract himself. 

“I got my soulmate tattoo,” you admit to him. The raw truth both burns and soothes your throat simultaneously as it breaches the air. Taehyung’s pupils are shaking when he looks at you and you can tell he doesn’t believe you yet. “It was almost two months ago now.”

“And you… you didn’t think you should tell me about that?” 

His voice pitches up, but he doesn’t sound angry, just confused. 

“I didn’t know how,” you reply. “And —”

“Wait,” Taehyung’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. “What is Jungkook doing here? Why would you want us both here, Y/N?”

Your mouth snaps shut in an instant as your eyes begin to water. There’s no mental strength left within you to even say it out loud. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. 

“No.” Taehyung stands. “No, no, there is no fucking way.” He holds his hand out towards you. “Give me your hand.” Your limb is shaking as it stretches towards him. Despite his tone, he’s gentle when he grabs your wrist to inspect it. You can feel the unbridled anger pulsing through his fingertips. When he spots the familiar name etched into your skin, he gasps painfully. It’s a sound so unlike him it makes you flinch. “No,” he repeats. His voice breaks over the syllable in the most soul-crushing way. He blinks tears from his eyes as he just stares at your skin. 

“Taehyung,” you grab his attention. Your tears mirror his own now. “I love you. This doesn’t change that.”

He lets your wrist fall limply against the couch before crashing down himself. His expression is so utterly broken you aren’t sure if he can even hear you. 

“It changes everything,” he replies. “Love doesn’t matter in the face of fate.” He laughs, but there is no warmth in it. “How does this always fucking happen?” You want to ask what he means, but his eyes are already on Jungkook. His expression hardens into pure ice. “You always get everything you want, huh, Jungkookie?”

“Don’t do that,” Jungkook says coldly. “Don’t act like I fucking asked for this.”

“But that’s just the thing, you didn’t have to! The universe just spits out good luck at you like you won the lottery,” Taehyung explains. “Ever since we were kids you were always on top. Better grades, better skills, better looks, and now,” he laughs again, but this time with venom dripping from his voice. “It gives you the one thing that matters most to me.” 

“Hyung, we tried —”

“Nah, you don’t get to call me that, kid,” Taehyung sneers. Jungkook’s face drops in terror, so unbelievably shocked at his best friend’s words. “You took my fucking girl from me. I will never forgive you for that, whether it was your choice or not.”

“Tae, it isn’t his fault,” you interject.

“And you,” Taehyung snaps. He stands to face you directly. “You little fucking liar! A UTI? Mono? Were you fucking him this whole time behind my back?”

“Jesus — fuck, no!” You match his stance as you stand before him. “I would never do that to you!”

“No, you’d just lie to my face instead,” he retorts. 

“Yes, Tae, because I wanted to be with you. I did everything in my power to try and stop whatever destiny had in store for me,” you say. “You have no idea what I went through just to stay next to you for even a second longer. What we went through. For you!” 

“Yeah, right.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was missing class. I was taking double the daily allowance of painkillers,” you say calmly. “Touching you would send shockwaves down my arm. Kissing you burned. There were nights where I couldn’t breathe because the pain was so bad.” You inhale through your nose. “And I did it anyway. I did it because the thought of losing you was astronomically worse than any pain I was in.” Then, you point to Jungkook, who still sits defeated in the chair. “His muscles were literally atrophying. Could barely lift half the weight he used to be able to. His GPA dropped a whole point because he couldn’t focus enough in class. He would wake up drenched in sweat and so tired it was like he hadn’t slept at all.” You take a final deep breath. “You mean the world to me, to both of us. So don’t you dare claim we’re at fault for this. We’re hurting, too.”

Taehyung is staring at the ground as he mulls over your words. He sniffles and meets your eyes. 

“So that’s it, then… we just break up?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” you answer truthfully. “I think the soul bond will kill me if I keep denying it any longer.” 

Taehyung throws his head back with a groan.

“So I’m just supposed to watch you two date right in front of me? See you hold hands across the courtyard like it’s nothing?” The question makes you pause. Never once did you even think about what happens after. Jungkook answers on your behalf. 

“No, Taehyung,” he starts. “We wouldn’t do that to you. We’re not gonna date… right away. And when we do we’ll keep it far from where you can see it.”

There’s a sense of finality in the room after Jungkook’s answer. Taehyung’s eyes move around the room, but his expression tells you nothing. His eyes land on you before grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. 

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he says as he leaves. He doesn’t spare Jungkook a single glance before the door closes behind him. 

Before you can think of doing anything else, you crouch down in front of Jungkook, using your hand to gently bring his head up. Your fingers travel across his cheek, wiping the stray tear that’s fallen. 

“He couldn’t even look at me,” Jungkook murmurs. 

“He needs time,” you tell him as you caress his cheekbone with your thumb. 

His fingers gently curl around your wrist, removing it from his face. You watch as his eyes bore into the ink on your skin. You hate how pretty they look when he’s sad. Slowly, he brings your arm closer and you’re in awe when he presses the softest of kisses to his own name on your wrist. The action makes your breath falter and your heart beat out of time. His lips leave your skin after lingering there and he bows his head so his forehead takes their place. 

Your fingers are in the perfect position to comb through his hair, so you do. A hum of satisfaction comes from your soulmate. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says. 

“What for?”

“Existing,” he laughs, but it’s hollow. “I keep wondering if it would be easier for everyone if I didn’t.” Your blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t have a soulmate anymore and then you and Tae would be free to be together.”

“Jungkook,” you say sternly, making him face you. “Don’t you ever say something like that again.” You grab his face for good measure. “You’re mine. The one and only soulmate I’m ever going to have. The world, my world, is a better place with you in it and I don’t ever want to be someplace you don’t exist. Okay?” 

He doesn’t reply, just nods. You push his hair out his eyes and he closes them. Letting his head rest in the cradle of your hands so he doesn’t have to hold it up himself. He looks peaceful like this and you let him savor the moment as long as possible. You’re nursing a heartbreak, but his best friend just walked out his life without a goodbye. 

You already know how complicated and difficult moving forward is going to be. While grieving the only long-term relationship you’ve ever known, you’ll be crafting an entirely new one. Your heart has to recover from the ache while reconstructing into something new. It’s going to take time, but you’re unshackled now. The universe wants this for you, and so it shall have it. 

The following weeks are composed of awkward silences and tentative touches, but you both take the necessary steps to get to know each other more. Jungkook begins to visit whenever he has free time to study or have dinner. You watch his games from the university sports channel for Taehyung’s sake, but Jungkook always comes over afterwards to celebrate. He helps with your biology homework and you rant to him about whatever classic novel you’re analyzing in your classes. 

You’re fairly touchy with each other because your very soul yearns for him, but it’s yet to break past the platonic wall between you. Jungkook does often find himself leaning down to kiss your forehead, but you welcome it warmly. You rest your head on his chest when you watch whatever anime he wants to show you and he plays with your hair while you force your favorite films on him. Your relationship is in its adolescence and you’re both cautious about messing it up. 

Jungkook wants more before you do. You can tell even if he thinks you can’t. It’s the way his eyes look when he sees you, even if your hair is a mess and your clothes are stained. The way his fingers twitch just enough when you’re cuddling to show he’s holding back. A piece of you wants to give in and grant his wish, but you’re unsure if your heart is ready to be given away again.

Spring enters with rainstorms and budding flowers. You’re basking under the sun’s rays while finishing your weekly readings. Your book is poised between two fingers while your back lays on the blanket-covered grass. The pages go one by one while the sounds of people moving through the courtyard fill your ears. 

The familiar lisp that accompanies Jungkook’s voice is the only reason you pick him out amongst the rest. Turning your head to locate the source, you spot him not too far away. You twist and sit up onto your elbows. 

Jungkook is standing at the corner of the courtyard, just outside the science building you know he has classes in. An unfamiliar girl is standing beside him. Perhaps too close. You can’t hear much of their conversation, only lone words as they float through the air. 

That’s when you feel jealousy pooling in your lower stomach like acid for the first time. Surely, you have nothing to worry about. He’s tied to you by an unknown force that neither of you can control. Still, a sour feeling creeps through you when you watch her hand reach out to touch his arm. 

He nonchalantly moves his arm out of her reach, and you can’t help the smile that appears on your lips. She seems persistent, though, and you wonder if you should intervene. When her fingers flit to his chest and dance across his shirt, you decide you definitely need to. 

Jungkook is handling the situation with grace before you can even rise from your position on the blanket. His hand removes hers from his body and he tilts his head with a pointed look. When you see his expression, the reaction from your body is completely involuntary. A sensual heat pools where the jealousy once resided. 

The girl is turning away from him with a scoff, her feet slamming the ground like a child with a tantrum. You cover your mouth to stop the laugh from escaping. Jungkook spots you then and he smiles, enough so that it crinkles the corners of his eyes. You wave at him before sending him a thumbs up, using your head to gesture in the direction the girl went. His eyes widen when he realizes you saw the interaction, but as he takes in your response, his lips form a smirk. He winks before turning in the opposite direction, off to whatever class he has next. 

You’re unsure what it is about the entire scene, but something in you stirs. For the first time since finding out Jungkook is your soulmate you realize you want more, too.

Jungkook has a game tonight and you mutually agree that it’s been long enough for you to watch in person. Close to three months have passed since you and Taehyung broke up. Heartbreak has no timeline, but you figure hiding yourself amongst the crowd will ensure you don’t make him too uncomfortable. 

The padding of the bleacher seat beneath you is comfortable, even if your bare thighs are sticking to it in the warm weather. The company you keep is much different than before. In fact, it’s the first time you aren’t accompanied by a stranger. Instead there are friends, parents, and siblings of the team all around you. 

You gnaw anxiously at your bottom lip while you wait for the players to enter the field. When they do, Taehyung is one of the first to exit the locker room. He looks good, as he always does, and he’s smiling at something a teammate said. The sight spreads a melancholy warmth through you. Happiness is the only thing you want for him. 

When Jungkook emerges, he’s tousling the front of his hair with his hand to keep it out of his eyes. His tattooed bicep is staring you in the face like you owe it something. You sigh, crossing one leg over the other as if that will help anything. 

Your soulmate moves effortlessly across the field, leading to him scoring more than one goal against the rival team. Taehyung does well too, blocking players and passing the ball with expertise. You don’t miss the obvious tension between him and Jungkook. Even from the stands their aversion for each other is palpable. 

Taehyung passes to someone else when Jungkook is wide open. Then he chooses to block a player who doesn’t stand a chance, leaving a different guy wide open to steal the ball from Jungkook. Their teammates are noticing it, too. You’re sure they have for the last three months. 

In the second half Taehyung avoids assisting Jungkook and they lose a goal to the other team. Worry seeps into your bones. One thing you’ve always known about Jungkook is that he’s competitive. If he loses tonight, it will hurt more than usual. 

You can hear the exacerbated sigh from Jungkook way across the field. His head tilts to the sky as he groans, running both hands through his hair. For whatever reason, this pisses you off more than it probably should. Taehyung can be angry with you and Jungkook, but to willingly allow the team to lose is petty. 

Two can play at petty, though. 

Standing up from your seat, you cup your hands around your mouth to amplify the sound.

“You got this, baby! Kick their asses, Jungkookie,” you shout. Everyone around you cheers in response, but the sound falls on deaf ears. The world goes into tunnel vision when Jungkook’s eyes find yours in the crowd. You wave excitedly at him and he smiles for the first time tonight.

"Baby?" He mouths at you as he walks backwards to get into position. You nod dramatically enough for him to see from afar before taking your seat again. 

When your eyes land on Taehyung, he’s wearing an expression that seems to be an equal mix of betrayal, hurt, and rage. You don’t ever want to hurt Taehyung. A piece of you will always hold love for him. But if he couldn’t be a big boy, you weren’t going to be either. 

They win the game by a landslide despite your ex’s best efforts. Although you already loudly made yourself known, you decide it’s too cruel to rub anything else in his face tonight. Instead of meeting Jungkook down below, you send a text that you’ll meet him back at your place. 

There’s a knock on your door at the perfect time, since the post-game meal you always make just finished cooking. The tradition didn’t start for any particular reason and Jungkook never asked you to have warm food waiting for him. It started because one time his stomach was growling so loud you could hear it over the TV. Ever since then you cook him his favorites so he can eat after burning all his calories on the field. 

You open the door and he slumps inside, dropping his bag unceremoniously by his shoes. He closes your apartment door lazily behind him. 

“Sheesh,” he pants. “That was fucking awful.”

Your hands push back some of the sweaty locks from his forehead, trailing down and tracing his jaw once his hair is out of his eyes. He hums appreciatively, leaning his face against your hand. 

“You did amazing, though,” you reply.

“Well, I had some help… baby,” he smirks proudly. Your eyes are rolling as he encompasses you in his arms. You giggle into his neck as he holds you by the waist. He smells like freshly cut grass and sweat, but it’s familiar now and you miss the scent when he isn’t around. Fresh out of the shower he smells like cedar and clean laundry. You’ve stolen a hoodie or two because you love the scent so much. “Thank you for that, by the way. I really needed it tonight.”

“Anytime,” you tell him. 

He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. His eyes are searching yours for something you’re unsure of, but you wonder if he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling. There’s been an obvious shift in your affection towards him lately, but he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries. 

“Where did that even come from?” 

“Tae was pissing me off. He doesn’t get to do shit like that and get away with it,” you explain. Jungkook acknowledges it with a hum.

“Thank you for defending me.” He leans forward to brush his lips against your forehead. When he pulls back, there’s a pout on your lips. “What’s that face for?”

Some childish part of you wants him to figure it out on his own, even though you know he’s too chivalrous to kiss you without you explicitly saying you’re alright with it. 

“Do it for real, Jungkook,” you grumble. 

“Do what for…” his voice trails off as his eyebrows lift. “Wait, do you want me to kiss you?” You cross your arms across your chest, trying to paint the picture that he’s already taking too long. “You’re pouting because you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes, Jungkook! You’re my soulmate can’t you read my mind or some shit,” you respond to his teasing. Jungkook is throwing his head back in laughter rather than doing his soulmate duty of giving you a smooch. You can’t believe it. His pretty soulmate is asking to be kissed and he’s laughing. “Googie…” you groan, letting your foot stomp just slightly in retaliation. Now this is getting embarrassing. 

As Jungkook slowly ceases his laughter, his hands find purchase on your cheeks. Your heart starts hammering in your chest, but much to your chagrin, he squeezes them to pucker your lips.

“You’re absolutely adorable, do you know that?” 

“Jun Jungoo.” Your attempt at his name is pathetic. He laughs even harder and you hate how endearing it is while you’re trying to be annoyed. He stops squeezing but leaves his hands there.

“Yes?” Your eyes are shooting daggers at him, tired of having to beg for his lips on yours. He smiles so, so beautifully in response. It’s hard to do anything but adore him when he looks at you like that. “Patience, baby, I’ll give you what you want.” 

The descent of his face to yours seems to stretch for eternity. You can’t tell if he’s deliberately moving slow or if the world has slowed in anticipation. When his lips finally do meet your own, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before and nothing you could’ve ever imagined. 

There’s a shock when you touch for the first time, causing Jungkook to recoil for a second before pressing his lips fully to yours. It feels like all the seasons at once. The brisk air of autumn, the chirping birds of spring, the running waters of summer, and the crunch of snow in winter. Your body feels weightless as though the only thing holding you to the ground is him. 

At first neither of you move an inch, your lips pressed together in the most middle school way. But once the initial wave of euphoria passes, Jungkook is moving his lips like he’s tired of wasting precious time. His hands grip your face tighter, his mouth devouring yours so passionately you can’t imagine anyone else ever kissing another human this way. You can’t even think clearly enough to do something with your hands. They lay limply at your side as you experience the utter bliss that is kissing your soulmate. 

One of you moans when your tongues meet for the first time, and you truly don’t even know who. You’re unsure where you end and he begins. Jungkook licks into your mouth and you swear you’re never letting him outside again. He’s just going to have to stand here and kiss you for all eternity. Your tongues dance together, and you finally come to your senses enough to tease him, biting his lower lip before letting it go. He groans deep in his chest and you realize you’d do just about anything to hear it over and over. 

You can see yourself passing out from lack of air soon, so you reluctantly pull away from his mouth. Only by a centimeter, enough to take a breath, but not enough that you can’t purse your lips and reach him again. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes into your mouth. “You’re… you’re everything, Y/N.”

There is no response you can muster for him in the state you’re in. All you can do is nod and slip your fingers into his hair. Pray he gets the message that yes, you’re everything and more. You’re unsure how long you stay that way, but you whine embarrassingly when he backs up to look at you better. He smiles at your reaction, his nose scrunching in admiration for you.

“Don’t laugh at my pain, Jungkook. Get back here.” 

You tug on his shirt, but he doesn’t budge. Another pout appears. He lifts your chin with his fingers, smiling and seemingly memorizing your face as he admires you. 

“Why don’t we eat first? Then we can talk,” he says.

“Talk? I don’t want to talk, I want —”

“I know,” he chuckles. “I do, too. But I think we should talk about it. I don’t think we should be rushing anything.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him into the kitchen where the food waits. The two of you eat. Well, he eats. You push the food around your plate while deep in thought. Jungkook notices your behavior while he’s chewing. A crease in his brow appears while he deciphers your change of attitude. 

“What’s wrong?” He says with a mouthful of rice. Your cheek falls into your hand, sighing as you scrape your fork around. “Baby.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t do that,” Jungkook scolds you. “Talk to me.”

“Jungkook, you went through girls quicker than I could learn their names before all this,” you start. “So why do I get the 'let’s not rush things' treatment? Do you not want me like that?”

If expressions could speak, Jungkook’s would be saying you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“That’s a joke, right?”

“No, it isn’t. I genuinely don’t understand why I, your soulmate, am being rejected.”

“You are not being rejected,” Jungkook states. He ensures you’re hearing him by locking eyes with you. Staring you down so you know he means it. “I want you. You have no fucking clue how bad I want you.” A now familiar heat flares inside you. “But you are not like those other girls. You’re more special to me than I can even put into words and I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“But why?” You probe him. “Am I special because I’m me or because I’m your soulmate? Do you want me because you’re attracted to me or because the universe told you that you are?” 

Jungkook scoffs, your audacity is so much for him that he takes the time to move his plate into the sink. You hear another scoff while he’s washing it off. 

“You…” he starts, but stops to lick his lips. His eyes bore into yours with what you can only guess is a mixture of mild annoyance and curiosity. “We’ve spent nearly every day together for the past three months. I have watched every movie, read every book, and scrolled through every tik tok you’ve showed me. We cuddle in your bed watching anime together. You watch my soccer games and cook me a meal after every one.” He scoffs again just for good measure. “And you think you’re not special to me after all that? You think I’m not attracted to you? You! One of the most beautiful fucking girls on campus who I so luckily got paired with by the universe.” He throws his hands up and turns away. “Ridiculous.” 

“So…” You play with your hands in your lap. Part of you feels a little silly, but the other part craves validation. 

“So, no, it is not just because you’re my soulmate, Y/N. It’s because it’s you,” he answers, turning back towards you. “I like you.”

“But you still want to wait?”

Jungkook finally sits down again. He reaches for your hands and you gladly offer them to him. He presses his lips to your knuckles a couple times before holding both your hands between his own. 

“It’s not that I want to wait, I just don’t want to go too fast,” he says. “We just shared our first kiss. I haven’t even taken you on a date yet.” A giddy smile overcomes your features. “Let me woo you a little first, alright?” Your answer comes in the form of you leaning over to kiss him. He hums warmly, a soft chuckle breaking against your lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jungkook proceeds to hold his kisses hostage until you finish your dinner, which you promptly inhale and then purse your lips at him expectantly. If it was up to you, you’d kiss him until the sun comes up and your lips are raw. Unfortunately, Jungkook already knows you have a biology exam coming up and decides helping you study will be a better use of your time. It’s borderline cruel and unusual punishment. 

Jungkook makes you wait for your first date to happen. Not only is it exam season but he has a soccer game every Friday for three consecutive weeks. Once that glorious fourth Friday rolls around, he formally asks you out. The destination is a secret and he tells you to "wear whatever you want." This gives you pause because you can’t wear the same outfit to a restaurant that you can to go skydiving. Jungkook is certainly the type to pull a stunt like that. 

You meticulously curl your hair and delicately apply your makeup. This is the most important date of your life and you don’t want anything out of place. Jungkook deserves someone who puts in effort even when it’s unnecessary. Especially when this will be his first date ever. He’s never given his time of day to a girl for longer than a night. Even though he’s the one planning everything, you want it to be special for him, too. 

Nostalgia over this being your first date since ending things with Taehyung makes it difficult to push down the feeling of missing him. You were together nearly a year and a half and those memories don’t go away just because you’ve moved on. One day, you hope you can have him in your life again. Perhaps once he’s found his soulmate and you can put all the pain behind you. 

Three knocks tap against your door as you slip your dress on and ensure the placement is correct. It’s early in the season for sundresses but you enjoy driving Jungkook a little crazy. Trekking over the piles of clothes that didn’t make the cut, you open the door for him.

You’re met not with the handsome face of your soulmate, but a bouquet of bright red roses.

“Jungkook,” you gasp and take them from him. Hiding behind the large bouquet is Jungkook himself, smiling so wide you can’t see his eyes. “They’re so beautiful, thank you.” 

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells you. His eyes trace over your figure as he tongues the inside of his cheek. You swear you hear a quiet ‘damn’ leave his lips. He graciously accepts a kiss from you before entering your apartment. “Are you ready to go?” 

He’s wearing a dress shirt and slacks, as opposed to the usual baggy clothes he sports. The top three buttons of the shirt are undone to reveal just a sliver of his pecs. You could die happily right here and now. Your man is so fine it is physically painful to allow him outside where others can perceive him. 

Nodding in response to his question, you grab your purse and his hand before heading out. 

Contrary to where you think you’re going, Jungkook drives towards the countryside rather than the city. Your anxiety spikes when you realize he may actually take you skydiving. You watch him cautiously from your peripheral vision, but he only smirks and squeezes your thigh. 

After an eternity in anticipation, you realize where he is taking you when neon colored lights and a large ferris wheel come into view.

“No. Way.” You shift in your seat to turn towards him. “This is why we had to wait for our date. The carnival is in town!”

Jungkook’s smile appears in his eyes before it ever graces his lips. He steals a glance at you to watch your eyes light up excitedly. 

“You like it?”

“Are you kidding?” You look down. “Wait, Googie, I’m in a dress.”

“Don’t worry, I stole some of your clothes the other day for you to change into,” he explains.

“You know, if I wasn’t crazy about you that would be really creepy,” you respond. “What about you?”

“I can wear this.”

He looks down to double check. 

“Oh, thank god, if you change out of that anytime soon I’ll be so pissed.”

Jungkook parks and turns around in his seat to grab the clothes he brought for you. It isn’t exactly easy changing in his backseat, but at least he has tinted windows. A true gentleman, he even turns away from you while he waits patiently outside. 

When you step out in the jeans and blouse he chose, his eyes flicker with pride. Shoving him in annoyance that his outfit looks even better on you than the dress does, you tell yourself you would’ve picked it for tonight if he hadn’t stolen it first.

Jungkook back hugs you while you wait in line to enter the carnival. Your fingers absentmindedly trace the only tattoo on his left arm, mapping the familiar curves of your name. When he recognizes the feeling and realizes what you’re doing, he nuzzles his face in your neck and pecks your exposed shoulder. 

Comfort spreads through your chest when you stare at the black ink against his honey-toned skin. The absolute doll of a man attached to your back was hand-picked for you. Chosen by an incomprehensible force long before you would ever meet one another. You wonder how long ago your destiny was set in motion. Have you belonged together since the dawn of time? Your hands squeeze his arms in a feeble attempt to express everything you feel for him with your touch. The feelings are too extraordinary to ever describe with words. There are simply not enough of them in existence to accurately do so. 

It’s not merely the way he makes you feel as a soulmate. You’ve grown accustomed to the way your body naturally yearns for him and your heart calls to his. No, it’s the way he makes you feel simply because he’s Jungkook. Because he’s kind, gentle, and warm. Because he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters and treats you just the same. 

You don’t love your soulmate. You love him. 

Your silent epiphany shakes the ground beneath your feet. This whole time you’ve been focusing on grieving one relationship and fostering another. Taking the time to learn everything you can about Jungkook. His likes and dislikes, favorite foods, colors, and books. There is an infinitely long list of all the things you want to accomplish as a partner to him. Love, or falling in love, didn’t even cross your mind. 

The sensation is the same as waking up and not remembering when you fell asleep. Sure, you remember closing your eyes, but not the exact moment you succumb to slumber. You have no idea when you fell in love with Jungkook, just that you are in love with him. 

Your reviere is broken by the sound of the tickets ripping as the teller hands them to Jungkook. He squeezes your hip and leads you into the bustling carnival. 

Mutually agreeing to eat first, Jungkook drags you by the hand towards the food stalls. He refuses to let you pay for a single item as he buys you both some actual dinner before giving in to your demands for a sweet treat. Ironically, he’s the one who ends up refusing to share. 

After successfully filling your stomachs you decide to conquer the rides one at a time. They’re all relatively small and easy-going, but still plenty of fun. Other than when Jungkook decides to spin the teacup so fast you think you’re going to either fly out or throw up. Probably both. 

Jungkook’s competitive streak makes an appearance once you’ve tried all the rides but the ferris wheel. He insists he’s going to win you a big stuffed animal. Says it’s a right of passage and he’s not leaving until he does.

You argue the right of passage is for a guy to try and win his girl a stuffie before utterly failing. Your argument fails to take into account Jungkook being magically perfect at everything. 

It only takes a single round of tickets for him to beat the game and win the jackpot. He looks back at you with a shit-eating grin and your eyes practically roll into the back of your head. 

“Which one do you want, princess?” He asks as you ponder the options. You gaze at his side profile and chuckle when you find your answer in the familiar curves of his features.

“The bunny,” you say with a proud smile. Jungkook looks at you knowingly before telling the staff member your choice. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know,” he says while holding your big pink bunny under his arm. The blush on his cheeks is completely betraying his words. 

Once the sun sets you agree to finish the night with the ferris wheel. At first, you’re not worried since it’s just a small carnival wheel. That quickly changes once you and Jungkook are seated across from each other in the little trolley.

Staring up at the rusted metal hinge that now holds your life in its delicate balance, you feel your throat drying up and your blood running cold. 

“Um, Jungkook,” you say through shaky vocal chords. “I kinda forgot to tell you I’m afraid of heights.”

Jungkook looks at you incredulously.

“You didn’t think to tell me that before we got on the ferris wheel?” 

“I thought it would be fine, but now that we’re going up I kinda wanna throw up,” you admit. 

Jungkook acts immediately, grabbing your hand and pulling you into his lap. The trolley shakes momentarily and you shout in terror before it levels out again. Your hands are clutching onto his shirt so tight you already see the wrinkles forming. 

“Is this better?” He asks as he runs his fingers through your hair. You nod ever so slightly as to not disturb the state of the trolley. As your heartbeat starts to return to its normal pace, you rest your head on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Are you happy?”

It’s hard to answer him accurately when the word happy doesn’t feel like nearly enough. 

“Of course I am,” you say as you lift your head. You turn his face so he can see your sincerity with his own eyes. “You know, when I first saw your name on my wrist I thought I had the worst luck in the world. That the universe was doing something so unfair and cruel.” Your fingers run along his collarbone. You're nervous to let him see inside your heart. “But I was very wrong. I’m so lucky to have you, Jungkook.”

The trolley shakes again with the force of Jungkook’s kiss. Your shout dies in his mouth as he swallows every noise you make. The kiss is definitely too nasty for the location you’re currently in. His hand is gripping your hair like reins, his mouth chasing after yours like he’ll never let you breathe again. You moan when his tongue slips into your mouth and he growls against your lips when you move your ass across his lap. He travels from your lips to your jaw slowly, one kiss at a time across the bottom of your face. You’re whimpering as soon as you feel him kissing your neck, his lips sucking at your skin before licking over the red blotches he creates.

“Jungkook… Jungkook, baby, we’re in public,” you stall his ministrations as you try to catch your breath. It’s then you notice that you’re already on the opposite side of the wheel, having completely missed when you reached the top. “Oh.”

“Pretty good distraction, huh?” 

Jungkook is wiping your lipgloss off his lips with the back of his hand. 

“You — hey!” He laughs loudly and buries his face in your neck where his lips were moments ago. You feign annoyance and push him away from you, but you’d go another round on the wheel if it meant he would keep distracting you like that. 

Jungkook helps you off the ride by offering you his arm to hold onto. Your legs are a little wobbly when your feet meet the ground again and you’re unsure if it’s from him or the ride. 

Before you leave Jungkook finds a spot with the perfect lighting to capture a selfie. You make sure to hold your bunny high enough so it gets in the photo too. Jungkook tongues his cheek when he notices it in the photo on his phone. 

Upon your return Jungkook takes you both back to his place across campus. You carefully place your plushie in the backseat along with your dress so you remember to grab them both tomorrow. Jungkook leads you up the stairwell and unlocks the door before stepping aside to let you through first. The door shuts with a click behind him. 

The air is thick with an unspoken promise. The heat and tension sparking between you is new but certainly not unwelcome. Jungkook toes off his shoes and offers you something to drink, passing you by with a skim across your back as he heads to the kitchen. 

He’s uncharacteristically nervous. You’re unsure why when once upon a time there was a different woman in his bed each night. Has his six months of celibacy made him antsy? You feel guilty that his predicament sends butterflies flying in your stomach. The playboy bunny himself being nervous for your first time sleeping together makes you feel all the more special. 

You follow him into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his waist as he stands at the sink drinking a glass of water. He gestures for you to drink some, but you shake your head against his back. You can hear his heartbeat pounding rapidly in his chest. 

“Googie.” You grab his shoulder to turn him around. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

He smiles affectionately, caressing your face. 

“It’s not that, princess,” he says. Your brow creases in confusion, so he continues. “I just don’t know how to make you feel even half of what I do when I’m with you. What you said to me on the ferris wheel… I don’t know how to express how much that meant to me. I don't know how to show you that I feel the same.” 

“You don’t have to,” you answer like it’s obvious. “I already know.”

He shakes his head at that. 

“No, you don’t,” he responds. “There aren’t words.”

“Then don’t use words.”

Your response beckons a silence between you. There’s no sound other than your breathing and the faint hum of utilities. 

Jungkook takes a deep breath, the hand still on your face slowly tracing your outline until it reaches your waist. 

“Okay,” he whispers assuredly. 

He yanks you off the ground and your legs latch around him while your arms tangle behind his head. You kiss him first, using your mouth to coax his lips open. He moans at the same moment his hands press you impossibly closer to him. He pushes stray hairs out of your face and cradles your neck to take control of the kiss. You’re aware of him carrying you away, but you have no semblance of where he’s going because he’s kissing you too deeply to pay attention. 

It isn’t until your butt meets the softness of his mattress that you even realize you’re in his bedroom. Jungkook is quick to leave your lips so he can unbutton his shirt, but you swat his hands away before he can successfully undo the first button. 

“Nuh uh, my job,” you say as your fingers replace his own. You use the grip on his clothes to pull him so he’s standing between your legs. You kiss the skin that’s revealed as each button is undone, groaning against his skin when you reach the tight abdominal muscles you’ve been longing to get your hands on. 

Jungkook is helpless above you, panting deeply while he watches you work. Standing to push the material from his shoulders, you kiss him again. This time you take it slow, moving your lips in a tortuous rhythm while your fingers trace his biceps, nails digging into the muscles. A low growl reaches your ears and all you want to do is make him do it again. 

Jungkook finds the hem of your top, letting his hands skirt beneath it to feel your bare skin before peeling it off of you. His eyes sharpen when he gets the first real look at your chest covered by your bra. Fingers tracing ever so gently from your waist, he cups your chest and massages you. 

“Oh,” your head tilts back as you moan at the feeling of him traversing your body. He takes advantage of your movement to connect his lips to your neck. Messy, wet kisses are placed all over your throat and collarbones. 

He sits you back down on the bed without ever stopping, lying you on your back and climbing over you. You arch so he can unclasp your bra behind you. He stops kissing you for a moment so he can watch while he pulls the straps down your arms. 

“Fuck, baby,” he curses at the sight of your bare chest for the first time. “You’ve always been perfect, but damn.”  

You can only convey a giggle in response as you gesture for him to come back with your pointer finger. He obliges, kissing you again while caressing one of your breasts. His hands are rough on your sensitive skin, but the feeling is pure bliss. He pinches your nipple to harden it. Once he’s done with one he moves to the other and repeats the process until he can feel it pebble beneath his fingers. 

Jungkook is slowly grinding himself against you and you swear you’ll come completely untouched. His cock is hardening with each hump of his hips and it meets your covered pussy perfectly every time. 

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you moan. 

“I know, I know,” he whispers. “Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you.” He grabs your hips to grind even harder against you. “You drive me crazy.” You’re aching to touch and feel every inch of his skin. Jungkook begins to grant your wish when he moves away to unbutton your jeans and tug them down your legs. When he’s done, his hands take their time feeling your ankles and calves, inching far slower than you want him to before he reaches your thighs, pulling them apart. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He throws his head back with a pornographic groan at the sight of your wet underwear. You watch helplessly as his Adam's Apple bobs with the need to taste you. His hands continue their mapping of your thighs, alternating between squeezing and caressing them. And then he’s making himself comfortable, kneeling before his bed and tugging you down so you’re right where he wants you. 

“How long?”

“What?”

“Exactly how long have you wanted me?” There’s an answer waiting on the tip of his tongue. “Before or after?”

“After,” he says. You pout. “Hey, need I remind you that you were my best friend’s girlfriend before?”

“Yeah, but you saw me first,” you retort.

He doesn’t answer yet. His lips find purchase on the meat of your thighs, leaving a wet trail behind as takes his time kissing across your supple skin. 

“You’ve always been beautiful to me, Y/N,” he finally says, speaking directly into your skin. “But you wanted something I couldn’t offer and Taehyung could.”

Jungkook returns to his prior task except on the other thigh. The feeling of his lips all over you is indescribable, but the knowledge that he’s worshiping you inch by inch is what makes you dizzy. It feels like he’s trying to memorize you so he can recreate it later in his mind. As if this is the last time rather than the first. 

“Jungkookie, please,” you beg him. His face is centimeters away from where your pussy is leaking just for him. You think you’ll cry if he doesn’t touch you soon. 

He only hums before kissing you through your underwear. Your hips jump and his hand slaps against your stomach to keep you still. He’s slowly making out with your cunt through the lace of your underwear. It’s pure torture, but you can’t bring yourself to complain. His mouth feels so unbelievably good even through the fabric. 

“You’re so fucking wet, princess,” he moans against you. The vibration makes you twitch again, and he wraps his arm around your thigh to steady you. “Can drink your cum right through your panties.”

You whine pathetically. 

“Please, my love.”

Jungkook’s eyes soften, but you’re too far gone to realize the reason why. He kisses your hip bone with an adoring moan. But when his eyes dance over your figure again, watching your tits rise and fall in time with your shaky breath, they’re sharp and possessive once again. 

He sits back only to pull your underwear down your legs and tuck it into his back pocket. You clock the movement instantly, eyebrows raising at him. 

“I need something to remember tonight by, don’t I?” 

He doesn’t give you the chance to reply before he’s situating your thighs over his shoulders and kissing your clit. 

“Oh shit,” you curse.

There is a jolt of electricity that burns across your inner thighs and abdomen before simmering into an unrelenting heat. Whether it’s a soulmate thing or a Jungkook thing, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you know is you need more, more, more.  

His tongue is circling your clit before going back and forth, then trailing down to flatten against your slit. His lips come into play as well, kissing your pussy ravenously. He licks into your hole, moving his tongue in and out of it before returning to your clit and doing it all over again. When he laps at your pussy, it feels like he’s trying to drink you dry, tongue curling to bring your essence into his mouth. 

He never once stops making noise against you, grunting and groaning at the way you taste. Whispering how you "taste s’good" directly into your cunt. His hand disappears from your thigh and you realize he’s palming himself while he pleasures you. The thought alone is enough to make you cream right then and there. 

He returns to your clit to suck it into his mouth, letting his teeth graze it softly. You squirm beneath him but his arm is holding you taut. Without warning you feel two of his fingers circling your hole before pushing in. You cry out, back arching off the bed from the pressure. 

Jungkook allows his mouth to take a momentary reprieve, resting his head on your thigh while he slowly pulls his fingers in and out of you. He watches intensely as his fingers come out soaked in your juices before going back in with a squelch. 

“So pretty like this, baby,” is the last thing he says before his mouth is on you again. His fingers begin to pump faster, curling inside you and meeting just the right spot to send your mind spinning. His mouth is relentless against your clit, kissing and sucking on it before soothing it with his tongue. 

You’re on the precipice of an orgasm and you know Jungkook can feel it. Can feel the way your walls pulse around his fingers, begging for release. 

“There you go,” he whispers into your cunt. “Come for me, Y/N.”

And who are you to deny him? Your orgasm hits you like a fucking freight train, a needy cry coming from your throat while you back arcs off the bed. Thighs shaking and practically crushing Jungkook’s head between them. Nevertheless, he continues kissing your clit and fingering you until he hears your breathing even out and your body still. 

As soon as his touch is gone, you whimper from the emptiness. Jungkook meets you back at your lips, allowing you to taste yourself on him. Your hands grab his head to keep him there so you can properly thank him for his hard work. He deepens the kiss with his tongue, fighting against yours for dominance. When he inevitably wins, you moan around the wet muscle. 

He begins kissing your face all over starting from your cheek and then down your jaw before moving up again to your nose and continuing upward to your forehead and hairline. 

“You were so good, baby,” he tells you. “Everything I could’ve ever asked for.” 

You hear the sound of a belt coming undone and pants unzipping. Jungkook stands so he can kick off his jeans. The first thing you notice is a wet patch on his boxers. Your head ticks to the side. 

“Oh no, that’s all precum, baby,” he answers your silent question. “Nearly did come in my fucking pants, though. Thank you very much.” 

“Oh? I'm flattered.” You come up to your elbows to see him better. He shakes his head with a lazy grin on his face before moving towards his dresser. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Jungkook looks at you in confusion, as if the answer is obvious. 

“I’m grabbing a condom,” he explains.

You tilt your chin down with a piercing gaze. 

“Do you think I want to feel my soulmate through a condom? I’m on birth control,” you say. Jungkook’s mouth drops open in awe and he waits for you to reaffirm what you just said. You mimic his expression and nod slowly so he gets the picture. 

“Oh, hell yes!” Jungkook scurries back over to you in a flash. You cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your giggle. He’s so freaking cute even when he’s about to fuck you into his mattress. 

He’s climbing back over you now, pushing at your shoulder to lay you back down beneath him. He runs his hands up and down your waist before cupping your breasts. Just when you think he’s going in for a kiss, his head dips to take a nipple in his mouth. 

You moan as his tongue flicks over the nub and then circles it. His hand gives attention to your other nipple by rolling it between his fingers. Hands twisting into his dark hair, you tug until he releases and kisses you instead. You pull on his hair, letting your nails scratch his scalp. He grunts and you do it again a little harder to make him repeat the sound. 

“Jeon Jungkook,” you speak against his soft, swollen lips. “I need you inside of me.”

Not needing to be told twice, he rises to his knees and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers to pull them down. Only, instead of moving them he merely snaps them back against his hips with a devilish smirk. 

You glare at him, reaching up to do it yourself before he smacks your hand away. 

“Ask me nicely,” he orders. 

You want to laugh and cry at the same time. This man is the biggest tease you’ve ever met and you feel like you’re going to lose your damn mind. 

“Jungkook…” you rise to your knees as well, crawling over to him. “Jungkookie…” you let your hands take a stroll across the expanse of his abs and chest until they’re digging into his shoulders. “Googie…” you lean in so you’re speaking directly into his ear. “Will you pretty, pretty please fuck me?”

This man loses his damn marbles. You shout as you’re thrown back onto the bed with a soft bounce. He rolls his boxers down his thighs and kicks them off as you’re trying to catch your breath. It’s no use because the second your soulmate’s cock is in your face you no longer know how to breathe. You fear you will need to be retaught before the night is over. 

Your jaw drops and you’re surprised you don’t drool all over yourself at the sight. Jeon Jungkook is pretty all over. His dick looks painfully hard, his precum dripping from the tip just waiting for you to taste it. It’s large, perfectly thick, beautifully veiny, and curves at the perfect angle to hit just the right spot. You think you may die the second you feel it inside of you. 

Jungkook is on top of you before you can admire his physique any longer. His tip rubs deliciously against your clit as he coats himself in your wetness. You groan impatiently as he teases you with his cock. 

He places one hand next to your head, the other on your hip so he can guide himself into you. You both watch in awe at the space where your bodies connect. Before Jungkook takes the plunge, he kisses you one more time. You smile into it. Unable to resist the physical manifestation of the happiness bubbling in your stomach. 

That smile is gone the second his tip pushes past your hole, replaced with an O shape as you gasp at the intrusion. Jungkook takes his time, whether for your sake or because he’s committing this moment to memory, you aren’t sure. 

You feel impossibly full as his cock stretches you open. Moaning without end, you hold onto Jungkook’s shoulders to keep yourself afloat. When he finally bottoms out with his hips pressed against yours, you see every star in the galaxy all at once. 

If you thought your first kiss was euphoric, this is another feeling entirely. Your body is pulsing and hot from the ecstasy, but your soul is floating in the Dead Sea. Above the surface tension of the water as a cool breeze blows.

You know precisely what a soulmate is now. One person split in half and destined to find one another. Because when Jungkook is inside you, connected with you in the most human way possible, you feel complete. It’s mind numbing. His cock is throbbing inside you and it feels like coming home. 

Jungkook’s forehead rests on yours as he pants. Your hands slide from his sweaty chest to caress his cheek. He must feel the same, and in fact you’re positive he does. There is no confirmation necessary when his soul is bound to yours. 

“You — fuck, baby — you feel amazing,” he tells you. 

You can only nod in agreement, too overwhelmed by the sensations to speak. Grinding your hips up against him, he registers it accurately as you telling him to finally move. 

When he does, it’s a slow pull away from you, leaving just his tip inside before pushing himself back in just as slowly, but he rolls his hips into you, forcing his cock in so deep you feel him in your stomach. 

The moan that rips from your throat is embarrassingly loud, but you are no longer on a plane of existence where you care. Jungkook, on the other hand, doesn’t want a noise complaint. His hand covers your mouth as he shushes you. He leans over so he can speak directly into your ear.

“Be good, baby. I need you to stay quiet for me.” The sound of affirmation is muffled behind his hand but he watches you nod at his demand. Your eyes are peering up at him like they’re awaiting his next instruction. He groans at the gorgeous sight. “God, you’re so sexy.”

He’s still thrusting into you slowly. He watches as his cock comes back out covered in your cum. You moan every time he enters you despite his earlier request. 

When you disobey him, he looks at you with a dangerous twinkle in his eye. His hand moves away for only a moment before his two middle fingers push into your mouth. You gasp around them, but he presses down on your tongue with the pads of his fingers. You close your mouth around his digits and suck, moving your tongue around and in between them. 

Jungkook is mesmerized by the way his tattoos disappear between your lips. Once he’s satisfied with your makeshift gag, he thrusts hard and then snaps his hips back to do it again at an inhuman pace. If his fingers weren’t in your mouth you’d be screaming bloody murder. Tears of pleasure roll down the sides of your face as he fucks into you relentlessly.

His fingers leave your mouth and grab your chin instead so he can kiss you. His body weight is on you now as he uses his forearm to keep himself up. Feeling his chest against yours as he fucks you is enough to send you into complete madness. Your nipples are hard and sensitive as they brush against his muscular pecs. 

“Baby,” you cry. He kisses your jaw and neck without ever slowing his pace. You feel your mind descending into complete chaos. Your fingernails scratch down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. It’s the only thing you can do to hold onto some semblance of your sanity. 

“Fuck, do that again,” Jungkook groans into your neck. You oblige him and he growls next to your ear. “You’re so tight, so goddamn perfect for me.” 

“You're so big, Googie,” you whine. “Feel so good.”

“Shit, princess,” he says while biting into the flesh between your shoulder and neck. Your gasp turns into a moan as he soothes the area with his searing hot tongue. 

Then, he pulls out of you, sitting back on his heels as he tries to catch his breath. You reach for him in confusion, but he just takes your hand and kisses the back of it. Holding it against his heart so you can feel the intense beating. 

“Is everything okay?” 

Worry creases your brow, but Jungkook just smiles as one of his fingers smooths it away. 

“Yeah, I was just about to bust, but I’m not done with you yet,” he answers breathlessly. “So, I had to pause. My apologies.”

You can appreciate a man who strives to make his woman come before him, but he’s also turned you insatiable, so you need to do something.

Sitting up, you travel down the bed until your face is directly in front of his throbbing dick. His eyes follow your every movement, his eyebrows disappearing behind his bangs.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Allowing him to see the smirk on your lips for only a moment, you open your mouth and flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock. His entire body spasms and you can see his abdominal muscles constrict in front of your eyes. You make eye contact with him in case he has any objections, but when he just stares back at you with his mouth agape, you continue your ministrations. 

You lick him again all the way from base to tip before circling his head with your tongue and lapping up the precum that’s formed in a bead there. One hand squeezes his thigh while the other slowly pumps his cock. All you can see above you is his throat. He has his head tilted back as he groans endlessly. The veins in his neck are popping out and it makes you want to lick over every single one of them. 

Continuing to tease him with your tongue, you lick gently over just his tip while your hands do the rest of the work. Jungkook’s head snaps towards you when he hears you spit. He watches as the saliva falls onto his head before you use your lips to rub it in. 

“Oh, dear god,” Jungkook gasps, seemingly to himself. 

Lips finally wrapping around his dick, you suckle on his head before slowly inching down his shaft. Your hand moves to his balls to make room for your mouth. Jungkook’s thighs are shaking beneath your fingertips and he finds purchase in your hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Once you’ve made a single sweep down his cock, you pull back slowly, allowing your tongue to glide along the underside. You twist the muscle around his head before finally setting a steady pace and sucking him up and down.

You make it messy for him, because he deserves it. Breathing through your nose and keeping your tongue out to lick him as your head bobs. Drool pools in the corners of your mouth before dripping down your chin. When your nose is as close to his pelvis as you can go, you allow it to drip down his balls so you can work them with your hands. 

Jungkook looks like he may die, but that you’re the angel who’s going to bring him to heaven. His features are drawn tight, eyebrows almost kissing. His mouth refuses to close, panting out breaths like the sexiest dog you’ve ever seen.

The logical part of your brain knows that sucking him off doesn’t solve the issue at hand, but he tastes too delicious to stop. And when the hand in your hair begins pushing ever so slightly followed by his hips bucking into your mouth, you moan deliriously around him. You gag as Jungkook gently uses your mouth for his own pleasure. Letting him take over, you grip his thighs and just go along for the ride. He grunts from above as he watches his cock disappear over and over again into your mouth. 

“You look so sexy like this, princess,” he says over strained vocal chords. “Like your lips were made for taking my cock.”

Your bratty nature wants to correct him and tell him that they are in fact, made for him. You have a tattoo that says so. Instead, you relish in the vibrations of your responsive moan giving him even more pleasure. 

The sound of your spit sliding along Jungkook’s shaft and your gags as he fucks into your mouth is so pornographic you worry you’ll get a fine for filming illegal movies on campus. His melodious grunts and moans are music to your ears. You’d let him use you like this everyday if it meant listening to them.

Before you can savor the moment for much longer, Jungkook pulls you away with a growl. You gasp, your hand grabbing at your throat as you cough. 

The sweetest man you’ve ever known, even while in the throes of pleasure, leaves the bed to bring you water. You’re still trying to catch your breath when he bends down and tips the bottle against your lips so you can drink. 

“Thanks,” you croak. Sore throat be damned, you’d start sucking him again right now if he asked. He pushes your sweaty hair away from your face with both hands, cradling your face like you’re made of porcelain. 

“You’re a fucking goddess, you know that?” 

A strained laugh comes from you.

“I do, in fact,” you quip. Jungkook kisses you senseless instead of replying. Before he can lay you down again, you push him instead. His back meets the footboard of his bed as you place your legs on either side of his thick thighs. “Are you ready to continue or shall I get myself off?” 

Jungkook laughs humorlessly. 

“Sit on my cock before I make you.”

If words could make you come…

As filthy as his words are, his hands still help guide over him and massage your skin while you sink down. You moan in unison, your mouth finding the mole on his neck that you’ve been dying to kiss. Hips grinding down against him, you mark him as yours as you kiss and suck on the sensitive skin of his throat. 

His hands are spread across your back as you rise up and down on his dick. He’s moaning so beautifully next to your ear that you don’t think you’ll ever stop. You repeat the motion over and over, allowing your clit to grind along his pelvis every time you sink back down. The pace is torturously slow, but it allows you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it moves in and out of you. 

“I never wanna stop,” you admit. “Don’t ever wanna not have you inside me.”

“I think I can make that happen,” he says over a chuckle.

Your lips meet again and you kiss at the same pace your bodies move. Jungkook’s mouth and tongue explore yours like he hasn’t done it a hundred times already, like every sensation is still new. He bites on your lower lip, pulling it away before letting it go so he can watch it bounce back. He doesn’t waste a second before diving back in for more. 

The warmth of Jungkook’s hands leaves your back and reignites on your hips. His grip is bruising as he uses it to bounce you faster against him. Your moans grow in pitch, but you muffle them by biting and kissing along Jungkook’s shoulder. When the pace still doesn’t feel like enough, Jungkook plants his feet on the bed so he can thrust up into you. You scream into his skin, holding onto his back and hair for dear life. 

“You close?” He rasps in your ear, licking your earlobe as he does. 

“Yes, baby, please,” you cry. 

Jungkook goes into overdrive, thrusting up into you at a speed and depth that feels impossible. The tip of his cock is hitting your g-spot over and over again like a magnet. You can feel yourself falling over the edge any second. 

His pursuit to bring you pleasure is relentless. The friction of his thick cock inside your walls is creating hot tears of ecstasy that roll down in droves. Your bodies are touching in every possible place they can and it still isn’t enough. You know Jungkook feels the same when he squishes you against him like he’s trying to merge you into one. 

Jungkook kisses down the side of your face with wet smooches. Slobbering all over you and getting saliva in your hair. Sweat, spit, cum, you want him to paint you in all of it. Ruin you so endlessly you’ll never be able to look another man in the eye. It’s him, him and only him. Every fiber of your being is filled to the brim with just Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook. You fear you’ve forgotten every other word. 

“I’m gonna —”

You stop his sentence with a searing kiss, moaning into his mouth as you come undone around him. Your cunt pulses and squeezes around Jungkook so tightly he can barely thrust anymore. Luckily, he doesn’t need to because with a few more pistons of his hips he’s groaning and nestling his cock as deep as it can go as he comes. You feel the warmth of his cum filling your pussy and dripping out around his cock to pool into his lap below. He’s still rolling his hips against you as his orgasm wanes. 

Even once the comedown ends, neither of you move. Your head is resting against Jungkook’s chest, his leaning back against the wall. He rubs your back lovingly. You focus on the feeling of his fingertips traveling up and down your spine. Before the repetitive motion can send you to dreamland, he pries your head up so he can see you. 

“I don’t know what I did in my past life to deserve any of this,” Jungkook muses. You mull it over for a moment.

“Whatever you did, I’m sure you were amazing at it,” you reply warmly. Jungkook nuzzles his nose against yours.

Jungkook is careful when he finally pulls out, not wanting to hurt you after abusing your pussy in the name of pleasure. You whine at the emptiness, but he kisses your pouty lips before leaving to find something to clean you with. 

Sleep overtakes your mind before he returns. You’re in a daze as you watch him clean between your legs with a warm towel. He cleans himself off as well before joining you in the bed. By the time he’s pulling you into his arms your eyes have closed. He wishes you goodnight with a press of his lips to your forehead. You don’t hear the other words he whispers to you. 

Jungkook finds it impossible to keep his hands off you after that night. Frankly, you go at it like rabbits on crack. It begins to impede on your day-to-day life and neither of you give a damn. You nearly delete an entire assignment by accident because he’s eating you out under your desk. He risks a suspension from the soccer team by shoving his dick in your mouth in the locker room. You swallow his cum just as people begin to pile in for practice. 

Despite your best efforts, you do eventually stop fucking across every corner of campus. School ramps up and Jungkook is promoted to head striker so he’s away at practice more often. Before his first game in the lead position, he gives you his spare jersey to wear. 

Your mouth hangs open and you just stare at him because you can’t believe he’s serious. When he nods with the softest smile and stars in his eyes, you squeal like a schoolgirl. He sneaks his hands below your shirt and caresses your waist before pulling it over your head. Once you’ve pulled the jersey on and tucked it into your jeans, you look at him in affirmation. 

“What do you think, lucky number 7?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. At least not verbally. He just pulls you close by the fabric of the jersey and kisses you. The kiss is soft, but undeniably passionate. His lips move against you sensually even though there’s no heat behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your nose, your eyelids, all before returning again. You let him create a map of your visage with his lips. 

When he wins that night, the jersey is the only thing left on your body as he makes love to you on the couch. 

You begin forming a routine as a couple, but it’s never complacent. There’s still romance in everything you do, even if you’re doing it for the hundredth time. As time moves forward, so do you and the past heartaches don’t weigh on your chest as heavy anymore. Your mind still wanders into painful territory every once in a while, but you’re confident in your ability to lay the past to rest. 

It helps your endeavor when the aforementioned past comes to greet you one day.

A tap on your shoulder stirs your from your inner thoughts as you walk the familiar path to the library. Turning towards the source, your feet skid to a stop when you see Taehyung rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“Hey,” he says as he kicks at a pebble near his foot.

“Hi,” your tone reveals your confusion. 

“Can we talk?” Chewing on your bottom lip, you don’t need much time to decide before you’re nodding. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. Looking back, after some time and much needed self reflection, I realize that you got your heartbroken just as bad as mine.” 

“You do?”

“Yes,” he affirms. “At the time, it seemed like I was the odd man out. Sure, you and Jungkook would be losing me, but you had each other. And I was left with no one.”

“It didn’t have to be that way, Tae. You chose to walk away from us,” you reply. “From Jungkook, specifically.”

“I know. I see now how big of a mistake that was,” he continues. “I’m going to try and catch him later after practice to apologize to him, too.”

“Good,” you say. “He deserves it even more than I do.”

Taehyung agrees with a nod. 

“Are you happy? With… with Jungkook.” 

You hate the way his mouth is still turned down and his eyes don’t shine anymore. It’s obvious how sad he still is, and yet he’s here apologizing to you. You appreciate his conviction.

“I am,” you answer. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. I know it will never be the same, but I’d like to have you in my life if possible.” 

“I’d like that, too,” he responds. 

You say goodbye shortly after that and there’s a sense of closure that fills you up from the inside after your conversation. For whatever reason, finally turning the page on Taehyung’s chapter in your life makes you want to keep pushing forward even more. Including finally letting a special someone in on the secret you’ve been holding close to your heart. 

Jungkook mentions he’s coming over after practice which means you have a couple hours to decide how you want to spill the beans. You could always just say it, but that feels far too anticlimactic. 

Sitting in your kitchen, your fingers play an unknown melody against the table as you ponder your options. It’s only when your eyes land on a certain ingredient in your cabinet that you realize exactly how you want to accomplish this. 

Your soulmate has his own key now, mostly because you were sick of leaving your bed to let him in. But also because one time you lost your key and he had to jimmy the window lock to get inside. You live on the third floor. 

The familiar taps of your fingers meeting the keyboard are the only sound until Jungkook’s voice rings out. He proudly declares that he’s home in a sing-song tone. 

“Dinner is in the kitchen,” you inform him. “I’ll meet you there in a second.”

Your nail slips between your teeth as you anxiously await for Jungkook to see your somewhat hidden message. Eyes looking towards the ceiling, you pray to the soulmate gods that he doesn’t dig into his meal before he can read it. 

You sense your prayers are answered when you hear a chair scrape across the floor and the sound of his footsteps coming towards you. Swiveling in your chair, you patiently await his arrival. 

When he enters the room, his eyes are sparkling and misty. In the good kind of way that makes you mirror his expression. His cheeks are pink with blush and he looks winded from his excitement alone. 

“You mean it?” His tone is pitched up. Giddy like a child on the playground. Trying to stop the smile from breaking out across your face is pointless. You allow that to be your answer.

Jungkook only needs two strides before he reaches you, and you stand in anticipation of what you know will come. A mixture between a shout and a laugh comes from your lungs when he lifts you into the air by your knees. You brace your hands on his shoulders as fits of laughter course through you.

“What are you doing? Put me down,” you order him. 

“Absolutely not,” he says with a shake of his head. “I want to hear you say it. Say it like you mean it, woman.”

“Wo—woman?” You chuckle. “Is that how you talk to someone who’s in love with you?” 

Any joking response dies in Jungkook’s throat when he hears the L word fall from your lips. He sighs deeply, so utterly content. He bends down until your feet are safely on the floor again. His hands cradle your face instead. 

“Say it again, please,” he begs. 

“I love you, Jungkook,” you state. 

His eyes close like you’re the sandman herself. So at peace he could fall into dreamland right where he stands. You can physically feel the tension leaving his body from where you’re holding him by his waist. 

“One more time,” he whispers, but his smirk gives him away. Your hand smacks his chest. He laughs. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” His eyes open again to stare into yours. You think you could spend forever just looking into the deep chocolate irises in front of you. Thumbs gently swiping across your cheekbones, Jungkook does a once-over of your pretty face. “I love you.”

It doesn’t matter if you knew he was going to say it, it still brings tears to your eyes and a smile that hurts your cheeks. 

“Really?” 

He nods.

“I am deeply, devastatingly, in love with you, Y/N,” he continues. His expression shifts. “But if you ever give me good news by spelling it out with alphabet soup again, I’m leaving you.” 

You have to resist the laughter aching in your chest, but when Jungkook is feigning anger with the cutest scowl, you just can’t help it. You laugh loudly before stifling it with your hand. It’s the single most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done and yet you don’t regret it one bit. 

Jungkook proceeds to show you the selfie he took with the now infamous bowl of soup. You can barely see his eyes in the photo because he’s smiling so wide. He’s holding up a peace sign next to the bowl of tomato soup with alphabet-shaped noodles that spell out I love you in the center of the broth. 

His name is the last you expected to appear on your skin, but it’s now impossible to imagine it being anyone else. As you trace the familiar lines of his name you whisper your thanks to whatever or whoever is in charge. 

[hyprfixate]

a genetic disposition (to loving you) :: [BC x Reader]

read on AO3

summary: seeing chan at the genetic clinic when he told you he was too busy to hang out was one thing. noticing he was now significantly taller than he was a couple weeks ago was another.

learning he's been diagnosed with the werewolf disorder is something different entirely.

pairing: bang chan x reader

tropes: childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, modern werewolf au, no transformations tho, chronically ill reader, reader has EDS (ehlers danlos syndrome), some angst, slight miscommunication trope

smut warning: masturbation (m), handjobs, blink-and-you-miss-it subby chan, voyeurism, pussy eating (x2), no actual ABO dynamics but that's not stopping Chan from calling himself Alpha, dirty talk, lots of begging, standing/wall sex, cumming inside AND cumming outside.

content warning: talks about being in pain, self deprecating talk, anxiety spirals, very brief internalized ableism, panic attack

word count: 21.6k

author's note: if you saw the three different attempts to post this, no you didn't. enjoy! <3

Chan was acting weird.

To be fair, he always acts weird. Weird might actually be his default. But this was a different type of weird– a weird that involved canceling plans last minute and making up flimsy excuses about why. 

Today, he was supposed to accompany you to your doctor's appointment. A simple, low stakes kind of hangout. You looked at your phone with a sigh.

Channie: sorry, can we do a raincheck for our hangout? not to sound like a fuckboy but something came up

Channie: i really am sorry babygirl. i'll make it up to you i promise. please tell me how it goes okay?

You let out a small huff of air. You would love to be annoyed, mad even, but at the end of the day, this is Chan, your best friend since elementary school. The guy who held you through heartbreaks and stressful semesters. The guy who memorized your ridiculously complicated Dunkin order. The guy who dropped everything to stay with you at the hospital a few months ago when things got really bad.

The guy you're secretly in love with.

Okay, maybe that was a minor and insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you can't be mad at Chan. 

You: don't worry channie. i'll be okay. I hope your stuff goes well ok? 

Channie: love u, good luck with your appointment, it's gonna be ok

Right. Your appointment.

You'd been having some increasingly bothersome and worrying symptoms for the better part of 2 years now. It started with a noticeable dull ache in your knees that wouldn't go away, reaching a peak now where there's not a single day you wake up pain free. The doctors were just as stumped as you were, and as sort of a last ditch effort, they sent you to a geneticist in the expensive part of the city. Thank goodness for adequate health insurance.

You were a bit nervous, which is why you asked Chan to come with you, but it wasn't that big of a deal. You've been to specialists before. 

Still, disappointment rises in your chest as you finish pulling your hair away from your face and securing it with a scrunchie before grabbing your essentials and heading out the door. You're more disappointed about the fact that he's not coming instead of what he's not coming to. You're getting a little weary and tired of the excuses and him bailing on plans. 

But then you think about the way his voice sounds when he calls you babygirl, and everything seems right again.

The trip to the geneticist office is long, and by the time you arrive, you feel the exhaustion in every joint. For such a high caliber place, it's decorated just as sterile and modern as you were expecting, with white walls and white furniture. When you go to check in, the receptionist hands you a tablet with various forms pulled up and points you to the waiting room.

You settle into one of the white waiting room chairs, balancing the iPad on your lap as you begin working through the forms. The questions start simple enough - name, date of birth, insurance information. Then they get more involved, diving into your medical history.

Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the last six months?

The list that follows is daunting - joint pain (obviously), muscle weakness (sometimes), unexplained fatigue (who doesn't have that?), difficulty concentrating (depends on the day). You find yourself checking more boxes than you'd like.

Your mind drifts to Chan again. You wonder what was so important that he had to cancel. Usually, he at least gives you a concrete excuse, even if it's something silly like having to wash his hair or visit his parents. Today's vague "something came up" feels different. Worrying.

Before you can stop yourself, you pull out your phone.

You: this intake paperwork feels like the ending of a medication commercial

You: i’m surprised they haven't asked me if i or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma

The message stays on delivered for a while, longer than you expect. You give up on staring at your phone and turn your attention back to the paperwork.

After a ridiculous amount of questions and an even more ridiculous amount of signatures, you finish the preliminary stuff, heading back to the receptionist desk to hand her the iPad. She gives you a polite nod and smile and lets you know the nurse will be out in a second, so you can wait in the small chair by the double doors.

You're lost in thought, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you hear the gentle sound of your name called. The sound makes you look up, tucking your phone away and grabbing your bag. A nurse stands by the double doors, clipboard in hand, wearing deep purple scrubs and a smile that somehow makes the sterile environment feel a little more human.

You push yourself up from the chair, joints starting their songs of protest after sitting still for so long. The nurse offers pleasantries that you respond to with your usual politeness. As you're walking towards the open door, you hear a beep and the whirr of an electronic lock unlocking. The closed side of the door swings open and–

There's Chan.

You both freeze mid-step, eyes wide and locked on each other like this is the first time you're seeing each other in years. It feels like it, but you did just see him last weekend at a mutual friend's birthday party. It was a fun night, but he was acting strange and dodgy then, too.

something came up.

You squint at him, not sure whether confusion or anger is winning the war in you right now. He opens his mouth once, twice– words are failing. The most he can do is let out a shaky, “Babygirl…”

You take that moment to really look at him. His hair is in its natural curly state, but significantly more messy than usual, wisps falling over and around themselves. His eyes are red and bagged heavily, and his shoulders seem like they're scrunching in on themselves. He hasn't looked like this since that night in the hospital with you.

Something is definitely wrong. 

The nurse clears her throat, and you remember you're being waited on. You motion wordlessly towards the nurse and he gives you a shaky nod.  

“I'll, um. I'll text you,” he mumbles weakly, holding the door open for you as you walk past. When you do, you can't help but look up at him, like way, way up. More than you usually do. You almost pause again– are your bone problems making you shrink, or is he somehow taller? Why does he look like that?

It's you who nods shakily this time, forcing yourself to tear your eyes away so you don't bump into a wall. It takes concentrated effort not to look back at him while you walk down the hallway, but somehow you manage.

The nurse brings you to an exam room and tells you to sit tight while she gets the vitals cart. You obey, still dazed and confused and maybe even a little hurt if you allow yourself to really feel it. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later, and you don't even have to guess who it is.

Channie: i'm so sorry.

Channie: i can explain. i promise.

Channie: i just.. i need some time before i can

Channie: im such a fucking idiot. i'm so sorry babygirl. please. 

There are a million and one responses in your head, each with varying levels of confusion or annoyance. But, among the haze, the image of his exhaustion floats back to you, and you find yourself folding.

As usual.

You: breathe, Chan. it's ok. 

You: whatever it is, we'll figure it out, yeah?

You: i do wish you told me but. it's okay. I can wait for an explanation.

Channie: you're so amazing. i don't deserve you. 

Channie: i'll call you when you get out ok? i love u

The nurse comes back with the vitals cart and begins prepping materials before you can respond properly, so you send back a heart and slip your phone into your pocket. When the blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, you wonder if the nurse will notice how fast your heart is beating – though you're not sure if it's from anxiety or the way Chan's voice cracked when he called you babygirl.

Maybe both.

To his credit, Chan truly does make it up to you, in the form of an extended weekend away at his parents’ cabin upstate. The invitation, or request rather, comes a couple days after the geneticist incident while you're in bed feeling anxious over your test results.

Channie: picking u up thursday night, we're going to my parents’ cabin till monday

Channie: had plans?

If anyone else were to text you like that, you'd balk at their audacity. But because it's Chan, there's a growing heat in your face when you simply reply:

You: no plans. promise you won't bail?

He sends you a picture of his already packed duffel bag and backpack sitting by his door, then another picture of him and his laptop that's clearly pulled up to Google Maps. His eyebrow is raised, sinfully plump lips pulled into a smirk as he points at the screen.

Channie: give me some creditt

Channie: im already packed and the route is already planned

You giggle, feeling the perpetual knot of nerves in your chest loosen. A weekend away with Chan sounds like the perfect thing. It'll be a way to get your mind off the maybes and anxieties from your appointment, and a way to spend time with your best friend. 

A win-win.

You spend the next few days packing and gathering supplies for a weekend at the cabin, which isn't as simple a task as it sounds. Chan is adamant that you worry about nothing except getting your stuff together, so he won't tell you what he has planned or what to pack. After losing many back and forth arguments, you toss a little bit of everything in your small suitcase, leaving your backpack for entertainment and snack purposes.

Thursday creeps up slowly, then all at once. Unfortunately, you wake up to deep pain in almost all of your joints– even your fingers seem to be screaming with every movement. Getting ready takes longer than you want, but you push through, and it isn't long before you're sitting on your living room couch, waiting for Chan to let you know to come out. It was a wonder what large amounts of Ibuprofen could do.

You hear the familiar puttering of his engine before his text even comes through, the soft ding of your phone cutting through your apartment.

Channie: i'm here babygirl

Channie: coming up to help w ur bags 

A warm flutter runs through your chest at his thoughtfulness. You're not sure you'll ever really get used to it. 

You push yourself up from the couch, breath hitching when the movement causes a dull ache to radiate down the length of your legs. You pause, gripping the arm of the couch and squeezing your eyes shut for a moment.

It's fine, you reason with yourself. It's not that bad. You're fine.

You're thankful that you had the foresight to pack a suitcase instead of a duffle, at least this way you'll have something to bear your weight on while you walk.

Your jacket is slipped over one shoulder when you hear the buzz from your doorbell. Chan's smiling face greets you when you open the door, looking both insanely handsome and–

“Am I shrinking, or are you growing?”

He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, which is somewhat concealed by the oversized sweater he's wearing. You want to scold him for such a light outer layer in the bitter late autumn, but your words get stuck in your throat as you find yourself tilting your head up further than usual to look at him.

And then you give yourself the pleasure of really looking at him.

His hair is its usual wispy, beautiful mess. He cards his fingers through it as he looks at you, smiling as though about to say something, when suddenly his smile drops, his eyebrows furrowed as he stands up straight.

“You're in pain.”

It’s not a question.  He's providing the information to you as fact. You blink in surprise.

“Yes, I am, but how did you–”

"I can–” He cuts himself off, looking uncertain for a moment before shaking his head. "I just know you, babygirl. You're not putting much weight on your left leg, anyway."

Hm. He caught you there.

“How bad is it?”

You finish shrugging on your jacket. “Um, maybe six out of ten. But I took medicine, I should be– Are you sweating?”

It's a stupid question, because he is, and you don't need a verbal response to confirm it. Sweat is beating at his temples and dampening his hair. Something flickers across his face, but then his expression is back to normal again. 

You watch him flip through a million different responses in his mind, but before he settles on one, he spots your bags next to the door and goes to grab them, slinging your backpack over his shoulder with profound ease. He's moving so fast and he's so jittery that you barely get a second to process everything.

“Chan,” you finally say when he whizzes past you again to put your remote back in the organizer. He pauses, back stiffening like he's a little kid again about to be scolded. He turns to you slowly. “Are you okay?”

You watch him take a deep, shuddering breath, his entire body seeming to expand and contract. The unnatural stiffness in his body seems like he's forcing himself to stay still, and you see his finger drumming patterns on his thigh.

You repeat his name, softer this time. “What's wrong?”

He shakes his head a bit too fast. “No, nothing, I–” He runs his fingers through his hair, pausing to grip the roots to ground himself to this moment. It works for a second. “I'm… okay. I can explain everything later babygirl, I just… I really just want to focus on spending time with you.”

There's a raw edge to his voice that makes your chest tighten. You study his face, taking in the exhaustion, the sheen from sweat, the way his eyes won't meet yours. Every instinct screams that something is wrong, but…

“Okay,” you relent with a sigh. It should be embarrassing how easily you fold for him. It should maybe even be studied. “But you promise that you'll explain?”

He deflates, eyes brightening with relief. “I promise. Chris-Cross my heart.” He punctuates his sentence by putting his hand over his chest.

You can't help the smile that takes over your face at that– the reference to the silly rhyme you'd made up when you were kids based on his English name. A bit of the anxiety in your chest loosens. “Now let's go before the traffic gets unbearable.”

You grab your keys and headphones, giving your apartment one last glance over before following Chan out of the door. By the time you finish locking up, he's already halfway to the elevator, his abnormally long legs quickening his pace. As you try to catch up with him, you can't help but notice his stature– how his shoulders seem broad under his sweater, how he just seems… more.

The elevator ride to the parking garage under your apartment building is quiet, but not uncomfortably. Chan is humming something under his breath, his increasingly restless fingers tapping out the rhythm on his leg. Despite all of it, you feel relaxed. No matter what's going on, this is still your Chan, your person. 

He tosses your bags into his trunk with an ease that perks your entire body to attention. When you go to pull open the passenger door, he beats you to it, adding a dramatic flourish as he holds it open for you.

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest.

In the passenger's seat is a small pink box with a label from your favorite bakery, alongside a nice variety of drinks in the cupholder. He's got a pair of fluffy slippers on the mat by your feet, too, and you can see on the dashboard he's turned the seat warmers on.

“Chan,” you breathe. Your heart is doing strange things in your chest, and you're either feeling extremely touched or about to pass out. “You didn't have to–”

“I wanted to.” You turn to look at him, and he's looking away, scratching the hair at the base of his neck. “Felt like an ass, you know, being so distant and weird. Needed to make it up to you.”

It's entirely unfair that he can just… say those things to you. He's your best friend, so of course he's affectionate– that's just how he's been since you met in third grade. What started with bringing extra GoGurts and tying your shoes when you broke your wrist has just now turned into spoiling you with cabin vacations and things you mention offhandedly that you like. 

No biggie.

He nudges you in the car playfully, making some lighthearted joke about him getting too soft on you. You can barely hear him over the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears, choosing instead to follow his movements in the rear view mirror. You watch as he pauses by the trunk, carding a hand through his hair and taking a big breath, before eventually making his way over to the driver's seat. He tosses his phone to you, effectively putting you on music duty, and then you're on the road in a matter of minutes.

Time with Chan is always easy. You talk about any and everything for the first hour of the drive, including his job, your lack thereof, and your appointment, and he listens to every detail carefully. 

“So, they think it's a collagen issue?”

You nod, wiggling your feet in your new slippers as you shift your position. “They aren't entirely sure, but they're looking at collagen based connective tissue disorders, like Ehlers Danlos and Lupus. They think that could explain the other issues too.”

He looks contemplative as he peers around you to the mirror by your door, trying to merge into the next lane. “Are you scared?”

You shrug, body moving with the car. “Its.. complicated. On the one hand, it would be scary to receive a life changing diagnosis. On the other hand–”

“You're just happy to have answers.”

You nod again, taking a sip of the caramel latte he bought for you and wincing as you shift again. Long drives are always hard, but paired with the changes in the pressure as the two of you drive further into the mountains, your joints feel like they might disintegrate.

“Scale of one to ten?”

You blink. Chan hadn't taken his eyes off the road, so how could he have seen you shifting? You open your mouth, prepared to lie, but he glances at you with a single eyebrow raised. You sigh.

“Maybe a six,” you breathe.

“So the Ibuprofen didn't help?”

“It did, it's just wearing off.”

You put the latte back in the cup holder, using your hands to bear your weight as you try to find a comfy position to sit in. 

“What do you need, babygirl?”

You fight the shiver his voice sends down your spine. “Nothing. Well– I don't know. Maybe a nap? Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is. Here.”

With sinfully dexterous fingers, he reaches across your lap to recline your seat for you. You let him, body going still as his strong forearm helps ease you back with the chair. When you're comfortable, he reaches behind him to the floor of the backseat, fishing around until he produces–

“Is that your couch blanket?”

His answering grin is soft. “The one you've been threatening to steal? Yeah. Maybe.”

He drapes it over you skillfully, with you having to do very minimal adjusting. The familiar, homey smell of his apartment– warmth and something else very distinctly Chan – floods your senses and wraps you in the warmest hug. It feels like coming home.

You adjust yourself again, sleep wanting to come now that you're cozy, but the dull ache in your legs doesn't want to let go. Without warning, Chan's free hand slips under the blanket and finds the knee of the leg that hurts with amazing accuracy. His hand feels blazing hot through the fabric of your sweats as he rubs his thumb in soothing circles. 

“This okay, yeah?” he asks, his low voice a soothing sound to your ears. Words are caught in your throat, so you can only nod, but you don't miss how the pain starts to dissolve by his touch. You also try very hard not to think about how big his hand is on your knee.

“Get some rest, babygirl. I got you.”

The combination of his gentle touch, the music, and the smell of his blanket is making your eyelids heavy. As you finally drift off, a contented smile pulls at your mouth because no matter what, this is where you're meant to be. 

This is home.

Chan wakes you up about half an hour before you're expected to arrive. However, paired with delays, the pitch blackness of the mountains, and the general unrestrainedness of Murphy's Law, you were only now getting to the cabin at just past 1am. 

The cabin is beautiful, as always. It's nestled amidst a thick grove of evergreen trees, and its tall, warm wood exterior seems inviting even at the ungodly hour you two arrive. As he swings the car onto the gravel driveway, the headlights illuminate it, like it’s a secret just for the two of you.

“Cabin sweet cabin,” he murmurs as he kills the engine. He picks his phone up from the cup holder and gives it a few flicks, then suddenly the porch lights come on. You give a little stretch in your seat, your joints feeling pleasantly loose and mostly pain free– the nap worked wonders. 

The two of you pile out of the car, the fresh mountain air filling your nostrils. It smells like pine needles and freshwater, with an undercurrent of something wild and electric, like the air before a storm.

“Is it supposed to rain?”

Chan barely hears you, his antsyness now back full force. He's got both of your backpacks and his duffle bag slung over his shoulders, and he goes to grab your suitcase, but you appear by his side and pull it away from him. He blinks down at you, seeming surprised to see you there.

You tilt your head to the side. He still looks sweaty, and from where you're standing, it still seems like he's radiating an insane amount of heat. His breaths are labored, and you find yourself reaching over to rub your thumb over his hand. However, once your hands connect, he jumps and pulls away like you've shocked him.

At your hurt face, he tries to backtrack. “Static,” he supplies weakly. You say nothing, and the tips of his ears turn bright red. “Come on, let's get you out of the cold.”

You try not to jump to conclusions. At the end of the day, if something is really bothering him, if something is really wrong, Chan will tell you. He has always been the brooding type, but there is but so long he can keep things from you.

Still, no matter how much you try to take things at his pace, you keep seeing his face at the clinic: the deep bags under his eyes, the messy hair. The last time you looked into those eyes and saw that same pain, you were in a hospital bed hooked up to more monitors than you could count.

Chan had been brooding then too, refusing to leave your side, asking the doctors all the right questions, keeping your parents up to date when they had to go back home. You remember one night in particular, when you were chalk full of pain meds and falling asleep under the whirr of an oxygen mask, he'd stood at your bedside and rubbed his thumb over your forehead to soothe you. You couldn't speak, too exhausted and in pain to move in any capacity, but you didn't need to. He spoke to you the entire time about everything and nothing, switching his  murmuring to quiet comforts when you started to cry. Just before sleep took you under, you met his eyes– his exhausted, red rimmed eyes– and he gave you the softest, most tender look.

“We'll get through it, babygirl,” he had murmured. “You're gonna be okay. You'll come home.”

You did come home, of course, but that's when things became different. Chan was distant, constantly canceling plans, avoiding you.

You shake the memory from your head as you watch him fiddle with his keys in the lock. This weekend was meant to be about the two of you having fun. You could worry about everything else later.

Chan flicks on the overhead light in the living room area and the room floods with warmth. Everything looks just as familiar and homey as you recall.

Before you can take a good breath, he's got your bags and suitcase and is bounding up the stairs with them like they weigh nothing. You choose to busy yourself with getting comfortable, peeling off your coat and hanging it on the nearby hook.

You're tugging your hair back into a ponytail when he comes back down, and when you look up and spot him the scrunchie flies across the room.

He's taken off his hoodie, leaving him in a fitted white tee that does nothing to hide just how different his body looks. It's no secret that Chan works out, but he fills out this shirt like it was painted on him. You quickly pull your spare scrunchie from the other wrist to tie up your hair, trying not to dwell.

"Do you want me to put these in the kitchen?" you call out, holding up the bag of road trip leftovers.

"Yeah, just–" his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "Just throw them on the counter. I'll organize everything later."

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. Everything is exactly as you remember it – the mismatched mugs in the cabinet, the worn wooden spoons in the ceramic holder, the string lights Chan installed last summer that give everything a soft glow. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend nothing has changed.

Almost.

You find, unsurprisingly, that the cabinets and fridge are stocked full. Chan's parents likely came out to pack up some groceries when he told them you'd be coming. You find yourself leaning against an open cabinet, staring into space, your mind a million miles away.

"You okay, babygirl?”

You jump slightly – you hadn't heard him come up behind you. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair again, that restless energy still evident in every movement.

"Yeah, just..." you gesture vaguely around you. "Memories, you know?"

His expression softens, and for a moment he looks exactly like your Chan again. "Yeah, I know."

The moment stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, until your stomach decides to break it with an embarrassingly loud growl. Chan's laugh is startled but genuine.

"I don't remember that.” He jokes. “Hungry?"

You feel your cheeks heat. "Yeah, I think so.”

He starts rolling his sleeves up. “I could probably make some eggs and toast, if–.”

“It's one in the morning,” you scold him gently. “Nobody is cooking.”

He gives you a pout, which is comical considering his current stature, but you still feel a tug in your chest. “But–”

You shake your head, turning away from him so you don't relent. “No buts. We have tons of snacks. Help me find something.”

At your request, the two of you rummage through the drawers and cupboards. Everything either requires too much effort or won't agree with your stomach at this ridiculous hour. You're ready to call it quits and sleep for dinner when a lightbulb goes off in your head.

“Oh, can I have one of your protein bars? You always buy the good kind.”

His smile is soft, dimples catching the light in a way that makes his entire face seem like a dream. “Of course. They're in my backpack, next to the couch.”

You slide your way to his bag with an excited pep in your step. Chan, being who he is, always buys the amazingly expensive protein bars that manage not to taste like chalky disappointment. They're surprisingly filling, and you know they'll settle your stomach without causing a stomach ache.

You find his bag quickly in the low light of the room, squatting down to rifle through it. With your hand in the front pocket, you dig around until your fingers find something that feels like the protein bar box. In your hungry haze, you yank it out without thinking.

It is not the protein bar box.

Instead, it's a thick packet of paper. You go to put it back when the letter head of the genetic clinic you visited catches your eye, along with the words “After-Visit Summary”.

Maybe if your heart wasn't thrumming in your ears, you would've heard his panicked footsteps coming after you. But the only thing in your ears is the erratic beating of your heart, one that only gets worse when you turn the packet over and read the small words on the margin:

You were seen today for: Hormonal Changes. The following issues were addressed: Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome (Werewolf Gene).

You hear your name through the roaring in your ears. It's a soft, tentative sound that cracks around the edges. You turn, slowly, to see Chan almost right behind you, his face drained of all color and his eyes blown wide.

“Chan,” you breathe. You turn a bit more towards him, the packet still gripped in your hand. “What–”

"I can explain," he says quickly, desperately. His hands are shaking. "I was going to tell you, I swear, I just– I needed time to–”

He trails off, looking around the room as though looking for someone to help him.

Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome.

You came across this condition when you were researching the clinic, as they mentioned that they were the only place in the area that had the facilities to test for it. It was, as the paper put it, the werewolf gene. People with the condition experienced heightened senses of smell, increased strength, sensory sensitivities– they were werewolves, just without the whole full moon transformation thing.

To say the condition was rare was an understatement. Both parents had to be carriers for the trait, and even then it only occurred in 25% of those births.

And Chan happened to be one of them.

Everything clicks into place now. The sudden growth spurt, the feverishly hot skin, how he knows when you're in pain without you saying a word.

“This is why you were at the clinic,” you say softly. It's not a question.

He nods jerkily, still looking like he might bolt at any second. You stand up to take a step toward him and he actually backs away.

“Don't,” he breathes. “I'm… I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” You almost laugh. “Chan, you're not going to hurt me. How could you think that?”

“No, you don't understand,” he cards his hands through his hair, pausing to tug on the roots. “I can't… I don't know how to control myself yet. I'm different now, I'm–”

“Still Chan.”

The sound he makes is painful. “You can't say that,” he breathes. His hands drop to his sides again. “You don't know what it's like.”

“So tell me," you urge. You move as though you're about to take another step towards him, and your heart drops at how his entire body flinches. “Chan. Chris. Christopher. Look at me please.”

The use of his full name does something to him, and you watch as he settles, eyes drifting over to you slowly. His gaze is intense, and in the dim light of the living room, you feel akin to a deer staring down a wolf, no pun intended. 

It does not frighten you the way it should.

“Talk to me, please,” you beg. “You're my best friend. I'm here for you, always.”

“I can smell when you're in pain,” he grits out. It's not what you're expecting to hear. He clenches a hand into a fist, then lets it go. “You usually smell sweet, like caramel and linen. But then your scent gets an undercurrent of something harsh, like burnt sugar and metal, and I… I feel like–”

He lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he cuts himself off. “I can't control my strength. I've broken so much shit around the apartment. Don't wanna touch you. Don't wanna break you.”

“You won't hurt me.” You take the opportunity to get closer, but he must smell the closing distance because his eyes fly open. You're in front of him before he can move. “Do you know why?”

Chan's breaths are ragged and labored. “Why?”

“Because you're still my Chan. Still the guy who's been taking care of me since elementary school. Still the person I trust most in the world."

His breath hitches. "How can you say that? How can you just... accept this?"

You can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Chan, I'm literally at the same genetic clinic getting tested for a collagen disorder. Did you think I wouldn't understand what it's like to have your body change in ways you can't control?"

That seems to catch him off guard. He turns away, a frown tugging at his lips. "That's... that's different.”

“Is it though?” You pretend to be thoughtful. “Last I checked, it's like both of our bodies are changing in ways we don't understand. Like we both have to navigate a new normal.”

"That's exactly why I–" he cuts himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I can't risk hurting you. Not when you're already..."

"Already what?" You challenge, taking one final step. You're close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "Already broken?”

His face twists up like you've punched him in the stomach. “No! God, no. When you're already going through so much.”

“A lot of what I'm going through is a waiting game, Chan– waiting for test results, waiting for appointments at specialists. You don't have to keep things from me because of that.”

You poke him in his side, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, this? Finding out you're a werewolf–”

“The correct term is Lycanthropy Syndrome–”

“-- This is the kind of stuff that keeps me grounded. Having other things to think about. Having you around.”

You watch the tension slowly bleed from his shoulders, almost as though he's deflating. There's obviously more he isn't telling you– you can see it in the way his eyes still can't seem to meet yours– but you don't push it. He's already said so much.

“So,” you start. You rock back and forth on your feet. “Can I make werewolf puns now?”

He rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you pawsitive?”

He groans at that, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “You're the worst. I'm gonna leave you here and go home.”

But he's laughing anyway, his usual giggle that makes everything seem like it'll be alright. You beam at him. and your body lights aflame when he smiles back down at you softly. The two of you hold eye contact for a second, and you watch something untraceable flash in his eyes. Before you can even process it, he's looking away again and clearing his throat.

Another silence falls between you, but this one is different. Chan is fidgeting again, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that restless way you've noticed all evening. He's looking everywhere but at you, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"What is it?" you ask softly.

He opens his mouth once. Twice. Three times– words seem to be failing him again. You raise an eyebrow and he sighs, a sheepish smile on his big stupidly handsome face.

"Can we..." he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would it be okay if we... like we used to..."

You wait patiently as he struggles with the words. His ears are turning red again.

"Can we share my bed?" he finally gets out in a rush. "Like– like when we were kids? Just for tonight. I just... I haven't been sleeping well since everything started and I… um…”

Your brain short circuits as the request processes.

Share… a bed. With Chan. Taller, wider, more muscular Chan. Chan whose body heat seeps through every layer of clothing. Chan whose one hand can cover your knee easily. 

From the way your body reacts, your knee jerk reaction is to say no. He's already going through enough, and Lord knows what types of degenerate scent you'd be giving off if you spent an entire night with him.

But when you open your mouth to decline, you notice how he's standing, with his shoulders curved inward, trying to make himself smaller. His big brown eyes are pleading, almost desperate, and you think about how scared he was earlier, how convinced he was that you'd reject him once you knew the truth.

Fuck it.

“Of course, Channie.”

The smile on his face is nervous, like he expects you to change your mind any second. “Yeah?”

You nod, ignoring the way your brain tries to supply you with images of everything you want to have happen. "Yeah. Just... let me get changed first?"

He nods quickly, that restless energy back but different now – excited rather than anxious. "Yeah! Yes. Your stuff is in your room, yeah? I'll be in mine when you're ready."

He's bounding up the stairs before you can say anything. You take the moment alone to take a deep breath. You can do this. It's just Chan. Just your best friend.

When you reach your room, you duck into the attached bathroom to change quickly, opting for the full top and bottom PJ set rather than the oversized hoodie you were originally going to wear. You stare at your reflection, willing yourself to calm down and look normal.

Sharing a bed with Chan is not a new concept. When you'd first gotten close in grade school, the two of you tended to hop from house to house, sleeping wherever without a care in the world. The habit continued as you grew up– in college during study sessions, during movie marathons on school breaks, that one time a few months ago when you'd gotten terribly drunk at your friend Jeongin's birthday party. It had never been anything more than two friends seeking each other's comfort.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again, face flushed and breathing ragged. You force yourself to calm down– if Chan could smell when you were in pain, he could probably smell the indecency coming off of you in waves. 

Everything is fine.

When you reach the doorway of the master bedroom, Chan is already in bed scrolling on his phone. You watch his nostrils flare for a second, eyes fluttering shut as he puts his phone on the night stand.

The king sized bed looks both too big and too small.

When he opens his eyes, he looks surprised to see you. and you watch red start to tint his neck. “Um. Hey,” he breathes.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you. "Hey."

Chan shifts, pulling back the covers on what has always been 'your' side of the bed “Um. Do you want... I mean, we usually..." He trails off, looking everywhere but directly at you.

You take the initiative and move towards the bed, sliding down under the covers until they reach just under your chin. Chan shuffles next to you, scooting this way and that, flipping like a hot dog on a stick. You both settle on your back eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

“This is weird,” he says after a few minutes of strained silence.

“Not weird,” you supply. “Just… different.”

“Different…,” he murmurs. “Different because I'm different?”

You almost laugh. “Chan, what? No–”

He's sliding out from under the covers before you can finish. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have– this was dumb to ask.” You ignore the way your heart drops. “I'll go sleep in the other room. Or on the couch. Or–”

You grab at his wrist before he can go anywhere. He doesn't jerk away this time, but his entire body goes rigid. You rub your thumb along the pulse point on his wrist.

“You don't have to leave,” you say slowly. “It’s not weird because you're different. It's weird because we're both over thinking it.”

He lets out a little breath. “We are, aren't we?”

"Yeah." You squeeze his wrist once before letting go. He settles back down into the bed, still looking a bit uncomfortable, but not ready to run anymore. 

You smile at him before holding open the cocoon you made in the blanket. "Come here, you big baby."

"I resent that," he grumbles, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

It takes some maneuvering to find a comfortable position. Chan is hesitant at first, careful not to crowd you, but eventually you manage to guide him until his head is tucked under your chin, his arm draped carefully over your middle. His body curls around yours despite the size difference, like he's trying to make himself smaller again. When he finally settles, it feels like every part of him is contoured to fit you perfectly.

You ignore the heat in your stomach.

The silence that settles around you is comfortable now, broken only by your breathing beginning to sync up. His body weight is grounding, and the heat he's radiating feels like the world's best heating pad. 

You're just beginning to doze off when Chan makes a low, displeased grunt in the back of his throat. You can feel his eyebrows scrunch together where he's pressed against your collarbone.

“Your hip,” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

He shifts in your hold, maneuvering you until his other hand can slide under your body to wrap around you. “Your hip hurts. Or it's about to start.”

Sleepiness has made you a pliant, barely conscious little thing. You're about to ask how he can tell when his big, warm hand presses against your hip, heat radiating through the fabric until it settles deep into your bones. You can't help but let out a little whimper from the immediate relief it gives you.

Chan makes another sound in his throat, grip increasing on you almost infinitesimally. 

“This good, babygirl?”

“Mmf.”

The warmth and relaxation is muddling your brain. “S'good, Channie.”

He makes a more pleased sound and nuzzles closer. Sleep takes you quickly after that, and all you can think about as you finally succumb is how lucky you are to have him here with you. You'd love to say as much, but you're too tired to open your mouth, so you give him the tiniest of squeezes, hoping he understands.

From the way his arm tightens around you, you think he does.

Things seem less charged in the morning.

You wake up to sunlight glittering through the curtains and the other side of the bed empty. The sheets are still warm, but given what you've come to learn about Chan and his temperature, he could've left the bed anywhere from three seconds to four hours ago.

You stretch a little bit as you try to wake up fully, heading to the other bedroom to freshen up for the day. It seems like an okay day pain-wise. You're at a steady three out of ten everywhere except your hands, but you brush it off. With the way you sleep, your hands take longer to catch up to the lower pain levels in the rest of your body. It's just a matter of time. 

Still, you run them under warm water in the bathroom, hoping to loosen them up.

When you finally emerge, you follow the mouthwatering scent of cooking down the stairs and into the kitchen. After a nonexistent dinner, you're starved, and you could really go for some food right now.

You pause in the archway of the kitchen.

Food is… an understatement.

Chan stands at the stove, spatula in hand and preparing to flip what looks like an omelette. All around him on the counters are various other breakfast foods: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, hashbrowns, fruit–

“When did you have time to make a sourdough starter?”

He startles slightly, turning to face you with a sheepish smile. “Ah… good morning, babygirl. I may have.. gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” You slide into a seat at the edge of the kitchen island in the one spot where there's no food. “If you were planning to invite the woodland creatures you could've given me a heads up, I'd be decent.”

The responding huff makes you smile. “I cannot communicate with animals. Weirdo.” Chan grins. He folds the omelette in half and flips it over. “I just… I got hungry.”

You sneak a piece of bacon off of a nearby plate and snort. “‘Hungry’ seems like a gross understatement. Is this a side effect?”

Chan's ears turn pink as he plates the omelette. "Yeah, actually. My metabolism is... different now. Food tastes different too– more intense." He starts moving dishes to the kitchen island, careful not to overcrowd your space. "Everything is more intense, really."

"Like what?"

He hums thoughtfully as he settles into the chair next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. "Smells are the biggest thing. Like, I can smell everything. The coffee brewing, the bacon grease in the air, the rain that's coming later–"

"It's going to rain?"

"Yeah, probably this afternoon." He passes you a fork and a plate you never noticed him constructing. "I can smell it in the air. What’s the word? Petrichor, but... before the rain actually falls? If that makes sense.”

You hum around a fork full of eggs, cracking the fingers on your free hand. “That sounds like it can get miserable. Is everything just… enhanced all the time?”

He takes a bite out of a chunk of toast, making a so-so motion with his hand. “It's enhanced all the time, but the way it is right now, the intensity, that’s only sometimes. Only during–”

He cuts himself off, swallowing his bite of toast with more power than necessary. 

“During the full moon?” You supply.

He nods quickly. “Yeah.”

There's a lull in the conversation that you try not to read into. It doesn't take much effort anyway, because you notice that eating is taking more effort than it was a few minutes ago. Your grip on the fork is weird, and you can't seem to close your fingers all the way around it.

That's fine, you think to yourself. You switch hands. Everything is fine.

You try not to let the revelation sour your mood. Chan mentioned it was going to rain, and while your doctors didn't know why you were in pain, they knew what kinds of things made it worse, and the air pressure changes from rain was one of them. This was just something you had to learn to deal with now.

Resentment for your condition rises in your chest with the little bit you've eaten, and you take a sip of apple juice to swallow it down. It's not fair. People your age were doing things like mountain climbing, running marathons, just living. And here you were, struggling to feed yourself and hold a fork.

It's fine.

A hand on your shoulder pierces through the dense clouds shrouding your mind, and you feel yourself startle a little. Chan is facing you, leaning his impossibly tall torso down to look you right in your eyes. His gaze is intense, gold flecks in his eyes swimming around as he stares.

“What hurts,” he breathes. The sound of his voice is light as a feather, floating through the air before coming to rest gently on your lips. 

“My hands.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You think about saying your number, but upon remembering how nice and easy conversation was this morning, you decide to lie. “Four.”

The look in Chan’s eyes grows more intense, and you swallow around nothing. He levels you with a very unimpressed look, eyebrows creasing and his plushy, pink lips frowning. He only says two words, but they send a ripple through your body anyway:

“Try again.”

Fuck. You're giving yourself whiplash. Jumping from frustration to stark arousal was an Olympics level move your brain wasn't prepared for. There's a different kind of haze clouding your mind now.

“It's a seven,” you breathe. 

He's up on his feet before you can fully compose yourself, long legs taking him up the stairs and bringing him back down in a matter of seconds. When he sits down again, he's holding your decorative medication pouch and a mini water bottle from your backpack.

You gulp at the way the veins in his arm bulge.

“Which bottle is it?”

You come back to yourself, licking your incredibly dry lips before you respond. It takes a blink or two before you can orient yourself in the present. “Um, red bottle. The tall one.”

He places the bottle and water in front of you in a gentle way that contrasts the energy in the room. You fumble with the child proofing for a second before he plucks the bottle from you, undoing the lid with one hand.

Wow. Fuck.

"Thanks," you mumble, accepting the pills he tips into your palm. His hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your neck as you swallow them, and you try not to shiver at the contact.

“Do you need a nap while the pills work?”

You pout, finally coming back to your good senses. “We're supposed to have a movie marathon today.”

“I didn't realize the TV had a flight to catch?”

You glare at him, albeit thankful for the teasing sarcasm to loosen the tension. “You're not funny.”

Chan's lips pull into a smirk and he gives a little shrug. “I think I am.”

You roll your eyes at him as he stands, coming over to you and easing you out of your seat. He gives a little ‘tsk’ at your faux attitude, but his hands are back on your shoulders, guiding you towards the couch. When you finally do lay down, he's already throwing his signature couch blanket over you, tucking it around you securely.

“Comfy?”

You are, but you've also realized he's tricked you into a nap, so you do the adult thing and mock him before sticking your tongue out at him.

“Wow,” he murmurs. He slides down the couch and onto the floor. “I haven't seen that routine since 4th grade.”

You watch as he adjusts his legs a few times, his head resting against the armrest right by your fingers. It’s unspoken, but you know that he'll stay until he's sure you're asleep. 

"You don't have to sit on the floor," you murmur. "There's plenty of room up here."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm good here.”

You watch his side profile for a minute, basking in all of his Chan-ness. He settles in a bit more and lets his eyes flutter closed. When he does, he leans his head back a little more, and you watch the delicate bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. 

“Chan?” Your mouth is moving before you know it. 

“Hm?”

“Were you scared? When you… got the diagnosis?”

His eyes open at that, and he turns his head so he can look at you. The intensity from earlier is gone, replaced by that familiar warmth that only he has.

There's a beat of silence where all Chan does is stare, almost as if seeing you for the first time. It passes, though, and then he goes back to his previous position, eyes closed again as he speaks. “No,” he says finally. “I wasn't scared. The only thing I thought about was you.”

“Me?”

He nods against the couch. “They kept talking about what it meant and all of that, and all I could think about was how on earth I was going to tell you.”

You reach a hand over and start rubbing at his scalp in the familiar way you've always done. “And yet,” you tease gently. “I had to accidentally find the papers.”

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, leaning into your hand. “That wasn't the plan,” he murmurs. “Was supposed to tell you properly.”

You stay quiet, continuing to play with his hair. The quiet domesticity is comforting, and you find your eyes fluttering closed too. 

You move your fingers through his hair in nonsensical patterns and shapes, occasionally letting your nails graze his scalp. His breathing evens out eventually--he's not sleeping, no, just content and peaceful. You're a different story, though, and medication induced drowsiness starts flowing its way through your body.

Your movements grow slower and uncoordinated, hand drifting lower, and lower, until eventually your fingers trail to the nape of his neck. When you drag your nails across the sensitive skin there, Chan makes a sound that shoots straight through you and straight to your core– something between a pleased hum and a growl that vibrates through his entire body.

Both of you freeze. Your heart starts doing gymnastics in your chest while the sound echoes in your ears, making your body grow hot. Beneath you, Chan is rigid, like every muscle has been pulled taut.

The room is entirely still for a second. Then, he clears his throat a little, shifting himself so you have better access. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Feels nice.”

You force your fingers to move again, continuing their exploration and tracing the curls on Chan's head. 

You repeat your mantra in your mind:

Everything is fine.

The moment passes like a summer storm– intense and fleeting– and soon Chan is relaxed again, practically melting under your touch. You're actively fighting sleep now but you're realizing it's a losing battle. Your movements become slower, less deliberate, until your hand is simply resting in his hair.

"Sleep, babygirl," he murmurs, voice thick and honeyed. "I got you.”

So you do.

When you wake up a bit later, you find yourself, sadly, alone.

In place of Chan's thick curls is the cold rectangular slab that is your cell phone. You squint at it sleepily, not remembering bringing it down with you for breakfast or having it on the couch. You flick through the unlock process, and when your phone opens, it's on the notes app.

Hi babygirl. If you're reading this, I went to the store. We don't have any vegetables. I'll try to be quick. - Channie

You wipe sleep from your eyes as you sit up, trying to orient yourself in your surroundings. You hear the steady whooshing of the rain outside and carefully flex all of your joints. You're content to find that you're at a steady three out of ten everywhere.

You settle back into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket around you tighter. It's not scary to be by yourself, especially not in the cabin,  but Chan's presence is definitely missed. You decide to fill the silence with television, something low stakes and stupid that you can listen to while you scroll on your phone.

However, the microscopic roku remote has decided to go missing, and after digging through the couch cushions twice, you sit back with a huff. You suppose your phone will do for now.

You open YouTube with the intent to watch one of your favorite Let's Play videos, but as you scroll through your homepage, something catches your eye. The title makes you pause:

Q&A: Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome (aka The Werewolf Gene)

The algorithm strikes again, you suppose.

The video was posted a little over a month ago and has a substantial amount of views and comments. The creator themselves has well over 100k subscribers. It looks perfectly legit. Before you can overcomplicate it and talk yourself out of it, you press play.

“Hi everyone!” The guy on the video has a soft, smiling face, accented by round, thin-rimmed glasses. “Welcome or welcome back to my channel. If you're new here, I'm Seungmin, and I have GLS, which stands for Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome. Or, to put it simply, I have the werewolf gene.”

You are immediately invested.

“I set up a question box on Instagram a couple days ago, and you guys really went to town.” Seungmin chuckles. “So I'll answer a few of those in this video.”

The first few questions are simple enough– what made him suspect he had it, the diagnostic process, how his family reacted. He answers every question thoughtfully and thoroughly in a way that makes you learn more than you thought you needed to.

You're writing down the fact that people with GLS tend to need more red meat than dark meat in their diet when he starts reading out the next question. 

“@jutdae asks, ‘how does the enhanced sense thing not drive you crazy?’” Seungmin lets out a little laugh. “So, the sense thing is kind of tricky for non-GLS people to understand. On a regular day, it might be enhanced, but maybe only 50% better than most people. The real issue is when rut or heat cycles start.”

You drop your phone, cursing when it slips right into the couch cushions.

“During a rut–” Seungmin's muffled voice continues as you fish around for your phone. “-- it's probably around 150% better. And our body temperature will skyrocket, like a constant fever type. The extra sensory input can cause a lot of restless energy too, so we're always feeling like we want to crawl out of our skin. Thankfully ruts, or heats for AFAB people, only happen once every three months, for about a week.”

You finally find your phone, heart pounding as you fumble to hold it still. The boy on your screen adjusts his glasses before continuing, entirely unaware how he's just flipped your life on its head.

“Well, that's for people who've presented for a while. When you first present with symptoms, you can get your rut every month. And that's… an entirely different type of intense. I surely don't miss that.”

Your brain might be oozing out of your ears.

You don't need to Google what a rut cycle is. You already know. It's the one aspect of GLS everyone is familiar with.

You scan through the events of the last 36 hours with unfathomable speed. It's all there. Every single symptom mentioned in this video. 

Extremely heightened senses. Restless energy. Fever-hot skin. 

Chan.

Chan hasn't been able to sit still. Chan's skin is hot to the touch. Chan keeps telling you when your pain is about to start because he can smell it. Chan brought you to an isolated cabin in the mountains.

Chan is in rut. Chan's diagnosis was only finalized less than a week ago. Ergo, this is his first rut.

The sound of a car door slamming makes you jump so hard that your phone flies away from the couch and skitters onto the floor.

Shit.

You scramble to grab it, swiping out of the video before Seungmin finishes answering what you're certain are other life changing questions. You can't hear anything he's saying, laser focused on the sound of Chan's impending footsteps and the sound of rustling grocery bags.

“Babygirl,” Chan's voice vibrates from the entryway. “I'm back. You awake?”

“Yeah,” you call, forcing yourself to sound steady. You clear your throat. “Yes, I'm up.”

You hear him put the bags down and toe off his sneakers, socked feet padding into the room where you are, undoubtedly, staring like a ghost came through the door and robbed you of your possessions. You fight to fix your expression into something normal, but all of that goes out the window when he steps into the threshold.

He's soaked. The rain has soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his chest and highlight every cut of his muscle. His curls are wild, some of them plastered to his forehead while others seem to be competing for the best pose. There's water dripping down his neck an–

You find a spot on the wall to look at instead. 

“Sorry I took so long.” He brushes his hair off of his face. “The store closest was closed, had to run way into town.”

“It's fine,” you squeak. He looks at you, eyebrows furred. “I was fine, just watched some YouTube. I wasn't up for long.”

He tilts his head, studying you with his nearly impossibly dark eyes. His lips push up, almost like he's pouting, but you watch as confusion takes over his gaze. He squints, and you burrow yourself further into the couch. If his smell is heightened, then he probably–

“You okay?”

You nod too enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. Why?”

He opens his mouth to say something, moves his body as though he'll take a step towards you, but he stops. You hold eye contact for a second, feeling small and exposed among his gaze. But then he nods almost imperceptibly, turning to grab his wet sweater from the entrance. 

“I'm gonna get changed and make us some lunch. Sandwiches?”

You nod.

“Good. Find us something to watch, yeah?”

As soon as he's gone up the stairs, you collapse back onto the couch, pressing your hands against your burning cheeks.

Okay. Okay.

You're probably– definitely – making this weird. Maybe you've read too many werewolf romance novels. Chan is going through something a lot more tangible than turning into a wolf and scampering off into the moonlight, and here you are, being a degenerate as usual. He brought you here because you're his best friend. Because he needs support.

The rut thing… is just a coincidence. Or maybe not even a big deal, or something he wants you to worry about. Yes. That's it. 

Distantly, you hear the shower turn on, and everything from your neck to the crown of your head lights aflame.

The remote chooses that moment to reappear, launching itself from the couch blanket and onto the floor. You snatch it up quickly, flicking on the TV and navigating to Netflix. You need something light. Something stupid. Something to fizzle out the charged energy in the atmosphere.

He'll handle himself… however that may be. You repeat this to yourself as you scroll through the comedy section, eyes blurring at the words in front of you. It's none of your business, anyway. You have one job right now, and that's finding something to watch.

You settle on a cooking show when you hear him coming down the stairs again. You focus on the TV, your mantra echoing around your skull as though you have no brain.

Everything is fine. You're fine. He's fine. 

“Worst Cooks in America?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. He's standing behind the couch, now wearing dry clothes– a zip up sweatshirt and loose sweats. You notice, entirely by accident, that there's no shirt under the sweater. Just plain, exposed skin.

Great. 

You hum out a noncommittal answer, just as he turns and heads to the kitchen, mentioning as he goes that he's using roast beef.  You listen to the sound of the fridge opening and the hum of the toaster as he plugs it in, no doubt solely to put your bread to toast, the same way you've eaten a sandwich since you were eight years old.

You can do this. You can act normal. You're an adult, and you have been for a few years. Things don’t have to be weird just because you now know that your best friend is a delicate, walking bundle of hormones. Chan clearly trusts you enough to have you here, and you're not going to mess that up by being a disaster about it.

You hear him humming in the kitchen, puttering about through the cabinets, the clink of plates on the counter. It's so normal, so Chan, that it almost makes you forget about everything else.

You shake your head, hoping to physically dislodge the memories of the noise he made when you were scratching his neck– the deep, rumbling groan that ran through your sleep-riddled body until stopping to wake you up where you're most sensitive. It was just a noise, you make noises all the time.

When he appears in the doorway with the two plates, all smiles and soft around the edges, you take a deep breath before returning the smile. 

You can do this. You can sit down next to Chan and watch the show and be normal. Everything is fine.

Probably.

… Maybe.

Everything is not fine.

The realization comes later in the night when the darkness from the storm bleeds into the darkness of late evening. It's nearing 10pm, and you and Chan are still seated on the couch together, now on opposing sides, still watching the same cooking show.

Or pretending to.

Chan seemed to be getting worse as the evening progressed. When he first came in from outside, he seemed calmer, less tense, but now he was sitting rigid, wound up like a toy no one would release. He was sweating an almost ridiculous amount, and the zip from his hoodie was pulled down to the middle of his stomach, exposing all the skin underneath.

His breaths were coming in short pants now. He had a steady grip on the fabric of his sweats, and you were almost certain that he'd tear a hole in them with the way he was grabbing them.

You weren't sure what to do.

You had tried nudging him with your foot gently a while ago, but when your skin made contact, he made another low sound in his throat that shot right up your leg and into your core. You pulled your foot away quickly, apologizing, making sure to press your knees together so the scent of arousal wouldn't reach him. 

And that was before he had started panting like… well, a dog. Now you weren't sure you'd be able to reach him through the fog of his own mind even if you screamed right in his face.

You're about to try saying something, anything as the episode that was playing ends, but he shoots up off the couch before you can think of words to say. He's pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, visibly shaking with the effort of breathing normally.

“Chan,” you start.

He holds up a hand. “I'm– I'm okay,” he breathes. 

He's not. 

“The rain, I think,” he grits out. “Too loud. Too much. You're okay, though?”

Of course Chan would find the time to check on you while going through his own crisis. You sit up a little on the couch, staring at him even though he has his eyes covered. The words are coming out of your mouth before you can even think about what you're saying: “Do I smell okay?”

He grunts. You suddenly understand why cavepeople had so many kids. 

“Smell fine,” he breathes. He slides his hands down his face, fixing his gaze away from you. “You do, I mean. You smell good.”

It dawns on you then that maybe the newly awakened wolf-like part of his consciousness is reacting to your smell because you're a girl, and he's in a rut. Maybe you should leave the room, give him some space?

You're trying to find a way to ask if that's what he needs without giving away what you know, but he fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie again, wanting to tug it down some more. He stops, takes a deep breath, and then drops his hand.

“I think I need a second,” he says. His hands are twitching at his side. “Need my room. Need the quiet, yeah?”

You nod. That's fine. It's for the best anyway, right?  “That's okay. You can come back when you're ready.”

He nods, still not looking at you. There's a moment where he seems to hesitate, but whatever internal war he's having ends quickly, and he basically runs up the stairs. Just before you hear his door close, you hear the sound of his hoodie zipping down all the way.

Heat floods your face as you turn back to the show.

After a while of still failing to really pay attention, you pull your phone out from under the blanket. Despite the pure, unfiltered desire thrumming through your veins, you still want to help Chan. It's bothering you how bothered he is, how helpless he seems. There has to be something you can do for him.

You type, How to help a werewolf in a rut into your search bar, and after realizing very quickly that that's actually the title of an erotica series, you change your search to something more medical sounding.

It takes trial and error, but GLS and Rut Cycles Help seems to give you the best results.

You find a forum on a website dedicated to rare genetic disorders. It’s the one link that seems to have real information, ironically nestled between a fanfiction website and Twitter. 

You stop on a thread that catches your attention:

Non-GLS Roommate Here: Any way I can help with heats?

Not in that way, they write. But my roommate just presented with this disorder and she's absolutely miserable, and I feel so bad. I'm not trying to fuck her, but is there anything I can do to help?? Meds? Chocolate?? Leaving her alone??

There are only a handful of responses, mostly people lol-ing about how non-lycanthropes always think a heat cycle is like a period. One answer sticks out to you:

if it's her first heat, she's probably running a pretty high temp. make her some cold drinks to bring the temperature down and the hormones may follow. that used to work for me. ideally, try to convince her to take a cold shower, but her instincts might be telling her not to. it's a delicate game lol. don't press the shower thing if you don't want her to bite. like, literally. AFAB lycanthropes have a thing for biting idk

It makes sense now why Chan looked better when he came in from the rain. It was, essentially, the cold shower that he needed. You wonder briefly if you could convince him to go back out, but you decide against it. It's dark now, and you don't need him getting hurt.

So, instead, you peel yourself away from the couch and head into the kitchen. There's tons of juice cartons already in the fridge, but you bypass them, instead grabbing the bag of lemons and the carton of blueberries. 

The first time you made lemonade for Chan, the two of you were in fifth grade. You wanted to save money for the new and extremely expensive ride-on jeep that you saw in the store, and the only thing you could think to do was sell lemonade. You forced Chan (who had no interest in the car but wanted to help anyway) to sit down and taste batch after batch of your lemonade.

After he threatened to tell your parents you were trying to poison him, you made one last batch of the lemonade, and on a whim, dumped some blueberry syrup into it. He grumbled as he took the cup, but he couldn't hide his satisfied smile.

“That's the one,” he grinned. 

You never did save the money for the car, but you kept the lemonade recipe anyway. There was nothing your blueberry lemonade couldn't fix.

And you were prepared to add rut fevers to that list.

You dump a ton of ice in Chan's reusable water bottle before pouring the lemonade over it, putting the top on and swirling it around. You take a sip first, nodding in contentment when it nearly freezes the back of your throat.

With your phone in your back pocket and the lemonade in hand, you make your way up the stairs, pausing in front of Chan's bedroom door. A feeling of nervousness washes over you, but you beat it down with a stick. You're just delivering some lemonade. You'll be fine.

“Channie,” your voice is tentative as you knock. “You okay? I brought you a surprise.”

You listen carefully. You can't hear anything on the other side of the door. You don't wanna bang or yell, knowing his ears are probably sensitive already. You knock gently again, really straining your ears to hear.

He must be asleep, you think. You'll just leave the cup on the nightstand for him to find when he wakes up. You turn the doorknob and push open the door and–

Subsequently drop the cup on the floor.

Chan is not asleep.

Chan is very much awake.

He can't see you, no, because his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back against the headboard of his bed. His face and ears are red, and his lips are extra plump. You wonder why until he bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

You let your eyes trail down. He's touching himself.

Oh.

One of his hands is wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously like it's just not enough. The other hand is white knuckling the pillow you slept on last night, bringing it up to his face so he can no doubt inhale whatever leftover scent is on it. 

He has no idea that you're in the room. The pillow is already carrying your scent, so there's no intrusion to his senses. You should look away. You should go, you should…

You can't look away.

His hips are thrusting upwards to meet his hand now, his entire body writhing on the bed like he's trying to find the perfect spot. With his sweater open, you can see the contraction of his ab muscles as he moves, all the hard contours of his body chasing his pleasure. You watch as he twists his wrist, thumb sliding across the slit of his cock and smearing precum down the shaft. 

You hear him make a sound, almost like he's grunting, and then he's mumbling something under his breath. It's low, too low for you to really hear it, but when he speaks again, you definitely understand.

"Babygirl," he groans. He squeezes his cock at the base before stroking it again. "F-fuck, babygirl."

It's then that you squeak, slamming a hand over your mouth almost immediately. His eyes fly open and he shoots up, face panicked, but he doesn't stop moving his hand.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," you manage. "I came to-- I just-- Oh my God."

Chan's eyes are wild as he looks at you. His chest is heaving and his curls are sticking up all over the place. He looks pained and conflicted, likely warring within himself about whether he should stop or not. From the way his ears turn a deep shade of red, you can tell he thinks that he should.

He doesn't, though. He's still jacking himself off, faster and faster, even as he gives you a devastatingly desperate look.

"Fuck," he grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't-- you just smell so fucking good and I–” He pants, looking at you with eyes that can barely stay open. “I can't stop. Babygirl, make me stop."

Your brain is malfunctioning, but the part of it that can still process information has taken notice of what he's saying. You were right earlier. It's your smell. Your smell is driving him crazy because you're a fertile, childbearing aged female. It's not poorly contained last or a bad decision on his part.

It's biology. It's what that primal part of his brain needs.

Your body goes hot as you think of your next words.

"You..." you swallow around nothing. You're wearing socks, but the cold from the floor seems to seep into your feet. "You don't– um. Do you… need help?”

His pupils blow.

"I don't… I don't want to hurt you," he whines, chest heaving as his fist pumps faster. "You shouldn't."

"But I want to help," you breathe. You take a step closer to the bed, legs shaking from the sheer intensity of how fast your arousal hits. "What if I want to help?"

He stops then, staring at you with the same intensity he had last night. You feel stripped, exposed, but you don't feel unsafe.

You take another step closer.

"Chan," you whisper. You're at the foot of the bed now. "What if I want to?"

He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

"I won't… touch you if you don't want me to." You take another step to the side of the bed, feeling somewhat bold under his gaze. "But I'll... I'll let you touch me, if you need. Whatever you want. Just... just tell me what to do."

You're only a couple steps away now. Chan is practically shaking with the effort it takes not to move, to wait for your permission. It's then that you realize he's waiting for you to make the first move, and all of the power shifts to you.

You're standing right next to him now, the two of you locked in an intensely heated gaze. He reaches for you silently with the hand not fisted around his cock, moving slowly like you'll dissolve if he's too eager. When you nod, his hand slides down the length of your arm, fingers interlacing.

Then–

"Please," he whispers. His voice cracks on the lone syllable. "Please, babygirl. I need you.”

He brings the hand he's holding over to his already throbbing cock, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive skin on his tip. His head rolls back again and his hips buck up. You try not to shiver.

"I just... I just need this," he breathes. "Please. I won't touch you, I'll be good."

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice. Maybe it's the way his eyes look so innocent, absolutely contrasting what he's begging you to do. Whatever it is, you let your tongue dart out to wet your lips, throat feeling incredibly dry as you stare down at him.

You wrap your fingers around his cock tentatively, not missing the way his body seems to come alive at your touch, and start moving up and down. He's already so hard, his entire shaft coated in his precum so you can slide up and down with ease. The sounds he's making are going straight to your core, and you can feel the way your underwear is sticking to you.

"Tight," he grunts. "Tighter, please."

You tighten your grip, speeding up a little bit. You feel him thrusting upwards to meet your hand, his hand squeezing yours like he needs the support to ground himself. You let your thumb brush over his tip, using his precum as lube to give him even more friction.

He cries out, back arching. "Yes," he chokes out. "Fuck, babygirl, do that again.”

You do, swiping your thumb across the slit and spreading more precum over him. It makes everything slicker and wetter, and the way you're able to move faster now has him moaning nonsensical little things.

His hips are bucking up harder now, and you watch as his abs tense and release, the hand not holding yours going up to tug on his hair. Your body feels like a loaded stick of dynamite, and you're so careful to keep your hips still, knowing how badly you want friction.

"M’close," he breathes. "Fuck, babygirl. You feel so good."

You pump faster, giving him the extra tightness and friction that he needs. You watch as the hand in his hair drops to his stomach, nails digging into his abs.

You wonder how long he was in here like this, pained and desperate. You try not to think about him moaning your name in the empty room, fucking up into his fist as he thinks about you, chasing your scent on his pillow.

Just because of the rut, your brain supplies. Because it would be absurd to think otherwise.

You glance up at his face. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted as he pants and grunts and makes other sounds in the air. The look on his face is enough to make you clench around nothing. You've only been hot and bothered for the last 5 minutes and you already feel desperate to cum, so you can't imagine what he's going through.

You let your other hand reach up to cup his face.

"Chan," you murmur. "Look at me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils completely blown as he meets your gaze. You see sweat sliding down the side of his face, and you wonder if it's from his fever or his pleasure.

"You're okay, babyboy," you whisper. His cock jumps in your hand at that. "You can cum, you know. You don't have to hold back."

"Wanna--wanna be good," he grunts. You feel him start to thrust faster. "Don't wanna hurt you."

"You're doing so good, Channie. You're not hurting me."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you drop your hand from his cheek and slide it down the column of his throat, letting your nails scratch across his skin. His reaction is immediate, body spasming as he groans.

"Shit," he cries. "Yes, right– right there, Oh my God."

"Yeah?" You scrape your nails across the base of his throat again, making sure to be a bit rougher this time.

He nods quickly, the grip on your hand tightening. You take your other hand off of him, drinking up the sound of his whine before you slide it underneath his hoodie, feeling his chest up. You scrape your nails over his pecs, making him jolt a little.

"C'mon, Channie," you coo. "You're okay. I want you to cum for me."

He lets out a strangled sound, hips bucking up into your fist even faster now. His head falls back again and you see the muscles in his neck strain.

"Please," he chokes out. "I need-- I need--"

You slide your hand from his chest back up to his neck, finding the spot from earlier that made him make that deliciously memorable noise. When you drag your nails across it, his hips stutter in their rhythm, and that's the only warning you have before his entire body is convulsing with pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts. "Babygirl, fuck–”

His cock pulses in your hand as he cums, releasing all over himself and your fingers. You stroke him through it, gently moving your hand up and down until he's spent.

Then, there's silence.

You're not sure what you expect. Maybe for him to turn over and go to sleep, or for him to act bashful and apologetic, letting you know it won't happen again.

You certainly aren't expecting for him to grip your hips and lift you up onto the bed. Or for him to gently push you down on your back. Or for the desperation in his face to be replaced with something harder, something more in control and dominating as he says, “Please let me eat your pussy, babygirl.”

You almost choke.

You feel like you should protest. Tell him he doesn't have to, that this is already more than you thought you would ever get. But then he's sliding his hands up under your shirt, and the only thing your mouth can form is a moan.

He's never seen you naked, always a respectable gentleman, but there's no hesitation or uncertainty in the way his hands move around your body. He's not tentative and gentle like you expected; he's touching and pinching and running his nails along your skin like he's done this before, like he knows all your spots. He reaches your chest, where you have no bra, and rubs his thumb across your already hardened nipple. Your back arches and your legs fall open for him with a groan, letting him slot himself in the now empty spot.

He pulls his hand away, moving up to your face and cupping your jaw so you can look at him. He's looking down at you with dark eyes.

"Please?”

He's asking, you know, but there's nothing gentle in the way he's looking at you. You nod as best as you can, and he brings his hand down from your jaw to your chin, fingers sliding over your lips. You feel him nudge his thumb against your bottom lip, and you take the hint.

You open your mouth for him, letting him slide his thumb inside and rub it across your tongue. He's looking down at you intensely as you swirl your tongue around his finger, and when you suck on it a little, he lets out a grunt.

"Fuck," he breathes. He pulls his thumb away, watching as a string of saliva connects it to your lips. "You're gonna let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You nod again, but he gives a little humorless chuckle, head tilting at you.

"Use your words babygirl."

"Yes." Your voice is quiet. "Yes, I want you to.”

He stares at you for another moment. You watch his eyes dart across your face, your body, before settling on your lips again. He leans down then, hovering just above you as he licks his own lips.

"Gonna kiss you now," he murmurs. "That okay?"

You fear you look stupid, the way you're just staring up at him, jaw slacked and eyes going in and out of focus. You nod anyway, trying to act normal.

Or as normal as you can, under the circumstances.

He doesn't waste any more time after that. He leans down the rest of the way, pressing his lips against yours. It's slow at first, a sweet little thing that makes you feel warm and safe. You sigh into it, eyes fluttering closed.

But then he licks a stripe across your bottom lip, and you let out a pathetic little whimper, lips falling open just enough for him to slot his tongue in your mouth. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. It's desperate, burning, hot and filthy. He's licking into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips. You try to press your thighs together again, but his strong, muscular slab of body is between them, forcing them open.

His hands slide down your sides and settle on your hips. Your shorts do nothing as a barrier, and you feel every modicum of heat in his hands. He slips those warm hands into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, sliding them down your body antagonizingly slowly.

He sits back on his knees then, pulling them both all the way off before tossing them to the side. Then he leans forward again, pressing wet kisses to the skin right below your belly button.

"Chan," you breathe.

"S'okay baby," he mumbles against your skin. You feel a new wave of wetness flow through you. How could your usual nickname be even hotter with half of it missing?

Then he's moving his mouth down, down, down, and you feel him pressing his nose to your slit.

"Oh god," you whine.

"I know," he murmurs. You feel his tongue press against your clit, and your entire body spasms. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing your thighs to hold them open. "I know babygirl.”

He licks you again, making you groan out loud. You can't help but bring one hand up to his curls, weaving your fingers through them and tugging on them like you've always wanted to. He responds by moaning, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

You feel his tongue dip lower, spreading your wetness around. He dips it into your entrance, tongue fucking you at such a languid pace you feel like you'll fall apart. You hear him groan against your cunt again, and his hands tighten on your thighs.

"So wet, baby," he murmurs. "Taste so good.”

He presses his tongue to your clit again, and you pull on his hair harder. He grunts, and you feel him rutting up against the bed, his cock hard again, chasing some form of relief. 

"Please baby," he mumbles against you. "Want you to cum for me. Please."

You know yourself, know what gets you going and what really makes you cum, so you want to tell him that it's going to take more than this, that you're not there yet, but you don't get a chance to before he's sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up and finding your spot with such accuracy your vision goes white.

You feel him suck on your clit then, swirling his tongue around it as he slides another finger inside of you. You tug on his hair again, not even realizing that you're grinding up against his face.

You feel yourself getting closer, chasing the release you've been desperate for since he pulled you onto the bed. His fingers curl inside of you again, pressing that spot and making you scream out his name.

"Yeah?" Chan groans against you, voice hoarse and desperate. "Like that? S'okay baby, let go."

"Chan," you choke. You're so, so close. "Chris. Chris.”

He moans at that, speeding up his fingers and moving his tongue even faster.  He's rocking himself up against the mattress with more urgency now, panting and moaning with his mouth pressed to your cunt.

"C'mon babygirl," he mumbles. "Need you to cum. C'mon, please. Need it."

He presses his fingers into that spot again, and you're gone. You arch up off of the bed as you cum, his name ripping itself from your throat as he fucks you through it. You feel your cunt pulsing around his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. He keeps licking, his moans sending vibrations straight up your spine until you're over sensitive, tugging on his hair for him to back away. He does, but not before pressing wet kisses to the inside of your thigh.

He sits up then, his hair sticking up all over the place from where you've been pulling on it. He's sweaty and breathing hard, his lips swollen and red from where you were kissing him. You feel his eyes roam over your body, and you know that if you look down, you'll see how your skin is flushed from your ears down to your chest.

He's still sporting a semi, but his focus isn't on that anymore. He gathers you up in his hands, pulling you with him to the top of the bed and settling you with him on the pillows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling you to rest your head on his chest.

"Sleep," he says into your hair. You notice how his body temperature has dropped-- he doesn't feel like an inferno anymore.

You're too tired to do anything but whine gently at the way he's holding you, too relaxed and spent to say anything. You feel sleep pulling at your eyes as he fixes your shirt over you carefully.

"Ah, shit," he murmurs. "Gotta clean you up. Then I'll come right back, yeah?”

You nod, trying to fight off sleep just a little longer. He presses a kiss to your hair before sliding out of the bed, going to the bathroom and coming back with a warm washcloth. You feel him wipe you down gently, and you mumble out something that might've been a thank you.

He takes the washcloth back to the bathroom, coming back to join you in bed. He pulls you back on top of him, settling the blankets over the two of you.

You're asleep before he can even kiss your forehead again.

When you wake up in the morning, you do your usual pause to see what does and doesn't hurt. You're mostly pain free, you realize sleepily, except for a dull ache in your hips and knees and a pleasant soreness in your–

Oh shit.

Everything slams back into you at once. The lemonade, Chan, him begging for you in more ways than one. It feels like you've been doused in cold water and tossed off of a bridge.

You go to sit up, but when you make an attempt to move, you feel an impossibly heavy weight around your midsection. Said weight snores a bit, and you realize that it's Chan's arm draped across you.

He's sleeping soundly next to you, hair still ruffled and unruly from where you were pulling it, lips still slightly swollen and red. The blankets are pulled up to his chin, hiding his body from view.

Your face burns as you try to really remember everything that happened last night, either to orient yourself through the brain fog or torture yourself. You're not entirely sure. Chan was... he was in rut, you knew that much. And you offered to help. Then he ate you out and gave you what was probably the most intense orgasm of your life, and then you fell asleep.

Typical stuff. Of course.

The memories are still there, but the reality of the situation has you panicking. His eyes are still closed, so you don't have to deal with the embarrassment of him catching you staring, but you're frozen anyway.

You're immediately hit with the overwhelming realization that you just made a mistake. There's no way you can possibly continue to keep your feelings for Chan a secret after this, no way that you can pretend you don't know what his amazingly deft fingers feel like inside of you. How would you ever be able to look him in the face again?

A vibrating sound pulls you from your spiral. For a second, you wonder if it's coming from Chan, but you recognize that, no matter what genetic issue he has, a person cannot vibrate. 

The sound is actually coming from just off the side of the bed, where your shorts and panties lay discarded. You reach over and pluck your phone from the back pocket, turning it over to see an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

You're about to send it to voicemail when your heart sinks like lead along with recognition in your chest. It's the genetic clinic.

You're untangling yourself from Chan's arms in record speed, shirking your shorts on and stepping into the hallway. He doesn't stir, thankfully, but you still close the door gently behind you anyway.

"Hello?" You breathe.

The nurse on the other side of the line greets you enthusiastically, and after confirming you are the intended recipient of the phone call, she asks you to hold while she transfers you to the doctor. You wait anxiously for a minute or two, pacing your way to the kitchen island and picking at the skin around your fingers while you listen to the generic hold music.

"Good morning," the doctor says as she comes on the line. She, too, sounds far too chipper. "I apologize for the wait, I was in the middle of rounds when your nurse flagged me down."

"That's okay," you say. Pleasantries feel superficial right now.

"Right, so. We did get some of your preliminary genetic results back," she says. You can hear pages being turned on the other side of the line. "I wanted to let you know that, unfortunately--"

The floor falls from under your feet.

"-- You did test positive for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Classical type."

You can't really hear anything else she's saying. Something about coming back in, maybe. About starting physical therapy. Taking care of yourself. You feel sick, like you might pass out. Or throw up. 

You manage to push through the rest of the conversation, your voice sounding far away even to your own ears. She lets you know that she's sending follow-up information to your email, says that it's important to have support at such a time like this, and you make a very non committal grunt of acknowledgement before ending the phone call. Your phone chatters on the island, the sound echoing in the empty space.

You can't even form a concept of a thought before your chest feels tight, like there's a rubber band stretching across your ribs and pulling taut. You skin suddenly feels like there are a million and one tiny sets of feet thrumming underneath it. It's too hot. Your shirt is choking you. It's all suddenly too much at once: last night with Chan, the diagnosis, the way you're feeling an ache building in your back.

You need to move. You need to get out.

You're up the stairs before you can really process it, standing in front of your suitcase and rifling through it with speed. You find a pair of sweats and what you’re almost certain is Chan's old hoodie, but you toss them on quickly anyway.

The air is crisp when it hits your face a few moments later. It's exactly what you need. The path around the cabin is familiar– you've walked it countless times during family trips and weekend getaways. You know exactly where to step to avoid the mud, which trees mark the loop back to the house.

You walk until your legs burn, until the tears on your face dry in the cold air. Your mind races with everything and nothing at once.

Classical EDS. Your PCP was right about it being a connective tissue disorder. EDS explains the tummy aches, the racing heart, the migraines, and most obviously, the joint pain. There's no cure. Just management. Just a lifetime of being careful, of physical therapy, of putting in insane amounts of effort to make sure your joints don't fucking disintegrate.

You find this to be the most manageable of all the issues at the moment. 

But Chan…

God, Chan. What were you thinking? He was in rut, vulnerable and needing comfort, and you just... what? Offered yourself up like some kind of heathen? Let him touch you in ways you've only dreamed about, knowing full well it would change everything?

This feels like the biggest issue to you, you realize when you pause on a tree stump. Because if you lose Chan, from something you initiated, you will lose everything else. He is the center of your universe, and everything revolves around him. You can't lose him, especially not over your own stupidity.

You think about going back. Talking to him. Maybe trying to convince him that you're fine, that he doesn't have to worry about you. That you don't like him like that, and you were just being a good friend and helping.

But then you remember his face when he came, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he moaned out your name. The way his fingers felt inside of you. How good he smelled.

You'll never be able to forget any of it now, you realize. And it will tear you apart if you lose him because of it.

You realize you've been walking much longer than intended when you catch a glimpse of the position of the sun. The morning chill has given way to a warmer temperature, though your face still feels numb from the wind. Your joints are definitely making themselves known now.

You suppose you may as well head back, even if you don't have any idea what you’re going to do when you have to face Chan. You can't stay out and freeze.

As you round the final bend that leads back to the cabin, you see him.

Chan is standing on the front porch, shirtless despite the cold, his hands visibly shaking at his sides. He's looking in the opposite direction, but you see when your scent hits him, because he whips around and his eyes lock onto you immediately. There's a look on his face that makes your chest ache– he looks terrified, like he's been coming apart at the seams.

You both freeze in your spots, an echo of that moment at the clinic. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You notice then that his eyes are red, not the same red tint you now recognize from his rut, no. This is the red tint from that day he had to drive you to the hospital.

He's been crying.

“Where–” his voice is labored. “Babygirl. Where have you been?”

"I just..." you gesture vaguely at the path behind you. "I needed some air."

He takes a step forward, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself in his tracks. "You weren't... you were gone when I woke up. Your phone was on the counter, I couldn't... I didn't know where…”

He makes a pained noise in his chest, and then you see his entire face crumble. He pulls one of his arms up to his face, covering his eyes as you hear him start to cry.

Your heart breaks in two.

You rush to him as quickly as your protesting legs will allow, taking the stairs two at a time until you're in front of him. You reach up to gently pull his arm down, but he jerks away, a wounded noise escaping from his mouth.

"No," he cries. "You shouldn't–  don't touch me. I'm sorry.”

“Chris,” you breathe, hoping to cut through his emotional fog. “Chris, please, look at me.”

“Tell me what I did.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“What did I do wrong?” His voice cracks around the words. “Last night, I couldn't… control myself. And you were so good to me and then– you were gone.”

"Chan, no." You reach for him again, and this time he lets you pull his arm down. His face is streaked with tears, those big brown eyes red and swollen. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head violently, words tumbling out around hiccups. "Then why did you leave? Why didn't you wake me up? I woke up and you were gone and I couldn't– your scent was gone and I couldn't–"

A sob cuts him off. You grab his hand and tug him towards the door. "Let's go inside. Please? It's freezing out here.”

He lets you tug him inside, at least just until you can close the door. You try to bring him over to the couch, but he's stubborn, keeping his feet planted where they are. He won't look at you, keeping his gaze downcast no matter how much you tug on his arm. You let go after a tense moment, sighing and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Chan. The clinic called,” you say softly. “Thats why I left. My results came back.”

His head snaps up at that, understanding settling over his face. “You… did you test positive for–”

“Classical Ehlers Danlos,” you supply.

He looks like he'll cry all over again, reaching his hand out to you before pulling it back to his side. He squeezes his hands in and out of fists a few times before he shakes his head, tilting his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. “Last night… I shouldn't have–”

“Stop, please,” you cut him off, voice hoarse in the quiet. You've run out of energy. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“No, I did everything wrong. I thought I could handle it, thought it wouldn't be too much. Everyone told me it was a bad idea but I didn't want to listen, thought I could control myself.”

You feel bile rising in your throat. “What?”

He shakes his head again. “I shouldn't have said yes.”

He murmurs it, but the cabin is dead silent, so there's no way you don't hear it. There's no way you can misinterpret what he means either. Last night. He shouldn't have said yes when you asked if he needed help.

You take a step back, and you watch his face crumble a bit more. “Right.” Your voice sounds hollow. “It's fine. It was a mistake anyway."

"A mistake?" Now he looks confused through his tears. "No, that's not–"

"It's okay, Chan." You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. You need to end this conversation now so you can go cry in your bed. "We can just forget it happened. You were in rut, I was... available. It's fine."

"Available." He deadpans. His gaze loses some of the previous softness. "Is that what you think? That I just... used you because you were there?”

You find yourself backing away towards the stairs, already mentally checked out. “Isn't it? You said it yourself last night, it was just my scent.”

His face flashes through so many emotions, you're not sure how you would begin parsing through them. He settles on something that looks like a mix of thinly veiled disgust and anger. He fixes his posture until he's back up to his full height now, brown eyes ablaze.

You decide to turn away from him fully at that moment. Whatever this is, this half argument you're having, it can wait until you've taken a good nap. You prepare to climb the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing and one foot on a stair.

That's about as far as you make it before you feel the unmistakable heat of Chan behind you. You stifle back the gasp that threatens to spill when he presses himself right up against your back, head dipped down so he's right by your ear.

“Ask me why,” he breathes. 

You shiver at the feeling of his breath on your ear, and your entire body lights up in record time. You've forgotten how to speak, maybe.

So, you eloquently stutter out a simple, "What?"

He slides a hand around you, reaching from the base of your back all the way to your stomach, pulling you closer to him. “Babygirl. I said, ask me why.”

You swallow thickly. His voice is still hoarse and low from the crying, and it sends a shiver up your spine that rocks your body so hard, you think you would fall if not for the strong arm around you.

"Why," you breathe. The word has no conviction in it. You're getting dizzy.

He leans even closer to you, lips brushing the shell of your outer ear. "Because," he murmurs. "Yes, your scent smells so fucking good. So sweet and warm. But I don't want you because you smell good, baby. I want you because you smell like you're mine.”

You whimper involuntarily at that, and you feel him inhale sharply. His other hand reaches up to hold your chin, tilting your head up towards him. You're looking at each other now, his eyes blown wide and his pupils blown so black, there's barely any brown left.

"Do you understand me, babygirl?" He's breathing hard against you. "Even under the harsh scent of your pain, or the saccharine scent of when you're happy, something in you always smells like you belong to me. Do you know why?"

Your knees feel weak. Not from pain, but because of whatever is happening right now. You let out a pathetic mewl in Chan's hold and watch his nostrils flare. 

"Because you are mine. My mate. You hear me, baby? Mine.”

Then he's tilting your head to the side and kissing down the column of your throat, nipping just hard enough to send electricity through your body. You whine, unable to stop the way your body arches into his touch. 

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest, pulling away just long enough to look you in your eyes again. "Wasn't using you," he huffs, saying the word use like it leaves a nasty flavor in his mouth. "I needed you, needed your scent around me to make it better. I couldn't control myself, baby."

He spins you around so that you're facing him now, hands still wrapped around your waist. You think he's about to kiss you, but you see a wave of clarity and seriousness push everything else to the side.

“They asked me at the clinic,” he starts, shuffling with you in his arms until you're back in the living room with him. “If something happened to a family member, or if I had a girlfriend who was hurt.”

You're hanging on to every word, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I told them no to both, but I told them about the hospital, about how you called me crying cause you were in so much pain, and you just kept passing out on me. I told them about how scared I was that if I left the hospital, I would come back and you wouldn't be there. You'd be gone. It was ripping me apart.”

You reach up to touch his face without thinking, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like he can't help himself.

“I presented because I wanted to protect you down to my very DNA. I was going so crazy about you that my body needed a way to protect me– protect you.”

“Chan,” you breathe.

“They said my inner wolf, that primal part of me, recognized it as my mate being in pain, and I was powerless to stop it. It's you, babygirl. It's always been you.”

The hopeless romantic in your heart is giddy. 

You think about how you'd tried to touch him during the drive up, how he'd pulled his hands away like he was in pain. You supposed maybe he was. Going through his first rut, stuck in an enclosed space with his mate, unable to do anything about it.

You can't imagine the amount of restraint it probably took him to remain normal. The sheer thought of it alone has you blinking back up at him, looking right in his eyes.

With the eye contact, you feel his body swell microscopically, like he's flaxing every muscle so he can look bigger, more threatening, but he is neither of those things to you.

To you he is just Chan.

You're rising up on your toes before you even know what's happening, hand sliding up Chan's neck to pull him down towards you and catching his lips in a hot, burning kiss. 

The hand around your waist tighten's its grip, slotting you even further against his body.

It feels like home. It feels like safety.

You feel his growing bulge press against you, and you hum into the kiss. 

It feels like perfection.

"M'Sorry," he slurs against your mouth. He makes no effort to pull away. "Still in rut. Sensitive."

You say nothing, sliding your free hand down his chest, over his stomach until you reach what you're looking for. You rest your hand over it softly, not grabbing or pressing, but he responds like you do, grunting and rutting up against your hand as he starts panting.

"Babygirl," he groans. "Baby, please."

You start moving your hand in earnest now, cupping his bulge through his sweats as he grinds up against you. His eyes flutter closed and he pulls away from the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," he grunts. "Wanna be inside. Wanna cum inside you so deep you'll never forget who you belong to. Make myself your alpha."

It's insane how your body reacts to that. You feel your clit jump in your underwear. The Alpha/Omega thing wasn't real-- or at least wasn't based on any science with the condition, but the way Chan speaks, the way his grunts sound so close to your ear, you believe it could be.

"You're gonna let me, right?" He whines. "Please? I'll make you feel so good. Been so good for me already baby. Just wanna make you cum on my cock."

Your moan gets caught in your throat when he slides a hand down your body to grip the swell of your ass. Between that and feeling him, rock solid against you, your entire body comes back to life with desperate, almost delirious need.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Channie, please. Want you. Please."

His chest vibrates with a growl and he wastes no time pushing you back until you're laying against the couch. He kneels over you, large hand reaching down and palming himself through his sweats.

He notices what you're wearing at that moment. He reaches his free hand down, gripping the material of your– his – hoodie. It's entirely too big for you, even when you're standing, but laying back like this, the material absolutely dwarfs you. 

He must like the sight of it, because you watch him grip himself tight.

"Fuck, babygirl. You don't know what you do to me. Wearing my clothes? Are you even wearing anything under that?"

Feeling bold, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater up, just enough so that he can see the expanse of skin right under it. When he looks back at your face, you give him an innocent expression, eyes wide and blinking.

He doesn't even bother taking anything off, just pulls his cock out of his sweats and starts stroking himself again. You feel your mouth go dry just from the sight of it– hard and flushed red, precum dripping from the tip. You grip the material of his sweater tighter.

“Gonna be good, baby?" he breathes. "Wanna get off like this."

You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks fucking delicious above you, cock in hand as he strokes himself faster now, moaning at the way you look underneath him.

"Gonna make myself cum on your stomach," he grunts. "Mark you. Then I'll fuck you until you're screaming, so everyone knows who you belong to.”

You feel your cunt throbbing in your underwear. You cant help the way you whine out his name, the way you squeeze your thighs together to try to get some relief. He looks like he's going to explode just from hearing you say his name like that.

He leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch by your head, effectively caging you in. You can feel how his muscles flex under your hands as you touch him, sliding your palms up and down his chest. You find your eyes locked onto his hand, watching the way he moves up and down.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he breathes. "Fucked my fist so many times wishing it was you.”

You wrap your arms around him, one hand going up to that special spot at the base of his neck. As you graze your nails against it, he turns his face, pressing his nose into the pulse point on your wrist, inhaling you and your smell.

He starts moaning louder, breath fanning across your arm as he gets closer and closer to the edge. You're so turned on from it, you feel like you might actually cum without a hand to your body.

"Babygirl," he grunts. "Baby, fuck. I'm close."

You pull him down to you, pressing his face right into your neck. You can feel how his eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back, the arm by your head straining with how tightly he's gripping the couch.

"Gonna let your alpha cum on your stomach, baby? Mark you?”

You nod quickly. You feel him lean in even more, brushing his lips against the soft part of your throat where he no doubt can feel your erratic pulse. You right into his ear, and then he's groaning out your name and nipping at your throat hard, all teeth and tongue and need as he spills all over you.

He makes sure to press his body flush against you while he rides out his orgasm, so that his cum splatters all over your stomach. He grinds up against you with his hips, making sure his cock slides along the fabric of his sweater. You watch him get lost in it, eyes screwed shut as he mouths at your throat, panting and moaning through his high.

Then he stills, just a bit. He pulls away from your neck, his pupils still completely blown as he looks down at you.

You're not sure what he sees when he does. You know sweat is starting to stick to your skin, plastering little bits of your hair to your face. Despite not being touched yet, you feel absolutely cock drunk if only on the sight of Chan alone.

You can't tell if that's what he sees, but whatever it is, it makes his still-hard cock jump against where it rests on your stomach. He's pushing himself up to sit on his knees before you even remember your own name.

He slides down the couch until his face is level with your hips. He pulls the waistband of your sweats down just enough for your cunt to be exposed, and then he's leaning forward, dragging his tongue along your slit.

"Fuck," you cry, body jolting. "Chan."

He doesn't respond verbally, just hums and pulls back enough to stare at your dripping cunt. You find your hips bucking up when he lets his mouth water just enough to drool right on you.

He dives back down to your cunt and pushes his tongue inside of you. You feel him moan against you as he licks you, slow and deliberate. You can hear how wet you are, and you feel yourself throb around his tongue when you hear it.

"I kept noticing your scent change," he says against your clit. He gives it a few kitten licks before diving down and flattening his tongue on you, licking and slurping you from end to end. "Sometimes, I would look at you, or touch you, and you smelled like citrus. Couldn't figure out why."

He takes those absurdly plump lips and suctions them around your clit, one strong arm coming to hold you down when you arch up off the bed.  "Thats just your scent when you're aroused," he continues, nudging his nose against your clit. "Smells so fucking good."

You're certain you might be delirious at this point. The way Chan eats you out feels so much better than anything else you've ever felt, and his tongue has you hurdling to the crest of your orgasm faster than you can believe.

"Oh. Ohh," you whimper. "Channie, m'so close."

"That's my good girl," he murmurs. His lips are still right against your clit. "You're so perfect baby. Let me make you feel good. Want you to cum for me."

He slides his tongue back inside of you, and you feel a hand come up to play with your clit. You're so dangling off the edge, so ready to jump with the right push. You just need a little more, but then you feel a finger slide inside of you and crook up.

You're gone. You cum with a shout of Chan's name, arching up off of the couch as your body shakes from the intensity of it all. He licks you through it, pulling away only when you start to whine and wiggle around from the sensitivity.

He sits back on his knees again, watching you pant on the couch as you try to collect yourself. You look over at him when you catch your breath, and you see him licking his fingers clean.

He leans over you again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down. You don't bother asking first, just slot his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. It's absolutely wet and filthy, the flavor of yourself bursting over your tongue when he swipes into your mouth. You suck on his tongue, hard, and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up under the sweater to touch your bare skin.

"Gonna fuck you good now," he grunts against your lips. You whine and press your body into his. "Okay, baby? Do you think you're ready for me?"

"Yes, Chris," you sigh. He pulls away from the kiss gently to stare at you. Despite the haze of his rut, you can see a hesitancy in his eyes, like there's something he wants but he's not saying. It takes all of two seconds for you to connect the dots.

"Please, Alpha?" you whine.

That seems to be the magic word, because he's lifting you up into his arms and standing up from the couch immediately. In a split second, you're pressed up against the wall next to the TV. You're very thankful for the layer between your bare skin and the freezing cold wall.

He wraps your legs around his waist, and suddenly you can feel the heat of his erection right on you. He presses his cock between your folds, holding you tight while he ruts up into you. 

You're so wet that the head catches against your entrance every so often, making both of you moan into each others mouths.

"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, uncharacteristically soft at a moment like this. "'m so grateful. So--" He lets out a pant, eyes rolling back as he lets his head drop back too. "Fuck."

You know Chan well enough to know what he's trying to say. He's thanking you for accepting him, for coming back to him, for letting him be vulnerable.

How could you not? He was so distressed by your wellbeing that a distant part of his DNA woke up to protect you. He ignored his doctor's orders to take you on this trip because he knew you needed it. He was content to suffer through his first rut in silence if it meant just taking care of you.

How could you not love all that he is?

You learn forward and nip him right as his pulse point, and his whole body jerks. You know werewolf lore, know that a bite there means a forever. You don't have the same genetic syndrome, but God do you want to be in his arms forever. You don't even feel like you need to question it.

His eyes, heavily lidded, find their way to your face. "You know what that bite means, right baby?" His voice is hoarse, and even when he clears his throat at your responding nod, it doesn't get better. "You wanna mark me there, babygirl? Make me yours?”

You nod, sliding your mouth up his throat until your lips are pressed right against his ear. You slide your tongue over his lobe and tug on it. "Please alpha. Wanna show everyone who you belong to."

He snakes a hand up your back until he finds your hair, fingers tangling in the roots as he grips, pulling your head back. "I mark you first," he grits out. "Let alpha take care of you."

You can't help the way you go pliant, letting your head fall to one side just enough to expose your neck to him. You watch his eyes and make your expression as wanting as possible.

He groans at that, finally pulling you away from the wall just enough so that he can line himself up. He pushes his tip right into you, and you press your forehead against his, the mixed sounds of your breathing being the only thing filling the atmosphere.

"I love you," he sighs. Your heart squeezes in your chest. "Gonna take such good care of you always, yeah?"

"I love you more, Chan," is your breathy reply.

"I'll give you everything," he sighs. "Everything you want. I just need you to come on my cock first, yeah? The alpha's got you. I got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly, and you both sigh as he bottoms out. You cling to him, pressing your face into his neck as he fucks you slowly into the wall.

He keeps it slow, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your forehead and hair, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how you were made just for him. You're already feeling the pressure building up in your stomach again, barely paying attention to what he's saying. 

"Gonna breed this tight little pussy," he murmurs at some point. You do hear that, and you clench hard around him, making him groan.

"Oh fuck," he gasps. "You want my seed, huh? Want me to fuck my seed in you, angel?"

Your walls around him again, swallowing him up. You know you can't get pregnant-- birth control and all of that-- but the idea of him filling you up has your body begging for more. You dig your nails into the skin of his back and you feel him throb inside of you. He makes a sound between a grunt and a moan, slamming his hips into yours, cock sliding into you deeper than before.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, m'so close already. Think you can you cum with me angel? Hm?"

You nod, clinging to his shoulders as you bounce up and down on his cock. It feels so good, too good, and you're already so close yourself.

"Chris," you whine. "I'm– fuck, I'm close."

"I know, babygirl," He sounds so wrecked. "I'm right behind you. You can cum for me baby. Cum for your alpha. Want you to cum on me, please."

He presses a kiss to your neck, right over your pulse point, and that's all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge. You cry out his name, letting him fuck you through it while your cunt pulsates around him. You feel him twitch in you, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips as he slams into you one last time, spilling all his cum inside of you.

He bites you then.

Its not painful, not really, because he doesn't break skin. His teeth aren't sharp enough for that. The bite is more performative than anything, but it sends a shockwave through your body.

 It's a strange feeling, almost like your blood is simmering under your skin, but you're so lost in the bliss of your orgasm that you don't even care. It feels right, anyhow. Like the final missing piece to a puzzle you've been spending a lifetime constructing.

He stays there for a second, sucking a bruise into your neck. His hands are shaking, but he's holding you tight enough that you don't even worry about falling.

Then, he licks the spot on your neck where he bit, soothing whatever pain he might've caused. He pulls away from you just enough to press a kiss to your lips, still holding you up with his cock in you.

"I love you," he whispers. "My mate. Mine."

You reach a hand up to touch his neck, and he tilts his head to the side, giving away to the instincts thrumming under his skin. You take your fingers and trace them along the column of his throat, stopping just under his Adam's apple. 

You don't say anything at first, just lean forward and press your lips against the same spot. Your bite is more restrained, more gentle. He hisses out a strangled sound, and you would assume it was pain if you didn't feel his cock pulse in you.

When you pull away, you look at him, a small smile on both of your incredibly fucked out faces. You lean forward and press a little kiss to his lips.

"I love you too," is your quiet reply. "My mate."

As promised, he's so gentle with you afterwards, cleaning you up and giving you your medication when he scents your hips are about to ache. The entire ordeal is so familiar, so cozy, you wonder how you could've ever let yourself believe that Chan didn't love you too.

Hours later, when you're cuddled together on the couch, dozing off in his lap, you hear him whispering something against your hair. Your mind is so muddled with sleep you can barely make out the words he's saying.

You string together something about mates, something about how he'll protect you, how you're his everything, how he loves you so much.

It doesn't really matter though. You know already, because he's yours, and you're his.

His everything.

[petrichoravis]

In between history. | s.r.

★ part i

★ to the SERIES MASTERLIST here

summary: you help the team with a history related case, all while trying not to reveal your relationship with a certain doctor and fellow professor to his teammates.

word count: 3,1k

what to expect: spencer reid x history professor!reader, fem!reader, post prison!spencer duh, case details (abuse, grooming), fucked up timeline cause hotch is here and tara, luke and matt are missing (I love them, I just don't feel like I can give them justice), abrupt ending bc I didn’t feel like writing the take down, not proof read, English is not my first language.

a/n: she's here, I'm so nervous!! my first series.... it's all a little rushed bc of exams and bc I wanted to give it to you as quick as possible. I hope you enjoy it!!

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

He dreaded that this moment had come. He always knew that it would at some point, but he still wished it away.

They weren’t exactly stuck; Spencer didn’t have to consult you, but he knew that having you to spark ideas and bounce off of would be helpful. And the fact that you had niche knowledge of historic events that Spencer only had surface-level knowledge on certainly helped, too.

Not only did he not look forward to it because the team didn’t know you existed—not to mention that you were together—but also because he really did not want to drag you into the dangerous world that was the Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI.

He had excused himself from the conference room ten minutes ago already and knew that he had to make a decision soon, or the team would get suspicious.

With a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket for the third time, your number already lighting up the small screen where he had typed it in moments before.

When he did build up the courage to press the green button and pressed the small device to his ear, a part of him hoped that you were in a lecture. (He knew you weren’t; he had your lectures memorized.)

“Hey, Spence,” your voice greeted him from the other side of the line.

“Hello, love. How are you?”

“Better now.” He could practically see the amusement light up your eyes. “I had a really fulfilling conversation with one of my students today. Are you okay? You don’t usually call me in the middle of a case.”

Ever observant you, a thing that he usually loved you for. “No, no, everything’s okay.” He tried being vague, but it came across as an unconvincing lie.

“Do I need to decipher that for some kind of FBI code?”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders waning. It was just like you to quieten his worries with just a few soothing words. “No deciphering needed, I promise. The case is just a little difficult to figure out.”

“Can I help in any way?”

More than you knew, Spencer thought. More than you should have to.

“Yeah, actually.” Spencer cleared his throat, playing with the end of his tie. “The UnSub seems to have a fondness for history.”

“Oh, well, I think I can help with that.”

“Yeah,” he huffed, but quickly added, “you don’t have to, of course, we can figure it out by ourselves if you’re too busy.”

“No, it’s okay. Should I come to the office or…?” He could already hear you shuffling around your office in search of your jacket.

Spencer glanced up at the clock, 6:47 pm, “If that’s okay? We’re at the Quantico police department. Most of the team is still here.”

It was a quiet way of telling you that it was okay if you weren’t ready to meet them yet. You had been dating for almost half a year now and the conversation about telling and meeting the team was always something you communicated clearly.

The intention wasn’t to hide your relationship or feelings; it just didn’t feel like something the team had to know, given that they didn’t know you.

Spencer liked having a life separate from his work life and, while he loved the team, he didn’t want to have to share everything with them.

Now, with you potentially meeting them, the not-hiding part changed. Either you would have to act like you didn’t know each other past both being professors at the same university, or you would have to tell them you have been together for quite a while.

“I’m sure,” you said, shaking him from his thoughts, your voice reinforcing the statement. “If I can help catch a killer, I will.”

Spencer sighed as the call ended a minute later. He was worried, to say the least.

Things went wrong in the field every day and people suffered severe burnouts because of the things they saw. And now he was putting you into these situations for the sole purpose of catching an UnSub.

He left the room to find Emily and Morgan in the entrance area next to the coffee machine.

“There you are, pretty boy, we were starting to worry.” Morgan grinned, slapping Spencer on the back.

“Sorry,” he replied, wringing his fingers like they were doorknobs, “I had to make a call.”

Emily and Morgan looked at him, a bewildered expression on their faces.

“I, um, called a…consultant?” Spencer continued. God, this was gonna suck. “About the case, and she has agreed to help us. I just need to talk to Hotch—” He was already turning towards the stairs before Emily interrupted him.

“Whoa there, Spencer,” she stopped him before he could slip away from them. “Who is this consultant?”

“I would also very much enjoy that information.” Morgan crossed his arms.

Spencer suppressed a groan, turning back to face them. “She’s a professor at the university I teach at.” He said shortly, hoping it would be enough.

Of course it wasn’t. “A professor?” Emily had a way of sounding curious, all the while her eyes shone with mischief. “And you think she can help?”

“She specialises in history and historic texts. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have an expert's eye on the letter the UnSub wrote.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but he had a feeling he wasn't doing a very good job with that.

Morgan looked sceptical, but he let it go. But not without a smirk on his mouth. “Well, I’m very interested in meeting the mysterious professor who makes you pick up your cell phone.”

“I second that.”

They won’t ever let this go, Spencer groaned in his head. “Well, you will meet her if you would let me talk to Hotch.”

His tone wasn’t lost on them, but they let him go, anyway.

As he sped up the stairs to the unit chief's office, he could feel the teasing looks burn on his back.

He didn't dare to look over his shoulder as he knocked on the door and, upon call, entered and closed it behind him.

—

When you arrived at the PD, Spencer was already waiting outside like he had been there since the call ended.

Based on his body language, you could deduct that he was nervous, and looking over his shoulder you could see why. Two sets of heads were trying not to look like they were spying on you.

So you would have to go without the hello hug and kiss today. No problem, you could act as the acquaintance.

“Hello, Dr. Reid.” You said with a polite smile.

You could see the relief flicker across his face as he greeted you with your title as well, shaking your hand. His fingers lingered on yours a little too long to be friendly, but thankfully, his frame blocked the team's view of your hands.

As you walked into the PD, Spencer explained the case details that they had so far. “The UnSub places coins into the mouths of his victims after their death and dumps them near a river. We think it might be connected to the Ancient Greek tradition, Charon’s obol.”

You nodded along as he went on to tell you more. "I will look at it and try my best to see more useful information, but I am in no way as good as your team."

Spencer's look told you as much as to shut up. Lovingly, of course.

As you stepped into the building, you were greeted by Spencer��s team. It was almost surreal, like storybook characters coming to life in front of you.

They all greeted you with polite smiles and handshakes, introducing themselves by name as you did the same.

After the round of introductions came to an end, they led you into the conference room.

Cork and blackboards littered with crime scene pictures stood all over the room, a big table with files stood tall in the center. You could feel Spencer’s hand brush your arm in apology.

“We have a little bit of a slow spell at the moment.” JJ’s voice came from behind you. “Thank you for taking the time to come here and look at what we’ve got.”

“Of course,” you smiled at her as you finally all stood in the room. “As I’ve told Spe—Doctor Reid, I’m glad that I can be of assistance. Can I see the pictures?” You asked.

Emily nodded and handed you a picture of a man, his skin almost gray as he lay in the riverbed. Another photograph showed his mouth wide open, a silver coin placed on his tongue.

It was nauseating, to see a body folded up into a position it naturally shouldn’t be able to fold into, but you grit your teeth and tried to look at it as a statical thing to asses.

“The coin placed in the mouth is definitely referencing Charon's obol.” You agreed with Spencer’s earlier statement, looking back up.

Before the others could answer, the door opened and a female officer came in, a file in hand.

“Thank you,” Rossi said with a smile as she handed it to him. Flipping it open, he read, “The first victim's name was Gabriel Treuden. He went missing in April two years ago.”

“Which means the UnSub kept him for about ten months. Just like his last victim.” Said the blond you came to know was Jennifer.

“Ten months you said?” You perked up. “Does he keep all of his victims for ten months?”

“That’s the assumption we are working with.” Morgan nodded, frowning a little.

“I think I know what he is doing.” You stood up quickly, walking towards the whiteboard and picking up a marker out of habit. Once a professor, always a professor. “Have you ever heard of Ostracism?”

Your hands fiddled with the pen after you finished writing the word on the board. Standing in front of the team you had only heard good things about turned out to be even more nerve-wracking than teaching a lecture in front of university students.

Spencer’s eyes lit up with recognition and he looked at you. “Of course, why haven’t I thought of that?”

Morgan and Emily glanced at each other without saying a word, but it was clear to both of them what the other was thinking: you and Spencer were made for each other.

“Care to explain to us illiterates what you geniuses are on about?” Morgan teased.

“Oh, sorry.” You said quickly. “Ostracism was an Ancient Greek tradition. It primarily took place in Athens, but other Greek communities had things similar to it, too. They would vote for a person once a year and if you won, you would be exiled for ten years, as a way to eliminate a threat identified by the community.”

“He shortened the time. Probably because his urges are too strong. A vote, most likely made by himself, a month apart instead of a year and the time he has them exiled for is ten months instead of ten years.” Spencer continued.

Hotch nodded, “Rossi, Morgan, I want you to speak with the Treuden family. Garcia, search for connections between him and the other victims and try to find out as much information about Gabriel as possible.” He told the technical analyst over the phone. Then he turned to you. “Would you be open to staying here in case anything happened?”

You nodded, smiling politely, “Of course, Mr. Hotchner.”

He gave you a small smile and looked at Spencer. Without even having to open his mouth, Spencer knew what he was going to say.

“I’ll stay, too.” He nodded.

His boss gave him a knowing look behind your back before departing.

—

The files and crime scene photos had long moved to the back of your minds as you and Spencer were left to yourselves in the conference room.

“I’m sorry for having to involve you in this situation,” Spencer said in the way he did when he was afraid of hurting people around him. “It was never my intention for us to have to hide, much less meet the team under these circumstances.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, “Spence, I really am happy to help, I promise. Your team has been so nice to me and this is why I became a professor, anyway.”

“To hide your relationship with an FBI agent from his team?” Spencer joked, tilting his head to the side.

“To be paid and valued for my rambling,” you grinned lovingly, “but, yeah, I might have had an ulterior motive when I chose my career path.”

Spencer had a look when he was happy: a small but proud smile and soft eyes. He looked at you like that now and even though you were in the middle of a police station, with the possibility of his team coming back any minute, you felt the irresponsible urge to kiss him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Spencer huffed, fiddling with his hands.

“Like what?”

He rolled his eyes a little, “You look like a teenager in love.”

“The whole secret relationship thing has been getting to my head a little.” You laughed softly. “Sneaking around, kissing in broom closets, hiding from the adults. Those are all things my students do.”

Spencer tried his best not to squirm in his seat. You had the fascinating ability to turn him right back into the awkward nerd he thought he’d shed in prison.

It felt refreshing in ways he never thought it would. After those three month, he was convinced no one would ever make him feel like a blushing fool again. And he had never much felt like a teenager, either.

He could never tell you how thankful he was for you, no words in the English language have been invented to explain this amount of gratitude.

“We haven’t kissed in broom closets.” Spencer tried to sound as flirtatious as you, but had the feeling that he sounded more like he had no idea what to say.

“No,” he saw the way your eyes shone and already knew what you’d say next would make the flush creep higher up his neck before you said it. “But we have a few more minutes of your team being gone.”

“I guess we do.”

—

The sun was rising and your lips were bare of any lipstick, red for an entirely new reason.

The team came back just the hair of a second after you sat back down at the round table to start pretending you had gotten any work done in their absence. Bless Spencer’s feel for timing.

They weren’t able to figure out much more besides that almost all of the UnSub’s newer victims’ children went to the same high school at some point.

Just as they weren’t sure what to do next and Hotch was going to send them home, an officer stormed in. “They were able to identify the last victim. His name was Charles Smith, forty-three, also married with children.”

You glanced at the board, where the victims' pictures and personal information were pinned. They were all over forty years old. A memory came loose in your brain, but you couldn’t quite shake it free.

Older men with families…UnSub being in his early twenties…

You replayed the case details they told you in your head.

Charon’s obol…Ancient Greek…

“What is it?” Spencer asked as he saw the creases between your brows.

It clicked just as Spencer’s eyes met yours.

“Nothing, I just...The UnSub has only targeted married men over the age of forty so far, right? And you profiled that he would be about twenty years old?”

You were met with nods and looks full of confusion.

“It could be a coincidence, but given that he has made other nods to Greek mythology…We have many records that same sex relationships were something that the Ancient Greeks used as a mentorship kind of thing. The ideal relationship was a teenager and a married man with a family, so the older man could serve as a mentor to the younger.”

Spencer’s eyes had wandered to your lips while you were talking. You quietly cleared your throat with a teasing smile and Spencer’s eyes jumped back to yours.

His eyes widened. Being subtle really didn’t turn out to be his strong suit. He cleared his throat and looked away from you, but you caught the rust of blood that painted his cheeks a rosy pink.

You pretended that you didn’t notice JJ and Emily looking at both of you.

“He probably read books about Greek culture and it grew into a delusion of living in Greece in that time period. It must have been the way he coped with the abuse.” Spencer theorized, rubbing the side of his neck.

Hotch pulled out his phone. “Garcia, cross-reference the students of the high school with people who were groomed by married men while they were in their teens about eight years ago.” Hotch told Penelope. Or, well, the telephone-Penelope.

“Already done, sir.” She chirped back, keys clicking in the background. “And,” she dragged the word out as the computer loaded. “A Lenard Phillips fits the profile like I fit into Derek Morgan’s bed. Which is to say perfectly, if I might say so.”

Morgan laughed. “Address, sugar.”

“You should know by now that I'm not an amateur. The address will be on your cells quicker than you can say ‘you are out of this—”

“You are out of this world, baby girl.” Morgan grinned as he said the words at the same time as her.

You looked baffled. Spencer would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. “I thought I warned you.” He leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Has anyone ever filed a complaint?” You asked quietly.

Spencer shook his head. “Even if they tried, I think it would go nowhere.”

Hotch got up from his chair and the others followed suit. “We have no time to waste. Let’s go. Garcia, search for more on Phillips and brief us in the car.”

You watched them get into motion like a carefully choreographed stage play, all of them slipping into their roles as agents.

Following them towards the door, you found Spencer’s hand and squeezed it as a small act of love and support. He turned to look at you sorrowfully. He hated leaving you for a case, even if it wouldn’t be for long this time.

“I have to go.” He said sorrowfully. “I will call you when we've got him in custody.” He promised.

“Be careful,”

“I will.” He hesitated, eyes lingering and searching your face.

You shook your head with a smile. “You do your job and think about your well-being, don’t worry about me.”

He walked towards the door, his hand staying in yours until the distance got too big. As he walked out of the doors of the police station, you could have sworn you heard him mutter a quiet “that’s impossible” under his breath, just before the doors closed behind him.

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

thank you for reading! feedback is very much appreciated and keeps me motivated! 𝜗𝜚

🏷️ @yourlocalconfusedhomo

[h3nderyss]

touch deprived - jeon wonwoo

pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader . . . masterlist genre: fluff! wonwoo's yearning okay. word count: 820 a/n: bosh... first fic since MARCH? i wanted to make this a little more of wonwoo being such a cat bc his kitty agenda never fails... also i love cats so hehe

the sound of the apartment door unlocking was soft, but you heard it. there wasn't a reason to rush to the door, not when you knew he was home.

you heard the quiet shuffle of shoes being kicked off, and a soft thunk of a backpack dropping to the floor. then came the pause which was the stillness that always came before you saw him again after a long time apart.

and then:

"y/n," a quiet, deep voice. like a meow at midnight.

you turned, and there he was.

wonwoo, standing by the door like a stray cat finally let inside. he looked like he was both tired and longing, like someone who'd spent days pretending to be fine and finally made it back to the only place he could let go.

you barely had time to speak before he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.

his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you close deep with a sigh so deep it made your chest ache. he pressed his face into your neck, nuzzling like a sleepy kitten, breathing you in like home.

you hugged him back, hands glued to his hair, "welcome home."

he made a small noise, a half groan half hum, and tightened his grip on you like he thought you might disappear.

"was it tough?" you asked gently, petting the back of his head.

"i'm touch deprived," he mumbled.

you blinked. "touch deprived?"

"kiss deprived. hug deprived. you deprived."

you giggled. "that serious?"

he pulled back enough just to look at you with those pretty dark eyes. "i haven't had a single kiss in over twelve days. that's like eighty-four years in cat time."

"you're not actually a cat, baby."

"you say that," he muttered, studying your face, his eyes roaming. "but i purr whenever you scratch my hair."

your face flushed immediately.

you scratched his head just to test the waters. sure enough, he melted. eyes fluttering shut, body pressing closer, his entire form softening like warm butter in the sun.

"that's cheating," you whispered.

he peeked his eyes open. "you have no idea what you do to me."

"wonwoo-"

"i had dreams of this. about holding you like this, your smell, your laugh." he leaned in and kissed your cheek, softly. "i missed everything."

you pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. his eyes were glowing, even though they were a little red from flying.

"you look like you haven't slept," you said,

"i haven't rested," he corrected, "but i will now."

he kissed you then. slowly, like he had all the time in the world. like he was memorizing the shape of your lips all over again. and when you smiled into it, he let out a tiny, content hum, rubbing your noses together like a kitten seeking warmth.

you nearly collapsed from how soft he was being.

"you're seriously like a cat right now," you spoke softly with a small smile, brushing hair off his forehead.

"good. because i'm about to curl up on you and stay there for the next five hours."

you laughed, letting him take your hand and lead you to the couch. the second you sat down, he was already on you. arms wrapped tightly around your waist, head on your chest, legs tucked by your side like he belonged in your lap.

and truthfully, he did.

he purred. literally.

"did you just purr?"

"that's the sound of a man finally at peace," he murmured, eyes closed. "my favourite person. my favourite everything."

you blushed so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. "you're so cheesy today."

"because i'm desperate for you," he whined.

and just like that, your heart fluttered again. you ran your hands through his hair.

he was quiet for a long while after that, but his hands kept moving. tracing circles on your side, his fingers curling under the hem of your shirt like he just needed the contact. at one point, he looked up, eyes glassy with sleep and affection.

"you still love me, right?" he asked softly, voice barely a whisper.

you blinked, caught off guard. "what?"

"i don't know," he said with a nervous smile. 'i just- sometimes i think i'm too quiet. or too clingy. or maybe not enough."

you cupped his face, his black hair falling perfectly and his dark eyes searching yours. "wonwoo,"

"mm?"

"i love you so much it's stupid."

he blinked. once. twice, his eyes flicking to your lips.

and then he kissed you so sweetly it nearly broke you.

no rush. no heat. just lips brushing like whispers. like he was finally full, and still wanted more.

when he pulled away, his voice was soft again. sleepier. warmer.

"don't move," he mumbled. "i'm not done loving you yet."

you smiled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "i'm not going anywhere, kitty."

he purred again.

don't ask me how a man can purr... just go with it :p

[yintous]

you know, i’m such a fool for you!

❪ masterlist ❫ · being damian wayne’s beloved (he wishes) ⸝⸝⸝ fluff ノ crushing + dating hcs

🗒️ more content under the cut, not proofread, gn! reader ; hi first ever damian work 🤞 i hope i did him justice idk (i had to repost this 3 times bc i had sm errors)

crushing: he thought it was just infatuation, but it was devotion waiting to be discovered and acted upon.

you’d def need a lot of patience when crushing on him, because a confession would take thousands of years /hj bc the SLOW BURN TROPE IS STRONGG on this one

when crushing, he has worked on practicing the art of secret stares that are unintentionally etched with yearning™

said stares has aided him in memorizing your beauty; yet, he finds himself unable to encapsulate the full extent of it within his art

he’s not used to having crushes, so he makes sure that everything is perfect before acting upon his feelings. he doesn’t want to break something so new

memorizes things you’ve briefly mentioned in a conversation. you wanted a certain perfume or snack? it’s already at your door a few hours later

he tries so hard not to care, but it’s so obvious that it’s the opposite—he cares so much he stays up at night rewinding your conversation over and over again, thinking about what he could’ve said to make it last longer.

has unconsciously memorized little things about you and doodles it on his sketchbook whenever he gets the chance. for example, if you have curly hair, he practices drawing curly hair more than before

the stares aren’t subtle to his family, either. bruce especially knows that his son is fond of you; sometimes, you might even catch the man sending you a nod of approval for no reason!

also attempts to act like a “normal teenager” around you, often going to social media and searching for examples. but his usage of slang is ALWAYS awkward 💔💔

he tries to frequently spend time with you, but in the most little ways possible because he’s lowk shy and awkward when having a crush 💔💔

like offering to teach you self defense or walking together at night (he insists that he doesn’t care for you, he just doesn’t want to see someone hurt) (he in-fact does care for you and the fact is yelled out through his actions)

there are COUNTLESS of sketches and paintings of you in his room. sometimes, in his trash bin because to him, they weren’t perfect nor “enough” for you.

his source of art is entirely you. to the point that he started doing practices of things you like; if you like rollercoasters, he probably has a painting of one ongoing, with a couple that subtly looks like the two of you riding it in the background

the relationship was probably a result of slow-burn. tension that could be cut with a knife, desire that are behind closed doors, and a wanting that is a thirst impossible to be quenched. it burns his throat and fogs his mind.

when you arrived in his life, he didn’t need the sun to spark a shine into his eyes. not when you were around, subconsciously stringing him along into a maddening web of feelings that confused and warmed him.

© yintous do not copy, repost, plagiarize, or feed any of my work into ai.

[neros-left-pec]

GAMING WITH THE DMC MEN

🌷 pairings: dmc men x fem!reader 🌷 warnings/tags: just fluff + probably OOC 🌷 author's note: i have really bad dmc brainrot but ive never even played the games (don't ask how this happened) LOL. i kinda see these as crack hcs since im not actually familiar with their canon personalities but i hope u can enjoy it regardless!

DANTE SPARDA

always picks the worst/unhinged dialogue options bc he wants to see what happens

starts laughing if it ends up with people getting mad at each other, bonus points if they start fighting for real

"Ooooh no, he didn't like that! OH SHIT, HE PUNCHED HIM! GET HIM!!"

refers to every protagonist as dude, regardless of gender or species

adores mariokart. gets waaaay into the motion controls and nearly destroys the living room coffee table

sits behind you while you play and narrates everything to piss you off. makes a big deal when you mess up to tease you

"In a world... where she messes up every single quick-time-event-"

absolutely cracked at rhythm games, just dance is his SHIT. also really enjoys osu!

loves playing coop with you and distracting u with tickles or kisses till you get mad

he loooooooooooooooooooooooves making you mad bro is a master at ragebait

VERGIL SPARDA

he says games are a waste of time, but once he finds one he likes he will memorize every mechanic almost instantly.

huge fan of strategic games. his favorites are fire emblem, civ and mahjong. mahjong counts right?

loves playing mahjong online with other losers and beating them. however is sooo annoyed at all the fan service in mahjong games. he likes playing riichi city but had to turn on the family friendly setting and only plays with the default character.

hates RNG. avoids gachas like they are the plague

you normally game in the living room while he sits next to you reading a book. if you start to get emotional over the story, he will arch an eyebrow. he ever so slightly leans into you to comfort you

you definitely notice and give him a pointed look. he sees you staring, but keeps his eyes focused on the book. but damn him, you can see a little smirk form in the corner of his mouth

pretends like he isnt paying attention but definitely is. gets invested if the story is really good

makes a surprisingly good partner in coop games. he'll act annoyed but will carry you anyway lol

teaches you how to play mahjong so you both can play

you love it when he explains things to you

whenever he catches you staring lovingly when he explains the rules to you, he blushes a tad and his eyebrows kinda raise in surprise. but its sooooooooooo subtle.

he catches himself pretty quick but you dont miss it hehe

NERO SPARDA

loves horror games but jumps at EVERYTHINGGGG LOL ITS SO CUTE

screams like a bitch honestly

gets weirdly competitive about mario kart. he will not hesitate to obliterate you with blue shells but he'll give you lots of smooches after to make up for it

always wants to name his character something stupid.

"I'm calling him Boob lord" (he would name a pokemon this)

teases you if you get flustered over flirty game characters

"Is your face red?? Oh my god, it is, are you serious? You're gonna fall for that? It's so corny!"

thinks he can do better hehe gets a bit jellyyyy

loves couch coop. will sit way too close and will flick u in the forehead if you cause him to lose

"No you forgot the- oh my god, fine, I'll get it!"

[inseobts]

hiiii!!! i hope you're having a good day 💖 i love your writing sm!! if your requests are open can i ask for a law x reader where reader used to date ace and was there when he died in marineford so she saw Law save luffy, so she joins the heart pirates as a way to thank him for saving Ace little brother. They slowly fall in love but won't admit it and when Law leaves to fight Doffy reader admits her feelings bc she's terrified of losing Law. They get together when they see each other again in zou

please please but it's okay if you can't or don't want to!!! 💖

Tides of Fate

law × reader (+ ace x reader)

a/n: this request was totally my kind of fav plots lmao thank you

words count: 5.9k

tags: slow burn, angst with a happy ending, marineford aftermath, emotional baggage

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Luffy sits on the shore, his face blank. Too blank. The kind of emptiness that only comes after losing everything.

You know that feeling. It’s the same one you're feeling right now, that it's hard to breathe.

Tearing your gaze away, you turn toward the submarine where Law stands with his arms crossed, waiting. If you’re going to do this, you need to do it now.

Taking a deep breath, you step toward Luffy “Luffy.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m leaving.”

His fingers tighten around the bracelet, knuckles white “With them?” His voice is hoarse, raw.

You swallow hard “Yeah.”

Finally, he lifts his head, eyes bloodshot but focused on you “Why?”

You hesitate, because the real answer feels too heavy to say out loud. Because if I stay, I’ll break apart. Because the ache in your chest is unbearable, and you don’t know how to exist in this world without Ace in it.

Instead, you say, “I don’t have anywhere else to go... No one to go to.”

Luffy flinches, but you know he understands. He’s feeling it too.

His jaw tightens “You… you have me. You don’t have to go.”

You kneel in front of him, forcing a small smile “You have your crew, Luffy. They’re coming back to you. But me…” Your voice wavers, and you hate it “I need time.”

Luffy stares at you for a long moment before exhaling shakily “Ace really loved you, y’know.”

Your breath catches.

Luffy grips his hat and presses it to his forehead “So that means you’re like my sister-in-law,” he mumbles, voice thick with emotion “And I protect my family.”

Your vision blurs. You clench your fists to stop your hands from shaking.

“Luffy…”

He looks at you, his expression serious in a way you rarely see “You’re always gonna be my family. Don't forget it. You can come to me whenever you want and need to.”

The words nearly break you.

You force yourself to smile, even if it wobbles “Then you better take care of yourself, little brother.”

His lip trembles, but he nods “You too.”

You take a deep breath, memorizing the sight of him, before finally standing.

Law is waiting, watching silently as you step aboard. You don’t look back.

“That was dramatic” he mutters once you’re beside him.

You huff a weak laugh, hiding your tears “Shut up.”

He doesn’t push you for more, just nods toward the submarine’s entrance “Come on, Y/N-ya. We’re leaving.”

And with that, the Heart Pirates set sail, and you leave the past behind.

The Polar Tang is… different. Not in a bad way, just different. It’s quieter than the Moby Dick, smaller, and runs a lot smoother since it’s a submarine. The crew is nice enough, but they watch you carefully, like they’re waiting to see if you’ll actually stick around, and like they're afraid to say the wrong things.

You don’t blame them. You’re still trying to figure all that out yourself.

What you do know is that you’re not wearing that.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up the black and yellow jumpsuit like it personally offended you “There is no way I’m wearing this.”

Penguin grins “Aw, c’mon, it’s tradition! We all wear them.”

“Yeah, and you all look dumb.” You toss the uniform back at him.

Shachi snickers “She’s got a point.”

Bepo tilts his head “But it helps with unity!”

“I don’t care.” You cross your arms “I just lost my last family. I’m not replacing them by playing dress-up with you guys.”

There’s a heavy beat of silence. You didn’t mean to let that slip, but it’s too late now.

Penguin and Shachi exchange glances, suddenly looking unsure. Bepo’s ears lower slightly.

Before anyone can say anything, Law’s voice cuts through the air.

“She doesn’t have to wear it.”

You turn to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His gaze flicks to the uniform in Penguin’s hands before settling back on you “As long as she follows orders, it doesn’t matter what she wears.”

You smirk, triumphant but still hiding the regrets of your previous words “See? Captain’s orders.”

Penguin groans “Man, you’re getting special treatment already?”

Law clicks his tongue “Tch. Don’t be stupid. She’s not getting special treatment.” He pushes off the wall and starts walking away “Now get back to work.”

The others grumble but scatter, leaving you standing there, still holding your ground.

Law pauses at the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder “You really will be following orders, though.”

You roll your eyes “Yeah, yeah, Captain. You don't have to repeat it again.”

He watches you for a second longer before walking away.

You exhale, shoulders slumping. You still don’t know if this was the right choice. But for now, you’re here and that’s enough.

Days pass, then weeks. You settle into life on the Polar Tang, though settle might be a strong word. You’re still figuring out your place here, still deciding if this is home or just a temporary stop before the sea pulls you somewhere else.

The Heart Pirates warm up to you quickly, especially Penguin and Shachi, who have made it their mission to pester you at every opportunity. Bepo is a sweetheart, and you swear Ikkaku enjoys giving you extra work just to see if you’ll complain.

And then there’s Law.

Your relationship with him is… strange. He’s your captain now, and he makes sure you don’t forget it. He orders you around, assigns you tasks, and corrects you whenever you mess up. But he also lets you push back more than he probably should.

Like now.

“You’re not getting out of training, Y/N-ya,” Law says, arms crossed as he watches you from across the room “You’re part of this crew, which means you need to be able to hold your own.”

You sigh, sitting cross-legged on the floor, pointedly not moving “I can hold my own.”

“You haven’t fought once since you got here.”

“That’s not true. I threw a wrench at Shachi last week.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It should.”

Law pinches the bridge of his nose “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a second, Law freezes.

You don’t know why your heart starts beating faster. You don’t know why it suddenly feels like the room is too small, too quiet.

Then, he scoffs “Tch. Keep dreaming.”

You smirk, pushing yourself up “Fine, fine. I’ll train. But only because I choose to.”

Law rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

As you walk past him, you can feel his gaze lingering on you for just a second too long, and for some reason, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

It's another day with them and dinner is as loud as always. Penguin and Shachi are arguing over who gets the last piece of meat, Bepo is calmly eating his food, and Ikkaku is scolding someone about their table manners. It’s chaotic, messy, and full of life.

You should feel comforted by it.

But then, Shachi laughs, almost losing another game “Doesn’t matter what happens, we’ll figure it out! That’s just how we are, right? We don’t let anyone mess with our family.”

It’s innocent. Just a casual statement made as a joke for a game. But your whole body freezes.

We don’t let anyone mess with our family.

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You’ve heard them before. Ace used to say them all the time.

“Nobody messes with my family and gets away with it!”

Your breath catches.

You see Ace in your mind so clearly, grinning, full of warmth and unwavering confidence. His arm draped over your shoulders, his voice always so sure.

“You’re stuck with me, you know. You’re family.”

The sound of laughter around you distorts. Your hands tremble against the table. Your chest tightens so hard it hurts.

Ace said those words all the time, and now he’s gone.

Your vision blurs.

You push your chair back so fast it screeches against the floor.

The room falls silent.

“Y/N-ya?” Law’s voice is cautious, but you can’t answer.

You stand abruptly, shoving away from the table as the weight in your chest becomes unbearable.

You hear Bepo call after you, but you’re already moving, already pushing out the door before anyone can stop you.

The hallway is quiet, but it doesn’t help. Your heart is pounding, your breathing uneven. The walls feel like they’re closing in.

You don’t know where you’re going, just away.

But then...

“Y/N-ya.”

Law.

His voice is calmer than it should be, given the fact that you just stormed out in the middle of dinner. You hear his footsteps behind you, steady and deliberate. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand you stop, but you do.

Because you don’t want to be alone.

You lean against the cool metal wall, staring at the ground, swallowing down the sobs threatening to escape.

Law steps beside you, close enough that his presence is solid, grounding. He doesn’t speak right away, just waits.

After a moment, you exhale shakily “Ace used to say that.” Your voice is hoarse “What Shachi said. About family. I know Shachi was joking, it's not his fault. My mind just started thinking too much, again.”

Law is silent, but you know he’s listening.

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay “Ace always said it like nothing could ever touch us. Like as long as we had each other, we’d be okay.”

Your voice cracks.

“But we weren’t. We obviously aren’t.”

And then, suddenly, you can’t hold it in anymore.

The sob breaks free before you can stop it, and then another. Your shoulders shake as you clutch your arms, as if holding yourself together.

Then you feel warmth.

A hand on your back. Firm, steady. Not pushing, just there.

Law doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away either. He lets you cry, lets you break, without judgment or expectation.

And when your knees nearly give out, he catches you, pulling you close, solid and steady, as if to say, I won’t let you fall. And for the first time since Marineford, you let yourself lean on someone else.

A few months passed…

Of course, things don’t magically get better. That’s not how grief works.

But they shift. Slowly. Subtly.

The crew doesn’t bring up that night you ran out of dinner crying, not directly. But you notice how they’re a little gentler now. Bepo always sits next to you. Penguin and Shachi tease you a bit less (but only a bit), and Ikkaku throws you extra portions without saying a word.

They don’t push. They don’t ask. But they see you.

And Law hasn’t changed. Not exactly. He still gives out orders like commands are oxygen, still gets that narrowed-eye look when you mess up during training, and still acts like emotions are an inconvenience.

But you catch him watching you sometimes. When he thinks you’re not looking.

And when you do catch him, he doesn’t look away.

It’s a calm evening, which is rare. The Polar Tang is surfacing for the night, drifting peacefully on the open sea. You’re up on the deck, sitting cross-legged and staring at the stars, enjoying the breeze on your face.

Law’s voice breaks the silence.

“Not hiding in your room tonight.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet behind you, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

“I like it up here,” you say, shrugging “it’s quiet. The stars help.”

Law walks over without asking and sits beside you, not close enough to touch, but closer than usual.

You blink “No book tonight?”

He smirks faintly “Even I get tired of reading medical journals.”

You hum and tilt your head back to the sky “Do you ever think about how small we are out here?”

Law doesn’t answer right away “All the time.”

Silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable.

You pick at a loose thread on your pants, then quietly say, “It still hurts.”

“I know.”

You turn to look at him “Do you think it ever goes away?”

Law’s eyes flick to yours, and for a second, his walls drop.

“No,” he says simply “But you get better at carrying it.”

You nod slowly. That makes sense.

You both sit there, the silence stretching, stars spinning above.

Then he speaks again, quiet and careful “You’ve changed.”

You snort “Thanks?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You glance at him, surprised.

He’s looking out at the ocean now “When you came aboard, I didn’t think you’d last a week.”

You raise an eyebrow “Wow. Inspiring confidence, Captain.”

He smirks again, but it fades fast “But you stayed. Even after everything.”

“Because of you” you say before you can stop yourself.

Law looks at you, startled.

You feel heat rush to your cheeks but hold his gaze “You saved Luffy. You didn’t have to. And then you let me on your ship. You didn’t have to do that either.”

His voice is low “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know. That’s why it mattered.”

There’s a long pause. Something unspoken crackling in the air between you.

You look back at the sea, heart pounding, trying to ignore how much you want him to say something, anything that will explain what’s been growing between you.

He doesn’t. Not yet.

But he doesn’t move away either.

And when his shoulder brushes yours, just slightly, you don’t pull back.

Two years.

That’s how long it’s been since you joined the Heart Pirates.

And somewhere between near-death missions, long nights on the sea, and quiet moments you didn’t ask for. Something changed.

You and Law changed.

It’s not loud or obvious. Not something you could put into words if someone asked. But it’s there.

Like the way his eyes always flick to you when he walks into a room.

Like how you always end up sitting beside him at meals, even without meaning to.

Like how his voice softens slightly when he says your name.

He still scolds you during training. Still sighs like you’re impossible when you ignore protocol.

And when you’re injured? He’s the first one kneeling at your side. Every time. Without fail.

You don’t talk about it. He doesn’t either.

But it’s real. It’s there. And everyone else knows it.

“Okay, seriously,” Shachi whispers one night as he leans over the dining table toward Penguin, “did you see the way they looked at each other earlier? Like... looked. That was something.”

Penguin nods “They’re either in love or telepathically plotting a murder.”

“I’m going with both” Ikkaku mutters, sipping her tea.

Bepo sighs “We’re not supposed to bring it up.”

“Why not?” Shachi hisses “They’re so obvious, it’s painful.”

“Because of Ace” Bepo says softly “She’s been through a lot. We won’t pressure her.”

That shuts everyone up for a beat.

Until Shachi mumbles “Still feels like they’re circling each other in slow motion.”

Ikkaku stabs a dumpling with unnecessary aggression “Just kiss already. I’m begging.”

You catch them watching you sometimes, too many times to pretend it’s subtle.

Whenever you and Law share a look, the whole room seems to pause.

Whenever he lingers a second too long beside you, or his hand brushes yours, the crew’s collective poker face fails miserably.

But Law ignores it all. Just keeps moving forward, like it doesn’t affect him.

Like he doesn’t know that your heart skips every time he calls your name in that low, measured tone.

And you pretend not to notice either. Pretend your stomach doesn’t twist when he leans in too close. Pretend you don’t feel the shift every time your eyes meet.

But in the quiet moments, when it’s just you and him, you feel something hanging there between you. Like something is building.

The unspoken thing between you and Law has only grown heavier by time. Stolen glances, the rare soft tone in his voice when he says your name, the way your hand always finds the spot next to his at the table.

You’ve gotten used to reading him, how to tell when he’s irritated, when he’s tired, when he’s secretly impressed. But now, something’s off.

He’s quiet lately. More than usual. Locked in his quarters for hours at a time. Studying maps, muttering things you can’t hear. And when you ask, he brushes it off with a flat “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Which, of course, only makes you worry more.

One night, dinner is unusually tense.

Shachi and Penguin whisper from across the table, not even trying to hide it anymore.

“She’s gonna find out soon.”

“She already knows. Look at her face.”

“She knows something,” Bepo mutters “But she doesn’t know it’s Dressrosa.”

You set your spoon down “What’s Dressrosa?”

The table falls into silence.

Ikkaku winces “Damn it.”

You stare at them all “What’s happening?”

Nobody speaks.

So you stand, chair scraping behind you, and walk straight out of the mess hall.

You find Law in the control room, his face locked over a table full of charts. Dressrosa is circled in red.

He doesn’t flinch when you walk in.

You close the door behind you “You’re going there.”

He nods once “Yes.”

“You weren’t going to tell me.”

Law straightens up, but doesn’t meet your eyes “It’s not your concern.”

“It is my concern,” you snap “I’m your crew too, just like the rest of them.”

He finally looks at you “That’s exactly why you’re staying with them.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Just you and him, staring, and the space between you suddenly feels like a chasm.

“You’re doing it again” you say softly “Pulling away. Trying to protect everyone by shutting us out.”

Law’s expression flickers with guilt, regret and frustration.

“I’m handling it.”

“No, you’re running. You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You're not scared...” You step closer, voice breaking “You’re terrified of letting people care about you. You think if you keep pushing us away, it won’t hurt when something happens.”

You lower your voice “But it will. It always does.”

He stares at you, like he’s waiting for you to stop.

You don’t.

“You think I don’t see what this is between us? You think I haven’t felt it for a long time now?”

He says nothing.

You take a breath “You’ve given me so much, Law. You gave me a second life after Ace. You gave me something to live for again.”

Your throat tightens “And now you’re just gonna disappear into some revenge mission and pretend like none of this matters?”

His eyes darken “It does matter.”

You blink “Then say it.”

Law opens his mouth, then closes it again.

You shake your head, heart cracking open “Forget it.”

You turn to leave.

But before you touch the door...

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says behind you “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

You stop. But you don’t look back.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in your bunk, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of that conversation. The look in Law’s eyes. The silence where his answer should’ve been. The ache in your chest that’s only getting worse.

When you hear footsteps above deck a little before dawn, you know it’s him.

You throw on a jacket and follow without thinking.

He’s there, standing at the edge of the deck, the sea wind catching his coat. Alone.

He turns slightly when you approach “You should be asleep.”

“You should be explaining yourself.”

His mouth twitches. A ghost of a smile. Gone in an instant.

You cross your arms “You were really gonna leave without saying goodbye.”

Law looks ahead again, gaze fixed on the horizon “Goodbyes make it harder.”

You take a breath “Harder for who?”

Silence.

You step beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm “I meant what I said yesterday.”

“I know.”

“And?”

He exhales slowly “You shouldn’t love someone like me.”

Your heart lurches “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“I know who you are,” you snap “I’ve seen you save strangers without blinking. I’ve seen you risk your life for your crew. For Luffy. For me.”

You pause, voice low “I love all of that. And if you leave now, and something happens to you—”

You look at him fully now “Don’t make me lose someone else I love, Law. Not without even getting to hold onto you first.”

His jaw tightens. He says nothing.

So you laugh, bitter and soft “Of course. You don’t say anything you don’t think you deserve to feel.”

You start to turn away, tears building, when he says “I do.”

You freeze.

He’s looking at you now. Fully. No mask.

“I do feel it. All of it.”

He steps forward, slow and certain, until he’s close enough that you can see the storm in his eyes and hear the quiet panic in his breath.

“Every time you laugh. Every time you sit next to me without saying a word. Every time I catch myself looking at you and don’t know how to stop. I feel it.”

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. You can’t.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, voice barely above a whisper “But it happened. And now I don’t know how to leave without feeling like I’m leaving part of myself behind.”

Your throat burns.

“So don’t,” you whisper “Don’t leave like that. Not with nothing.”

He hesitates.

Then, he leans in slowly, unsure, and presses his forehead to yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet. But it says everything.

“I’ll come back,” he promises “And when I do… if you’re still here—”

“I will be.”

A breath passes between you. His hand brushes your cheek like he’s still convincing himself you’re real.

Then he pulls away.

“Stay safe” he says.

“You too, Law.”

And with one last glance, he disappears down the dock, coat billowing, heart heavy, and not just with revenge anymore.

The moment your feet hit the ground of Zou, you’re paralyzed. The chaos of the crew bustling around you, the excitement in the air, everything feels too loud. It’s all too much. You’ve been bracing for this moment for what feels like an eternity, but now that it’s here, you can’t breathe.

You’ve heard the whispers that he’s finally back, felt the crew’s excitement bubbling up like they’re about to burst. But nothing could prepare you for the reality of seeing him alive. You knew they won, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but seeing him in front of you again… it’s different.

Your heart races. The crew is already moving forward, pulling you along because you’re too shocked to even move on your own. They don’t even try to hide it, they want to see this happen.

And then there he is.

The crew appears from the bushes and trees around him.

Law stands tall at the center of the clearing, his eyes scanning the crew as they move toward him, his usual cold demeanor barely cracked by the soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips as he sees Bepo charging toward him before he could even find you with his eyes. The sight of him makes everything inside you freeze.

It’s not that you didn’t know he was alive, but now, standing here, seeing him with your own eyes, it feels real.

Bepo throws himself at Law, tears in his eyes as he cries out, “Captain!” The hug is tight, emotional, the kind of reunion you would have imagined, one that speaks of the bond between them, of loyalty and friendship. Law’s arms stiffen at first but then soften, holding Bepo close, the smile on his face genuine if not a bit awkward.

You stand there, caught in the wave of emotions that’s rushing through you. Relief, yes, but something else too...fear. Fear of what this means. You haven’t let yourself think about it that much, but now, with him standing there before you, something shifts. It’s the first time in two years you feel your heart thundering like it did when you first met him, when you started noticing those little things about him, the quiet ways he showed his care.

But now… he’s here.

Bepo pulls back, laughing through his tears “I’m so glad you’re alive, Captain!”

Before Law can even respond, someone else, maybe Ikkaku, maybe Shachi, pulls Bepo away gently, guiding him back to the group.

And then Law finally sees you.

There’s a moment, a breath of time where you feel like the whole world is holding its breath. You didn’t expect the distance between you to feel so large. You didn’t expect to feel so small.

You stand still, unsure of what to do, your legs suddenly heavy, like they’re made of stone. You know the crew, everyone, is watching, but none of that matters right now. You’re looking at him, really seeing him for the first time in so long, and it feels like everything inside you is falling apart.

He hasn’t changed. He still has that same unreadable expression, but something about the way he looks at you now is different. His eyes linger, and in them, you see the same thing you’ve always seen, quiet intensity. But there’s a softness now, a faint warmth.

You don’t move.

You can’t move.

It’s not fear. It’s… shock. You thought you were ready. You thought you were prepared. But seeing him here, right in front of you, it’s more than you can process in a single moment. The flood of emotions, the relief, the joy, the terror, all rush through you all at once, and it feels overwhelming. You never realized how much you needed this, how much you’ve missed him, until now.

And then, slowly, Law begins to walk toward you, his movements steady, calculated, like he’s taking his time, giving you space. When he stops in front of you, there’s a long pause. His eyes are searching your face, studying you, like he’s waiting for something. You’re afraid to look into them, to let him see how much you’ve been holding back.

And then, softly, he speaks “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you finally look up into his eyes. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. The relief is too much. The pain of missing him, of not knowing if you’d ever see him again, it all comes crashing down, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek.

Law’s eyes flicker to it, and without a second thought, he reaches out, his hand gently brushing it away “You don’t have to hide it” he says, his voice low and careful.

“I—” You try to speak, but your voice cracks. You can’t say what you need to. It’s too much. Everything is too much.

Law stands there, his hand still lingering near your cheek, and you can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t rush. He just stands there, waiting for you to breathe, for you to find your voice.

And when you finally do, it’s quiet “I thought I lost you. I—I didn’t know if I could—”

“You didn’t lose me.” His words are simple, but they cut through the noise in your head. He steps closer, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest gently on your shoulder, the contact grounding you “I’m here. I told you I would be.”

And in that moment, you let yourself believe it.

You don’t know what’s going to happen from here, but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re not standing alone anymore. Law is here, and he’s not going anywhere.

Zou is loud again.

After the quiet weight of seeing Law alive, after the press of his hand on your shoulder, after the whirlwind that followed, now everything is moving. New plans are forming. Straw Hats talking over each other. Heart Pirates buzzing about what’s next. Minks giving updates. It’s chaos. Familiar chaos. The kind you hadn’t realized you missed.

You find Luffy just outside one of the tree dwellings, scarfing down food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, which, to be fair, is probably true.

“Luffy” you say, your voice unsure but soft.

He looks up, mouth full “Y/n!” He jumps to his feet and wraps you in the kind of hug only Luffy can give, tight, fast, and a little chaotic “You’re okay! You’re really here!”

You nod against his chest, your throat tight “You too…”

“Of course I am!” he grins like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “I knew we’d all meet again. I told you!”

He pulls back and beams at you “We’re gonna get Sanji back. Me, Nami, Chopper and Brook. You should come too! With me!”

You freeze.

Your eyes dart past the Straw Hats, past the Heart Pirates, until they land on him. Law is leaning near a shaded post, arms crossed, watching the scene from a distance. You can feel his eyes on you.

You start to answer Luffy, but someone else cuts in.

“She’s not going.”

It’s Law.

He’s walking toward you both now, slow and steady, like the decision was already made before this conversation even started.

Luffy blinks “Huh?”

Law stops beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours “She’s staying with me. With the Heart Pirates.”

You look up at him, startled. You hadn’t even told him you would yet. But he’s not looking at you, he’s looking straight at Luffy.

Nami steps closer, eyebrows raised like she knows exactly what’s going on “Luffy, read the room…”

Luffy blinks again, slowly turning to you “Wait. What? Since when?”

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come.

“I—” You shake your head “I was going to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”

“Why not?” Luffy tilts his head, confused as ever “You like Law, right?”

Your eyes widen “Luffy…”

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug “I mean, I get the way you’re looking at him right now. I just didn’t know it was, you know… like that like that.” He grins.

You stare at him, stunned “You’re not… mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” he says, blinking like the very idea is weird “You think Ace would be mad?”

You swallow hard, throat tightening at the mention of Ace’s name.

“I just...” Your voice cracks “I didn’t want to disappoint him. Or you. He… he loved me. And I loved him. And I didn’t think I’d ever be able to—”

“Y/n.”

Luffy’s voice is soft. Even softer than usual.

He smiles again, big and warm and bright “Ace would be happy. Really happy. Because you’re not alone anymore. He wouldn’t want you to be.”

You blink fast, trying to keep the tears back, but it’s no use “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Luffy says, tapping his chest “Because Ace told me you were the best thing that ever happened to him. He said if anything ever happened to him, I had to take care of you. You found someone who can take care of you even better than me, and I’ll always support you like my sister.”

That breaks something in you. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to cry outright.

Nami steps up beside Luffy, resting a hand on your back “He’s right, you know. We’ve all known for a while now. About you and Law. After we met Law and Luffy asked him about you, it was pretty obvious even if the man here has the most unreadable face. It’s just Luffy that is always too oblivious.”

Law, still at your side, hasn’t said a word. But his presence is steady, anchoring. His eyes stay on you.

Luffy grins and throws his arm over your shoulder, dragging you into another hug “I’m happy for you, Y/n. And Ace would be too.”

You press your face against his chest again, this time not hiding the tears “Thank you.”

Law leans in slightly, his voice low near your ear “You didn’t have to be scared.”

You glance up at him, smiling through your tears “I know. But it still scared me.”

“I get it,” he says “But you don’t have to worry. And you can talk to me about your fears, I won’t leave you alone.”

And somehow, for the first time, you believe it.

The sun is dipping behind the massive trees of Zou, painting everything in golden light. The others are gone now, off to find Sanji. The moment they disappeared over the horizon, the world got quiet again.

Too quiet.

You sit at the edge of the overlook, watching the sky shift from orange to deep indigo. The wind brushes through your hair, soft and cool. You hug your knees to your chest, letting yourself breathe for what feels like the first time in days.

And then you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You’re always out, watching the sky when it gets dark” Law says, voice even.

You don’t look at him, not yet “It’s peaceful. Beautiful. Easier to think.”

He stands beside you for a second, silent, then sits down next to you with a small sigh. The space between you hums. Not touching, but not distant either.

You glance over. His hat’s off. That always does something to you. Makes him look realer. Softer. More… him.

“You really told Luffy I was staying with you” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips “Didn’t even bother ask me.”

“You were going to stay anyway” he replies, tilting his head toward you.

“I might’ve,” you murmur, teasing “Might’ve said no. Might’ve gone off on my own. Who knows.”

He looks at you, dead serious “You wouldn’t.”

You meet his eyes “How do you know?”

“Because you’ve looked at me the same way I look at you. You wouldn’t want to separate again.”

Your breath catches.

The silence after that is thick, like the air itself is holding its breath with you.

“I was scared,” you whisper ���Of what it meant. Of what it felt like. After Ace… I didn’t think I was allowed to feel this way again.”

“I know,” Law says, just as quietly “That’s why I never pushed.”

You look down at your hands “But you stayed.”

His voice is steady “I wasn’t going to be another person you lost.”

That’s when your heart cracks, but in a good way. The dam you’ve been holding back breaks just a little. You turn to him, really look at him. The way the fading light touches his face, the faint worry in his brow, the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything.

“Say it,” you breathe “Just once.”

Law doesn’t hesitate “I love you.”

And you’re already leaning in by the time he says the last word.

The kiss is slow and gentle. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. Yours clutches his coat, grounding yourself.

It’s not desperate. It’s relieved.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless.

You whisper “I love you too.”

He smirks “You were worth the wait.”

Your smile widen and just as his small smile/smirk.

“FINALLY!”

You both flinch apart like you were struck by lightning.

Law whips around, eyes narrowing “What the hell—”

From behind a cluster of bushes near the edge of the clearing, three heads pop out in rapid succession: Shachi, Penguin, and Ikkaku. Bepo follows a second later, way too big to be hiding, but he tries anyway.

“We knew it!” Shachi shouts.

“I said it would happen today!” Penguin crows, fist-pumping like he just won a bet.

“I told you she was gonna make the first move” Ikkaku says smugly.

“You literally did not” Penguin says.

Bepo tries to look innocent “I was just... uh... making sure they were okay…”

You bury your face in your hands, heat flooding your cheeks “Oh my god!”

Law groans, dragging a hand down his face “How long were you there?”

“Long enough” Ikkaku grins.

“To hear everything” Shachi adds.

“I hate all of you” Law mutters.

“Don’t lie to us, Captain,” Penguin says, smug “You’re glowing.”

“I am not glowing.”

“You kind of are” Bepo mumbles.

You let out a breathy laugh, cheeks still flushed, but honestly, it’s kind of perfect. This dumb, messy, ridiculous crew, you didn’t know how badly you needed them until they showed up in your life. Until he showed up in your life.

“Alright,” Law snaps, pushing to his feet and brushing off his coat, “You saw what you wanted. Now go. Before I use Room.”

That gets them moving fast.

Shachi and Penguin scramble like cockroaches, dragging Bepo behind them while Ikkaku throws a wink over her shoulder “You’re cute together! Don’t screw it up!”

They disappear, giggling like kids.

You turn back to Law, trying not to laugh “So… that happened.”

He sighs, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at his lips “We’re never gonna hear the end of it.”

“Nope.”

A pause.

“…Still worth it?” you ask, teasing.

He glances at you. And then, softly “Always.”

[wendichester]

Hello! If requests are still open by the time you get to this, could you do something where it’s like season 15 episode 13 and Huntercorp! Sam and Dean are in San and Dean og universe and Sam or Dean’s (your choice) love, the reader, gets home and their alternate is all over them bc the reader from their world died before they got out of there, if that makes sense? Please and thank you!!

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. here,

summary. different realities mix and dean has a hard time seeing you again.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 560

notes. i haven't reached season 15 yet but i did read a bit about the episode to write this and hopefully it makes sense??? thanks for requesting, regardless 🩷

You step through the door of the bunker, brushing off the late-night chill. The hunt had gone long, but you made it back in one piece. Just another day in the life, right?

“Hey, I’m home!” you call out, your voice echoing off the stone walls.

What you’re not expecting is to be tackled into a hug so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of you.

“Whoa! Dean?”

But it’s not your Dean—at least, not entirely. His flannel feels the same, his scent a mix of leather and whiskey that you’d know anywhere. But there’s something different in his touch, in the way he buries his face in your hair like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Dean, are you okay?” you ask, your voice softening as you pull back to look at him.

And then you see it. The glassiness in his eyes, the emotion he’s not even trying to hide. His jaw is tight, like he’s barely holding it together.

“You’re here,” he whispers, his voice thick with something raw and unnameable. “You’re really here.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”

But before he can answer, a second voice cuts in.

“Dean, let her breathe.”

You glance up and freeze. Standing in the doorway is your Dean, the one you know—the one who isn’t looking at you with desperation but with something closer to dread.

“What the hell is going on?” you ask, your gaze darting between the two of them.

HunterCorp Dean steps back reluctantly, his hands lingering at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do without you in his arms.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” he asks, his voice quiet but pointed, directed at your Dean.

“She doesn’t need to know,” your Dean snaps, stepping closer to you as if shielding you from his alternate self.

HunterCorp Dean laughs bitterly. “That’s rich, coming from you. You think she wouldn’t want to know what she meant to me? What she meant to him?”

You take a step back, your mind spinning. “Okay, someone needs to start making sense right now.”

HunterCorp Dean looks at you, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your soul. “In my world... you didn’t make it out. You died before we could get out of that place. And every day since, I’ve wondered if I could’ve saved you.”

His words hit you like a truck, and your chest tightens. “I... I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “Just... let me look at you. Just for a little while.”

Your Dean stiffens, his hand brushing yours like a silent claim. “That’s enough. She’s not your her.”

“I know,” HunterCorp Dean replies, his voice hollow. “But for a second, it felt like she was.”

The air feels heavy, loaded with everything unsaid. You reach for your Dean’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He squeezes back, grounding you.

HunterCorp Dean takes one last, long look at you before nodding and turning away. “Take care of her,” he says over his shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your Dean doesn’t respond, but his grip on your hand says everything.

And as the door closes behind his alternate self, you feel the weight of what could have been—and the fragility of what is—settle in your chest.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie

[fordiaz]

I Love You, I’m Sorry (Eddie Diaz) 𓍯 ִ⋆.˚ 💋ྀིྀི ⋆

“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.” . ݁₊ 🩸⊹ . ݁💉˖ . ݁

Synopsis: You and Eddie have always shared something deeper than friendship — an unspoken connection that lingers in every glance, every laugh, every brush of a hand. But when Eddie realizes just how much power you hold over his heart, fear sets in. He pulls away, leaving you confused and heartbroken. When you confront him, he denies everything, leaving you shattered. As time passes, it becomes clear to everyone around you that you’re both falling apart without each other. Eventually, it takes a push — maybe from Buck — for Eddie to finally confront the truth he’s been running from: he’s always loved you, and he may have already lost his chance.

Genre: Romance, Angst, Slowburn, Mutual Pining, Fluff

AU: None

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Eddie’s an asshole but he didn’t mean to bc he runs away from his problems (😭)

Note: This was a request from my inbox (in my ask box tag) and I thought the plot was super interesting since it falls right into the genre of fics that I produce. Thank you to the anon who gave me a whole run down on the story! Happy reading and as always, every like + reblog and comment is highly appreciated.

There’s always been something quietly comfortable about being around Eddie.

You’re not sure when it started — the ease, the intimacy, the way your lives naturally bled into each other — but at some point, it became second nature.

His house was your second home. Christopher knew your coffee order and your favorite snacks. You knew which cabinet Eddie kept his aspirin in and which way the bathroom door creaked if you didn’t close it properly.

He never had to ask you to stay longer when you were over; your presence was a given.

You brought takeout on your nights off and folded his laundry when he forgot it in the dryer. He poured you a glass of wine after long shifts and let you steal his hoodie when it was late and you didn’t feel like going home.

There were no declarations. No spoken rules. Just the quiet way he always looked for you in a room, how he made sure to pour your coffee just the way you liked it — two sugars, no cream — or how his shoulder would graze yours when you walked side by side, like it couldn’t help but lean in your direction.

It wasn’t romantic. Not officially.

But God, if it didn’t feel like the most real thing in your life.

Sometimes he’d sit beside you on the couch, a little too close, and your thighs would touch for minutes on end. Neither of you moved.

You’d both pretend not to notice, but the air between you shifted. Grew warm. Familiar. Intimate. He’d chuckle at something on TV, and you’d smile because his laughter was your favorite kind of peace.

And the glances… those glances stayed too long to be casual. Like when you’d say something in passing and he’d stare at you as if he was memorizing your words — as if they mattered more than you knew.

His gaze would dip to your lips sometimes when you weren’t speaking, and you tried to tell yourself you imagined it, but deep down, you knew better.

Everyone else saw it too.

“Okay, seriously,” Buck said one night after a shift, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Are you two ever going to admit you’re in love or are we all just going to die waiting?”

You rolled your eyes and laughed it off. So did Eddie.

“We’re just friends,” you both said in near-perfect unison, which only made Hen groan.

“Uh-huh. Friends,” Chimney muttered, sipping his coffee like he was watching a slow-burn rom-com unfold in real time.

“Friends who look at each other like they’re planning to die in each other’s arms.”

It was embarrassing — the way the team teased — but it was also validating in a weird, terrifying kind of way. Because you’d started to feel it too.

The shift.

The tiny changes.

It happened quietly. The way he started opening up more. How his voice softened when he talked to you, how his eyes searched yours when he wasn’t sure of himself.

The way you reached for him automatically during calls, always scanning the wreckage for each other before anything else. And maybe the moment that hit you hardest: when you caught yourself thinking about him as home. Not just his house or his presence, but Eddie.

He was home.

And that terrified you.

Because if it was real — if this thing between you was more than friendship — it meant you had everything to lose.

Still, the idea nestled in your chest and refused to leave. You thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. To wake up in his arms. To be loved by him fully and openly.

You thought about Christopher, about Sunday mornings and slow coffee and a life that maybe, just maybe, could be yours too.

But nothing was ever said.

Not out loud.

Because maybe he didn’t feel the same. Or maybe he did, and was just too afraid to say it. Either way, you weren’t sure who’d be brave enough to say it first.

But something was building between you.

You could feel it every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. Like he was one breath away from telling you everything.

And honestly? You were starting to wish he would.

It starts small.

A missed call here. A shorter reply there.

You don’t think anything of it at first. People get busy. Shifts get hectic. Life happens. You give him grace — because that’s what you do for people you love.

But then it starts to happen more.

He stops texting back as quickly. Your usual post-shift dinners turn into silence. The calls you used to get at 11PM — just to hear your voice before bed — go unanswered. He still smiles when he sees you at the station, still asks if you’re okay after a tough call, but it’s like he’s flicking a switch now.

Friendly. Polite. Detached.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

You try not to show it. You tell yourself maybe he’s going through something, that he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Because this is Eddie — he doesn’t always know how to open the door when he’s hurting.

You’ve seen him do this before with others. But never with you.

Not like this.

One night, you knock on his door with your usual coffee order, the kind gesture that used to earn you a soft smile and a “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

This time, when he opens the door, he looks surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting you. Like he doesn’t know how to be around you anymore.

“Oh,” he says, eyes darting behind him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, holding out the drink like some kind of peace offering. “Thought you could use this.”

He hesitates, then takes it from you. “Thanks.”

You stand there for a moment. Waiting. Hoping he’ll invite you in like always. But he doesn’t move.

“Is everything okay?” you ask softly. “You’ve been… different.”

“I’ve just been tired,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“A lot on my mind.”

You nod slowly, trying not to let the sting show. “Okay. Well… I’m here if you want to talk.”

He nods once, almost absently. “I know.”

But he doesn’t invite you in.

And that night, for the first time in months, you don’t fall asleep knowing how his day went. You don’t feel like his person anymore.

At the station, it becomes harder to ignore.

He avoids lingering too long. Doesn’t sit beside you at the kitchen table anymore. Talks to Buck and Chimney and Hen like nothing’s wrong — and maybe to them, there isn’t — but you feel the distance like a cold draft under the door.

It becomes unbearable.

And one day, when you catch him alone in the locker room, you finally say what’s been aching in your chest.

“Why are you pushing me away?”

Eddie freezes, halfway into zipping up his jacket. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t answer my calls, you barely look at me when I talk to you, and I feel like I lost my best friend without even knowing what I did wrong.”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?” you demand. “Did I cross a line? Did I make you uncomfortable? Because I swear, if it’s something I said or did, I’ll—”

“It’s not you,” he interrupts, voice low, eyes finally meeting yours. “It’s me.”

You let out a shaky breath, because how cliché. “That’s not an answer, Eddie.”

He hesitates. Looks down at the floor like it might help him find the words.

“I care about you too much,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stutters. “And that’s… a bad thing?”

“It is when I don’t know what to do with it.” His eyes flash with something unspoken — pain, maybe, or guilt.

“You don’t understand what it’s like. To have someone mean so much, to love someone so much, that you start to lose your grip on everything else. That terrifies me.”

Your breath catches.

“Eddie…”

“I’ve already lost too much,” he says. “Shannon. The idea of loving someone again—loving you—and losing it? I don’t know if I could survive that.”

You step closer, heart hammering in your chest.

“You don’t have to be afraid of your feelings. I feel it too. We’re not just friends and you know it.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s all in your head.”

The words hit like a slap. You actually flinch.

“No,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it wasn’t real.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m telling you the truth.”

You stare at him for a long moment, waiting for him to break. To take it back. To tell you he’s lying.

But he doesn’t.

So you nod, jaw trembling, and back away.

“Okay,” you say softly. “If that’s how you really feel.”

And you walk out of the room, out of the station, out of whatever almost was between you — your heart shattering silently inside your chest.

He doesn’t follow you.

Yet, a part of him wants to.

You don’t slam the door. You don’t raise your voice. You just leave.

Quietly. With the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t need sound to be loud.

And Eddie stands there in the locker room, frozen in the hollow silence you leave behind.

Fuck, he wants to go after you. Every part of him screams to. His legs twitch like they might move on their own. His chest is tight with everything he didn’t say.

But he doesn’t.

Because if he does, he won’t be able to lie anymore.

And the truth?

The truth is you mean too much.

You got under his skin in ways no one else ever has. Not Shannon. Not Ana. Not Marisol. Not anyone.

You’re woven into the little things:

How his day feels lighter when you smile at him across the firehouse kitchen. How he sleeps better after hearing your voice. How he’s memorized the way you take your coffee, and how his hands gravitate toward you even when he’s not thinking.

How you looked at him like he was safe.

And now? Now it’s too much.

Because the last time he let someone that far in, he lost her. And the fallout nearly destroyed him — nearly destroyed Christopher.

He can’t afford that again. Not for himself. Not for his son.

Not even for you.

But God, he wants to.

He wants to tell you that he lied. That it’s not all in your head. That every night he spent distancing himself from you, he stared at his ceiling wishing he had the courage to love you out loud. That he hears your laugh when you’re not even in the room. That it’s you. It’s always been you.

But the fear is louder.

The fear says: What if it all falls apart?

What if you get tired of him? What if he’s not enough?

What if Christopher gets attached and you walk away too?

Eddie Diaz has survived fire, gunfire, and grief.

But loving you — losing you — that’s a battle he doesn’t think he’d survive.

So he lets you go.

At least for now.

At least until the ache of not having you outweighs the terror of loving you.

And as he finally slumps down on the bench, head in his hands, Eddie whispers to himself the truth he couldn’t say to your face:

“I love you.”

You’re still there.

You show up to shifts. You answer your calls. You laugh at Chim’s dumb jokes, take your turn cooking in the firehouse kitchen, and go on like nothing’s shattered.

But it has shattered.

And everyone can feel it.

Especially him.

Eddie doesn’t sit next to you anymore. Not unless the lineup forces it. And when he does, he doesn’t speak much — like your presence stings, like proximity might burn him alive.

Which is ironic, because you’re the one feeling scorched.

There’s a hole in your chest where he used to be. The silence between you is louder than the sirens that wail from the truck. It fills the kitchen, the locker room, the back of the rig, the pause before you slide into your bunk at the end of the night.

He tore the thread between you with trembling hands and didn’t have the courage to stitch it back.

And you’re left holding it, frayed and useless, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to stop loving someone who never really gave you a chance to.

Buck is the first one who notices the real damage.

He knocks on your door a week after the blowout. Shows up with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to expense, but “Chim won’t know if we drink it fast.”

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.

“You can talk,” he says softly, passing you a spring roll. “Or you can just sit here and hate-watch rom-coms with me.”

You try. You really do. You sit beside him with your knees tucked to your chest, and you try to laugh at whatever stupid movie’s playing — but it cracks something open instead.

“I don’t get it,” you say, eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen. “He was right there, Buck. We were right there.”

Buck doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He doesn’t say Eddie didn’t mean it. He just nods and says, “Yeah. I know.”

Because he does know. He’s been in that liminal space between almost and never. He’s lived with a heart that wanted too much.

So he lets you cry. He sits there while your voice breaks and your mascara runs, and you tell him how much it hurts to love someone who’s too afraid to love you back.

At the station, things feel colder.

Hen pulls you into more calls than usual, always with a hand on your shoulder or a glance like, I’m here.

Chim tries to make you laugh too hard, and you let him — for their sake. Not yours. Even Bobby gives you a longer look during lineups, like he’s making sure you’re still steady on your feet.

But Eddie? Eddie’s unraveling.

He’s sharper with his words. Slower to smile. Quicker to volunteer for high-risk entries — the kind that make Buck flinch.

And Buck’s watching him, arms crossed, jaw tight, because he’s done waiting for Eddie to fix this.

“You’re miserable,” Buck snaps one night in the locker room, voice low and cutting. Eddie looks up from where he’s lacing his boots, surprised.

“What?”

“She’s miserable. You’re miserable. And for what? Because you’re scared? Because it’s easier to push her away than admit you love her?”

Eddie says nothing. Just clenches his jaw, like the truth might slip out if he lets his lips part for too long.

“You’re not protecting her,” Buck says. “You’re punishing her for making you feel something real. And you’re punishing yourself too.”

Eddie stands, tense. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Buck says, stepping closer.

“You’re not a scared kid anymore. You’re a man. You’re a father. You know what love looks like. You had it in front of you and you shoved it away.”

Eddie looks away. His shoulders sag. His voice is quieter now.

“I didn’t want to break her heart.”

Buck scoffs. “Well, too late. But you can still fix it. Unless you wait too long and someone else does.”

The words land like a gut punch. Someone else.

That thought had been haunting Eddie for weeks — the way Buck looked at you now with that softness, that fierce protectiveness.

He sees how you smile at Buck even through your heartbreak. And he knows — he knows — that if he doesn’t move soon, he’ll lose you for good.

Eddie doesn’t know when the house stopped feeling like home.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight pours in on Saturday mornings and doesn’t land where you used to sit on his couch, coffee in hand, laughter soft as wind.

Maybe it’s the quiet—too quiet—like something’s been vacuum-sealed from his life, and no matter how loud the world gets around him, he can’t unhear the absence of you.

Chris asked about you the other night.

“Why doesn’t she come around anymore?”

And Eddie, sitting on the edge of his son’s bed, couldn’t find a real answer. He lied, gently, the way people do when they’re trying not to bleed on the people they love.

“She’s been busy, bud. Just life stuff.”

But Chris is too smart for that. He didn’t press—he just nodded and turned to face the wall.

That silence haunted Eddie more than anything.

He finds himself at Hen and Karen’s, one of the few people who’s always seen through his best performances. He tells them he needed someone to talk to. Karen hands him tea before he even asks.

“So.” Karen folds her arms. “How long are you going to pretend you didn’t break your own heart?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone but you, apparently.”

He sinks into the couch. “I just… I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Hen says. “And you’re hurting, too. It’s written all over you.”

“I thought if I kept some distance, it’d make it easier. Like… if I never said anything, she could walk away if she wanted. And I wouldn’t have to fall apart when she did.”

Karen’s expression softens.

“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.”

“I know,” he admits, voice raw.

“I was terrified. Of how much I loved her. Of how easy it was. And how… permanent it felt. Like once I let it in, I’d never come back from it.”

“And now?” Hen asks.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the tea cup in his hands like it holds all the answers he’s too afraid to say aloud. But eventually, the truth peels itself out of him.

“I love her,” he breathes. “God, I’m in love with her.”

Later, he’s on a late shift with Bobby, just the two of them by the rig. Bobby doesn’t pry—not at first—but he looks up after a long stretch of silence and simply says:

“You ready to stop punishing yourself?”

Eddie laughs, low and tired. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do,” Bobby replies. “You just have to stop running. You’ve been in survival mode for so long, you forgot what it’s like to choose joy.”

Eddie leans against the counter, voice barely audible.

“I think she was my joy.”

Bobby nods. “Then go get her back. You still have time.”

That night, Eddie lies in bed staring at the ceiling, and for once, he doesn’t picture all the ways he could lose you. He pictures what it would feel like to hold your hand again. To tell you the truth.

To stop being afraid of a heart that beats a little louder when you’re near.

And he decides—finally—that it’s time.

He’s done running.

It’s raining when he knocks.

Not the kind of gentle drizzle that clings to windows like a whisper, but a downpour—relentless, cold, unforgiving.

It’s been weeks since you last saw Eddie in anything more than passing glances at the firehouse, and longer still since you heard his voice say your name without flinching.

You almost don’t open the door.

But when you check the peephole, and you see him standing there—soaked to the bone, eyes like bruises, shoulders sagging—you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

You crack the door open just enough to lean against it. You don’t invite him in.

“Really?” you say quietly. “Now you show up?”

Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. You almost think he won’t.

“I know I have no right to be here,” he finally says, voice gravel-thick and wet with regret. “But I couldn’t— I couldn’t keep doing this. Not after everything.”

You cross your arms, biting back the ache in your throat.

“Everything like what, Eddie? Like telling me it was all in my head? Like pretending none of it meant anything?”

He flinches.

“I was trying to protect something,” he says. “I just didn’t realize I was destroying it at the same time.”

You open the door a little wider, just enough for him to see the anger that still flickers in your chest—anger born from heartbreak, not hate.

“Protect what exactly? Yourself? Because I sure as hell wasn’t protected when you said all those things. You made me feel insane for loving you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says instantly, stepping forward but stopping himself short.

“I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, maybe I wouldn’t lose you completely. I’ve lost people before—people I loved. And you—”

He swallows thickly, shaking his head.

“You scared me more than anyone ever has.”

That stings.

You let it.

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, voice firm even as your hands start to tremble.

“You don’t get to burn down what we had just because it scared you. You don’t get to come back when I’ve barely figured out how to function without you.”

“I know,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders curl inward like he’s folding under the weight of it all.

“I lied,” he says softly. “That night. When I said I didn’t love you.”

You glance away, jaw clenched.

“I was scared. I still am. But the truth is… I’m more scared of never getting to tell you how much I do love you.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy, and for a moment, all you can hear is the rain pounding against the pavement and the thunder rolling overhead.

“Eddie,” you say quietly. “You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“And I’ll spend as long as it takes trying to make up for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see you. I love you. And I never stopped.”

You stare at him for a long time, and he doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He just stands there, letting it rain, letting it hurt.

Eventually, you step aside.

“Come inside before you catch a cold.”

He does. Carefully. As though you might change your mind at any second.

He peels off his soaked jacket and stands awkwardly in your living room, dripping water onto the rug he once helped you pick out on a lazy Sunday afternoon—back when things were still unspoken but full of promise.

“You still love me?” he asks, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you walk toward him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his chest.

Your fingers brush over his shirt, soaked and clinging, and you look up at him through lashes heavy with everything you’ve carried.

“Of course I do,” you whisper. “That’s why it hurt so much.”

He exhales shakily, and for the first time in weeks, you see the man you knew—the one who carried your heart like something fragile and precious, even when he didn’t have the words for it.

“I’m still angry,” you warn.

“You have every right to be.”

“I’m not just going to forget it all overnight.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You stare at each other, storm still howling outside, hearts both threadbare and somehow still beating in tandem.

And when you kiss—finally—it isn’t perfect.

It’s desperate. It’s trembling. It’s soaked in tears and rain and months of unspoken longing.

But it’s real.

And when he presses his forehead to yours, holding you like the world might split open, you realize that maybe love was never supposed to be fearless.

It was just supposed to be brave.

Falling asleep next to Eddie Diaz becomes a ritual you never thought you’d have the right to experience.

Not after the heartbreak, the months of silence, the tear-stained pillowcases, and the long nights spent wondering if you’d imagined it all.

Not after the ache of watching him walk away from something he felt as deeply as you did. But now, with his arm looped around your waist and his breath slow and even against the back of your neck, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Like it was always supposed to be this way.

Your mornings are slow now ever since you started sleeping at the Diaz household.

The world still spins fast around you—calls come in, emergencies rise like tides, and grief still knocks on your door sometimes. But in the stillness of sunrise, before the rest of the world wakes up, you and Eddie find time to just be.

You’ve gotten into the habit of making coffee while still wearing his hoodie, sleeves falling past your fingertips, the scent of him wrapped around you like armor.

He pretends not to notice, but there’s always a soft little smile tugging at his mouth when he sees you in it.

“You know, you do own clothes your size,” he says one morning, voice still rough from sleep.

You shrug. “But yours are warmer.”

He pulls you into his chest with a soft grunt and presses a kiss to your temple. “Can’t argue with that.”

After rough shifts, you hold his hand on the ride back to the firehouse.

Sometimes, you don’t even realize you’ve reached for it until you feel his thumb rub slow circles into your knuckles.

It’s never for show. It’s never performative. It’s just… comfort. Constant. Quiet. Sure.

You don’t need words to know what he’s thinking when he squeezes your hand just a little tighter after a difficult call. You just lean your head onto his shoulder and let him breathe.

On another note, Christopher loves having you around again.

Not in the polite, oh-she’s-nice way—but in the real, deep-bonded way that tells you you’ve become something sacred in his world.

After school pickups are his favorite, and even when it’s supposed to be Eddie’s turn, he asks if you can come too.

“Dad says you’re better at choosing snacks,” he tells you with a grin, swinging his backpack onto your back like it’s already your job.

You catch Eddie giving you a soft look through the window of the car. One that says, This. This is it. This is everything I almost threw away.

Sometimes, Chris falls asleep on your shoulder on the ride home when you’re sitting at the back. And sometimes, Eddie takes a picture of it on his phone, storing it somewhere private. Safe.

The teasing from the team is merciless—but warm.

Hen grins at you during lunch and nudges your foot under the table.

“You know, we had a pool going on. I won thirty bucks.”

Chimney raises a brow. “You all owe me. I called it two years ago.”

You shoot Eddie a look, but he’s barely pretending to be bashful.

“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” Buck adds, leaning back in his chair. “The way you two looked at each other? Come on.”

“I don’t remember you saying anything that night I told her I didn’t love her,” Eddie says dryly, smirking.

Buck raises his hands. “I was giving you time to figure out you’re a dumbass. Took longer than expected.”

There’s laughter. Real, full-bellied laughter. The kind that makes your ribs hurt in the best way.

But what gets you most is this: Eddie laughs too.

Like a man no longer holding his breath.

At night, you lie curled up in bed with him, the lamp casting soft light across his face. He’s reading something quietly, one hand draped over your hip, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin like a habit he doesn’t want to break.

You study him sometimes. The way he softens now. How his smiles last longer. How his laughter comes easier. How he kisses you with both urgency and reverence, like he’s still making up for lost time.

“I think I stopped breathing for a while,” he murmurs one night. “When we weren’t… us.”

You look up at him. “Me too.”

He touches your cheek. “You bring me back to myself. Every time.”

You lean into him, heart swelling.

“That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

He presses his lips to your forehead, and you breathe together in the dark, the quiet warmth of the home you’ve built finally wrapping around you both.

Eddie Diaz once believed love was something you had to guard yourself against. That loving too much meant losing too hard. But now, with your head on his chest and your voice whispering sleepy dreams against his skin, he knows better.

Loving you didn’t ruin him.

It saved him.

And this—this gentle, messy, beautiful life—is everything he almost gave up.

But not anymore.

Now, he holds it all in his arms and doesn’t let go. Not ever again.

© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[chrisbratt333]

°❀⋆.🫐࿔･🦢°‧ 𝜗𝜚 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐂.𝐒 & 𝐍.𝐃

🚨Please read before continuing 🚨

Author’s Note: The following is fake, this is purely fan fiction to be read as enjoyment. Nothing said or done in this fic is true. I don’t think Chris would share his girlfriend with Nate but this is purely for fanfiction and fun, so if you don’t like don’t read. The following is all my work and no copying, plagiarism, or using as inspiration will be tolerated. The following contains threesome, possessive behavior, smut and oral (m) receiving. This was kinda hard to write bc I have no attraction to Nate but I hope you all enjoy!

Also! This is a standalone so this isn’t in the same universe as my typical Bon and Chris writing!

°❀⋆.🫐࿔･🦢°‧ 𝜗𝜚

“Alright everyone that’s it for this tour surprise! We hope you enjoyed and cue to in real life Chris!” Chris exclaims pointing to where he would be sitting during the tour show.

That was after the events that occurred down at the hotel. The passion, chemistry, pure desire and need coursing through the three of them was more than memorable and very much a surprise the three weren’t expecting.

It was no lie that Nate has always had a small crush on Chris’ girl. Nobody could really blame Nate, I mean it took everything in him to not fall at her feet and worship the ground she walked on the second he saw her in person. Her charm, wit, and ethereal presence was intoxicating.

Nate had slipped up and told Nick and Matt about his schoolboy crush on Cinnamon when he thought the coast was clear and that Chris and Cinnamon had left the house already, but no - Chris caught it. He caught every damn word that spewed out of his best friend’s mouth. Was Chris seeing red with jealousy? Of course he was, his possessiveness over Cinnamon was clear to anyone and everyone. But that was six months ago and Chris has thought long and hard about it. He knows Nate hasn’t had a girlfriend in over three years. He knows Nate hasn’t had any type of hookup or one night stand. He knows his best friend is in dire need of something and Chris can’t lie that the idea of showing off his girl to his best friend who has had a not so secret crush on her is enticing to him. So when the time comes for his surprise vacation with Nate, Chris thinks adding a second surprise just for Nate would be perfect.

Everything was discussed with Cinnamon and she was more than willing to participate. Chris and Cinnamon both agreed this would be a one time thing - nothing more nothing less.

So when the time came and Chris and Nate took the elevator up to their room Cinnamon was already waiting. A simple yet revealing tank top paired with one of Chris grey sweats adorned her body. Chris sweats being his personal touch, a sign of who Cinnamon belongs to even in the moments prior to him sharing her with his best friend.

“Oh-shit-hey Bon.” Nate stutters clearly surprised to see her here in the hotel room looking as ethereal as ever. Chris is quick to stalk over to his girl and smash his lips to hers in a burning hot, searing kiss. “Hi sweetheart, you look gorgeous.” Chris remarks a slight blush coating his features as he takes in her effortless beauty. “Hi handsome.” Cinnamon whispers softly taking in how handsome Chris looks, a simple white shirt and black sweats, but it’s Chris so it’s more than enough to get her flustered. “Hi Nate.” Cinnamon says softly glancing his ways. It’s hard to miss the dazed look in Nate’s eyes as he takes in Cinnamon’s presence.

“You boys wanna go swim?” Cinnamon says glancing up at Chris with their preplanned idea coming into works.

“Yea let’s go c’mon!” Nate says slipping into the bathroom to get changed.

Chris is quick to scoop Cinnamon up in his arms using these few moments of alone time to shower Cinnamon in love and affection. “You still cool with all of this?” Chris asks concerned laced across his features, only waiting his girl to be happy and comfortable. “Yea of course, are you still good with everything?” Cinnamon says softly peppering Chris neck in soft, delicate kisses as Chris responds with a soft, “Yea so bad. I honestly can’t wait.”

Nate emerges from the bathroom, pink swim shorts with nothing else. “Y’all done making out? Let’s go.” Nate says laughing at the blush covering Chris face. “What you jealous Nate?” Cinnamon mocks playfully. Nate can’t help but choke on the Pepsi he was drinking as Chris cackles out at how flustered his girl got Nate just with a simple remark.

Once the three arrived at the pool, the hotel staff alerted them that the pool was closed due to an inconvenience (lmao). “Bruh.” Nate and Chris say in unison. “Let’s just go back to our room, I’m sure we can find something to entertain us.” Cinnamon says leading the way back to the elevator her simple red bikini lacing her features perfectly. “She’s killing me here.” Nate laughs looking at Chris who was more than mesmerized by his girls’ beauty.

Once the three arrived back to their room, Chris suggested a game of truth or dare to which Cinnamon and Nate happily agreed to as they placed the hotel pillows in a position so everyone was in a circle and was comfortable on the bed. Chris has Cinnamon perched on his lap as the three giggly begin their game. “Alright Nate.” Chris says with a micheavous smile. “Truth or dare?”

“Dude your dares are probably something stupid like drinking toilet water or running down the hallway naked so I think the safer option is truth.” Nate laughs out.

“Okay truth then.” Chris says as he rubs circles across Cinnamon’s thighs. “Have you ever jerked off to my girl.”

And if there was a camera in the room to capture Nate’s and Cinnamon’s shocked faces it would have went viral. Jaws were dropped, eyes bulging out of their heads, and a choked out gasp came from Nate. “What the fuck-” Nate says laughing and fallibly miserably to hid the blush rising on his cheeks and neck. “Yep, that’s the question and if you don’t answer you are required to strip and run down the hallway since you gave me that genius idea.” Chris says smiling.

“I think the blush says it all.” Cinnamon laughs out. Chris chuckles as he slips his arms around her waist possessively. “I think you’re right baby.” Chris says smirking at how flustered Nate is.

“Yea yea so funny.” Nate says playfully rolling his eyes before landing on Cinnamon’s equally as flushed face. “So are we just ending the game at Nate’s embarrassment or what?” Cinnamon says looking between the two boys. Both boys chest rising and falling with shallow breathes. The air becoming thick and somehow the dim lamps in the room seem to only dim more at each passing second.

“Cinnamon truth or dare?” Nate says trying to hid his smirk.

“Dare.”

“Get in my lap.”

Chris knew his jealously would come to play, but he also knew that Cinnamon is his girl and his alone. Nate having one night of fun with her would never change anything between them, if anything this was going to be a fun little check off the bucket list for all three of them. Never to do again, but something just for fun. But that still didn’t stop the blazing heat of possessiveness Chris felt as Cinnamon lifted slightly off his lap. Before anyone could utter a word, Cinnamon turns to face Chris and presses a long, passionate kiss between them. Her personal promise of being his throughout all of this. Cinnamon gracefully places herself on Nate’s open lap, gasping at the thick bulge already growing at her thighs.

“You enjoying yourself over there man?” Chris says coking a brow at Nate. “Fuck yes.” Nate breathes out.

The room felt hotter, the walls smaller, and the heat between the three grew with each passing breath.

“One more.” Cinnamon says looking at Chris and then Nate. “Chris truth or dare?”

“Dare”

“Watch your best friend fuck me.”

Cinnamon even surprised herself with that one.

Nate felt like he was hallucinating because there was no way he heard what he thinks he heard. The girl he has secretly had a school boy crush on for so long is not only in his lap, but is about to let him pleasure her. “Fuck-” Nate breathes out. “I-fuck-is-is that-holy shit-is this okay with you Chris? A-and especially you Bon?” Nate rambles.

“More than okay.” Cinnamon assures turning to face him. “Hundred percent man, just a one time night of fun for you. I know you haven’t exactly been lucky in the bed lately.” Chris chuckles. “Fuck you dude.” Nate laughs leaning over and throwing a nearby pillow at Chris head, but the movement caused Cinnamon to slide down his lap to the point where his growing length hit her folds perfectly through the thin swim suits they were wearing. A small, barely noticeable moan slipped past her lips, brows furrowing in pleasure as both Nate and Chris look towards her, eyes wide at the sound.

“I-I how do I start? I-I’ve never done a threesome before man?” Nate says looking to Chris with concern etched on his features. He wants this more than anything, but he also doesn’t want to look like a loser not knowing what to do or how to do it. “Shhh-” Cinnamon coos delicately tracing her nails down his arm. “Just relax okay?” Those simple, yet reassuring words seem to help soothe the racing thoughts Nate has, but the tension in the room only intensifies as Cinnamon starts to lean in closer to Nate’s lips. “Just feel okay?” Bon coos.

“O-okay.” Nate stutters.

Before another word can be spoken Cinnamon takes the move and slots her lips in-between Nate’s parted lips. The faint taste of Pepsi lingering on his tongue from earlier as he slips his into Bon’s mouth. “Fuck” Nate grunts swiftly thrusting his hips up. Soft whimpers flow through both Bon and Nate’s lips.

“Alright enough petting each other let’s have some fun.” Chris growls from behind Cinnamon. Rough hands lifting her off of Nate’s lap and centering her on her hands and knees. “Cinnamon you okay with this?” Chris asks, with a swift nod and a “Yes please.” Chris looks towards Nate for assurance that he is still willing to. Nate laughs breathlessly, “You think I’m turning down fucking the prettiest person I’ve ever met? Fuck no.” Nate chuckles. “Please just someone do something.” Cinnamon whines and without another word, the ties to her bikini flies off leaving her bare for both of her boys. Nate and Chris are swift to remove their clothes, leaving the floor a pile of discarded swimsuits.

Nate slowly enters Bon inch by inch, the pulsing veins adorning Nate’s length erupt whimpers of pleasure out of Bon. “Fuck-” Cinnamon whines out once Nate fully bottoms out. “She’s tight isn’t she?” Chris chuckles with a proud smirk. “Fuck-man I don’t know if I’ll last at-all-fuck.” Nate groans pulling out halfway and then slamming himself back in. “Chris please” Cinnamon whines out pawing at his leaking dick in front of her face. “Wanna taste you.” Cinnamon moans out. “Such a good-fucking girl-shit.” Chris moans out, slowly filling Cinnamon’s mouth with his length.

Chris is fast to climax, seeing his girl so fucked out from both ends. Her whimpers and years of pleasure fueling both Nate and Chris orgasms. The feeling of both of her tight holes sucking both of them in further and further - its overwhelming ecstatic. Cinnamon cums with a cry over Nate’s dick coating him in her juices

Cinnamon is full of pleasure she has never felt in this way before. Her mouth is covered in Chris cum, lips coated in his salty taste. Her hole is filled with her boyfriend’s best friend’s pulsing length. “Such a good girl.” Nate coos as he runs his hands down Cinnamon’s hips. “What a pretty fucking girl huh?” Nate moans out. “Shit where do you want me?”

Chris is quick to answer, “Not inside man. She’s my girl and only I get to fill her tight little pussy up.” Chris growls possessively. Cinnamon takes Nate’s length and pumps her hand against his dick until he is coating her ass in his thick ropes of cum.

As the three catch their breath. Nate runs to grab a cold wash cloth for Bon. “Here you go angel.” He says softly leaning down and wiping his cum off her body as Chris kisses the cum left on her lips off. “You did amazing sweetheart.” Chris coos.

Nate puts on his clothes and Chris helps Bon place her clothes on as the three all lay on the bed drifting off to sleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Chris clinging onto Cinnamon as Nate holds her hand.

Dividers from @bernardsbendystraws 🤍🩰

Taglist @pasteldreams @oopsiedaisydeer @tezzzzzzzz @riasturns @chrepsi @courta13 @emely9274 @bernardsbendystraws @sturniowhore @lovesturni0l0s @bugs-tags @babydollcharsie @slvt4subchratt @jensturnss @grace-sturnz @cecesturn @sturniolosymphony

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

Write some baby Reid stuff?!

ೇ teach me ― spencer reid .ᐟ

pairing .ᐟ college!spencer reid x plus size popular girl!reader

summary | who knew that seven minutes in heaven could lead to spencer losing his virginity to the girl he thought was completely out of his league?

warnings | reader teaching spencer how to please her, light breast play, heavy consent reassurance (bc reader wants to make sure his first time is memorable), praise, sub!spencer reid, dom!reader, praise kink, heavy use of nicknames, petting if you squint, stripping, riding, unprotected sex, creampie, lack of foreplay, vaginal sex, teasing, a sprinkle of comedy in there cause i couldn't help myself, loser boyfriend!spencer plain and simple.

wordcount | 1472

۶ৎ a/n .ᐟ | HIYAAAA this is the much demanded part two of my dry humping kinktober fic, but you don't have to read it to understand this one (but it would be preferred!!). i'm also writing this because I have something planned for this year's kinktober and i'm trying to set us up for greatness here sooo!! we'll definitely be seeing this couple again ;]

— links .ᐟ masterlist || ao3

Oh God, Spencer was shaking.

He was about to lose his virginity to the girl of his dreams, and he was fucking shaking.

You had to cut the man some slack, because throughout his college career, all he had been worrying about was working toward his first PHD, and his mother, who he had left back in Las Vegas.

As soon as he had entered your empty dorm room, your hands were on him. You tugged lightly on the roots of his hair, attempting to coax him into doing something, because right now, he was as still as a statue and yet trembling at the same time.

“Spencer…” You separated your lips with his and he immediately frowned. “Yeah - yes, yes? Are you okay?” Oh God, you were going to tell him you didn’t want to have sex with him anymore, that everything leading up until now was a mistake and -

“I should be the one asking you that.”

“What?” He asked nervously with furrowed brows.

“Well to start, you're shaking like you're cold and you aren't kissing me back.” He started to pick at his cuticles again. “I- I-” Stop stuttering, damnit!

“What?” You teased with a small smile, “Can you only get hard in public? Is it a kinky thing?”

“What?! No, no!” Spencer sputtered incredulously. His eyes were wide and frantic to the point where he stopped picking at his nails. That wasn't what this was at all! How could you think - oh. Oh. You were being sarcastic.

“I'm just kidding, Spence.” You took your hands off his body and he almost chased their warmth. “We don't have to do anything you don't want to; we can just watch a movie or something. My roommate isn't going to be back for who knows how long.”

“No - I… I want to. I'm just… nervous. I’m -” He gulped. “I'm a virgin.” His confession was muttered and meek but you heard him. The man looked up at you through his long eyelashes, his brown irises boring into your soul in wait for your reaction.

You bit the inside of your cheek and examined him for a moment. “How about this,” You grab him by his hand. “I’ll show you what to do and we'll rectify that tonight if things go well.”

You took a step toward him and his back but the door with a quiet thud. “And I'm sure you're a quick learner, aren't you Reid?”

“Very! I'm a very quick learner!”

“That's what I like to hear.”

You led him over to your twin sized bed and stood by it. You had no idea how the both of you were going to fit on it, but you were really just flying by the seat of your pants right now.

“Take off my dress.” You command softly. “O- okay.” His quivering hands grab at the hem of your dress and tug it up, all the while he was watching your face.

Spencer sucks in a breath at the sight of your bare chest and panty clad lower half. He was throbbing where he stood, and he almost died of embarrassment.

“Touch me, baby.” You encouraged him lightly by grabbing his lithe and shaky hands and placing them on your heavy breasts. He all but gasped at the feeling, but he quickly covered it up by clearing his throat.

He pinched your nipples gently and it caused you to moan quietly.

“Is this okay?” Spencer asked with a swallow. Your hands left his own and your fingers dug into his biceps, your lips rolled in between your teeth to hold back your sounds. “More than okay.” You breathed.

It goes on like that for a moment and the need that was pooling in your gut was nauseating, and your blood was rushing to every part of your body.

“Spencer…” You sighed. “Take your clothes off.”

His eyes widen in disbelief, his hands all but snatching them off your breasts and to the buckle on his khaki pants. His fingers are uncoordinated and nervous but he manages to get it out the loop while you work on pulling your thong down your legs.

You can tell he’s trying not to stare at your newly nude bottom half, and you approach him and drag your fingertips across the band of his underwear. “Can I take this off, pretty boy?” You ask just in case. He nods dumbly. “Yes, yes please.”

He decides to take off his shirt while you rid him of his boxers. “You’re so pretty, Spencer.” You coo and look up at him through your eyelashes. His cheeks flush a deep red, just like they did in the circle. “T - thank you! You are as well and… and you’re pretty all the time too!” You just chuckle. “Thank you, baby.”

“Get on the bed.” You command, and he scrambles to follow your words. You’d work on teaching him foreplay later, because right now you need him inside you, badly.

“I figured this was better than trying to have both of us laying down on this tiny ass bed.” You joke and straddle him.

Spencer’s hands are raised, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. You take them wordlessly, placing them on your naked flesh. He can’t help but squeeze the meat of your hips, the fat of them spilling out from between his nimble fingers.

“We’re gonna take this slow, okay? Because I don’t want to overwhelm you.” You placed a hand on his cheek and grabbed his cock. He yelped, his hips shooting up at the simulation. “Easy boy, easy.” You coax.

He attempts to steady himself, teeth biting down on his bottom lip in order to try and keep his composure when the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance.

“Ready?” You ask. He nods like a maniac. “Mhm!”

Then you sink down.

Spencer sounds like he’s getting his soul stolen with the way that he moans out loud. It’s a mix between a scream and a whimper really, and his eyes practically roll back into his head. His grip on you tightens, holding onto you like a lifeline, and you honestly think that his fingers are going to bruise, but you don’t tell him.

Your legs are shaking and your stomach is tight and you’re smiling deliriously like a mad woman. He feels so good and he’s filling you up so well. It reminds you of how people say the skinniest guys are always hung.

Spencer’s fully sheathed inside of you and he’s trembling, uncontrollable whimpers and whines spilling from between his lips.

“You’re so warm please…” He begs, his hips jumping up once more. You yourself yelp in surprise and he’s instantly apologizing. “‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, I just - just need more, please…”

“I got you sweetheart, just hang on.” You lift up until his tip catches your rim before sinking down again. He chokes on his own spit.

You manage to find a rhythm and Spencer desperately follows you, trying to offer you some pleasure as well. You know he is bye the way he’s constantly searching your face for any kind of disappointment.

“Do you not -” He huffs. “Does it not feel good?” It brings out a sad mewl. “It feels great, baby, I promise; but we can worry about me later. Tonight is about you, okay?” You force him to look at you and accept his words. “Okay.”

Your legs are getting tired but you’re determined to make him cum and by the look on his face and the scrunching of his eyebrows, he’s close.

“You close?” You huff out, sliding up and down at an overwhelming pace, even for you. “I - yes! Where should I…” Cum. Where should he cum is what he wanted to ask but he’s too embarrassed to. “Inside me.” You say with a smirk.

Spencer really wants to question it, but all thought is thrown out the window when he feels his stomach tighten and his legs lock.

“I - I’m -” But it’s too late by the time he tries to tell you, because he lets out a long whorish moan, and his back arches off the wall.

You grin down at him as he paints your inner walls white, your hands that were gripping his shoulders rubbing at the skin of his neck and down his upper arms. A shiver shoots up your spine but you welcome it nonetheless.

You soothe him back down to earth through his aftershocks and tiny whimpers. You feel him go soft inside of you but you don’t try to get off just in case he still needs you there comfort wise.

“Holy shit,” You laugh. “Are you okay?” You ask in disbelief.

“I feel wonderful.” The undertone of his murmur is giggly and it’s probably the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

[clementineinn]

call me on the line

abstract: when the BAU investigates a string of disappearances in the forgotten logging town of Stillwater, Washington, two agents are sent to question a possible lead — deep in the woods, where a storm is rising, and the line between hunter and hunted begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff

word count: deadass, you don't want to know. but it's long.

note: did i make this longer than it had to be? 1,000 percent yes. but finals are lowk kicking my ass so i let myself just go off on this. writing angst is kind of hard for me bc i love fluff, so if it's cringe SORRY LOL. also, it's not really proofread so, ignore any misspelled words. enjoy :)

The case had the air of something unfinished. Not cold, exactly—but quiet. Unsettling.

Stillwater, Washington wasn’t a town you stumbled into—it was a place you had to mean to find. Tucked between jagged peaks and black-needled evergreens, the logging town had once thrived on sawdust and sweat, its heartbeat synced to the drone of machinery and the scent of fresh-cut pine. But that was decades ago. Now the mills were silent, the tracks rusted over. Paint peeled in long, curling strips from shuttered storefronts, and hand-painted For Sale signs clung stubbornly to rotting fences.

It had the kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like watching eyes. Like a breath held just behind the trees.

Four disappearances in under eight weeks hadn’t made it past the usual bureaucratic filters—until one of them had a last name that opened doors. The niece of the mayor had vanished without a trace, and the calls went higher. Stillwater finally showed up on someone’s desk. That’s when the Bureau had been called in.

Now, the BAU team was crowded into the back room of the sheriff’s office, where the walls were stained an old tobacco yellow and a ceiling fan turned in slow, listless circles overhead. The air smelled of mildew, old paper, and coffee gone to burn.

A radio crackled somewhere in the front office, too far away to catch words. The rain had picked up again—sharp now, rhythmic, like fingernails tapping against the tin roof. It filled the silences between breaths, between theories.

A map of Stillwater was pinned to the far wall, dotted with pushpins and red-thread lines. Property boundaries faded at the edges, roads narrowing into nothing. The forest swallowed everything beyond a certain point.

And that’s where they were headed.

Soon.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like unknowns. Didn’t like how much of the town seemed to exist in whispers and folklore.

Reid’s fingers moved restlessly against the file in his lap, flipping pages he’d already memorized. Morgan leaned against a cabinet, the tension in his shoulders more visible than he thought. Emily paced, silent, her boots creaking on warped linoleum.

And Y/N sat still—too still—in the corner, her gaze fixed on the map, brows furrowed just slightly. As if she’d already seen something there the rest hadn’t.

“We’re working on the assumption that the unsub is someone local,” Hotch said, voice low but unwavering, the kind of tone that cut clean through the hum of bad coffee machines and rain-heavy silence. His hand swept across the makeshift evidence board—grainy photos, hand-drawn maps, weather-stained documents clipped under yellowing light. “None of the victims traveled far from home. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. Whoever this is… they’re moving through the cracks. Operating in the blind spots.”

The storm outside clawed at the edges of the sheriff’s office, wind rattling the single-pane windows. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, the brightness of her tone oddly eerie against the static interference from the rain: “I did some digging on anyone who might’ve had a reason to watch those woods closely, and a name came up—Walter Massey. Sixty-eight, retired forest ranger, lives alone near Deadman’s Ridge. He filed multiple complaints with Fish and Wildlife about unregistered hunting trails about three weeks before the first disappearance. That’s a breadcrumb if I’ve ever seen one.”

JJ flipped open a manila folder, brows furrowed. “Massey was also the last confirmed person to speak with one of the missing women. No phone record, but she was seen heading in his direction on a convenience store camera the day she vanished.”

“He has a cabin out past the old ridge road,” she added. “Next nearest neighbor is two miles downhill. Closest cell reception’s even farther.”

Emily leaned forward, arms crossed. “Could be nothing. He could’ve just seen something—or someone—he didn’t know how to explain. Or he might be too scared to come forward.”

“Or he’s a link to someone who is,” Rossi muttered, eyes never leaving the board.

Hotch gave a tight nod, arms crossed as his gaze swept the photos pinned to the board, then flicked toward the map spread across the center table. The rain outside hammered the windows in steady rhythm, underscoring every word.

“Either way, we talk to him,” he said. “Quietly. No flashing badges. No tactical presence. If Massey’s involved, we don’t want him running. If he’s just a frightened old man…” His jaw tightened. “We don’t want him shutting down.”

He turned, addressing the team with that low, clipped authority that didn’t invite questions — just motion.

“Emily, JJ — keep working the geographical profile. Focus on any repeat paths near Deadman’s Ridge. If he’s stalking the victims beforehand, he’s walking terrain he knows.”

He looked next to Morgan. “Coordinate with the sheriff. I want a list of locals with military backgrounds and hunting violations within the last ten years. Start with rangers. Forestry. Anyone who knows the woods well enough to vanish inside them.”

Then Hotch turned back to the table. To Spencer—then Y/N beside him.

“You two take the Massey interview.”

Spencer straightened slightly, nodding once. Y/N didn’t move, but her posture shifted — alert, coiled like she was already halfway in the field. The weight of the assignment passed between them like a silent current.

Hotch’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “No pressure. Just a conversation. If anything feels off, you pull back. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, steady.

The room moved around them again — chairs scraping, files opening, murmured replies. But Spencer only glanced sideways, eyes catching hers just briefly.

No pressure.

Just a cabin in the woods.

Spencer dipped his head in a silent nod, already flipping the page in his notebook, though his hand paused briefly on the paper in front of him—just for a second, a flicker of tension behind his eyes.

Not fear. Just the quiet knowledge that something about this wasn’t sitting right.

But Y/N didn’t say anything. Just squared her shoulders, voice level. “We’ll head out now.”

Spencer glanced at her as they rose—catching that flicker again. Just long enough to feel it echo.

Morgan leaned forward in his chair, the legs creaking faintly beneath him. His arms were folded tight across his chest, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. Rain hammered the roof above them in steady pulses, the storm pressing harder against the windows with every gust.

“That cabin’s deep,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Trees out there are old. Thick. Signal won’t last long once you hit the ridgeline.”

He wasn’t scaremongering, just stating facts. The kind of facts that only came from years of walking into places no one came back from easily.

“We’ll stay in range,” Spencer said, nodding as he adjusted the settings on the handheld GPS unit. The small screen flickered in the dim light.

But Morgan didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted, settling on Y/N.

He dropped his voice.

“Just… be careful out there,” he said.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No usual smirk. Just a quiet weight, something steady and weather-worn, like he’d seen too many people walk into places like this thinking they were fine—until they weren’t.

His gaze held hers.

“This feels like the kind of case that turns on you when you stop looking.”

For a moment, the room fell quiet but for the scratch of JJ’s pen and the whisper of the storm.

Y/N tried for a smile, soft and crooked. One corner of her mouth lifted just enough to pass for ease.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Morgan stepped closer, his boots quiet on the worn linoleum. He stopped just beside her, voice dropping low—meant only for her and Spencer.

“I know you like to play calm,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Just come back in one piece.”

Y/N blinked—slow, measured. For a second, her eyes flicked away.

And then, true to form, she bumped his elbow gently with hers.

“You’re getting soft on me, Morgan.”

He snorted under his breath. “You wish.”

They shared a look—mocking on the surface, playful even—but there was something else beneath it. Something older than the case, older than the moment. Trust carved out of too many nights watching each other’s backs in godforsaken places.

Morgan stepped back. Spencer shifted beside her, glancing down at the map again.

Hotch handed over the file without ceremony, the folder already creased at the edges from too many hands. His expression didn’t shift—still carved in quiet stone—but there was something in the way his eyes held theirs, a flicker of weight that went unsaid.

“According to county records,” he said, his voice low and even over the soft rumble of rain, “Massey’s property has one road in.”

Y/N took the folder, her fingers brushing briefly against Spencer’s as he leaned in to glance at the top page. The map was crude. Hand-drawn annotations. The kind that didn’t inspire confidence.

Hotch continued. “Narrow. Gravel. Unmaintained.”

He looked to them both.

“Use the Jeep.”

There was no room for argument in his tone—only the practiced cadence of someone who’d seen too many search parties stall because the wrong car bottomed out before the trailhead.

The overhead lights flickered once as the storm deepened, shadows slanting across the faded floorboards. Y/N gave a single nod, sharp and controlled, and tucked the file under her arm. Spencer followed, the weight of the assignment already settling between them like mist.

One road in. No promises about getting back out.

Y/N zipped her coat — a tailored dove-gray trench that framed her silhouette like it had been made for her. The collar stood slightly askew, catching the light with the faintest sheen of rain-soft wool. Beneath it, a blouse in the softest shade of lilac peeked through — silk, high-necked, and delicately ruched at the shoulders. It tucked seamlessly into crisp white slacks, expertly pressed, the hem brushing just above pale suede boots that clicked softly on the concrete floor.

She looked like she belonged in a courtroom or a gallery opening — not a muddy precinct hallway. But somehow, she always managed both. A study in contrast. Formidable. Graceful.

Spencer watched as she lifted her arms and swept her hair back — slow, efficient, thoughtless in its elegance. Her fingers worked easily, pulling the strands into a low knot at the base of her skull. Her hair, even when gathered, fell in wispy waves around the edges. Loose strands curled around her ears, temple, neck — impossibly soft, like the inside of a flower petal.

One wisp curled across her cheek, fine as a brushstroke, and rested just at the edge of her lips.

He couldn’t help it — he stared.

Not inappropriately. Just quietly. Like his eyes couldn’t quite let go.

He desperately wanted to reach out and tuck that loose strand behind her ear — the one that danced every time she turned her head, feather-light against the curve of her cheek. It would’ve taken barely a movement. Just two fingers. A breath of courage.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed the impulse, let the ache lodge quietly beneath his ribs, and cleared his throat like it might shake something loose.

His eyes dropped back to the map in his hands — too fast, too pointed — as if they hadn’t just been tracing the delicate fall of her hair, the light pooling in it like water catching sun.

As if he hadn’t almost reached for her at all.

Then, against his better judgment — against the quiet thrum of logic that always tried to keep him grounded — he looked up again.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

The curve of her jaw, the way her lashes kissed the top of her cheekbone when she glanced down, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her shoulders as she settled her coat more squarely around them — he took it all in like a man starved for something he couldn’t name.

There was a steadiness to her, a kind of elegant gravity that drew his gaze whether he meant to or not. She didn’t just walk into a room — she inhabited it, quiet but certain, the way a candle settles into flame.

And for a breath — a single, weightless breath — he let himself look.

Y/N caught the movement, just barely.

Her eyes flicked toward him — not sharp, not teasing, but knowing. A soft glance, almost accidental, that met his and held it just long enough to say I saw that.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she turned her head, adjusting her holster with practiced precision, her expression smoothing into something steady and composed.

The moment passed. Filed away between them.

Then it was gone — smoothed over with the practiced ease of someone who knew when to draw the line between charm and duty.

Her voice cut cleanly through the low hum of the room—measured, even, with just enough lift to draw attention without sounding urgent.

“Anything else we should know?”

Y/N didn’t look directly at anyone in particular, though her question angled toward Hotch. Her posture remained composed, the press of her palm against the grip of her holster casual but intentional—like muscle memory. Her other hand smoothed a slight crease in her light wool coat, the pale fabric catching dull gold light beneath the ceiling fan’s slow, uneven spin.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the line, bright and tinny through the static. “Only that Massey hasn’t answered his landline in over a week — but that’s not exactly uncommon. He’s more tree than man at this point.”

There was a short pause. A raindrop struck the window with a hollow tap.

Y/N’s brow arched, mouth quirking—not a full smile, but enough to show she was still listening, still present.

“Excellent,” she murmured, deadpan.

The room shifted faintly around her—Morgan exhaling through his nose, Emily’s mouth twitching in restraint. Spencer glanced at her, caught between fondness and concern, but she was already sliding the safety of her sidearm back into place. Calm. Professional. Sardonic, even when the air was thick with something heavier.

The storm outside groaned louder. But Y/N just reached for her coat collar and adjusted it with a practiced flick, already moving.

Spencer tucked the folder under his arm and followed her out into the drizzle. The air was sharp with the smell of pine needles and wet earth. Cold enough to sting, not enough to snow.

Y/N moved ahead of him without a word, boots scuffing lightly against the wet pavement, keys already in hand. Her coat caught the wind as she moved, the hem lifting just slightly before falling back in place. Her hair, still pinned into a smooth low knot, gleamed faintly under the lot’s overhead lights, rain-softened tendrils escaping to cling along her cheek and temple.

The Jeep door gave a low creak as she swung into the driver’s seat, motion fluid, practiced. She adjusted the mirrors like she’d done it a hundred times before, fingers moving with quiet assurance, sleeves pushed up just far enough to reveal a thin silver bracelet at her wrist — the only bit of ornamentation she ever wore in the field.

Spencer slid into the passenger seat, his coat damp where it clung to his shoulders. The door closed behind him with a muted thud. Inside, the air felt still. Sheltered. The faint scent of lavender and leather and coffee grounds clung to the cab like memory.

He glanced sideways.

Y/N was buckling her seatbelt one-handed, the other brushing droplets of rain from the cuff of her sleeve. Her jaw was set, lashes still wet, the curve of her mouth unreadable as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, a low, steady purr beneath them.

Outside, the trees swayed against a sky that hadn’t quite let go of the storm.

Spencer’s voice came quiet. Careful. “Think he’ll talk?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her hand turned the key, and the engine stirred to life beneath them — a low, steady rumble that filled the hush like a second heartbeat. Her gaze lingered on the road ahead, eyes narrowing slightly as the rain skated across the windshield in whispering arcs.

And then — something softer.

She glanced over at him.

Spencer sat with one hand loosely curled in his lap, the other resting near the passenger-side door. His coat — charcoal gray, collar turned up just slightly from the weather — was still damp around the shoulders, drops clinging like glass beads to the fabric. A soft blue oxford peeked from beneath, the edge of his tie tucked neatly down, a shade somewhere between plum and midnight.

His hair was drying in unruly curls, the kind that always sprang free no matter how many times he tried to flatten them with nervous fingers. One lock in particular hung just above his brow — curled and dark and boyish in a way that made her heart catch for reasons she didn’t often name.

But it was his face she lingered on.

The angle of his jaw — elegant, sloped like a sculpture just slightly unfinished. High cheekbones flushed faintly from the cold. His skin, pale but not sickly, with the kind of delicate texture that caught every shadow and turned it poetic.

And his throat — she didn’t know why that part always struck her — but the long, clean column of it moved as he swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting subtly under skin. A tension there. A thought not yet spoken.

Then his eyes — always his eyes.

That soft, impossible shade: somewhere between warm hazel and the color of honey in shadow. Eyes that could go wide with childlike wonder one second, and dark with knowledge the next. Now, they watched her carefully, the way he always did — not intrusive, not pressing. Just waiting. Open.

Still, she didn’t answer.

Just studied him in the silence, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the steering wheel like they were holding something else in place.

And then — she smiled. Just a little. Just to herself.

“If he’s who we think he is? Yeah,” Y/N said, her voice steady — not clipped this time, but level. Assured, because Spencer had asked.

She didn’t take her eyes off the road — it was narrowing now, damp earth darkened by the rain, pines arching overhead like ribs. But she glanced his way just enough to let him know she was listening. That she always did.

Then her hands tightened slightly on the wheel — not fear, but anticipation. Her shoulders didn’t tense, but something in her posture shifted. Focused. Alert.

“But if something’s off out there,” she added, “we’ll feel it before it hits.”

She paused, only long enough to exhale — a breath that filled the space where silence might’ve gone. Then she continued, voice lower now, but still laced with that dry, familiar wit he’d come to memorize.

“And we’ll deal with it. Like we always do.”

Spencer glanced sideways at her. The road curved ahead, shadows crowding the edge of the tree line, but her expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Sharp. The kind of calm you could lean on if the world cracked in half.

He didn’t respond right away — didn’t need to. She’d already answered the part of him that hadn’t made it into words.

Then she added, almost too casually, “And if I get shot, I’m haunting this Jeep. You’re never playing jazz in here again.”

Spencer glanced over at her, brow raised. “I don’t play jazz.”

“Exactly,” she said, with a little smirk. “It’d be a tragedy. Think of the acoustics.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he said softly. “I worry about you.”

Her smile flickered, just for a heartbeat.

Then, without looking, she reached over and gave his knee a gentle squeeze — not quick, not rushed, just soft and familiar, like it was second nature. “You’re cute when you’re concerned. All furrowed brows and fidgety hands.”

Spencer blinked.

Twice.

And then sat up just a little straighter in his seat, hands fidgeting with the folder in his lap as though the paper had suddenly become very complicated.

“I—uh,” he started, clearing his throat like it might help him form a coherent sentence. “I don’t… do that. Exactly.”

But his ears told a different story — the pink rising fast beneath the ends of his hair, climbing like a confession he couldn’t quite swallow.

Y/N didn’t look over, but the corner of her mouth curved just slightly knowingly.

Outside, the trees loomed closer—still and watchful.

Inside the Jeep, the air was warmer. Charged. Quiet.

Not safe, but close.

The tires crunched over gravel as they pulled away from the sheriff’s station, the sound sharp and hollow beneath the growing hush of the woods. The world beyond the windshield blurred in shades of green and gray—fir branches heavy with rain, trunks slick with moss and time. Water clung to the windows in thin, trembling streaks, catching light like veins of glass.

Y/N kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other shifting gears with a smooth, practiced touch. Her eyes were fixed ahead—alert, but calm. The low clouds muted the light across her features, softening the curve of her jaw, casting pale shadows beneath her cheekbones. Again, a single strand of hair had slipped loose from behind her ear, curling along her temple, but still, she didn’t seem to notice.

Spencer watched her in that quiet way he always did, half out of habit, half out of awe. The shape of her profile had become familiar in the way only long hours and quiet car rides could make it — the slope of her nose, the way her mouth twitched slightly when she was thinking, the calm stillness she wore like armor.

She looked relaxed. Or—she had, until the forest deepened and the gravel began to thin beneath them.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But Spencer always noticed when it came to Y/N.

He noticed when she was happy, when her laughter hit a little higher in her chest. He noticed when she was tired, the way she rubbed at her temple with the back of her hand. And he noticed now—how her fingers tightened just slightly around the steering wheel. Not tense, not afraid. Just anchoring.

Her shoulders had crept a little higher, her posture shifting with the faintest trace of something coiled. Her breathing changed too—not loud, not shaky, but quieter. Calibrated.

Her eyes flicked toward the blur of evergreens passing the window, landing on something between the trees that he couldn’t see—but she could. Her jaw had settled tighter, not clenched exactly. Just bracing.

And that was all it took.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave her. He didn’t ask yet. Didn’t press. But he knew her. Every mood. Every flicker of emotion she didn’t want to show. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her from the corner of his eye as they bumped along the narrowing road, the Jeep swaying gently with each dip and rise.

The forest pressed in thicker now—trunks close, shadows dense, branches arcing overhead like a tunnel built from dusk. The sky had dimmed to a washed-out gray-blue, streaked with low, restless clouds. The kind of light that made everything look slightly unreal. Suspended.

Beside him, Y/N’s focus hadn’t wavered. But he could see the change in her.

He’d watched her do this a dozen times before—lock herself in, pull steady, stay quiet. And once, not so long ago, she’d noticed it in him.

Had reached over and tried to pull him back to center with nothing more than a quiet touch and a crooked smile.

Now he did the same.

As they rounded a bend and the cabin finally came into view—half-shadowed, still, like a smear of darkness at the end of the trail—Spencer reached over.

His hand settled on her knee. Gently. Warm and steady through the soft fabric of her pale slacks.

He didn’t say anything. Just let the contact speak.

She blinked, just once, and turned her head slightly toward him. Not enough to take her eyes off the road — just enough for him to see the flicker of surprise soften into something smaller. Something quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

Her answer came after a beat — a breath. She nodded once and offered him a smile. Easy, almost light.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Probably just cold.”

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And he knew her well enough to see it. The way she carried unease like a private secret — tucked neatly beneath her professionalism, beneath the steady hands and quiet confidence. He gave her knee the faintest squeeze, then let his hand fall back to his lap.

She didn’t say anything else. Just kept her eyes on the road, that smile fading to something quieter. More thoughtful.

When they finally reached the property, it emerged without warning — a jagged clearing carved into the forest like a scar, sudden and jarring beneath the darkening sky. The last sliver of daylight had already given up the fight, swallowed by the storm clouds pressing low and mean above the trees. What little light remained was the dull, coppered sheen of dying sun behind a curtain of gray, thickening by the minute as the rain picked up again — steady, cold, and relentless.

The cabin sat hunched in the middle of the clearing like it was trying to disappear into itself. Sagging at the roofline, its edges blurred in the mist, it didn’t look like it had been built so much as abandoned mid-thought and left to rot. Water streaked down the wood siding, gray and splintered, veins of moss threading between the boards like old scars. Shingles peeled from the roof like curling bark, flapping weakly in the wind. Ivy clung to one side of the structure, wet and slick, gripping like desperate fingers.

A rusted pickup truck leaned just off the gravel, half-sunk into the earth. One tire had collapsed entirely, and the windshield was filmed with grime. Moss clung thick across the hood, glinting damp in the half-light. The rear bumper was hanging loose, barely attached. An old blue tarp lay crumpled nearby, water pooling in its folds, its color leeched pale as bone.

Near the porch stood a battered rain barrel, the metal sides dented inward like something had struck it hard once and never cared to fix it. It was brim-full with black water, still and viscous. Leaves floated on the surface, already turning to pulp.

The porch itself looked no better. Boards bowed and cracked under years of rot, the whole frame tilting just enough to be unsettling. A mesh screen door hung half-off its hinges, the bottom corner torn, tapping irregularly in the wind like a slow, reluctant metronome. Thunder growled somewhere in the distance, low and constant.

Inside, the windows showed nothing. No movement. No glow. Just pale curtains stirring faintly — or maybe not at all — behind glass long gone cloudy. It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like it was waiting.

And the storm, as if answering that silent promise, surged harder around them — wind pressing against the car, the trees creaking in warning.

Y/N eased the Jeep to a stop, the tires crunching softly over damp gravel. Her hand slipped from the wheel and dropped into her lap, slow and deliberate, like something inside her had stalled with it.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes were fixed on the cabin just ahead—at the crooked front steps, the sagging roofline, the stillness that pressed against the windows like a held breath.

Spencer looked at her, not the house.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “What, nothing smart to say about the murder shack in the woods?”

That earned him a ghost of a smile.

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She inhaled slowly, eyes still on the porch.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something just feels… off.”

The wind moved through the trees then — not in a rush, but in a long, drawn-out exhale. It slipped between the trunks of the evergreens like a ghost, brushing needles aside with soundless fingers. It twisted around the Jeep in thin, spectral threads, pressing against the windows like it was trying to peer inside. A shiver of motion stirred the underbrush and carried the scent of rain-drenched soil and wood gone soft with rot.

It wasn’t stillness. Not really. It was silence with intent. A hush that hummed with something just beneath it — like the forest itself had stopped to listen.

Spencer felt it in the hollow beneath his ribs. A pressure that wasn’t pain, but wasn’t peace either. He shifted slightly in his seat, hand hovering near the door handle, fingers flexing once before curling tight. His eyes lingered on her — not the cabin. Never the cabin.

Y/N sat rigid in the driver’s seat, posture straight, every line of her body coiled with purpose. The faint light through the windshield brushed her features in silver — sharp across the line of her cheek, soft at the curve of her jaw. Her gaze had narrowed. Not alarmed. Just focused. Sharpened.

She felt it too.

Then, without a word, she moved.

The door creaked open, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the hush outside. The cabin lights flickered and died as the wind caught the door’s edge and pulled it wider — a breathless kind of opening. She stepped out with quiet precision, boots meeting the soft, saturated forest floor and sinking half a step into moss and old needles. Her coat flared slightly behind her in the gust, dark fabric whipping once around her legs before settling. Her hand slipped beneath the lapel of her blazer, fingers brushing the grip of her weapon — not drawn, but near.

The air around them felt dense. Drenched. Cold enough to cling to the skin.

Spencer followed, slower. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, more final than it had any right to be. He slipped the GPS into the inner pocket of his coat, his fingers pale at the edges from how tight they gripped it. His eyes moved over the clearing with care — from the twisted vines along the base of the trees, to the rust-streaked pickup hunched by the treeline, to the warped wooden steps that led to the cabin.

Each one sagged with age, dark with moisture and furred in places with moss. The porch looked as if it would groan beneath a whisper of weight.

The clearing was still — painfully so.

No birdsong. No snap of twigs. Not even the distant hum of insects.

Just the soft rattle of the mesh screen door, its bottom corner torn, banging irregularly against the frame like a warning. The solid door behind it stood shut. 

Unmoved. Unreadable.

Faded paint curled from the panels, flaking like dry skin, as if the house was trying to peel itself away from whatever lingered behind it.

And above it all — the clouds pressed heavier. Storm-wet. Thunder rolled low and slow in the distance like something circling. Watching and waiting. 

Spencer stepped up beside her. Neither of them spoke.

But both of them felt it.

“Walter Massey?” Y/N called out, her tone firm but even, just loud enough to carry through the trees. “This is Agent Y/L/N with the FBI. I’m here with my partner, Dr. Spencer Reid. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing.

No footsteps creaking across old floorboards. No shadow shifting behind the warped lace of the curtains. 

No sound at all—except the wind.

It threaded through the trees like a murmured secret, brushing past the cabin with delicate, eerie intent. A breath against the siding. A whisper through the loose gutter. It rustled pine boughs and dead leaves on the porch in soft, spiraling motions—as if it knew something they didn’t. As if it had been waiting for this.

The mesh screen door swayed once, clicking faintly against the wood. Beyond it, the heavy main door stood silent and still, paint cracked in jagged lines like old scars. Just watching.

Spencer stepped up beside her, frowning as he scanned the shadowed windows. “Maybe he’s around back,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice gave him away.

Y/N called out again, projecting just enough to reach through the stillness.

“Mr. Massey? We’re not here to arrest you. We just need to speak with you. If you’re inside, could you come to the door?”

Silence.

Not the kind that felt accidental.

The kind that felt chosen.

Y/N glanced at Spencer, then eased the screen door open with the back of her hand, careful not to smudge the handle. The hinges creaked softly, the sound swallowed by the mist-thick air.

Spencer stepped up beside her, eyes scanning the porch, the roofline, the stillness pressed into every crack of the old wood.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he murmured.

Y/N gave a small nod, more to herself than to him, her hand tightening instinctively around the grip of her gun.

With a sharp breath, she drew her weapon—fluid, practiced, no hesitation—but her posture shifted in a way Spencer rarely saw. Not just alert. Guarded. Protective.

She stepped in front of him before he could speak, placing her body squarely between him and the door. One hand briefly touched his chest—not forceful, just enough pressure to guide him back. Her fingers lingered there for a beat too long.

It wasn’t protocol. 

“I’ll take point,” she said, voice low and steady, but softer than usual. “You stay behind me.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but she didn’t need to. The tension in her shoulders said it all. The subtle tremor in her breath. The way her body shifted like a shield between him and whatever was waiting inside.

She joked a lot. Always had.

But not now.

Now, she was dead quiet.

And she was ready to take the hit before it ever got to him.

Spencer opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to offer something else—but the set of her jaw made him pause.

He just nodded—once, tightly. The motion small, but sure. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

His hand brushed against the fabric of her sleeve as he stepped forward, barely a touch—but enough to tether him to the moment, to her.

And then he followed.

Whatever was waiting inside the cabin had already started listening. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

Y/N stepped ahead, boots pressing softly into the damp wood of the porch, her body angled with trained precision. The mesh screen door creaked as she eased it further back, and in the same breath, her hand came up — steady, firm — guiding the barrel of her gun to the door’s edge.

The main door gave way with a low groan. Wood strained against rusted hinges as it swung open, slow and grudging, like the house itself was reluctant to let them in.

It wasn’t locked.

That alone rooted something cold and shapeless in the pit of her stomach — a sense that curled low and tight behind her ribs.

Spencer felt it too. He didn’t have to say it.

Cabins like this didn’t stay unlocked. Not in towns like Stillwater. Not with four people missing.

The door swung inward on a breath of cold air, and immediately, the smell hit her.

Pinewood, sharp and resinous—what should have been comforting—but laced now with something metallic and wet. The bitter, iron-wrought scent of something that had bled too long into the floorboards.

And beneath that, something older.

A rot that didn’t belong to nature. Stale carpet. Damp mold. The cloying, sour note of a refrigerator long left without power. It wrapped around them like old breath, like something exhaled by a house that hadn’t seen life in weeks—but still remembered the shape of it.

Y/N stepped inside first, every footfall deliberate. The floor creaked beneath her boots, the sound echoing too loud in a space that felt like it had been holding its breath.

The air was thick. Heavy. It clung to her coat, her skin, the back of her tongue. Wrong. Not empty or abandoned. Just waiting.

Y/N slipped through the doorway first, silent as a shadow, her weapon raised and steady. Her eyes swept left to right in quick, surgical passes, cataloguing the space in layers. The sharp angles of furniture. The thin shaft of gray light cutting through a crack in the boarded window. Dust spiraling in the beam like falling ash.

Her body stayed close to the wall, a breath away from the peeling paneling, boots placed with deliberate care on the worn floorboards to avoid giving herself away.

Spencer followed, just behind her—close enough to match her rhythm, but not close enough to disrupt her line of movement. His hand hovered near the grip of his firearm, fingers curled just shy of drawing it, every nerve thrumming with silent urgency. The weight of the weapon was grounding, familiar—but the air around him felt anything but. Cold. Pressurized. Like the storm outside had seeped in through the walls and settled beneath his skin. The air inside the cabin was colder than it had any right to be, clinging damply to his skin, to his throat. Like the house had its own lungs and was breathing around them.

A small table lay overturned just inside the entryway, its legs twisted at awkward angles like they’d been kicked or dropped. Two mugs lay beside it—one intact, the other shattered into a fan of ceramic shards, edges dulled by dust. Liquid long since dried had stained the floor beneath them a dark, reddish-brown. It wasn’t blood. It might’ve been tea. But it looked like a spill no one had cleaned up; like someone had planned to and then never got the chance.

Spencer crouched for a closer look, fingers tracing the uneven trail of footprints smeared into the dirt between the broken pieces.

“This wasn’t recent,” he whispered. His voice barely carried, but it pressed into Y/N’s spine all the same.

She didn’t answer. Just nodded once, jaw set tight.

They moved forward together—past the narrow hallway, where the faded wallpaper had begun to peel at the edges, curling like old parchment. The floor creaked beneath their weight, long and low, like something waking up beneath them.

They entered the den.

It was darker here. The light didn’t reach as far. The room felt sunken somehow, like the cabin had settled too deep into the earth. The ceiling sloped low above them, pressing down like a held breath.

Hunting gear lined the walls—bows, empty gun racks, a mounted buck’s head with glassy, dust-covered eyes. The fireplace beneath it was cold and lifeless, filled with half-burnt logs and ash long gone damp. A copper kettle sat off to the side, untouched.

Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

Except for one thing.

A single trail of muddy boot prints.

They cut across the wooden floor—messy, staggered, the pattern uneven. They led toward the far archway where the kitchen opened up, shadowed and still.

Spencer’s eyes tracked the prints. Something about the weight distribution was wrong. The left boot dragged just slightly. A limp?

Y/N moved ahead, muzzle of her gun rising with each slow step.

Then—

A crash. Not loud. Sharp. Sudden.

Metal against wood. The sound of something falling, something moving.

Then silence.

A birdshot of adrenaline spiked through Spencer’s chest. Y/N whipped her gun toward the sound, shoulders tight, finger ghosting the trigger.

They both froze.

In the stillness, every sound grew louder: the tick of something dripping in the next room, the groan of the wind outside, the faint electrical buzz of a dying bulb overhead.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Then—a door slammed open.

Hard.

The edge of it cracked into Y/N’s temple with a sickening thud, sending her stumbling backward into the wall. Her head snapped sideways, blood already welling where the wood had split her skin. The world tilted around her—sharp and white-hot—but she didn’t fall.

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her body jerked forward on instinct, staggering back into the hallway, gun half-raised, breath heaving, vision already blurring around the edges.

That’s when he came.

The figure burst from the bedroom like a wrecking force—tall, gaunt, clothes hanging loose over sharp shoulders, eyes blown wide with manic rage. A shotgun was clutched in both hands, its muzzle swinging like a compass needle toward chaos.

Y/N threw herself forward, arm reaching toward Spencer—

But she was a second too late.

The butt of the shotgun slammed into the side of Spencer’s head, full force, a brutal crack of bone on bone.

His body crumpled immediately, knees buckling. He collapsed in a heap beside her, eyes glassy, breath shuddering.

“Spence—!” Y/N shouted, the sound strangled by pain, voice cracking through the cabin like a whip, raw and full of alarm.

Her gun was up in a breath.

The motion was smooth—reflex, born from training and repetition—but what followed was anything but automatic.

The world sharpened around her. The air seemed to crystallize. Every sound pulled inward: the creak of wood beneath shifting weight, the faint tick of the cabin cooling in the silence, the whisper of breath between her teeth.

And then—Spencer, on the floor.

Still.

The sight knocked the air from her lungs.

Blood curled from the side of his head in a slow, serpentine trail — dark, too dark, in stark relief against the pale, fragile stretch of his skin. It traced the curve of his temple, threading through the fine strands of his hair before pooling at the edge of his jaw, where it soaked quietly into the collar of his shirt. The fabric was already turning crimson, blooming with it, blooming with him.

His lashes fluttered once.

Barely.

Then stilled again.

The room seemed to tilt. Or maybe that was her.

Her stomach dropped — a violent plunge, like the floor had disappeared beneath her feet. She could feel it then, the rise of something hot and nauseating in the back of her throat, clawing up as her eyes locked on the wound. It wasn’t just blood. It was his blood. Spencer’s.

And he wasn’t moving.

His face was slack — not peaceful, not asleep, just vacant. The faintest crease still lingered between his brows, like the pain had caught him mid-thought. There was something deeply wrong about it, about him lying there like that. Off-center. Unanchored. Dizzy, disoriented, even in stillness. Like someone had unplugged the world’s sharpest mind and left it flickering.

Her body locked down—every instinct bracing to protect, to react, to end this now.

Then the shotgun shifted.

The barrel snapped toward her chest with sudden, jolting force.

“Drop it!” the man barked, the words mangled and ragged—voice gone to gravel, each syllable trembling with something unstable. His lips curled back from his teeth, not in a snarl, but something worse—something uncertain, like he didn’t know if he was threatening or pleading.

His hands trembled around the shotgun stock—not from fear, but from how tightly he was clinging to control. The kind of trembling that came right before the trigger was pulled.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver.

Her arms held steady, the muzzle of her gun pointed square at his chest. Her breath slowed, deliberately measured, as if even the air between them might shift the balance.

She didn’t blink.

She took in everything: the angle of the barrel, the taut twitch of his jaw, the half-step he’d taken forward, the glint of something flickering in his eyes—resolve, maybe. Or desperation. There was no time. No room for fear. Only calculation. Only timing.

Her finger tightened over the trigger.

She could make the shot.

She was sure of it.

But Spencer was still down. And if she missed—if he flinched—if the recoil shifted his aim—

She didn’t lower the gun.

But she didn’t fire either.

The room held its breath with her.

The man shifted again—barely a step, but it was enough.

His boots scraped over the worn floorboards as he moved toward Spencer’s crumpled form, the barrel of the shotgun lowering, inch by inch, until it hovered just above Spencer’s head like a verdict already decided.

“One second longer,” the man growled, voice cracking like splintered wood, “and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

Y/N didn’t move.

But something inside her shifted.

A full-body stillness snapped into place — not the poised quiet of control, but the rigid, sickened kind that hit when reality dropped too fast, too sharp. Her heart didn’t race. It slammed. Once. Hard. Then again. Every beat ringing in her ears like the tick of a detonator.

She had played this carefully, clinically — willing to risk herself, willing to bleed if it kept the attention off Spencer. She could take it. Had taken it. But this—

This was different.

Now it was him.

And the gun was angled down, close enough to his skull that she could see the reflection of blood in the barrel. Spencer lay curled against the warped floorboards, disoriented and dazed, his breath fogging faintly at the edge of the wood. His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t find the thread of it. There was blood smeared along his hairline, drying now, catching in the curve of his ear and soaking down his collar. His pulse was there — visible, trembling in his throat. Too exposed. Too human.

The sight of it — him — nearly undid her.

Her whole body locked into place, a machine with too many variables flooding the system. Her brain calculated trajectories, angles, impact velocities. But no combination ended without risk to him. Every outcome cost him something— and that, she could not accept.

Her hands shook.

She could have made the shot if it were her life on the line. Could’ve gambled with her own ribs, her own skin. She’d taken worse. But not this. Not when it was his blood on the floor. Not when she’d promised — not him.

The weight of that promise settled in her arms like iron, and it took everything she had to keep from shaking apart beneath it.

Her throat burned. She swallowed against it.

And then, with a precision that felt like peeling skin from bone, she began to lower her weapon.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Her fingers ached as she loosened them from the grip. Her shoulders screamed with the effort it took to obey the moment’s demand.

Every cell in her body recoiled.

But she did it anyway.

“Alright,” Y/N said at last, her voice low, level—scraped clean of anything but clarity. Each word fell with weight, not surrender.

Her fingers loosened from the grip, slow and deliberate, knuckles pale as she uncurled them.

She didn’t drop the gun.

Instead, Y/N began to lower herself — inch by inch — until one knee touched the warped wooden floor. The boards creaked beneath her weight, the sound barely more than a breath. Her hands moved with careful precision, every motion telegraphed and measured.

She set the gun down flat on the floor. Not a toss. Not a surrender.

A choice.

The cold barrel met the wood with a muted clink. No ricochet. No chance of it firing by accident. Just the sound of something vital being set aside.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

But Y/N didn’t look at the weapon.

Her eyes stayed locked on his.

Unblinking. Unflinching.

Not begging. Not pleading.

Just there—steady and grounded in the storm of his breathing, reading every flicker in his grip, every tremor running down the barrel aimed squarely at her chest.

“Kick it away,” the man barked.

She didn’t hesitate.

She shifted her foot forward, slow enough not to startle him. The toe of her boot met the side of the pistol.

One push—measured, mechanical—and it scraped across the floorboards with a sound that felt too loud. Too final.

But her eyes never moved.

Not once.

He moved fast—faster than she anticipated, with a kind of jittery violence that didn’t follow logic, only impulse.

Before she could fully register it, his hand was on her—gripping her arm and yanking it behind her back, fingers digging in just above the elbow. The coarse scrape of rope unfurled from his belt with a harsh, leathery hiss.

She twisted against his grip, tried to shift her weight—anything to make it harder for him to drag her.

Her boot skidded against the floor.

She shoved backward once—elbow clipping his side, sharp and purposeful.

But the shotgun.

It was too close.

Even without looking, she knew it was hovering just to her left, the cold presence of it looming like a second heartbeat. Her brain echoed with the imagined sound of the blast. Too loud. Too final.

So she stilled.

Not from fear, but control.

She let him drag her toward the fireplace post, every muscle coiled and burning, her breath tight behind her ribs.

He slammed her back against the wood.

Her spine jolted.

Then came the rope—rough, thick, unyielding. It bit into her wrists as he yanked it tighter than he needed to, the fibers already cutting into raw skin.

Y/N clenched her jaw, head bowed slightly, refusing to make a sound.

But then—he cinched the last knot.

Too tight.

The pressure bit deep.

And before she could stop it—a small, involuntary whimper slipped past her lips.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

Spencer flinched where he lay on the floor.

The unsub didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did—and liked it.

“You’re both just more of them,” the man spat, pacing in short, sharp bursts. “Spies. Liars. Think you’re gonna dig around in my head and tell me what I am.”

His voice cracked at the end—too high, too jagged, like the thoughts were unraveling faster than he could speak them. His eyes flicked between them with the wild precision of someone looking for betrayal in shadows.

Then he lunged straight for Spencer.

He grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up with violent force—fingers digging in, dragging him across the floor like dead weight.

Spencer groaned, a smear of blood trailing along his cheekbone like a brushstroke. His limbs lagged behind him—slack, dazed, his knees buckling as he was thrown down hard beside her.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“Don’t touch him,” she growled, low and raw.

There wasn’t room for rage. Only instinct.

But the man laughed—a high, manic sound, half-breath, half-breakdown. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he dropped to one knee and cinched the rope tighter around Spencer’s wrists—too tight, sharp enough to bite skin. Y/N jerked against her own bonds, but the rope held fast, burning against her raw skin.

She could hear Spencer's breathing now—shallow, wet, just inches from her.

The man stood again, chest heaving, eyes bright with something slick and poisonous.

Then—stillness.

He looked down at them, head tilted just slightly to the side, as if studying insects under glass.

“Let’s see what you’re really here for.”

Time moved differently inside the cabin.

Minutes passed like hours. The air hung heavy—thick with moisture and decay. It reeked of damp wood, mildew, and something more feral. Sweat. Fear. Old blood gone to rust. Each breath felt like swallowing the underside of a storm.

The ropes around Y/N’s wrists had long since burned their mark into her skin. Coarse and waterlogged, they bit into the delicate ridges of bone and tendon with each twitch of movement, the fibers soaked red where her skin had broken. Her fingers tingled—numb at the edges, aching down to the knuckles. She kept them still.

Beside her, Spencer sat slumped but conscious, his body curled slightly toward her. His head hung low, curls matted dark where blood had dried into them, crusting in uneven lines along his temple and jaw. A single streak of red had reached the collar of his shirt, staining it like a slow bloom. His breathing was shallow but even, lips parted just enough for each exhale to pass through. His lashes fluttered now and then—not from sleep, but from pain. Dizziness. That half-lost place between awareness and dark.

Across the room, the man paced in slow, uneven circuits—like an animal trapped in a cage of its own design. He hadn’t given a name. Not once. Just circled, muttered, barked at things neither of them could see. His footsteps creaked against the warped floorboards, syncopated by the occasional clatter of the shotgun being picked up, set down, picked up again. It never stayed far from his grip. Even when he spoke to the shadows, it was there—his anchor, his threat.

The windows were dark. Not because of nightfall, but because the storm still pressed against them in sheets, casting the room in the kind of gray that felt less like light and more like breath.

And then—Spencer’s voice. Quiet. Threadbare.

“What you’re experiencing—it’s not uncommon. Prolonged isolation can create patterns in the brain that reinforce a heightened sense of danger. It’s a survival response. You’re not crazy. Your mind is just trying to protect you.”

The man turned slowly.

Not with the casual movement of someone listening—but like a storm cloud gathering mass. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils dilated so far they nearly swallowed the color. His breath dragged in through flared nostrils, ragged and wet, as if each inhale hurt. The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly, but didn’t lower.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he hissed. His voice cracked halfway through, but it didn’t make him sound weak—only volatile.

Spencer stayed still. Perfectly still.

His eyes found the man’s, steady despite the pulse jackhammering behind his ribs.

“I think you’re scared,” he said softly. “And I think no one’s listened to you in a long time.”

Something shifted.

The man didn’t move, not visibly. But his shoulders dropped just enough to notice. His jaw flexed. One foot shifted back on the floorboard. The storm rumbled outside, low and distant, as if even the sky was holding its breath.

And Y/N—reading the moment like a fault line ready to split—spoke too. Her voice slid in beside Spencer’s, quiet but deliberate, threaded with caution and calm.

“We’re not here to take anything from you,” she said. “But the people who disappeared—”

“They were spies!” he snapped. The words broke out of him like shrapnel. “Government plants. They came to silence me. To bury me in my own house.”

The shotgun lifted a fraction. His hands shook with it. Not from hesitation, but from the force of his belief.

Spencer’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened.

“You don’t have to hurt anyone else,” he said. “You’ve already proven you can outsmart all of them. You’ve stayed hidden for months. That takes skill. Foresight.”

For a heartbeat, the silence returned—tight, watchful.

Then the man exploded.

“Don’t patronize me!” he bellowed, the sound reverberating off the cabin walls like a gunshot. His body jerked forward, wild-eyed, the shotgun twitching like an extension of his nerves.

Y/N flinched—but barely. Her eyes flicked toward Spencer, the smallest movement, like a tether tightening between them. He didn’t speak again. Not yet. But his breath hitched, and Y/N could feel it—not just the air between them, but the weight of everything unspoken. 

The unsub had been pacing for minutes, muttering under his breath like the words were boiling over faster than he could contain them. His boots scuffed the warped floorboards in erratic steps, his fingers twitching at his sides. One hand dragged roughly along his arm—scratching, clawing—like there was something under his skin he couldn’t reach. Couldn’t dig out.

Y/N kept her gaze angled downward—not submissive, but steady. Controlled. Her breaths came in slow pulls through her nose, paced like clockwork. She was counting. The distance to the nearest window. The time between his steps. The angle of his shoulder when he turned.

And then, without meaning to, her eyes drifted sideways, toward him.

Spencer sat just inches away, his wrists still bound, shoulders drawn tight with tension. But it wasn’t that that made her stomach drop.

It was the blood.

A dried trail of it streaked along his temple, curling into his hairline—matted in soft, uneven strands. The edges of the gash were clotted now, crusted and angry red against the pale cast of his skin. His jaw was tight, lips parted just slightly, breathing carefully—like even that took effort.

His eyes weren’t on her. They were scanning the room with clinical precision, flicking from shadow to shadow, reading danger the way he read case files—quietly, methodically. But she saw the way his brows were pinched. The faint tremble in the line of his throat. The sharp, inward hold of his breath when the unsub moved too fast.

Her heart twisted at the sight of him—gentle and brilliant and so obviously in pain—and the ache that bloomed in her chest had nothing to do with the bruises blooming across her own head.

And everything to do with the blood on his skin.

The kind that shouldn’t have been there.

Not his.

Not ever.

Spencer sat still beside her, hands bound, blood still dried at his temple. His lips parted just slightly, not in fear—but focus. His eyes flicked toward the far wall, the boarded window, the crackling fireplace. Listening.

Beep.

Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the restless creak of the old cabin and the wind pressing against the windows like a warning.

Beep… beep.

It wasn’t loud. No louder than a watch alarm. But in the silence that followed the shouting—in the dense, static-charged quiet—it may as well have been a scream.

The unsub froze mid-step.

His shoulders jerked to a halt, spine locking with an almost mechanical stiffness. His eyes snapped upward, scanning the room with twitchy, animalistic precision.

Then his head turned. Sharply.

“What the hell is that?”

The words came low, clipped, scraped raw at the edges with suspicion. Not curiosity—alarm. His gaze sharpened like a blade, eyes narrowing into slits as he started to pivot in place.

Y/N stiffened.

Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Just a subtle hardening of her frame, like a wire being pulled taut beneath her skin.

Her pulse stuttered once. Then leveled. But her mind was already racing—calculating how long it had been since the last team update, how close backup might be now, if the signal had already pinged—

Beep.

Spencer’s breath caught.

It was nearly silent—but she heard it. Felt it, even. The way his ribs expanded slightly beside her, the shallow edge of air slicing into lungs held too tight for too long.

Beep.

The sound was steady now.

A small, rhythmic pulse.

The unsub took a step backward, turning in a slow, tight circle—eyes scanning floor to ceiling, nostrils flared, the pipe still trembling in his grip.

Spencer stayed still.

Too still.

The tracker was close. Too close.

And they both knew it.

The green LED blinked softly beneath the hem of his coat pocket.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Like a countdown. Like the signal of rescue—or exposure.

Y/N’s breath ghosted across her lip. Barely a shift in her chest, but she felt it burn in her throat like static. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t dare turn toward the sound.

But the unsub heard it.

And worse—he understood it.

His eyes narrowed, head tilting with the eerie focus of a predator locking on. The shotgun rose a few inches, uncertain now—not who to point at, but what was coming. His jaw clenched, teeth bared just enough to show the ragged edge of molars grinding.

“Where’s that coming from?” he hissed. “What the hell is that?”

No one answered.

The storm outside raged harder, wind driving against the cabin in gusts that rattled the loose windowpanes and hissed beneath the warped doorframe. Rain lashed the roof in waves, a cold percussion over the mounting tension.

Y/N’s fingers flexed slowly in the ropes behind her back—blood slicking the coarse fibers where they bit into her skin.

She didn’t look at Spencer. But she felt him beside her. Breathing faster now.

The noise wasn’t loud. But it was loud enough.

A steady pulse, mechanical and unrelenting, threading through the cabin like a fuse being lit.

Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

Coming from somewhere on Spencer’s side—muffled beneath his coat or wedged between the folds of his satchel, but there all the same. A beacon. A countdown.

The unsub’s head snapped toward him.

His eyes went wide—too wide.

The whites stark in the dim cabin light, the pupils blown and darting. Something behind them gave way, cracked clean down the middle. That dangerous shift from suspicion to certainty. From unease to revelation.

“You’re tagged,” he spat. 

A whisper at first—horrified. Then louder, venomous, full of rage: “You sons of bitches—you led them here.”

Y/N didn’t breathe.

Spencer froze, spine rigid, his limbs still sluggish from blood loss and shock—but his gaze locked on the man.

The unsub moved like lightning after a coil—storming toward the fireplace, shoving aside a battered chair and knocking over a rusted floor lamp in the process. The bulb burst in a brittle flash—shards of glass scattering across the warped floorboards with the sharp crack of splintered light.

Sparks flashed, brief and bright, then vanished.

His boots crushed the debris beneath him as he spun back toward them, shotgun raised, his breath sawing in and out in uneven gasps. Every step vibrated the floor like a war drum. His finger tightened on the trigger—his face carved into something raw and volcanic.

Y/N opened her mouth—tried to intercept, to redirect, to deflect him back toward her—

But it was too late.

He lunged, grabbing Spencer by the front of his coat and yanking him forward with a violence that cracked through the air like a snapped bone. Spencer’s breath left him in a choked sound—sharp, involuntary—as his body pitched forward under the unsub’s grip, knees scraping the wood.

Then came the hands—rough, frantic, clawing through layers of fabric like a man possessed. Fingers tearing at the buttons, wrenching open the coat with jerking movements, searching for proof with the blind desperation of someone who already knew what he’d find.

Y/N strained against the ropes, breath caught behind her teeth, her wrists burning against the binding.

And then—

He found it.

A small black device, tucked just inside the inner lining. No bigger than a matchbox. Sleek. Silent. The unsub ripped it free, holding it up in a trembling hand.

It blinked.

Once. Green.

Steady. Alive.

A heartbeat in plastic casing.

Hope, caught in circuitry.

The unsub stared at it like it had just condemned him—like it had always been there, whispering in the dark, waiting to betray him. His breathing hitched, deepened, then turned ragged, fury igniting behind his eyes like fuel to flame.

“You think you can track me?” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage and disbelief. His grip tightened on Spencer’s collar. “You think you’re smarter than me?”

The GPS blinked again.

And somewhere in the woods beyond the cabin, help was coming.

But inside—

Inside, time had just started ticking faster.

Beep.

The unsub stared at the device—frozen, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like a cornered animal.

Then, without warning, the fury broke loose.

He snarled—a guttural, full-body sound that ripped up from somewhere beneath language, raw and unfiltered, more beast than man—and in the same motion, hurled the GPS unit to the floor. It hit the boards with a sharp crack, the plastic casing skidding across the grain and coming to rest by Y/N’s boot.

His foot came down a second later—hard—a stomping blow that sent a sickening crunch through the room. Sparks shot out in jagged arcs, tiny bursts of light skittering like electric fireflies into the shadows beneath the table, the edges of the walls.

The blinking stopped.

So did everything else.

The cabin fell still in the aftermath, as if recoiling—its very air taut with held breath, the storm outside now muffled by the weight of what had just been destroyed. Smoke curled faintly from the shattered casing, wires frayed and twitching like exposed nerves.

Spencer didn’t move. Y/N didn’t breathe.

It hit like a drop in barometric pressure—

the tilt in the unsub’s posture, 

the wild shine in his eyes,

the shift from suspicion to certainty to rage.

“You lying little shit.”

The words burst from him like a snapped wire.

Spencer’s mouth parted—instinct, an attempt at reason, at reach—but nothing came. No room for logic. No space for calm. Just static behind his ribs.

The man’s hand shot out, snatching a rust-flecked pipe from the clutter near the hearth—three feet of old steel, cold and cruel in his grip. His fingers twitched as he raised it, knuckles pale, tendons straining like they wanted to break free from the skin.

“You came here wired,” he spat, his voice cracking at the edges. “You fed them my location. You think you can dissect me? Turn me into a case file? Break me down into numbers and symptoms and—notes?”

His voice rose with every word, nearly feral now. Each syllable was jagged with betrayal. The pipe lifted—shoulder drawn back, locked and ready.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

He tensed instead, a small shift in his spine, a tilt of his head—not from fear, but readiness. Bracing not for pain, but for the rhythm of it, the moment to move, to shield.

But before the blow could fall—

“It was me.”

Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

Sharp. Deliberate. A clean slice through the thick, rancid air that hung heavy with sweat, dust, and old wood smoke.

The unsub froze—mid-motion, mid-breath—the rusted pipe still raised high in his trembling grip. His chest heaved under the weight of adrenaline, sweat painting dark patches across his collar. His eyes, rimmed red and ringed in sleepless mania, flicked between the two of them—Spencer on the floor, unmoving, and Y/N upright, bloody, but burning steady.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

She held his gaze with the precision of a knife thrower lining up a kill shot. Her wrists bled where the rope bit into raw skin, her breath shaky from pain—but her posture never wavered.

And then—a chuckle.

Low. Dry. The kind of sound that slipped from the edge of a cracked smile—not amused, but knowing. Cold. Calculated.

She leaned forward slightly, enough to shift the tension in the room.

“You want the truth?” she said, her voice now wrapped in something quieter. Meaner. Intentional. “You’re right. You were always right.”

The unsub’s grip flexed around the pipe. He twitched—not from fear, but recognition.

“I’m the one they sent,” she continued, tone sinking deeper, silk over steel. “Not him.”

She jerked her chin toward Spencer without looking. Didn’t dare. Couldn’t see the expression on his face—the confusion, the betrayal, the heartbreak—because if she did, she’d fall apart.

“The kid?” Her voice dripped disdain. “He’s nothing. Still green. He’s read the textbooks but he hasn’t seen the dirt under the floorboards yet. He thinks we’re here to help you.”

She let out another soft, bitter laugh. “That’s cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer stirred beside her. His breathing hitched. But she didn’t look. Couldn’t. She was too deep now—buried in it. And this wasn’t about him. Not right now. This was survival. This was the only hand she had left to play.

“I’ve been inside this operation for weeks,” she said. “Studying your patterns. Cross-referencing your routines, your history, your trauma. I’ve read your medical records. Your military discharge. I’ve talked to the people who used to know you—before.”

She tilted her head, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the unsub’s face.

“Before you woke up.”

He was breathing faster now. Mouth slightly parted. Sweat trickling down the side of his temple, collecting in the notch of his jaw. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t need to. He was locked on her.

“Everything you’ve been feeling? The eyes? The pressure? The sense that you’re being dissected in real time?”

Her voice dropped.

“That’s me.”

His fingers twitched. His grip on the pipe slipped a little before snapping back tighter than before.

“I was sent to infiltrate. Quietly. Completely. Not to arrest you. To study you. To peel you open. Reduce you to variables. Numbers. Labels. Paranoid. Unstable. Prone to violence.”

He twitched again. A sick little shiver of something that looked far too close to understanding.

“I was meant to map your entire psyche without you ever knowing,” she said. “To catalog your impulses, your threats, your breaking points. Not just to control you—but to reconstruct you.”

Another beat. Her voice dipped, softer now. Like a lullaby made of glass shards.

“We build the cage from the inside.”

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

Just enough to make him believe it.

The unsub staggered back—just half a step, but it landed like a blow. As if her words had struck something inside his chest, something hollow and long-rotting, and rattled it hard enough to sound.

The pipe in his hand dipped slightly.

Spencer was staring at her now—wide-eyed, frozen, a single streak of dried blood tracking toward the edge of his jaw. He didn’t look dazed anymore. He looked like he was witnessing a slow-motion train crash with someone he loved still standing on the tracks.

“Y/N—” he choked out, voice cracked and raw at the edges.

But she cut him off. Fast. Sharp. Surgical.

“I made the call to come here,” she said, and her tone had changed again—now clinical, ruthless, the voice of someone who’d been hiding in plain sight. “I brought him with me because no one looks twice at the rookie. That’s how I got so close.”

The unsub’s breath hitched. The kind of breath you take before deciding to kill someone.

Y/N pressed forward.

“While he asked you polite questions, I was the one watching. Recording. Cataloging every blink, every tremor, every tell. The way your hand twitched when we said the word ‘discharge.’ The way your pupils shrank when I stepped too close.”

The unsub’s fingers flexed around the pipe—bone-white and twitching, the metal trembling just slightly in his grip.

His face contorted. Slowly. Not in confusion. Not in disbelief.

But in recognition.

Like something had finally snapped into place.

“You lied to me,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. But it held teeth. The kind of whisper that precedes a scream.

Y/N nodded once. Slow. Deliberate.

“Every word.”

The room shifted around them. The air grew heavier. The shadows deeper. The hunter had found his traitor—and now, the line between predator and prey was gone.

His jaw clenched hard enough to tick. His nostrils flared. He blinked once—a muscle twitch of betrayal—and then something darker flooded his eyes.

Rage.

“So you admit it,” he spat.

“I do.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t tremble.

Didn’t look at Spencer—not even for a second.

“I told them I’d draw you out,” she said. “Told them I could build the perfect bait. I designed the plan. I volunteered to come in first. And I brought him with me to play innocent, so you’d never look twice at me.”

The man stared at her like she’d just changed form—like every feature of her face was shifting into something monstrous, into the villain he’d been waiting for all along. The hand holding the pipe twitched again. The muscles in his arm drew taut.

He saw her now.

Not as someone in his house.

But as the one who’d built the trap.

And walked in willingly.

And Spencer—God, he knew.

Knew exactly what she was doing.

He could see it—unfolding in real time, like one of those impossibly slow Rube Goldberg machines, every gear turning, every trigger rigged, every step more dangerous than the last. Y/N wasn’t just improvising. She was sacrificing. Building the narrative. Crafting the role she knew he’d buy.

The villain. The infiltrator. The enemy.

Spencer’s heart thudded so loud it drowned out everything else. Not from the pain in his temple, not from the rope biting into his wrists—but from the sheer, gut-wrenching certainty of it.

She was painting a target on herself.

Not just with words—but with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to stand so that when the shot came, it would hit her and not him.

And he couldn’t stop it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach for her. Couldn’t say her name the way he wanted to—not the warning, not the plea, but the real way. The way that meant don’t do this. Please.

His eyes flicked over her—sweat at her hairline, blood dry, hands trembling just barely where they rested behind her. But her face?

Stone.

The kind of stillness that came just before collapse. The kind that broke you from the inside out.

He felt sick.

Because Spencer knew this wasn’t just a bluff.

She wasn’t just buying time. She was making a deal. And she hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to get out of it.

The unsub’s knuckles tightened on the pipe.

And this time, he turned toward her.

The unsub stood in front of her, hovering like a storm about to break. His chest heaved, his breath fast and uneven, the sound wet at the edges—like he was choking on fury. His eyes shimmered, bloodshot and wide, and behind them was nothing but chaos: betrayal, humiliation, the raw ache of someone who believed he’d finally uncovered the truth—and wanted someone to bleed for it.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin. Her wrists still burned from the rope, the skin there already raw, but she sat taller. Straighter. Not defiant— but anchored. She wasn’t trying to fight him. She was trying to pull him in. Away from Spencer. Away from anyone who couldn’t take what was coming.

“You want to dissect me?” the unsub hissed, spittle catching in the corner of his mouth. “You want to peel me open and write me down like some—some experiment?”

Y/N’s throat was bone-dry. Her breath felt thin. But her eyes didn’t waver.

“Yes,” she said.

The pipe arced through the air like lightning.

The first blow cracked across her ribs.

A sickening thud—deep and solid, metal against bone—and it knocked the air from her lungs like she’d been punched by the sky. Her body snapped sideways, collapsing onto her hip, rope barely catching her before she hit the floor completely. The sound that left her mouth wasn’t a scream. It was sharper. Shorter. Like breath torn in half.

Spencer’s voice broke behind her, sharp and helpless. “Stop—!”

Y/N didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She didn’t risk shifting her gaze or moving even an inch toward him—didn’t dare let the unsub sense where Spencer’s voice had come from.

She kept her eyes locked on the man in front of her. Kept the weight of his rage squarely on her shoulders.

“It’s nothing,” Y/N gasped, her voice splintered at the edges like cracked porcelain.

The words weren’t for him—not really.

But they were said loud enough to reach the unsub, to thread into the air like a challenge. Flat. Dismissive. Designed to taunt.

And yet, there was something beneath it. A note of softness buried inside the brokenness—so subtle only Spencer would catch it.

She glanced at him. Just once. Barely more than a flicker. But it was there. Not a cry for help. Maybe an apology.

A warning. A reassurance. Don’t move. Don’t speak. I’m still here. Let me do this.

Spencer's throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe. His whole body screamed to reach for her, to throw himself between them, but he stayed frozen—because she was protecting him, even now, even like this.

The unsub didn’t catch the shift.

He was too deep in it now—

Too tangled in the scent of blood and sweat, in the heat of betrayal clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His gaze flicked to Spencer again—not with doubt, but with a kind of furious clarity. A moment of recognition between predator and prey.

“You see?” he rasped, voice hoarse and shaking with conviction. “She used you. Just like they all do.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But his jaw twitched. His fingers curled slightly where they’d been slack.

“She’s one of them,” the man hissed, his eyes blazing now. “Wrapped you around her finger so you wouldn’t see it. Made you feel safe. Needed. Like you mattered.”

He took a step closer. The pipe shook in his grip.

“But it was a lie. And now you brought them to me.”

His head cocked sharply to the side, a grotesque mimicry of sympathy. “I’ll solve it for both of us,” he whispered, too calm now. Too sure. “You don’t have to suffer anymore. Neither of us do.”

His gaze was locked on Spencer—but his knuckles flexed around the pipe as he turned toward Y/N.

“They’re the poison,” he spat. “She’s the worst of them.”

He looked at her like he was seeing something grotesque and glorious all at once.

And then—

The rage twisted. Broke open.

With a jagged, animal sound caught somewhere between a sob and a snarl, the unsub howled and wrenched the pipe backward—

Only to throw it.

The metal spun from his hand, sailing across the room in a flash of rust and fury. It struck the floor with a brutal, echoing clang, the sound ricocheting off the cabin walls like a gunshot. The pipe rolled once, twice—then stilled in the dust.

Not mercy.

Not remorse.

Just escalation.

His shoulders rose and fell like a wave crashing, chest heaving with the strain of restraint. He ran a shaking hand down his face, smearing sweat and blood together, jaw locked tight like he was chewing on bone.

“No,” he growled, low and guttural, voice thick with the weight of too many nights spent talking to ghosts. “That’s too easy.”

He took a step forward.

Then another towards her.

“I want it real,” he seethed. “I want to look in your eyes and see it. I want you to know what it’s like—to feel hunted. Dissected. Reduced.”

His voice rose with each word, fraying at the edges.

“You think you’re clever. You think I didn’t see it. But I saw you the second you walked in.”

Spencer shifted beside her—slow, deliberate—but didn’t speak. He knew. Any wrong sound, any motion now could tip this into blood.

Y/N didn’t move either.

But her pulse thundered in her throat.

The unsub’s boots thudded against the warped floorboards, closing the space between them inch by inch. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching like they still held the weapon.

“I want you to beg,” he said. “Not for you. For him. So he knows what you really are before it’s too late.”

His breath was ragged. Wild.

And his eyes—locked on hers—were lit with the glow of delusion, of violence waiting for permission.

Y/N didn’t have time to move.

His fist came down hard across her jaw.

Her head snapped sideways, a sharp gasp breaking from her throat as blood flew in an arc across the floor. Her body recoiled instinctively, but she had nowhere to go—arms bound, knees failing.

Another hit.

Knuckles against cheekbone.

Crack.

She didn’t cry out this time. Just a low, wet sound from deep in her chest. One eye squeezed shut. The other barely tracked.

Spencer shouted her name—screamed it—but she couldn’t look at him.

The next blow hit her temple, dazing her. Her limbs jerked once, then sagged, and she started to tip—eyes fluttering.

He grabbed her by the front of her shirt and hauled her up, letting her head loll against his shoulder for a split second before slamming her back down against the post.

She choked on her own breath. Blood pooled in the corner of her mouth.

Still, she tried to speak. Tried to draw his focus back—keep him off Spencer.

“Go ahead,” she gasped, voice shredded. “You’ve already lost.”

Spencer’s voice cracked wide open. “Stop! You’re going to kill her!”

“I’m supposed to!” the unsub roared. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know how this ends?”

He wiped his knuckles, hands shaking, and reached for the knife on the table.

“No—no—” Spencer’s voice rose, frantic now. “Listen to me, just—just wait—”

But the unsub was already behind Y/N, cutting the ties loose with the knife. 

She hit the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the boards, the air knocked from her lungs in a sharp wheeze. Blood was smeared across her chin, a glint of it now soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her arms shook as she tried to push herself up.

The unsub stood over her, chest rising and falling with erratic, animal rhythm. He saw the flicker of her hand as she reached—slow, shaky—toward the knife that had fallen nearby during the struggle. Fingers grazed the hilt.

He kicked it away.

Hard.

The blade skidded across the floor and disappeared under the edge of a cabinet.

Y/N didn’t react fast enough to hide the effort.

He saw it and laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound—half snarl, half thrill. Then he stepped forward and crushed her hand beneath his boot.

Y/N’s cry was small and raw—closer to a breath than a scream. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her other hand curled into the floor.

Spencer strained against the ropes again, his voice hoarse with panic. “Don’t touch her!”

The unsub didn’t even glance back.

He knelt.

Slowly. Like he was savoring it.

He flipped her over, one knee pressed into Y/N’s stomach as he leaned forward, one hand pinning her shoulder down, the other hovering just over her throat.

“I want to see it,” he murmured. “The moment you realize you’re not the one in control anymore.”

Y/N coughed—barely able to lift her head. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts now. Each one sounded like it scraped the inside of her chest.

Then his hand wrapped around her throat, and squeezed. 

She clawed at his arm, both hands wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him off, her grip slick with sweat and trembling with effort.

A low, pained sound escaped her throat—part snarl, part choke—as she gritted her teeth and fought back, muscles straining against the weight of him. She twisted beneath his grip, her nails biting into his skin, but he only squeezed harder, knuckles white, lips pulled back in something that might’ve been a grin or a grimace.

Spencer’s mind was racing. Every second like a blade in his chest. Every flash of her body jerking beneath the unsub’s grip chiseled deeper into him.

“Stop!” Spencer shouted, voice raw. “Hey—look at me!”

The unsub didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened.

Y/N’s body arched slightly beneath the pressure, her fingers still scrabbling against his arm, trying to peel his hand away from her throat.

Do something. Think. Think, think, think—

And then—

He found it.

A fracture in the man’s mind. A mirror.

Spencer’s voice dropped an octave, fast and sharp now, like the sound itself might wedge into the fracture. “You were right. You were right, okay?”

The unsub didn’t stop—but his grip faltered. Fractionally.

Spencer lunged toward that moment like it was oxygen.

“You knew they were watching you. You knew they were lying. That they wanted to control you, label you, shut you up. But you were smarter than them. That’s why you’re still here. You saw the truth and no one believed you, and you made it anyway.”

Y/N gasped—one desperate breath into her bruised lungs—and coughed, chest heaving.

The unsub’s hand wavered. Confusion clouded his eyes.

Spencer’s words poured out now, urgent and unrelenting. “You didn’t lose it. You adapted. You survived. You outmaneuvered everyone trying to cage you. That’s not a breakdown. That’s brilliance. That’s strength.”

The fingers at Y/N’s throat loosened. Barely—but enough.

Spencer’s voice softened, but the tempo stayed fast. Intent. Begging. Calculating. Focused.

“Don’t give them what they expect,” he breathed. “Don’t let them turn you into the thing they’re afraid of. You’re better than that. You know you are. Don’t let your story end in their headlines. Don’t become the monster they want to write about.”

Y/N coughed again—sharp, alive—and Spencer’s heart crashed against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest.

The unsub’s shoulders dropped. Just an inch.

Silence.

The unsub’s breathing hitched.

His hands fell away.

And just then—the door exploded open.

Boots stormed the cabin.

Voices shouting.

The unsub turned, disoriented—eyes wild, breath coming in short, confused bursts as the front door burst open in a hail of shouting and boots.

But he didn’t even have time to reach for the shotgun.

Morgan was on him in an instant.

Not tactical, not measured, but angry.

He slammed into the unsub like a wrecking ball, driving him back with a crash that shook the floor. They hit the boards hard—shoulder to ribs, elbow to throat—Morgan pinning him down with every ounce of fury in his body.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, his voice pure, guttural violence.

His fist cracked against the unsub’s jaw once—twice—before Hotch grabbed him from behind, pulling him back.

“Morgan!” Hotch barked. “That’s enough!”

But Morgan’s eyes were locked on the blood smeared across the floor—on Y/N, curled on her side near the fireplace, gasping.

Her throat was mottled red, fingerprints blooming dark against her skin, and her face—her cheekbone already purple and raw, lips split.

She coughed again, ragged and wet, and blinked through the sting of light and dust as boots thundered toward her.

Rossi dropped to his knees beside her. “Y/N,” he said, voice taut. “Are you—can you hear me?”

Her hand wavered slightly, lifting from the floor with a tremble that shook down her whole arm. And then—miraculously, impossibly—she gave him a shaky thumbs up.

“Madonna santa,” Rossi muttered, relief crumpling across his face. 

Morgan was still breathing hard, knuckles white, even as the rest of the team moved in—cuffs, weapons, orders flying like a storm around them.

“You don’t touch her,” he spat, voice shaking as the unsub was hauled to his knees. “You don’t get to touch her.”

And then he was on his feet, already rushing to her side.

Hotch’s voice echoed like thunder. “CLEAR!”

But Spencer barely heard it.

He was already crawling across the floor, knees scraping wood slick with blood, hands shaking as he pulled himself toward her.

“Y/N,” he choked out.

She was curled on her side near the hearth, one hand limp across her stomach, the other barely twitching. Her body looked too small, too still. Blood matted her hair, smeared across her jaw, soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her breathing was shallow—thin—but there.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, breath catching.

His hands hovered just inches above her. He didn’t know where to touch—what not to hurt.

She turned her head slowly, her face a map of pain and resilience. A small, broken smile curled at the corner of her mouth, tugging against dried blood.

“Still here,” she rasped, trying to catch her breath, voice barely above a whisper. “Told you it was nothing.”

And then her eyes fluttered shut—not from unconsciousness, but relief. Like she finally believed she was safe.

Spencer’s chest caved inward, his hand finally settling gently against her shoulder.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “Please.”

A pair of hands touched his arm.

JJ.

“Spence—Spencer, you’re bleeding. Let us—”

He shook his head without looking at her.

“I’m fine. Help her.”

Emily dropped to her knees beside JJ, composure cracking the moment she saw her.

“God—Y/N,” she breathed, her voice tight with panic she didn’t bother to hide. Her hands hovered over the bruises, the blood, the torn fabric, unsure where to touch without making it worse. Her eyes flicked rapidly from Y/N’s face to her ribs to the blood trailing down her temple, cataloging everything, but none of it fast enough.

“Talk to me, okay? Just—keep talking.”

But Morgan was already there too, hitting the floor hard on the other side of her, breath still ragged from the fight, jaw clenched like he wanted to throw another punch.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just looked at her.

Then he reached out, gently brushing a matted strand of hair from her face with the back of his knuckle—fingers trembling.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You’re okay now. We’ve got you.”

But Spencer never let go of her hand.

Her voice was the first thing to break the silence.

“Well,” Y/N croaked, barely above a whisper, “that went great.”

Spencer let out a sound that hitched in his throat — somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

She winced as she tried to push herself up, breath catching sharply in her throat. “Oof—okay, okay, maybe I should’ve opened with a knock-knock joke instead.”

“Y/N—don’t,” Morgan muttered, crouched beside her, one arm braced behind her back to steady her as she shifted upright. “You’re barely standing.”

“I’m hilarious,” she argued through grit teeth, her voice rough with blood and pride. “You’re just not in the mood.”

“Damn right I’m not,” Emily snapped gently, crouching in front of her, eyes wide with worry that she didn’t bother to hide. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a semi. Sit your ass down.”

Y/N tried to grin. Failed. Winced instead.

But she stayed upright. Just to prove she could.

Emily shook her head, but her eyes shone. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?”

“Mutual,” Y/N rasped, and finally let her weight rest back into Morgan’s arm.

Spencer moved in quickly, his hands gentle but firm as he helped guide her into a seated position. “You shouldn’t move yet.”

She glanced at him, eyes still glassy, one brow arching faintly. “If I wait for your approval, I’ll die waiting instead.”

Morgan huffed—less annoyed, more relieved.

Spencer didn’t argue. He simply shifted to support her weight as she slowly—agonizingly—got to her feet. She swayed, hissed, nearly buckled again, but he caught her. Both arms steady around her as he drew her into his side.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

The air outside hit like a wall.

Cold, wet, alive with stormlight. It smelled like moss and mud and gunmetal, and Spencer didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it stung his lungs on the way in.

Behind them, the cabin was alive with noise. Paramedics rushed past. JJ gave orders into her radio. The unsub writhed on the ground beneath the knee of a state trooper, snarling, face twisted, voice hoarse from screaming.

“You don’t know what they do,” he shouted after them. “You don’t know!”

Y/N flinched slightly at the sound, but didn’t look back. Spencer angled his body in front of hers, shielding her from the view.

She let him.

Morgan followed close behind, jaw tight, eyes still burning. “Let him scream,” he muttered. “He’s got nothing left.”

The ambulance came into view—doors open, floodlights painting everything in harsh yellow. Emily waited by the entrance, but her face softened when she saw Y/N walking under her own strength.

Barely. But still.

Spencer helped her up the step, one arm still wrapped firmly around her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, more to himself than to her.

“I know.”

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice barely audible above the wind.

Y/N gave a rough, rattling chuckle. “You said that five steps ago.”

He looked down at her—at the blood dried in the corner of her mouth, the bruises blossoming along her jaw, the torn skin on her knuckles—and felt something fracture in his chest again.

“You shouldn’t be talking.”

“I’ve earned the right,” she rasped. “Pretty sure I just out-profiled you.”

Spencer huffed, incredulous. “You’re making jokes?”

“You’re the one who talked a man off my windpipe with behavioral theory. We’re even.”

Her knees buckled suddenly. Spencer caught her with a sharp inhale, adjusting his grip and pulling her tighter against his side. She didn’t fight it—just leaned in, forehead briefly pressing against his shoulder, blood smudging the fabric of his coat.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“Know you do.”

The ambulance doors were open now, floodlights casting harsh gold light over the clearing. JJ ran toward them first, her eyes wide with horror when she saw the state of them both—but mostly Y/N.

The paramedics helped ease her onto the gurney, moving fast but careful. Spencer started to step back, but her hand caught his.

“Don’t go far,” she said, her voice going soft now. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”

He squeezed her fingers gently. “I won’t.”

And as the ambulance doors closed — sealing her from view with a dull metallic finality — Spencer remained frozen in place.

Rain streaked down his face in thin, icy threads, soaking through his shirt and coat until the fabric clung to him like a second skin. His curls lay plastered to his forehead, water dripping steadily from his lashes, from the sharp line of his jaw. The cut on his temple had gone from a sharp burn to a dull throb, blood mingling with rain and trailing down the side of his face in a diluted red smear.

The paramedics circled him now, gloved hands brushing over his injuries with clinical care — gentle, practiced — but he barely registered them. The world felt muffled, as if the storm had pulled a veil over everything. All he could hear was the sound of her voice echoing in his mind, hollow and brave and unbearably steady:

It’s okay. I can take it.

He hadn’t believed her — not really. Not in the way she meant it. And now the weight of that moment sat like stone in his chest, pressing against his ribs, caught somewhere between the cracked floorboards of that cabin and the way her eyes had locked onto his. Not pleading. Not scared. Just herself. Fierce and unwavering and hurt. So deeply hurt.

Spencer blinked, slow and stinging, and for a heartbeat he thought he could still feel her fingers curled around his, warm and trembling, as she told him not to go far.

His heart hadn’t moved since.

It was still there — with her — wherever they were taking her now.

And for the first time since it all began, he realized: 

She had taken it. 

But he hadn’t.

Not really.

The apartment was dark when he stepped inside.

Not silent — the rain still fell against the windows in a steady whisper, and the old radiator creaked with every shift in temperature. But still, it felt like stepping into a vacuum. Like his body hadn’t caught up with him yet. Like a part of him was still in that cabin, still on the floor, watching her bleed.

He dropped his go-bag by the door and stood there for a long time, wet curls dripping onto the hardwood. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not badly, just enough that he noticed. Enough that he wrapped them around a mug he didn’t remember filling and stared into space.

He didn’t even hear the knock at first.

Just the rhythm — soft, then urgent. Three beats. A pause. Two more. Like she didn’t want to wake the neighbors, but she couldn’t not be there.

Spencer crossed the room in a daze. When he opened the door—

She was standing there.

Coat wrapped tight around her. Hair pulled back but messy, the bandage above her temple visible under the porch light. She looked small. Pale. But she was on her feet.

He stared at her for a heartbeat too long. 

Then stepped aside without a word and let her in.

Spencer took her coat carefully—more gently than she expected. Like she might break if he touched her wrong. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, lowering herself onto the edge of his couch with a hiss between her teeth. “You’re gonna make me think I actually look as bad as I feel.”

He didn’t answer. Just folded her coat neatly over the armrest and crouched down in front of her, eyes scanning her face like he could take inventory of every bruise, every cut.

Before he could speak, she reached out—fingers brushing his jaw, then cradling the side of his face with both hands, steady and careful. Her thumbs skimmed just beneath his cheekbones as her eyes flicked up to the angry stitches near his temple, expression darkening with concern.

“Spence,” she said, voice low and earnest. “How do they feel?”

He blinked, startled slightly by the question—by the way she always noticed, even when she was the one who nearly didn’t make it out. 

“Sore,” he admitted quietly. “But manageable.”

Her brow pinched as her thumb hovered just shy of the wound, like she could soothe it just by being near.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because if they botched it, I’m filing a complaint.”

He huffed a faint laugh. But his eyes never left hers.

She glanced down at herself — the clean bandages wrapped snug around her hands, pale against the faint shadow of bruises blooming at her wrists. The ache in her ribs pulled with every breath, dulled by medication but still present, a quiet reminder. Then she looked back up at him, her smile crooked and dry.

“I mean, it’s not my best look,” she said. “But I’ve definitely worn worse on surveillance gigs. Remember that one time Garcia put me in a wig and said I looked like a discount Loretta Lynn?”

Spencer blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t remember how.

She nudged his knee gently with her hand. “Come on, Spence. I’m okay. See? Talking. Breathing. Being obnoxious.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice came out quiet, hoarse. “You were—he was—”

She cut him off gently. “You were there. I know.”

A pause. She softened.

“But you were also the reason I got to walk out.” She reached out, brushed her fingers lightly across his wrist. “So maybe I’m not as okay as I usually am. But I’m still here. That counts for something, right?”

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he whispered.

Y/N’s smile faded. Just a little.

Then, with a lopsided grin: “Are you kidding? After all that? You really think I’d let some backwoods psycho have the last word?”

He huffed out a laugh. It sounded broken. Real.

“Besides,” she added, settling back into the couch with a wince, “I like your couch too much to die. I mean—this thing is weirdly comfortable, right?”

Spencer looked at her like she was made of glass and gravity and everything that could undo him. But he smiled.

And for the first time all night, she knew he believed her.

The apartment hummed quietly around them — the radiator ticking, the rain soft against the windows. Spencer moved to sit beside her on the couch, but not too close. Just near enough that their knees touched lightly, unspoken reassurance pulsing in that one point of contact.

Y/N leaned her head back against the cushions. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

Then, without opening her eyes:

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Spencer looked over. “What thing?”

She cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “The thing where you spiral quietly and blame yourself for everything within a hundred-mile radius.”

“I’m not—”

“Spencer,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Don’t lie to me. Especially not when I look like this.”

He swallowed hard, gaze dragging up despite himself.

The bruises along her cheekbone had deepened into dusk-colored blooms — stark against the bandage at her temple. A fainter one curled near the corner of her jaw, half-hidden beneath the fall of her hair. Even cleaned and stitched up, she looked like she’d been through hell. And she had.

His eyes dropped to her hands — wrapped in clean gauze — then to the faint rise of bandages under her shirt, just visible at the edge of her coat. Her throat bore the worst of it: a scatter of red and violet where the pressure had been, ugly and fresh.

“I shouldn’t have let you—”

“You didn’t let me do anything.”

Her voice was quiet, but clear now. Unapologetic.

“I made a choice. I saw what was going to happen. I knew what he was going to do, and I made a call.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at his hands in his lap like they might have done something different, if only they’d moved faster.

“I would do it again,” she said simply.

That got his attention. His head snapped up.

“No—Y/N—”

“Yes,” she said, unwavering. “Every time. If it’s between me or you, I’m choosing me. Every time.”

“You could’ve died.”

Her expression softened. “So could you.”

His throat tightened. “But I didn’t.”

“Because I was there.” She turned to him then, fully. Her voice dropped. “And because you distracted him. You did exactly what I hoped you would.”

“I didn’t know if it would work,” he admitted, voice breaking slightly.

“But it did.”

He looked at her for a long moment. There were tears in his eyes, unshed, and he wasn’t even trying to blink them away anymore.

“I hate that you got hurt,” he whispered.

“I hate that I had to,” she said, not unkindly. “But I don’t regret it.”

He reached out then — tentative — and let his fingers brush lightly over the back of her hand. Just enough to let her pull away if she needed to.

She didn’t.

His hand shifted from hers — slowly, carefully — until it hovered just beneath her chin. When she didn’t move away, he let his fingers graze the edge of her jaw. Gentle as breath. Like she was made of something more fragile than bone.

Y/N blinked once, then closed her eyes.

And leaned into the touch.

His thumb brushed gently across the curve of her cheek, over skin still tender and faintly swollen. His touch lingered—careful, reverent—as if memorizing the shape of her face one fragile line at a time. Like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

She let out the softest breath — not pained, just tired. Trusting.

Her hand came up and wrapped around his.

Just that.

Soft. Steady. Real.

Spencer shifted forward before he could think better of it. Just enough to bring his face close, so close he could feel her breath fan lightly against his mouth. But he didn’t kiss her there — not yet.

Instead, he pressed his lips to her temple. A barely-there touch. Then the other side. Her eyelid, warm beneath him. The bridge of her nose. Her cheekbone.

Tiny, aching acts of reverence.

He paused at the corner of her mouth.

Stopped there, hovering.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t lean in either.

Her thumb ran across the back of his hand, slow. “Spence,” she murmured, voice low, a little raw. “You don’t have to be careful.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I want to be.”

They stayed like that for a moment — her fingers curled around his, his palm resting against the side of her face like he couldn’t quite let go.

Then Y/N exhaled a slow breath and pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her voice was quieter now, but still laced with that familiar edge — dry, wry, undeniably her.

“So…” she began, dragging out the word like it weighed something, “I was thinking I might crash here tonight. You know, if the offer’s still on the table.”

Spencer blinked, lips parting — caught somewhere between surprised and relieved. “Of course.”

She nodded, pretending to consider. “Good. Because I’m not entirely convinced my legs still work, and if I try to drive, I’ll probably end up in Delaware by accident.”

He almost smiled. “You’re welcome to the bed.”

“Tempting,” she said, already shifting her weight with a small wince. “But if you give me the bed, you’re just gonna sleep out here on the couch like some noble, long-suffering martyr, and then I’ll feel guilty and it’ll be this whole thing.”

“You won’t feel guilty.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Spence, I feel bad leaving voicemails. I will feel guilty.”

That pulled a real laugh from him — short, breathy, almost startled. The kind of sound that cracked something open.

She smiled at that, but it faded slower this time. Her eyes dropped to where their hands were still joined — his fingers curled carefully around hers, the pulse at his wrist still quick beneath her touch.

Then her gaze flicked up again, quieter now. Sharper.

“And stop looking at me like that,” she said. “Like it’s your fault. I swear, if you keep blaming yourself, I really will be mad at you.”

He opened his mouth — to protest, to explain, he didn’t even know — but she was already lifting his hand gently to her lips and kissing it. Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

“Just… stay close, okay?” she asked. “I don’t want to wake up and think I imagined all of this. You being here. Us getting out.”

His reply was immediate. Steady.

“I’ll be right here.”

She nodded, swallowing whatever else she might’ve said. Then, quieter:

“And if I start snoring, you’re not allowed to mock me until at least after breakfast.”

His eyes crinkled faintly. “Deal.”