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bunnyhugs77 · 8 months ago

Text

Driven 2 U

Pairing: Rich! Reader x Mechanic! Jungkook

Word Count: 5.2k

Notes: am i back from the dead??

Content Warning: reader is a bit spoiled but she can't help it!, ft manager! yoongi, jk is so whipped, fluff, car troubles, reader is a bad driver, kissing, witty jk, some smut, pining, mentionsn of ex boyfriends, dirty hands, flowers, reader is a bit oblivious, mention of death, jungkook is delusional just like us.

Other Content: making out, late-night rendezvous, choking, semi-public sex, they're both so desperate, marking, soft dom! jk, light hair pulling, oral sex (f! receiving), cute conversations in between, praise.

The sun beamed down gently between the spaces of the clouds that littered the otherwise bright blue sky. Your Chanel sunglasses framed your face perfectly and your arm rested on the ledge of the window as you steered with the other. The air was sweeter, the flowers were in full bloom and the grass seemed greener.

The world always seemed so much more colourful when you had a hair appointment ahead of you. "I swear this is your third hair appointment this month." Yerin's voice rings through your aux, judgy as always, but you love her for it. She's been your best friend since you could walk, if anyone was gonna call you out it was gonna be her--it could only be her. You didn't listen to anyone else.

Especially not your overprotective dad, who kept nagging you to get your engine checked since that little light kept flashing at you. You didn't see the point. You thought of yourself as a pretty good driver even though all of your passengers often fled the moment you parked, swearing to never get in a car with you again, but they always came back.

"Yeah? What's your point? These roots aren't gonna touch up themselves." Your car began to jolt, "Uhh-" You trailed off, looking down to your dashboard and scanning for a source of the issue, "What?" Yerin asks and you quickly begin to lose speed. \

Turning on your four-ways you begin to pull over on the side of the road, "My engine light is flashing red and there's smoke coming out from my hood, is that bad?" Yerin doesn't say anything, there's silence in the car until she exhales, "You need to take your car to a mechanic like yesterday."

"-But I can't take it to Wheely's, that's where Jae used to take me whenever my car needed work." This time Yerin made sure you could hear her distress with an extra long sigh, "You guys broke up almost 6 months ago, I doubt they remember you. It's not like they'll refuse service because you broke up with one of their customers."

"Okay fine. You're lucky it's close, I'll just drive-" Before your hand could even make contact with the clutch, you're interrupted by a shout, "Do not even think about moving that car, Y/n. You'll completely kill the engine. Just call a tow truck. As a matter of fact, I'll call one for you."

That brings you to where you are right now. The passenger seat of a high-rimmed tow truck with a rugged driver. He seemed miserable to you at first, hooking your car up with a lot of grunts and 'tsks' slipping through clenched teeth until he really looked at you, eyes looking you up then down, taking in your very wealthy attire.

Suddenly small talk and friendly conversation were being made. With a rocky abruption, you bounced in your seat as the truck pulled into the back alley of the shop where there were lots of other damaged cars sitting around.

You thanked him and tipped him one hundred dollars. You clearly had no general comprehension of the value of a dollar, not when it comes to tipping at least.

You stood off to the side of the open garage, against the wall, waiting for the driver to come back after he'd gone inside to notify the mechanics that your car would need to be manually rolled in.

"You're still rolling in this piece of junk, Scooter?" A voice catches your attention two more men walk out of the garage alongside the driver. It seems the driver was known as Scooter around here though you doubt that's his real name.

"Hey, you better watch it, ol'Ruby here may be a bit aged but she's got character." Scooter taps the hood of the rusty pick-up truck while the two men stand in front of him with their arms crossed, one with mint hair and the other with dark locks; both of their backs facing you, yet to notice you were standing there.

"A bit aged? I'm certain Julius Cesar could identify it." The mint-haired man jokes and the brunette laughs while Scooter rolls his eyes.

Scooter waves you over, cueing the two men to look over their shoulders, a bit shocked they hadn't noticed you standing there earlier. "This is Yoongi and Jungkook, they'll be overseeing your repairs." They finally turned and Yoongi hardly got a full glance at you before his gaze was fixated on the man beside him who couldn't look away.

Unsure if your mind was playing tricks on you but you're fairly certain you'd seen them both before. Maybe not for long as you'd only ever been at the mechanics for a few short moments while Jae dropped off your car and switched into his.

Eyes wide and alert, you resembled a deer in headlights, unable to hold the soft gaze that was being sent your way. "Don't worry, you're in good hands," Yoongi reassures while Scooter gets back in his truck and pulls out.

"We need to roll it in, Jungkook and I are going to push from behind the car. Do you mind getting in the front and just steering to make sure to aim for the inside of the garage? Try to get it between the two pylons." Yoongie points into the garage where there are two markers a few meters apart.

Agreeing, you're just about to get back into the front seat when your phone rings. Both men were already in position, strong arms bracing the trunk and hunched over slightly, legs split apart, ready to bear the force back into the ground with each push, but you answered the phone instead.

Yoongi's brow arched while Jungkook just watched you.

"Y/n speaking."

It was your hairdresser, calling to see if you were still on your way as expected. Your heart sunk, you'd nearly forgotten ever since your car committed suicide and then Yerin was yelling at you.

"I'm so sorry- my car broke down and--" The boys listen intently, nosey as always. It wasn't often they had someone so interesting stroll into their quarters in the middle of the week.

"Yes, I know you're very busy and I would never want to waste your time--" You start but she interrupts you again. "No! Please don't put me on the waitlist I'll be there. I'm coming!" Hastily you get into the driver's seat and steer it in with the guys pushing behind you.

You got out nervously panicking, scrolling through all your contacts for someone to give you a ride. "Something wrong?" Jungkook couldn't help himself. He had to ask, even though he knew the answer.

"I have a hair appointment and she'd booked through for the next three months and if I'm not there in the next 15 minutes she's giving my spot away." Jungkook just stood there, while Yoongi worked on elevating the car.

Not a thought behind his eyes at your worries. You were in your own world for that to be your biggest concern but he tried to understand. "Why not get a Lyft?"

"Ew," Your hand clasps over your mouth almost immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that--or to offend you-" Now Jungkook seemed taken aback, "Why would that offend me?" Your mouth gapes open like a fish before finally shutting.

"I'm just saying, the choice is yours. You can either get a Lyft or call the b-b-bus." He puts on a horrified expression as he chops up the last word to get it through to you. The result on your face was priceless.

"How about you give me a ride? I'll pay you." He stills, straightening his posture while his brows contorted, evidently confused. Even though Yoongi was on the opposite side of the car, crouched down on one knee, he too was confused. That wasn't an option. Jungkook is in full uniform, on the clock.

Does he get ahead of himself sometimes? Yes. The kid's got a big heart but he's not crazy, there's no way he would- "I'll get my keys." Yoongi lets his head fall in disappointment.

Jungkook led you around the back of the building then outside to the lot where he was parked and you turned to him blankly. "Which one is yours?" He unlocks the car as an answer, the headlights flashing at you. Quick on your heels you pivot to face him.

"This is your car?" Your acrylic points to the grey polished, sleek sports car that had the two doors opening on their own. "Not too shabby for the working class, huh?" He quips and you swat at his arm.

"I already said I was sorry about the Lyft thing, will you just let it go already? He snorts at how flustered you're getting, "Already? That was literally 60 seconds ago." You pout and get into the car, avoiding any further conversation.

His car smelled good, like really good. You found yourself taking deeper breaths than usual. It was hard to describe the smell but if you tried you would describe it as a bold yet comforting aroma, it almost reminded you of a man's cologne but mixed with the fresh scent of smoked leather. Sweet but musky.

"Leave some air for me." Jungkook jokes and your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, he pulls out of the lot and heads for the address you gave him. "Just hurry up." You slouch back into the seat hoping the chair would consume you.

"You do realize you're basically in a Lyft right now." Jungkook points out as the ending revs and the car accelerates, cutting up traffic, one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, just like you.

You ignored how attractive his driving was and zeroed in on the topic at hand. "No, this is different. I personally hired you, for the next..." You lean forward to see the GPS and the remaining time to your location, "6 minutes, you're my personal chauffeur." He just had to laugh, all those times he saw you with Jae, he'd always wondered what you'd be like.

He never would've guessed you be so full of...you. But it would be one hell of a lie if he said it didn't add to your appeal. He was no longer in dangerous waters, no no. The moment he accepted your proposition, he'd thrown himself into shark-infested waves with a pressuring current, destined to pull him to the bottom.

Jungkook pulled up to the side of the salon and you hurried got out. "Thank you, Jungkook. I really appreciate it; oh and take care of my car!" You smile from outside the window looking in, about to leave when you reach for your phone and hand it to him.

His heart leaps from his chest. That's it? So easy? He lags for a moment, staring at your arm that was outstretched to him. "So you can tell me when my car is ready."

Oh.

"OH. Yeah. Of course." he enters in his information before handing it back to you, and the sight of your bouncy steps in your high heels and sunglasses is the last he sees of you before he makes his way back to the shop.

Walking into the garage he picks up an oil cloth that he knows he'll need soon. Startled, Jungkook's hand grabs his chest as Yoongi pops up from behind the car, the opened trunk shielding him from sight before. Grease-covered hands and stained attire are what he notices before his displeased expression.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't get in the front seat and back this car over you." He threatens, not a smile in sight except for the big one that spreads across Jungkook's apologetic face. "Because I'll work overtime for a week, unpaid."

Yoongi taps the wrench in his palm, thinking about it. "You were on the clock, Jeon. Make it two."

"Deal."

The two round the car to the open hood to get a better look at the engine. "Was it at least worth it? I know you've had your eyes on her since she first came in with that guy like two years ago."

"She's funny and she's beautiful. It's so over for me." Yoongi chuckles, reaching his hand into the hood, and starting the repairs. "Just ask her out, I don't see what the big deal is." He shrugs and Jungkook's head slowly turns, "This could be the love of my life, Yoongi. One wrong move and I lose my one chance, all my greatest dreams and aspirations-" Yoongi playfully closes the hood on Jungkooks fingers to shut him up.

"Alright Shakespeare, now help me get this engine out."

A week goes by when you are flipping through a magazine, 'What's the perfect job for you' the letters read and surprise surprise you got a model. You smiled as you placed the magazine back down on the craft services table as the photographer called you over to the center to resume the shoot.

This was for the cover of Serpahine, thankfully you weren't as nervous this time around as you were three years ago when it was your first time.

You'd been in the modelling world for a few years now, you got into it on a whim not expecting to really go anywhere with it, but the people loved you. You were only 19 when you went to your first shoot for a local retail store, fast forward six years and you'd actually driven past a billboard with your face on it this morning.

Once the shoot was done you finally reconnected with your beloved phone and saw there was a message from an unsaved number. "Your car is ready for pick up." Ah, finally.

You were sick of carpooling and hiring drivers this week, all you wanted was to finally get back behind the wheel of your own car.

The evening hadn't escaped you just yet. The sun was still out but slowly setting and casting an orange hue as you got out of the car in front of Wheeley's and dismissed them.

You could already see Jungkook from where you stood outside of the garage. Leant over the hood of another car, sleeves rolled up and tattoos on display. Just when he couldn't get any hotter.

You knocked on the wall, not sure if you could enter. He looks up with a glance before doing an immediate double take and stands to his full height. He welcomes you with a soft smile and gestures you over.

You approached him slowly, the last thing you wanted was to eat shit and land on the greasy floors in front of him.

The closer you got, the more intense his gaze became, "Wow, you look amazing." Jungkook compliments almost speechless. It was like you'd gotten even prettier from the last time he'd seen you.

Instinctively, you play with the chain of your white gold orchid necklace. It was just something you did when you were flattered or shy, in this case, a bit of both.

"Ahem." Neither of you had any idea where Yoongi had come from but he spawned and reminded Jungkook to stay focused before he vanished back into his office.

"Right. So. We assessed the damage to your engine, and the overheating engine caused the gasket to blow, causing the coolant and the oil to start mixing which is very bad." You could tell he was dumbing down the words for you and you had to stop yourself from chewing on your lower lip as he talked.

He's so hot when he talks about cars and stuff. "Are you following?" What? You thought you were doing such a good job of listening. He continued to explain what had been done and import fees and blah blah blah.

You weren't listening to a damn thing he was saying and Jungkook could tell. If he was being honest, he was hardly listening to himself, brain so warped on the fact that this was probably the last time he'd see you for a long time.

He walked you over to the register, "With the coverage you get from guardian auto insurance it reduces your initial price from 2,785.61 to 875.50." You blinked, guardian auto insurance. You had no memory of buying that, which is why you assumed your dad did and thank god for that.

Not that you couldn't afford the initial price but who would want to spend money on boring car stuff when they could go shopping? You paid and then remembered something.

"Here's your tip, for the Lyft." You smile handing him a hundred-dollar bill and he just smiles, not reaching for the money. "Aren't you gonna take it?" He shakes his head. "The car did all the work, all I did was steer. Besides, if I were you, I'd consider putting my money towards a better car."

Your hand falters, and you pout. "What's wrong with my Magma GRT?"

"I hate to say it, but this is the worst car money can buy. I see about three of these every week. For starters, the engineering of it is shit, it makes our job ten times harder. Not to mention it was wired by preschoolers, the batteries are cheap and I can guarantee you, your transmission is gonna blow sometime in the next year."

You stood there, jaw dropped.

"That's not true." You argue, feeling defensive over your sweet baby.

Jungkook guides you over to the hood of the car he had just been working on. "I'll take everything back if you can show me where the engine is."

You stood there for a solid minute, really giving it hard thought. "It's right here." You hold up the middle finger in front of his face before walking away and he laughs taking long strides to catch up to your furious pace.

"Where is my car, anyway?" Jungkook leads you around the back where the completed cars sit with a ticket on the windshield. He watched you excitedly hop into the driver's seat and run your hands over the wheel, then touching the fuzzy orchids that hung from your mirror.

You started it up and she sounded better than ever. You got out and fought the urge to do a little dance but you lost. It was cute, adorable really. "Thank you!" Without even thinking you placed a quick peck on his cheek before you returned to your car, honking at him twice before you sped off.

His fingers lightly grazed the cheek your lips had just met. His vision started to blur, he was about to faint. And then the doom settled in his stomach, you were gone.

"Let's take 5 everyone. Y/n, a minute." The head photographer calls you over. "What's going on? You seem out of it, and you can't be out of it. Not until this shoot is done, at least. I've got bills to pay too."

It's been a few weeks since you'd gotten your car fixed but now everything else felt broken. Suddenly a new outfit didn't put a smile on your face, and the buzz you got from a night out at the bar didn't compare to the flames you felt with the few moments you had with that pretty mechanic.

You shake away the thoughts and apologize, reassuring him that you'd get your head back in the game.

It's been a month.

He hasn't texted you, which isn't crazy considering you gave him your number for repair purposes only. Though it did make you sad to know he ignored the resource he had to contact you. Then again the phone did work both ways.

You were spiralling, just a tad.

Besides, you didn't want to text him, you needed to see him, but you can't just show up to a mechanic for no reason...

You paced around your room until your gaze landed on your car keys.

You shake your head.

No.

That's crazy.

You grab the keys anyway.

After a quick Google search, you concluded that this evening you would be making an impromptu trip to the gas station. Your tank holds about 30 liters so you pumped it with 35.

Once you got back in the car, just as Google said, your check engine light was on. At least this time it wasn't red.

"Oh no, looks like I've gotta get a check-up."

You pulled onto the lot with a mischievous grin, you weren't sure how you were going to pull this off but you had to.

Parking outside the open garage, you locked the car before walking in, looking around for any signs of anyone but it was empty--

"Back so soon?" You turn, face to face with the same face you'd been wanting to see for weeks. "Well yeah, I-"

The loud engine of that familiar tow truck came roaring up the driveway. A loud horn caught your attention. "Come on Jeon, roadside call ain't gonna solve itself!" Scooter shouts and Jungkook visibly gulps, looking between the two of you with a panicked gaze.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. Yoongi is in his office, he can help you."

Your shoulders slumped and your pout was prominent. Let this be the first and last time you ever stuck your neck out for a man.

A few days had passed when Jungkook sent you the invoice for your repairs. Your eyes analyzed the familiar statement of reduction showing that Guardian Auto Insurance saved you another 600 dollars.

You sighed.

You completed the transaction online and made sure to avoid him at all costs when you picked up your car. Unable to face him after he had blown you off. Even though you know it wasn't intentional, it was still humiliating.

The following weeks may not have been anything special for you but were most certainly eventful for Yerin. "I warned you not to dance on top of that bar." You joke as you walk Yerin out of the emergency room with a slight hangover while she has a cast on her left arm.

After driving her back to her place, not a silent ride at that, even on three different pain killers she was still whining about this curb and that curb, 'watch out for that pedestrian' she would yell as if you didn't have eyes.

"How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow." She sulks, resting her cast on a nearby couch cushion. "I can take you." You offer and she glares, "I guess I wasn't clear. I need to make it in one piece." You rolled your eyes.

"I'll just take my car, driving with one hand can't be that hard." She shrugs.

"It's not, but you're not left-handed. It's a bad idea." You warn but she is more stubborn than you are.

It was only around 10 am the following morning when you received a message from Yerin. She attached an image of her car, it looked normal aside from the missing side mirror.

Oh boy.

'I told you so.' You send her and she replies with a middle finger.

'Now it's your turn to go to Wheeley's and make sure to use your guardian auto insurance. Saves a ton.'

She gives you a thumbs up.

Talking about that shop made your mind wander. You wonder how Jungkook was doing. It's been a while since you last saw him. Sometimes you regret not sticking around for him to come back, or even avoiding him to pick up your car.

But maybe this was for the best.

Besides, you were just a customer. One of many. You're sure he's forgotten all about you.

Your phone buzzes once, then twice, pulling you out of the realm of peace and tranquillity that your nap had rolled you into. You'd fallen asleep on the couch while reruns of your favourite movie passed by on your screen. "Hello?"

"Guardian Auto Insurance my ass. I was charged $450. I asked Yoongi to double check and he said apparently that doesn't even exist." Slowly sitting up, you try to make sense of it.

How's that possible? If it doesn't exist then who made it up?-

Oh shit.

You quickly finish the call with Yerin, and check the time. The shop would close in about an hour, you had little time to get ready before you made your way there.

Pulling into the driveway so late at night made your headlights seem like spotlights, bouncing off every reflective surface in sight. Catching Jungkook's attention as he wasn't expecting anyone this late at night.

In his fitted jumpsuit, he watched the car pull up closer to the garage, shining the bright light in his face until the engine was shut off. He'd seen this car hundreds of times. He couldn't get his hopes up, but the second your red bottoms hit the concrete his heart was pounding.

You were headed right towards him.

You looked angry- no, upset, no-

"When were you gonna tell me that there's really no Guardian Auto Insurance and that you've been covering 80% of my costs out of your own pocket?" You definitely sounded angry but your gaze seemed... soft.

You stopped right in front of him, face to face. Your breathing was heavy and your brows furrowed as your eyes danced between both of his deep brown, apologetic ones. "I-"

"Just shut up." Grabbing a gentle hold of his cheeks in your hands, you pulled his lips down to meet yours. It took Jungkook a second to process what was going on but once his brain caught up, so did his hands.

He held you securely at the waist, tugging you into him until your front was against his and he worked his tongue with yours. Your heads tilted slightly to deepen the kiss.

You always knew he'd be a great kisser, but this was taking your breath away. Literally. You pulled away from him, lungs reaching for a much-needed dose of oxygen while Jungkook did the same. His gaze was much darker.

"You and this stupid uniform. I want to finally see what's underneath-" Reaching for his buttons, you're able to get the first four undone with a few stray kisses to his neck that send Jungkook absolutely reeling. A soft moan escapes him before he pulls back.

"Wait. Wait, I have something for you." He disappears into one of the offices before coming back with a bouquet of orchids. Your gasp is genuine.

"Yoongi said a friend of yours was in the shop earlier and I'd already been thinking about you non-stop so I just took it as a sign to reach out. I was actually going to bring these to you later once the shop closed. I noticed you had orchids on your necklace and in your car so I just thought you'd like them." You give them a sniff. "I love them. They were actually my mom's favourite flower before she passed."

He frowns, "I'm sorry to hear that," you give him a sad smile, "Thank you, it means a lot. Really. But we can talk about that later," You place the flowers behind you on the trunk of the car. Jungkook grins.

"You're very direct aren't you." You shrug. "You'll get used to it."

He walks up to you, looking down at you with the six inches his head carried over yours. "Oh, will I?" You nod with unwavering confidence. "Unless you can't handle it-" A big, gentle hand is placed around your neck, no pressure applied until he speaks, "I'm not the one who needs to be worried about."

With that said he slowly sinks himself to his knees, big hands reaching under your ruffled skirt, taking two handfuls of your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. You gasp as you feel him slowly drag a finger along the soaked fabric of your panties.

"Please, Jungkook." The harmonious sound of you begging rattled him to his core. With no self-restraint, he would do anything you asked. "Don't worry princess, I've got you. Gonna take good care of you." he pulls down the only thing keeping him from your soaked cunt and a low growl rumbles in his chest at the sight.

He helps you to step out of your panties with your heels still on, he couldn't let your bare feet touch the floors. You open your hand for the garment but you roll your eyes at the sight of him pocketing them in his uniform. You already know you'll never see them again and you accept it.

He has you bunch up your skirt around your waist for better sight. Smoothly he places one leg over his shoulder while your body rests against the trunk of the car. The grip he holds on your left thigh is tight enough to make your brain spin and surely marks will follow.

"See. I always knew I'd have you on your knees for me one d-AY. Oh fuck!" Jungkook can't be bothered to bark back at you not when he has an insatiable appetite and a full meal right in front of him.

His jaw worked itself as he lapped up at your center. Tongue long and warm, licking every square inch of you until you couldn't take it, hands reaching desperately for his hair and he groaned.

Once he finally had you where he wanted you, reduced to nothing but begs and whimpers, he allowed his tongue to flick over your clit repeatedly, until he felt half of your body weight fall onto his right shoulder for a moment.

You could hardly even keep yourself up. He was going to make sure you remembered this. "Oh shit! P-please Jungkook. M'So close." He groans, his right hand pressing down on the solid bulge in his pants for a little relief.

Your slick was running down his chin, some even down the sides of his neck as he worked you with his tongue. Writhing nonstop, though this wouldn't be an issue if he had a better environment. He'd have you pinned and unable to run from him.

To finish you off he let his teeth graze so lightly over your clit, you almost wouldn't feel it had he not heightened your senses to such an extreme with his intricate pussy eating.

You came with his name falling off your lips.

Your face turns beet red as he tells you to look down at the mess you made on the ground below you. "What were you saying earlier? Something about me being on my knees for you-"

"Just fuck me already." Jungkook stands back up to his full height, clicking his tongue with tsk' sounds. "I pay for your repairs, I buy you flowers, I make you cum and this is how you talk to me? Where are your manners." Jungkook adjusts your skirt so it's back in place and he picks you up to sit on the trunk.

"Besides. I'm not fucking you in here. I wanna take you out first." You smile at that, "Finally, a smile." He remarks, and your body limps forward naturally, your arms wrapping around his neck while your head settles in the crook of his neck and your eyes flutter shut. You ignore his previous statement until he whispers in your ears. "You do realize the garage was open this whole time, and anyone who drove by got a front-row show?" Your eyes shoot open.

#bts #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #btssmuts #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fic recs #dom jungkook #jeon jungkook #btsscenarios #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader

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reidmarieprentiss · 4 months ago

Text

Grass is Always Greener

Summary: based on this ask. Reader is in love with Spencer, he moves on while they're dating. Then reader gets kidnapped and Spencer has some monumental realizations.

Pairing: bi!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, typical CM violence, emotional cheating, bi-sexual Spencer, heartbroken reader

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: i really loved this prompt!! thank you for asking :) there will be a part two by the way don't worry heheh

main masterlist

For the past six months, you and Spencer have been inseparable, caught in the kind of love that novels fail to describe adequately. It isn't just affection—devotion, a deep-rooted adoration that feels like it has existed long before you met, as though you were meant to be intertwined from the start.

You love him in the way you always wished to be loved. You show it in every trim, thoughtful act—baking his favorite pastries just because, ensuring that breakfast is warm and waiting for him before he even wakes up, making sure dinner is ready when he returns home, exhausted but comforted by you.

You bring him flowers, because why shouldn't he receive them too? You find books you know will capture his mind, wrapping them in delicate paper just to see the soft wonder in his eyes when he unwraps them. You plan excursions he'll adore—museum dates, guided historical tours, moments where he can lose himself in the past while you stay anchored beside him.

Your love isn't just spoken—it's lived, woven into every gesture, every detail, every careful thought put into making him feel cherished. Because that's what he is to you—irreplaceable, essential, the other half you never realized was missing until he was there, filling every space with something more profound than connection, something that feels like fate.

If only Spencer felt the same way about you.

—

Your heart stopped. Your lungs refused to work, your breath catching somewhere in your throat like a broken sob that refused to form. The room around you blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling in on Spencer—Spencer, the man you had given everything to, the man you had loved so deeply, so purely, that it had consumed every part of your existence.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to give him that power, but your body betrayed you.

Spencer still couldn't look at you. His hands, which you had held so many times, trembled at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he muttered, as though that was supposed to make sense, as if that explained anything.

Your stomach churned with nausea, fury, and disbelief. "The right thing to do?" Your voice wavered between a whisper and a scream. "The right thing to do was to fuck someone else?"

Spencer flinched at your words and their vulgarity, but he didn't immediately deny it. That silence spoke louder than anything.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, "I did not—" he hesitated, knowing every word he chose would dictate what happened next. "—I did not sleep with him."

Him.

It hit you like a freight train, a new layer of betrayal unfolding before you. You stepped back as if distance would protect you from the shattering of your heart inside your chest.

"Then what, Spencer?" You forced the words out, your entire body trembling. "What did you do?"

Spencer's face twisted in pain, in something that almost looked like guilt but didn't quite feel like enough. Not for what he'd done. Not for the way he was shattering you into pieces so small you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together.

"I fell in love," he admitted, his voice quiet, like saying it any louder would break him too.

But it wasn't him breaking. It was you.

Your scream ripped through the room before you could stop it. "Spencer, that is so much worse!" Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, grounding you against the overwhelming rush of devastation, betrayal, and fury. "How long?"

Spencer blinked at you, thrown off by the question. "How long?" he echoed as if he didn't understand or know what you were asking.

You took a step closer, the force of your heartbreak pushing you forward even as your body begged to run in the opposite direction. "How long have you been in love? How long have you been emotionally cheating on me like a pathetic, scared loser?"

His breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like he struggled to find the right words, but there were none. There was no correct answer that would make this better.

Then he said it. "Is this because it's a man?"

You froze, stunned by how wildly he had missed the point. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you, and you could barely recognize the sound of your voice when you spat, "I don't give a shit what mouth you want to put your tongue in, Spencer." Your hands shook, and you hated it, hated how weak you felt when all you wanted was to be furious enough to drown out the pain. "I care that you didn't respect me enough to tell me sooner! I'm not homophobic; I'm heartbroken!"

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you.

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he were just now realizing the gravity of what he had done. As if the wreckage he had left in his wake hadn't been evident from the moment he opened his mouth.

"I didn't—" He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he could barely hold himself up anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a pathetic attempt at an apology.

"Well, congratulations," you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. "You did."

Spencer nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, he looked humiliated. "I'll have my things gone by the weekend," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you snapped.

"Fuck you." The words tore from your throat, sharp and unfiltered, dripping with the kind of pain that no amount of time could ever truly erase. "Get it all out tonight and give me the key."

Spencer flinched. His eyes darted up to yours, desperate, pleading, as if something was still left to salvage. "Y/N—"

"Now, Spencer!" you screamed, your voice cracking, breaking under the sheer weight of the moment. Your body was trembling, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, but you didn't care. You didn't care that tears blurred your vision or that your chest ached like someone had physically reached inside you and torn your heart apart.

Spencer didn't argue.

For once, he didn't try to explain, didn't try to rationalize, didn't try to make this something it wasn't. He simply nodded, defeated, and turned on his heel.

You watched as he moved through the shared space, the home you had built together, now nothing more than a place he needed to evacuate. Every step he took, every moment that passed as he quietly gathered his things, felt like a knife twisting deeper into your already shattered heart.

You wanted to stop him.

You wanted to scream at him to stay, to tell him he could fix this, that you could find a way back to the love you had so freely given him.

But he had already thrown that love away.

And so, instead of begging or breaking any further, you turned your back on him. You wiped your face with shaking hands, steeling yourself against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume you.

When he returned, his bag slung over his shoulder, the key to your apartment sitting in the palm of his hand, you refused to look at him.

Silently, he placed it on the table.

Silently, he turned toward the door.

Silently, he walked out of your life.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, you collapsed, sobs wracking through your body as you mourned a love lost.

—

It had been an ordinary evening. Spencer had been at the library, fingers trailing along the spines of well-worn books, his mind half-distracted by the text messages you had sent earlier��something sweet, something thoughtful, the way you always were with him. You had made dinner and were waiting for him. He had told you he'd be home soon.

But then he had walked in.

Robert.

It started with a discussion—something about Dostoevsky, of all things. A casual remark Spencer had made under his breath, something about The Brothers Karamazov and moral determinism. He hadn't expected anyone to respond, let alone engage with him in a way that made his brain spark like a live wire.

"You know," Robert had mused, leaning against the bookshelf beside Spencer, "it's funny how people always think Dostoevsky was just arguing for free will. There's a case to be made that he was just as much a determinist as Tolstoy."

Spencer had turned, brows furrowed in curiosity, and he had looked at him for the first time.

Robert had sharp eyes, the kind that saw too much. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—just a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone who belonged in the pages of the books they discussed.

The conversation had spiraled from there, shifting seamlessly from Russian literature to philosophy to quantum mechanics. It was effortless. Easy in a way Spencer hadn't expected, in a way he hadn't even realized he had been missing.

And then—then there had been the moment.

Spencer had laughed—actually, he had laughed, full and unrestrained. When he glanced up, he found Robert watching him with a warm, unreadable gaze.

"Do you ever have moments when you feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Robert asked suddenly, his voice quieter and more thoughtful.

Spencer's stomach had twisted—not in guilt, not yet, but in something else. Something dangerous.

He should have said no. He should have left then and there and gone home to you, to the person who loved him and was waiting for him with dinner, affection, and unwavering devotion.

But instead, he had stayed.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

—

"Who's Robert Nelson?" you asked absentmindedly, flipping through the stack of mail on the counter. Your fingers lingered on the envelope, the name printed neatly in the return address, unfamiliar but seemingly unimportant—until you felt Spencer tense beside you.

It was subtle, the way his entire body went rigid, but you knew him well enough to notice. The way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second and his fingers twitched before he suddenly snatched the letter from your hands with an almost defensive speed.

"A friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You blinked, startled by his reaction and voice, which sounded too tight or too careful. You tilted your head, studying how his fingers curled around the envelope as if he were trying to shield it from you.

"A friend?" you echoed, your curiosity morphing into something heavier, something uneasy. "Since when have your friends sent you letters?"

Spencer hesitated for just a breath too long.

"Since—uh, since he moved out of state," he said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty, the effortless confidence that usually accompanied his explanations. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand as if it held the answer to whatever silent questions you were beginning to form.

You frowned, your heart beating a little faster, that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Spencer finally met your gaze, but something in his eyes unsettled you—a flicker of something unreadable, which looked a lot like guilt.

"You never asked," he said softly.

And just like that, an invisible wall settled between you.

—

"Spencer?" you called out from the living room, glancing at his buzzing phone. The name flashing on the screen sent a strange feeling through your chest. Robert Nelson. Again.

Your fingers hovered over the device before instinct took over, and you answered. "Hello?"

There was a brief silence. Then, a smooth, unfamiliar voice. "Oh—uh, hi. Is Spencer there?"

Before you could respond, Spencer was there. He practically ripped the phone from your hand, his grip too aggressive. His fingers nearly fumbled as he clutched it like a lifeline.

"Why are you answering my phone?" His voice was sharp, defensive, almost panicked.

Your breath caught in your throat, stunned by the hostility in his tone. "I—It was ringing. I thought it might be work," you said, your voice quieter now, weaker.

But Spencer wasn't paying attention anymore.

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

"Hi, Robert!" His tone was bright and warm in a way that you hadn't heard from him in weeks. His body relaxed, his posture unwinding as he turned away from you slightly as if shielding the conversation from your ears.

And that was when it happened.

The slow, aching fracture of your heart.

You didn't need to hear the conversation. You didn't need to piece together the puzzle. It was already evident.

Whoever Robert Nelson was, he had already taken something from you.

—

"Hey, Reid," Derek called out as he stepped out of JJ's office, stretching his arms over his head. The bullpen was winding down for the day, the usual chatter filling the air. "You gonna invite that little number of yours to 'team bonding' at O'Kieffe's?"

Spencer looked up from his paperwork, brow furrowing slightly. "Robert?"

Derek's expression flickered with confusion, his head tilting. "Who's Robert?"

Before Spencer could answer, Elle interjected, her curiosity piqued. "Wait—who's Robert?"

Spencer adjusted his tie absentmindedly, utterly oblivious to the way both of his coworkers were staring at him now. "My boyfriend…"

A beat of silence.

Derek blinked, his mouth slightly open as if he'd misheard. "What?" His tone was a mixture of shock and something else—concern, maybe. "Since when? What happened to Y/N?"

At that, Spencer finally hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

There it was—that fleeting look of guilt, so quick that anyone who wasn't trained to notice microexpressions might have missed it.

Elle's eyebrows shot up, catching on to the shift instantly. "Yeah, what did happen to Y/N?" she echoed, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him.

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He hadn't prepared for this conversation and hadn't thought about how it would sound when he finally said it out loud.

That he had left someone who loved him more than anything.

He said that he had fallen for someone else while still wrapped in the warmth of Y/N's love.

Her name, which Spencer used to say with so much affection, now felt like a reminder of what he had destroyed.

His silence lingered just a little too long.

And that was all the answer they needed.

—

"Round table. Five minutes." Hotch's voice carried across the bullpen, his usual no-nonsense tone making it clear there was no room for delay.

The team exchanged glances, some groaning about Monday morning's abruptness, others silently gathering their things and making their way toward the conference room. Spencer followed, clutching his coffee; the bitter taste ground him in the early morning haze.

Once they were seated, JJ took her usual spot at the front, but something about her demeanor was off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression pinched in a way that wasn't just professional concern—it was personal.

She clicked on the projector, and the screen illuminated with a digital map of Virginia. Red markers pinpointed locations across the state—too many markers.

"A string of kidnappings has taken place here in Virginia," JJ began, her voice steady but strained. "All within the last two months. The victims all match the same victimology."

As she spoke, she clicked on the next slide.

A series of photos appeared on the screen. The faces were of women in their twenties with similar features and build. This pattern should have been just another set of behavioral data points in the grander scheme of the case.

But Spencer's stomach plummeted.

His grip on his coffee tightened involuntarily, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs in recognition, dread coiling in his gut like a living thing.

The victims—they all looked like you.

It's the same hair color. Same facial structure. They have the same soft smile in some photos and the same sharp glint in their eyes in others. They weren't you, but they might as well have been.

His pulse pounded as JJ continued speaking, words blurring together as the room suddenly felt too small.

"The unsub is abducting women who fit this profile, holding them for an unknown period, and then—"

Spencer barely heard the rest.

All he could think about was you.

You—who had barely spoken to him since he left. You—who he had destroyed. You—who he no longer had the right to check in on, to protect.

But as his vision swam, his chest tightening painfully, only one thought cut through the noise.

Were you safe?

…

The answer came quicker than Spencer could have ever prepared for.

No. You weren't safe.

Once the team broke off into their assigned pairs, the case had already begun unraveling alarmingly fast. The latest victim's body had been recovered, their time of death recent—too recent. It meant the unsub was either already hunting for a new woman… or they already had one.

By the time Spencer and Elle arrived back at the BAU, the tension in the air was palpable. The office's usual controlled chaos had been replaced with something far heavier. He could feel the urgency with which agents moved in the hushed voices and sharp exchanges. Something had shifted.

Then he saw it.

His first clue was the woman sitting at JJ's desk, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a second to recognize her—your best friend.

His second clue was even worse.

His entire body locked up as his gaze landed on the case board. The details of the investigation had changed.

And there you were.

Your picture.

Your face.

Pinned in the center of the board, more significant than any other victim's. A fresh missing persons report was tacked beside it, and the timestamp was barely hours old.

The breath left Spencer's lungs like he'd been punched in the gut.

His vision blurred at the edges, the words and numbers on the board becoming nothing more than meaningless static.

His hands clenched, the phantom memory of holding you flashing through his mind. His brain, the same brain that could recall statistics, equations, and case files with perfect clarity, was failing him now, drowning him in nothing but cold, raw terror.

You were missing.

And Spencer had never felt more helpless.

The room around him faded into a blur of voices, movement, and urgency—but none mattered. Only you mattered. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, pushing him toward JJ's desk, toward your best friend who was still crying into her hands.

"When?" The word tore from Spencer's throat, rough and desperate. "When was the last time anyone heard from her?"

Your best friend lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen. "L-last night. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning, but she never showed up. She—she wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't—" Her voice broke, fresh sobs wracking through her as JJ placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Her phone's off," JJ said, her face tight with emotion, her voice barely steady. "Local PD found her car still parked outside her apartment. No sign of forced entry. Her purse was left behind."

Spencer clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully. He knew what that meant. She was taken from inside. The unsub had been watching you, had known your routines, and had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Reid." It was Hotch. His voice was firm, grounding, pulling Spencer back into reality. "I need you to focus. We will find her, but we need to move fast."

Elle spoke up, flipping through the case file. "Unsub's pattern suggests he holds victims anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before…" She didn't finish the sentence, but they knew how it ended.

Before he killed them.

Spencer had 48 hours to save you.

He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to snap into place, to work past the terror and focus on finding you.

"Where was her last known location?" he demanded, stepping toward the board, his eyes locking onto your picture, committing every last detail of your presence to memory. He knew he would never forgive himself if he failed and lost you.

JJ pointed at the map. "Er, apartment. The surveillance cameras didn't catch anything obvious, but we're combing through traffic cams now. We need to figure out where he took her."

Spencer's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white.

"Then let's start there," he said, his voice steady now, ice-cold determination replacing the panic.

He had failed you once.

He wasn't going to fail you again.

The search was relentless. The entire team moved unyieldingly, combing through evidence, footage, and witness statements with the desperation that came when one of their own was in danger.

But for Spencer, it was different.

It was you.

He felt it in his bones, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest, an overwhelming tide of guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He should have never left you. He should have never chosen something else, someone else.

Because now, as he stared at the grainy traffic cam footage of your last known whereabouts, he realized the truth.

Robert was never going to replace you.

He had been a distraction, a fleeting novelty, someone new and engaging in a way that had tricked Spencer into thinking he was feeling something more. But what was new had worn off, and emptiness had remained.

You were never dull.

You were home.

And he had walked away from it—walked away from you.

And now, he might never get to tell you how wrong he was.

"Reid," Hotch's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Spencer turned sharply, his eyes burning, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"We have something," JJ said, her face tight with restrained emotion. She motioned to the screen. "Traffic cams picked up an unfamiliar van near Y/N's apartment. No plates, but it made three passes before stopping."

Spencer's pulse hammered as he stared.

There.

In the grainy footage, a dark-colored van sat idling just across from your apartment, a shadow behind the wheel. And then—a figure.

You.

You stepped out of your building, completely unaware. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold, knowing precisely what was coming next but unable to look away.

The van door slid open. A person—the unsub—moved fast, grabbing you before you could react. You fought, your body twisting, struggling—but you were outmatched.

Then, just like that, you were gone.

Spencer's hands curled into fists.

"We need to identify that van," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, get into the city's surveillance system—track that route. Find me where he took her."

"I'm already on it, sir." Garcia's quick and focused voice came through the speaker.

Spencer barely heard them. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on you, on the last moment before you had disappeared.

He had spent so much time thinking you would always be there, that there would always be time to fix things and make things right.

But time was running out.

And if he lost you—if he never got the chance to tell you how much he still loved you, how you were the only person who ever truly mattered to him—

He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with himself.

Garcia worked fast—she always did—but this time, Spencer could hear the urgency in her voice, the rapid clicking of her keyboard through the speaker, and the barely restrained panic beneath her usual rapid-fire delivery.

"Okay, sugarplums, I got something,” she announced, voice tense. "That creepy, unmarked van? It popped up on a traffic camera near an abandoned industrial site about fifteen miles from Y/N's apartment. There are no stops between the two locations. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

Spencer barely waited for Hotch to give the order before he was moving, grabbing his bag and gun and shoving past the concerned glances of his teammates.

This was it.

This had to be it.

The drive was agonizing. His fingers twitched on his knee as he stared out the window, mind racing with every possible outcome. If you were there—if they got to you in time—he could still fix this. He could still tell you the truth.

He had made the biggest mistake of his life, confused comfort with monotony, and was a fool to think there was something better than the love you had given him so freely, so wholly.

That you were the only one he had ever truly wanted.

The convoy of SUVs screeched to a halt outside the factory, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Guns were drawn, and orders exchanged in hushed, precise tones. Spencer's pulse hammered as he fell into formation with Morgan and Hotch, his grip on his weapon too tight, his breathing too shallow.

They breached the building in seconds.

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of rust and decay. Spencer's stomach twisted as they moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, his ears straining for any sound—any sign of you.

But there was nothing.

No muffled cries, no scuffling footsteps, no you.

Then—

"Clear!" Morgan's voice rang out from another room, frustration cutting through the tension.

"Clear," Elle echoed from the opposite side.

Spencer's heart plummeted.

The space was empty.

Empty.

No unsub. No van. No, you.

They only discarded debris, a few rusted chairs, and the lingering, suffocating feeling they had just lost time they didn't have to spare.

Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The futility of it all hit him like a brick wall.

His knees felt weak.

"No, no, no," he murmured under his breath, his gun lowering as his vision blurred. "She was supposed to be here! He took her here. She—she was supposed to be here!"

"Reid." Morgan's voice was cautious, but Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn't—not over the deafening roar of panic, regret, guilt.

His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe, to focus, but all he could see was your face, your picture pinned to the board, the footage of you being taken—

And the realization that he might never see you again.

"Reid." This time, Hotch's voice was sharper, more commanding. Spencer snapped his head up, his breath ragged.

"We'll find her," Hotch said firmly. "But we need you to keep it together."

Spencer's breath hitched, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. They were wasting time. Every second spent standing here, every moment spent catching their breath, was another second you were still out there, terrified and alone, waiting for someone to save you.

And he had promised to love you.

And he had failed.

"Oh, you need me to keep it together?" Spencer snapped, his voice shaking, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring at the edges, rage and fear coiling so tightly in his chest that he could barely contain it. He turned on Hotch, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild, desperate thing. "Well, Y/N needs me to find her! She needs not to die!"

The words tore from his throat, raw and broken.

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, JJ flinched, Elle turned away—but Hotch didn't waver. He stood firm, unyielding, his sharp gaze locked on Spencer with a kind of patience Spencer didn't deserve right now.

"And we will find her," Hotch said, voice calm but edged with authority. "But not if you lose control."

"Lose control?" Spencer let out a short, bitter laugh, his fingers digging into his arms as if to ground himself and keep from completely unraveling. His throat burned, his head spun, and all he could see was you. You, you, you. "She's out there, and we don't even know if she's alive! We don't know if we have hours or minutes before she—before—"

His breath caught.

Before you died.

The word sat there, a looming specter he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

Morgan stepped forward, voice softer this time. "Reid, listen, man—"

"No!" Spencer cut him off, wild-eyed, frantic. "You don't get it! None of you get it! I—” His voice cracked, his body swaying slightly, the weight of his guilt pressing so heavily on his chest it felt like it was crushing him. He tried to steady himself, but he felt like he was drowning. "I—this is my fault."

A thick silence settled over the room.

Spencer's vision blurred with unshed tears, and his breath ragged.

"She loved me." His voice was quieter now, almost hollow. He clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, his nails digging into his palm. "And I—I walked away. I left her for someone who meant nothing." He let out a shuddering breath, his chest tightening so hard it physically hurt. "And now I might never get to tell her that she was—is—the only person I've ever truly loved."

A lump formed in his throat.

"I don't—I don't deserve to find her," he whispered, the truth burning as it left his lips. "But I need to. I have to. Or I'll never—I can't—"

He couldn't finish.

If he didn't find you and fix this, nothing else would ever matter.

Elle had been watching Spencer unravel since they returned from the failed lead, her sharp gaze tracking every minute detail of his breakdown—the frantic pacing, the erratic breathing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. And now, after his outburst at Hotch and how he looked like he was about to self-destruct right in front of them, she had had enough.

She moved fast.

Before Spencer could react, Elle's palm cracked across his face.

The sharp smack echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Spencer's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching in shock as pain bloomed hot and fast across his cheek.

For a second, no one moved.

Elle wasn't finished.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, forcing him to look at her. "Get your shit together, Reid!" she hissed, her eyes burning with something more than anger—something more profound.

Spencer froze.

His chest heaved, his mind scrambling to catch up, to process what had just happened. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of rage, frustration, and unrelenting guilt that had been crushing him from the inside out.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, staggering back, touching his face like he wasn't sure the pain was real.

"That," Elle said, voice low and dangerous, "was me snapping you the fuck out of it." She jabbed a finger into his chest, stepping closer, invading his space, making sure he couldn't look away.

"You're losing it, Reid. And you cannot afford to lose it right now."

Spencer opened his mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You think you're the only one who's scared?" Elle seethed. "You think you're the only one who wants to tear this city apart to find her? We all do. But guess what? You spiraling like this? It's not helping. It's making it worse."

Spencer's breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I—"

"No, shut up," Elle snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp enough to wound. "I don't want to hear you start whining about how guilty you feel, about how this is all your fault, about how you were an idiot for letting her go."

Spencer's throat closed up.

"You screwed up," she stated, flat and brutal. "You got bored. You wanted something new. And now you've realized you had something irreplaceable and threw it away."

His eyes widened slightly—because, fuck, she knew.

Elle saw right through him.

"But guess what, genius?" Elle leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"None of that fucking matters if you don't find her."

His stomach dropped.

Elle's gaze was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Fine. Do it after we bring her home." She stepped back, releasing her grip on his collar. "But right now, Spencer? You need to be the smartest damn person in this room."

Spencer exhaled sharply, still reeling, his cheek throbbing, his pulse raging.

But he understood.

Elle wasn't slapping him because she was angry. She was slapping him because she refused to lose another teammate. Because she refused to lose you.

Because she knew that he was the best chance you had.

Spencer straightened, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind to clear. His face still burned, his chest still ached with remorse, but for the first time since seeing your picture on that board, he wasn't drowning in it.

Elle watched him closely, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she saw the shift.

"Good," she said, giving him one last firm look. "Now, let's go find her."

Spencer nodded, jaw tight, mind finally sharpening into focus.

Because Elle was right. None of his regrets, self-loathing, orlizations meant anything if he didn't bring you home.

"Damn, Greenaway," Derek mumbled, rubbing his jaw as he shot Elle an amused glance. "What's a guy gotta do to get a little love tap?" His smirk was wide, teasing, attempting to lighten the crushing weight pressing down on all of them.

Elle, still standing firm after knocking some sense into Spencer, turned her head slightly, giving Derek a slow, deliberate once-over. "Keep talking, and it'll be a lot more than a tap," she shot back, a smirk of her forming. Then, with a playful wink, she turned back to the case, already flipping through files as if she hadn't just physically assaulted a coworker for his good.

Spencer barely registered the exchange, his brain already re-firing on all cylinders. The sting in his cheek was nothing compared to the fresh surge of determination flooding through him. And so, the team buried themselves back into the investigation, working with precision, intensity, and the desperate, unyielding need to bring you back.

Morgan and Hotch went back through the victimology, looking for any deviation in the unsub's pattern that could hint at where he had taken you.

JJ and Elle were in the batcave, working with Garcia, pushing for more footage, leads, and anything else to tighten the search radius.

Spencer was at the board, staring at your photo, the location pins, and the scattered details. His mind ran every scenario, analyzing every variable. His hand hovered over the map, tracing each route the unsub could have taken.

Think, Spencer. Think.

He had 72 hours.

Time was running out.

And he wasn't about to lose you.

And then he heard it.

Garcia's sharp victory cry rang through the speaker, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Oh, hell yes! Gotcha, you sick son of a—"

Spencer's head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bullpen erupted into movement.

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded, already reaching for his earpiece. "What do you have?"

"I have him, sir; I freaking have him!" Garcia's voice was a mixture of triumph and pure adrenaline. "Okay, listen up because I found this guy's most incriminating, unsub-like, foolish mistake—his utility bills."

Spencer's pulse skyrocketed.

Garcia barely took a breath before launching into explanation mode.

"So, I was cross-referencing every possible known location the previous victims were held in—warehouses, abandoned buildings, private properties, all that jazz—but something wasn't adding up. All of those places had been searched already, right? So, I started looking at nearby structures that weren't in use but still had active utilities. Gas, electricity, even just running water, because let's face it—no creepy serial kidnapper is taking sponge baths in a rusty bucket."

"Garcia," Hotch cut in, his patience thin, "where is he?"

Garcia let out an excited, breathless laugh.

"There's an abandoned farmhouse thirty miles outside town, just off an old service road. It's been off the radar for years, but someone's been paying the bills—sporadically, inconsistently, just enough not to raise alarms. And guess what, my sweet crime fighters?"

Spencer gripped the edge of the table.

"The latest bill?" Garcia continued, triumphant. "It was paid yesterday."

Spencer inhaled sharply.

That meant he was still there.

That meant you were still there.

Morgan was already reaching for his gear, his movements quick and efficient. "That's it. That's our guy. Let's move."

Hotch didn't hesitate. "Gear up. Now."

—

"Can you shut up for the love of God?!" the unsub snapped, his voice cutting through the cold, damp air of the farmhouse basement. His patience had worn thin, and the roughness in his tone carried more frustration than malice.

You hiccupped through your tears, your body trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming exhaustion. Your wrists ached where they were bound, your face was sticky with dried tears, and yet, despite everything, you couldn't stop talking.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sniffling dramatically. "It's just—" Another sniffle, another watery gasp for air. "He left me, and then I get kidnapped, and now he's probably gonna save me, and then I'll go home to an empty house, and he'll go home to his stupid boyfriend."

Your captor's eye twitched.

"For the last fucking time," he growled, turning toward you with visible irritation, "they're not going to find you!"

You barely reacted, too caught up in your despair.

"You don't know that," you muttered, your voice wobbly but oddly conversational. "I mean, he's like a genius or whatever. And his team is good at their jobs. They always catch the bad guy." You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back against the wooden beam. "So, yeah, I'd say the odds aren't exactly in your favor."

The unsub's jaw clenched. He paced in frustration, his hands raking through his unkempt hair.

"You should be scared," he spat, though there was less conviction now.

You sniffled again. "I'm too heartbroken to be scared."

Your voice cracked on the last word; it wasn't just for show this time.

The unsub laughed, a cruel, condescending chuckle that grated against your nerves. "You're pathetic," he sneered, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, bitter huff, your fingers twitching where they were bound. "And you aren't?" Your voice was steady now, sharper than before. "You have to kidnap women just to get one to talk to you."

The unsub's face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, grabbing the back of your head roughly, yanking it back so you were forced to look up at him.

Then, cold metal pressed against your temple.

"I could fucking kill you right now," he snarled, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into your scalp.

You blinked up at him. Not flinching and not pleading.

Just looking.

"Okay," you said simply.

For a long, tense moment, he didn't move.

Your heartbeat was steady, even as the seconds stretched between you. His grip was tight, his breathing heavy, the gun unwavering against your skin.

But you didn't break.

Because, honestly? You didn't care.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. It could be the sheer emotional devastation of everything leading up to this moment. Or maybe it was the painful, gut-wrenching realization that even if Spencer saved you, he wouldn't stay.

That hurt more than anything else.

The unsub groaned, exasperated, and after a few lingering moments, jerked back, lowering the gun.

He paced, rolling his neck like trying to shake off whatever he had just felt.

"You don't fear death, do you?" he muttered, more to himself than you.

You let out a small breath, watching him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really."

—

The farmhouse was empty.

It was abandoned.

And that realization hit like a freight train.

As the team swept through the decrepit structure, their boots crunching against the dust-covered floorboards, the air grew heavier with every room they cleared. The farmhouse was utterly vacant—there was no sign of you, no sign of the unsub, no proof of where you had been taken next.

And then Spencer's world crashed down. Again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

His knees hit the ground before he could stop them, his whole body wracked with sobs. The grief that had been building inside him for hours, days, weeks—since the moment he walked away from you—exploded all at once.

Morgan was there instantly, his strong arms steadying Spencer, pulling him into a solid, grounding hold as Spencer fisted his hands into his vest.

"No, no, no," Spencer choked out, shaking violently. "We're too late, we're too late."

"Hey, hey—stop that." Morgan's grip tightened, his expression strained with worry. "We don’t know that."

But Spencer's mind wasn't listening.

Because the only explanation for an empty farmhouse was that the unsub had already killed you.

That he had already moved your body.

And Spencer would never get to tell you.

I never got to say he was sorry. Never get to tell you that he loved you, was a fool for leaving, and would have spent his entire life making it up to you if he could.

That you were his heart.

And now you were gone.

The team stood frozen, the weight of failure settling over them like a suffocating fog.

And then Spencer's phone rang.

His breath hitched, and his fingers clumsily fumbled for the device. His whole body felt numb, and the ringing pierced his grief. It was JJ.

He barely had time to answer before her voice rang through the line, breathless, disbelieving, urgent.

"Spencer—she's here."

His heart stopped.

"What?"

"Y/N just—she just walked into the precinct." JJ sounded just as stunned as he felt. "She's unharmed. She's safe."

Spencer felt his entire world tilt so violently that he nearly collapsed again.

He was on his feet in seconds, his head spinning, his chest heaving.

"She's alive?" The words tumbled out of him wild and frantic, like he feared saying them out loud would make them untrue.

JJ exhaled sharply. "She's alive, Spence. She's okay."

Spencer's legs nearly gave out.

Morgan caught him before he could crumble.

The team exchanged stunned glances, their exhaustion, and devastation shifting into something else entirely.

Hope.

Relief.

Victory.

Hotch's voice cut through the moment, commanding but urgent.

"Let's go. Now."

Spencer was already running.

—

Practically stumbling into the precinct, his breath ragged, Spencer's heart slamming against his ribs as he scanned the room in a frenzy. His eyes darted wildly, looking for you.

And then he saw you. Alive. Standing near JJ's desk, your arms crossed, your expression completely unreadable as you answered one of the officer's questions with a nod. No visible injuries. No signs of distress. Just… there.

Breathing.

Existing.

He felt like he was going to collapse.

The relief hit him so hard that he nearly forgot how to move, breathe, and function. His vision blurred, his pulse roared in his ears, and for a second, he could only process that you were here and safe.

Then you turned, and your gaze met his.

And everything inside Spencer froze.

Because there was no relief in your eyes.

No joy.

No desperation, no tears, no emotion at all.

It's just tired indifference.

His lips parted, and his feet moved toward you instinctively. His hands itched to touch you, feel you, hold you, apologize, beg, and break at your feet if he had to.

But before he could say anything, you exhaled deeply, turning back to JJ, dismissing him entirely without a second glance.

Like he was just… some guy.

Some stranger.

Someone who meant nothing.

The rejection was like a blade to the throat.

Spencer finally found his voice, but it was weak and hoarse. It was filled with exhaustion, guilt, and everything he had wanted to say to you but had never had the chance.

“Y/N—”

You barely spared him a glance.

"I just want to go home," you said flatly, your voice drained, emotionless, like you had nothing left to give—not to the case, Spencer, or any of it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because he had prepared himself for your tears, he had braced himself for anger, for screaming, for you shoving him away, slapping him, hating him outright.

But this? This emptiness? This indifference? This was worse.

This was so much worse.

Spencer stood there, stunned, feeling himself shatter in real-time as you sighed, rubbing at your tired eyes, before quietly saying to JJ,

"Can someone take me home?"

And just like that—

You were gone.

And Spencer had never felt more alone.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

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thoughts-reasons · 2 years ago

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Crime scene

#heat waves have not been faking us out 🤪#it is a full circle moment for sure #second chances do overs clean slate etc etc haha #kermit says it's a promise kept and a parting gift 🤷🏻‍♀️🍀#that's one way of shutting them up haha #what would life be without such little juicy intrigues 😌#they'll be here next month for the hyde park thing #so we have to be there august because reciprocity™️#it should be fun cue the fireworks and confetti #we're both excited happiness in august is always a choice 😉🥂#kermit's mailbag the grass is greener on the other side edition #originanon

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toskarin · 1 year ago

Note

Wait actually yeah why did the 80s-90s anime lose that style, like commercialism or?

it was a bit down to trends changing with time, a bit down to discolouration in physical cels, a bit down to technological advancement moving to digipaint, and a bit down to consistency

at the end of the day, it can mostly be summed up as "it was also very homogenous back then, it just feels refreshing because we're in a different stylistic wave with different artists now and the grass is always greener on the other side"

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snail-day · 1 month ago

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Tw: Yandere Behaviors, noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, degradation, voyeurism

I'm thinking swingers. Not intentional, not like you planned for this to happen using some fishbowl and keys from a party, but more like Nanami gets this deal of a lifetime from Geto, he gets to fuck Satoru’s brains out (probably just to finally get all that pent-up rage out from dealing with Gojo’s shit for years) if he agrees to let Geto have a turn with his wife.

Now normally? I don’t think Nanami would ever go for it. He’s too monogamous and a bit possessive over little ol you. Like he’s the type to call you his wife with so much weight and affection in his voice, it makes your knees buckle (even if you are the kidnapped pretty thing he keeps to warm his bed). But let’s say you piss him off. Just enough. Let’s say you get mouthy, start talking about freedom, start acting like maybe this marriage is just a cage.

So he agrees.

And you’re smug. Pulling up to this gorgeous mansion, all dressed up, thinking you’re about to break out. Like you’re about to taste some luxurious new kind of life. That maybe Geto, charming, soft-spoken, dressed in silk and all that cult-leader sweetness, is going to treat you better. Maybe he’ll worship you. He's always seemed so kind.

Except… he doesn’t.

He ruins you. Smiling the whole time. Calls it cleansing. Purification. Whatever twisted thing he whispers while making you sob on his cock.

And all the while? You can see Nanami in the next room. And he's not the calm, cold, control-freak husband you’re used to. He’s fucking the life out of Gojo - hand around his pretty throat, face buried in Satoru’s shoulder, hips snapping with something feral. Like something unhinged just beneath that suit finally snapped loose.

Now you're crying. But there's no one to save you. No one to listen.

Because Nanami's watching you fall apart and not doing a damn thing. He can pick up the pieces when he's done with his vengeance.

You wanted the grass on the other side? Though it was going to be greener? Well, hope you like getting walked like a dog across it.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk x reader #yandere #yandere geto suguru #yandere nanami kento #yandere gojo satoru #yandere x reader #yandere nanami x reader #yandere geto x reader #yandere gojo x reader #might elaborate at a later time

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girlyassumes · 3 months ago

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“I’ll keep my manifestations small.”

Okay but…you don’t have to. No one aside from yourself is keeping you from going higher and drastically changing your life. If you want to become a famous singer, you can. If you want to date a celebrity, you can. If you want to get 1,000s of dollars a day, you can. Nothing is impossible.

And, let me be clear, this isn’t me saying you should be manifesting big, crazy changes. If you are comfortable and happy manifesting an SP you already know, having a job near you, etc, then keep doing that. Do what makes you happy. What I’m saying is you can manifest bigger things if that’s what you’re going for. If you want something drastically different than what you have or are experiencing in your current reality, you are very much capable of changing that and I encourage you to do so. Don’t you dare think that you can’t and end up settling for less than what you want.

Why do we downplay ourselves?

There’s a lot of people have ambitious goals and either 1) work their ass off to get it or 2) end up settling for something less. Why does this happen? Because we’re told you have to work hard to be rewarded with big things, and if you don’t, “life’s not fair” - you have to go with what feels easier to get or just quit. If a dream or goal seems too “unrealistic,” we’re told to let it go and do something else. This has always felt wrong to me and now I know why it has.

You can work your ass off to try and get it, but that alone doesn't fully guarantee that you'll get it. You also put yourself at risk of burning yourself out, which tends to happen a lot with people who push themselves. Affirming that you already have what you desire is most important. You don't have to do anything strenuous to get what you want. Can giving yourself a push help? Sure. What I'm saying that you shouldn't feel the need to force things to happen. Forcing things can actually slow down and create hardships in manifesting, believe it or not. So, I don't recommend doing that. The only time you really need to take action is if you feel that sense of inspired action or divine guidance.

Speaking from personal experience, the fear of change and not getting what you want is also something that can keep us from going above and beyond. We get so comfortable with where we're at that we don't want to be bothered to change that. I've been a very cautious person my whole life and have told myself on many occasions, "I'm a simple person. I don't need much." But, I would be lying to everyone - myself included - if I said I didn't want more and haven't wondered if the grass is truly greener on the other side. I live a very simple, comfy life. And that's not to say my life is bad or I'm "doing it all wrong," but I feel like I'm worth more and could be doing more for myself, especially since I'm starting to feel bored. I realized I'm chasing that feeling of excitement because I'm tired of the monotony. Now that I know I can get whatever it is that I want, I've started questioning what I've been manifesting, and me questioning that is what's stopping me from getting some of the manifestations I've been wishing for. My brain is like, "You can do more." My sister reflects the part of me that craves excitement (she clubs, she travels, she goes to concerts, she's told me to "think bigger"). TLDR: I've been settling out of the fear of change and doubting it's possible to get the "bigger" manifestations. Don't do that to yourself, too.

[This thing] doesn't seem possible

Referring to my last section, you don't have to take action to achieve your goals/manifestations, which may seem crazy and you may be questioning how it's possible to get things without doing anything. But, it is very much possible for desires and opportunities to land in your lap effortlessly. It's happened many times for many people and there's a first time for everything. I'll give some examples.

Taylor Tookes was not well-known for quite some time. She dreamed of being a model but was encouraged to be an influencer because her being a super model on magazine covers didn't seem possible at first. Taylor is only 5'1" and she had very little experience in the world of fashion and modeling. But, Taylor - someone who wasn't a big name or experienced individual - got recognized by famous models and modeling agencies rather quickly. It didn't matter that she was shorter and had very little experience. Taylor simply didn't give up on herself and affirmed that she'd be on the cover of famous magazines (she even wrote a whole list), which is what got her a career in modeling. She even got the confidence to walk into callings that specified they only want women who are 5'9" or 5"10 and she still got the gigs. Taylor even became leader of a group called "Height Revolution" that creates inclusion for petite women in the modeling industry who don't meet the typical height standards. Taylor made herself the first well-known short/petite model in the industry.

Bobbie, who runs the account House of Highbrations, was someone who was known for being unreliable and made poor decisions. She opens up on her YouTube channel about how she never used to show up for herself, let alone for anyone else. After improving her self concept and affirming what she wanted through things like meditation and scripting, she became a very well-known coach in the LOA community with a ton of money. She lives in a luxurious villa now. She got it even through wavering, simply because she kept writing about the ideal place she wanted. After only about a couple weeks, she had a friend suddenly reach out to her and tell her about a villa she found in the spot Bobbie wanted to move to, which is where she ended up moving.

Also think about the businesses and random people who suddenly blew up on social media (ie. TikTok) overnight just for one video or image they put out that went viral. One simple thing can change your life in an instant. It's already been proven to be possible.

[This thing] would be more difficult and take more time to manifest

Nope. Unless you keep saying this is the truth, then it will be your truth. It will take time and it will be hard for you because you're telling yourself that it is. If you affirm that it is easy and that you already have the manifestation(s), then it is easy and you do have it. It's manifesting the positive vs manifesting the negative.

We also tend to put our desires on a pedestal and certain things are easy to view as "big" changes. I'm not saying it's not wrong to be passionate about what you're manifesting (that's a good thing), I'm saying we need to stop seeing it as something that's hard to get, something too good for us, or something that's unobtainable. Taking the manifestations off a pedestal and putting yourself on a pedestal is what you want to be doing. Tell yourself that you are worthy of your desires and your dream life. Tell yourself you're so good - you have them already. You don't even have to fully believe that this is true, you just have to tell your subconscious that it is what's true. Your subconscious isn't running on feeling - it's producing what you feed/tell it. Sammy Ingram has made the analogy that it's like a printer: You send a file to the printer, it processes it and produces it out into the physical world.

Your subconscious doesn't register an SP you already know as someone who's easier to get than a celebrity SP who has no clue who you are. If you keep telling it that you're with Taylor Swift, then it makes her come into your life to be your girlfriend because that's what you told it. It's that simple. Your subconscious believes that what you say is what's true and makes it so.

I also want to refer to something Bobbie (House of Highbrations) said in one of her recent videos. Think about how much society values money - it's very high up there. It's become such a massive importance in our lives. We're conditioned to value money and put it on a high pedestal. But, what if we conditioned our brains differently? Bobbie tells a story about an ex she had who acted as if money meant nothing - it's just a part of life; something he can rake in with ease. Because he took money off that high pedestal and sees it as something that's easy to get, he rakes it in like it's nothing. He'd invest in stocks and the stocks would raise without him having to do a thing. He'd just start getting all this money. So, it doesn't matter if other people tell you money is this big thing that's hard to get. If you tell your subconscious it's not a big deal and it's easy to get, then you will get it with ease. And obviously because it's already something that's high value in society, then you're still able to buy everything you want with that money even though it's not on a high pedestal for you.

If this is so easy to do and LOA is real, then why do so many people not have what they want?

Going back to what I wrote in "Why do we downplay ourselves," we're conditioned to believe we have to work hard to get what we want and that some of our desires aren't possible to get, plus some of us are just scared to change and feel doubtful. There's also a lot of people who never learn about LOA and EIYPO or don't understand it. That is why people don't have everything they desire. When we're too hard on ourselves and have really negative views of our reality, this can have a massive impact on what happens in our lives.

Now, don't be mean to yourself and say, "Why haven't I tried this sooner or gotten what I want sooner?" Rewiring our minds isn't always easy to do when just about everyone has been conditioned to believe life is hard and certain things are impossible. I know for me, this has been almost 30 years of not knowing about LOA and just now, I'm understanding that I can do whatever my heart desires. Of course it's not a cake walk when it's been that many years of being told, "Life's not fair - get used to it."

Conclusion

Train your mind to not be intimidated. Nothing you desire is "too big." You are limitless and you do NOT have to settle for less than what you want. Get yourself to understand this and relieve stress.

#law of assumption #manifestation #loa blog #loa tumblr #manifesting #loassumption #how to manifest #affirmations #affirming #loass tumblr #loassblr #loassblog #loa

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shadow211e · 5 months ago

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Bitch Swap

Melissa was walking to her locker, it was the first day of senior year, she had turned 18 over the summer and no one was going to make her feel less than who she was. She felt empowered for the first time. All the seniors were called into school's gym, today's assembly was to find out who would be swapping. The town had a little magic, it went back generations but it was centered at the school. About 20 years ago the principal at the time decided to make things more fair, and used the powers to swap the personalities of two students. He called it "Grass is Greener," but everyone else called it Bitch Swap. Over the summer names were submitted and 5 were posted to the two main groups of the school, the more nerdy kids and the kids that well are huge bitches and sluts. One name was picked from each side for each sex, so one guy and girl, and those people would be changed to conform and fit with the other side. Something that Melissa wasn't aware of, that if your name was submitted and chosen they were given the opposite sides names to vote but not given the same group. So when the nominees were announced and she heard her name she was shocked. "What the fuck?" She looked at her boyfriend, "how the fuck did I get nominated?" He looked at her "We did it, we were putting up names, and we got together and voted in our group and submitted your name, we figured you would never get chosen so you would be safe." "Are you out of your fucking mind?" "Babe, come on, there are 5 girls and 5 boys picked from each side, that's not a huge chance for you to be picked." "That's 20% dipshit." Melissa's friend Stephanie looked at her "whoa chill out Mel, we all put some names in, you are always overlooked by people in our friends so what makes you think they would ever decide on you." "This is so fucked up, and Stephanie if you were so sure why didn't you put your name in?" "You don't think I did?" "So you put my name in and now I could be picked and changed. This is fucking great." "It won't happen babe." "You don't want to talk to me right now." "Sorry," he said feeling like he wronged the one girl who saw something in him. The principal started to speak, in a more serious tone starts to say some words before opening an envelope, "The chosen few who will be swapping, Morgan Donald," he said talking about one of the larger bullies in school, "and Kevin Jackson," who was a nice guy, for now at least. There were some claps and boos. "For the girls, "Tiffany Baker," as the name was read, oohs went out from the crowd as everyone turned to one of the hottest blondes in school, she was rumored to be fucking at least two guys other than her boyfriend and even a couple teachers. "And Melissa Stout." Her stomach dropped, she was picked, she didn't hear the whispers, the words of students asking who it was. She was known by seniors but not closely known and even when they heard her name they weren't actually sure who it was. Her friends all turned to face her with horror on their faces. Her boyfriend looked "Melissa," she snapped, bringing her hand up and slapping him across the face. "FUCK YOU!!" she screamed, the scream echoing in the gym. She stood up and stormed out of the gym, one of the teachers was there to talk to her. She needed to be spoken to about what was going to happen. She was also going to be given newer classes because the school seemed to notice any one who was changed ended up unable to keep up in their classes. She got a new schedule and went to her locker, she opened it with a bang, some people were taking these aggressive attitudes as her already changing. She was so mad now. Getting to her first class, a remedial English class, she slumped back opening the letter, explaining that no only would she be going through this but everyone else would start to become affected by the magic, by the end of the week no one who knew her would remember who she was unless they truly cared about her. She laughed, "no one I know truly cares about me, otherwise they wouldn't have put my name into that fucking thing."

Tiffany was laughing as she was walking home from school, she heard her named called in the stupid thing and laughed as she knew she would finally be able to get out of this life. She was a slut because her mom was a slut, she went back years ago and found out her mom was picked. Her mom became one of biggest sluts in town, growing up it was all that Tiffany had known and she was walking down the path that her mom ended up walking. Now with the swap she wouldn't be looked at like the biggest slut in school, but would have a chance at college, getting out of this town and moving away so her kids wouldn't have to deal with anything like that. She felt bad for Melissa, she had known her since they were girls, Melissa was a sweetheart. But nothing was going to stop what was about to happen and it would sound like hollow words if she tried to talk to her about it. So she would enjoy the last week of her being this way.

Magic on the body worked quickly, in a few days Melissa's body had swelled and grown, her desires for sex grew as well. She tried to hold onto things with her boyfriend, that first night she practically jumped him when he came over to make her feel better. But he was one of the people who submitted her name, and that made her angry, she also was starting to see him as a nice guy, a kind boy, and that just dried her up. Her needs were becoming that of a wanton slut and her morals were shrinking as she was becoming wicked. Soon Melissa was taking naked selfies, sending them to all the bad boys she knew, even some of the teachers who up until this week were on good terms with her. Now after being cussed out by several of the staff, though more than a couple started hitting on her too, she was starting to enjoy this new life. She had wanted to be empowered this year, wanted to show herself in a new light. Well she got her wish even if it wasn't in the way she had imagined it.

TIffany by the end of the week was enjoying herself. She would wear clothes that didn't show off her body but still made her feel beautiful. Words like beautiful were used to describe her instead of words like slut, town bike, whore. She felt shy for the first time, but she was also noticing the attention from guys had changed, she wasn't being viewed as a piece of meat or as a sexual toy, but being seen for something more. Tiffany soon was soon finding out how nice nice guys can be and felt ashamed for all the guys she teased and tormented, all the ones she led on to get work done. And when she started to date this nice guy, she felt loved for the first time.

Melissa by the end of the week had embraced the change, she would walk down the hall knowing guys were staring at her, trying to eye fuck her, some guys would approach her thinking they had a chance and she would mock them, degrade them and humiliate them in front of the rest of the school. She had a list of boys in school that she could call to fuck her, ones she knew had girlfriends who would still come to her at a call. There were even a few teachers on the list as well, all married men of course, single guys were so easy she got bored of them. She loved making a man cum in her or cum on her face or tits, watching their cocks shrivel back down and then scamper off to their waiting wives or girlfriends. Her favorite tease was her ex boyfriend, funny enough he was the only one to remember who she was. Anytime he got a new girlfriend, she would find out, and call him, send pictures, or meet him at his locker act all lovey dovey to the point were whatever girl he was with would end it because they wouldn't believe he wasn't fucking the biggest slut in school. It helped that Melissa knew everything about him, including the small birthmark by his cock, which was always the breaking point for the girls, because really how would she know if she wasn't fucking him.

#f2f corruption #corruption #magic #evie hyde #personality change

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seejayseattle · 5 months ago

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You, Therefore

Sansa Stark x fem!reader

summery: The first time Sansa sees you is in the Sept and she cannot help but feel like you do not belong somewhere so solemn.

warning: !TW! implied non-con/SA (non-descriptive + mentioned very briefly), language, time-period homophobia, violence and gore, angst, implied smut

word count: 9.13k

The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.

Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.

Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-

“Do the gods bore you?”

Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannerman’s young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face.

You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.

Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question.

Do the gods bore you?

She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, she’s sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.

Sansa hums before she speaks. “How could they not? They never say anything back.”

“Mayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough.”

Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, “You should address me as ‘my lady’.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. “But you are not my lady.” squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. “You are not a lady at all really, just a girl.”

She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.

Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North.

Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely.

You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.

“May I kneel with you?”

She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side.

Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch.

It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.

Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.

“Are you from Dorne?” She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there.

You simply smile, “Sometimes.”

“Something?” She repeats incredulously.

“Aye.”

Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first.

“What do you pray for?” You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.

She shrugs. “I pray for what every lady prays for.” At your encouraging look, she continues. “To marry the prince and give him many healthy sons.”

Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.

“What do you pray for?” She asks.

You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell.

The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting.

“Nothing.” You say, “I do not follow the Seven.”

Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.

°°°

She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself.

Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.

Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a steward’s daughter.

Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansa’s dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.

The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence.

You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page.

“Do you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?” You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying.

Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.

A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils.

You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. “You should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one.”

The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully.

Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about.

“Whatever are you reading?”

“Tis about Old Valyria.” You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen.

Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. “I came to find you for a purpose.”

“Oh, how flattering it is to be sought out.”

She pinches your leg. “Quiet you.” Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. “I wished to speak to you about Robb.”

“What about him?”

“He is besotted with you.”

“He is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats.”

Sansa gasps and pinches you again. “Do not be crude!”

You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful and quick to anger.

Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often.

Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, “As I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him.”

You tsk. “And why should I deny the next Warden of the North?”

“You are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you.”

“That only makes me want to marry him, Sansa.”

She huffs. “Out of spite and stubbornness?”

You shrug and smile at her easily. “There is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish.” Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.

“Hush, I meant no offense.” You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansa’s face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one.

“Besides, Robb is not mine.”

Her curiosity peaks. “Oh, and who’s is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain.” While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyne’s affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent.

You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it.

“He will be the strangers.”

You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.

°°°

The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dream being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress.

She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened.

So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again. In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated.

With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. “That is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?”

Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears.

“The prince will be here very soon.”

“Yes.” You respond as if that means nothing.

She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. “That is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared.” Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.

You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. “No need to be upset.” You say. “Even if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age.”

“That is not what upsets me!”

“Then tell me what does.”

Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. “What if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?” She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.

You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face. Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.

“Sansa.” Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. “If the prince does not like you then he is a fool.”

“But how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!” She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.

“I’ll kiss you.”

Sansa’s breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. “You are not hard of hearing, dearest.”

Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.

She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince.

She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. “Alright, kiss me then.”

“Are you certain?”

“I said kiss me, did I not?”

It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. It’s nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung

So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands.

A moment of quiet, then-

“That was hardly a kiss!” Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling.

You laugh and laugh until tears run streams down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.

°°°

You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept.

Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable.

“What are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance.” She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.

“Red fennel flowers.”

“Whyever would those be your favorite?"

“It is what they signify.”

“And what do they signify?”

Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.

“Victory.” You whisper.

Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.

°°°

When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.

And a moon later, in the hours after her father’s head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.

°°°

Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.

But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.

She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I did not mean to stare, it's just..”

“You remind me of an old friend, is all.”

“Oh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.”

She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.

Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.

She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.

Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.

Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.

°°°

Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a ‘little pet’ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.

She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you.

In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.

He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.

°°°

Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.

The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.

While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.

She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.

Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.

°°°

The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.

Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansa’s and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.

Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.

Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryen’s boots make temporary marks in the snow.

His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, “I have a gift for you.”

Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. It’s like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.

There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.

She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her.

She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.

A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.

“Lady Stark.” She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.

It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.

Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. “Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,” She faces her again, smiling tenderly. “As are you.”

Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.

Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.

Jon’s hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. “Let us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-”

Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.

Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.

You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange.

She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.

You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together.

It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.

“Yes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.” The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.

You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.

°°°

The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.

It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle.

Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.

You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.

The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.

“You took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.” You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood.

The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.

There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.

“Yes.” She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. “Why are you here?”

You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. “I wished to see you,” you tell her, words slow like falling snow.

You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket.

You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansa’s dying grip.

She parts her lips, and says, “How flattering it is to be sought out.” Instead of voicing her grief with you.

A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.

“Fuck, I had forgotten what a rude child I’d been.” You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice.

Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.

Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. “Yes, well, I can see little has changed.”

Again, you laugh. “Too much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.” Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.

Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.

Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.

“I missed you.” You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.

She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.

“I missed you too.”

°°°

There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.

Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.

You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.

“You have been rather quiet.” You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you.

The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.

“The dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?” She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.

The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. “When would words matter, if not now?”

Sansa huffs through her nose, “Foolish words could be your last.”

“That is for all of time.” You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. “Death has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.”

A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.

Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.”

Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.

“Oh dearest, I do not.” You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. “You do not need to follow something to know it is real.”

“And how do you know it is real?” The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.

She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.

You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.

The wet clings to her thumb.

“Do you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?” Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.

Her hand does not leave your face. “I..” She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.

“Yes. I- I believe I do.” The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.

“Is that what you are? Do you see all, know all?” She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know.

But you are only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.

You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. “Goodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.” Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek.

You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. “I am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.”

Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that.

Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,

Jon and his true parentage, Arya’s whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.

But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd.

Mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.

“That must be confusing.” Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.

“T’was, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.” You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansa’s eyes like you are searching in her soul. “Although, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.”

She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. “And what is that?”

“You.”

Sansa blinks, “Pardon?”

You sigh, “Oh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.” Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. “There was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.”

Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.

“How..”

You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.

“I have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know not what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew not else.”

And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.

She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss.

She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.

It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.

A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.

Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryen’s lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.

Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.

Jon squawks, “Dany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.

Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, “Please find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.” She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.

Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.

The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. “Come along, Jon. Leave them be.”

He begrudgingly follows after her.

“She will be a good queen.”

Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her.

Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.

“Go to your queen.” She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.

Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.

Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.

°°°

They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.

She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister.

Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. T’is an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.

“Are you not pleased to see me, Sansa?” Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong.

“Of course, I am. Do not be foolish.”

Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.” It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow.

“No.” She whispers, “No, I was not looking for you.” The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.

Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. “Well done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Arya’s voice cuts through.

“I saw her, she is alive.” The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown.

It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.

“She is well?”

Arya scoffs, “I believe I said ‘alive’. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.” She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. “I know you have always been quite vain bu-”

“You do not.” Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more.

“You do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.” It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Arya’s mummer's mask of indifference slips.

Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes.

She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “You are right, I…I do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.” She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.

“As I said, mayhaps you never knew me.” Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.

“It has always been her, always.” She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words.

Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. “Then go to her, Sansa.” She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. “Go find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.”

She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. “She’s a lovely knight, Sans. I’m happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.”

The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep.

Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined.

She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.

°°°

The door of Sansa’s bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart.

She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound.

“Have you not bathed?” Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics.

She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.

“Whatever are you doing?” Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises.

“Do you have any other wounds?”

“Nah.” You scoff “Those ice fucker only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.”

There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while the

Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair.

As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.

She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.

Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. “War is not over, is it?” She asks, not ceasing her ministrations.

You do not look away from her, “No.”

You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere.

Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.

She does not.

“Will you go to Kingslanding?” She breaks through the silence, “Will you follow Daenerys?”

You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.

She wants you.

With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. “I…I wish things were simple, though they never are.”

Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansa’s.

“What would I be?” You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. “What- What shall I be if I stay?”

“Mine.” Sansa says, “You shall be mine.” And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea.

You taste of blood and peach and home.

The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of our leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair.

Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make.

“I love you.” You whisper into her.

She gasps, “Yes, yes, I love you as well.” And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.

“I covet you.” The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.

Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. “So many words, too many words.” She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, “So many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.”

“Sansa-” You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.

“Show me.” She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs.

The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress.

“Show me,” She whispers, “Show me how you covet me. I want to feel it.” You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head.

Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.

Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty.

You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress.

The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted.

°°°

You stay.

°°°

The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.

Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots.

He does not glance away from the face in the wood. “Do you think there was another way?” He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father.

“Do you think I could have saved her?” He says again.

Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandei’s demise.

She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.

“She was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.” You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort.

“No.” She decides. “You cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.”

Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way.

“When did you become so wise?”

She laughs, “Mayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.”

They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine.

She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment.

For that is the life of a woman.

Jon stands, smile never ceasing. “I am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation.” Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives.

Sansa hums, “She will be pleased I am here with you.” She gently knocks her shoulder into his. “She loves you, you know.”

Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. “She is my oldest friend.” Is all he says in return.

“Well then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.” She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness.

“Ah yes.” He chuckles. “The men of castle black will learn respect in lest she eat them for sup.”

Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jon’s steps come to a halt.

“Well, won't you look at that.” He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing.

A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.

“Red fennel flowers.”

Sansa blinks, startled. “Pardon?”

“Red fennel flowers.” He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring.

“Those signify-”

“Victory.” Sansa whispers.

She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.

When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.

You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.

End

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