#but at least I’m not dumb enough to project that

[undercoveravenger]

Gale's Barbarian (Headcanons)

Pairing: Gale x Barbarian!Male!Reader

Requested: Yes

Request: “Gale dekarios x himbo barbarian male reader who is well meaning and caring but dumb as rock head cannons”

A/N: Okay, but I love smart-as-hell + dumb-as-a-brick duos. Hope you enjoy!

-----

Gale’s not sure what he was expecting when a hand clasps his to pull him back through the portal. Someone demanding repayment for their good deed, perhaps? He was not anticipating you.

He’s knocked off balance as his feet hit solid ground again and he has to remind himself that the sudden wave of dizziness is just a result of the magic (it’s definitely not attraction, that would be preposterous, wouldn’t it?)

He continues telling himself that each day when he joins you on your quest to rid your little adventuring party of the illithid tadpoles infecting you, despite the perpetual distraction posed by your flexing muscles and towering physique and the memory of how nice it felt to have you holding his hand.

Despite how undeniably kind you seem, Gale is naturally hesitant to tell you about his… condition. Eventually though, the time comes and he broaches the subject with you. Explains that he needs magic to keep himself from coming apart at the seams and that he understands that it’s inconvenient to sacrifice a magical item in order to - oh? You’re just giving that to him? Just like that?

It’s like you don’t even need to think about it. He needs a magic item? Sure, will this work? He’s never had someone be so… eager to help him. Gale almost wonders if you’ve got some ulterior motive.

Soon enough he learns that that’s just who you are, eager to help those who need it. Volunteering to find the druid Halsin to help the tieflings and to find a girl whose brothers think she was taken by a hag. It’s… heartwarming, to say the least.

He’s a scholar though, simply being kind isn’t enough to win his heart. He needs to be challenged! But well, when you agree to let him show you the Weave - the look in your eyes as you see the magic of the universe stitching together around you - well, there are other things than studiousness.

Okay, so maybe he admires you as more than a comrade, but he’ll be hells-damned before he says anything about it! At least, that’s what he resolves to until he sees Astarion of all people cozying up to you at camp a few days out from reaching Baldur’s Gate. Then he has to take action.

He sends a projection to disturb your moment with the vampire, to call you away to the spot he’d picked out in a meadow nearby. The sky is big and bright and colorful stretched out above the both of you and it feels like a good night for taking chances.

He finds it surprisingly difficult to find the words to do this - to tell you what he’s feeling- with you sitting there beside him. But that’s okay because you’re patient. You sit there beside him, watching the aurora above you.

Eventually he manages “I like you, rather a lot, really.” And you smile at him and he can feel his hopes lifting. 

He gets an “I like you too, Gale. You’re a great friend!” for his trouble.

Okay, so it’s back to the drawing board. He tries bringing you flowers and you ask him if he wants you to try to make a flower crown out of them for him, because why else would he be bringing you a bouquet? He tries to make your favorite food for dinner (and did not burn it, thank you very much!) and you just attribute it to coincidence!

From there he decides he must forsake the classic cliches because clearly they are not working. Eventually he manages to persuade you into a walk, just the two of you, and decides he needs to just come out with it. 

“I like you,” he has to be quick before you can dismiss it as friendship again, “I really quite like you. And I’m not sure if I wasn’t clear enough before, but I like you in a romantic fashion and I would rather like the opportunity to be your partner if you find that amenable.”

It takes you a second to parse through the big words (he rambles when he’s nervous, okay?) but then there’s “oh? Oh! That’s- you were trying to ask me out before?” and Gale wants to slap himself but then you smile and lean in to kiss him and Gale thinks that everything may be alright after all.

[aconstantstateofbladerunner]

The post about people putting hamilton and basic-bitch pop songs on Spider-Punk playlists as legit ruined my night.  Irreparable psychic damage.  I can’t focus on anything else.  At least listen to The Ramones.

[plaid-maniac]

If you ever get the urge to make a game or a mod of a game: DON’T

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”  — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day. 

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision. 

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated. 

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager. 

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining. 

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met. 

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library. 

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why. 

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler. 

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors. 

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself. 

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him. 

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory. 

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair. 

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library. 

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional. 

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo. 

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously. 

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers. 

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment. 

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way. 

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it. 

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses. 

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions. 

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying. 

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized. 

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English. 

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир. 

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk. 

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different. 

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs. 

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter. 

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact. 

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.” 

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces. 

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.” 

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through. 

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.” 

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it. 

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added. 

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.” 

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism. 

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it. 

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book. 

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had. 

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going. 

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review. 

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace. 

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.” 

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left. 

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you. 

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure. 

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention. 

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed. 

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library. 

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory. 

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” 

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading. 

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?” 

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained. 

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown. 

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.” 

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.” 

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?” 

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier. 

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.” 

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company. 

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with. 

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest. 

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria. 

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket. 

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created. 

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word. 

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?” 

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.” 

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal. 

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly. 

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking. 

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration. 

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?” 

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to. 

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile. 

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.” 

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you. 

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense. 

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities. 

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around. 

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment.  It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked. 

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated. 

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is. 

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point. 

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.” 

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.” 

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?” 

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?” 

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end. 

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.” 

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault. 

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had. 

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly. 

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.” 

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”  

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him. 

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.  

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see. 

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway. 

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?” 

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of. 

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing. 

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?” 

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.” 

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard. 

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually. 

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.” 

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about. 

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?” 

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that. 

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there. 

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first. 

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse. 

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?” 

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?” 

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books. 

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.” 

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?” 

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said. 

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice. 

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.” 

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace. 

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.” 

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.” 

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse. 

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.” 

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.” 

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.” 

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions. 

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body. 

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.” 

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”  

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs. 

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh. 

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained. 

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?” 

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.” 

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly. 

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead. 

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it. 

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?” 

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though. 

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.  

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country. 

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.” 

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?” 

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge. 

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it. 

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.” 

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?” 

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.” 

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work. 

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that. 

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.” 

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.” 

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books. 

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it. 

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him. 

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.” 

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out. 

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.” 

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?” 

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.” 

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.” 

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout. 

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t. 

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it. 

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains. 

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job. 

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.  

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by… 

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain. 

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.” 

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?” 

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good. 

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo— 

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.” 

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked. 

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all. 

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book. 

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.” 

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.” 

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker. 

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.” 

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.” 

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job. 

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up. 

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you. 

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it. 

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.” 

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.” 

 “Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion. 

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.  

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?” 

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case. 

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor. 

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?” 

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name. 

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time. 

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation. 

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair. 

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him. 

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number. 

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like. 

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously. 

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too. 

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move. 

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.” 

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you. 

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress. 

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.” 

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically. 

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.” 

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply. 

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?” 

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you. 

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin. 

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes. 

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket. 

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?” 

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you. 

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest. 

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close. 

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window. 

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped. 

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve. 

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his. 

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious. 

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in. 

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered. 

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips. 

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.  

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours. 

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch. 

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate. 

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones. 

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot. 

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?” 

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?” 

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.” 

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended. 

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?” 

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—” 

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to. 

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?” 

“Yeah, that could work.” 

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew. 

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying. 

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.  

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”  

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub. 

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra. 

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence. 

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?” 

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position. 

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down. 

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance. 

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?” 

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth. 

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…” 

“Rude?” 

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.” 

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.” 

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was. 

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down. 

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process. 

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm. 

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm. 

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—” 

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.” 

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic. 

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement. 

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck. 

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body. 

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile. 

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him. 

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”  

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly— 

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?” 

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.” 

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.” 

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before. 

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide. 

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles. 

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.” 

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?” 

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.” 

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt. 

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.” 

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”  

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers. 

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence. 

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles. 

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes. 

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

[jarofstyles]

Flower

Hello… here is another mini series I started even tho I have other things I definitely need to finish…. But I’m kinda obsessed with them so I hope you guys like them 🫢

Check out our Patreon for early access to part 2 and 180+ exclusive writings!

WC- 2.8k

Warnings- y/n being oblivious, stupidly sweet h, things alluding to masturbation

“Y’know that isn’t normal for him, right?” Gia murmured as she came up next to Y/N. The low light of the bar had her squinting slightly, but thankfully the rock music wasn’t blaring too loud over the speakers over here. Coming after work, she had looked forward to meeting up with her friends for some much needed socialization- even if she was exhausted.

Confusion painted her features, looking at her friend with furrowed brows. “What are you talking about?” 

“Harry. He’s like, all over you. All the time” She looked over to the man  with a smirk, who had previously excused himself to participate in this round of pool. Y/N wasn’t much for the game so she stayed back in their seats, taking a moment to decompress. Or, try to. Sometimes it got a bit overwhelming with so many people talking at once.

“He’s just touchy, isn’t he?” Y/N had only known Harry for a few months, moving here to teach and one of her coworkers so kindly helped integrate Y/N  into her friend group. Harry owned a contracting business, actually, and Y/N had been getting lots of help from him on a variety of projects. Specifically, the latest project regarding his expertise in what sort of bannister she should have for the staircase. It was antique, and she didn’t want to be like those flippers she saw online who ruined the charm of old houses. If she wanted a brand new build, she would have bought one. “See?” 

Harry had his arm around Mitch, laughing about something probably a little dumb. The man was borderline tipsy but he’d just started his water rounds. He seemed to be an affectionate person, cuddly. At least to her and Mitch and Niall, all of whom seemed used to it. 

“Yeah, but not with women. He’s more reserved when it comes to them but not with you. Like… what was that before?” Her cheeks flushed slightly as dhe knew exactly when her friend was talking about. Harry had come back from the bar with their soft pretzel and another drink for her, and when he sat down she was promptly dragged into his lap. She’d let out a yelp but it turned into a laugh, settling in his thighs. Of course there was no admitting that her stomach had erupted in butterflies and she felt them kick up every time he rested his chin on her or squeezed her a little tighter to him. That the scent of his cologne had become something that grounded her anxiety in the moment, and it was weird how he seemed to be an anchor for her every time he pulled something like that. Somehow he just had that sort of effect on her.

Now that she mentioned it, she had noticed Sarah’s eyes widening when he did that, but she had assumed it was just for the pure audacity of a man manhandling a woman into his lap and ripping off a piece of cheese dipped pretzel and bringing it to her mouth. 

Y/N knew Harry was a cuddle bug. He was needy, like a pup, nosing and pawing his way into peoples hearts. But she assumed he did this sort of stuff with everyone. Maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention, but she had been too nervous to allow herself to think of his touches as flirtation. It would bring down the wall she’d tried to set there to not get her hopes up and look too deep into things. It had gotten her heart bruised a few times already. “Oh.” She replied, looking at her slowly emptying glass. “I, um, didn’t really think about that. He’s been pretty handsy for a long time.” He was also a flirt. Said things on purpose to make her flustered, but only in her ear so she’d get even more worked up. That was something he really liked to do- whisper in her ear or close to her to share something only with her. 

“Babes, you need to open your eyes. That man is completely gone for you. Smitten kitten. I was convinced you guys were secretly banging but I was trying to mind my business… but you mentioned a dating site earlier and I got confused.” She’d wholeheartedly thought they were already an item. “You need to talk to him or make a move or something. He’s all but pissed on you to claim you from the rest of the group, and he keeps looking over here to check on you. He acts like your boyfriend already, but there are more benefits you can cash in on if you just go for it.” She wiggled her brows making Y/N groan, hiding her head in her hands. 

She was way too sober for this conversation. 

Of course she had interest in Harry. Some feelings, even, but he’d never expressed interest in dating anyone. How could she not? He was almost unreal, checking loads of boxes she had in her mental list of ‘what my dream man would have’, including the dimple thing. The fact that he always said he was “waiting for the right one to find me”  when she’d ask floated back into her mind, clearing a bit of the fog that usually surrounded her when she thought about him. Had he been trying to tell her something?

Y/N could admit she wasn’t the most perceptive at times. She was a little oblivious, some could say, and didn’t read into signs well. The trait was something that used to get her into trouble when she was younger, her head always off in the clouds instead of where it needed to be according to the adults around her. It was possible she missed something, but she wanted to find out how to rectify that. 

“Speak of the devil…” Gia whispered, moving over a bit with a snicker as Harry seamlessly slipped back into the booth and ran his hand over her hair. Y/N felt his presence like a blanket, face turning to look at him and his concerned features. That little wrinkle between his brow she always noticed when he was upset or focusing heavily on something.

“Hi, petal. Something wrong? Headache?” He asked delicately in case the answer was yes. She got migraines frequently, as much as it sucked- but Harry had brought her some pain relievers while she was at work once to save her ass. God, her head was a mess but it wasn’t from the migraine this time around.

“No, I’m okay.” She lifted her head, feeling his hand slide under her hair to hold the back of her neck. Hopefully he wouldn’t see the chills settling on her skin as his thumb rubbed over the side of her throat, concern still etched on his features. “Was just a bit dehydrated but I’m fine now.” Her smile must not have been as convincing as she tried, his lips pursing as he shook his head. 

“Got t’be careful with eating the salty chips and then having the drinks… one glass isn’t gonna be enough.” He sighed. “Stay here for me, yeah? I’ll be right back, let me get you some water.” Without thinking he leaned in and pressed a peck to her temple, sliding back out of the booth leaving the spot tingling. Sitting there with rapidly blinking eyes, she watched the stretch of muscles flex under his tee shirt as he made his way towards the bar to order said water.

Okay. Yeah. Now that she mentioned it, she definitely knew he didn’t press little kisses to the rest of the girl’s heads, or give that amount of attention to her but… again, she had tried to ignore it. Tried not to get her hopes up.

“Girl… you’ve got to see it now.” Gia’s brows were raised up. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.” 

Maybe she was right. 

——

“I’m okay, H. I promise.” Y/N laughed out the words as he brought the straw back to her mouth and gave her a look. “Fine. But I’m gonna have t’piss soon if you keep force feeding water down my throat.” She shook her head as she took another drink, making a show of swallowing it. “See? Done.” 

Harry’s eyes had dipped down to her throat when she swallowed and back up to her mouth, taking a beat too long to respond. “Good. You… we can’t have you feeling poorly tomorrow. Are y’still up for it?” His hand was traveling around her body. Not in a sexual way, not really, but over her shoulders. Rubbing her arm. Cupping the back of her neck. Fiddling with her hair. For the first time, Y/N could consciously see what Gia was talking about. Maybe it was sad she needed someone else’s validation of it first, but now that she had it she didn’t feel as crazy for the emotions she felt. 

“Of course.” Harry was taking her to a sick used bookstore that he had helped remodel a few years back. When he found out she had gotten back into a reading mood lately, he’d suggested it immediately over text under the table, which now that she was thinking about it…. It was obviously to ensure it would be just the two of them. No one else.  He wanted to take her by herself, a little outing for just the two of them.

Stupid butterflies kicked in overdrive. “I’ve been dying to grab some new books.”

“I know. I remembered it when the owner called me a few days back about something and knew I had t’take you.” He grinned, leaning in a bit as he tucked the hair behind her ear. “I really hope you’ll like it.”

Y/N didn’t have much time to respond before the chatter got louder and the group that had gone back up to the bar for more drink ambled back and climbed into the booth. This time it wasn’t as much of a shock when she was scooped up into his lap, but it still made her hot under the skin. Her tummy swirled as he wrapped one solid arm around her and rested his chin on her shoulder, the other running over her thigh. It wasn’t suggestive, closer to her knee as he began to rub his thumb over the soft skin there. 

For some reason it was getting to her, making her worked up. The gentle touches, the wholesome nature of it made her feel a bit ashamed as she felt herself throb between her thighs, but it only got worse when he adjusted her in his lap, lifting her like it was nothing. Of course he had strength, the man hauled lumber by himself and did all sorts of superhuman shit when it came to construction, but it still shocked her every time she got to experience it first hand.

Taking a moment to think about it, it was always apparent that he was a beautiful man with a beautiful body. One thing that she really liked were his arms. Just as a whole. Hands, arms, how they’d built out a bit from all the hands on work. His hands could be a little rough with some callouses from those tools, but her grandma always did tell her that was the sign of a hard working man. It wasn’t something she focused on before because she had tried to deny the possibility of not only rejection but not being able to be in the friend group if things went sour..  At the moment she was past that. 

She could see the vein in his arm just a bit, near the anchor tattoo. His hand curled over her knee, almost possessively. This entire position was him claiming her. Realizing now he’d never pulled any of the other girls as close as he did her made her head spin. Hell, he really didn’t do much than give a friendly hug or hand to help them if they were stumbling. Fuck, he could actually feel something for her. Far past friendship.

“You’re quiet.” His words were so close they almost vibrated in her ear, making her startle a bit. “Shit, sorry Petal. Didn’t mean to scare you.” The little smile given to her made its way into her bloodstream, heating her up the longer he looked at her. “Why are you in your head, hm? Tired?” 

The way he spoke to her was so tender and sweet… gah! Now that she was allowing the possibility to be a thought, it was shaking her up. 

“Yeah, getting tired.” She wasn’t lying.  Her Friday classes had been a handful. That was the truth. “Need to take a long shower and sleep until an hour before you come to pick me up.” 

“Sounds like a good plan. What kind of soap or shampoo do you use?” He asked, a noticeable shift in his voice. A little deeper, softer for her ears only. It was intimate, she realized. How he spoke to her privately with her tucked in his lap. Her body melted further into him, but the lump in her throat had expanded from the realization. “You always smell fuckin’ amazing.” His nose skimmed over the side of her jaw making her exhale shakily. He was taking an inhale of her as he hugged her body against him. Her poor vibrator was in for it when she got home. 

“Uh- it’s like a coconut citrus mix?” She had to think about it. It was hard to focus on anything with her revelations at hand and the man of the hour touching her so liberally. Like she was his to touch. It wasn’t disrespectful and she knew he was the first person to read her body language- hell, he probably could read her mind better than she could process her own thoughts. But it was still sinking in, the feelings gripping her stomach. “Thank you. I try my best. No one wants to be stinky.” Nose crinkling in disgust, she felt him shake his head against her. 

“Trust me when I say you’re the best smelling person I’ve met. Wouldn’t complain if all my things smelled like you.” Oh? He didn’t elaborate, but there was a barely there kiss to the hinge of her jaw rendering her speechless. His reaction was to place his chin back on her shoulder, interjecting into Niall’s rant while Y/N sat there trying to process what that was. 

Deciding to test something made her really nervous, but she wanted to see what he’d do. While he was always the affectionate one and she never pushed him away, she didn’t usually return it as much. He always sought her out and she reciprocated but she wasn’t one to initiate a lot… so she wanted to see what he’d do. 

Letting out a yawn, she leaned her head against his shoulder and let her head nuzzle into his neck. Without saying a word, her hand went for his on her thigh and weaved their fingers together, pulling it further up her thigh. Holding his hand, she could feel his body stiffen ever so slightly for a mere moment and his heart rate pick up. His other arm around her tightened, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. “Comfy?” He mumbled to her.

“Mhm.” She nodded, letting his hand squeeze hers. He was just solid and sturdy. She could lean against him and feel protected in a way. Why she hadn’t tried this sooner she didn’t know, but she could hear his mood get better as he spoke. It was palpable, like he was vibrating a little bit, squeezing her hand every once in a while to remind her he was there. Or maybe it was for his own mind? 

It continued like this for a bit until everyone decided to get going, Harry being the last to stand. He was gentle about helping her off his lap, beating her to get on his feet and offered his hand to her to help her up. “C’mon, sleepy Flower. Time for your shower and sleep. Can’t have you too tired for the selection of books, hm?”  His hand steady on the small of her back, he led her to the car with a bit of a delay as they said good, a hug tight and lifting her off the ground a bit as he did so before having her promise to text when she got home. 

She fulfilled the promise, as well as her guilty vibrator session thinking about that tiny kiss on her skin and his hand on her knee, hoping that would make her chill out. It didn’t. 

[chloessleepystories]

School Daze

Miss Schism walked into the empty lecture hall loaded down with books and papers. She scattered her desk with plans and textbooks, and sat dutifully for a long time, writing and researching, making notes, glancing at the clock frequently and increasingly fretfully. Finally, she rested her forehead on the cool desk, and whimpered.

After a few quiet minutes with her eyes closed—which didn’t help—she leaned back in her chair, wanting to cry with frustration. “There’s only a few days left before I have to give the final, and I’m not even done creating it!” she wailed to the empty room. “And there’s still so much left to do!!”

“Like what?”

She gestured to the mess before her. “I’ve got to grade the last two weeks’ worth of work, create a rubric for the final project … " She suddenly stood, and walked to the blackboard, grabbing the chalk and making frantic notes to herself. “Not to mention skimming through three months of discussion notes for questions … ”

“—planning what you’re going to wear the last day, and what debauchery you’ll get up to on vacation … ”

“—downloading and organizing and printing and planning … ”

“—dressing and undressing and squeezing and sucking … ”

“Stop!” she told the Voice, dropping the chalk in the tray, but not turning around. “I can’t—I can’t be thinking about that right now. I need to focus.”

“You certainly do need to focus,” came the Voice, which was deep, and male … and persuasive. “Focus on the tingling in your breasts, focus on how hard your nipples are getting … ”

“No … " moaned Miss Schism.

“They’re so aroused. You’re so aroused … ”

She put both hands on the chalkboard, bending over, squeezing her thighs as she felt herself getting warmer. “Please … I c-can’t … ”

“But you can. You need to. You need to focus, that’s what you said. Focus on what your body needs … Turn around.”

She whimpered an almost-protest, but pivoted to put her hands on her desk, leaning over further and scanning the empty room, the rows of bare chairs, with eyes blurred with growing lust.

“Oh my! Look at that … You weren’t very focused when you got dressed this morning, were you? I bet you haven’t even noticed what top you put on, by ‘accident.’ How sheer that blouse is. How it’s almost … invisible.”

She looked down and gasped. It was, indeed, so sheer as to show the white lace on her bra. “Oh no! I can’t be out in public like this! … At least I have a bra underneath it … ”

The unseen Voice seemed to move from one side of her to the other as it chuckled. “No you don’t.”

She looked down again as she felt her erect nipples brushing the silky fabric, swaying suddenly. “Oh no! What was I thinking!?” she gasped, covering her breasts with one arm. “This is totally, like, see-thru!”

“You weren’t thinking,” said the Voice. “You were being dumb.”

She chewed her lip, shaking her head bashfully, girlishly. The beginnings of a grin began to show. “Nuh-uh.”

“Like a dumb bimbo.”

“No I wasn’t!!” She dropped both arms to stamp a foot. “I was, like … . I mean, I am! Like, smart!”

“Much too dumb to be a teacher … ”

“Stoooop … .” she whined. “Yer mixing me up!! I gotta find something to put on before somebunny sees me!!”

She hurried to her bag beside her desk.

“It’s too late. Your whole class has seen you. Look.”

Sure enough, there they were! Every seat was filled! When did they get here??? A student in every seat, and every single one of them, boys and girls, wuz LEERING at her!!

“My goodness, what they must think of you … " said the Voice, right in her ear now. “A sheer top, and no bra … Oh and look, you forgot your skirt as well … ”

She didn’t need to look down, she FELT the scratchy tweed disappear from her thighs, and her fingertips. She watched as the boys in the front row leaned forward, their gaze growing hungrier.

“I’m having a dream, it’s a terrible, terrible dream … " she murmured.

“Nonsense!” came the Voice, but now it was coming from the doorway. Miss Schism looked, and saw an older man walking toward her, with a beaming smile, his arms out. “It’s not terrible at all … ”

“Principal Grossman!” she cried. “What a relief!”

The man was pudgy, and mostly bald, with a horseshoe of white hair. A relaxing presence, even in these circumstances. She didn’t think to cover herself, but moved toward him as if he were an oasis in the desert. “They’re all lookin at me!!” she whispered, her voice moving up the scale as if on helium.

“Poor girl,” he said tenderly. “You’re so confused. Did you think you were teaching this class? No, no, you’re the experiment.”

“I am?”

“And you’re doing very, very well,” he said, grasping her forearms reassuringly.

She beamed proudly. “Oh goody!”

He turned her, facing the students. “Such a silly girl.” He unbuttoned her blouse, stripping off the wispy material. She stood, topless, her nipples hardening, as the boys licked their lips and rubbed the crotches of their jeans. The girls uncrossed their legs, spreading their knees, revealing the lack of panties under their short skirts as they slouched in the chairs, eyes hooded with lust.

“Silly girl, you can’t be a teacher. You’re much too dumb.”

“I am?”

“Dumb and slutty,” he said into her ear, and the word “slutty” echoed through her empty head, sweeping up so many thoughts and feelings and memories. He cupped her breasts from behind, fondling them, offering them to the students. “Aren’t you, my dum-dum dolly?”

A wave of pink fluff went through her brain as he said that. And a wave of golden sparkles tingled through her body. “Uuunngghhh … .” She staggered a little. “Yes … ”

“A slutty, horny, dum-dum dolly?”

Her pussy ached with sudden need, drenching her sodden panties. He was pinching her nipples now, and tingles raced through her body, not just from his touch but from his words, his triggers … “Yes, Principal Grossman.”

“Are you sure?” he said, and his voice changed. “Look again.”

She blinked, and turned, trying to focus on the man whose hands were running over her belly, her hip, as she heard and felt the students shift hungrily in their seats.

And it wasn’t the principal at all!! He was taller, and muscular, and dark as rich chocolate!!—with shaved head and trimmed beard, but the same gentle smile …

“Coach Brickhouse!!!!”

“That’s right, little girl. And you’re my suggestible bimbo snowbunny, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh!” she grinned, and “Ohhhhhh … " She moaned as her eyelids fluttered, as the word ‘snowbunny’ stole more of her IQ points. Oh, it felt so good to let go.

The coach caressed her cheek as he hooked one dark thumb under her panties, at the hip. The other thumb slid into her slack mouth, and she sucked it eagerly, her eyes closed and her mind eclipsed. “That’s my docile, suggestible idiot,” he murmured in his rich baritone, as she sucked dutifully on his thick, black, powerful thumb. “It feels so good to drop, and obey, doesn’t it … ”

“Mmmmm … " Miss Schism, her mind delightfully fractured, leaned her blond head against his hand, mindlessly sucking, awaiting orders.

“Then why don’t you get on your knees, and show me how much you love being cockdumb.” She giggled as she dropped happily, and took his massive member in her little white hands. It filled her lips with its intoxicating meaty taste, and she stuffed it into her throat until her jaws ached with pleasure. She looked up at him with big eyes, reveling in his kind gaze as he stroked her cheek and hair with his strong hands.

“Then we’ll see how many of these nice boys and girls want to play with your body, and break your little brain with pleasure. How does that sound … Mmmmm, imagine a silly girl like you, thinking she was a teacher. You’re just a slutty bimbo airhead, aren’t you?”

She nodded happily, and kept sucking his hard, gorgeous member, her eyes rolling back and her eager cunt gushing with grateful pleasure.

***

Abigail slurped happily on her husband’s cock, humming peacefully and mindlessly to herself, two fingers stroking her sopping pussy.

Jack stroked her dark hair lovingly, and throbbed in her mouth. He glanced over at the bedside desk, strewn with term papers and textbooks.

She could finish the rubric in the morning, he knew, and still have time for everything else before finals next week. She deserved a break.

And fortunately, she’d long ago given him the tools to give it to her.

“What a good slut,” he murmured. “Look out, here comes that football player with the big dick … He’s holding your hips, getting ready to slam it into you … ”

Her eyes met his, her cheeks sunken in with sucking, and suddenly her eyes … WIDENED … and her body moved with the first thrust of the phantom cock. She squealed in pleasure, and her husband knew that meant “thank you.”

“My goodness, look at these hot co-eds who want to suck on your tits while you’re being spitroasted … ”

[95rkives]

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE⼂PJM

summary: a deadly mission. a stolen prototype. two lethal agents, forced to confront not just their enemies, but each other.

parings: spy!jimin x assasin!fem!reader

genre/warnings: strangers!au, forced proximity, e2l, banter, slow burn-ish, light violence (and a little blood, no major gore), tension, unresolved sexual tension, slight angst, fluff

wc: 13k

a/n: let’s ignore my 10 month old hiatus!!!! lmk your thoughts and feedback, ive never experimented with this genre before! english is not my first language and im not a professional author, i do this for funsies, so! apologies for any grammar mistakes or potential plot holes. enjoy! ♡

VANGUARD HEADQUARTERS ────── LAST WEEK

Park Jimin sits at the head of the table, one ankle casually crossed over his knee, a picture of poise and control. His sharp black suit fits perfectly, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at ease without sacrificing professionalism. He looks up from the file in his hand, expression impassive but eyes calculating. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an edge to him, something about the way his fingers tap once on the armrest that speaks to the power he holds.

Across from him sits Director Kang Hyun, the head of a covert agency known as The Vanguard, a group so secret even world leaders pretend they don’t exist. Kang, a man in his mid-50s with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual frown, slides another folder across the table toward Jimin.

“This is a priority, Park,” Kang says, his tone clipped. “Classified as Omega Level. No room for error.”

Jimin picks up the folder with a gloved hand, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. His lips quirk slightly, though it’s hard to tell if it’s amusement or disbelief. “Omega Level? Over a scientist?”

Kang’s frown deepens. “Not just any scientist. Dr. Han Taejun is the lead developer of Project Helix. He’s been working on a prototype that—if weaponized—could destabilize global economies and governments overnight. Someone leaked his name to the black market.”

Jimin leans back, the leather of the chair creaking softly. His gaze flickers up, sharp and calculating. “And I assume someone put a price on his head?”

Kang nods grimly. “Fifty million. Every mercenary, assassin, and bounty hunter out there will be after him. We need you to ensure his safety until the prototype is destroyed.”

Jimin exhales slowly through his nose, resting the folder on his knee. “Fifty million. That’s ambitious.” His voice is smooth, laced with sarcasm. “But I assume I’m worth at least double that to you, given that you’ve dragged me off my well-deserved vacation for this.”

Kang doesn’t take the bait. “You’re the best we have, Park. This mission demands precision, skill, and someone with the ability to keep their head in high-pressure situations. No one else fits the bill.”

“You mean no one else was dumb enough to take it,” Jimin retorts, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Kang’s mouth twitches, but he lets it slide. “Dr. Han will be attending the Global Security Summit in Jeju next week. He believes he’s there to pitch his research, but in reality, he’s a walking target. Your cover is simple—you’re his new bodyguard, recently assigned by his sponsors. You’re there to keep him alive, discreetly.”

Jimin stands, buttoning his suit jacket in one fluid motion. “Anything else I should know?”

Kang hesitates, just for a moment. “We’ve already intercepted chatter that suggests at least one high-profile assassin has accepted the bounty. Codename: Eclipse.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Eclipse? Subtle. Sounds like the kind of person who doesn’t bother hiding the bodies.”

“They don’t have to,” Kang says grimly. “Eclipse has never failed a job. They’re efficient, meticulous, and utterly ruthless. If they’re coming for Dr. Han, you’ll need to stay one step ahead at all times. Failure isn’t an option.”

Jimin’s smirk deepens, his confidence razor-sharp. “Failure’s never been an option for me, Director. Anything else?”

Kang glances toward the door, where another agent, Yoo Minho, steps in. Minho, younger and less seasoned than Jimin, offers a curt nod. He carries a briefcase filled with gear—encrypted phones, forged credentials, and a custom firearm.

“Minho will brief you on the rest of the logistics,” Kang says. “You leave in the morning.”

Jimin takes the folder under his arm and strides toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at Kang. “Tell Dr. Han to stay alive until I get there.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving only the faint scent of expensive cologne and a lingering air of quiet power behind him.

THE GLOBAL SECURITY SUMMIT ────── PRESENT DAY, JEJU ISLAND

The ballroom was a spectacle of wealth and power. Rows of crystal chandeliers hung low, refracting the soft glow of the ambient lighting onto polished marble floors. Distinguished guests mingled, their conversations blending into a hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and well-rehearsed charm.

He stood across the room, leaning against the bar with his scotch in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd without a hint of unease. His posture was relaxed, but beneath the polished appearance was a mind constantly on alert.

He watched Dr. Han’s conversation shift from casual to more animated as the woman beside him leaned in to speak. She was elegant, poised—her dark emerald gown clinging to her like a second skin, her hair styled in soft waves that framed her face perfectly. Her smile was disarming, her laughter light and captivating as she talked to him. The words they exchanged were inaudible, but the way she spoke—smooth, charming—hinted at someone who knew exactly how to make people feel important.

Jimin knew every attendee here, but her name was a mystery.

She seemed too polished to be a mere guest, and though Jimin had been briefed on the summit’s key players, she wasn’t on any of the guest lists.

He took a sip of his drink, keeping a watchful eye from a distance. She didn’t seem out of place—more like she belonged here just as much as the world leaders surrounding them. The scientist’s laugh had softened as the woman spoke again, leaning in closer, her words now completely inaudible.

Jimin, unbothered, finished the last of his drink before setting the glass down and making his way over to the round table where Dr. Han was seated. The chairs were arranged in an intimate, yet professional circle—Dr. Han was directly across from the woman, her attention entirely focused on him. Jimin took a step back and stood at the periphery of the group, close enough to overhear but far enough to not draw attention.

The woman’s voice was smooth, though there was a certain power beneath the charm in her words. Her laughter rippled like music, each laugh pulling Dr. Han deeper into the conversation.

“…I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about helix—it must be exciting to see your research gaining the attention it deserves,” she said, her voice lilting with warmth.

Dr. Han chuckled nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I—uh, I’m just glad to be here. I never thought my work would bring me this kind of attention.” He gestured awkwardly to the other guests at the table. “It’s a bit overwhelming, honestly.”

The woman smiled again, offering a sympathetic nod. “It’s more than deserved, Dr. Han. You’re a pioneer.” Her tone had shifted subtly, no longer just warm, but purposeful. Every word felt like it had been carefully crafted.

Jimin listened, his gaze never leaving her. As she spoke, she made sure to keep Dr. Han’s full attention, offering him the kind of undivided focus he clearly craved.

Dr. Han, for all his nervousness, was responding more comfortably now. She had expertly navigated the conversation to center on his work, subtly pulling him away from the noise of the event. It was exactly what someone in her position would do—earn trust, build rapport, and control the narrative.

Jimin’s eyes narrowed just slightly, though his expression remained neutral. He didn’t need to be suspicious just yet. If there was one thing he knew, it was that people like her weren’t just there for pleasantries.

As the conversation began to wind down, the woman stood, her long dress swishing behind her as she excused herself from the table. Dr. Han offered a polite smile as she left.

Jimin, ever the professional, followed her movements as she passed by him—no, bumped into him.

She turned slightly, flashing a warm smile that could disarm even the most guarded of hearts. “My apologies,” she said smoothly, her voice just the right mix of sweetness and confidence.

Jimin nodded, giving a polite but reserved smile in return. “No harm done,” he replied, watching her closely.

She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary—just long enough to leave a sense of intrigue. Then, with a soft laugh, she moved on, her charm fading as she disappeared into the crowd.

Jimin’s eyes lingered on her just a moment longer than necessary. The way she carried herself—poised, confident, almost effortlessly—left an impression that even his trained mind couldn’t immediately shake off.

His mouth lifted in amusement, turning his attention back to Dr. Han, making his way over to the table, completely unaware of her hasty exit—your hasty exit.

The soft laughter that had slipped so effortlessly from your lips faded into silence, your face hardening as you moved toward a discreet hallway behind the ballroom. The lavishness of the summit felt like a distant memory now, and the polished mask you wore began to fall away with every step.

Your fingers worked quickly to remove the pins in your hair, the once-perfectly arranged strands tumbling loose as you walked, the wig slipping off and into the trash with practiced efficiency.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the mission settling over you like a second skin.

You lifted a hand to your ear, pressing a small button to activate your earpiece.

“Eclipse,” a voice crackled through the device, cold and clipped. “Status?”

Your voice was smooth and calm as you responded, moving with deliberate steps toward a discreet exit. “Mission accomplished. The target’s been assessed, and I’ve secured the keys.”

There was a brief pause on the other end before the voice came back, slightly more satisfied. “Good work. You know what to do next.”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile as you glanced down at the small, subtle item now in your possession—the keys to Dr. Han Taejun’s resort.

“I’d like to stick around a little long—”

Your earpiece crackled immediately, Lee Yun’s, familiar voice was laced with annoyance. “Y/n, you know better than to linger. Get the job done and leave.”

You turned the corner, your heels clicking faster now, already outside. “Damn, way to ruin my fun,”

As you slipped into a car—an executives car of no importance—you vanished as quickly as an eclipse, leaving no trace behind but for a slight disturbance.

A man from Han’s table—one of the said executives—had suddenly stiffened in his seat. His hand trembled uncontrollably, and before anyone could react, the glass of whiskey he’d been holding slipped from his fingers, spilling across the table and into his lap.

A murmur of confusion spread through the group, and before Jimin can react, a second man from the same table, pale and sweating, gripped his chest, his breathing shallow. He collapsed forward slightly, knocking over his own glass in the process.

Then a third.

Panic breaks loose.

Jimin’s pulse quickened, his eyes darting across the room as his mind connected the dots. The timing wasn’t a coincidence—something was wrong, and the answers were sitting at that table.

He strode forward, his movements purposeful, his body tense with the certainty that something far more dangerous was unfolding.

Jimin’s hand shot out, smacking the glass from Dr. Han’s hand.

“What are you doing?” Han sputtered, his eyes wide with confusion.

Jimin’s voice was low and commanding, filled with urgency. “Did you drink any?”

Dr. Han blinked, still dazed by the scene unfolding before him. “No, just water—what’s happening?”

Jimin’s gaze narrowed, his suspicions confirmed. The drinks had been spiked.

In a swift motion, Jimin grabbed Dr. Han’s arm, pulling him away from the table. “Don’t touch anything. We need to get you out of here—now.”

The sound of frantic whispers rose around them as people scrambled to assess the situation. The room was descending into chaos, and Jimin was already moving.

As he guided the scientist away, his mind was working quickly, calculating the odds and piecing together the puzzle. Someone in this room had just made their move. The drinks had been poisoned.

Jimin’s eyes flicked over to where you had disappeared moments earlier. You were gone now, but the timing had been almost too perfect.

But there was no time to dwell on that now. The priority was getting Dr. Han to safety, ensuring that the summit’s attendees didn’t descend into complete disorder.

The car hummed quietly as it sped down the winding road, its headlights cutting through the dark of the night. Dr. Han, still in a state of panic, jabbered incessantly beside Jimin, barely taking a breath between his words.

“I can’t believe this is happening—this is a disaster! People died! What if we’ve been compromised?” Dr. Han was a mess, his face pale, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched his hair.

Jimin’s fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel, his mind already working on overdrive. He didn’t have the luxury to deal with Han’s spiraling panic.

“Can you please… calm down?” Jimin’s voice was sharp, his gaze focused on the road ahead. He was trying to ignore the growing sense of urgency gnawing at him. His mind kept flicking back to the last few minutes.

With one hand firmly on the wheel, Jimin reached into his pocket, fingers slipping past his wallet, phone, and everything else. He cursed under his breath when he realized the keys weren’t there.

“Where the hell are the damn keys?” he muttered, rummaging through the compartment between the seats, frustration creeping in as Dr. Han’s voice continued to babble beside him.

“Jimin, do you think we can salvage this? We have to warn the others, we—”

But Jimin wasn’t listening. His mind was elsewhere now, a flash from earlier replaying in his head—the way she had brushed past him, that brief, calculated touch as her fingers had grazed him.

Fuck.

Jimin’s stomach twisted as he connected the dots. You were the culprit. His grip tightened on the wheel, and he cursed again, muttering to himself. “What a fool.”

Minutes later, the car screeched to a halt outside the grand entrance of Dr. Han’s resort. The place loomed large, the expensive lights and architecture far too flashy for Jimin’s taste. But none of that mattered now.

As they exited the car, Dr. Han was still rambling, but Jimin had already started up the stairs toward the door. His instincts were razor-sharp, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The door slammed open with a loud crash, the force of it sending the ornate frame rattling against the wall. Jimin stormed into the room and you jolted in surprise, the files in your hands nearly slipping.

The moment your eyes met his, something in the air shifted. Your breath caught in your throat for a split second, but only for that split second. Then, you exhaled slowly, a mock relief crossing your features.

“Well,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “look who decided to show up.” You straightened, effortlessly regaining your composure as you glanced at Dr. Han, who was still standing in the doorway, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Your gaze narrowed, suddenly sharp. Dr. Han was still alive.

A smooth, almost imperceptible wave of irritation rippled through you, but you hid it well, keeping your elegance intact. You took a slow step forward, your eyes fixed on Han as your fingers tightened around the files. The faintest sigh escaped your lips, more from disappointment than anger.

“Well. Isn’t this just a stroke of luck?” you said, voice low and full of mockery.

“You were behind this,” Jimin said, his voice quiet but sharp, accusing. He crossed the room with calculated steps, his hand on the gun holstered at his waist. It was instinct now—he'd learned to trust it above all else.

“Oh, Agent Park,” you drawled, as if you were addressing a child who had finally figured out the punchline. “You’re really not as quick as I thought.” You paused, eyeing him for a long moment, before the smirk on your lips turned colder. “Rather foolish,”

Jimin’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around his weapon. “You really think you’re walking out of here with those files?”

Your fingers drummed lightly on the manila folder as you feigned thought. “Well, considering you haven’t stopped me yet, I’d say my chances are looking pretty good.”

Before he could retort, you moved. The folder slipped from your hand as you lunged forward, aiming a precise kick toward his torso. He dodged easily, twisting to the side, but you were already following up with another attack, your fist slicing toward his jaw.

Jimin blocked it, his hand snapping up to catch your wrist. His grip was firm—stronger than you anticipated—but you didn’t hesitate. You twisted your body, using his hold to leverage a kick toward his side. He grunted, barely avoiding the blow as he released your wrist and stepped back.

Behind him, Dr. Han yelped as he tried to shuffle out of the way, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to hide.

Jimin ignored him, his attention fully on you as you both circled each other.

“You’re better than I thought,” Jimin admitted, his tone almost teasing.

You raised an eyebrow, letting out a breathless laugh. “What, did you think I’d be some amateur with a gun?”

You lunged again, this time aiming for his legs. He caught you mid-movement, grabbing your arm and spinning you around. For a brief moment, your back was pressed against his chest, his grip like iron.

“Sloppy,” he murmured near your ear, his voice low and maddeningly smug. “was an option,”

You scoffed, slamming your elbow into his ribs. The impact forced him to loosen his hold, and you slipped free, stumbling slightly in your dress. The long satin fabric caught on your heel, making you curse under your breath as you regained your balance.

“Damn dress,”

Jimin smirked, his eyes flicking to the offending fabric. “Want me to wait while you fix that?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you shot back, reaching down to grab the hem. With a single, sharp tug, you ripped the bottom half of the dress clean off, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. “Fixed.”

In one fluid motion, you twisted the length of satin in your hands, stepping behind him with surprising speed and looping the fabric around his neck. You pulled tight, forcing him back against your chest.

“Still think I’m sloppy?” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear.

Jimin grunted, his hands flying to the makeshift garrote as he struggled against your hold. “I said—” he ground out, his tone still infuriatingly calm. “It was an option.”

Jimin shifted his weight, using his momentum to spin you both around. The movement caught you off guard, and you stumbled again, losing your grip on the fabric.

Jimin tossed it aside, his breathing was heavier now, his usually pristine hair slightly mussed. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Before you could reply, a sharp crackle filled your ears, cutting through the tension like a blade. Both of you froze as the sound of a voice echoed through your earpieces.

“Stand down.”

Your eyebrows furrow at the unfamiliar voice. It wasn’t from your team, and by the sight of Jimin’s expression—It wasn’t from his either.

“What—” you started, but the voice interrupted.

“Your mission parameters have changed. You’ve been fooled.” The voice continued, cold and detached.

Jimin’s gaze snapped to you, his expression unreadable. “What?!”

You frowned, pressing a hand to your earpiece. “What the hell is this?”

The voice didn’t answer your question. Instead, it delivered the final blow:

“Welcome to Jeju. You’re both trapped.”

DR. HAN'S RESORT SUITE ────── JEJU ISLAND

The living area of the resort suite was in a state of tense disarray. The remnants of the fight still lingered. Jimin sat on one end of the couch, his posture stiff but deceptively calm, his black suit jacket removed and sleeves rolled up. You sat opposite him, perched on the arm of the other couch, as though sitting down fully would be conceding something.

Dr. Han was slumped in a chair near the minibar, dabbing his forehead with a napkin and muttering complaints under his breath.

On the coffee table, Jimin’s laptop glowed with the faces of their respective superiors on a video call.

Director Kang Hyun, and Chief Lee Yun. A woman with a razor-sharp gaze and an unsettling air of calm precision.

Both were flanked by a third man—Chairman Seo, the shadowy voice in both your earpieces. His face was now visible, a seasoned operative with a silver beard and piercing eyes that seemed to weigh both of you from the screen. He was the head of a covert task force that occasionally roped in the best from opposing organizations for shared global interests.

Chairman Seo’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “You’re both asking the wrong questions.”

You crossed your arms, one brow arching. “You’ll have to forgive me, Chairman, but the right questions are hard to find when we’re blindsided by whatever this is.”

Jimin shot you a warning glance, his jaw tightening. “Be quiet.”

“Let her talk,” Kang Hyun interjected, his tone clipped. “She’s not wrong to demand answers.”

Seo leaned back in his chair on the screen. “What you’ve stumbled into isn’t just a mission gone awry. It’s a carefully orchestrated trap. Dr. Han Taejun’s prototype is at the center of it, yes, but you and Agent Park are now the real targets.”

Jimin straightened, his voice razor-sharp. “Explain.”

Chief Lee Yun smiled faintly, her voice cold but almost amused as she turned her gaze toward you, just as you came into view beside Jimin. “We received intelligence that an organization we’ve codenamed Specter has been monitoring both of you for months. Not just your movements, but your operations, aliases, and even your failures. They’ve been gathering data, testing your limits.”

You frowned. “And now they want us why? To swap notes on our favorite combat moves?”

Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Kang Hyun chimed in. “This isn’t about you as individuals. It’s about what you represent.” He circled a finger around the screen. “The prototype Dr. Han developed isn’t just a piece of tech. It’s biometrically locked—coded to work only with specific DNA patterns and neural signatures.”

You stiffened, a chill running down your spine. “And?”

“And Specter has identified both of you as viable keys to activate it,” Kang Hyun said flatly.

The weight of the revelation hung in the air. Dr. Han let out a nervous laugh. “That’s absurd! I only tested the biometrics on—” He froze mid-sentence, his eyes darting to Jimin and then to you. “Oh.”

You leaned forward, narrowing your eyes at the doctor. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Dr. Han stammered. “It was years ago! Preliminary tests—I didn’t know who they were using as test subjects. I didn’t even know about you until tonight!”

Jimin shot him a glare, his voice dangerously low. “Start talking, or I’ll throw you back out there and let Specter finish the job.”

Dr. Han shrank into his chair. “It’s true! The prototype requires dual authentication: one biological key and one neural signature. I didn’t choose the parameters—it was the funding organization. And they must have used your profiles from previous missions to calibrate it!”

You stood abruptly, pacing near the couch, the weight of it all settling in. “So, what? They need us alive to power this thing?”

Chairman Seo’s voice interrupted, calm and cold. “Precisely. And Specter doesn’t just want the prototype—they want to eliminate both of you afterward to ensure no loose ends.”

Jimin sat forward, his elbows on his knees, a spark of frustration in his tone. “What’s the prototype’s purpose? What’s worth all of this?”

Kang Hyun’s voice dropped lower. “That information is above your clearance level. What you need to know is that you and Eclipse are now Specter’s primary targets. You’re staying in Jeju under lockdown until we secure an extraction plan.”

“Lockdown?” you repeated incredulously, turning toward the laptop. “I’m not staying in one place waiting for them to come to me.”

Lee Yun tilted her head, unimpressed. “You’ll stay put, Eclipse. That’s an order.”

You scoffed. “I don’t take orders.”

Jimin, for the first time in a while, smirked faintly, the edge of his sarcasm breaking through. “Clearly. You don’t follow plans either.”

You shot him a glare. “You’re one to talk. I’m not the one who got robbed in the middle of a ballroom.”

Dr. Han let out a nervous laugh, which earned him a dual glare from both of you. He quickly looked away.

Chairman Seo sighed. “Enough. Your job now is to work together. Use your combined skills to track down Specter’s operatives on Jeju, protect Dr. Han, and ensure the prototype is destroyed.”

The morning light poured into the resort suite, golden and unforgiving. The chaos of the previous night was a distant memory, though its echoes lingered in the form of tense silence. Dr. Han was still asleep in one of the adjoining rooms, mercifully quiet for the first time since this whole ordeal began.

Jimin sat at the dining table, his laptop open once again, displaying a digital map of Jeju Island. He was impeccably put together, as always, in a crisp black shirt and dark slacks that made it seem like he had slept with a plan. His expression was focused but unreadable, the sharp lines of his face betraying no hint of the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Beside him, you leaned back in your chair, legs crossed, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand as you studied the screen. You had swapped the evening gown for a simple black outfit—still tactical but casual, perfectly suited for disappearing into a crowd. Your movements were relaxed, but your eyes were sharp, flicking over the map and its markers.

“Alright, Agent Park,” you said, breaking the silence, your tone light but edged with sarcasm. “You’re the strategist. Where do we start?”

Jimin didn’t even glance up, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulled up another window. “I don’t need your commentary. Just focus.”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee. “How charming.”

Jimin finally looked at you, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Specter’s people aren’t going to wait for us to figure this out. If they set this up as a trap, they’re already moving. That gives us two priorities: protecting Han and neutralizing their network on Jeju before they close in.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Neutralize? Do you want to define that for me, Agent Park? Because last I checked, our methods are a little… different.”

His lips quirked in a faint smirk, but his tone stayed serious. “I mean track, disarm, and eliminate. Or would you rather I sit back and let you play dress-up again?”

You leaned forward slightly, setting your coffee down and matching his gaze. “I don’t ‘play,’ Park. And if we’re talking about eliminations, let’s not pretend you’ve never gotten your hands dirty.”

He didn’t flinch, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Good. Then you’ll keep up.”

Jimin gestured at the screen, where he had highlighted several key locations on the map. “These are Specter’s likely operational zones. High-traffic areas with enough cover to stay hidden: markets, coastal docks, and even a few luxury resorts like this one. They’re careful, but they’re not invisible.”

You tilted your head, studying the data. “If they’re working in teams, they’ll need a central base. Somewhere they can coordinate, keep tabs on us, and store equipment. It won’t be in plain sight.”

“Agreed,” Jimin replied, switching to a new screen with surveillance footage from the hotel lobby. “We’ll start with this place. The trap was sprung here—it’s their most obvious point of contact. They wouldn’t leave without setting up surveillance.”

Your gaze flicked to the footage, your mind working through the possibilities. “They’ll have layers. Spotters outside, someone posing as staff, and at least one exit strategy for whoever’s on the ground.”

Jimin glanced at you, an almost imperceptible flicker of approval crossing his face. “You’ve done this before.”

“Shocking, I know,” you replied dryly, leaning back again. “You’ve got the intel. I’ve got the instincts. Maybe this partnership won’t be a total waste of time.”

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the faint hum of the laptop and the soft rustle of papers as Jimin pulled out a printed list of known Specter associates.

“Let’s be clear,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I don’t trust you.”

You smirked, unbothered. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“This isn’t a game,” he continued, his gaze locking onto yours. “You step out of line, you compromise this mission, and I won’t hesitate to shut you down. Got it?”

You leaned forward again, resting your chin on your hand, your smile turning sharper. “Park Jimin, the consummate professional. I wouldn’t dream of crossing you.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t take the bait. “Good.”

The door to the adjoining room creaked open, and Dr. Han shuffled in, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was a mess, and he clutched a half-empty bottle of water like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Are you two always this insufferable?” he muttered, plopping down into a chair.

“Only when we’re forced to work together,” you said with a saccharine smile, earning a glare from Jimin.

Han groaned, running a hand down his face. “Please tell me you have a plan that doesn’t involve me getting shot, poisoned, or blown up.”

“We’re working on it,” Jimin replied curtly, already turning back to his laptop.

Han waved a hand weakly. “Fantastic. Let me know if you need me to not die again. I’m getting coffee.”

Just as Han stumbled toward the kitchenette, Jimin’s laptop chimed with an alert. He frowned, clicking on the notification.

“What is it?” you asked, leaning closer.

He pulled up a message from his agency’s encrypted system. It was a forwarded report from surveillance operatives stationed at Jeju’s eastern docks. The note was brief but urgent:

Specter movement detected. High-value cargo incoming. Dock 7. ETA: 10:00 AM.

Jimin glanced at the time in the corner of his screen. It was already 9:20.

“Looks like we’ve got a lead,” he said, shutting the laptop and standing.

You grabbed your coffee cup, draining the last of it as you rose to your feet. “Finally. Let’s see if you’re as good as your reputation, Agent Park.”

He shot you a sidelong glance as he grabbed his jacket. “Try to keep up, Eclipse.”

The sun was high now, casting long shadows over the eastern docks of Jeju. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and the metallic tang of industry, mingling with the distant hum of machinery. It was a far cry from the luxury resort they’d just left behind, and neither Jimin nor you had the time to appreciate the contrast.

The two of you moved as one, keeping your distance from the guards at the entrance to the docks, but maintaining a near-perfect alignment as you closed in on your target.

Han, in contrast, had insisted on tagging along. It wasn’t a surprise. He’d made it clear, over a dozen grumbling conversations, that he wouldn’t just sit on the sidelines while his assets were in danger.

“Stay out of the way,” you muttered under your breath as you glanced over your shoulder to see Dr. Han struggling to keep up.

“Try not to get killed,” Jimin added, eyes sharp as he scanned the perimeter.

You shot him a look but said nothing, the words hanging between you like an unspoken challenge.

As you reached the corner of the dock, Jimin signaled for silence. His finger went to his earpiece, listening intently.

“They're unloading at Dock 7. Time to move.”

You slid into place behind a stack of crates, your posture tense as you watched the men moving in and out of a cargo ship. They were fast and efficient, no sign of hesitation in their movements.

You could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you. If Specter was behind this, there were no mistakes. There was no second chance.

Jimin crouched beside you, his voice barely a whisper. “We need to confirm the cargo. If we’re right about this, it’s not just weapons.”

You nodded, your eyes narrowing as you observed the men unloading crates—too many crates for just arms, and none marked with labels that would’ve made the transport easier. These weren’t just mercenaries. This was something much bigger.

The thought lingered in the air like a bad omen.

Before you could voice your suspicions, a guard moved too close for comfort. You held your breath, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife at your side. The man was only a few feet away. Too close.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered. He’d seen the same thing.

Before you could act, though, the guard’s radio crackled, and he stepped away, heading toward a higher-ranking officer nearby.

“Lucky,” you muttered, pulling back and settling into a better position.

Jimin didn’t even acknowledge you, his focus razor-sharp as he eyed the next move. “Stay close. We’re going in.”

The moment you moved toward the dock, everything went wrong.

The ground beneath you seemed to tremble with the sound of engines revving, and before you knew it, the sight of a dozen armed men appeared from every direction. Specter’s operatives had anticipated your every step.

“You!” One of the men shouted.

You cursed under your breath, reaching for your weapons, but Jimin was already several steps ahead of you. His hand was at his holster in an instant, a small arsenal of tactics running through his mind.

“Get to the ship!” he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. “I’ll cover you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Adrenaline coursed through your veins as you darted toward the cargo ship. The dock erupted into chaos—gunfire, shouts, the deafening clang of metal against metal. Half of the operatives split off to focus on you, leaving Jimin to deal with the rest.

You darted behind the stacked crates, moving like a ghost through the maze of metal and shadows. The operatives pursuing you weren’t amateurs, but they didn’t have your precision or your instincts. The first one came too close, and you struck swiftly—silent, deadly, efficient. Your blade slid across his throat in a clean arc before he could even react.

Another man approached, and you dropped low, your body moving in a fluid spin as you tripped him, his weapon clattering to the ground. Before he could recover, you plunged your knife into his chest, pulling it free with practiced ease.

“Two down,” you muttered to yourself, your gaze shifting back toward the ship.

The cargo was just ahead. You could see the crates—unmarked and suspiciously nondescript. You wasted no time, pulling one of the lids open with the crowbar you’d snagged earlier. Your heart sank at the sight inside: military-grade tech, weapons, and—most concerning—several vials of an unidentified substance, glowing faintly under the dim lighting.

“Well, that’s not concerning at all,” you muttered sarcastically, tucking the files securely under your arm and pocketing one of the smaller vials for evidence.

Meanwhile, gunfire rang out from Jimin’s side of the dock. You stole a glance over your shoulder to see him in action. He moved like a dancer, every strike precise, every shot purposeful. His combat was a performance of raw skill and unshakable confidence.

A sharp whistle from one of the operatives drew your attention back. They were regrouping, and you were losing time. You pulled the lid back onto the crate and moved swiftly toward the rendezvous point, dispatching another man on your way with a single shot to the head.

By the time you returned, Jimin was standing among a pile of dead operatives, his breathing heavy, blood seeping from a shallow cut on his temple. He didn’t even glance your way as he muttered, “Took you long enough.”

“I’d apologize, but I was busy doing your job,” you quipped, waving the files in your hand. “You’ll love what I found.”

Before Jimin could respond, a trembling voice called out from behind a stack of barrels. “I-Is it safe? Are they gone?”

Dr. Han peeked out, his face pale and sweat dripping down his brow. He looked like he was seconds away from collapsing.

Jimin sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. “Han, let’s go.”

The doctor stumbled forward, hugging himself like a lifeline as the three of you moved quickly.

The resort was eerily quiet when you returned, the lavish surroundings at odds with the chaos you’d just left behind. In the dim light of Dr. Han’s suite, you finally allowed yourself to exhale, dropping into one of the chairs by the table as Jimin locked the door behind you.

Dr. Han disappeared into a corner, muttering something about needing water, but you paid him no mind. Your focus was on Jimin, who had pulled off his jacket and was inspecting the gash on his arm. Blood stained the fabric of his sleeve, and the cut looked deep enough to warrant attention.

“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the couch.

“I’m fine,” he replied, brushing you off as he moved toward his laptop to pull up the files you’d retrieved.

“Sit,” you repeated, your tone sharper this time. “You’re bleeding everywhere. I’m not in the mood to deal with you passing out from blood loss.”

He paused, his jaw tightening slightly, before he finally relented. Dropping onto the couch, he let out a frustrated sigh as you grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom.

The silence was thick as you worked, the only sound the occasional hiss of pain from Jimin when you dabbed at the wound.

“You’re not bad at this,” he muttered, breaking the tension.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” you replied dryly, not looking up as you worked.

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “Is modesty one of them?”

You rolled your eyes, finishing the bandage with a sharp tug that earned a wince from him. “I’m sorry, was that too tight? My hands must have slipped.”

“Right,” he said, leaning back against the couch.

The banter faded into a quieter moment as you cleaned up the supplies, neither of you saying much. It wasn’t awkward, though—just a pause.

“You did good back there,” he said eventually, his voice softer than before. “At the docks.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m always good.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” you shot back, standing up.

The faintest smile lingered on his face as he watched you move back toward the bathroom.

DR. HAN'S RESORT SUITE ────── LATER THAT NIGHT

The resort suite was dimly lit, the only sources of illumination being the glow from Jimin’s laptop screen and the city lights bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The coffee table was cluttered—scattered documents, a half-empty bag of mixed nuts, an unopened can of soda, and the single, ominous vial you had pocketed from the cargo shipment.

Jimin sat on the couch, his posture relaxed but his focus razor-sharp, skimming through the stolen files while idly popping a cashew into his mouth. The bandages on his temple and arm were fresh, his sleeves rolled up as if he had already accepted that the night was far from over.

You were perched on the other end of the couch, one leg tucked under you as you flipped through another set of documents, your mind turning over the implications of what you’d learned earlier.

“So,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Biometrically locked. Neural signatures. Specter’s been tracking us for months, maybe longer.” You shook a peanut in your hand before eating it. “Can’t say I love the idea of being a walking keycard.”

Jimin exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh but close. “Yeah, well. We’ve been called worse.”

You shot him a look, then gestured toward the files. “We’re missing something. What do you have so far?”

He scrolled through a decrypted document. “According to this—and what Lee Yun said already—Specter needs specific people to activate it. Us.” His voice was even, but there was an undercurrent of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Which means,” you said slowly, leaning forward, “they knew exactly how this was going to play out.”

Jimin nodded. “They knew we’d both be assigned to track the prototype.” He glanced at you. “You ever get the feeling you’ve been played from the start?”

You scoffed. “Welcome to my entire career.”

A beat of silence.

You reached for the vial on the table, rolling it between your fingers, watching the faint glow pulse beneath the glass. “This was in the cargo.”

Jimin watched you closely. “What do you think it is?”

“No idea,” you admitted, setting it down. “But something about it feels... wrong. If Specter is going this far to get the prototype operational, maybe this is part of the equation.”

He didn’t respond immediately, just watched the vial before shifting his focus back to the files. “There has to be a location,” he muttered. “A lead. Something.”

You grabbed a handful of almonds, chewing thoughtfully as you skimmed the documents. The two of you worked in tandem, silent except for the occasional rustling of paper or the quiet click of Jimin’s laptop keys.

Then, something clicked.

You tapped a page with your finger. “Here. This facility—Yongwan Research Lab. It’s mentioned multiple times in connection to the prototype’s early development.” You looked up. “If they were testing it on people, there has to be a database.”

Jimin scanned the section you pointed at, then nodded slowly. “And if we find that database—”

“We find out exactly how deep Specter’s operation goes.”

Your eyes met across the couch, the weight of realization settling in. This wasn’t just about stopping Specter anymore. It was about understanding what had been done to you—what they had taken, without either of you knowing.

Jimin sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for another handful of nuts. “Yongwan it is.”

You smirked, tossing a peanut at him. He caught it easily, flicking you an unimpressed look before eating it anyway.

“Try to keep up, Agent Park,” you said, standing and stretching.

He watched you for a second longer than necessary before exhaling and shutting his laptop. “Yeah, yeah. Get some rest while you can. We leave at first light.”

You nodded, glancing at the files one last time before heading toward your room. But just before you disappeared down the hall, you heard Jimin’s voice, softer this time.

“Eclipse.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

His expression was unreadable. “We’ll figure this out.”

Something in his tone made you believe him.

You gave him a small nod before vanishing into the shadows of the suite.

The early morning sun stretched across Jeju’s coastline, painting the road in soft gold as the car sped along the empty highway. The tension from the night before had eased—just slightly—replaced with a comfortable, unspoken truce.

Jimin drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift, his wrist flicking idly as he drummed his fingers. His injuries from yesterday weren’t bothering him, but the bruises along his jaw and the bandage on his temple made him look a little more rugged than usual. Not that he seemed to care.

You were leaned back in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through a set of decrypted files on a tablet. The stolen vial sat in the center console, catching glimmers of sunlight each time the car turned.

“Tell me something,” Jimin mused, glancing at you before focusing back on the road.

You hummed distractedly, still scanning the files. “Like?”

Jimin smirked. “Something real. Something about you.”

You snorted, finally looking up. “That’s vague. Try again.”

“Alright,” he said easily, tilting his head slightly as if considering his next move. “Your name.”

You blinked. “You already know my name.”

“No, I know Eclipse,” he countered, throwing a quick glance your way. “I want to know what they called you before you became that.”

You clicked your tongue, feigning disinterest, but something in his voice made you hesitate.

Still, you smirked. “You first.”

Jimin let out a small laugh. “You already know my name.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “I meant, you first—tell me something real.”

He considered that, the amusement never fully leaving his expression. Then, without looking at you, he admitted, “I hate peanut butter.”

You blinked. “That’s your deep revelation?”

“It’s real,” he defended, eyes flicking to you, smug.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched. “Fine. Y/N,” you said finally, offering your real name as casually as you would an extra bullet clip.

Jimin’s fingers stilled against the gear shift. He let the syllables roll in his head for a beat before saying it aloud, slow, deliberate. “Y/N.”

You didn’t react.

Then he smirked. “Doesn’t really suit you.”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know,” he teased, drumming his fingers again. “You don’t strike me as a Y/N.”

“You’re impossible.”

You exhaled through your nose, pretending to be annoyed, but truthfully, you didn’t mind this back-and-forth. It was easier than the suffocating tension from before.

So you let yourself play along. “Alright, Park,” you mused. “If I don’t seem like a Y/N, what do I seem like?”

Jimin glanced at you, a slow smirk curving his lips. “Trouble.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head. “I should’ve known from the second you stole those keys.”

The lighthearted mood faded the moment the lab came into view.

From a distance, it didn’t look like much—just another of those cold, modern facilities nestled in the remote corners of the island. But the closer they got, the more you could feel it—something was off. The eerie quiet that surrounded the place, like a predator waiting to pounce.

Jimin pulled the car up to a secluded section near the side entrance, parking a little too neatly for your liking. He cut the engine, the car settling into a heavy silence.

You broke it first, stretching your legs out and taking a long, deep breath. "Well, this is it."

Jimin remained still for a moment, his fingers tapping against the wheel. The spark from earlier was gone from his eyes, replaced by something sharper, colder. His usual. He was ready for this, but he had to admit, this didn’t feel like another regular mission.

“Let’s make sure we have everything,” he said, his tone serious. He glanced at you. “You good?”

You nodded, tossing a quick glance at the tablet, where you’d been reviewing the facility layout earlier. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Just…don’t get too attached to anything in here, alright?”

Jimin shot you a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I wasn't planning on staying long."

You leaned forward, looking over the dashboard at the heavily guarded entrance in the distance. Armed men patrolled the area, and the high, barbed-wire fence made it clear this wasn’t an open-access kind of place. There was no doubt in your mind that whatever secrets were locked inside this facility, they were well protected.

You opened the glove compartment, pulling out a small toolkit, your fingers grazing over the equipment you’d need for the next few hours. "Let’s just make this quick, yeah?"

Jimin glanced over at you, his lips curling into a smirk. "I’d rather take my time."

You shot him a look that could cut glass, but there was no venom behind it.

The air between you was tense now, the banter fading as the gravity of the situation settled in. This was no longer just about tracking down Specter or retrieving the prototype. This was personal—something much bigger than either of you had anticipated.

Jimin took a deep breath and opened his door, stepping out with a fluid, practiced motion. His hand lingered on his gun holster for a moment, checking it one last time.

You followed, adjusting your jacket as you slid out of the car, your steps purposeful. Together, you approached the perimeter, the security of the lab becoming more apparent with each step. This wasn’t going to be easy.

As you neared the outer fence, you both instinctively crouched low, blending into the shadows. You pulled out a small gadget from your pocket, a high-tech jammer to disable the security cameras temporarily. It was a neat trick—one you’d perfected over the years.

“Let’s do this,” you murmured, eyes scanning the area.

The two of you worked in silence, syncing your movements effortlessly, as if you’d been doing this for years. The hum of the jammer cut through the stillness as it disabled the cameras. Within seconds, you were slipping past the fence and into the labyrinth of concrete halls that led to the heart of the research facility.

But as you reached the outer doors, the alarms suddenly blared, sharp and unforgiving.

A voice crackled over a loudspeaker, cold and mechanical. "Unauthorized access detected. Lockdown in progress. Initiating security protocols."

You exchanged a quick glance with Jimin. "Well, that’s our cue."

Without another word, the two of you made a dash for the entrance, a rush of adrenaline spiking in your veins.

And then, the first wave of security arrived—gunfire erupting from the far side of the corridor.

It was no longer a stealth mission. It was a fight for survival.

The guards outside were nothing more than a brief inconvenience—easily dispatched with swift, practiced efficiency. The two of you moved in perfect tandem, a well-oiled machine of lethal precision. By the time you reached the main entrance, the bodies were already cooling against the cold concrete.

Jimin wiped a streak of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand, barely out of breath. "That was almost too easy."

You scoffed. "Don’t jinx it."

The moment you pushed open the heavy steel doors, stepping into the facility's main corridor, the atmosphere shifted. Too many guards. Lined up along the walls, weapons at the ready, yet…they didn’t fire.

Both you and Jimin went rigid, your fingers twitching toward your weapons. But then—

A voice. Calm. Almost amused.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

An older man stepped forward from behind the guards. He was dressed in a pristine white lab coat, but there was nothing soft about him. His presence carried the weight of someone who had been in power for a long, long time. His expression was impassive, as if he had expected this outcome all along.

Jimin’s stance remained tense. “Who the hell are you?”

The man adjusted his glasses. “My name is irrelevant. But if you insist—Professor Kim Ji-Hwan. I founded this facility, and for the past decade, I’ve overseen its operations. Including the work your dear Dr. Han so desperately sought assistance with.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You worked with Han?”

"Worked with? No. He came here seeking aid. A brilliant scientist, but foolishly naïve." Ji-Hwan’s lips curled in something resembling pity. "He had no idea the kind of project he was developing. He thought he was building something to revolutionize defense systems. Instead, he was constructing a weapon—one that could only be powered by human signatures. Unique ones."

Jimin stiffened. “And let me guess. That’s where we come in.”

Ji-Hwan gave a slow, measured nod. “Specter’s been gathering data on both of you for years. Your missions. Your capabilities. Your genetic markers. And when they realized that the prototype could only be activated by two specific parameters—one biological key, one neural signature—they knew exactly who to target.”

Your stomach twisted. "They stole it. The prototype. While we were here."

Ji-Hwan sighed, as if speaking to children. “You were never meant to leave this facility alive, I’m afraid. Your assignment was never to retrieve the prototype—it was to ensure Specter had everything they needed before they disposed of you.”

The realization sank in like a blade between your ribs.

This was a setup.

From the very beginning.

Jimin exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. "You just admitted Specter’s plan to us. You really think we’re going to let you walk away from this?"

Ji-Hwan chuckled. “Oh, Agent Park. You’re not in a position to be making threats.”

And with that, he simply lifted his hand—and the guards pounced.

The first wave came fast.

Gunfire erupted in the enclosed space, bullets shredding through metal and concrete. You and Jimin dove for cover behind a lab station, returning fire with ruthless precision.

But there were too many.

Every time you took one down, two more emerged. They were relentless, surrounding you like wolves circling prey.

You slammed a fresh magazine into your gun, cursing under your breath. “I hate it when I’m right.”

Jimin shot back without missing a beat. "Then you must hate yourself constantly."

You didn’t have time to throw back a retort—because the next moment, a searing pain tore through your side.

The force of the bullet sent you stumbling back, your breath hitching. The sharp, hot pain burned deep, radiating outward in an agonizing pulse.

Jimin saw you fall.

And something inside him snapped.

His movements became vicious, unrestrained. He tore through the guards like a storm unleashed, gunshots ringing in rapid succession. He was no longer fighting to win—he was fighting to destroy.

But there were still too many.

Even as he carved through them, another shot rang out.

This time—it was him.

The bullet grazed his shoulder, the impact spinning him off balance. Blood bloomed against his already torn sleeve, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Through the chaos, you met his eyes.

For the first time, there was fear. Not for himself—but for you.

He tried to reach you, staggering forward—but the world was already tilting, your vision growing hazy.

You could hear your own heartbeat, your pants a slow pulse in your ears drowning out any other sound. Everything was spinning.

The last thing you saw was Jimin screaming for you while two guards dragged him away.

And then,

Everything went black.

YONGWAN RESEARCH LAB ────── TIME & DATE UNKNOWN

Pain.

It was the first thing Jimin registered, dull and aching, like a deep bruise settling into his ribs and skull. His body felt heavy, limbs sluggish, mind clouded in a disoriented haze. A low, flickering light buzzed somewhere above him, casting sickly shadows over the cold concrete floor. The air smelled of metal and antiseptic.

Then he remembered. The lab. The fight. The gunshots.

His breath hitched.

You.

Panic sliced through the fog in his mind as his gaze darted around the dimly lit room. He was slumped against a wall, wrists bound with thick zip ties. The room was small, sterile—a holding cell of some kind. But none of it mattered. Not when he turned his head and saw you lying motionless beside him.

Blood.

Too much of it.

His heartbeat roared in his ears as he pushed past the pain and lunged toward you, the restraints biting into his skin. "Hey—" His voice was hoarse, desperate. He struggled forward, ignoring the sharp sting in his ribs.

No response.

"Y/N." He gritted his teeth, saying your name for the first time. "Come on, wake up."

Nothing.

His stomach twisted. His chest felt too tight.

Jimin’s hands were trembling as he reached for you, brushing his fingers against your cheek. You were too pale, your breaths too shallow. His eyes flickered to your side, where the wound was still bleeding sluggishly through your torn clothes.

"Shit."

He had to stop it.

He ripped at his already ruined sleeve with his teeth, yanking a strip of fabric free and pressing it against the wound. His hands were steady now, moving with trained efficiency, but his mind was anything but calm.

"You're not dying here," he muttered under his breath. "You hear me? After all the shit we've been through—you're not leaving me with Dr. Han as my only company."

A weak breath. A flicker of movement.

Then, finally, a sound—a quiet, pained groan.

Jimin exhaled sharply, relief hitting him hard.

Your eyelids fluttered, and after what felt like an eternity, your gaze met his—glazed, unfocused, but alive.

"Hey," he said, softer now. "You with me?"

Your brows furrowed slightly. Your voice was barely above a whisper, raw from pain.

"You're... hovering."

Jimin let out something between a laugh and a scoff, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, you weren’t waking up."

You blinked slowly, glancing down at your side, where his makeshift bandage was already turning dark with blood. "Damn. That bad?"

"You tell me." His jaw clenched. "You're the one who decided to get shot."

You made a sound that might have been a laugh if you weren’t so exhausted. Your lips quirked up—not quite a smirk, but close. "You sound worried, Agent Park."

Jimin rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, his fingers briefly tightened around yours, just for a second. "Shut up and stay awake."

Before you had even fully regained your strength, the door burst open.

Armed guards flooded in, followed by Professor Kim.

And standing behind him was Dr. Han, looking more terrified than ever.

"Move them," Kim ordered. "We're out of time."

Jimin immediately tensed as two guards grabbed him, dragging him up with force. His body protested, every injury screaming, but he barely felt it.

Not when he saw them pulling you up next.

Not when Kim stepped toward you first.

"What are you doing?" Jimin snapped, thrashing against the guards. "Leave her alone—"

"You should be grateful," Kim mused, tilting his head at you as if you were an experiment rather than a person. "We’ll start with her, since she’s already weakened. You’ll get to watch how it works before your turn."

They were going to use your DNA. Test it on the prototype, activate it—he didn’t know.

And he was going to have to watch.

"Don't you fucking touch her—"

One of the guards slammed an elbow into his gut, cutting off his words with a sharp grunt. He doubled over, coughing, but his gaze never left you.

You were trying to fight, but your body was still weak from blood loss. You glared at the professor with every ounce of defiance left in you, but Jimin could see it—you were struggling to stay upright.

And then they started dragging you toward the door.

"No!" He lunged against the guards, raw panic clawing at his throat. His muscles burned as he fought against them, his body running purely on adrenaline. "Take me first! Don't—don't take her—"

But Kim simply smiled, as if amused by Jimin’s outburst.

"You’ll get your turn," he said. "Be patient."

And then you were gone.

Jimin lost it. He fought so violently that it took three guards to keep him restrained, his voice raw as he yelled your name. He was desperate. Furious. Terrified in a way he had never been before.

He couldn’t lose you.

Not like this.

Not when he hadn’t even figured out what the hell you meant to him yet.

And just as his vision blurred with rage—

A sudden explosion rocked the facility.

The alarms blared.

Gunfire erupted somewhere down the hall.

Then—voices. Familiar ones.

Jimin’s head snapped up.

"GO, GO, GO—!"

Kang Hyun. Lee Yun.

The explosion sent a shockwave through the lab. The lights flickered violently, the walls trembled, and the guards holding Jimin staggered, momentarily disoriented.

And that was all he needed.

With sheer force, Jimin wrenched free, throwing an elbow into the nearest guard’s throat. The man choked, stumbling back, and Jimin didn’t stop. He twisted, yanking a gun from the second guard’s holster before slamming the butt of it against his jaw—hard.

The third lunged at him, but Jimin was faster. One shot—clean, precise—the guard dropped.

Chaos erupted outside the room.

Gunfire. Heavy boots storming down the corridors. Voices yelling orders.

"Kang Hyun, clear the east wing!"

"Lee Yun, we’ve got men flanking the south corridor—push through!"

Backup.

Jimin’s chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through him like wildfire.

Kang and Lee brought a goddamn army.

He didn’t wait—he ran.

You were the only thing on his mind as he tore through the facility, taking down every guard in his path. His injuries burned, his muscles screamed, but none of it mattered.

He had to get to you.

When he reached the lab, the sight made his blood run cold.

You were strapped to a metal operating table. Machines hummed around you, hooked up to wires—monitoring your vitals.

And standing over you was Professor Kim. The vile in hand. The prototype on a surgery table.

Jimin didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He shot first.

Kim barely dodged in time, the bullet grazing his shoulder. He snarled, gripping his arm as he staggered back.

Jimin was on him in seconds.

With brutal efficiency, he slammed Kim against the table, knocking the vial form his hand. It clattered to the floor, shuttering, as Jimin pressed his forearm against his throat.

"Give me one reason," he growled, his voice low, deadly, "why I shouldn't put a bullet in your skull right now."

Kim choked, clawing at Jimin’s arm. "If you kill me—you’ll never know—"

Jimin’s grip tightened.

"Try again."

But before he could finish the job—

"Jimin."

Your voice. Weak. Pained.

His head snapped toward you.

And the moment his focus wavered, Kim moved.

The professor lunged for the prototype—

A single shot rang out.

Jimin turned just in time to see Dr. Han—hands shaking, face pale—lowering a gun.

Kim collapsed.

Jimin blinked. "...Did you just—?"

Dr. Han gulped. "I—he was going to activate it. I panicked!"

Jimin exhaled sharply, but there was no time for this.

He rushed to you—breaking his restraints against his thigh, tearing the plastic apart so he can get to yours. Hands fumbling with them. "Hey, I got you," he murmured, his voice softer now. His fingers brushed against your skin as he undid the straps. "Stay with me, okay?"

Your lashes fluttered, your breathing still shallow. But you gave him the faintest smirk.

"Who knew you could be... gentle," you murmured.

Jimin let out a strained breath—half a scoff, half relief. "Shut up."

He slipped an arm beneath your shoulders, carefully pulling you up. You swayed against him, but he held you steady.

Another explosion rocked the facility.

Jimin looked up just in time to see Kang Hyun and Lee Yun burst into the room, guns blazing.

"Park!" Kang shouted. "We need to move—now!"

Jimin didn’t hesitate. He lifted you into his arms.

"I’ve got you," he muttered under his breath as he carried you toward the exit. "I’ve got you."

The fight outside was still raging. Specter’s remaining forces were scrambling, attempting to defend the lab.

But Kang and Lee’s backup had overpowered them.

Jimin barely spared a glance as Lee Yun grabbed the prototype.

And without hesitation—she smashed it to the ground.

The device shattered. Sparks erupted. The stolen technology—gone.

The mission was over.

And Jimin?

Jimin was done.

He barely heard the gunfire fading behind them as he carried you toward the extraction vehicles. Barely registered the shouting of orders, the final takedown of Specter’s forces.

The only thing he cared about was getting you to safety.

As he climbed into the backseat of the car, keeping you securely in his arms, he let out a slow breath.

It was over.

And you were alive.

For the first time since this all started, Jimin let his guard down—just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"You scared the shit out of me," he muttered.

Your lips barely curled, voice hoarse but teasing.

"Would you miss me?" you whispered.

Jimin huffed a quiet laugh, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I would."

The soft hum of the resort’s air conditioning barely cut through the thick silence of the room. The curtains were drawn shut, dimming the room to a comfortable shade of soft gray. You lay back against the pillows, wrapped in a warm blanket, your body still aching from the brutal confrontation. The pain wasn’t as bad anymore, though—it was more of an uncomfortable throb that reminded you of everything you’d just gone through.

Jimin sat at the edge of the bed by your hip, his eyes never straying too far from you as he gently applied a new bandage to the deep cut on your ribs. His fingers were precise, a steady hand despite the chaos of the past few hours, as he carefully worked. The silence between you two felt comfortable, natural, like something had shifted. It wasn’t just the mission that had brought you this close. It was the understanding, the shared moments of danger, of survival. The tension in the air had only grown after the fight—both of you aware of it but unwilling to address it.

"You’re better at this than I thought," you muttered, wincing slightly as he adjusted the gauze.

Jimin let out a soft chuckle, not meeting your gaze. "I’ve had my fair share of injuries," he replied casually, but you could hear the slight edge in his voice that made your heart pick up pace.

You smiled faintly, glancing up at him. He was focused on you, his hand steady, his expression unreadable, though there was a certain warmth in his eyes now that you hadn’t seen before.

It was hard to ignore the small touches he gave you—fingers brushing against your skin as he rewrapped the bandage, his eyes flickering to yours when he thought you weren’t looking, a soft exhale as he caught himself leaning closer than necessary.

“Jimin...” you began, your voice a little quieter than usual, unsure of why it felt like the words were more loaded than they had been before.

He paused, looking up, the air between you two thick with unsaid things. “Yeah?”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The pull between you was strong, magnetic. The moments of danger you had shared were fading, but there was something else growing in its place.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch lingering a fraction too long. There was a softness to his gaze, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from someone like him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Jimin said, his voice low, though his words were meant to comfort you. But it felt like more than that. It was an unspoken promise, a soft reassurance that you didn’t know you needed.

Before either of you could say anything more, the door creaked softly, and a knock interrupted the fragile silence, making both of you pause.

The door opened, and Lee Yun stepped inside, her gaze flicking between the two of you with a knowing look, as if she could sense the shift in the room.

“Just checking in,” she said, her tone casual but with an undercurrent of authority. “How are you feeling?”

You gave her a tight smile, though the exhaustion was still clearly visible in your face. “I’m… fine. Could be worse.”

Lee Yun nodded but didn’t leave immediately. There was something in her eyes that told you she had more to say. She glanced at Jimin, then back to you. “Can I have a moment?” she said, her voice softer, almost apologetic.

Jimin hesitated, his eyes flicking to you, he didn’t want to leave.

"I’ll be fine," you said softly, offering him a reassuring smile.

Reluctantly, Jimin stood, brushing a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable. "I’ll be right outside if you need me."

You nodded as he left the room, Lee Yun stepping in to fill the silence. The door clicked shut behind him, and you let out a quiet breath, the room feeling emptier now that he was gone.

Lee Yun moved to take up the space Jimin had just vacated by your hip, her eyes now sharp and professional. "Let me fill you in," she said, folding her arms.

You nodded, trying to focus on the present, on Lee Yun’s words, but your mind kept drifting back to Jimin.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Jimin stood with his back to the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as Kang Hyun and Dr. Han discussed the events in low tones.

"So," Kang Hyun said, glancing at Jimin with a sigh, "we've accounted for everything. The facility’s been thoroughly destroyed. No one’s getting their hands on anything related to the prototype ever again."

Jimin didn’t respond immediately, still processing everything that had happened. "And the vial?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Lee Yun’s voice filtered through the door, just loud enough for them to hear. “We’ll never know what was in it. Could have been a weapon, could have been a test serum, but it’s gone now. No need to chase ghosts."

Jimin nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling in. "So, that’s it then. The prototype’s destroyed. And we go back to pretending this was just another mission, right?"

Kang Hyun gave him a measured look. “We’re still cleaning up the mess Specter left behind. But yes, for now, we move forward.”

Jimin exhaled, a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "And what about them?" he asked, his gaze flicking toward Dr. Han.

Dr. Han, who had been standing quietly in the corner, stepped forward. “I-I didn’t know they were going to use people. The testing—it was all supposed to be… controlled.” His voice wavered with guilt. "I didn’t know it would go this far."

Jimin’s eyes narrowed, and he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Not right now. The moment was too raw.

A quiet tension settled over the room, and for a moment, all Jimin could do was stand there, listening to the quiet murmur of Lee Yun’s voice in the other room. Something had shifted, and he couldn’t ignore the way things had changed—not just between him and you, but everything.

VANGUARD HEADQUARTERS ────── ONE WEEK LATER

It had been a few days since the dust had settled and you’d left Jeju, the events of the mission still fresh in your mind. Vanguard's headquarters was an ultra-modern building, all glass and sleek metal—cold on the outside, but buzzing with activity inside. You, Lee Yun, and a few others from your team were here today to discuss an alliance with Vanguard after the success of your previous mission.

As you stepped off the elevator, a soft hum of conversation filled the spacious foyer. Vanguard’s team, much like yours, was always in motion. And yet, you couldn’t help but feel a small knot of anticipation in your stomach. It wasn’t just about the alliance. It was the fact that Jimin was here. You hadn't seen him since the mission wrapped up, and although you'd exchanged a few texts, it was clear you both needed some space after everything that had happened.

As the team filtered into the conference room, you stayed behind, glancing out the large windows overlooking the city. It was hard to believe just how much had changed in such a short amount of time.

And then, you heard the soft click of shoes against the polished floor.

You turned, your heart suddenly racing. There he was.

His presence had always been electric, but today, something felt different. His gaze found you almost immediately, and for a moment, it felt like the world slowed down.

“Hey,” he said, his voice light but with that familiar warmth.

You smiled, a little nervous but feeling something warm curl in your chest at the sight of him. "Hey yourself."

He hesitated for just a split second, then pulled you into a hug. It was gentle, almost reluctant, as if he was still trying to gauge how to navigate the space between you two after everything. He lingered there for a moment, his arms around you tight but his touch careful.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low, breath brushing against your ear.

You chuckled, feeling lighter than you had in days. “I’m good. I mean, I’m mostly healed. Just... exhausted, you know?”

Jimin pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze scanning your face, lingering on the faint traces of bruising that had yet to fade. “You sure? I—” he stopped himself, his hand reaching out almost involuntarily, a soft touch brushing the side of your face.

The gesture was so small, so subtle, but it made your heart skip.

His thumb gently brushed against your cheek, a tender touch that made your breath hitch. His gaze softened even further—It wasn’t something either of you had planned for, but the pull was undeniable.

Your fingers grazed his shirt, a silent invitation, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned in closer. He hesitated for just a second, his breath mingling with yours, as he met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first—tentative, as though both of you were testing the waters. You felt his hand cup the back of your head, guiding you gently, sharing a breath as he changed angles and deepen the kiss. Your tongues swirled, and the smack of your lips meeting his was the only sound in your ears.

When you pulled away, your foreheads touched, breaths mingling, chests rising and falling in unison.

"I don’t want to rush things," Jimin murmured softly, his voice low and vulnerable.

You chuckled, your own breath uneven as you leaned in, your lips brushing his briefly. “Neither do I,” you whispered back, your smile spreading like warmth.

And then, as if unable to resist, Jimin leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a second longer than necessary. When he pulled back, his lips found yours again, this time for a gentle peck.

He pulled away, his lips lingering just above yours, a playful grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

Another peck, then a third, his lips moving in rhythm with yours, soft and sweet, building slowly but steadily into something deeper. You couldn’t help but giggle between the kisses, the lightheartedness making your heart flutter in your chest. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so... normal. So connected, even after everything that had happened.

"Jimin..." you murmured between the kisses, but he silenced you with another soft press of his lips to yours, the kiss growing more insistent as his hand slipped to the small of your back, pulling you even closer.

“Well, aren’t you two just adorable?”

You immediately flushed, your heart racing. You jerked back from Jimin as if you'd been caught doing something wrong, your eyes widening in surprise, your body stiffening slightly.

Jimin let out a breathy laugh. "We were just-" he started, but Lee Yun raised a hand to stop him.

"I know, I know," she said, her voice filled with mock exasperation. "You're fine, but the others are waiting for you."

You sigh, stepping away from Jimin to join the others in the conference room. Lee Yun was right. There was business to attend to, and now, more than ever, it seemed important this alliance to be sealed.

In the meeting room, things quickly shifted back to professional mode. Everyone took their seats around a sleek glass table, Jimin sitting across from you, his gaze lingering on you now and then.

"We need to talk about what comes next," Lee Yun began, addressing everyone. "The mission was a success, but the bigger picture remains. Vanguard’s resources will be invaluable as we continue our work. We’ll be splitting responsibilities—"

You tuned out the specifics for a moment, still feeling Jimin’s gaze on you. His expression was unreadable, but the small glances he kept throwing your way told you a different story.

"So, any thoughts on what comes next for us?" you asked, keeping your voice light.

Jimin blinked, clearly caught off guard for a moment. But then his lips curled into that mischievous smile you knew so well. "Maybe we should take a break after all this hard work. Grab dinner, talk things over?”

"Maybe," you teased.

Before you could say anything more, Lee Yun’s voice cut in, drawing your attention back to the meeting.

"Let’s focus, team. We’ve got a lot of work ahead."

But even as she spoke, you and Jimin shared one more lingering look, biting back grins and giggles. And though you didn’t say it out loud, both of you knew that things weren’t going to stay "normal" for long.

[taegimood]

epic need for your own thoughts on craveverse.. assign some kinks to the boys hehee

OMG WAIT WAIT RAHHHHHHHHHHHH i’m scared to get their characters wrong cuz they’re yours but i’ll try omg this is exciting wait

(edit: i accidentally added some plot in there lmao sorry also this is LONGG and these kinks aren’t anything taboo [for us at least 💀] but hopefully it’s still interesting~)

yeonjun: okay, do we need to say it? breeding kink. wants you to belong to him forever. wants your tummy full of the evidence that he was there. exhibitionism, he wants everyone to know you’re his and how good he can fuck the daylights out of you; he shamelessly fucks you around the others all the time, possessive as all hell, since he makes you share the living room together. also kisses you constantly, possessively, tongue in your mouth if he gets so much as an inkling that another member has their eyes on you when it’s yeonjun’s turn to keep you to himself, maintaining eye contact with said member as he kisses you until the younger backs down submissively. idk if there’s a name for this (is it the same as dumbification?) but loves it when you get into subspace.. loves knowing he fucked you completely dumb and has all the power over you. he loves spit.. always spitting in your mouth, spitting on your pussy before he rails it, spitting on his cock as he shoves it down your throat. loves it when you suck on his fingers and whine for him too <3 anything that shows you’re even remotely enjoying it, he’s all over that shit.. it helps aid how toxicly and utterly convinced he is that you belong together, forever. some could even argue that out of all of them, yeonjun might just have the most screws loose — you’d just never know it until you wake up one day and then suddenly you do.

soobin: SOOBIN… soobin is a closeted freak… if yeonjun saw half the things that went on in his submissive little member’s head, he’d be outraged lmao. although soobin doesn’t fuck you as often as some of the others do, he wants you just as much - he just doesn’t show it. has this fantasy of marking you, and covering your entire body too; he just wants to bite and nibble you everywhere and is always trying to scent you in small ways just subtle enough that yeonjun won’t notice and be set off. in his mind he’s making you his in his own tiny little ways. soobin is more possessive than you’d think (flashback to what i sent you about him shoving beomgyu to the floor) and as sweet as he is, he‘s also got a guilty pervertedness to him when you come crying to his bedside asking to be held… that’s right, I’M the one she needs. he also has a cockwarming kink for sure. will pump his cock into you nice and steady before keeping you there <3 whispers in your ear how your pussy was made just for him, but don’t tell yeonjun~ and of course i will forever be on the sticky cum soobin agenda - he has a fat creampie kink that he shamelessly exhibits every time he fucks you, will literally overstimulate himself just so he can keep fucking more and more and more of his thick cum into your little hole~ but he’s also just a sweetie and will kiss you all the time during sex too, taking full advantage of the moments when he can finally let his affection loose as opposed to his usual awkward demeanor when it comes to things like kissing outside of sex. leaves your lips swollen and wet from all the sucking and nibbling hehe

beomgyu: dacryphilia. wants to see you sob. also a breeding kink tbh for the pure sake of OWNING you, not about the actual outcome of pups.. like yeonjun, he loves when you get into subspace, but unlike yeonjun, there’s no affection there. it’s just the pure ego boost of knowing he can mold you into his own little cocksleeve. he has this secret cuckolding-esque fantasy of fucking your brains out while all the other boys sit and watch, while only he’s able to touch you.. sigh, if only yeonjun would let him. obviously has a degradation kink, he’s projecting onto you all the shit that he was constantly belittled with by his past female alpha </3 he’s so toxic lmao but — this may be controversial — deep deep DEEP deep DEEEEEP down…… there’s a part of him that really just wants to be seen. wants to be held. wants to be someone for somebody. it’s just so buried beneath all the rage and hurt and spite that you’ll never know it; and HE’LL never know it either tbh, so blinded by himself and his hatred. (the closest thing you get is when he pretends to be asleep so you can card your fingers through his hair and then grumbles about it later <3)

taehyun: sir kink? 🫣 ohhhhhhh….. taehyun. mr difficult to decipher. you’re convinced he hates you and he actually does except — he kind of doesn’t. as mean as beomgyu is, taehyun is nasty. sometimes it seems like he’s fucking you more out of anger and spite than out of the desire to get off. but he’ll be damned if he ever admits to you or anyone else how hard he actually gets when you clutch onto him desperately, the force of his thrusts shoving you up the bed, leaving your hands flying to grip onto the nearest stable thing, always choosing his firm and solid figure. he wants you to need him. he has a power kink, but not like some of the other boys.. he’s the most level-headed of the group, with an innate need to protect, that goes beyond basic possessiveness. so his size and strength kinks come into play when he can manhandle you any which way, even holding you right up in the air, practically folded in half as he fucks you stupid. he likes the fact that you can’t even overpower him if you tried. and deep down under the hate, he likes the fact that he can protect you against anything that tries to hurt you. so sometimes when he isn’t making you sob and cry from the nasty spite that oozes out of him as he pummels your pussy, he’s actually — don’t point this out to him or he’ll rip your head off — pretty focused on making you feel good in his own taboo way, just so you know it’s him that makes you feel this way, it’s him with all that power and strength who’s capable of all the worst and all the best that you could get.

kai: oh boy. kai is an anomaly. easily the sweetest member, while also easily the most RABID (not literally 😳) because like you’ve said, he’s still learning how to control his wolf. he has all these big emotions and senses that can stretch so far out of his grasp sometimes, he just can’t get a hold of himself… so when he’s in his rut… you better fucking prepare yourself. he wants all of you, everything he can get, so selfish and needy and ravenous when his cock is pistoning itself in and out of your pussy without restraint, holding your hips down with your ass up and face buried in the sheets, skin red and bruising from the force of his skin slapping against yours from behind; don’t know if this counts as a kink, but he’s constantly flipping you into different positions. it’s like he just can’t get enough. he’s a starved man when it comes to you AND - he’s one of the only members who has a massive pussy eating kink. he’ll overstimulate you into high heaven until you’re clawing at him and begging him to stop with your hips in the air as he eats you out like it’s his best and last meal. but when he’s not in rut, he loves to hold you down in his lap and finger you sweetly, licking and kissing at your neck and shoulders as you keen around his long agile fingers <3 loves his hair being played with but unlike grumpy gyu, he’ll actually admit to it and even ask for it after sex :’)

anyway… crave!txt has me in a death grip that i do not want to escape. all hail mother lia.

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[thatkidwholikesthunderbirds]

Ok this might not even be art worthy but I’m just chuckling at the idea of Squirt give Lady P The Talk… like… “hurt him and it isn’t my bigger brothers you gotta worry about”. I like to think they will be friends one day but she’s gonna have to work to prove herself to them because, well, it’s GORDON. And maybe Squirt hasn’t had the best experience of romantic relationships and is worried Gordy is inevitably going to get wounded.

Heyo, sorry it took so long it ended up turning into a whooooole thing lol.

I ended up pouring all my aroace attachment issues into this one, romance is put on a pedestal as being the most valuable and important kind of love and it's expected that when you find a partner, nothing and no one else matters anymore.

Squirt is only 12 but is grappling with the fact that they don't understand romantic relationships as well as trauma from their early childhood and their low sense of self worth, they believe they're inherently unlovable but got lucky with finding the Tracys because they're so patient and kind. Gordon is their best friend, their partner in crime, their soulmate and for the first time Squirt feels genuinely valued and cherished. They'd definitely struggle if Gordon started dating, it's likely he'd be swept up in the whirlwind and butterflies and obviously spending a lot of time with his partner leaving Squirt feeling neglected and left out.

Lady Penelope is Squirt's opposite. She's perfect, she's prim and proper, comes from a background of immense wealth and seems almost unfeeling at times, she's hogging all of Gordon's time and seems either oblivious or just uncaring to Squirt's feelings. Squirt would hate her at least for a while but trying to bite their tounge because Gordon has never seemed happier and it hurts, it hurts that despite them being the best of friends and so much so that they'd adopted eachother as siblings, that Squirt's undying love and loyalty and admiration isn't good enough for him anymore. He found someone better.

I don't ship pen&ink really, it's difficult with my own issues regarding romance but it definitely makes an interesting piece in Squirt's character development and makes for some amazing familial angst tbh. I reckon they'd eventually make peace with it all, Penny and Squirt would create this kind of bond over the fact that they both adore this dumb squid and would take down armies for him and Gordon would balance his time for both of them and make sure Squirt knew that he still loves them and also help them out on their own journey to figuring out that they're aroace as they get a bit older. (Obvs I gotta project beinga pathetic soggy aroace onto them too lol)

Anyway, sorry for rambling. Hope you like it. (;^^)

[boopiemadz]

drug dealer travis and customer natalie

TravNat – No Crash AU Headcanons

Travis dealer X Nat customer

Travis and Natalie first really talk because they’re in the same group for a dumb health class project.

Neither of them says much. He shrugs through every question. She makes a sarcastic comment about addiction stats and watches him flinch. She clocks that reaction. She always clocks that kind of thing.

They both carry pain in ways they don’t talk about. Travis with his family issues, mainly his dad. Natalie had an abusive dad who died right in front of her.

It’s different kinds of pain, but they recognize it in each other. That hollow thing.

He hears about her reputation long before he knows her. Everyone at school talks about Natalie Scatorccio like she’s a warning sign. But when he actually looks at her, really looks, she’s not wild. She’s tired. And he gets that.

Natalie sees Travis and thinks, that guy’s trying so hard not to feel anything, it’s almost funny. But she doesn’t laugh. She gets it. The numbness. The need to just disappear into silence.

He starts selling weed. Not just as a rebellion,because it’s something to do. Something that makes the world quieter.

She finds out and starts showing up to buy from him. Not often. Just when things get bad at home. They barely talk during the hand-offs. But every time, he gives her a lighter, even if she already has one.

One night, she stays. Doesn’t say why. Just sits on his bedroom floor and starts talking. He doesn’t know what to say. So he sits down too.

They bond over music. Natalie makes fun of his burned CDs. He says her taste is 'aggressively sad.' “So what? Yours is music for people who think silence is too loud.” It’s the closest they get to flirting for a while.

He sees her at a party once, wasted and detached. Some guy’s trying to pull her into a room. Travis steps in, barely says anything, but the look in his eyes is enough.

She doesn’t thank him. But later that night, she texts, I owe you. He replies, you don’t.

Travis doesn’t like touching people. He flinches when friends try to shoulder-bump him. But one night, Natalie curls up next to him on the couch and falls asleep. He stays still for hours, afraid she’ll leave if he moves. He never tells her that.

They don’t date. That would mean labels. Talking. Feeling. But theres a shared understanding of something more.

She wears his hoodie. He drives her home even when she doesn’t ask. She grabs his hand when she’s scared. He doesn’t pull away.

They fight, a lot. About nothing, about everything. “You don’t even try, Travis.” - “At least I’m not trying to destroy myself every time someone looks at me wrong.” Then silence. Breathing. Tears that neither of them admits to.

After one of those fights, Natalie slams his door behind her. Comes back the next night with mascara still under her eyes. She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there. He walks up. Stops a foot away. “I’m not good at this.” - “Me either.” And then she kisses him.

It’s slow. Tense. A little shaky. Like they’re both afraid to want it too much. But when they pull apart, she exhales for what feels like the first time in years. And he stays close.

[betterinvienna]

unprofessional | nanami kento x reader

synopsis: nanami's patience grows thin in the office, but it's not because of the project you keep putting off | (nanami x gn!reader)

[ 2k words — fluff — no warnings ]

author's note:

i miss u nanami come back home ill take u to malaysia. anyway this was more agonizing to write than i expected it would be i hope someone out there likes it

You make rational, well-thought-out, calm decisions, and always put your career first. If not, what else did you work so hard for?

If that stood true, you wouldn’t have been borderline teenage-esque awkward beside your coworker, Nanami Kento, as your boss went on and on about a new team project. In fact, maybe your mind would’ve been clear enough to hear an adequate chunk of the project so that you wouldn’t later be stuck in the sparsely decorated office of the aforementioned coworker as he criticized your contribution (or lack thereof) to said project, talking about – what again? – Right. See what I mean? Pay attention.

“Are you listening?” Nanami rumbles, causing your stomach to flip as you place a hand on your temple, nodding.

A pause. “Yeah – I mean – yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep and my car –”

However, he cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not interested in personal matters.” Here – I’ll give you a quick spoiler. He’s lying. “Please complete this part,” – a gesture to his computer screen – “of the project by next month, or I’ll have no choice but to report to HR about this sudden lack of awareness in the office. Do you understand?” It’s clearly rhetorical because he gets up immediately after – you’re not that dumb — so you don’t attempt to respond. Nanami pops the manila folders into a wired organizer on his desk and exits his creaky seat to escort his guest out.

A nod and an uncomfortable, brief smile. “I will. Thank you, Mr. Kento.” 

. . . 

Eros Pour Femme. Versace. 

Top notes: Sicilian lemon, pomegranate, and Calabrian bergamot.

Shocker. Looks like he is interested in personal matters. It’s unmistakable. This is not regular knowledge; however, Nanami gets mind-numbingly high off your perfume. Obviously, he searched it up on Fragrantica last night, drunk off a “pinch” of whiskey and missing you. Don’t look at him like that – he’s normal.

If you’re still unconvinced, he’s at least as normal as a guy can get watching the epitome of his standard waltz around the break room, oblivious of her deafening effect on him. Nanami spots you filling up a lipstick-stained mug at the new Keurig coffee maker – the previous one had to be replaced after Haibara somehow flipped it on its side while it was running and left it like that – mindlessly scrolling on your phone.

He only realizes he’s staring once you’re staring back.

You give a formal “good afternoon” smile and return to what you were doing, but he spots the faint red tainting your ears and the nails digging into your palm. He’d love to massage the crescent indents they left, yet he looks the other way to avoid acting on it. He looks down into his coffee and stirs it, checking his watch. It’s good to know he has that effect on you, but he soon regrets the fleeting thought after he turns his head and watches you spill at least a third of your coffee all over your chest. 

If getting caught staring wasn’t enough embarrassment for the day, Nanami adds another regret to mull over tonight by getting up and offering a paper towel to you.

“It seems hot,” he muttered a faulty excuse to you (though more to convince himself) pale hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” you laugh awkwardly. “This is embarrassing. Please excuse me.” You start in the other direction, clearly humiliated. Luckily for you (and him – he doesn’t want anyone eyeing you) Nanami is gentlemanly enough to not let a lady walk cold.

“Take my jacket.” Without much thought, Nanami shrugs his pinstripe suit jacket off his broad shoulders and drapes it over yours. “It’s fine. I have a lot more at home.” He offers a tightlipped smile, keeping the professional piece together. Unfortunately, you look up and smile at him, saying something about a button-up shirt that flies past his ears and has him staring at your lips.

Again, he only realizes he’s staring once you’re silent. How’d he make it this far this absentminded?

“Is there a problem?” You prompt, and he clears his throat.

“No.” Tightlipped, formal smile again. Ugh, he’s so good at this. He needs a raise. And you. But he’d like that raise too.

. . . 

This week at the office has been as discomfiting as ever. Not because you have the matter of the team project at hand – though you want to keep your job, so you’ll make good progress on it later, perhaps – but because Nanami Kento keeps looking at you. Not in a “Get the project done or I’m gonna bash your head in with my signature mug” kind of way, but possibly a different way you can’t quite seem to put your finger on. For a man who so evidently boasts a simple, straightforward life, he’s harder to read than an elementary picture book. Like, The Very Hungry Caterpillar sort.

Sorry, that level of specificity seems uncalled for. Let’s resume.

Incident Number One: The Office.

If you told your friends this story, they wouldn’t believe you. It happened on Monday, a week after the Coffee Incident. Wait – maybe that one should’ve been marked as Incident Number One. Regardless, Nanami’s demeanor seems to have changed around you. This isn’t the surprising part, however. The atmosphere around anyone will change once they see you completely dehumanized by some espresso. 

Yet this atmosphere was less… tangible at first. Sitting in your fishbowl of an office, you’re conjuring up a monster of an email to the local manufacturing company for getting the fundraiser t-shirts all mixed up when you look up and notice Nanami Kento – 6 feet, one-seventy-something pounds, by the way – hiding behind the water cooler like an elephant behind a thin Saharan tree with a file in one hand and a mug in the other, taking two side glances into your office before walking off with the same, bored expression once he realized you witnessed the ordeal. Had you not seen him aggressively rub his jaw like he was bothered as he walked off, you would’ve thought you’d done something wrong.

Okay. Let’s put two and two together. Is it crazy to say Nanami Kento is irked by your presence? Are you full of yourself or just observant?

Say we go the observant route. That would explain Incidents Number Two to a Million: The Parking Lot.

Nanami is infamous in the office for leaving exactly when dismissed – no need to stay around when you’re as efficient as he is. However, you’re notorious for the contrary. You stay late often times, as you handle financial disputes – and there’s a million of them.

The sky darkened as you shut your laptop and checked your watch – nearly midnight – and popped your head outside your office. To your surprise, Nanami’s office light was on, and even if you strained, you couldn’t hear keys clacking. Okay. Weird. Packing up your stuff, you put on your shoulder bag and breeze past his office.

The instant you’re in his line of sight, Mr. Kento begins to pack up his essentials as well, shuffling behind you until you both reach the elevator, where the two of you stand in silence until you reach the ground floor, where you go to your car and unlock it, driving off as Nanami does the same. But rewind. The moment you step out into the chilly night, he lingers behind and there’s a burning set of eyes on you until you reach your car. Had this been a coincidence, you would’ve shrugged it off and counted it as a gentlemanly gesture he’d done in the heat of the moment.

But it wasn’t.

Because it happened on the next day, Tuesday.

Then Wednesday.

Then Thursday.

Now, it’s happened on Friday.

Now we’re putting four and four together. It is not crazy to say Nanami Kento is looking out for you. Obviously, you’re not complaining about 6 feet of gorgeousness stalking behind you each day, but those two incidents combined? You have a bold assumption to make, but it’s going to take a bit more evidence to assert it.

. . . 

Nanami Kento is a patient man, but you prove to be pushing his limits.

For the first time in a long time, Nanami Kento felt giddy over someone. Like, he’s excited to see you. He thinks himself to be a genius of sorts, surreptitiously escorting you to your car when you stay late and sneaking glances at you when you aren’t paying attention.

He even feels nervous. Clearly, he doesn’t show it – age has refined his Herculean ability to suppress showing emotion in great quantity – but he feels nervous around you.

. . . 

Remember the evidence you needed? Thankfully, Nanami Kento gave you exactly that – and more – after the obligatory employee meeting. Your boss swears up and down it was originally for team bonding, but when he begins to complain about the progress everyone has made on the team project, you realize it’s going differently this time, again. 

“If we don’t get this done, we’re going to lose a couple thousand. I don’t know how much longer I have to drive the point home,” a snarky glance to you, “but no other assignment is more important than the task at hand right now.” Is he serious? A loss of a couple thousand for a million dollar company is peak stinginess. And a call out in front of the whole staff?

It only gets worse after the conference when Nanami pulls you aside and informs you, once again, about your work on the project. 

“Excuse me for this, but as the subunit leader, I do have to inform you that you still haven’t made much progress on the proj–”

You cut him off, worn out. “I don’t need you on my back, Mr. Kento.” An annoying smile from you, so that you can drive the point home that the workload has been too heavy this month – and entirely too important – to be focusing on something you can get done in 2 days. “I can get it done. Please have faith in my skills.” An eloquent way of saying “Shut up and leave me alone.”

“I understand, however, external assignments cannot be tolerated right now. Please trust me, you’re not the only person in this subunit who hasn’t completed their fair share. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you’re excluded.”

Now the air feels hot and you aren’t sure if it’s because of your proximity, anger, or both, but you mumble something you regret, channeling your previous teenage energy. “Yeah, well you seem like you sure are excluding me. I told you to get off my back.” Nanami’s face hardens, seemingly mildly irritated as your mouth, unfortunately, decides to keep running, louder this time. “You and Mr. What's-His-Face can’t leave me alone. I apologize for my insane informality, but I will get it done. You cannot expect one person to juggle so many tasks at once. I’m already multitasking, and that –” you make a dismissive waving gesture with your hands, “mediocre – again, I apologize – project is the least of my worries. I can get it done. Just – please. It’s like you all want to be this needy, overbearing boyfriend at this point.” At the end of your rant, you sigh heavily and look up at him, and his expression is once again, unreadable, yet stunning. There’s not a single beat of silence before he responds.

“I do, though.” What?

“What?”

“I do.”

You throw your hands up in the air and huff, still confused. “You what?”

“I want to take you on a date. Not be needy and overbearing, though. Don’t mistake me.” He does not apologize for the bluntness, but instead for how sudden it was.” I wanted to do this in a more romantic and ceremonious setting, but it appears that you have me blurting.” He rechecks his watch like the sudden confession isn’t anything big. “And I apologize for the constant probing – on both ends.” Your heart thumps in your ears. He gives you a lopsided smirk, expectant and unnaturally awkward for Nanami Kento.

"Nanami…” 

“May I take you out on a date?”

[tropacant]

soooooo I saw this post by someone in the spn amino im in and I had to draw it. Or at least, drawing it was the original plan. that quickly snowballed, however, and I ended up making a full project of it.

I drew all the frame in IbisPaint, put them together in FlipaClip, downloaded all the sounds I wanted, and the, shlammed them all together in CapCut.

I absolutely hate flipaclip bc I’m not an expert animator and the GUI is dumb, but I think this turned out really well!

I also tagged Misha on tik tok for funsies bc my dumb half askew brain thought it would be funny- but I’m not brave enough to do it here lmao

[bomertheshark]

Begging

A top male reader X Billy Lenz

Short

You’ve been working on putting together the final presentation to present to your sister companies boss. Both your company and its sister company had been working on putting together a new idea to bring both of the companies together, you so happened to be the team leader for the project and had been going through the presentation and preparations for days.

It wasn’t ideal but you had to make sure everything was perfect for tomorrow so everything you hadn’t finished had to be all crammed into tonight. “Oh my god..” you sighed out looking at the rest of the things you had to accomplish before you were done for the night. Several hours had passed and you were finally almost done, you looked outside to see it was dark already before checking your watch. “Huh, it’s pretty late, and it’s awfully quiet as well..”

You see you lived with your partner Billy, you had bought an old sorority house so that you had a place to stay and work in while having room for friends and family if they wanted to stay over. When you bought the place you had no idea that it came with a very horny and needy man as well, but that happened a year ago and you had grown used to the man, even dating him for several months now. You were very aware how mad he’s been getting with the lack of attention and affection as of late, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

You only had the last few slides along with some invoices before you were done so you decided to go get some water and a snack from the kitchen. As you walked down the hallway you listened for Billy to hear where he was but you couldn’t hear him in the house at all. You dismissed it thinking that maybe he went to sleep in the attic since you were busy and it was getting really late. As you returned from the kitchen back into the office more energized and ready to finish your work you saw Billy laying over the desk, panting. “What are you doing in here Billy? I thought you would’ve gone to sleep.” You said walking towards the front of the desk so that you could see his face.

“B-billy couldn’t wait for you any longer! P-pretty piggy won’t love Billy right now and it isn’t fair!” Billy yelled out in frustration clutching onto the front of the desk almost trying to reach out to you as his face became red and he started visibly sweating and shaking. “Billy we talked about this, while I’m working I can’t spend much time with you but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” You said walking closer to him as he started gripping at your shirt looking up at you. “Please piggy! P-please! Just throw billy around for a little bit! That’s all he needs!” Billy was yelling up at you, you took his hands off your shirt and walked around to stand behind him.“Y-you’ll fuck pretty Billy dumb won’t you?” He said with a look of desperation as he wiggled his hips trying to entice you to ravage him on the desk you had been currently working on.

This has been going on for days, almost a week. You had to get your work done before the deadline which was tomorrow, you couldn’t afford to be late with this project, you had worked to hard to just mess it up now, at least that’s what you told and reminded yourself. “I can’t believe your still doing this Billy, I’ve told you time and time again, I cannot afford to miss this deadline, if you were patient enough I would’ve given you a reward this weekend. But obviously someone is to needy to even try.” You said getting more and more aggravated with his partners behavior. “Billy can’t help it!” He whined face clear with embarrassment but with a look of lust and desperation in his eyes. “You make Billy feel so good! And Billy’s been waiting forever! Billy will be good! But pretty Billy just wants to be destroyed by little piggy!” He said still bent over the desk slightly lifting up his shirt so that you could see his torso and chest. “Just touch Billy, please!”

Your heart rate picked up and you could feel your member start to harden in your slacks, he had been wearing a lingerie laced bra, it was green and made his eyes pop. “Billy.. what are you wearing?” You said to him slowly moving to turn him over so that he was on his back and you could see his chest in the bra as it hugged his chest beautifully. “I-I thought piggy might’ve liked me if I wore it.” He said all flushed avoiding eye contact. Acting shy.

Of course that didn’t last long, it never did. He brought his hands to take his shirt completely off and take your hands into his so that you would fondle his chest. “Billy, you know exactly what you’re doing to me don’t you?” You said fully hard grinding on him as he wrapped his legs around your waist bringing you closer and whispering in your ear “Billy can take you just fuck me.” He leaned back gradually getting louder as he moved his hips to meet yours “F-fuck me hard and rough with your fat cock! Fuck Billy with your fat juicy cock! Please!” He got harsher and needier in trying to meet your thrust into his hips. “I’m not happy about not finishing my work but I’ll make sure your satisfied.” You said before taking off all your clothes and the remainder of his but leaving his bra on. You were getting on your knees when he stopped you. “You don’t have to prepare Billy! Billy already did it when you were busy! Just stick your juicy cock in me!” He said bending over and opening his legs before spreading his ass with his hands so that you could see his hole that had an all to familiar plug in it. “So you did.. we’ll then I won’t go easy on you.” You took out the plug before letting it fall on the floor. You entered him deep and harshly making sure you hit him in all the right places in a continuous rhythm not letting him take a second to get used to it, obviously he didn’t mind it as he was screaming and moaning begging for more, drooling all over the desk.

You pulled his hands behind his back to continue thrusting in him moving around until you could find the place that made him lose his mind. “O-oh god! Please!! More! Please fuck me harder!!” He screamed louder and louder, it made you glad that the house was fairly far from the other houses. You pulled his hands to your waist before hugging his chest and fucking him while both of you were standing. “O-oh god yes!! Billy is so full! So full of piggy!! Please!! Yes! Agh!” His face was gorgeous, he had tears and drool running down his face cum staining his stomach as he had already cum twice and yet still not satisfied. His eyes barely open as if he was fighting to keep them open. “Billy I'm getting close.” You panted in his ear as your thrusts got sloppier. “Please!! Fill me with your dirty seed! Please Billy wants it!! Please please please please!!” He was begging to be filled to the brim and who were you to deny him? This continued until he was satisfied and passed out.

Now he was laid down in your shared bedroom after he was done and cleaned him up. “Oh Billy what am I gonna do with you?” You sighed out walking back into the office to deal with the damage hoping that the desk and laptop were still okay letting out a loud sigh.

Hope you guys like this! My first time posting an actual short on here. 🫶

[average-transdalorian]

Just Like Pa

“You’ll have to talk to the kid soon, y’know,” came the voice, pulling Michigan off the precipice of his oh-so-precious sleep.

“Hm?” He responded, rolling over to look at his former rival. The famous and feared G2 Nile was, as he was so often, sitting propped up on the bed, leaning against some Balam “Redgun Special®” Pillows (“70% tougher than before! That’s right you maggots, that’s 10% from each one of our badass top-tier Redguns,” those fucking commercials Balam had made him record assured him). Nile was peering through the reading glasses (that pretty much lived on Michigan’s nightstand these days) at some book or another; truly, he’d be a picture of the modern intellectual- if it weren’t for the augmentation ports peeking out of the top of his pajama shirt’s high collar, that is.

“You’ll have to talk to the kid soon,” Nile repeated, turning a page. “And don’t act dumb about it, we both know that you’v been keeping an eye on him, that his simulator scores are well below his pre-augmentation projections, and that he’s taken to the augmentations well enough that they can’t be the sole reason for the problem.”

Michigan studied Nike’s face for a moment, then sighed and turned back over. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ll be sure to catch you next time, you Furlong dog,” Nile said, soft and dry.

“Not in your trashy AC, you Balam asslicker,” Michigan replied by rote, a smile curling his lips.

————————————

Red checked the score on the simulator screen again and sucked a breath in through his teeth. Damnit, he thought, that bad again? No way in hell I’ll make it to G2 before the old man has to retire- no! He believes in me, I just have to put in more time practicing. I can do it. I can-

“G6 Red! You planning on letting the next guy sit on your lap, or are you gonna accompany me to my office?” Came the voice, breaking him from his reverie.

“Your office, G1 sir!” Red responded, snapping a quick salute as he climbed out of the simulator cockpit. Shit, he thought to himself, the Hero of Jupiter himself is going to be mad at me, isn’t he. I’ll make it up to him, though! I’ll do ten, no, twenty more of every set of workouts he has me do as punishment! And I’ll spend my every spare hour on the sims, so that I can be a worthy successor to him.

“At ease, kiddo! Take a seat,” Michigan said, closing the door behind him. “Now, I’m sure you don’t like the results you’re seeing on those sims, and I think I know why. Now, answer some basic questions for me. You had some sims back home and in basic training, right?

“Yessir,” Red answered, and swallowed nervously. He’s going to chew me out something awful, isn’t he.

“And you probably ran with some variation of my own LIGER TAIL, right G6?”

Michigan asked, taking his own seat.

“Yessir,” Red said again, anxiety still tight in his core.

“Well, I can’t blame you. It’s a damn good design, isn’t it! But y’see, G6, there’s this thing that happens when pilots get augmentations. Most of us find out that we’re actually kind of worthless trash with most designs! And then we poke around until we find the one that works for us,” Michigan said, tapping away at his keyboard.

“I’m… afraid I don’t understand, sir?” Red said, his brows furrowing.

“I’m gonna be straight with you, G6! Or at least, as straight as I can be! Your brain is NOT cut out for an AC like LIGER TAIL. There’s no shame in it, most pilots struggle with quadrupedal legs. However, you DO have a real solid sense of timing on when you should use whatever explosives you have on hand.” Michigan turned his monitor around, bringing Red face to face with a Melander. “Start from here, kiddo, and figure out what works best for you, alright? Make yourself into your own man, G6!”

“Yessir!” Red said, feeling the knot in his stomach untangle as he exhaled. My own man, huh? He thought. I think I can do that! I think I can be someone like G1 Michigan, but my own self too.

“Good talk, G6! Dismissed!” Michigan said, his voice ringing through the office.

“Thank you sir, I won’t let you down!” Red said, giving G1 Michigan one last snappy salute, before striding back towards the simulators, already sorting through which weapons he liked best in his mind.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch.25

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

A/N: This is the last chapter of the story. There's gonna be a trivia section/chapter, maybe a bonus chapter if enough people want.

First - Prev - Bonus Chapter - Trivia

CH.25

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, The Author of the Journals; my brother!”

“...Stanley, you don’t have to do that every time I come upstairs.”

“Sure I do! The Journals are The Mystery Shacks most popular exhibit!”

“Woah, there’s another Mr. Mystery?”

“Nah, I’m the only Mr. Mystery. That’s Dr. Mystery.”

“Oooh!”

“Can you take a break from your tour, Stanley? I need to talk to you about this trip I’m about to take.”

“Yeah yeah, just lemme pull the red ropes on the mirror maze room.”

(...)

“You swear your portal gun is stable this time?”

“So far it’s restricted to the continental United States, but soon enough I should be able to tweak it to include the western hemisphere, and then the planet, and then-.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself now, poindexter. You had to hitchhike your way back home last month. From Albuquerque.”

“It is not going to be like that, I will be back tomorrow. Promise.”

“Mhmm. Take your emergency travel bag with you just in case.”

“That isn’t-.”

“Ford.”

“Alright, dear brother of mine. If it’ll quell your irrational concerns.”

“You’re getting a little better at sarcasm, sixer. Can you tell me where you’re going?”

“Just a quick, overnight trip to Washington. Mothman tipped me off about a Batsquatch there. It’d make a great addition to Journal Four.”

“I can’t believe you still hang out with that thing.”

“I don’t need to hear that from Mr.‘But the Multi-Bear has good taste in music, Ford’.”

“Ya got me there. Hey, could ya project into my dreamscape tonight?”

“You said you didn’t need help traversing it anymore.”

“I don’t. But I wanna show ya something. Can’t while we’re awake.”

“Is this you trying to trick me into going to sleep at a reasonable time?”

“...It’s not a zero percent chance. But, really, I wanna show ya something.”

“Alright. Did Fiddleford call today?”

“Yeah. He’s got a conference this week though, so we can’t bug him about anything. Something about linking personal computers together.”

“Shame, I wanted to consult him about… Well, that doesn’t matter right now.”

“You could always come with us to that Jazzfest thing in a couple months.”

“Absolutely not. Last time I went to a concert with you two, you invited the Flesh Curtains ‘for old times sake’, then Fiddleford got drunk and almost evaporated the entire venue with a death ray because Sanchez put an arm around you.”

“Yeah, we really need to work on his jealousy. I really thought he’d stop after they built that giant death robot together…” 

(...)

“You’re sure Time Baby won’t know about this?”

“I made sure to schedule this during that dumb babies ‘tummy time’. We’re golden, Fordsy. Well, I’m golden at least. You’re more carbon-based than that.”

“Right. Normally, I’d take Stanley’s word for it when it comes to matters like this… But I need confirmation before I move forward with the next step.”

“Sure thing, sixer. Say what you need, specifically, so there’s absolutely no doubt what your intentions are.”

“Project us into the mindscape of Agent Powers, I need to confirm if he truly intended to kill Stanley.”

SNAP

(...)

“Get the hell away from my car, Powers! We talked about this, it’s paid off dammit!”

*Powers turns away from Stanley’s El Diablo, holding something in his hands behind his back*

“It’s a garbage car and it is still too good for a dredge on society like you, Pines.”

“Actually, it’s ‘Alcatraz’.”

“It doesn’t matter what fake name you’re using this time - we both know who you really are. Stanley Pines.”

“I’m afraid I dunno who that is. Now get away from my car before this turns into another fight.”

“Hmph. Another one you can’t finish?”

“Fuck off, pig.”

*Powers walks away, but slips a strap cutter, hose cutter, and screwdriver into his pockets*

“I see… this wasn’t a misunderstanding nor a crime of passion. He methodically planned on killing him and making it look like a tragic car accident.”

“So, IQ,  you’re saying he fucked up?”

“He fucked up big time, my muse.” 

(...)

Crackle

Crackle

Crunch

“Who’s there?”

“Agent Powers, lovely campsite you have here.”

“What-... Stanley Pines?”

“Close, but no cigar.”

“...You’re the other one. You’re that twin he had a picture of.”

“In the sun visor of his car? The one that you sabotaged?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Hm. Strange. You haven’t taken a leave of absence in six years; and yet, you started an extended leave months ago, suspiciously around the same time that Stanley Pines reported himself to the authorities as alive?”

“It was close to the holiday season.”

“And yet… Here you still are.”

“I- what is that thing you’re pointing at me?”

“Your full name is Nickolas Powers isn’t it?”

Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap

Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap

“What are you doing with that thing?”

“No, no, don’t try to back off, now. I’ve already set up a perimeter around your campsite, and if you try to run you’ll have quite the experience with pitfalls and barbed wire.”

“...Are you here to kill me?”

“I want to. Believe me, I want to. You tried to take my brother away from me. And for what? Because he was slippery? Because he was infuriating? Because he spared you during that shoot out with The Snakes Biker Gang?”

“...He was never going to improve, he was always going to be a nuisance and a leech on society. I don’t know how his entire criminal record managed to disappear without a trace overnight, but I know what he really is.”

“You knew he wasn't a killer. He’s far more forgiving than I am, he knows you killed him and revenge didn’t cross his mind. In a way, he’s more disappointed than angry. You were one of the few constants in his life, an antagonistic version of a ‘friend’, almost. And you killed him because you were angry that some teenager beat you but didn’t finish you off over a decade ago.”

“Clearly, I did not kill him if he could report himself as alive.”

“He did die, Powers. He died, but he came back and he lost himself, even when someone else saved him. He had no memories of who he really was… Didn’t know who I was when I met him again a year later.

But I brought him back. It took a lot of work, it took pain and effort, but I brought him back. But that doesn';'t change that you tried to take him away from me in the first place, and for a while you succeeded.

But to answer your earlier inquiry, no, I’m not here to kill you. At least, not physically.”

“Excuse me?”

“This gun can target specific memories based on the prompt that is typed in. And that includes the victims own name. I’m going to erase everything you are.”

“You-!”

*Powers attempts to get up and run, but trips over a shallow pit a few yards away, landing on his front*

“Don’t look away from me. Face me directly, Agent Powers. You think you’re such a cunning strategist, but you made one fatal mistake - you harmed my family.

Stanley Pines came back to himself because he had people who cared enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone, that it was safe to be himself again. I sincerely hope, for your sake, that you have people who love you enough to do the same for you.”

FWOOSHBZZZZT!

(...)

“I can see your mindscape is still shifting its presentation.”

“Yeah, it’s mostly boardwalk and beaches again… there’s still a lot of slot machines and snooker tables. Ms. Ramirez told me I shouldn’t try to separate my amnesiac self from… ya know, myself.”

“You did say early on that you were never anybody but yourself.”

“Heh, I did say that didn’t I?”

“What’d you want to show me, Stanley?”

“I remembered something from Glass Shard Beach - do you remember when we were trying to fix up the mast of the Stan O’War, but we only had loose rope and none of it was long enough?”

“Vaguely…”

“We found two ropes that would be long enough if we put ‘em together. We used a specific sailors knot to do it, the one that Horrible Eyesight Hawkins taught us when we were kids?”

“Yes, it was the Flemish Bend I believe.”

“Ya know, sixer, it’s been so many years I forgot some of steps.”

*Stanley manifests his half of the twin bond and offers the broken end to Stanford*

“Ya think if we worked together we could do one again?”

“I think… I think that is a brilliant idea.”

*Stanford manifests his half of the twin bond and offers the broken end to Stanley*

“I remember ya supposed to start with a figure eight on one rope.”

“Yes, and then you retrace it the opposite way with the other rope.”

“Then ya pull both standing ends of the rope in opposite directions.”

“And check that the knot is tied correctly.”

“By seein’ if there's three sets of parallel rope in it?”

“Indeed.”

“I think we got it, Stanford.”

“We certainly did, Stanley.”

The End… Go Home.

[your-unfriendlyghost]

it feels so…… weird… seeing a cishet dude be so chill with queer themes lmao your soda-in-drag moment, the stevepop of it all, even guys with queers in their friend circles can’t bring themselves to partake sometimes lmao 😭 but it’s cool !! refreshing even sjksksndks this is a /pos statement I promise

Thanks lol! I think it’s cos I’m fairly secure. Sorta. (I’m still prone to compensating for things and being a stupid teen boy, but like, I’m aware of it, at least when I stop to think. Yk I’ll still join in on dick measuring contests, but deep down I’ll know it’s dumb and performative.)

I guess I feel a kinship to queerness. I go to art school where I’m sometimes the only guy in a class of girls, and I’ve been the token straight guy in every friend group I’ve been in since freshman year of high school. Beyond that, growing up I was frequently mistook for a girl- I had long-ish hair (post bowl-cut era 😭) and I’m part Asian, I was pretty androgynous lol. People irl have thought I’m gay, or a trans man on testosterone (I mean fine, I guess I am pretty short and hang with a lot of trans guys.) Hell, I did drag on a dare once, back when I was even more secure. (And I was hot asf in drag lemme tell ya. It felt lousy and it’s definitely not my thing, but man if I had a clone who was a girl-) All this to say, I say I’m straight, but honestly I don’t really know. I like girls a lot, but I have seen a buddy of mine in drag, and lemme tell ya I felt something but I’m not gonna examine that rn lol. Straight just feels comfortable, safe, and it’s good for interacting with folks who ain’t so progressive, so it’s what I’m sticking with…but I’ll admit there’s a gray area.

I relate a lot to the guys in the Outsiders, and irl I like to present myself as a tough, cool, Very Masculine guy. Hell, sometimes I play dumb about stuff because it’s “feminine” and a guy like me shouldn’t know about it. I act a lot like how I write Steve Randle, he’s my guy I like to project on lol. Honestly, I’ve got a fair amount of internalized toxic masculinity. But I think because I know how silly it all is deep down, I can interact with queer themes in art without feeling like I’m not “man enough”. Idk, I suppose it’s an outlet in some ways. Who knows maybe in 2027 I’ll come out as bi or something, but don’t wait up.

idk, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like exploring queer themes, not because they’re queer necessarily, but because they’re human and I relate to them. And that’s hard not to partake in, y’know?