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siribaes · 26 days ago

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𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 — 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

── .✦ ݁₊ . contents: elijah ‘smoke’ moore x ( black!fem! ) original character. au so no annie my beloved. hella angst. plot-ish? no specific time period but period specific language & references. AAVE. illusions to smut. stoic!smoke. smoke's kinda mean in this one. semi-proofread so excuse the mistakes. minors don’t interact!

the before |

when it started, it was a sexual thing.

dim lighting. bodies packed in like sardines. clouds of cigarette hung above like a thick, storming brewing cloud. an crooning voice was the soundtrack to the absolutely sinful dancing that occurred. hips flushed against fronts— pestle and mortar. bump and grind.

it was truly, divine.

he noticed her first. leaning against a wooden column, after a long pull, blew a puff of smoke into the air. then she appeared— a vision amongst the clear.

on the other side of the room, she might as well have been standing right in front of him, the way the crowd melted away from his view. smoke had tunnel vision, his brain actively rewiring itself, altered chemistry, to note every detail of his mystery girl.

her dress was yellow, a literal sunspot amongst the fray of browns, grays, and other drab shades. she was curvy— just the way smoke liked. a real healthy figure, a full bosom, birthing hips, and a set of calves that smoke could have his way with.

got some meat on her bones.

her face was another story. the swells of her chubby cheeks held a cherubic quality that was rare, angelic even. a button nose, and full lips with a soft cupid’s bow. smoke liked the way her bottom lip was ever-so-slightly bigger than her top ones.

more to kiss on.

her eyes, big and bright held a some trouble in them. smoke liked that. trouble. she would give a run for his money, that he knew. those same lips held a soft smile, as she danced to the music. seeing his mystery girl in motion was magical. she moved in a way that intrigued smoke, he never seen someone move to in such a way. she was in sync with the rhythm and the timbre, yet it wasn’t the mississippi way of low and slow. the mystery girl was fast, moving her feet and limbs with precision. an indication that she wasn’t from here.

tennessee? or maybe the carolinas? further up north?

either way smoke wanted to know. he wanted to know her, her name, where her family’s from, even more intimately, was she shy? or would she let him stick his tongue in her—

all those thoughts were suspended when those same brown eyes smoke had fantasized about were staring back at him.

smoke’s mind might’ve been playing tricks, but he swore he saw a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. she stopped dancing, and stared. she didn’t bother to give smoke the infamous once over he gotten most of his adult life.

you look familiar? which one you is? stack or smoke? you such and such son, huh?

she simply regarded him.

that was different. she was different.

smoke took another pull, letting the cigarette smoke exhale from his nostrils. he gave a moment of brevity before nodding towards her. the mystery girl returned his nod, then in a blink, she vanished.

the abruptness of her departure, made smoke lift off the wooden column. his eyes scanned the crowd, his mystery girl, the sunshine amongst the drab, was gone. there was movement at the entrance-exit but it was too far a way to tell.

smoke cursed himself, instantly the color of the world around him muted. the air became too thick, and the music was suddenly too slow. he needed some air.

the night air was pleasantly crisp, which was rare for this time of year. even the slight breeze the nipped at his neck. it was rare night indeed. the gravely dirt crunched against his shoes. they were oxfords, stack told him, they look nice. he took heed of stack’s advice—smoke never cared much about fashion or how he looked that was his brother’s thing. as he walked towards his car, halfway he stopped. lady luck had shone down on him—there she was, his mystery girl standing by the big oak tree, looking outward to the lake. smoke pivoted, walking towards her.

the gravel-dirt switched to soft grass underneath smoke’s shoes the closer he got. he even slowed his movements not wanting to scare off his mystery girl. she had been flighty once. smoke ventured closer, stopping until he was a some feet behind her. he didn’t speak, instead he noticed how much smaller she was compared to him. it was easily a six-inch difference.

“i love comin’ out here. it’s always so peaceful,”

her voice was smoky and sweet. a gentle rhythm the way she said certain words, there was a unique combination of a drawl, and typewriter’s pace.

“and the way the fireflies float above the water, it’s like they’re dancin’,”

smoke turned and looked. the fireflies flickered there tail bulbs in a musical synchrony, swirling and turning above the water, in constellation like structures. nature’s beauty.

“i’m lila by the way,”

lila. lila. she—no, lila, now stood in front of him, a hand stretched out towards him. he took her hand, the delicate softness of skin contrasted with smoke’s rough callouses. their hands fit like perfect puzzle pieces. his mind wondered—how else they would fit.

“smoke,”

“smoke?”

“yes ma’am,”

lila cocked her head. she eyed smoke, regarding him. then, she giggled.

smoke steeled over. there wasn’t much in this world that smoke didn’t care for, but being laughed at was one of them.

“what’s funny?” smoke gruffed.

“oh,” shock flashed briefly in her eyes, before morphing into a soft, reflective nostalgia as she brought her fingers to her lips. “i ain’t mean nothin’ by it, uh, my cousin, we call him ash…”

oh.

smoke rolled his shoulders, releasing some of the tension that suddenly built up inside. something about lila crackled his nerves. he felt himself growing fidgety. he needed another cigarette.

“you don’t talk much do you?”

now it was smoke’s turn to cock his head.

lila was an observant thing.

“can do more than i could ever say,”

“really,” lila’s lips quirked. eyes glossing over as she did more than just regard him. her gaze raked over smoke’s build, slow and syrupy, like thick molasses. when she finally met his eyes, they were filled a fiery heat, that was just begging to be tamed.

lila stepped closer. her heels brushed against the soft grass as she stood in front of him. her right hand hovered over his chest. a heat sparked between them, sensual—carnal. one move, a single word uttered could ignite a flame. that flame ignited, twice over, lila placed her hand on smoke’s chest. the touch, gentle yet firm, a promise of more. then she spoke—

“what would you do with me?”

words laced want and desire, weaved its way inside of smoke, rooting itself inside of his very being. it drove him.

drove smoke to kiss lila. to grip her fleshy hips. to press lila’s soft body against the rigged bark of the oak tree, sticking stuck his tongue in the softest parts of her. to fuck her within an inch of her life, leaving her throat hoarse from all the moaning and screaming she did.

a sexual thing.

this thing between lila and smoke, quickly became routine. every second tuesday they would meet in the cover of night, and make love fuck.

a sexual thing.

smoke fucked lila everywhere and any which position. cowgirl in the motorcar. doggy in the grass. standing missionary against the trunk of the oak tree. and this one move they were doing up in philadelphia called the seashell. those moments with lila was a private piece of heaven that smoke kept for himself. away from keen eyes and nosy busybodies, even away his brother, for whom he loved dearly, but smoke needed something of his own. this was it.

and with every encounter smoke noticed the little things lila did for him. after the third, or was it the fourth—smoke couldn’t remember but, lila started to dab perfume oil behind her ears and the backs of her thighs. it smelled like jasmine. smoke liked that. she brought rags to wipe himself off with (not that he didn’t have any, sometimes he would run out during rounds. a self proclaim pull-out king, sometimes one just wasn’t enough). a flask filled with cognac and finally, a metal lighter with an engraving of his name.

he remembered the night, exactly.

“i got you somethin’,” lila said. it came out in a huff, she was still catching her breath, smoke had worn her every which way but loose.

they were laying on the grass. full moon's light shining down on them. in the distance the crickets chirped. it was peaceful. lila reached behind her, pulling a small package of parchment paper. she smiled, a gentle one, and handed it to smoke.

"hope you like it,"

he began unwrapping—peeling back the layers neatly folded parchment, with as much care as he could muster. smoke wasn't a careful man, cautious maybe, but careful, no.

smoke's heart panged.

in the paper lay a small sliver lighter. smooth to the touch, it was a marvel of craftsman. something twisted inside him when saw his name—his real one, engraved on the side.

lila sat up on her knees, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"i found it, untouched, in my daddy's old things. he was never much of a smoker like my granddaddy was. so, i was on my way to shop to sell for somethin', then i saw you. well, not you, but stack,"

"you met stack?"

"yeah! he's awful fun and that laugh. i get why all the girls swoon. anyway, we got to talkin' and he told me y'alls birthday was soon. consider it an early birthday gift,"

smoke traced his name. elijah. e-l-i-j-a-h.

no one had ever shown him a kindness like this, ever—emotion hit him like a tidal wave, huge and overwhelming. the deep, achy part, the amplified disesteem— that nipped at the corners of his mind reared its ugly head. immediately, his reflexes kicked in. smoke rose to his feet, zipping his fly, and buckling his belt. he tried to ignore, the look on lila's face as he got himself together.

"smoke? is everything, alright?" she was soft, too, soft. he sensed the disappointment her voice. "talk to me,"

smoke didn't respond as he buttoned his dress-shirt. lila moved in front of him. her bright eyes were dimming.

"do you not like it? i can take back, pawn it maybe. you don't have to keep it,"

"don't be silly," smoke rasped.

"silly?" there was a slight irritation in her voice. " i'm bein' silly? oh, guess when i let you stick your tongue in my cunny, i was bein' silly then too,"

"it wasn't nothin' you ain't want,"

"oh, fuck you, elijah!"

echoes of memories, very unkind ones flooded his brain. his fingers twitched as he wrestled with the top button. on the inside he was a mess of emotions, painful memories of old collided with painful new ones. on the outside, smoke was stoic as stone. unmovable, not shaken in the slightest—that had pissed lila off more as she huffed sliding her heels onto her feet.

"you're a piece of work, y'know that? i got you the damn thing 'cause i cared," lila glared at him as she shifted her dress on her hips. "i never wanted anything from you, smoke. nothing at all," she paused. a wave of a emotion flooded her too. she wiped roughly at a tear the fell from her eye.

"story of my life of my life, i guess. i always fall for the man who can't love me back,"

those words played in his mind, on repeat, on the drive back. it was silent, lila angled her body away from smoke the entire ride. and when the car stopped in front of her house, lila left the car, slamming it behind her. she disappeared into the doorway, not bothering to glance back. why would she? smoke hadn't given her any reason to.

i always fall for the man who can't love me back.

smoke palmed the lighter in his hand. the engine roared as smoke sped off into the night. pain filling his chest, at the realization, lila amongst many before, was but a memory, now.

a painful one.

── .✦ ݁₊ . ݁₊ .✦ ݁──

[ a/n: omgggg hi! i literally wrote this in a day, but i had to join the sinners fan-club, the film was excellent, so if you have the chance definitely go see it in theatres! this is a two-parter, so all the mushy-gushy, reunion smut will be in the next part lol ]

#siribaesfics #elijah smoke moore x oc #elijah smoke moore x black!oc #smoke x oc #elijah smoke moore fanfiction #sinners fanfiction #black fanfiction #poc fanfiction #woc fanfiction

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unintentionalseductress · 29 days ago

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Uncoded

Warnings: ANGST, slow burn, self-deprecation, general sadness, NO SMUT Summary: Stuck in Linkon City, you never thought you'd be someone other than the MC. What happens when you spawn in the game as an NPC? WC: 8.8 K A/n: Hello everyone! I know it's been a hot minute since I wrote a oneshot, and thank you to all the kinds folks that reached out after I said I was let go a few weeks ago. I'm taking a break after being burnt out at that job, and planning my next moves, but I do want to get back into the joy I found while writing. And who is this girl, there's no smut?! *gasps*

The operating room was cold, and the bright overhead light caught on sterile surgical tools that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. The regular beeping from a heart rate monitor, the hissing and mechanical thunks of the machines that supported the delicate task of the operation filled the room, broken only by the shuffle of surgical gowns and the clink of metal as the used tools were discarded into a separate bowl after their use.

"Bovie," Zayne says, his voice low but clear.

You passed it to him carefully, your gloves brushing against his briefly, and still, despite the dozen or so times you had done this seemingly insignificant act, it sent little tingles of electricity down your spine. Zayne doesn’t flinch. He never does. He was laser-focused on his patient, the cautery moving with robotic precision along the patient’s heart, the pungent smell of charred tissue mingling with the clean air of the operating theatre.

Your gaze lingers on him longer than intended. The surgical mask hid most of his face, but his eyes were narrowed in utmost concentration. He always looked like that when he operated, calm and unwavering. Nothing outside the human heart he held in his gloved hands mattered. It was admirable, but you couldn’t stop the sharp pang of longing that lodged itself in your chest every time you assisted in the operating room.

He doesn’t see me.

You don’t know when the thought first curled into you like a parasite, but it lived there now, quiet, constant, gnawing away at your insides.

“Retractor,” Zayne requests.

Your hands automatically move, anticipating his needs. As the operation theatre grows quiet again, your mind wanders.

It had happened three days ago.

You had gotten home from another long day. The world was dark, work sucked, and you had no desire to do anything. After reheating a bowl of leftovers and doing your nighttime routine, you had curled up in bed under the warmth of the comforter, and logged in to the only thing bringing you any semblance of relief from your otherwise shitty reality. The dim glow of your phone screen bounced off the white walls of your bedroom as a familiar cafe suddenly bloomed into life, and a man dressed in a black shirt and black slacks made his appearance.

“You’re here.” He extended his hand towards you, and you’d tapped his palm, wishing he were real.

You tapped the relax time icon and chose the option for holding hands, feeling warmth spread into your chest as he intertwined his simulated fingers with yours, before kissing the back of your hand.

“Thank you for being my stress relief.” He released your screen hand and took a few steps back. You zoomed in to focus on his face, admiring the sharp amber-green eyes, the straight curve of his nose, and the black hair that fell softly onto his forehead. You tapped his lips.

"If your hands keep being mischievous, I can show you how surgeons tie knots."

You giggled, and repeated the action before he finally got fed up, and turned his back to you, during which time, you amused yourself by poking his bottom, watching as he tensed up and shook his head in disapproval. You played the claw machine with him, then tenderly tapped his face one last time before logging out of the game.

“If only.” You’d murmured into the darkness, as his handsome face consumed your thoughts again, as sleep overtook you.

“Zayne…” you sighed his name, aching for him, even though you knew it was ridiculous, pining over a fictional man that didn’t exist.

And then…You awoke abruptly. You squinted against the harsh lights that filled your vision and realized you were in a sleeping pod, like the ones in the game. How had you ended up here? Even stranger, why did the guy who had woken you up look like…

“Greyson?” You’d asked as he pulled you up by the wrist.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Dr. Zayne is about to operate on an unstable patient. OR 2 stat!” You followed along clumsily as Greyson escorts you, and soon you’re in the atrium outside of the OR.

Greyson presses the intercom button. “I found her, Dr. Zayne. Good luck.”

You’d glanced around in panic, wondering what to do when your body acted on its own accord. Suddenly, you’re scrubbing with the surgical soap, washing up to your elbows, a voice in your head counting the seconds, then drying off. You walked into the OR and an assistant held out gloves, which you dipped your hands into, marveling at how they were the right size. Your feet automatically carried you towards the operating table, where you could just make out the lead surgeon, completely covered by his mask and cap, sharp eyes glaring at your approach. You’d assumed the position in front of the surgical instrument tray.

“Thank you for joining us.” There’s a bite of impatience and obvious sarcasm, and your heart jolted as you recognized the voice.

“Beginning anasthesia, Dr. Zayne.” One of the medical staff members calls to him.

“Scalpel,” Zayne stated simply, his hand extending towards you in expectation.

And your hands moved in response, gloved and steady, body responding like you’d done this your entire life.

You’d glanced up several times during the procedure, trying not to pass out from the giddy way your heart fluttered, and your stomach flipped each time he asked for another instrument. There he was…Zayne.

Alive. Breathing. Not pixels. Not a script. A man.

Your breath had caught in your throat as you observed him. Sweat had gathered on his brow as he’d operated, and when he’d turned to face towards you, your hand had reached for the designated towel to gently pat his brow clean, feeling like you could melt at how intimate the gesture felt. It was like a dream come alive. And for the duration of the surgery, you’d felt like the luckiest woman on the planet. It was only after that that your dream had quickly turned into a nightmare.

You’re jarred back to the present as Zayne makes a quiet sound in his throat. “Forceps.”

You quickly handed him the pair.

“Good,” he murmured, more to the heart he was holding than to you.

You had tried to understand the rules of this world. You weren’t a scrub nurse, not in real life. You didn’t know the first thing about being in an operating theatre.

But here, your body is moving like it has been trained. You knew his surgeries by heart, knew what he would ask for next, and had knowledge about how long each surgical procedure would run. Everything was scripted, everything was clean.

A background NPC.

It had been humbling to realize it. Yet you couldn’t help but hope anyway. Hope Zayne would see you. Would realize how much you had yearned for him, separated by a screen, memorizing every microexpression on his face.

“Closing sutures,” Zayne says briskly, and you hand the needle holder, locking eyes with him briefly over his mask, before he looks away. Another successful surgery. Thanks to you. But you’d already known what would happen the moment Zayne left the OR.

He didn’t say thanks, didn’t even acknowledge your presence. And the reason why was obvious. Glancing up at the large viewing gallery, you saw someone sitting in the front row of seats, someone you knew intimately, despite having never spoken in this world.

Her eyes were exactly like yours. She had the same mouth and nose, features you’d painstakingly crafted while glancing into a mirror every few seconds, and her hair was styled in a cut that you would have loved to have, but were too unsure to try. She was wearing the distinct Hunter’s uniform and was gazing intently at Zayne.

You tried not to let the wave of envy swallow you as you looked at her. She was you after all. Or rather, the version of her you’d created in the game; the all-important MC.

And Zayne had eyes for no one but her, his view fixated on her form. She smiles and gives him a thumbs up, and you see the effect she has on him. His shoulders, which had been tense and bunched, grew slack. He raises ten fingers, and points to the operation theatre door, and your MC nods, getting up to meet him.

He brushed past you, and you felt your stomach lurch, silently following him to scrub out. Your mind was chewing away at the thoughts inside your head, and even though you knew what to expect, you still couldn’t stop the first pang of pain that hit your heart when you Zayne and your MC in the staff lounge. You quickly ducked into the fridge, pretending to grab some yogurt.

Zayne, real, impossibly tangible Zayne, was leaning towards her, their body language too comfortable with each other to suggest this as a recent development. His face had softened, and his voice, when he spoke, carried a tone of warmth you had never heard when it came to addressing his surgical staff.

“Glad you waited,” he said, an almost imperceptible quirk in his lips that has your MC grinning at him as she shakes a paper bag in front of Zayne’s face.

“I brought those steamed buns you like. Thought you could use something warm after three back-to-back cases.”

You had imagined this very scenario several times when you had been playing the game, being the MC and handing Zayne a snack after his surgery had finished. At that time, it felt like anything was possible.

Zayne takes the bag from her and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

That’s when it hits you.

This wasn’t the beginning of the relationship between Zayne and your MC. He already knew her, had allowed her to become part of his life, and sought her out after a hard day.

In this world, this prewritten, coded dream, Zayne already loved her.

The realization steals the breath from your lungs, and suddenly, you feel like you are intruding on a private moment. You quickly close the fridge and sprint out of the lounge.

The game texts you had been replying to, believing it was you, were actually being sent by your MC. The confessions Zayne sent, which you had thought were meant for you, were for her.

Your MC was the one who got his late-night messages and accepted his coffee invitations. She got his time, his kindness, his smile. And it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

You had always known the game version of yourself was awesome. Of course, she was. She was smart, a professionally trained hunter with a badass job. She had hobbies and a fit body. She was witty and sassy, and everyone loved her, including you. Which was why you had tried your best to model her after yourself.

But she’s not me. She’s everything I’m not.

The awful truth of it all sinks in.

She’s the better version of me. Of course, he doesn’t see me. Why would he?

You reach the hospital’s rooftop, which was covered with rows and rows of potted plants, Linkon’s attempt at creating a calming environment. You slink away between the rows of tall trees, which engulf you, creating the perfect hiding spot.

Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you sob quietly.

Zayne had been your comfort character, the one you wanted to see at the end of the day, even if he wasn’t real. But now he was, and somehow, you wished you could go back; back to the days when you could delude yourself into believing Zayne could love you, not the MC version of you, but the real you.

Yet he was blissfully unaware of your existence, cozying up with the MC you had made, while you sat alone, the cool night air whipping your face, drying the salty tracks that covered your cheeks.

I’m not someone he would love. I’m nobody. Nobody.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

In the days that followed, you tried to make yourself known. Your MC was amazing, but only because you had designed her so. After the misery of the previous night, you decided that despite the game dynamics, there might still be hope.

You couldn’t help it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite knowing he didn’t perceive you in any meaningful way, you couldn’t help but want to attempt to leave an imprint, some kind of trace to make him aware of your existence.

You tried to carry yourself with purpose as you strutted down the halls of Akso Hospital, straight-backed and buoyed by the small chance of possibility. The tablet in your hands had been opened to the patient scheduled for surgery today, a casual way to open a conversation, in your opinion. You spied Zayne at the nurses’ station and made your way over. It would appear like small talk, a tiny opening into his field of vision.

“Dr. Zayne.” You say his name quietly as you approach. That turn as he heard his name, the brief blink of surprise, followed by recognition. Your breath caught as his gaze fixed on you, almost driving the entire premise of the conversation out of your mind. His eyes fall on the tablet you’d pushed towards him, and he looks at you expectantly.

“I had a question regarding today’s surgery.” You manage to say, trying not to sound breathless. Another blink, followed by a nod.

“Yes, go on.”

“I see the patient was a smoker. He’s due for a transplant. I wanted to know if there are any precautions I should take, or any steps of the procedure I should exercise more caution. Or perhaps stock more supplies for.”

And there it was: a brief, almost imperceptible quirk to his lips, like he’d nearly smiled at you. How long had you stared at the screen of your phone, watching and tenderly memorizing every micro expression he made?

“A very astute question,” he says with a touch of praise, and it instantly triggers a million butterflies in your stomach, wings beating rapidly inside you. “You’ll want to make sure we have extra clamps, and notify the blood bank ahead of time to ensure we have some in case of an emergency. Double check his blood type.”

You nod, hanging onto every word like a smitten schoolgirl. “And…should I prepare OR 2?”

“Yes, please do.” The sharp lines of his face have lessened. “It is my preferred OR after all.”

“I’ve noticed,” you reply, unwilling to lose the flow of the moment. “May I ask why?”

Zayne is about to respond when his gaze suddenly fixates on something behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder, then feel your heart drop to your knees as your MC makes an appearance again. The moment shatters like glass.

“What are you doing here?” Zayne steps around you to greet your MC, like you were a tree obstructing his view.

“You left your charger at my place,” you hear her reply, and your heart sinks another inch or so towards the floor. If he had left the charger at her place, then that must mean…

You stop yourself. It was too painful to imagine. You were barely two feet away, the tablet lying on the counter, forgotten. Neither of them notices as you pick it up and leave.

A few days later, you tried again. You had convinced yourself that the last time had been a coincidence, that the arrival of your MC had been the only factor that had deviated from what had been an otherwise positive conversation.

It was lunchtime, and you saw an opportunity to maybe try bonding with him over a weakness of his.

“Dr. Zayne.” You call out as you meet him near the elevator. He turns, clearly not expecting you.

“I heard they’ve made that chocolate mint cake today in the cafeteria. Maybe we should try to snag a slice before it’s all gone?”

This time, a genuine glimmer of interest in his eyes, followed by a huff of what appeared to be amusement.

“Word certainly seems to spread around the hospital.”

“Of course. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret, right?” You banter back carefully. “Your fondness for sweets?”

Zayne fixates on the panel of buttons in the elevator and remains quiet, but you observe the way his ears turn red, an endearing sight indeed, something you’d loved about him since seeing it in the cafe screen interactions.

“No, I suppose not,” he says after a beat, and you try to suppress your smile. It was the closest you had been to him outside the operating room. “But I’ll admit it’s a bit disconcerting that people have noticed this about me so easily.”

“Or maybe,” You boldly begin, then push on. “They notice these things because they want to get to know you better. It creates reasons to interact, you know?”

He considers this, then nods in agreement. “I suppose that’s a more flattering way to look at it. I think it’s nice that people want to get to know me.”

Your heart feels like it might burst from your chest, and just as you’re about to ask him if he takes coffee with his cake, the elevator doors ping open, and you feel the air rush out of your lungs.

There stands your MC, and in her hands is a little paper plate carrying a slice of the cake you had been talking about seconds ago. Zayne’s eyes light up, little fireflies against the dark backdrop of his irises before he approaches her, and you once again, fade into the background.

You can hear the warmth in his tone, the way his movements are casual as he draws her away from the crowd. Passersby look at them with smiles on their faces. Look at the young, happy couple. Look at them stealing away to enjoy a small moment of privacy, the intimate exchange too obvious to ignore. You step hollowly out of the elevator. The cafeteria was out of cake by the time you arrived. You buy a cold slice of pizza and eat it alone at the table in the farthest corner of the room.

The final ditch attempt to get his attention was quiet. A fragile action in the hope that he would at least remember your name, or show some form of acknowledgement. You made a cup of tea, his favorite one, your hands trembling as you steeped it in the lunge, carefully cradling the cup as you brought it to his office. The door was open, but he wasn’t in, so you’d placed it on his desk with a sticky note, nothing fancy, a simple “Till your next surgery.” Part of you, the foolish little part that refused to believe Zayne wasn’t yours, had made this last-minute decision, but your mind was already braced for the crushing rejection.

You exit his office and are a few feet away when you hear footsteps, and you glance back to see Zayne and your MC enter his office, the door clicking shut. You’re unable to stop yourself from walking back, placing your ear against the door, hoping to hear what you so desperately wanted.

Inside, Zayne lifts the cup and sniffs it, little rifts of steam still arising from it, frowning. He glances at your MC, and you hear his question muffled through the door.

“Did you leave this?” he asks your MC, who looks puzzled.

“No, but it’s your favorite, right?” She asks in your voice, the voice you’d spent so much time customizing in an attempt to make it sound like you. And it did sound like you. A more musical, attractive version of you. Just like the rest of her.

You hear Zayne take a sip, followed by a hum of appreciation, before your MC starts teasing him about how absent-minded he’d grown, brewing tea himself and forgetting about it.

The door felt like it put dimensions between you. You were always the outsider, trying to find a way in. It wasn’t meant to be. The comfort you used to find from Zayne was long gone. It had been crushing to let go of the one final thing you’d used to escape from your crappy reality. Now, the thing that gave you joy was the source of your angst.

You’d escape this world if you knew how. But you were trapped, forever the wallpaper, never given more than a second’s glance before people moved on. Even if you went back to reality, how were you supposed to cope, knowing you had been so close to the love of your life, yet unable to make him open to your presence?

That the man you’d idolized was in love with another version of you, who had been crafted so perfectly that you almost wanted to scream at the injustice. You felt the betrayal keenly, resentment welling up inside you. The MC was you. YOU. How could a fictional version of yourself outdo you so astoundingly?

You wanted nothing more than to put a universe's worth of distance between yourself and Zayne. To disappear into the vast region of Linkon City and never reappear. But the game dynamics limited your mobility. You had an apartment (surprisingly like the one your MC had), which your programmed self knew how to enter, and the route between there to Akso hospital was the standard routine.

Like a never-ending loop, against your will, you had to join Zayne in the operating theatre no matter how much it hurt you. And you hated it. Hated him. Well, not really. You loved him. And the sharp razor blade sting you felt inside your chest every time you looked at him, while he looked at someone else, was all you had.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You withdrew as the days went by. Like a chameleon, blending into your surroundings, inconspicuous. Somedays, you felt like a ghost, certain that if you stood in someone’s way, they’d walk right through you and not notice a thing.

With no way out of the game, you performed your surgical tasks robotically, not looking at Zayne unless it was necessary, handing the instruments and backing away until he asked for the next one.

He, of course, was unperturbed. Zayne continued with his surgeries, consultations, and his regular meetings with your MC. Since the day of the teacup incident, you’d tried your best to avoid noticing their interactions, but the hospital seemed to be smitten with them.

All the nurses would giggle whenever she dropped in and asked if Zayne was in a meeting, or when Zayne would change into a set of fresh clothes before leaving the hospital in anticipation of a date night.

During one surgery, you had been close enough to observe a faint, pink hickey on his neck, and had looked away, resisting the urge to stab his awaiting hand with the scalpel you were meant to hand him. Prim, proper, Dr. Zayne, who should have been so professional and discreet, was now unbothered about turning up to work with hickeys on his neck. The damn man had no shame. That’s what you’d told yourself as you’d quickly run to scrub out after the surgery had ended. And shouldn’t your MC have known better than to do something so brazen? She was a wild little freak as far as you were concerned, and it helped to believe this narrative rather than to accept the inevitable: that they were a young couple falling in love.

“DeBakey foreceps.” Zayne’s hand appears in front of you again.

You’re about to comply, the game coding driving your hand towards him, when you feel a pull of defiance bubble inside you. What would happen if you didn’t promptly hand him what he needed? Wilful restraint stilled your hand, satisfaction flooding your veins when the game seemed to freeze at your unwillingness to oblige the scripted system. You hadn’t asked to be an NPC; you had sentience, and the rebellious act was sweet. Your hand jerks as the code tries to make you submit, but you persevere, savoring the little control you have.

“DeBakey foreceps,” Zayne repeats, and this time, you notice something strange; a small ripple distorts the room, the occupants becoming temporarily distorted, pixelated shapes, before order is restored. The retractor in your hands fades away, reappearing in Zayne’s, and he continues his surgery as though nothing has happened.

No one had seen it. Your heart hammered in your chest as you started to piece together what had happened. Had the code simply overrode your attempt at defying the game's logistics? You had a theory; you wait until you were out of surgery to test it.

There were no deviations in the route of an NPC. Once the day had ended, you always took the same train to the apartment. Today, as you stepped outside the hospital, you make a cautious step in the opposite direction of the train station. When you had tried this before, the game pixelated and reset you back at the entrance of Akso Hospital.

Today, nothing happens. Your small act of noncompliance had changed the dynamics. You take a few more steps, feeling the rush of freedom soar into your heart before breaking into a sprint. You were no longer bound by the rules of the game; an unchained NPC.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

The days that followed were a giddy fantasy. The game could no longer call upon you to do your fixed role. You put the liberation to good use, exploring much of Linkon City, using whatever gold the game gave you to space out your time at the various cafes, bookstores, and amusement parks.

Although the pain of being jilted by Zayne still lingered, it was easier to ignore now that there was distance between you and him. Your heart ached whenever you walked past a dessert place, old memories of your imaginings coming alive, of taking Zayne and doing a tasting menu with him.

Now you ate the desserts alone, appreciating the macarons, cakes, and delicious mocha lattes as the richness flowed on your tongue. Some days, you could convince yourself that things were ok. That you would heal and that you’d eventually move on from Zayne.

It still ached deep within that you had the perfect man in your palm, only to realize he was just that; a man, and despite the game’s premise, men didn’t go for the mousy bookworms. Even in fantasies, they went for the cheerleader, and nothing could change the balance of that system.

Besides, you thought, as you sat on the rooftop of your apartment building, watching the sunset, Zayne probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. There would be a new scrub nurse, one who didn’t love him, who would have replaced you, like slipping a brick into an open spot in a wall. His world wouldn’t stop at your absence.

But sometimes you wish it would.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

Back at Akso hospital, Zayne had in fact continued with his routine as expected, but with one small change; he had started to notice things.

The first few days after you had walked out of Akso Hospital had been the same; there had been no issues getting through his surgeries, and he’d proceeded just as he always had. The voices and faces of the other staff had always been insignificant to him. It didn’t matter. Per NPC rules, they merely stood there to ensure game function continued. He’d done his rounds, completed his charts, and met with your MC as usual.

But a few days after the incident, he’d glanced at the scrub nurse handing him the tool and squinted, feeling a little unsettled. He could’ve sworn the scrub nurse that assisted him was different, the features of your face fuzzy in his mind, but he was confident he wasn’t mistaken.

Sensing his hesitation, the replacement NPC asks, “Is everything all right, Dr. Zayne?”

“Yes, yes,” Zayne murmurs, accepting the tool from her, but he can’t shake off the feeling that something is amiss. “Did you ask me if we could get cake together in the cafeteria?” he asks.

The NPC’s eyebrows raise, and she shakes her head no.

“Never mind then.” Zayne refocuses on his patient, but there’s a nagging feeling that this wasn’t the order of things. Your MC floats into his mind, yet he feels like he’s seeing differences in his memory.

Your MC’s eyes, so symmetrical and large, yet another almost-identical pair replaces them, not quite so symmetrical, but still quite pretty. The perfect, glossy little Cupid’s bow of your MC’s lips fades to be replaced by ones that are pressed into a line of attention while poring over a medical chart, dry from the lack of self-care.

Why was he thinking of these things? He was in love with who he needed to be per the code. And his girlfriend was perfect, a vision of beauty. Yet all he could focus on now were the small imperfections he thought he remembered, and finding them more attractive than he thought he did.

“Was there someone before you?” he asks the new scrub nurse, hoping the answer would be no. The new scrub nurse nods, and Zayne feels a little lurch inside his stomach.

“I’m not sure what happened to her. Perhaps a game update made her obsolete?” The NPC suggests, and Zayne tries to appear nonchalant.

“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Let’s focus here, please.” He redirects the room’s attention back onto the patient, and silence falls once again, leaving him alone to mull over his thoughts and misgivings. Even if there was someone different before, why did it matter? The routes were on track, he was performing as he should be. It absolutely made no difference.

Once the surgery was over, he scrubbed out and prepared for a follow-up appointment. The patient smiles at him as he enters his office.

“No pain since the transplant?” Zayne asks as he inspects the fading incision in the man’s chest.

“None at all! And your scrub nurse was so kind to me post-op. Kept checking in to make sure I was comfortable.”

“My scrub nurse…?” Zayne falters, and suddenly he recalls a tablet being pushed towards him, and questions about precautionary measures to be taken before a transplant surgery. He purses his lips, and the patient grows silent, noticing the pensive look on Zayne’s face.

“Can you remind me…what did my scrub nurse look like?”

The patient looked taken aback at the question, but answered politely, and it did nothing to satisfy Zayne’s curiosity. For all that mattered, he had described the MC in almost striking detail. Yet he knew it couldn’t have been the MC…she had left the hospital after giving him his charger…and he’d gone into surgery with…

As Zayne becomes increasingly broody, the game ripples like it had the other day, only this time, he sees it; all the crisp objects and the patient in his office becoming pixelated before the world seems to snap like a whip, and all is well again. Shaken, Zayne stares at the patient who seems oblivious to what has occurred.

“Your incision is healing well.” Zayne moves away as the patient rebuttons his shirt and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “Let’s schedule another follow-up in a month. You can make your appointment with the receptionist.”

Zayne is almost impatient as he waits for the patient to leave, and once he’s exited the office, Zayne quickly gathers his belongings and drives home. The house was silent, and when he went to his bedroom, there was the MC, snug under the covers, exactly how things should be.

But he’s restless as he slips into bed, trying his best to remain neutral as the MC turns to snuggle into him. Even as everything felt right, it felt like he was doing this simply because he was told to do it. A puppet, all his actions triggered by little prewritten things inside the game’s engine.

Zayne sleeps fretfully, and when morning arrives, he’s dreading the day for some unfathomable reason. He did not need to feel this way. Wasn’t everything working like it should? He had his career, MC was humming in the kitchen, and he was in love. Or, something resembling love.

What was love anyway? A neurochemical response in the brain. Were his responses to love also coded? Did the game begin the neurochemical cascade inside him when MC made an appearance? Or was it more so, the game ensured MC was always around him, thus ensuring he developed some sort of attachment to her? What was love, really?

Unbidden, a neglected, steaming teacup filled with his favorite, freshly brewed tea, comes into mind, and he jerks up in bed, his heart racing.

This can’t be it. He was doing it right. He was with the person he was supposed to love. He shouldn’t be fixating on teacups and tablets, and quiet eyes that observed him intently during all his surgeries. These were mere background elements, required entities to move the game forward. He shouldn’t be recognizing them, much less feeling this jittery sensation in his stomach when he thought of them. No. No, clearly he must be coming down with something. Perhaps this was due to the pending update. Yes, once the update is installed, this would go away, and everything would return to normal. It was a glitch, surely. He gets ready in haste and kisses MC goodbye.

“Meet you for dinner!” She says sweetly, squeezing his hand. He smiles wearily at her, hoping she doesn’t notice and goes about his day.

But as he wandered the halls of Akso Hospital, he was further disconcerted at the fact that things that were supposed to remain as insignificant attributes were now starting to become quite conspicuous. Was Greyson’s hair always brown? Had Yvonne always had bangs? He keeps noting these small things in various other characters as well, and a few hours into his shift, Zayne is visibly shaken.

“Dr. Zayne, are you all right?” Greyson asks concernedly. Zayne had been spacing out, his eyes glassy and unfocused as Greyson spoke to him about a paper.

“Greyson…” Zayne shakes his head and makes a split-second decision. “Do you remember the scrub nurse who assisted on my last heart transplant surgery?”

Greyson looks nonplussed, but takes it in stride. “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“She hasn’t been at work for a while. I wanted to check in on her. I suppose there isn’t a way to get her phone number or address, is there?”

This wasn’t something Greyson had been expecting from Zayne, but he decides not to pry, not when Zayne looked like he’d been dragged through the dirt.

“She lives in that large apartment building about 20 minutes from here. It’s the same building where Yvonne lives. If you want, I can-”

Greyson is cut short as Zayne quickly turns and makes his way to the nurses’ station.

“Ask her,” Greyson completes, his words falling into empty air.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You’re startled as your doorbell rings. No one visited you. No one knew you lived here. Certain that it was a delivery sent to the wrong apartment, you opened the door only to be dumbstruck by your visitor.

Zayne looked haggard, his fingers twiddling with the hem of his sleeve as he stared at you. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re waiting for the game’s auto reset to pull him away because surely, this must be a glitch? Because it simply wasn’t possible for Zayne to break the game’s coding and take the route to arrive at your apartment.

There was no script to support this or trigger action that could have caused it. Yet here he was, at your doorstep, like you’d wanted all this time. You stiffen, your heart keenly smarting as you remember the humiliation of his repeated rejections.

“Dr. Zayne,” you say stiffly, refusing to move. “Why are you here?”

“Please let me in.” It was not a demand. It was a request, and his soft voice carried the subtle tone of a man about to crack.

A lump forms in your throat, your instinct warning you this can only hurt you, but you relent and allow him inside, the door clicking quietly as it shuts.

As both of you enter your living room, Zayne’s eyes fixate on you with such intensity that you feel naked. Like his vision was X-raying you through your clothes, probing your thoughts, peeling away layers of your skin until he reached the tender and delicate version of you that ached underneath. Your pride forces you to look at him despite the overwhelming intensity to look away, and your heart jolts at what you see.

As your eyes meet, you see the undeniable response; his pupils widen, swallowing the ring of amber surrounding the green. Zayne is stunned; it wasn’t possible. There was only one MC in this world. How could you stand there, bearing so much similarity to her, yet not be her? The MC in his memory overlaps with you, yet he sees the differences.

Compared to her, you were a sharp patch of light, crisp and alive, and somehow, despite her perfections, the MC appeared blurred in his mind’s eye, like an unfinished graphic, still in the works of an unpublished designer. He saw what the game had masked: the texture of your skin, the not-so-straight line of your lips, the little imbalances of your eyelids. Yet they made him yearn, something poignant welling inside of him.

Zayne’s throat closes up from the emotions bubbling up inside him. The sensation was alien, like something was trying to claw its way up from his gut. It was raw and uncomfortable, something he had never experienced before. The MC made him calm, and he’d assumed that was what it meant to love someone. He didn’t want to feel this hot, pulsing entity that was grappling with the lines of existence, forcing him to acknowledge it.

“You’re not her.” He states it plainly, unable to fathom what was happening inside him.

“Took you long enough,” you retort, feeling the irony; Zayne in your apartment, finally seeing you, just like you’d always wanted, but now you were too hurt to accept it. “I kept waiting. Trying, hoping for the tiniest scrap of your attention.”

Satisfaction burns in your veins as you notice the look of anguish that comes on his face. The strange delight of seeing him like this, of rubbing the raw truth of your feelings in his face, even as you felt your own heart clench painfully at the thought of hurting him.

“I watched for a sign that you saw me as anything other than an NPC. Even though I was practically right in front of you, with my MC a few feet away, you still only saw her.”

“I noticed when you were gone,” Zayne begins, and you let out a derisive laugh.

“Oh, did you now, Dr. Zayne? You noticed when I was gone. So it took my absence for you to notice.”

“Yes damn it!” Zayne’s voice is loud, contrasting with the calm, cool way he typically speaks. “So what if I was a little late? I did notice! And it’s been pretty miserable ever since! I notice things in the game I never did before. It’s like you opened a gate between realms, and now I have no understanding of the world I live in!”

“Oh, I’m soo sorry, Dr. Zayne,” you chide mockingly. “Made you a sentient game character, that must suck. Good thing your feelings weren’t hanging in the balance.”

“But they are now!” Zayne nearly shouts, and you flinch at the tone, and he immediately checks himself. He continues in a level manner. “Look, you disappeared. And ever since you did, it feels like the system broke. I’m questioning everything now, especially-” He cuts off abruptly, realizing what he was about to admit.

Your breath hitches, but you know your curiosity will never be satisfied if you don’t hear him say it. “Especially?”

“My love.” The words fall out in a confused whisper, and Zayne swallows, trying not to appear unhinged. “I picture you everywhere. At first, I thought it was the MC, but no, it’s you.”

He closes the gap between you and pulls you into his arms. Frozen, your fight or flight instincts vanishing, you allow yourself a moment of weakness, pressed against the warmth of his chest, his cologne filling your senses. Everything about him screamed comfort, the only thing you looked forward to after a long day. You squirm, trying to break free, but he only holds you tighter.

“Let go. Please…” you request pathetically, but you know it’s futile. Like a bird that had become accustomed to captivity, you couldn’t find the presence of mind to push him off, even though you were certain he’d let go if you did. You stood there, drowning in his presence as silent, hot tears tracked down your cheeks.

“It’s not fair,” you whisper into his jacket. “It’s not fair that you get these feelings for me now. Not when I was trying to figure out how to survive without you. Because the reality is, even if you loved me, so what? This is a game. I’m bound to go back to reality someday. And what was I supposed to do with this digital love? I’m already so unlovable.” You sniff and continue brokenly.

“If my fictional crush doesn’t love me, then what hope is there in the real world?”

“Why do you think you’re unlovable?” Zayne’s hands rest on the small of your back, his cheek resting on your hair, feeling the texture and softness on his skin, his heart heavy.

“I…I’m not that amazing.” You don’t know why your tongue is loosening, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. “I guess I’m average. I’m not ugly, but I’m not super pretty either. I’m not toned or muscled, but I do exercise and try to take care of myself. I’m not stupid, but I’m not that smart either. I’m the average. Common. Overlooked. Unremarkable.”

Your deepest fears spill out of you, and your head hurts along with your heart now. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to savor this moment because you know it could end at any moment. If this was all you got of him, you weren’t about to spend it thinking about your shortcomings and imperfections. You wait for the inevitable moment Zayne would release you, and this little dream foray would vanish.

But Zayne sighs, his breath caressing your hair, before gathering you impossibly closer. When he finally talks, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You say average like it’s a flaw. But maybe it just means you’re real. Not exaggerated. Not manufactured. Just… honest. Do you know how rare that is? Especially in a world like this?”

He takes a small step closer, his voice getting quieter with each word.

“I’ve spent so long surrounded by perfection that was never true. Flawless beauty, brilliance on cue. But none of it ever stayed with me when the code started to break. You did.”

His large hand cups the back of your head, and you hear his heartbeat, the rush of his breath as he gets closer to your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin.

“If average means someone who shows up, listens, cares, and stays when no one’s watching... I think average is a wonderful thing.”

Your entire body still as you feel his lips graze your hair. “You don’t have to try to shine so hard to be noticed. Even at your average, you’re already like the north star. Brilliant, consistent, unwavering. Those are qualities to be appreciated. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

His reassurance takes root inside you and you hide your face in his chest as it screws up, a sob wrenching itself from the deepest parts of your pain. The world seems to stop spinning, levitating in this moment, as though trying to prolong it as much as possible.

“And you’re not unlovable,” Zayne murmurs into your ear. “Because I love you.”

You blink back tears as you look at him. “What?”

“I love you.” Zayne cups your face between his palms, and your entire body comes alive, tingling like a live wire under his touch.

Before you can reply, the world suddenly blurs. Ripple after ripple forms and vanishes inside the apartment, everything alternating between pixels and cohesivity. You cling to Zayne as the world starts to shake. Alarmed, Zayne looks at you, and you look back at him fearfully. The familiar theme song of the game begins to play, accompanied by a loud, computerized voice echoing through the chaotic din.

“Resources not verified. Corrupt elements detected. Beginning immediate update and reboot.”

The message is repeated twice, and the world around you dissolves. Outside your window, you can see the buildings, cars, and people beginning to vanish, pixelating before turning into dust and floating away into nothing. You look at Zayne, who hasn’t let you go, but a look of comprehension dawns on his face.

“This is my fault,” he says over the roar of destruction. “I broke a majority of the codes when I ventured off my path.”

“So what does that mean?”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake him urgently.

“Zayne, what does that mean?” Your eyes are brimming with tears. His fingers grasp your chin, and when you make eye contact, there’s sorrow in his expression, but he’s smiling gently at you.

“You’ll be all right,” he says softly. “The update only removes abnormal elements. This isn’t the end for you.”

“What about you?” His lack of worry is beginning to fill you with dread, and you wait for an answer.

But instead, Zayne dips his head down and covers your mouth with his. You shiver, then yield, the sweet feeling of his lips on yours flooding your body. A heady spiral of heat shoots through you as you kiss him back, trying to convey everything you feel for him in that kiss. Your first kiss with Zayne. You focus on him, trying to commit everything about him to memory: the softness of the kiss, the taste of his tongue, and his heated breath on your face.

When he lets go, he brushes your cheek tenderly. “Be the average. I promise you everything will be fine. Don’t stop offering to get cake, or making tea for someone you like.” His smile is calm, and you realize what was about to happen a split second before it does.

Zayne begins to dissolve in a blur of colors, little squares consuming his shoes, crawling up his legs, and towards his torso.

“Zayne!” You’re hysterical as you watch, yet helpless to prevent it. “Zayne, don’t go!”

His hand was still holding yours, and he squeezes it tightly. “I love you. You are not unlovable. Remember that.”

“Zayne!” He’s nothing but an incohesive blob of pigment now as the pixels consume the remainder of his face, and the hand holding yours turns to dust as he’s carried into the abyss. Looking down, you see the game has deconstructed most of you as well, the portion below your waist a confusing flash of light and pixels.

“Zayne…” Your voice fades into a whisper as your consciousness fades, and you’re consumed by blinding white light until you see no more.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

When you wake up, you’re in your own bed in the real world. Blinking, you try to focus, then with a jolt as the haze fades from your mind, you scramble to find your phone, which was resting on the nightstand beside you.

You launch the game, impatiently drumming the screen as the update pushed through, slowly filling the status bar up bit by bit. After what seemed like a decade, the launch screen appears, and you punch the ‘enter game’ button harder than intended. The cafe loads, and there he was.

“Only you’d use me as an ice cream maker,” Zayne says with a disapproving shake of his head. Numb, you watch him on the screen. Everything was back to normal. You were back in reality. And Zayne…Zayne had been reset. Back into his coded routine, like nothing had ever happened.

As the truth of it falls around you, you curl up into a ball and cry, sobs wracking your body. Zayne loved you. Had chosen to become an uncoded element and risk it all to love you, even if it had been for a brief moment.

How on character for him. The irony isn’t lost on you; sacrificing, punished if he loved, that was Zayne’s entire persona, wasn’t it? Even as a scripted character, he hadn’t been able to defy his fate, his memories probably wiped and reset to love the MC just as it should have been.

“My love,” you whisper brokenly, tracing his face with your fingertip. “I guess…It was never meant to be.”

Acknowledging it didn’t help. You wept until you passed out from exhaustion, feeling like your heart had been split into two, spilling its pain into your system until you were bled dry.

You didn’t go to work. When your boss called, you said you weren’t well. How do you recover from losing the love of your life?

“I love you.” Zayne’s voice echoed in your dreams at night, and you’d wake up covered in sweat.

“I love you.” You heard it when you uninstalled the game, unable to pine over his face any longer.

“I love you.” His words lingered when you finally returned to work.

“I love you.” It served as a reminder when you were building your dating profile, and were about to swipe ‘yes’ on a questionable match.

“I love you.” It hurt so bad, but it was the only thing keeping you together.

That for a brief moment, he had shown you that you were worthy of being loved. That it existed, even if it was short-lived.

Sometime after the incident, you found the energy to not feel irritable on the weekend when the cheerful sunlight crept into your room to rouse you from sleep.

You found the state of mind to dress up, spending time indulging in matching your outfit and accessories. You decided you needed a haircut, not a trim, but perhaps a new look, something you wouldn’t have dared to try before. The stylist had been thrilled when you showed her the reference photo and had expertly snipped and layered your hair into a head-turning look.

Feeling dandy, you’d all but skipped out of her chair, admiring her work in the window reflections as you walked towards a coffee shop a few blocks away. As you’d placed your coffee order, you looked at the dessert display and ordered the last slice of mocha caramel cake, imagining how it would melt in your mouth and pair with the coffee you’d ordered.

“Was that the last slice of that cake?” A deep, strangely calming voice asks behind you. Your heart skips a beat at how familiar it sounded, and you whip around to see who the stranger is.

Your heart thuds as you take in a tall man standing behind you, looking disappointed at the now-empty cake display. His dark hair had been neatly combed, and his glasses were slightly askew, sitting almost on the tip of his nose.

“Yes,” you say slightly breathlessly as you try to calm your racing heart. Even as logic takes over, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He looked so similar to Zayne…but you could tell it wasn’t him. Just a normal human, bearing an uncanny resememblence.

“Unfortunate. It’s one of my favorites.”

Before you can reply, the barista calls your name, your coffee ready and the cake on a small plate. You wet your lips, then gather courage.

“Would you like to split the cake with me?” you ask, and you can see the man is surprised at the offer. A smile graces his lips.

“Do you often offer to share your cake with strangers in coffee shops?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and you laugh.

“No, but desperate times call for socially awkward solutions,” you quip back nervously, and the man huffs at your banter.

“I see. Well, in that case, allow me to reimburse you for your coffee. After all, I was raised right. And mildly suspicious of free cake.”

You can’t stop the giggle that escapes your throat. You take the plate and coffee and choose a table before the stranger sits down opposite you. Looking more closely at him now, you see the differences: code vs reality.

“What do you do?” you ask him politely as you offer him a fork.

“I’m a doctor.”

Your smile widens. “Of course you are.”

flashing dividers by @cafekitsune, banner by me using Canva

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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red | zayne | prologue to through the fire

synopsis : Fate chose another, but his heart never stopped choosing you. content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)

read : through the fire

Shaiya

Zayne stared at the name etched into his skin, barely brushing his fingers over the letters as if touching it would somehow make it less real.

Silence crashed around him like a wave. The world dimmed.

No, he thought, chest tightening. It should’ve been her name.

Yours.

He wanted to claw at it, to tear it off and rewrite the universe.

But all he did was stare—still, quiet, unreadable. His face gave nothing away, though his heart was screaming.

You didn’t cry when he told you.

He had expected the silence. Maybe even anger.

But not the way you reached for him, pulling him into a soft embrace as if you were the one offering comfort.

As if you were the one letting go.

You smiled.

And that broke him in ways he couldn’t explain.

He held you too tightly for a moment too long, afraid that if he let go, everything between you would unravel.

Then he forced a smile—calm, polite, practiced. Like he was happy. Like this wasn’t the end of something sacred.

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t love Shaiya—not then. There was no spark, no fireworks when he first saw her in the park.

There was just you.

You, with your quiet steadiness, your silent understanding. You, who noticed every flicker of emotion on his face, even when no one else did. You, who knew how to wait through his silences.

But something kept pulling him back to Shaiya. A whisper in his gut. A gravitational force he couldn’t explain.

So he went.

And when she laughed, something in him stirred. When she smiled, he felt breathless. Her presence, soft and bright, wrapped around him like a tether he hadn’t asked for—but couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t like with you.

With you, it was slow, quiet, real.

With her, it was sudden—like being caught in a current he couldn’t swim against.

And yet, even as he sat beside Shaiya, laughing at something she said, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting.

Back to you.

Back to the way you smiled without expectation. Back to the warmth of your hug.

Back to everything he was afraid he’d just lost.

—•

“Zayne? You there?”

He jolted upright at the sound of Shaiya’s voice through the phone, pulled sharply from the spiral of thoughts he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into.

He cleared his throat, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Yeah. Sorry—I was signing some reports.”

A lie, smooth and effortless.

Shaiya laughed lightly, the sound soft through the speaker.

“It’s okay.”

Then, after a beat, her tone shifted, quieter. Concerned. “I’m a little worried about Y/N. She’s been… distant lately.”

That made him still. Completely.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice low. His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.

Shaiya hesitated. “She spaces out sometimes. When I talk to her, she smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I caught her clutching her wrist the other day—I think she might be hurt, but she brushed it off.”

Zayne didn’t hear the rest. Her voice faded under the weight of his thoughts.

How hadn’t he noticed?

You, the one person he thought he always saw clearly. The one whose silences he understood. He’d been so caught in the chaos of his own confusion that he hadn’t seen you unraveling in the quiet.

He swallowed, guilt settling in like a stone. “I’ll talk to her,” he murmured.

“Okay,” Shaiya replied, her voice soft again. “I’m heading to bed now—early shift tomorrow. Don’t forget to eat after yours.”

The line disconnected, and silence bloomed in the space it left behind.

He sat for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he stood.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his feet carried him across the corridor.

He stopped in front of your door. Raised his hand. Hesitated.

Did you have a mark yet?

The thought hit him like a wave.

And somewhere—deep and cruel and honest—a voice inside him whispered that he hoped you didn’t. That maybe, if fate had overlooked you too, you’d still stay.

That you’d still look at him the way you always had.

That he wouldn’t lose you completely.

But even he knew that was selfish.

So he knocked, softly.

No reply.

The door creaked open.

He stepped inside, meaning to call your name, to ask if you were alright—but the words never made it past his lips.

You were asleep, curled up at your desk, your breathing steady. Peaceful.

And then he saw it.

A flash of red ink on your wrist.

His name.

His breath caught.

Everything in him stilled.

This—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

His name was on your skin. In red. And he hadn’t even known.

He stumbled back like the air had turned to fire, his legs moving before he could think.

The door slammed behind him as he pressed his back against it, chest rising and falling in erratic waves.

That’s why.

That’s why you’d been pulling away. Why you smiled like it hurt. Why you never said a word.

Because it did hurt.

And all this time, he’d been too blind to see it.

Tears stung his eyes, blurring the fluorescent lights of his office as he clenched his fists at his sides.

You had been burning alone. Crying alone.

And now that he knew—

There was still nothing he could do.

—•

He saw you.

It was late—close to midnight—when he stepped out of his car, bone-tired from another shift.

The streets were quiet, bathed in the soft yellow haze of flickering streetlamps.

And there you were.

Leaving your apartment, coat hastily thrown on, arms folded tightly around yourself like you were holding yourself together.

Zayne froze, half in the shadow of the trees lining the sidewalk.

He meant to call out. Your name was already on the tip of his tongue.

But then he saw your face.

Not just the weariness, but something sharper—something broken.

Sadness. Anger. Resignation.

And suddenly, he couldn’t speak.

Because he knew—

He knew it was because of him.

So he stayed silent.

Just watched.

He followed your steps with his eyes as you crossed the street, your pace slow, unsteady.

The city was quiet around you, but inside, you were a storm. He could see it. He felt it in the way your shoulders sank.

You disappeared into the dim glow of a small pub tucked between closed storefronts.

He didn’t go in.

He stood across the street, leaning against the hood of his car like a coward, watching through the window as you made your way to the bar.

Sluggish. Heavy.

He saw your hand signal the bartender. Saw the first drink vanish. Then the second. Then the third.

His chest tightened with every empty glass.

Because it was his fault.

He was the reason you were unraveling one drink at a time. The reason your mark burned red with his name while he bore someone else’s in black.

Then—

He saw him.

A stranger. Tall. Pale hair that glinted under the bar’s low lighting.

Zayne’s breath caught as he watched the man slide onto the stool beside you, say something with a smile, and slide across a piece of paper.

He saw your smile falter. Saw the pain flicker across your features like lightning.

Saw the way your body flinched, just barely, like a wound had been pressed too hard.

And Zayne saw it all.

Every agonizing detail.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t cross the street. Didn’t pull open the door.

He couldn’t.

Because what would he say?

What right did he have?

He stood there, paralyzed in the dark, watching you turn away from the man politely, watching you order another drink with trembling fingers.

And he hated himself more with every breath.

—•

Two days later, he stepped into your office.

The door clicked softly behind him, and for a moment, he simply stood there—watching you work, your shoulders tense, eyes tired in that way only he seemed to notice.

He cleared his throat gently. “Long day?”

His voice was calm, casual, as he placed a cup of coffee on your desk like it was just another routine between colleagues.

You looked up and offered him a smile—soft, warm, as if nothing had changed. As if nothing had shattered between you.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the warmth of the cup.

It hurt.

Because he saw it now—what he’d missed before.

The subtle flinch when your skin brushed the sleeve of your sweater.

The split-second delay in your smile. The way you didn’t quite meet his eyes.

He swallowed. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I saw you out. Two nights ago.”

The air shifted.

You stilled for a fraction of a second, but didn’t look away.

He wished he hadn’t said it, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t just worried. He was jealous.

His jaw tightened as he brought his coffee to his lips. “Were you drinking again?”

His voice cracked—just barely—but enough to betray him.

You blinked. Then turned your gaze to the window, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Just needed some air. That’s all.”

And then, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up with your lie, your fingers drifted down, brushing against your wrist—so faintly it would’ve gone unnoticed.

But he saw it.

He always saw you.

He opened his mouth, something sharp and aching rising in his throat.

But he bit it back.

The truth. The apology. The longing.

None of it would fix what fate had done.

So he stepped back.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he said, turning on his heel before the tremble in his voice could betray him again.

And he walked away.

Because what else could he say?

When it was his name on your wrist.

And someone else’s on his.

—•

A week later, he stood motionless in his office, staring blankly at the floor.

Shaiya’s voice still echoed in his ears.

“She found her soulmate.”

His heart didn’t sink—it clenched. Like something inside him had braced for a blow and still wasn’t ready for the impact.

He didn’t believe it.

Not for a second.

Because he knew you.

Knew the kind of lies people told when they were trying to protect themselves from pain.

Before reason could stop him, his body had already moved. He found himself standing in front of your office again, just like he had so many times before—only now there was something different clinging to the air.

A desperation he couldn’t admit.

He wanted to shake you. To ask why.

Why you were doing this to yourself. To him.

Why you were pretending this didn’t hurt when everything in your eyes told him otherwise.

But he said none of that.

Instead, he knocked gently and stepped in.

You looked up at him, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

Because you smiled. Small. Warm.

As if nothing had changed.

As if it didn’t ache.

And that only made it worse.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice low, too even. “You found him?”

You nodded, the gesture soft, almost apologetic. “Yeah.”

His mouth parted slightly, like there was something he needed to say—but the words caught halfway.

“That’s… good,” he said finally. But the pause before the word good was a wound all on its own.

It hung in the air. Heavy.

And it wasn’t joy that colored his tone. Not even relief.

There was something else.

You blinked, startled by the hollowness of it. “Is everything okay?”

Zayne looked at you, long and quiet, his gaze searching your face like it held an answer to something he couldn’t name.

Then, slowly, the mask returned.

A neutral expression. The kind he wore in operating rooms. In grief.

“Yes,” he replied, forcing the edges of his mouth to lift. “I’m just… glad for you.”

But even you could hear it.

The tremor beneath the stillness. The way glad didn’t quite land.

Silence stretched.

Zayne looked away for a moment, then back—eyes flickering with something raw, something not yet buried deep enough.

And still—he said nothing.

Because what could he say, when it was his name on your skin—

And someone else’s story you were trying to live?

When Zayne stepped out of your office, his chest tight and throat dry, he nearly walked past him—

The man from the bar.

Tall, silver-haired, with that same calm presence that had unsettled him days ago.

This time, he stood waiting. Expecting him.

“I’m Sylus,” the man said coolly, offering nothing more than his name—because he knew it was enough.

Zayne stopped mid-stride.

His eyes widened for a brief second before narrowing into something colder. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

He remembered that night.

The flash of your pain. The way Sylus had leaned in, close but careful, like he knew exactly how much space to take.

Zayne’s jaw tightened.

“Take care of her,” he said, voice sharp but restrained. Controlled. Like a blade held at the throat but never pressed in.

Then he turned without waiting for a reply, shoulders stiff, the weight of what he couldn’t say trailing behind him like a shadow.

But if he had stayed just a second longer—

He would’ve seen it.

The slow, knowing smirk tugging at Sylus’s lips.

Not arrogant, not mocking—just assured.

A look that said he would.

And maybe even more than that—

That he already was.

—•

The hospital hallway was quiet at this hour—just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of distant footsteps.

Zayne stood alone in the on-call room, the door shut behind him, the walls far too close.

He leaned against the locker, head tipped back, eyes closed.

But the silence wasn’t peace.

It was suffocating.

She found someone.

She said she found her soulmate.

The words circled in his mind like vultures, tearing into the edges of his restraint.

He clenched his fists, breathing slow—too slow, like he was trying to stay afloat in his own chest.

Sylus.

The name had weight now. It wasn’t just a stranger from the bar anymore—it was someone you had chosen. Someone who made you smile, even through the ache.

Someone who could stand beside you without carrying the guilt Zayne did.

His hand lifted without thinking, pressing to his chest like he could calm the sharp, twisting ache there.

He didn’t understand it.

Why did the mark choose Shaiya?

Why not her?

Why not you?

Because if the universe had any sense of justice, it would’ve branded your name into his skin.

Not someone else’s.

Not someone he had to learn to care about.

Not someone who wasn’t you.

Zayne sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.

His shoulders hunched in on himself, like the weight of everything was finally catching up.

All the moments he’d brushed aside.

The quiet hurt in your eyes.

The way you smiled like you were trying to protect him.

He remembered the night he saw you drinking, the way you flinched when Sylus got too close, the pain you thought no one saw.

And he had done nothing.

He had stood there, watching.

Helpless.

His name was on your wrist. In red.

And it didn’t matter.

Because fate had already played its cruel joke—and he had laughed along with it, pretending he could live with it. Pretending he was fine.

But he wasn’t.

He had spent so long mastering silence, mastering stillness—he didn’t know how to fight for something that wasn’t supposed to be his.

His breath trembled, a rare crack in the mask he wore even when no one was watching.

He wanted to scream.

To demand answers from whatever force had decided this was how the story would end.

But all he could do was sit there.

In a quiet room.

With your name echoing like a phantom in his chest.

And nothing he could do to make you stay.

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burymagdalene · 2 months ago

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Heat Lightning: Part II – Kismet - S. Reid x Reader

Making it back to your shared motel room, Spencer and reader get a lot off their chests; figuratively and literally. With a new dynamic emerging, they fight to survive the heat of Texas, the case—and each other.

Part I (Could read this alone if you wish) pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut, angst, & fluff (18+ pls pls) tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, virgin!spencer, subby (?) service-y Spencer, masturbation (spencer), tit sucking, thigh riding, real riding, finger sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, first time, munch!spence, murder, kidnappings wc: 8.5k a/n: Part 2/2 of my bau!reader duology! I've had so much fun writing this I hope Spencer and reader have lots of fun... this might be my dirtiest yet lol S1 Spencer is a young freak aficionado I swear.

Kismet

Destiny; fate.

“What chance did I stand against kismet?”

The tips of Spencer’s fingers have molded to take the shape of the dial on your AC as you drive back to the nearby motel. His face is turned to stare out the window on your side, wanting to catch the view he hasn’t fully appreciated while not having to turn away from you.

What he would have missed. Chewing on the inside of his lip Spencer ponders, what I would’ve missed if it was another unit, if they took on a different case.

“Whatcha looking at?”

“I just- it’s very beautiful out here at night.” Spencer replies, eyes flickering over to you in order to analyze if you think his lame answer is indeed lame. The way his voice dips at the end gives him away. That’s not really what Spencer meant.

You hum, it’s barely above a whisper, something ambient and low, but enough to fill the car. “Yeah? You thinking of moving to small-town nowhere with me?”

He smiles faintly, laughs at his hands in his lap. “No. Well, sort of. I’m thinking about how if we hadn’t took this case… I wouldn’t be sitting here. With you.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything. Just the sound of tires on gravel as you approach the motel and the air conditioner still stubbornly set two degrees too cold.

Your tongue pokes out slightly over your chapped lips. “You’re very kind.”

Spencer leans back in the seat. “But I mean it.”

Taking the keys out, you’re finally parked in front of the kitschy motel. You don’t answer right away. There’s a comfort in letting silence carry things when words feel too sharp. But when you do speak, it’s quiet.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And for once, Spencer doesn’t overthink what that means.

𓆱

Out of the most incredible shower of his life, Spencer wipes away the fog on the small bathroom mirror to look over his face. Eye bags worse than they’ve been in a while, but the sun almost gave him a pink flush and bright hue that makes up for it.

He had gathered up his pajamas from his go bag to carry into the bathroom with him after you were finished showering. Wanting to change in the bathroom, suddenly embarrassed. He was not expecting this situation while packing– how could he have?

Hair brushed and fully situated to reintegrate back into the room with the dim flickering light and the most intimidatingly perfect person he’s met. Great.

Opening the door, he’s immediately stumbling into you. Right in front of the bathroom door is the entrance to the room where you were standing by picking up a small hooked sign from the door handle.

With a keen eye, Spencer watches as your fingers flip over the “Do Not Disturb” sign in front of the door. Very much aware that this is standard practice– he can’t help but feel personally affected by the underlying sentiment. Do not disturb us. We don’t want anybody else in here with us.

He feels drunk. Standing in the doorway silent and gobsmacked by the simplest gesture– you turn over to gaze at him, poking your tongue out playfully before moving back to the bed.

The slight sway in your hips as you walk to the room makes him clear his throat.

“Which side do you want?” You ask, already jumping theatrically on the right side.

“Um… right?” Spencer laughs, teasing you.

“Already takennn!” You sing your reply.

Sitting up, feet off of the right side, you pat the space next to you.

“C’mere. We can share.”

Padding over, a small drop from Spencer’s hair tickles the back of his neck as he sits beside you on the bed.

“I never got good at sharing, I don't think.” He is flirting, he assumes. But it’s also semi-true. An only child who is also a mama's boy, he never had to share growing up– but it comes pretty naturally to him anyway. He’s not explaining that though so his line is more effective.

“You don’t wanna share with me?” You smile back at him in such a mind numbing way that he feels silly for flirting with you when you obviously have the upper hand.

Spencer bites his bottom lip softly and shakes his head, eyes wide looking at you. He's pulling out the doe eyes, all his cards are on the table.

A thick and nearly tangible silence falls over the two of you. Hips almost pressing with your close proximity, Spencer gains the last bit of strength he has from the long day to meet your gaze. Taking in your features for the first time undisturbed by chaos is making his heart flutter. The bruises have let up a bit– changed slightly in color and severity. Your bottom lip still has a cut on it, albeit, not sensitive to the touch anymore.

Without thinking, his thumb slowly comes up and brushes the bruise left on your cheek.

“These are getting better.” He mumbles, thumb on your cheek but eyes roaming toward your lips.

“Yeah, I’m glad.” You toss a shy smile back at him.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said it made you look tough?”

“Hm. I think I was just saying that. I don’t want to be so tough all the time.”

Spencer pulls his thumb a few inches down, nearing the corner of your mouth. In an act of bravery (mixed with sleep deprivation, heat exhaustion, and lust. Simply.) runs it slowly over the jagged edge of your bottom lip. Wishing to soothe it with his touch almost, wanting to take away all the bruises littered on you.

A small shiver runs down your spine and you do an unconscious jolt that makes Spencer’s thumb stop.

“Yeah. You’re not so tough.” Pulling his thumb down, your eyes reconnect.

Spencer watches the smallest twitch in your eyebrows, a microexpression that flashes behind your eyes, a slight tremble in your lip. Taking one last deep breath he sacrifices himself to the fire he’s kept at bay this whole case.

Lips instinctually meeting the corner of your mouth, a soft kiss placed on the damaged skin of your marked lip. A shuddering sound from your throat pulls him towards the noise. Then, a proper kiss is being placed.

A minute pull away tilts the world off its axis before you two are grabbing each other, lips melding together at a near brutal pace. The stiff motel mattress lets out a pitiful squeak, seeking a cessation of movement that would not be rewarded tonight.

Your hands are cupping his jaw, his own hands remain politely in his lap and twitch as he feels your hip finally press up against his. Letting go of his cheek, one of your hands snakes down to take Spencer’s, placing it on the inside of your thigh.

Spencer grips it too hard at first, causing you to gasp against his mouth. Dial it back, he thinks and makes up for it by rubbing away the pain with his palm up and down.

The first to pull away you whine out, “You’re such a good kisser,” before connecting lips again, pulling him flush against you almost onto his lap.

“I haven’t really… ever-” He gulps, he guesses it’s polite to tell you.

“Oh yeah?” He watches the corners of your mouth falter, a slight twitch upward in a smile that has his brain screaming witch!

“Yeah.”

You chuckle kindly while ghosting your lips over his once more, “That doesn’t matter.”

“It might…” Spencer looks down from your eyes in his confession.

“It won’t.” You finalize like you’re a professional in these matters. Virgins. He blushes and begins kissing you again.

With an act as simple as a swing of a leg, Spencer’s mind muffles. Propped in his lap he wraps his arms around your waist, tight grips indent your skin. Another simple act– a kiss to the jaw. Adolescent, amateur even. Spencer closes his eyes as his head falls back, a quiet hum from you against his jaw and he smiles despite the hurricane in his stomach.

Bracing his hands firmly on your hips, your lips trail over his pulsepoint, a soothing and sickening kiss is being placed over the sensitive skin (he didn’t know was so sensitive on himself– why does this feel so good?) and Spencer nearly flinches away.

“Does that feel okay?” You pick up on his slight movement.

“It feels really nice, actually.”

A laugh rumbles against that same spot and he could keel over, beg you to do this all night.

“I can feel your heart beating there.”

Two of your fingers replace where your lips just were, a rapid thud beating against them through his flesh.

“My- my heart is racing, yeah.”

Your warm palm pressed firmly against Spencer's chest, you usher him flat against the old mattress. Back pressed there, he looks up where you’re still sitting on his lap before bending slowly over him again.

One finger tugs the bottom of his t-shirt up to his chin, messy kisses peppered over top the fragile skin on the left of his chest.

Voice rising an embarrassing octave Spencer talks through an inhale, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Mm. Kissing your heart.”

All the air has seemingly been knocked out of his lungs. Still, through ringing in his ears he whispers, “Why?”

“Well,” kiss, “because I think it’s sweet,” kiss, “and because I think it's kind.” your lips trail up slightly, a small string of saliva follows where you speak against his skin. “Because I like the person it keeps alive.”

Spencer could cry. His dick is hard, and he could cry. A blanketed wave of piety clouds his brain. He feels fucking obsessed, how do all people not succumb to madness when they feel this? If Spencer felt like this for more than 30 minutes he’d stop breathing. Or he’d completely submit to his life calling of reverency.

Propping himself onto his elbows he puts his face into your hair, resting his forehead against you firmly. Taking a deep inhalation of your scent, he commits it to memory before taking a hand to tilt your head up to stare into your eyes.

“You’re so beautiful.”

A gentle and self-conscious finger routinely checks where your lip is bruised. A signal of your hidden insecurity toward the compliment. Spencer sees the hesitation in your irises as he moves his hand up to the curve of your waist, gesturing you to lay on your back now where he crawls over you.

Still intimidated by your bruising he tries to ease some of his body weight to his forearms and not your torso. He also doesn’t want his hard-on to dig into you right now.

“I think you’re astoundingly beautiful,” Spencer kisses your chin briefly, “you can ignore anything else I say, just believe me there.”

May be a bit too serious, sappy and vulnerable for knowing you for a week, but Spencer has never felt so on-time and right than he does now.

You exhale sharply through your nose, push your mouths together again with a lazy grin.

“You’re so warm, it feels surprisingly nice.” You giggle in response, your nails trailing lightly up his arms.

Spencer thinks back to your comment on hot coffee tasting better when it’s hot out, this is definitely the same strange phenomenon you were mentioning. Maybe it’s the counterintuitive notion where a hot beverage can increase sweating, which may help cool you down more efficiently. Maybe it’s the volatile aromatic compounds, which hit your nose and taste buds harder. He feels better to you when it’s hot out because he’s hitting your system harder. As long as he’s hitting your system-

Spencer’s spiralling thoughts get cut off by his own voice punching out a loud moan when you cup him over his pajama pants. The first time he’s feeling someone else's hand on him is so revolutionary that he has no control over his voice or facial expressions.

“Does that feel good?” Your tentative voice breaks him out of his daze. Like it could possibly feel bad with you.

Spencer has to search for the word yes within the vast confines of his brain– that’s how good it feels. Taking a moment he finds it, “Y-esss.”

“When's the last time you did this?” You’re whispering into his neck with a graze of your teeth he’s replying like you have him at gunpoint.

“Ah- y- yesterday-” Spencer manages to gasp out.

“Oh,” you giggle a bit which makes him peel his eyes open to look at you, “I don’t know why- I thought it’d be longer.” your sentence trails off with a string of soft laughs.

“Ah- well. I’m a virgin, n-not…”

“I know! I know… Yesterday, huh?”

Spencer feels his jaw instinctively squeeze shut. Yes, yesterday. He had barely made it to the very corner of his hotel bed back in Houston before shoving a hand under his pants to unsatisfyingly jerk off. A futile attempt to ease the molten hot swoops of horniness he gets while spending time with you.

“Wh- ugh.” Is all he can say.

“How about you show me how you did it yesterday, then?”

He teeters on the idea of white hot humiliation but in the end his hormones win, ultimately calcifying his boyish temperament with blatant animalism as he tugs his pajama pants down. Spencer is aware that you don’t mean exactly how he did it yesterday. All whines while biting down on his fist while the wrist of his other hand gets rubbed raw by the band of his pants that were barely open enough for boner access.

Spencer scoots himself up so his back is resting against the rickety wooden bedframe, legs spread slightly as he flings his pants to the floor, underwear still on. Through cloudy eyes he watches you crawl over toward him, legs coming to cage in one of his thighs, sitting your weight on it.

“Should I…” He traces a thumb over the waistband of his underwear.

“Please, yeah.”

Your eyes are attached to his lower stomach, eyes flickering up to his when he speaks to check for any hesitation.

Spencer is nervous, sure, but the sight of the basically egregious tent in his boxers is almost more embarrassing than it would be to just pull himself out of them. With a hook of his thumb, he pulls the band down slowly. First, the head appears, opaque drips of precum coating it lightly. Then the rest is pulled out, smacking his tummy with a sticky thud.

The first thing he hears is a small squeak coming from your throat. A laugh through your nose follows as you grin out, “Jesus.”

Beginning with a severe ego boost, Spencer can jump through the emotional hoops of the humiliation around jerking off in front of you. Jerking off to you, in front of you. He swallows an excess of saliva.

Before anything else, Spencer has the urge to reach out and touch you, make sure you’re real– solid under his touch. Again he feels your soft cheek under his palm as he swipes a thumb shortly over your cut lip.

Then he grips the base and pulls up to his leaky tip with a tiny moan.

A dazed expression paints over your features, like you’re the one receiving any pleasure as he starts to really put his wrist into the movement. A tingle in his spine forms at the thought of doing this for anyone else. He would genuinely never imagine himself doing this, but the way he’s watching your lips tuck in to conceal a moan is truly a sight for sore eyes.

Spencer could most definitely cum. He probably should not if he doesn’t want to spoil the rest of the night just because for a fleeting moment he couldn’t control himself. Though. God, it would feel really good to just-

A roll of your hips against his thigh makes you and Spencer moan aloud in eerily similar octaves.

“Can I touch myself?”

Your voice snaps him out of his inner monologue, fingers going lax around himself because if he’s touching his cock and hearing your voice simultaneously it’s going to end way too quick.

“N-no-”

“Mmf- wh, huh?”

Consciously or not, your hips continue to roll circles onto his exposed thigh, the friction of your shorts with the pressure of his thigh makes you dig your nails harshly into his side.

“I just- no! I mean, let me do it for you. I’ll finish like this anyway.”

Without a reply, you let out a gentle gasp, dropping your head to your chest while you start dragging up and down against his thigh.

Spencer kind of just feels like watching, seeing your shoulders relax after everything this week has brought you is erotic in itself.

Another squeak from your throat, “fuck, stop me please.”

Moaning the loudest all night at your response Spencer feels lightheaded. You can’t fucking help yourself.

Chest rising and falling rapidly now, Spencer’s hands find your hips, slowing your movements to a halt. You huff out a sigh and bend all the way down to reconnect your lips. In the momentum of slumping down you hit your lip a bit too hard against Spencer’s. A moan erupts out of you from the delicious sting while you integrate your tongue.

The filthy tongue kissing is distracting, but not enough to let slip the plan of Spencer helping you get off. Mind reeling, all the possibilities are tripping over each other in his head. Feeling your walls around his fingers, his lips around your clit. What do you taste like, feel like?

“Okay, okay,” Spencer whispers breathlessly, hoping that this plea reminds you of his aforementioned service towards you.

Dramatically, you roll off Spencer and lay on your back against the pillow next to where you two just were, nails trailing across his chest as you do so. A lazy spread of your thighs is the closest Spencer has felt to falling off a cliff, a silent beckoning that has him laying on his stomach between your legs in an instant.

He’s been in this position before, in fact. Not nearly in the way he is now though. Only previously has he situated himself like this when he was in FBI training. Sniper position.

Hopefully Spencer will be better at this than the latter.

Soon you’re sitting up and grabbing at his shirt to fling it off onto the floor with his pants. He tries not to think about the grime from the floor all over his pajamas as he looks to you for consent on pulling off these shorts of yours.

“Can I take your shorts off. Um, and panties?”

You send him a sweet smile accompanied by a nod. Soon enough you’re taking off your tanktop too. Like it’s nothing. Like Spencer didn’t need time to prepare himself. Just as his fingers grasp the band of your shorts they’re stopping. Eyes glued and mouth hanging slightly open, Spencer gapes at your exposed breasts.

A dilemma. Should he continue with where he left off? Should he scoot up slowly and take one of your nipples into his mouth-

Before his brain can even finish painting the image he’s moving back up towards your face, giggling happily with you.

“Would you like to touch them?” Your grin is full of content admiration, not one of the smiles you’ve given him before, sly and seductive. This is you playing like real 20-something year olds do. The world outside of this room, the people you are– non-existent.

What he would have missed.

“Uh-huh.” Spencer grins back, teeth on display.

It’s almost hard to kiss and lave over your chest with the permanent smile keeping his mouth open. He can’t help it. The giddiness he’s experiencing is as strong as the loneliness he’s felt. Ever-consuming and solidifying, he is feeling himself heal from the inside out in your embrace.

Like he’s booked a room on fucking prom night he feels so euphorically cliché.

You guide his hand to one nipple, he rolls it between the pads of his fingertips and you gasp, hips jumping up against his. Palming it once before rolling it again Spencer sucks a mark near your collarbone. He wants his lips on something.

Wants a bruise to form on your skin that makes you feel beautiful– one that has a memory attached you’re not frightened of.

Once “More…” slips past your lips he’s removing himself from your neck and placing his open and ready mouth on your other nipple, sucking lightly. Spencer fucking loves this. He licks with his tongue broadened before putting the nipple into his lips. Spittle drips between the cleavage of your chest all the while his hand is massaging your other breast.

Pulling away to see his damage, he smiles. Dazedly moves his mouth to your other breast like it’s second nature to him. The spit left on your breast works as a quick lubricant for his fingers to pull and rub at your nipple again. So focused on suckling your tits, Spencer is not aware of your humping against his hip bone. Moans spilling into the empty humid air alongside Spencer’s gentle hums of mania.

“Mmm, Spencer. I- fuck. Never took you for such a fucking tease. Did not expect to be on the brink of begging to cum tonight.”

Gasping for breath, Spencer detaches himself from you. He could have been doing that for five minutes or five hours, he has no clue. Regardless, he was not trying to wring you out– though the thought of you begging him to cum makes his figurative tail wag. Next time!

“Uhh. Sorry. Ha, do you still want me to-”

“Yes.”

“So I’m forgiven-” His smile grows as he positions himself between your legs again.

“Spencer-” A little whine, a furrow of your brow mixed with the small desperate shift of your hips sends him into a frenzy. Typically so tough and stoic around your team, begging him to touch you now.

Taking too long to pull your shorts and underwear down together, your hands push the fabric along with Spencers, the anticipation in your fingertips shocking him.

Now with your clothes discarded, you and Spencer are both fully naked together. He rubs at the skin of your outer thighs to soothe any nerves you (or him) have, still getting acquainted with the way you like to be touched. He wants to do it so right you can’t think– wants to make you feel so good you can’t even fathom being stressed.

He kisses your inner thigh, stalling or just proving that he can kiss wherever he wants boldly.

“Do you need- should I help?” You gasp out, remembering the inexperience he has, not wanting to intimidate him in a situation where it’s supposed to be life-altering.

“Mm. What do you like?” He speaks against the skin of your thigh, not wanting to pull away from its warmth yet.

“I just- God. Messy? Suction in your cheeks.. ah, should probably hold my legs down.”

Spencer can’t help the smile at your instructions, he can definitely do that. Moving away from the home he was making on your thigh he positions himself in front of your center. Slightly puffy and wet from the friction of grinding against him, he takes in the need painted all over you.

A small gust of air blows out of his lips onto your clit, your hips wiggle. He kisses it, the first taste of yourself against his lips and he aches for more. Licking up whatever you have dripped out during your rutting and whining, he tastes you fully for the first time moaning against your nerves.

Messy, he remembers. Pulling away just slightly, he spits out a trail of saliva against your pussy, taking one hand off a leg he rubs it around in sloppy experimental circles. A loud moan from your lips as encouragement. Those same fingers pry your lips open wider so your clit is more exposed to him.

More spit and he’s sucking your bud into his mouth, hallowing his cheeks and running his tongue against you through suctions. His wet strands of hair are being yanked, a dull sting that has him rubbing his hips against the mattress.

“Yeah- good, good. You’re good-” you mumble out quickly. You must’ve remembered you’re his coach of sorts, not expecting the act to be so good you can’t explain it to him anymore.

A pitiful “ughn!” gets punched out of your chest as Spencer slurps up incoming wetness from your core up to his saliva pooling around your clit and swallows like it’s nothing. Spencer finds his favorite is sucking your clit between his lips and pulling away before letting it go back to place. It leaves your taste lingering in his mouth and has your legs spasming around him.

Replacing his tongue with two of his fingers rubbing back and forth against your clit, he wants to talk over the noises of wet friction coming from your bodies,

“You know– even though you’re laying there so pretty for me, your legs shake similarly to how your muscles would when working out. Your heart rate is increasing, adrenaline is spiking which is why you feel tingly. Am I right?”

“Spencer-”

Fingers slipping easily against you, he picks up his pace, “Your muscles are actually contracting in that same way as you would if you were working out. Tensing and releasing in the same manner- I mean. Your brain can’t differentiate the adrenaline either, which is why your body is reacting in this way. Lights up your nervous system like crazy too,”

“S-spencer-”

“Your sympathetic nervous system manages your fight or flight,” he pauses his sentence to switch fingers against your clit, a thumb coming to massage circles now, “triggering those moments of shaking, rapid breathing- crying-”

“Spencer- this. This is going to make me cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut– shutting down your mind and body after your warning– letting him do whatever he wants with that information.

He decides to pull his fingers away to suction your clit again, wanting to taste you as you cum.

Moans dissolving, your face twists up before finishing on his face with a long whimper. The aftershocks are so strong you’re rubbing yourself against his flat out tongue as you hiccup through the overstimulation.

It was shocking, to Spencer. Feeling so confident and in his element during this. Quite literally born to stick his tongue out for you to wiggle and hump against till your voice goes quiet.

Quickly, Spencer moves up to kiss you again, making sure you know how badly he still wants to.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever cum that hard-” you laugh breathlessly, grabbing one of his wrists to bring his fingers that were against you to your mouth.

Leaving Spencer’s brain fuzzy, you place your tongue out before wrapping your lips around the digits, sucking yourself off of his skin. In his excitement he might’ve pushed his fingers down a bit too far, spit collecting at the corner of your mouth as you gag lightly.

Gently but swiftly pulling them out, he looks at you with concern filling his eyes. You just smile a pretty, lazy smile back at him laughing out a, “Fucker-”

‘I-I’m sorry.” He feels his forehead begin to sweat and an embarrassed flush melt his skin.

“Mm. Don’t be, baby.”

Baby. The old walls of the motel room are closing in on him. This is what he has been waiting to hear his whole life. A fucking pet name. Spencer can only give you a light awkward laugh in return.

Just like earlier this evening, you’re pushing one of his sides, silenting guiding him to go wherever it would please you. Spencer could die being your willing follower. This lands him on his back again.

Looking down at his cock leaking by his belly button and his red skin on his sides from your scratching, he hums happily. You’ve sat yourself on his upper thighs, breasts above where he lays shining with his matted spit and he’s reminded how badly he wants them in his mouth again.

“Spencer, dear, how do you feel about me on top?”

“Uhhuh.”

“Yeah, uhhuh? Or “I don’t care” uhhuh?”

“Yes, please. Uhhuh.”

“So polite,” you coo, bending down to kiss his lips, hand gripping his jaw, “I can’t wait to feel you, fuck.”

Spencer is just trying to analyze the person who he was before this is over. How many times has he cum into his hand or against the mattress and deeply sighed after because it’ll never be a real person? Hyperbolic melodramatics aside, a lot.

He feels you lift your hips up from his legs to position yourself over top of him, grabbing his base for it to stand upright for you. He groans, wants to continue to manhandle and correct him forever so he can be useful to you in this way. As long as he gets to see your wetness stick and collect against your skin as you open your legs wider.

Placing a palm against his chest you nuzzle his head in between you. Completely silent and focused, the room is merely filled with Spencer's borderline agonizing whines. While trying to fit him inside you, you're lubing him with yourself, slipping the head in for a moment, pulling out to rub against you, putting him back in, one delicious grind against his head– so on and so forth.

He briefly considers how this could get anybody to talk. We should use this in interrogations. Spencer would literally spill any secret for this to continue.

A final pop signifies his head has fully entered you and the simultaneous gasp you both let out splashes heat into his face, his back arches.

You make eye contact and give him a shy, reserved smile as you work your hips up and down, trying to take in as much as you can.

Huh? How can you feel shy– Spencer is elated right now.

“S-sorry. Ha, been a while..” You cut yourself off with a high pitched moan as another inch slides into you.

Huh?! You could literally just massage his dick against your clit like you were doing before and Spencer wouldn’t complain about anything for another month. How are you apologizing now?

“I can’t,” he laughs, “I can’t even talk. Right now, I can’t. Don’t say sorry.” Spencer tries his best at reassuring you.

“F-feeling good? I just want your first time to be, ah!-”

His eyes roll back as you take him fully, sat completely on his lap now, two hands gripping into his chest. He can feel the blood rushing in his veins and can count every atom in his body with how they’re vibrating. Yes, he feels good.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” becomes his mantra. Truly, really, he wants to talk to you. He needs you to know that this trumps all other first times ever in the history of the world. Spencer genuinely can’t get it out. So he nods and nods and nods while his heart thumps and saliva collects messily at the corner of his lips.

Grabbing a bit too much, honestly, he pulls you down to kiss him more. Making sure to kiss the cut on your lip before going in fully. Feeling you squeeze around him while pulling yourself up to begin bouncing, he gently licks your slightly parted lips, trying to taste your sweet sighs toppling out of them.

A small suckle against the tip of his tongue tenses his thighs and you pull away to where you were, using his chest as an anchor so you can bounce against him frantically. One of his hands is glued to your waist while the other is pulling at your nipple till you’re letting out uninterrupted groans.

You throb around him and pause when his hand on your reaches to your other breast, kneading and pulling to match the other. He pushes the cups up with his palm while rubbing your pebbled buds between the side of his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation is delicious, unrelenting, and rough.

“Spencer- h-hold on, please. Gentle.” You gasp with a sigh as you slow down, not being able to focus on the right angle with his hands teasing you so much. He closes his eyes and smiles, hands trail slowly to your stomach, rubbing there.

Teasingly, you bring your fingers to Spencer’s own hardened nipples, rolling them between fingers briefly. Letting out an embarrassingly similar noise to “guh!” Spencer's eyes shoot open and your hands retreat.

Through a fit of giggles, you muster out a “sorry baby, had to!”

He sighs, settles back against the pillow more, “that felt good.”

“Mmhmmmm.” You smile and begin moving again. With Spencer’s hands needing a new place to go he eyes your clit peeking out between your sweaty bodies. Three of his fingers come together to rub circles against you that match your bounces.

“Shittt. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

How could he ever?

Sucking in a breath you slow your movements again, replacing them with a slow and deep grind against him as you take in both sensations simultaneously. Spencer watches your face, completely involved in consuming pleasure, almost a disbelieving shock written in your expression.

More of your slick pools around him, Spencer is acutely aware of it dripping down his very inner thigh to the mattress. You continue moaning softly in staccato, grinding your hips in circles as he plays with your clit.

And just like that it’s gone. Your eyes open with a gasp as you stutter out, “s-sorry!” and go back to bouncing up and down on his length.

Again he’s confused. Spencer has never seen such a face full of pleasure, why would you stop?

“Wh? What's wrong?” He manages out with a scratchy throat.

“Hn? Ah, nothing. I just know that doesn’t feel that good for you guys-”

Spencer squints his eyes. What douches have you had sex with that have told you that grinding against them is less suitable than the bouncing? Is not watching you use them to get off not the sexiest thing ever? Literally. Ever.

Your back was arching and you could barely talk while your toes curl and you’re worried about him?

“Noo, no. Angel- do it. Please, you can. Get off, just, yeah, use me to get off.”

Hands gripping your hips to stall them, your head falls back with a whimper. Panting breaths into the ceiling Spencer continues to guide your hips. Dragging them back and forth like how you were earlier.

“Fuck. Feels s’good. You’re like- I can feel you everywhere-” Your voice breaks on the last word, high pitched and frail as the grinding continues.

Allowing yourself to give into pleasure now, you’re moving your hips against him without the aid, leaving Spencer to circle your clit and moan at the sight of you.

Back bending prettily and mewling increasingly with the shaking of your thighs, Spencer senses your second orgasm is approaching.

“Shit. I- I think I’m gonna cum again, baby.”

Your hand slaps against your mouth as you cum against Spencer, his fingers remain their circles on your clit, hips isolating to grind against you while you cum too hard to do it for yourself.

You gasp and slump your weight against Spencer’s chest, his dick falling out of you while you do so. His hands rub up and down the expanse of your back as you place kiss after kiss against his neck.

“Kay,” you begin rolling to your back, “your turn.”

Spencer looks over at you, grinning ear to ear. He was not expecting to be fashioning himself between your thighs tonight, he can barely contain his excitement as he rolls on top of you. Before he’s inside of you again and completely rendered speechless, he decides to get out all the words he couldn’t tell you before.

“You’re treating me so well,” he rests his head against your fluttering entrance, “I never imagined feeling so good,” he kisses your jaw, “such a good girl.” he finishes whispering against your ear as he slides inside of you.

This angle is different, for sure. Your legs are locked together against his back and having the free reign to control the thrusts and movements is making Spencer feel delightfully overwhelmed with desire.

He finds it’s easier to talk to you this way. So he’s running his mouth in pants beside your ear as you moan gently through overstimulation.

“You feel so wet. I could do this forever. I want to be around you forever. I’m so glad I’m here. You feel so good. I- I’m gonna cum.”

Pausing his rambling, Spencer stills his hips. Totally not wanting this to end and brutally aware that if he finishes right now he’s going to be completely knocked out after. His mind wanders to your cunt. You’ve orgasmed twice, you’re so wet around him that it’s been dripping everywhere for who knows how long. He has to taste you again.

Before he knows it, “Sorry-” is falling from his bitten lips and he’s pulling out of you. Your gasp makes him place a wet kiss against your stomach as he moves down between your parted legs.

This sight before him. Jaw dropping. All over your thighs and cunt is your and Spencer’s mix of fluids. You’re more swollen and open than before– he could still cum like this.

More gently than before he’s licking up everything that's smeared across your sensitive flesh in a dirty display of your feelings for one another. He’s moving his head around rather than his tongue, just maneuvering himself to savor everything you’ve expelled.

Muffled whines and pleads meet his ears doing so. Apparently, it’s “so much” and you “can’t cum again” but gripping his hair against you anyway. He’s never heard you so broken down and vulnerable as you beg him “please, please, please…” for maybe relief or for more.

Bringing his hand down he slides in two of his fingers to rub at your walls. Certainly not as full as you were being fucked by Spencer, but still enough for you to leak the sticky white fluid you emit when being destroyed particularly well.

“Uh. Uh. Shit. Spencer. Mm. I feel like- I have to-” You babble pitifully as he sucks at your clit gently.

Whatever it is, he’ll take it. Lap it up and swallow it happily like a spoonful of sugar after cough medicine.

Thighs closing in on his head, you cum again. Small bursts of fluid dribble out of you and pool around his fingers. So that’s what you were trying to say.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re so beautiful. That was so beautiful. Oh my god.”

Spencer is pulling his (very) wet fingers out of you to kiss all over your embarrassed face.

“Please- Spencer. Cum in me.”

Right. His dick is red and begging and drooling and twitching uncomfortably.

Caging in your head with his forearms, he drops his forehead against yours and fucks himself back into you. Being wrapped around your warm, wet, tight pussy again makes him keen, shaking his head against yours like he can’t take all of it.

Your hands are combing reassuringly through his hair as you praise him, “you’re making me feel so good, nobody has ever made me feel so good. Baby, cum for me please, I need to feel you.”

With a bite of your lip between his teeth after a particularly toothy kiss, Spencer comes inside of you. Shaking like a leaf and whining through gasps he slides in and out, milking his cock for every last second it can survive inside of your heat.

Holding onto each other with a fervor not equipped for the unbearable heat wave outside you drag your lips, give small passing kisses while shuddering together. Hidden in the crook of your neck Spencer whimpers out, “I want to stay here forever.”

“Yeah? I do too.”

“I really don’t want to leave.”

You sigh but are smiling against his hair anyway, confidently hopeful without reason for the first time in your life.

“We don’t have to.”

𓆱

6am the next morning a thunderous rain patters against the police stations windows, a deep abyss of dark sky wrongly indicating that the comforting blanket of night is still in place instead of the crack of dawn.

Spencer finds you separated from him again, the brutal reminder of you indeed not working on the same team churns his stomach. At the station Spencer builds a geographical profile to find the whereabouts of a certain fired theology professor, Dr. Lucien Harrow.

Out in the whirling storms of Jefferson, you, Derek, Hotchner, and your unit chief who was particularly nasty to you are driving out to find where he resides, then, you can see if there may be any clues to where the cult is meeting.

Spencer aches with the idea of you out in the flooded narrow backroads. Tree branches thrashing in the wind, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky in electric stripes. He should be there with you. Making sure nothing happens to you again.

Two sharp rings and Spencer is picking up his phone rapidly to your unsaved number.

“Dr. Reid?”

“Y-yeah? Yes.”

“What can you tell us about that latin phrase from yesterday?”

“Daemonium Imperium, Fides Aeterna. It has ties to a rare Latin manuscript once banned by the Vatican, moreso a doctrine used by fringe sects of religious extremists, really.”

“So, this cult believes in sacrificial ascension? That death at the hands of a “faithful” leads to eternal peace and communion with the divine?”

“It could be–”

“He- he’s not here. At his house. There’s so much writing. The girls who died were not attacked by the cult or even failed escapees– they were offerings. The five who vanished had never tried to escape. They were elevated within the cult, chosen to carry out the "sacrifice" of their own sisters, believing this would grant them purity. It’s all in… he’s got this diary.”

Spencer's eyebrows shoot up, casting Elle a disturbed glance before he replies.

“Forward anything you found to our technical analyst, see if she can find any private property owned by Harrow. Or just–”

“What?”

“Just please be careful.”

A sigh from your side cuts through his ears, “I’ll try.”

Checking back to the fingerprints found in Harrow’s house, you consult your forensic notes from before in the car. The use of a mess to disguise markings, the complete lack of the unsub’s DNA, and the ritualistic carvings all point to someone not just avoiding detection, but trained to leave no trace.

Your brows furrow, “SSA Hotchner?”

He turns around to you with expectant eyes.

“If he’s so meticulous about cleaning up, most likely the cult grounds are going to be something he knows he has complete control over. Private property of some kind– where he knows he’s not going to be bothered. It’s not going to be open to the public.”

Hotchner nods, already moving toward the car door of the SUV, pulling out the radio from the passenger seat. Rain lashes sideways, but neither of you care.

“We need to cross-reference Harrow’s known associates and past property records, and contact your technical analyst. Anything purchased under shell corporations or family trusts,” you say, flipping through your notes as the others huddle under umbrellas. “Somewhere rural. Isolated. But not abandoned. They’re using this place regularly.”

Derek glances over your shoulder. “You think he’s the owner, or just the shepherd?”

You pause at that. “No. He’s the theologian. The teacher. This isn’t just about murder, this is doctrine. Someone else is in charge of logistics. He just gives the sermons.”

Derek finishes his urgent message to Penelope and within five minutes she’s calling back,

“I just pulled a deed registration from three years ago. Lucien Harrow’s mother passed away, and her will left him a parcel of land in Jefferson County. Sixty acres. No structures reported, but satellite shows some kind of development deep in the forest. Last updated… six months ago.”

The slamming of car doors shock your system as you snap back to reality, rain still coming down like judgment.

Gravel being assaulted under hard screeching tires overpowers the hard rain as the SUV arrives. A long, low building, windowless, constructed of stone and wood, almost like a monastery. It hums. Not with electricity, with voices.

Whatever's waiting beyond that aged porch, it's not just a killer. It’s a belief system sharpened into a weapon.

Air is sweet and thick with incense and decay. The walls are covered in scripture, various Latin phrases written in blood and soot. Symbols carved into the stone, some fresh, some ancient. A narrow corridor leads deeper underground, illuminated only by flame sconces that flicker like they're breathing.

The infiltration of the compound was surgical and swift. Once the combined teams breached through the basement of the property, they were able to trap the cult members in the underground chamber with nowhere to run.

Those too stunned or resistant were restrained with minimal force, while others dropped to the ground, disoriented and exhausted. Mobile medical units waiting above immediately began triage, administering IV fluids and beginning the long process of deconditioning their minds from Harrow’s indoctrination.

Once Spencer and Elle arrived on scene they quickly seized the grounds, uncovering journals, recordings, and ritual paraphernalia that provided indisputable evidence of psychological manipulation, religious abuse, and coercive control.

𓆱

“How many times do I have to tell you not to rush in like that, you were almost killed once. We don’t need somebody so liable on this team. We need to be able to count on one another.”

Back at the station, your unit chief growls lowly at you in disbelief, like you didn’t push along the whole case while he sputtered in confusion.

Spencer’s hands tremble slightly underneath the table, eyes locked in on your soaked frame. Prolonged exposure to cold rain increases the likelihood of developing pneumonia by almost 42%, especially when paired with elevated stress levels and lack of rest.

Before he knows what he’s saying, “You don't get to berate someone for doing the job you failed to do.”

The room goes silent.

Hotch, watching the exchange from across the bullpen, steps in just as you start to gather your breath, taps your shoulder.

“Come with me,” he says, quiet but firm.

At the other side of the room Hotch walks you to a more secluded corner.

“He was out of line,” Hotch says finally. “But so were you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he continues before you can. Who is this guy to offer you any advice?

“However, you think like we do. You’re quick to act and you’re thoughtful. The relentlessness in your pursuit of the truth is not something we see often.”

“Thanks?”

“We would benefit greatly from a forensic science perspective. The kind of work you’re doing, the casework...but you have to trust the team. You have to trust yourself.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears. Your wet clothes from earlier clinging to you uncomfortably as you feel eyes on you from across the room.

“Wh-what?”

“You can’t keep pushing yourself to the edge, not without someone to have your back. Your team does not have your back. If you accept, I could request your transfer of units into the BAU in Quantico.”

You can feel the weight of his words settle in the air between you. Eyes comically wide you watch the way this past week has unfolded like a flip book. Never have you felt good enough, the constant ridicule of your all-male team and consistent chiding remarks have ground you down into a fine paste of the person you were on your first day.

You can’t tell if it’s the offer of a lifetime, or the fact that someone finally sees you, sees worth in you, beyond forensic input on a grisly crime scene or the hollow praise in the field after everyone’s gone home.

You blink. Once. Twice. The room feels suddenly too small, your soaked shirt too tight, your voice caught somewhere between fear and desperate relief. Spencer. A laugh bubbles out of you, watery and raw. You swipe a hand over your face, unsure if it’s to wipe away tears or the sweat beading on your brow.

“Yes. I accept. Thank you. Yes.”

A fatherly clap on your shoulder, Hotchner turns away winking over at Spencer where he’s still sitting, eyes dry from staring at your conversation so long across the room.

𓆱

Wet trousers stick to the flat area of the sink in the station's bathroom as Spencer opens your mouth against his, hands feeling all over your damp skin. The kisses are never ending. Brutally pushed against your lips or dusted around any skin he can find.

“I can’t. I can’t believe this. I mean, you’re beyond qualified and capable but- I never thought good things like this could happen to me.”

You place your head down and bite his blazer-clad shoulder.

“You’re not getting rid of me. This is insane. You’re going to be so sick of me.”

Two warm palms encircle your cheeks, “That’s not even funny,” Spencer kisses your mouth once, licks a stripe up your neck making you giggle. “You’re… you’re going to see my apartment, the plane… we won’t be doing filing work together you’ll probably be on the side with Garcia, but, but you’re going to help us so much. I can’t believe this. I’m going to be with you every day.”

A strike of uncontrollable happy tears prick your eyes. Looking at Spencer, you wrap your arms around him tightly– enough to break his back even, the total definition of a bear hug. Another kiss is being placed on your chilled skin.

“You worried me earlier. You can really get sick being all wet for this long. Let’s go back and change.”

For a moment it's as if the motel room is your and Spencer’s shared home of domestic bliss. The leaky ring around the ceiling of the bathroom and the draft from the old window harbors the most intricate portrayal of the life you’ve built in a week; obsessive, tender, but strangely whole.

The scratchy carpet remembers the quiet shuffle of Spencer’s socks, and the chipped headboard knows the heat of his hands. There’s a toothbrush next to yours, the rest of his toiletries not even unpacked yet. It has held the illusion of permanence through your time spent there anticipating when it’ll all end.

But now, it doesn’t have to end. Not really. Not with the move, not with the way everything’s about to shift, closer, steadier. You’ll be in his world now, not just in passing, not just in moans swallowed by motel rooms dressed up as borrowed homes.

The illusion starts to feel like something more: a prelude.

𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱 tags: @luvsvite @rainydayathogwarts @liuralibrar @cel070321

#spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader

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bunnyinvanilla · 3 months ago

Note

getting stood up -or ditched- by ur stupid boyfriend and desperate for a way home cause a lil bunny can’t walk home alone at night so as a last resort, you call dads bsf price, who is more than happy to pick up his best friends little girl xx and he can’t drop her off without showing her what a real man is

ps: i absolutely adore your writing x keep it up bby

a defeated little sigh slips from your glossed lips as you stare at the text message, received fifty minutes after you’d sent the first one.

“i don’t think i’ll be able to make it tonight, i forgot about it and now i am busy, sorry!”

you weren’t sad he couldn’t make it, of course, you would’ve appreciated it if he’d at least warned you about his little slip of memory, but if anything, that little mistake only sealed your mind even more — it’s not like you were a couple, you’d only been on a date once, and this was supposed to be the second one. clearly, he wasn’t interested, and you weren’t either, but you’d been left alone waiting for him for more than a hour, like an abandoned little bunny. you didn’t deserve this, you deserved a princess treatment.

nibbling on your bottom lip, you stood outside the building, the night breeze cold against your bare thighs as you considered your options — you couldn’t possibly call your father, he’d be livid with both the guy for leaving you alone at night, and you for ending up in this reckless situation. also, you didn’t want to make him worry too much.

so, your baby pink nails clipped against the screen as you recklessly quickly typed the number of the only person you trusted the most, the only one you could think about that could come and save you. only tree ringings passed by, before you heard his deep, gruff and rough voice from the other side of the phone.

“hello?”

your heartbeat immediately increased, effected by his low tone, beating faster and nervously. he sounded rougher, huskier.

“sir?” you tried to swallow down your heart, poor thing trying to flutter outside of your chest — your cheeks were painted red, covered by a warm and bright blush.

“doll?” you caught the slight urgency in his voice, though it sounded controlled and steady as always. a few seconds of silence passed after his reply, and you imagined him glancing down at his wrist watch, before muttering out “what’s wrong?”

“i’m fine, im really sorry to bother you at this hour—“

“you never bother me, sweetheart. what happened?”

you hesitated, looking down towards your mary jane white heels “can you please come pick me up? im alone and i didn’t wanna call my father cause he’d get angry, pretty please?”

you bit your lip, torn between relief and regret for deciding to call him without even thinking twice. maybe he’d been sleeping, tired after work—?

“where are you, princess?”

“outside of a restaurant, i’ll text you the address, okay?”

the sudden rustling of fabric and the light jingle of keys echoed from the phone, and you could picture him standing up, his broad, muscular body walking towards his door “wait for me, doll, be there in a few”

less than ten minutes went by when you recognized his old fashioned car, driving up to a halt right in front of your place on the sidewalk. you mentally prayed and thanked God for sending you your personal knight, the rumble of the car’s engine the only sound around the otherwise peaceful and too silent air.

you quickly opened the passenger’s door and got inside of the car, immediately filled with the familiar scent of cigars, tobacco and expensive cologne that swirled around you.

“thank you for coming, sir,” you were nervous, you felt embarrassed, and he could see that, under the dim light surrounding the car, his sharp and intense eyes never left you, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted together, hands resting on your lap like a squirming bunny that couldn’t handle being too close to him.

even in the dark your blushing cheeks were so bright, he could see them, red and flushed — with one large hand gripping the steering wheel, he leisurely admired your short dress, before starting the engine and driving away.

“who do i have to kill, mmh?”

you almost gave out a smile, but only shook your head at him. “no one, sir, im okay”

“date stood you up, bunny?”

you loved his nickname for you. it made you blush and heart flutter.

there was no point in telling him a white lie. with a soft sigh, you leaned your head back on the seat. “it wasn’t a date..he’s not even my boyfriend. we’ve gone out once and today we were supposed to have dinner together. but he clearly wasn’t interested since he texted me that he’d forgotten and was apparently too busy to tell me instead of ditching me and leaving me all alone”

john kept driving, and you dared a shy glance towards him. he always radiated confidence and strong masculinity — he was so handsome, so respectful and manly, the manliest man that existed. he was a real man, the one you truly wanted, and no one could ever take his place in your heart, your poor heart was aware of that. a little, sweet and too young girl falling for a man too old for you, old enough to be your father.

only then, a glimpse of an amused lazy grin appeared beneath his thick, dark beard, littered with gray on the right spots. he shook his head once, focused on the road, “stupid kid, he was. he’s merely a boy, love, boys his age don’t know shit about how to treat a sweet bunny like you, sweetheart. dumb dog”

you blushed more at his words, clenching your bare knees until they touched, your thighs exposed and filled with goosebumps provoked by the chill night air and his deep voice.

“doesn’t matter, it can happen. im not sad or anything, just…it feels mortifying. he could’ve at least texted me, you know? could’ve just told me he didn’t want to go out anymore. makes me feel like im insignificant. that’s why i’ve never liked guys my age.”

you couldn’t even stop that last line from slipping out of your glossed lips, at that point, you’d just been rumbling to him. he remained quiet, listening to you as he drove, and you recognized the familiar ice cream place, the trees and local church that were close to your neighborhood.

“bunny, that kid was an asshole, ‘s not your fault. an angel like you deserves a real man who knows what he wants and what you want. not some idiot” he punctuated the last word with a gruff chuckle, the sound vibrating around the tiny space between you. “don’t waste time with people like him. could pay him a visit, if you want”

“please don’t sir” you quickly said, your lips already curving in an entertained smile, “we’re never gonna see each other anymore, anyway”

“made my bunny stay outside all alone at night, could send him to jail. gonna make him be real busy behind bars,” you knew he was being playful just to make you smile, but his voice sounded even lower, deep and rough, with a hint of threatening to it. “why didn’t you call your dad?”

you hesitated, blinking at him from under your long lashes, puppy dog eyes shy and timid as you shrugged “he would’ve gotten man at him for leaving me alone and at me for ending up in this situation, always finds a way to blame the victim.”

you saw him shifting gear, and without even realizing it, you were already on your main street. tilting your head towards the darkened mirror, you recognized your front porch, standing in the dark with no lights on. your dad must’ve been asleep, or maybe was waiting for you to come back in his room. but from the windows, you saw that all the lights were off.

“im glad i called you, sir, thank you for coming and helping me. i really don’t know how to thank you” you turned towards him again, giving him another smile.

“was a pleasure, bunny, no need to pay me back. just seeing you in this short dress is enough.” he turned off his car, smirking lazily at you with a look that made you shiver and turn into flames, flushing red and warm. you wanted him so bad, you felt bad for how much you wanted him.

you swallowed, fluttering your lashes at him, grabbing your purse and pushing your heels down, as if reminding yourself that you had to say goodbye and go. “w-well, then, thank you again, sir,” blushing like shooting stars, like the bright rays of the sun, you leaned closer to him, wanting to give him a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

as soon as you leaned over, you felt his hands grab your waist, tugging you by your hips and pushing you against his lap. you almost squeaked, and your lips found his mouth, instead of his cheek. he waisted no time throwing your legs on his sides, making you sink against him, practically straddling him. the sudden contact made you press your mouth more firmly against his, muffling a little sound as a rush of warmth spread between your legs.

he trailed his hand over your neck, until it tangled in your long hair and grabbed a fistful of it to tilt your face against his. he kissed you hard, almost violently, like a starving, animalistic man. you whined against him, throwing your hands around his neck, the pain in your scalp from how much he was pulling your head mingling with pleasure.

you parted your lips slightly as he pushed his tongue inside of your mouth, licking every free inch until it pressed against yours. his free hand trailed under the hem of your sundress making you whimper and cling closer to him. you felt the cold metal of his rings against your bare thigh as he gripped your flesh, brushing his hand up and down until it reaches the hem of your panties.

you skipped a breath, tilting your head to give him more access as he devoured your lips, crashing against them in a feverish kiss full of bites, tongue and teeth.

“sir, sir—“ your words were muffled by the kisses, but you didn’t want to stop, you only wanted him, to feel him and to be with him.

he parted only for a second, looking down at you with a hungry, dark gaze “shhh, shhh doll, don’t wan’ anyone to wake up, huh bunny?”

he grabbed your chin, pressing his mouth heavy against yours. “you know how hard it is to see you going out like this, how badly daddy wants to have you all to himself, mh?

your breath grew heavier, and you could only nod at him, breathlessly, doe eyes glimmering, big and innocent and so needy.

“look at you…so fucking innocent, such a good girl, no one deserves you, angel. gonna be the death of me, looking at me so innocently, when I know how much you want daddy to have his way with you, don’t you, bunny? a needy bunny on my lap, fuck,”

you nodded again, whining and hiding your head against his neck when his hand lowered between your legs, tracing your inner thigh with a steady movement, like he wanted to savor it, take his time, but couldn’t wait any longer. “yes sir, wan’— wanna be with you, I—“

“know you do, bunny, i know sweet thing. only this old man knows how to treat you like the princess that you are, made of sugar. shit, having to talk to your dad when you’re around, acting like i don’t wanna throw his little girl over my shoulder and have my way with her, having to hold myself back. you on your little skirts that make me go mad, your fucking ribbons…”

you bit your lip and shuddered against him, blushing shyly at his words, that made your heartbeat quicken, go faster. he always treated you so well, like he was your bodyguard, like you were his little princess. a little helpless mewl left your lips, as you sought for his lips again, pressing another kiss on his mouth, that he quickly deepened — the kiss filled the car with lewd sounds, his tongue heavy and wet against yours, but you wanted more.

“please sir, please, anything,” you whimpered, and he cooed at you, letting out another deep chuckle that vibrated against your chest. your lips were puffy and red from his mustache and salt and pepper beard that scratched your skin.

”what do you want, doll? mmh? come on love, use your words, know you can.”

you were too shy to ask him or to address what you wanted, hoped the way you fluttered your lashes innocently could speak for you. “just you, daddy..and, and…”

he softened his hungry gaze when you trailed off, and caressed your thigh. “daddy can’t give you that now, love. you deserve more than a stolen moment in the midst of chaos. and definitely not here” with a gentle tug, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses on your knuckles. “wanna get off on daddy’s thigh? like a good bunny? mmh?”

you nodded again, shyly yet eagerly this time. lifting the skirt of your sundress to shift your position, he sat you on his thigh, coming in contact with the denim of his jeans, and you shivered when you felt the muscle of his leg against your clothed clit. john leaned back, playfully patting your lower back.

“alright bunny, hands on my shoulders, like this; good girl. now, just move your hips, back and forth, like this— yeah. good girl, like this, fuck, can feel you, see? ‘s not hard, angel” his hands were heavy and secure on your waist, steadying your movements as he guided your hips to buck against his thigh.

you were new to the sensation, didn’t know how to move, but the friction made you whine slowly, almost inaudibly. not to his ears.

“feels good, bunny?”

“mmmhh” you nodded, rolling your hips against his thigh, searching more of that strange feeling. you lowered your head, your cheeks growing red, a bright blush that he could almost taste on his own lips. you were shy, inexperienced, a virgin, and john was the only one who could teach you everything you needed to learn.

“that’s it baby, make yourself feel good. take your time,”

“don’t know how—“ you whined, desperate for his help. his hands ached on your waist, wanting to hold you, to undress you, to grasp every inch of your soft skin with his rough hands. and it was torture, seeing you like that, whining and needy for your daddy’s help, having to physically stop himself from touching you freely :(

“you’re doing so well f’me, bunny, good girl, find out how you like it, yeah, sweetheart, you should see yourself right now. pure sunshine,” he squeezed your hips and you yelped, letting out a soft whimper, your thighs clenching against his, as you tried to steady your movements, your clit brushing against the denim and making your panties grow damp.

the familiar sound of your ringtone startled you, and you almost screamed when it echoed through the dark space of the car. you stopped your movements, catching your breath. blinking as if you’d just woken up from a dream, you crouched yourself towards the passenger seat and hastily grabbed your phone, taking it out of your pink purse.

dad. his name sparkled on the screen, and you felt john physically tense against you, the muscle of his jaw thickening when he saw his name. begrudgingly, you picked up, holding your phone against your ear with a loud heart thundering in your chest.

“dad?” you tried to breath normally, your cheeks felt burning hot, and your voice was shaky. “im…im almost home, yes, it went…”

you dared a shy look at John, whose jaw was clenched, and whose hand still hadn’t gotten off your bare thigh. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, I have the keys, yes. You can go to sleep, im fine”

when he hung up, you loudly swallowed. you couldn’t believe what you’d been doing. straddling your dad’s best friend’s thigh, in his car. there was no way you could look at him in the eyes after that. your face blushed like it was on fire, and your eyes looked down at your ruffled skirt,

“I—I— thank you, sir Price, I’ll be going now—“ you stammered, your heart pounding like it never had before. you tried to reach out for your purse, but john quickly grabbed you by your chin, keeping your face in front of his — his think fingers sprawled over your jaw, and his voice was almost animalistic, a bare growl when he spoke against your lips. he was pissed, he felt like a dog who’d just been teased with a bone, just to have it taken away from him right before his eyes.

“when i do finally get my hands on you, doll, nothing and no one will take you from me, understand?”

you nodded, breathless.

“understand, doll?” he repeated, again, making you flinch with pleasure.

“yessir”

“good girl,” he rasped the word against your lips, before pressing a soft kiss on them. “now, goodnight, bunny, hop back to your pen.”

#john price #john price smut #john price x f!reader #john price x female reader #captain price x female reader #price x female reader #john price x y/n #call of duty

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etherealrin · 5 months ago

Text

⋆˙⟡ he's a 10!

you call highschool!rin past midnight, accidentally confessing your attraction towards a certain number 10 that plays soccer.

warnings: slight ooc rin, mentions of cat unalivement (don't worry about it...) rin's a dry texter, pretty much just pure fluff // wc: 1.2k

note: i hope this makes sense the idea just came to me randomly heh & reader is a girl

you don't know why you're up at 2 am on a friday night. no, you guess it was technically saturday morning now. you should've been exhausted from school and sleeping, so why do you find yourself sitting inbetween the fuzzy blankets on your bed, whispering intently towards your phone as you facetimed your seatmate itoshi rin?

so maybe, you harbored a tiny crush on the jaw-droppingly attractive raven haired boy who sat next to you during class. maybe, you had fallen for his stoic yet somehow sweet demeanor (you swear he was friendlier around you and he had never called you lukewarm yet, but perhaps you were just delusional.) heck, you weren't even close enough friends with him to warrant such a midnight call, yet here you were. you had to keep your voice low, as to not disturb your family, who were all dozing off somewhere in dreamland by now. your windows are open, just a crack, and you're keenly aware that it's pitch blackness outside, save for the streetlight illuminating the front of your house.

"i mean, i was kind of in the middle of playing a horror game before you called," rin's voice echoed through your airpods.

"shoot, i don't mean to bother you!" you reply, voice hushed. "you can hang up right now, sorry!"

"it's fine, i don't think you're a bother." you peer at your phone, catching how rin's face is illuminated by the bright light coming out from his pc's monitor. you hope that on his side, he can't see much of you in the dimness of your room. you'd die if he caught the hot pink blush creeping across your face at his words.

"itoshi, you're actually a really nice person," you find yourself telling him. "i don't get why everyone labels you as standoffish and cold." you're absentmindedly fiddling with an avocado plushie on the edge of your bed, unaware that it was showing on camera.

"maybe it's because i threatened to unalive the cat of the last girl who asked me out?" rin offered, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"rin, what? please don't come after mine!" you exclaim. oops, had you spoken a bit too loud? well, it didn't seem like you had woken anyone up, so you continued. "i swear floof doesn't bite!" floof was the name of your very fluffy and very adorable kitten.

"well it's not like i'd say that to every girl who confesses to me," he notes. you wonder how his attitude could do a 360 so fast, he truly was an enigma to you.

"say, rin, do you like anyone?" you don't know what you're thinking, but the words spill out of your mouth anyway. you blush even harder, mentally screaming. did you really just ask the boy you liked that question? maybe you were asleep and dreaming, because there was no way you would have the guts to ask him so directly. an apology follows immediately from your end. "i didn't mean to ask such a personal question, i don't know what i was thinking!" you hurriedly stammer, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. you doubted that rin loved anything other than soccer, at any rate. actually, scratch that, did he even like soccer? sometimes you thought the boy with the number 10 on his jersey played like he loathed the game, and wanted to murder it or destroy someone's legacy.

"uhm," rin sounded like he was unsure. it was a contrast to his usual assured self and confident tone. "i'll tell you if you tell me?"

huh? you were at the verge of screaming for real this time. how could you answer rin, met with a question like that? you suppose you had brought it onto yourself, but you really were unprepared for the situation.

"i- uh," you hesitiate, unable to meet the piercing teal gaze on your phone right now. screw it, should you just tell him? "i like guys who are a 10," you whisper. oh god, you wanted to jump out your window and end it right there. of all the stupid indirect answers you could have given itoshi rin, you managed to choose what you think was likely the worst of them all. your voice was barely audible, but evidently rin had heard you loud and clear from the way he took a sharp breath.

"meaning?" rin prods, as if he were actually invested in who you liked.

"i don't know, like" you think you're starting to ramble now. "kinda like if they wear number 10 on their soccer jersey and stuff?" you prayed that maybe rin would think you weren't thinking straight due to lack of sleep and pretend that this conversation had never transpired once you went back to school next monday.

you don't know that on the other end of the line, itoshi rin was grinning like an idiot.

"i'll text you a picture of who i like," rin said suddenly, cutting your call before you could react (before he could change his mind about what he was going to do.) and you truly wish you could evaporate, turn into water vapor or something, and become nothing. he probably hates you now. floof was likely next on his hit list of felines to dismember.

you sigh into your hands, burying yourself under the warmth of your covers, when your phone lights up.

ping! you have one message and one attachment from rin! the display informs you.

your fingers ghost over the notification, scared to open it. but you steel your nerves, brace for the worst, and push down, squeezing your eyes shut. it takes about 30 seconds before you crack them open.

"i like her." he had sent. a picture of a...black screen followed? you press on it and the darkness engulfs your screen. you could see nothing in it, except for your own reflection staring quizzically back at you. your eyes widen with realization. there's no way, you think.

"is this a joke?" you type with trembling fingers and nervously hit the send button, trying your hardest to ignore the pounding in your chest. your heart was going haywire, and it only got worse as the bubble appeared in the chat, indicating that rin was typing.

"well, i didn't have any pictures of you." his reply reads. you want to explode into a thousand pieces, but to your credit you don't and start typing again. to your surprise, your phone buzzes once more. rin had double texted you.

"don't you see yourself in it?" he had sent. your heart now threatens to run away from your body and join the circus or something, as you stare at your crush's confession. you're aware of the stupidly wide grin tugging at your lips right now.

and because you're an idiot, you send:

"i've actually had a crush on you since we moved seats to sit together."

to which he replies:

"...same."

when you plop down into your seat beside him that next monday, he offers you a half smile and a "hey."

"morning, rin," you greet him. he knows, you think. you wonder how awkward it'll be now.

"do you want to come to my game later? heard you liked the number 10 jersey, it just so happens i have a spare i can lend you," rin offers, eyes sparkling with anticipation you've never seen before.

"of course," you answer, immediately understanding what he wanted. "maybe i should cheer loudly for that number 10 as well? rin raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion, but he's profusely grinning and fails to hide it.

you're vaguely aware of your classmates staring at your desks, wondering why itoshi rin was having a seemingly friendly conversation with the girl next to him, and why both of your cheeks were dusted a faint pink.

#i'm gonna kiss him #rin's my boyfriend i'm not crazy #itoshi rin x reader #bllk fluff #bllk x reader #bllk x you #blue lock #blue lock fluff #blue lock rin #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #itoshi rin #rin fluff #rin x reader #rin x you #rin blue lock #rin itoshi #凛 ; rin x reader

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

Text

1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 2 months ago

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Cupid's Chokehold !

pairing: oscar piastri x male!rockstar!reader author's note: this idea has been in my mind 4 so long lol, reader is british in this. also! first smau so it might be shit lol. songs + artists in order: garbage truck by sex bob-omb, as seen on tv by my buddy eric, the love i lost by fried by fluoride, just by radiohead, boys dont cry by the cure, so long by james marriott + cupid's chokehold / breakfast in america by gym class heroes warnings: use of y/n, callbacks/mentions to a break up, talks about toxic relationships (briefly), mentions of drinking and alcohol, homophobic comments, thats it i think word count: 2.1k (including social media parts)

ynmusic streetlite officially out, performing in local pubs soon

user481 LET'S FUCKING GO!!!

user481 wait WHAT THE FUCK SIR DID U GO THROUGH A BREAKUP??? WHY THE HELL IS TS SAD

↳ user044 STOP REAL like this is SOO a break up album 💔

↳ user228 ur joking im not ready to sob hello

↳ user044 damn uh how do we break this to you?

↳ user228 DONT SAY THAT

A beat-down, smoke-ridden pub wasn’t the place that Oscar expected to find himself in when Lando had invited him out to Britain. And yet, here he was—slouched at the end of a sticky bar counter, his head in his hands and muttering something about better tastes and being rich.

The lighting was uncomfortably weak, a broken neon sign buzzed in the corner of his eye, barely illuminating the peeling wallpaper surrounding him.

He glanced over to Lando, who in his opinion, looked far too comfortable—like the pub was a second home—his laugh already reeking of cheap booze.

“Mate,” Oscar sighed, shoulders sagging, “you’re actually serious about this place being good?”

At the sound of his friend's voice, Lando turned to face him, a crooked smile playing on his face. With a tilted head, and a grin like no other—he slung his arm around Oscars shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed (and one-sided) hug.

“It’s absolutely brilliant,” he drawled, already a little gone, “you’ve gotta see the performance—they’ve got a new guy singing tonight.”

Lando’s pitch wasn’t that convincing, what with his hiccuping, swaying state. Still, he stayed, muttering a dejected “alright”.

After a few moments, though, the lights in the bar dimmed, and other lights from an open area with a stage turned on. Red lights bled across the walls—glaringly bright at first—before dimming low enough for Oscar to make sense of the stage.

You stepped out in front of a small, still forming crowd, wearing a leather jacket perfectly fitted—tattoos crawling up your neck and twisting down your wrist—you looked every bit the rockstar.

The mic squealed as you leaned in, tapping it once with your finger.

“My name is Y/N,” you began—your voice rugged in just the right way, “and I’ll be performing my new album, Streetlite, for you all.”

Oscar spent the next fifteen or so minutes fully tuning out Lando’s slurred speech—eyes trained on you and only hearing the music that you played. A gritty, grunge-leaning setlist pulsed through the pub. He hated to say it, but Lando was right in making him stay.

He couldn’t deny the pang of disappointment washing over him as you took a bow, exiting off the stage, but begrudgingly he turned to look for Lando.

It seemed like his friend hadn’t paid the performance any attention—too focused on chatting to (or up, he wasn’t sure) the bartender serving him.

Oscar was too busy daydreaming to notice the sound of footsteps behind him, as well as the creak of a barstool when a man sat beside him.

“A Guinness, please.” The man spoke, a familiar gravelly sound—one that Oscar recognized. He blinked, head twitching toward the sound.

There you were. Up close. The singer.

He whipped his head back around as quickly as he could muster, a dull feeling of dizziness following suit, then a warmth. Heat blooming at the tips of his ears—embarrassment, probably.

His brain felt like it was sizzling, and it had no reason to be. He wanted to limp away like a wounded animal in fear—because the man beside him scared him more than he should.

He’s just a man, Oscar told himself. You’re just a man too.

But when he turned to face you, cheeks flushed and heartbeat loud in his ears, that thought didn’t help much at all.

“You’re starin’ mate.” You spoke. Accent latching onto your words, and your eyes lingering elsewhere.

And when you spoke, oh Oscar would swear his heartbeat thrummed through every bone in his body. Fumbling, stuttering over his words—he apologised. Incoherent, awkward—an apology nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he croaks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

You laugh. Rough. But it carries a warmth that Oscar keeps in his chest.

“There’s no need, was jus’ pointing it out,” You smiled, finger tracing the rim of your glass, “name’s Y/N—not sure if you were listening but it was me performing up there.”

“I was.” Oscar affirms far too quickly—which he only realises half-way through, “ah, uhm—you could call me Oscar.”

You repeat his name, softly—letting it play on your tongue as you speak it, “Oscar. Fits you.”

A silence stretches between the two of you as Oscar scrambles for something to say. His thoughts are a mess, so he settles for a half-hearted smile, cheeks tinged pink.

Then his phone buzzes.

Fishing it out of his pocket, he squints at the screen—Lando.

Sorry m8 i left w/o u LMSO. ill pay for ur uber tho, followed by a notification: money sent.

Oscar sighs, brows knitting together. He should’ve expected it—but that doesn’t stop the pang of irritation. Of course Lando had wandered off. Drunk bastard.

He shrinks into himself a little, already dreading the awkward solo trip back to the hotel. Damn it, Lando.

“You alright?” Your voice cuts through the moment, steady and low. You lean on your palm, eyes watching him with a curious kind of calm.

He turns to you, albeit a bit irritated, “My mate just left me. He’s my guide so it’s a bit—I dunno. Shit?”

Once again he lets out an annoyed groan, dragging his hands across his face then letting it drop into his palms.

“How ‘bout I buy you a consolation drink?” You offered, this time your tone is a little softer. Then, adding on, “Besides, I wanted to buy you one anyway—if you want one, of course.”

In any normal circumstance Oscar would know better than to accept. However, a drink does sound good. So, against his better will, he accepts.

“Sure, yeah. A drink sounds good.” He nods, and you smile.

Conversation after that flows smoothly. Short sentences exchanged about your jobs, personal experiences, about everything that came to mind. You talk about how you juggle your day jobs with your pub gigs, and Oscar furrows his brow, bringing up your songs.

“So,” he starts, eyes flickering to his glass with a slight uncertainty, “Your album—it’s kind of all over the place. Like, at first I thought it was a love album but then… it turned kind of sad.”

You don’t answer right away and Oscar internally panics. He probably shouldn’t have asked—maybe the drinks were making him just a little too loose. Should he apologise?

“Well, initially it was a love album. Somewhat, anyway,” you paused, twirling your glass, “then me and him hit a rocky spot. Realised he was kind of a shit person—and I left. It kinda fucked me though. Coped a lot through my music, and I scrapped tons of songs.”

Silence settles between you, and the ambient pub noise suddenly feels too loud—cutlery clinking, laughter echoing from across the room. Oscar watches you, quiet. Patient.

There’s something unreadable in your eyes—appreciation, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the liquor. But you give him a small smile and keep going.

“So, it’s a relationship—the album, I mean. Going through a, toxic relationship for a lack of a better word.”

He hums, nodding slowly.

“It’s good.” He speaks, treading every word carefully, “you showed it well.”

You smile in return, stealing a glance towards a watch sitting on your wrist—then looking back up at him.

“It’s getting late. I’ll head out—but uhm,” quickly, you fumble a piece of paper out of your pocket, lending a pen from the bartender, writing something down.

“Here. I’ll talk to you another time. Have a good night.”

You give Oscar a wave, and a bell chimes as you leave the pub—with Oscar looking at the paper.

Your number. As well as a message: ‘text me later <3’

♬ Y/N ∙ Garbage Truck

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oscarpiastri Win in Austria. Can’t complain

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user481 my worlds colliding… oscar posted to Y/N’s song

↳ user091 idk who the artist is but this music is lwky fire 🔥

user119 P1 HELL YES

user001 LETS FUCKING GOOO

user671 so he listens to gay artists now??? and i fucking liked him too

(this comment has been deleted by the author)

user782 mega job mate!

user059 THIS IS WHY UR THE GOAT!!!

ynmusic m8 i think i recognise this guy

↳ user481 HOLY SHIT THEY'RE INTERACTING STAY CALM

The engines were loud, and so was the chatter amongst people in the McLaren garage—strategies floating around and bouncing between engineers—and honestly you felt like a black sheep in a herd. You grab a headset out of the hands of an engineer with a grateful smile, and quickly put it on—and the noise grows silent.

Of course, it’s not completely quiet—that’s nearly, if not completely, impossible with so much happening. Especially in a sport like this one, or at least you assumed so. But now, at least, it’s filtered. Contained behind the layers of comms, buzzing static, and urgent voices murmuring to each other.

A clearer voice cuts through the static and interferes the team radio, interrupting your thoughts.

“Box this lap.” He speaks. You weren't sure of his name, but you knew that he was Oscar's engineer.

“Copy.” This time it was Oscar's voice, calm, focused—incredibly different from how he was in the pub with flushed cheeks and a boyish smile.

It was like a stranger wearing his voice when he spoke, even if it was only one word. Tone clipped, precise, and unfamiliar to you. No longer the man who was fumbling with his words, but instead the trained athlete he is.

You watch the screen, a flash of orange (or papaya, as the internet, or the team itself insisted) flying past and pulling into the pits. Slowing down as it approaches you, he stays for merely a second before he once again pulls away to the track.

If you were being honest, you really had no clue on how it worked. Sure, a few things made sense, and you knew it was racing, but you had no idea of what it were beyond the surface. But when the McLaren car passed the red Ferrari one, and a few scattered cheers erupted, you couldn’t help but smile.

The rest of the race was smooth—the car you knew to look for keeping its place in first, no need for overtaking nor intense defending. Before you knew it, it passed the finish line and the entire garage erupted in loud, echoing celebrations.

Your heart beats in your chest. Hard, heavy—for no reason at all—or a reason you’re too afraid to admit. Heading out of the garage, and towards the car, you catch a glimpse of the man himself in between the engineers.

Hair and face drenched in sweat as he takes off his balaclava, he has a smile so sweet on his face as he jumps into the gathering of McLaren staff. Face flushed as he steps back from the crowd—and for once second, just one second, he smiles at you.

The next moment you see him he’s on top of the podium accepting a trophy that’s well deserved. Goofy music playing in the background, the other drivers grab the champagne bottles and spray each other—you can’t help but laugh at the sight.

Interviews take place after the champagne spray, and then, finally, you see him walk towards you. Your heart skips a beat—maybe two—and when you’re face to face you can only give him a smirk.

“So much for, I drive cars, huh?” You tease, a warmth bubbling beneath the smirk on your face.

Oscar laughs a bit sheepishly, a hand reaching up to the back of his neck, “I mean, it’s not a lie,” he gives you a tilt of his head, “but maybe ‘I drive cars fast’ works better?”

You raise a brow, “Bit of an understatement, eh?”

He smiles again—more boyish, rather than bravado—and for a moment, for just a second, he looks like the boy from the pub again, with flushed cheeks and filled with something unsaid.

And god, the urge to kiss him bubbles up in your chest like a kettle ready to boil over. You let out a heavy exhale, smiling so brightly that you have nothing to say.

But he does.

“I have a question,” he asks—suddenly more serious, and you hum, his voice barely audible over the celebrations in the background, “go on a date with me? Not a shitty pub this time. Something proper.”

There’s a pause—a brief silence, the butterflies in your stomach and fuzz in your head overpowering your ability to mutter an answer.

You let out a breath—half laugh and half exhale—and nod.

“Yeah,” you stammer, giving him a stupid grin, “I’d like that.”

♬ Y/N ∙ Cupid’s Chokehold

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ynmusic cupid’s chokehold out now. dedicated to the love of my life.

tagged: oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri ❤

comments on this post has been limited

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note again: sorry if this wasnt the greatest, still dont know if i like the look of the posts. hope u enjoyed it despite that! <33

#♬ snapshot #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 x male reader #formula 1 x male reader #formula one x male reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x male reader #formula 1 social media au #x male reader

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thewulf · 1 year ago

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Loving You is Easy || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - What about a jake seresin x reader. Of course jake has a reputation but he truly is in love with bartender reader, so finally he wears her down to a date. They go to a nice restaurant and reader still has has her gates up but she’s slowly realizing who Jake truly is WHEN not one but two of the girls jake hooked up... Read Rest Here

A/N: Another one for my fav cocky pilot. Hope you guys enjoy :)

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.2k +

T/W : None just fluff

The clink of glasses and the low hum of the late-night chatter fills the air at The Hard Deck, a place that's become your nightly retreat amidst the demands of school and work. As you finish up your shift behind the bar, wiping down surfaces and stacking glasses, you're acutely aware of Jake Seresin's presence. He's become a regular when you worked. His charm was well-known and his flirtations a constant undercurrent whenever he's around.

"Another evening of mixing drinks and dodging offers, Y/N?" Jake teases while watching you with an amused smirk as he plays with his empty glass sitting in front of him.

Playfully, you roll your eyes at the man who had become a constant in your life. "Just counting down to graduation," you reply. Keeping your tone light even as you avoid meeting his gaze too directly. You've heard stories about Jake, enough to keep a polite distance.

"How about celebrating a bit early? Let me take you out. A real date, not just bar banter that I know you love so much," he proposes while leaning over the bar slightly trying to catch your eye.

You hesitate but you had your response ready. "Jake, I really don't think mixing work with... whatever this is... would be a good idea."

"Just dinner," he presses. But his tone was sincere. "No expectations, no strings. Just two people enjoying good food. Come on, what do you say darling?"

Despite your reservations there's a part of you that's curious. The persistent part that wonders if there might be more to Jake than the rumors and his reputation. After a moment of internal debate, you find yourself nodding, slightly surprised by your own decision.

"Okay, one dinner. Only If it’ll get you to shut up about it" you say with a small smirk adorning your face finally meeting his gaze. "But, Jake, it's just dinner. That's it."

His face lights up with that well-known charming smile. "Just dinner," he agrees while raising his hands in a mock surrender. "You won't regret it."

As he leaves you can't help but feel a mix of anticipation and apprehension. You've maintained your boundaries yet you're stepping into new territory. It's just dinner you have to remind yourself. But as you turn the sign to 'closed' and lock up for the night you can't shake the feeling that it might just be the start of something unexpected. But you tried not to get your hopes up. It’s just dinner.

You step into the upscale restaurant. The ambiance immediately wraps around you. It’s intimate and inviting with its dim lighting and soft music playing in the background. Jake stands from a secluded table as soon as he sees you his smile bright and welcoming. "You look absolutely beautiful," he says sincerely before pulling out your chair and taking his own seat.

"Thank you," you reply feeling a faint flutter of excitement mixed with nervous anticipation. The effort you put into choosing your outfit seems to have paid off and his notice of it warms you.

Once seated, Jake’s attention is all on you. He turns his phone off and places it face down on the table. A clear sign that this evening is about the two of you. "I remember you mentioned once you loved champagne, particularly the one from that small vineyard in France," he says, signaling the waiter. With a knowing smile he orders a bottle of your favorite champagne, not missing the surprised and pleased look on your face.

"How did you remember that?" you ask as you were both impressed and a bit bewildered. No guy had ever taken the time to remember the small details about you. And here Jake was wooing you already, five minutes in.

"I pay attention," he replies with a shrug that seems both casual and a bit shy. "Especially when it comes to things you like."

The champagne arrives and as Jake pours you a glass his demeanor is gentle, his movements deliberate. You clink glasses with a grin on your face. The first sip is just as you remembered—crisp, with a hint of sweetness, perfect.

"So, tell me about school," Jake prompts you seemingly genuinely interested. "What’s been keeping you busy?"

You share details about your latest projects and the challenges of balancing school with work. Jake listens intently, nodding and asking questions that show he's truly engaged in what you're saying. It's easy to talk to him and you find yourself relaxing more than you expected. The initial walls you had up slowly dissolving in the warmth of the conversation.

Turning the focus to him you recall the pieces of conversation you've picked up at the bar. "I’ve always been curious, Jake. What’s it like being a pilot in the Navy? It must be quite different from anything I can imagine."

Jake's eyes light up with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "It's intense and challenging, but flying is incredible. There’s nothing like the feeling of being up there… the freedom of it, but also the responsibility. Every decision matters. Not just for me but for my crew and everyone we support."

"It sounds amazing," you say with a hint of awe in your voice. "I’ve actually never been on a plane before. Can you believe that?"

Jake looks at you with an incredulous gaze. "What? You've never been on a plane? I’m changing that, darling," he declares with a playful but determined grin. "We’ll have to fix that soon. There’s a whole sky up there waiting for you."

As the evening progresses you laugh together over shared anecdotes and discover common interests. The connection feels real, unforced, and for a moment, the outside world with all its complications seems to fade away.

The evening had been progressing beautifully with laughter and shared stories flowing as freely as the champagne. You were beginning to see a side of Jake that was earnest and deeply attentive. A stark contrast to the playful banter at the bar. It was easy to forget the outside world in moments like this.

However, just as you're settling into a comfortable ease the first ripple of discomfort appears. A waitress approaches your table with a familiarity that instantly feels intrusive. She's all smiles, especially towards Jake.

"Jake, I didn't know you were here tonight!" she exclaims. Her voice a notch too loud for the intimate setting. She's overly friendly, touching his shoulder briefly as she speaks. Her eyes never leaving his acting as if you weren’t even there.

Jake's response is measured. His smile polite but restrained. "Hey, Sarah. Good to see you," he says, his tone neutral. He quickly turns his attention back to you trying to minimize the interaction. "Sarah used to work with me on base," he explains briefly hoping to dispel any rising concerns you might have.

You nod trying to smile, but the unease settles in your stomach like a stone. The moment is fleeting yet it lingers uncomfortably as Sarah finally moves away, her eyes lingering on Jake a moment too long.

Before the atmosphere can fully recover another beautiful woman approaches your table. This time, it's someone who's dining at the restaurant. Her approach deliberate as she locks eyes with Jake. Her presence is poised when she speaks. Her voice is tinged with a nostalgia that makes you shift in your seat.

"Jake, it's been too long," she says, reminiscing about a shared memory that clearly meant something to both of them. "Remember that weekend at the lake?"

Jake nods. His expression tightening slightly. "Yeah, that was a good time. Hope you're doing well, Rachel," he responds keeping his reply short and devoid of any warmth that could be misinterpreted. He glances at you with a flicker of concern crossing his features as he sees your discomfort.

"I'm sorry about this," he murmurs to you under his breath. His hand finding yours on the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Let’s focus on our night."

Despite his attempts to steer the evening back on course the interruptions have sown seeds of doubt. You appreciate Jake's efforts to reassure you, and you can see the sincerity in his eyes—he genuinely wants the night to be about the two of you. Yet, the encounters with his past make it increasingly difficult to ignore the reputation that preceded him. You find yourself wrestling with the warmth of his present attention and the shadow of his history.

As Jake continues to engage you in conversation, attempting to salvage the remaining warmth of the evening, you're left to ponder whether the burgeoning trust between you can withstand the challenges of his complicated past.

The mood at the table shifts palpably following the interruptions. Jake, noting your discomfort, adopts a more subdued tone. His usual easygoing demeanor tempered by the situation. “I can tell this isn’t easy for you, and I’m really sorry about that,” he says, his voice earnest, his gaze meeting yours with a steady sincerity. “I’ve had my fair share of casual things in the past. That’s not something I can undo, nor would I expect you to just overlook it.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing. Clearly choosing his words with care. “But I want you to know ever since you started at the bar, something was different. I haven’t felt this kind of way about anyone else in a long time. If ever. Honestly, I haven't pursued anyone else since you came around. You’ve sort of... monopolized my interest.”

His admission is frank, devoid of any veneer. It's just him being open and hopeful, sitting across from you. “I hate that my history might be making this awkward. I really like you, Y/N. I’m here tonight because I want to be here with you. All I’m asking for is a chance to show you who I am at this moment in my life.”

The words linger between you straightforward and clear. It’s a lot to take in. His past is a part of him but the man before you now seems earnest, seeking something genuine with you.

You pause letting the weight of his words sink in. His hand reaches across the table, not to impose but to offer a gesture of connection. In response you extend your own hand, sliding your fingers between his, locking them together as a silent acknowledgment of your willingness to see where this path might lead.

“Thank you for being upfront with me,” you respond. Your voice calm and thoughtful. “I appreciate your honesty. Let’s just see what happens, no pressure.”

Jake’s face softens, a gentle smile forming as he senses the tension easing. “No pressure. Sounds perfect,” he agrees with hope in his voice matched by the warmth in his eyes.

As the evening ends with the complexity of real-life weaving through your initial impressions you find yourself intrigued by the possibility of discovering more about Jake, beyond this first, eventful meeting. The evening with all its ups and downs, winds down as the restaurant begins to empty. You and Jake exit into the cool night air. The city lights casting a soft glow on the street. The tension that had built up inside seems to dissipate slightly with the openness around you.

As you walk together Jake's demeanor is reflective and he keeps a respectful distance that speaks to his understanding of the evening's emotional rollercoaster. Yet, his presence is reassuring, a quiet strength in the uncertain night.

"You know," Jake starts, breaking the silence as you both stroll towards a quieter part of the street, "tonight didn't go exactly as I planned. I wanted it to be perfect for you. To show you that I'm not the guy people might say I am."

You glance at him noticing the earnest furrow in his brow. His next words come slowly, measured but clear. "But maybe it's good that it happened this way. You saw everything—the good and the not-so-good. I don't want to hide anything from you."

You stop walking instead looking at him directly. His green eyes are sincere, reflecting the streetlight's soft luminescence. It's in this moment with his gaze unwavering and his stance open that you feel a shift inside you. The doubts linger but there's something about his honesty tonight that tugs at your willingness to explore what might be between you.

"I need things to go slow, Jake. Really slow," you say. Your voice firm yet not without warmth. "Can you do that? Can we take this one moment at a time?"

Jake's response is immediate. His nod accompanied by a gentle smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way. You're worth waiting for and I’m not going anywhere. I want to prove to you that I’m in this, really in this, for you."

There's a promise in his words, not just spoken but felt. You both resume walking and as you do, his hand finds yours, a simple touch but filled with intent. You interlace your fingers with his as a silent agreement to his proposal of taking things slow allowing yourself to feel the potential of what could be a new beginning.

As you walk further the city noise fades into the background, and a comfortable silence settles between you. It's not the fairy tale whirlwind. It’s real, it’s tentative, and it’s new. But it's a start. And for the first time in a long time, you feel a cautious optimism about the path ahead. The night ends not with grand gestures but with a quiet acknowledgment of something that might grow given time and mutual effort.

In the weeks following your first date your relationship with Jake blossomed beautifully against the backdrop of everyday life. Each shared moment from spontaneous coffee dates that extended into long or unplanned conversations to leisurely evening walks under a starlit sky, deepened your connection. The ease of laughter and the depth of discussions revealed layers of each other’s personalities and dreams, drawing you closer in ways both profound and delightful.

As the days turned into weeks, your phone became a constant companion, buzzing with Jake's texts that often stretched into late-night calls. These weren't just brief exchanges; they were rich, lengthy conversations where you found yourselves diving into everything from your favorite books to your deepest fears and aspirations. Jake remembered the little things you mentioned—like your love for mint chocolate chip ice cream or your dreams of visiting Greece—and surprised you with thoughtful gestures that showed just how much he cared. It wasn’t just what he said but how he listened and responded that made you feel truly seen and appreciated.

With each passing day, the shadows cast by Jake's past seemed to fade, overshadowed by the genuine warmth and steadfastness he brought into your life. His consistent effort and the undeniable sincerity in his actions slowly dismantled the walls you had built around your heart instead allowing trust to seep in and fill the spaces between your doubts.

So, by the time you found yourselves laughing together on his couch, enveloped in the comfort of a lazy Sunday afternoon the words that had been quietly taking shape in your heart felt ready to surface. The day unfolded effortlessly, each moment layered with shared smiles and unspoken promises, steering you gently toward a revelation that seemed both thrilling and inevitable. This wasn’t just another pleasant day. It was poised to become a defining moment in your relationship where feelings long simmered might finally find their voice.

The afternoon sun casts a warm, golden light through the windows of Jake’s living room, bathing the cozy space in a tranquil glow. You’re both nestled comfortably on the couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs with a lighthearted romantic comedy playing in the background. It serves more as a backdrop to your own laughter-filled conversation than as entertainment.

Jake is in the middle of recounting yet another of his infamous escapades at the base. This time involving an unintentionally hilarious mix-up during a training exercise. His storytelling is animated, his hands gesturing wildly, his eyes sparkling with mischief and joy.

"And then, I accidentally broadcasted the prank over the PA system, not just to the squad, but the whole base!" he exclaims, bursting into laughter at the memory.

You can't help but laugh along his delight was terribly infectious, his joy utterly palpable. "Jake, you're unbelievable. You always find a way to make everything so fun," you say. Your voice tinged with affection and amusement. The warmth of the moment, the closeness you felt with him, it all feels so natural. So right.

As the laughter subside you look at him with a big grin on your face. And without thinking much more the words on the tip of your tongue just slip out, "You crack me up, Jake, I love you so much." The moment the words escape your heart skips a beat as you realize what you’ve said, your eyes widening in surprise.

Jake's laughter stops abruptly. His expression shifting as he processes your words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with significance, before his face breaks into a tender, wide smile. He looks at you. His eyes were shining with a mixture of happiness and something deeper, more earnest. "Wait, say that again," he says. His voice low and husky, filled with emotion.

Feeling a rush of courage by his encouraging gaze you repeat your words, "I love you, Jake." It feels even more right the second time. The words resonating between you, filling the space with their profound simplicity.

Jake's response is immediate. He leans in, closing the distance between you with his hand cupping your face gently. "I love you, too. I’ve been hoping to hear that. Was wondering when it would be right to tell you how I feel," he confesses. His thumb softly stroking your cheek. "I’ve been holding onto these words, afraid to say them too soon, but feeling them every day."

"Really?" you whisper. Touched by his sincerity and the depth of his feelings.

"Absolutely," Jake replies with his gaze locked on yours, intense and full of affection. "From the way you laugh to how passionate you are about your studies, from your kindness to others to your strength in handling everything life throws at you. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."

He draws you closer and you find yourself wrapped in his embrace, his warmth enveloping you. "I wanted to tell you on our third date," he admits. His voice muffled as he speaks into your hair, "but I thought it might scare you off. Now, I just want to make up for lost time." He chuckled squeezing you tighter.

The room feels charged with a new energy. A new understanding as you both bask in the glow of shared love. The movie continues to play, unnoticed now, as you and Jake talk and laugh. The conversation meandering through dreams, hopes, and plans for the future. Each word strengthens your ever-growing relationship. Each moment deepens the love that now openly defines the two of you.

And as the sun sets, casting long shadows through the room, you feel a profound sense of contentment. This isn’t just a fleeting romance. It’s the beginning of something lasting, grounded in mutual respect and deep affection. You lean against him with your head on his shoulder, heart full, as you both enjoy the quiet comfort of knowing you're exactly where you're meant to be.

Jake Seresin/Top Gun: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: Taglist Sign Up) @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @mamachasesmayhem @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @illisea @jessicab1991 @guacam011y @dempy @mrsevans90 @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @missxmav @kajjaka

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cowboylikemac · 3 months ago

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BLANK SPACE | H.P

“ screaming crying perfect storm .”

harry potter x fem!reader

includes: fluff, angst

The first time Harry kissed you, it was a mistake.

Or at least, it was supposed to be.

The Gryffindor common room was too hot, too loud, thick with the aftershock of a Quidditch victory. Someone had pushed a glass of firewhisky into his hand, someone else had dared him to do something reckless, and before he could think too hard about it—

There you were.

Watching. Waiting.

It had been your voice that cut through the haze, amused and sharp. “What’s wrong, Potter? Scared?”

And Harry had been drunk on adrenaline, on victory, on the unbearable temptation of you.

So he kissed you.

Hard, fast, reckless.

It was supposed to be a joke, something to laugh about later.

But then you kissed him back, fingers curling into his collar, pulling him closer.

And just like that, the game began.

The next time it happened, there was no excuse.

No party, no dare, no convenient push into something careless.

Just you and him, alone in a shadowed corridor after curfew, whispering insults that sounded too much like foreplay.

“You think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” you mused, tilting your head, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Harry swallowed, jaw tight. “I don’t think I want to.”

And just like that, you kissed him first this time.

Because Harry Potter never backed down from a challenge.

And neither did you.

Loving you was like holding fire.

You burned bright, fast, all-consuming.

Harry found himself looking for you when he shouldn’t. He told himself it was just curiosity. Just habit.

Then why did it feel like something else?

Why did he feel like he was losing every time you walked away?

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about sneaking around anymore.

It was the way you knew him too well.

The way you saw past the Boy Who Lived, past the Golden Boy, straight into the part of him that ached to be understood.

The way he let you in before he realized he had.

And that was the problem.

Because Harry Potter wasn’t supposed to fall for people like you.

People who were dangerous, sharp, ambitious, untouchable.

People who made love feel like a battlefield.

But he had. God help him, he had.

It was fun, until it wasn’t.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

You didn’t even bother looking up from your book. “What?”

Harry stood stiffly in front of you, arms crossed, looking at you like he wanted to shake you. “McLaggen.”

Now you looked up, unimpressed. “And?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You’re playing games.”

You smiled then, slow and sharp. “That’s the fun part, isn’t it?”

His fingers curled into fists. “Not when I don’t know what’s real.”

Your heart stumbled. Just for a second.

Then you exhaled, feigning indifference. “What does it matter, Potter? You’ll get bored eventually.”

He took a step closer, voice low, dangerous. “Is that what you think?”

You shrugged. “Isn’t that what always happens?”

Something in his expression cracked. And for the first time, you saw it.

The hurt. The anger. The way he had let himself believe, even for a moment, that you were something real.

You had been winning—until you realized it never should have been a game in the first place.

The final fight was the worst one.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You let out a quiet, hollow laugh. “That’s what you said last time.”

Harry shook his head, pacing, hands in his hair like he was trying to keep himself together. “Yeah, well. I meant it this time.”

You forced your voice to stay light, unaffected. “Alright, then. See you around, Potter.”

His head snapped up. “That’s it?”

You shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, frustrated. “I don’t know what I expected.”

You smiled then, slow and lovely and cruel. “That’s your problem, isn’t it? You always expect too much.”

And maybe—just maybe—you said it because you wanted him to prove you wrong.

But he didn’t.

He just exhaled sharply, turned on his heel, and walked away.

And for the first time, you let him.

The war hadn’t started yet.

But it was coming.

And Harry still looked for you.

He told himself he was done. That he didn’t need the chaos, the push-and-pull, the mess of it all.

But then he walked into the Great Hall, and your eyes met across the room, and suddenly—nothing had changed.

He still wanted you.

And maybe, just maybe, you still wanted him too.

The difference this time?

You weren’t going to run.

So you found him first, slipping into the Gryffindor common room like you belonged there.

Harry was by the fire, looking up as soon as you stepped inside.

He let out a breath of disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

You hesitated. Then, softer, honest for once—

“Starting over.”

Something shifted in his expression.

You took a breath, steadier now. More real.

“I’m a nightmare,” you said, lips quirking, a little self-deprecating now. “You said it yourself.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well.” He glanced at you, something softer in his gaze now. “I think I like nightmares.”

Your chest tightened, something warm creeping in beneath the mess of it all.

You leaned in, close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin.

“Then let’s make a new game, Potter,” you murmured.

Harry smirked, shaking his head, but his hand found yours anyway.

And this time—neither of you let go.

masterlist!

a/n: remember my inbox is always open for suggestions

tags: @lydiascabinsix @lydiasfalling @laufeysvalentine

#Spotify #harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x oc #harry potter fic #harry potter fluff #harry potter smut #harry potter angst #cowboylikemac

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douqhnxtss · 10 days ago

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☾︎⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖥔 ❝ LUCID DREAM ❞ 𖥔 ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

──── [☁︎] 「지젤」 ᯾ 𝓘 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝓨𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺. alternatively ➥ 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾. 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝓤𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑮𝑨 𝓐𝑬𝑹𝑰 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

✦ very angsty, forbidden love, short fic, elemental!au, yearning, they hurt eachother when they touch, one kiss, coronation type ceremony of sorts, proofread ୨ৎ water elemental!aeri × fire elemental!reader .𐙚 ݁ ˖ wc! 1.06k ᝰ.ᐟ

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ this was to be uploaded yesterday but I couldn't finish the layout, like the writing was done! i hate the fact that my layout is so complicated but everytime I see the finished product I fall in love omg. this is also one of the most angsty tropes I've written pls lmk how I did, this is very short on the fic side ik I'm sorry 😞 idk how I feel about this so again lmk ur thoughts! ★: record of anon! 𓂃⋆.˚

✦ BIRTHDAY GIRL'S RECORDS 𖥔 02.ᐟ

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝓜𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𖥔˖ 𝓖𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑿𝒀 ᯓ✦ 𝓤𝑵𝑰𝓥𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑬 !

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

THE FLAMES IN YOUR PALMS ILLUMINATED YOUR FACE. your eyes glared at the vermillion fire with a mix of hatred and disgust. the crunch of the grass didn't startle you as the lighter presence joined beside you.

the quiet that followed was defeaning. there were so many unspoken words and feelings tied in the cold breeze, it was suffocating. she had so much to say, yet she didn't utter a word.

"i'm being handed the leading position of the fire elemental department tomorrow." you chose to broke the tense atmosphere, her eyes shifting to you as she hummed with a nod.

"i know, i'll be there." uchinaga aeri spoke, her voice low, just loud enough for you to hear. you turned to her side to see her already looking at you, her gaze so soft it made your heart break.

"i want to hold your hand, but i don't want to hurt you." you said, the everlasting fire which was always evident in your fierce eyes dimming, like a low flame struggling to keep the spark burning.

"we'll hurt eachother by interacting and we'll still hurt eachother by not, what do you want, loveimy?" you weren't sure what to respond with. the dull truth hitting you like getting a bucket of water dumped on you.

loveimy, the nickname she made for you which was a mix of lover and enemy, something you were to her, whether she liked it or not. you were her lover by choice and enemy by nature.

the only thing separating you two was the category of elementals you represented. you being the fire elementals' leader's daughter didn't help either. your dad was like the leader of all fire elementals, tomorrow you'd take his place.

aeri was the daughter of one of the members of the water elemental department council. another thing complicating things further was the past connection your father and her mother had.

the two loved eachother deeply, much like you two, but being opposite elements they had no choice but to split up. the two became pure enemies after that and then your mother and her father came into the picture.

it was like all odds were against you two, as if the bond you two held was a crime. what was so wrong in loving someone? why did it have to be this way? what did you in your past life to have to suffer this much now?

the next day, you were given the title, fire elemental department's leader. cheers were given, so were praises, motivation spilled from everyone's mouths, the happy grins of your parents were proud and shining bright.

you held your practiced smile the whole time, it didn't reach your eyes, having just enough faux happiness to make it seem real and not artificial. you wanted the ground to swallow you.

aeri stood in the far corner, frown etched on her pretty features as to not make her parents, who were scowling beside her, confused and question her.

you slipped past the crowd, whispering to your mother how you had a little thing to care of. she didn't really listen, too egoistic from all the congratulatory sentences that came left and right.

aeri felt the hair at the back of her neck stand up, goosebumps rising on her pale skin. she'd felt this many times before. she knowing looked back to see you giving her a signaling stare she'd grown all too familiar with.

one that non-verbally told her to follow you, most likely into a secluded area where it's just you, her and your blooming love.

she followed you like she always did, muttering a lame at best excuse. she soon found herself in one of the empty hallways, away from the public eye.

she couldn't help herself, you looked so beautiful, and hot, tonight. her hands immediately cupped your cheeks and she leaned down, capturing your lips in hers.

the lip lock was short lived as reality sunk in once again. aeri pulled away and you let out a hiss, the faint essence of smoke came from her lips. your cheeks were redder for two reasons— one, from the kiss and two, from again, the water from aeri.

"so worth it." she said. her tone juxtaposed her expression and her feelings. this was her reality. sneaking away to the shadows, hurting being with eachother, it was all a big, sad and slow shattering of her heart.

your mere presence hurt the other. maybe in another alternate universe you two would be like eachother and get the chance to co-exist like everyone else. like lovers who could love eachother without hurting eachother at the same time.

it would always be what ifs. always dreams. never the reality, no matter how much you two dreamt of it, you were rivals by blood, by old burnt pasts, by the fact that she was water and you were fire.

it stung. there wasn't a day where it didn't sting.

aeri was cool, calm, selfless, ready to help whenever and whoever she can.

you were warm, wild, selfish, ready to cause destruction wherever you could.

aeri wished she could stop loving you but she couldn't. her yearning for you was something that would never fade. you drove her crazy, made her break rules she hadn't even thought of breaking.

you wished you never fell for her in the first place, though you know deep down you're glad, very glad even. the way your fire dims when she's around doesn't matter, it never will, because as long as she's with you, you couldn't care less about anything else.

no matter how wrong it was for you to feel this way for her, if given the choice you'd still fall for her knowingly. your heart never really won against your mind, you always worked logically but as soon as the topic shifted to aeri, your mind lost immediately.

sometimes you wished you could experience what it would be like to actually touch her, kiss her, hug her, bask in her presence without slowly killing her and you.

aeri had tried to experience it. she saw a different, vivid reality where you two didn't Har eachother. she wished it could be real but she knew it wasn't. it never would be.

aeri's love and your care, without harming eachother, could only exist in a lucid dream.

𓆩♡𓆪 taglist! open

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ regulars! @woniefication @shyoko

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jamesmcalover · 10 days ago

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worst plus one 8

Hálfdán Helgi Matthíasson (Væb) x Reader

Warnings: iceland not getting any jury points

Summary: Reader is Matti's best friend and is brought along to this whole Eurovision mess. His annoying brother is making this trip even messier.

2k words - not proofread

The morning of the final feels like standing on the edge of something. Everything is louder, brighter, more rushed. There’s energy in the hallways of the hotel, but also pressure. The kind that squeezes behind your ribs and makes even breakfast feel like too much.

You don’t see much of Hálfdán.

Or Matti, Úlla, Ola, or Baldwin, for that matter. The whole Væb team is gone before you’re even out of your pyjamas. Off to hair and makeup, rehearsals, camera checks, press. It’s the busiest day of the whole contest. And even if your own country is in the final too, your team is smaller, your role quieter.

Which is why you end up with Sirry. Not that that's a bad thing. She makes everything feel a bit calmer.

She knocks on your door sometime around ten, holding two to-go cups and a lopsided grin.

“Thought I’d steal you,” she says. “We both need distraction.”

You spend most of the day wandering around together, moving at an easy, unhurried pace that feels like exactly what you needed without even realizing it. Sirry is good at that. Making things feel simple. Light. Like there’s no rush to get anywhere or be anything other than yourselves.

You grab lunch in the old town, at a tiny outdoor café tucked between pastel buildings that look like they were painted by a daydream. Sirry insists on ordering too much food, plates full of fresh bread, salty cheeses, olives that taste like summer. She talks with her hands and bright eyes, telling you stories about her childhood in Reykjavik and how she met Matti at a sweaty summer concert. She makes you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your water, and she doesn’t stop until tears are streaming down your cheeks.

When her stomach gives up halfway through the meal, she pushes half of her plate at you with a grin and says, “You’re too thin to be wandering these cobblestones, eat up.” You don’t argue.

Afterwards, you stroll along the river. You find a low stone wall to sit on, your legs dangling over the edge as the city drifts by around you. A group of teenagers nearby is singing “Rim Tim Tagi Dim” at full volume, off-key and fearless, their laughter rolling down the riverbank like a second melody. You and Sirry join in when they hit the chorus, clapping and singing until your voices are hoarse.

Later, you duck into a tiny museum that Sirry swears is a “hidden gem,” a cramped space full of vintage postcards and Eurovision memorabilia. There’s a cracked glass case displaying ticket stubs from shows decades ago, and Sirry’s eyes go soft as she runs her finger over a faded 1981 program. She tells you about the first time she ever watched Eurovision with her grandma, and you tell her about your own family, how you never thought you’d actually be here, part of it all.

It feels like the kind of day that isn’t about winning or losing or how everything might end. It’s just about two girls who found each other in the middle of the chaos, sharing too much food and too many stories and not worrying about what happens tomorrow.

She keeps you laughing all afternoon. But in the quieter moments, she’s gentle too. She talks about Matti like he’s the sun, and she still can’t quite believe she ever got close enough to touch him. There’s something soft in her eyes when she says his name. Like she’s still in awe of the fact that he’s real and hers.

Being with her is like exhaling after holding your breath all week.

She never asks too directly about you and Hálfdán, but when you trail off mid-sentence or look out across the water too long, she gives your shoulder a little bump.

It helps.

By evening, the nerves creep in.

Matti and Hálfdán's family meets you in the lobby to head to the venue, and joins you when you slip into the back entrance for friends and crew. The arena is already packed when you step inside. The crowd is a living thing. Flags waving, glitter everywhere, camera lights flashing like tiny stars. You’re close enough to feel the rumble of the bass in your chest when the music starts. You follow the signs to the VIP seating area, and even from here, the stage looks massive.

It’s happening.

It’s all happening.

And as the first beats of the opening act echo through the hall, you hold tight to her hand and let yourself get swept away.

The show blurs by at first. Pyro, key changes, crowd roars, a dozen languages tumbling over each other in the green room and the crowd. You find yourself caught up in it all, the swirl of sequins and flag capes and the unstoppable tide of music and lights. Every time the camera cuts to a green room, you catch flashes of nervous smiles, fingers crossed, voices cracking with excitement or fear.

Iceland is announced.

The Icelandic flag bursts across the LED screens, a bright wash of blue, red, and white. And there they are, all silver and light and glitter. For a second, you forget how to breathe.

You clap until your palms sting, eyes fixed on the stage like nothing else matters. Hálfdán’s sunglasses glint under the spotlights, his grin wider than you’ve ever seen. He’s eating it up. The energy, the cheers, the absolute rush of it all. You swear he looks straight at the camera, straight at you, and your heart stutters.

The beat kicks in, and the whole arena seems to move with it. You and Sirry scream yourselves hoarse, arms around each other, singing along even though your voices vanish under the music, and for those three minutes, nothing else in the world exists. Just them, the lights, the sound, the way your chest feels too small for the rush of it all.

By the time the song ends, you’re both breathless, hands shaking. Sirry’s eyes are bright with tears, and yours probably are too.

And then the long wait begins.

The jury points are brutal.

Country after country calls out their top marks. Twelve points to Austria. Twelve to Switzerland. Italy. The arena is deafening, the camera swooping from green room to green room, excitement boiling over in cheers and confetti.

But Iceland isn’t called. Not once. Not a single point from the juries.

Your breath catches in your throat each time another country’s points flash on the screen and Iceland doesn’t appear. The camera cuts to the green room, and you see them. Hálfdán, Matti, Ola, Baldwin, Úlla. They’re still smiling. Still clapping for the others. Hálfdán’s grin never falters, even though you can see the tightness in his jaw. Matti throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders, shaking him like he’s congratulating him anyway.

The scoreboard glows, country after country stacking up their totals. But Iceland stays at zero, a bright, brutal zero. It feels like a punch to the chest every time.

Still, they cheer for every twelve points that aren’t theirs. Still, they wave at the cameras and the crowd like nothing in the world could break them. You’re not sure whether to cry or scream at how unfair it is, but all you can do is watch, your heart in your throat and your nails biting into your palms.

“God, they’re trying so hard to stay upbeat,” Sirry murmurs, squeezing your arm. “Matti’s gonna pretend he doesn’t care but he’ll be devastated.”

You nod. Your chest aches.

The televotes come next. The final chance. Your heart’s beating in your throat as Iceland is announced.

Thirty-three points.

The crowd gives a polite cheer, a polite applause. On the screen, Hálfdán and Matti explode like they’ve just won everything. They’re on their feet, fists in the air, screaming so loud you can almost hear them through the cameras. Ola wraps her arms around Úlla and tackles her sideways off the couch, both of them in hysterics.

It’s just 33 points, but to them, it’s everything. It’s something. And they’re still celebrating it like it’s gold.

You’re laughing and crying at the same time. Your throat burns from how hard you’re cheering, from how much your voice shakes with relief and pride and that raw, electric hope. In that moment, you swear they’re the winners anyway.

“They’re insane,” you whisper.

Sirry wipes her eyes. “They’re perfect.”

San Marino ends up last. Iceland second to last. Definitely not great but not terrible. Just not what they hoped. Not after everything they put in.

When the winner is announced – Austria, unsurprisingly – the arena explodes into cheers and confetti. It’s chaos, a thousand voices screaming at once.

Before you can even process it, Sirry’s already on her feet, hair flying. “Come on,” she shouts over the deafening roar. “Let’s go find them!”

You don’t hesitate. You just run.

Security barely glances at your lanyards, the staff corridors a blur of bright lights and echoes. You sprint past dressing rooms, catering tables stacked with half-empty champagne bottles, someone sobbing into their phone in Croatian. Sirry weaves ahead of you, driven and focused, and you follow her like she’s a lighthouse in the noise.

And then you’re there. Backstage, everything still buzzing. The Icelandic team is locked in a tight, laughing group hug. Silver and sweat and relief.

Matti sees you first. He lets out a whoop and launches himself forward, nearly bowling Sirry over. She clings to him, laughing breathlessly, both of them tumbling back into the wall.

You pause for a second, caught in the moment. Not sure what to do with all the joy and relief and wanting to be part of it.

Then Hálfdán turns.

For just a heartbeat, he freezes. Eyes wide, mouth open, like he’s not sure if he’s seeing you or just dreaming it.

And then he’s moving. Closing the space between you in three quick steps, pulling you in like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist.

You don’t even try to say anything. You just throw your arms around him, hold on tight, and let the noise of the crowd and the confetti and the bright stage lights fade away.

He pulls you in tighter. Like he’s afraid to let go. Like maybe if he holds on long enough, the disappointment, the pressure, the long, surreal blur of the night will finally lift.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

His voice is quiet in your ear. “We didn’t win.”

“I know.”

“We didn’t even come close.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are a little glassy, but he’s smiling through it, that stubborn Hálfdán way of refusing to let anything crack him completely. “Thirty-three points,” he says, like it’s a punchline.

“You made it to the final,” you say. “You performed your hearts out. Everyone in the hall was dancing.”

“And San Marino still did worse,” Matti pipes in from somewhere behind him, sounding more proud than mocking.

Hálfdán huffs a tired laugh, but his gaze is still on you. “Thanks for being here.”

“Wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”

For a second, it’s like everything fades again. The crowd, the cameras, the noise. It’s just the two of you. You can still hear Austria being announced as the winner somewhere in the background, but it barely registers. Hálfdán leans his forehead against yours, and for a heartbeat, nothing else matters.

Then someone yells their name. Úlla, maybe, and you both look up.

She's already dragging Sirry into a chaotic group hug. Matti’s hopping around like a kangaroo, yelling “we’re top thirty!” with so much enthusiasm it draws a few confused stares. The Austrian delegation is screaming in the background. Confetti’s falling from the ceiling.

Sirry tugs you into the madness with her, and you don’t resist. You just take Hálfdán’s hand, and this time, he doesn’t let go.

Even in the middle of everything, lights, music, cheers. You catch him watching you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

You squeeze his fingers. “You were amazing tonight.”

“So were you,” he says. “Watching. From a distance. Looking incredible.”

You laugh, leaning your shoulder against his. “Smooth.”

He grins. “I try.”

And maybe they didn’t win. Maybe the votes didn’t reflect the love the crowd gave or the hours of work behind the scenes. But right here, right now, surrounded by the people who mattered most, he doesn’t look like he’s lost anything at all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

Part 9!!

#hálfdán #væb #vaeb #eurovision #esc #esc25 #eurovison 2025 #esc x reader #eurovision fanfiction

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