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nothoughtsjustfic · 11 hours ago

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Whatever You Want [Part Two]

💎Who: Jeon Wonwoo (Seventeen) x female reader 💎What: Mafia/gang au. Dark themes (check warnings). Angst. Fluff. Humour. Strangers to friends to lovers. Suggestive (18+). 💎Word count: 14.4k (31.8k total) 💎Warnings: Violence mentions. Injury and blood mentions. Mentions of hospitalisations. Morally grey characters. Alcohol consumption (nobody gets drunk at all). Suggestive dialogue. Wonwoo is a handful of years older than reader. Minor character death. 💎Summary: “To be honest, you’re surprised it’s taken this long to happen. Truly, you thought you would’ve been kidnapped years ago, so you’re not surprised when it happens.

What does surprise you, however, is the reason why, and what happens when you meet that reason.”

Minors do NOT interact. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.

Masterlist Part One

A/N- Thank you again to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading and helping me out with the warnings! I appreciate you endlessly, my love 💗

The day after your confession, things are awkward.

You both obviously can’t help but remember the conversation; remember that you both essentially admitted to wanting each other, at least on a purely physical level. Of course, Wonwoo’s gift implied that his attraction runs deeper than that, but you hadn’t shared your part and have no intention of doing so either. But Wonwoo is a smart man; he has to know that he’s not alone in this.

Although you try to stick to your newly normal routine of cooking and gaming together every evening, Wonwoo takes longer to clean up than usual, and you’re the one who goes to bed first now, even if you’re not tired enough and lay in bed wide awake for hours, unaware that Wonwoo is doing the same thing down the hall.

There’s something growing in the air now that your shared attraction has met it from your own mouths, and neither of you really know how to navigate it. It’s a new situation for you both, and it takes a few days before things get back to normal.

At least, normal in the way that Wonwoo has pulled back and doesn’t follow you around when he’s home to ask you questions, but there’s a new tension, and his dark gaze lingers on you in a way that he’s never let it before.

The other new thing is that Wonwoo is usually present these days when you wander down to the kitchen once you’re properly awake, and you ignore the fact that he’s clearly adjusted his workdays to time his lunch break to be at home when you get up.

Sometimes, he even has lunch waiting for you. Usually, it’s something he’s picked up on his way home; but today, there’s a covered pan on the table, empty bowls in your usual seats, and Wonwoo is at the other end of the table, reading some papers with a couple of open files on the table in front of him.

Without a word, as soon as he hears you entering the room, he puts down the papers as he gets up. He moves around the table and removes the lid from the pan so that he can serve both of you a generous portion of the still steaming pasta dressed in a red sauce, which you know is spicy from looking alone. You haven’t taught him a spicy pasta sauce, so either Wonwoo has decided to experiment today, or he’s recreated a recipe he found online.

As he puts your bowl back down into your place, he finally looks up at your still sleep puffy expression and muses, “Do you really get up this late every day?”

You give him a flat look as you sit. “Unless you killed your wife, don’t try to ride my dick,” you retort, effectively ending the conversation.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes as he puts the lid back on the pan then sits down. He waits until you try the food and make a sound of approval before he digs into his own portion with a proud little smile tugging his lips upwards.

As you eat in a comfortable quiet, you can’t help but glance over to the files and papers still laid on the table, almost perfectly legible from your place. You know it’s all work related; you’ve seen Wonwoo with files like this many times, but he’s never before left them open around you.

Before today, he’s always been so careful about not letting you see whatever he’s working on, and you always assumed it’s due to a mix of it not being your business and Wonwoo trying to protect you from all of that. Yet now, you’re suddenly thinking that it wasn’t you he was protecting but himself, the gang he is loyal to and plans to run one day. You’re suddenly thinking that it was more that he didn’t trust you to keep whatever you see safe, keep him safe; but now, he does.

You look away as soon as the thought comes to your mind. You don’t want to think about that; how much trust he must have in you to give you ample opportunity to spy on things related to his work, without a hint of concern on his features as he eats his lunch.

So that you don’t unintentionally linger on the thought, you bring up something you’ve been thinking about for a few days now, but things have been too awkward to want to ask. “We’re in June now, right?”

Wonwoo looks up at you and nods in confirmation. “Just a bit, why?”

“The deadline to let me go is quickly approaching. Either you need to let me go by the 10th or give me my phone back, because I’m expecting a very important call.”

“The 10th?” You hum and nod as you focus on stabbing some pasta with your fork. “It’s the 12th today,” he informs you simply.

Immediately, you freeze, then look up at him. “Tell me you’re joking,” you murmur.

“No.”

“I swear if this is a joke-” you warn as panic rises in you.

“I’m not joking, it’s really the 12th, look,” he insists and pulls his phone from his trouser pocket to hand over to you, so that you can see the date on the lock screen.

Fear grows in you, and you feel the blood rush out of your cheeks, turning your skin pale.

“What? What’s so important about the call?” Wonwoo asks, worry filling his veins as he looks at the genuine panic on your features.

“I need to go home right now,” you declare, scrambling to your feet.

“What?” Wonwoo jumps up to rush after you to the entrance hall.

“I need to go home, Wonwoo!” You’re still in your pyjamas, but you don’t care as you shove your sockless feet into your shoes, which haven’t been touched since you arrived, except to be moved when you want to clean the floor under them or wipe away the dust that tries to settle on top of them.

“What’s going on?”

“Just unlock the door so I can leave; it’s better you keep as far away from me as possible,” you warn, walking to the door and motioning to the lock impatiently.

“I’m not doing that until you explain,” Wonwoo argues firmly.

“No!” you exclaim and turn to walk over and shove him a little; it’s not hard in any way, but it shocks him enough to stumble back a few steps with wide eyes. “I’m fucking sick of this shit; pretending that you have any power over me, Jeon Wonwoo! I’m done with it! I should’ve never let it go on this long but I…” you trail off and shake your head, already turning back to the door.

“You what?” he asks, voice quieter as if he knows that whatever you stopped yourself saying is important.

“Doesn’t fucking matter, just unlock the door,” you insist, not turning to look at him as you anxiously shuffle your weight from foot to foot.

“But-”

“I said unlock it!” You almost shriek, looking over at him with something so manic in your eyes, that although he’s reluctant to do so, he does as you say; he’s too worried by how wild you look right now, by whatever it is you’re hiding.

As soon as the door is open, you take off sprinting down the hall, leaving Wonwoo watching you go, feeling like he’s just lost the best thing he’s had in a long time. And there’s nothing he can do to bring you back.

It takes you a few hours to get to your apartment. You have to tap into skills that you haven’t wanted to use in years, to pickpocket unsuspecting people to gather money for transportation. Plus, you have to actually find the buses you need in order to get to your apartment, which is quite the ordeal when you have no phone to look up bus schedules or directions, and people aren’t that willing to help a desperate looking woman wearing ruffled pyjamas in the late afternoon. A few people even try to convince you to let them take you to the police station, thinking you’re in trouble or mentally unwell and in need of professional assistance.

The sun is threatening to set by the time you stumble into your apartment.

It looks the same as you left it, minus the items Wonwoo collected for you, which surprises you. You thought it’d be dusty as hell when you return, but it looks like someone’s kept it clean. For a second, you wonder if Wonwoo has been cleaning it, or perhaps hired someone to keep it clean, but that doesn’t make sense as he seemed to have no intention of letting you leave. Still, you don’t know anyone else who has access to your apartment.

Deciding that it’s really not important at all right now, you push the thought aside and grab a sharp knife from the kitchen. Once you’ve pulled the couch away from the wall far enough to give you easy access to the back of it, you drop to your knees and use the knife to cut open the back of the couch.

Out of the hollow of the couch frame, you pull out a duffle bag to put on the floor before you and open. You ignore the cash within, the various ID and collection of sentimentally and financially valuable items and grab the outdated mobile phone. As you hold down the power button to turn the device on, you mutter prayers to a god you don’t believe in to let the battery be high enough to boot.

As soon as the screen lights up and shows that there is enough battery to make a call, you let out a breath of relief and dial one of the very few numbers that you know by heart, before holding it to your ear with your heart hammering anxiously against your ribs.

The call rings a handful of times before it’s picked up by a voice that is so familiar to you, even when it’s been months without hearing it. “Princess, you’re okay?”

You let out a little relieved breath before answering, “I’m fine, dad, things just…” You sigh. “I’m okay. Where-where are you? Are you…” you worry, knowing exactly what kind of hell your father can and will rain down on the world without hesitation if he thinks something has happened to you, his little girl.

“Where do you think I am? I came to find you! My daughter didn’t answer our routine check in call, and her phone is off?” He scoffs as if it’s ridiculous that you’ve even asked. It is, really; you already know where he is, knew what he’d do if you missed the call. But still, you hoped. You foolishly hoped because now, now you have something to lose from his fierce protectiveness of you. “Of course I came to find you! I feared the worst, and when I got here and had your whereabouts tracked, I found out that this hoity toity little bitch had you kidnapped, and then her husband ran off with you?”

In a split second, your whole body turns cold. Fear freezes your lungs and locks your heart in its icy grip. “Dad…who are you with?”

“Who do you think?”

You close your eyes tight and put your free hand over them, mind already conjuring up images of what your father is doing to Wonwoo. “Don’t hurt him,” you plead.

“He stole you and kept you locked up for almost three months! I’m not going to let him get away with that.”

“No, please, dad, please don’t hurt him, please,” your voice turns desperate, enough that your father is audibly thrown.

There’s a moment of shocked silence before he responds in a disbelieving mumble, “What?” He clearly walks out of the room, as there’s the sound of a door opening and closing, before he talks again, “You’re begging, why?”

“He protected me from her; took me away to keep me safe from his psychotic wife,” you inform, trying to reason with the man by telling him that Wonwoo protected you; that he isn’t the one who caused you harm. “I don’t give a fuck what you do to her, but please, don’t hurt him.”

“Bit late for that, Princess,” he responds simply.

You can’t talk for a few long seconds as the worst-case scenario travels through your body, and the ice coating your heart starts to seep inside, threatening to freeze it so thoroughly it’ll shatter into a thousand pieces. “Is he dead?” you can barely get the words out; you’re talking in a whisper that you’re not certain is audible on the other end of the line, but it is.

“No, but the boys are enjoying beating the shit out of him for kidnapping their sister.”

It settles you greatly, and now that you’re thawing a little, anger is starting to rise in you knowing that your brothers have come along too. You understand your father doing so; he’s always been protective of you as his youngest child, his little princess who can do no wrong. Yet, he’s always trusted you to handle yourself and gives you more freedom than he gives his sons. But your brothers have always overstepped; have always butted in and treated you like a fragile little doll who can’t even stand on your own feet without a support around your waist keeping you upright. They act like they are that support, but they’ve always been more like shackles holding you back by not allowing you to do what you need to on your own; not trusting you to do it on your own.

“Do you really think so lowly of me to think I couldn’t get away whenever I wanted?” you hiss in disbelief at your father, of all people, not having faith in your abilities, even if you’ve proven yourself many times. “He left me all alone in that apartment to do what I want for hours and days at a time. I had opportunity to leave; I just wanted to see how long he’d keep it up.”

It’s the truth; from day one, you could’ve left the moment Wonwoo was gone. You had eyed the security system and knew you could disable it without setting off the alarm; you’ve broken in and out of places with similar systems many times in the past.

But you had been kind of bored with how quiet your life had been since you left your hometown last year, to play pretend at a normal lifestyle with no connection to the gang world. You wanted to see the other side of the fence. But it turns out, it’s fucking boring on grass not fed on blood, and so you had decided that being Wonwoo’s hostage was a potentially fun change and wanted to see how long he’d stick it out before sending you home.

You never expected to become attached to him though.

As if reading your mind, your father speaks in a curious, surprised query, “And now you like him?”

“I don’t dislike him,” you mutter, not willing to admit it to your father.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Princess,” the man decides after a short, thoughtful noise. “You come back home with us, and I’ll let your pretty boy live.”

“You promised to never blackmail me, dad,” you remind him.

“It’s not blackmail, but a deal.”

“You just threatened to kill him if I don’t comply!”

“I won’t kill him, but I’ll let your brothers do it, and the longer we stay on call discussing it, the more likely they are to make the final blow without me present. Decide whether you care more about his life or playing poor girl with no family more.”

When he puts it like that, you don’t have a choice. You know that your brothers won’t stop unless your father steps in and gives the order to pull back; an order he won’t give unless sparing Wonwoo benefits him directly.

You give in with a frustrated exclamation, “Fuck, fine! But make sure he doesn’t fucking die, or I’ll fucking kneecap them all,” you threaten; words you will hold to, brothers or not.

“That’s my girl.”

The next time you see Wonwoo, it’s late that night and not in person. You don’t dare risk getting close to him, even if he’s unconscious in a hospital bed. You send one of your father’s men, a man who is endlessly loyal to you specifically due to being in love with you since you were teens, to sneak into the hospital, dress up as staff, and make his way into Wonwoo’s private and very well guarded room to get you a proof of life video.

You hate the video; hate how you can barely recognise the bruised and swollen features of the man you’ve spent almost three months with and know it was done in your name. You truly hate it, yet you can’t stop watching the video; eyes glued to the gentle, regular rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, even if it’s assisted by the tube down his throat right now. But he’s alive; your father stopped your brothers in time, and Wonwoo is alive. That’s all that matters.

“Can I have my phone back now, ma’am?” Jihoon asks, hovering awkwardly in the fancy hotel suite that your father is making you stay in; so that his men stationed around the building to guard your family, will alert him if you try to run off.

Not that you will when you know your brothers and father would immediately go to that hospital room and finish the job if you go back on your word. Plus, you’re a woman of your word; you said you’d return to your hometown with them, and you intend to stick to that promise. You were raised with too much honour to ever go back on your word, especially when it’s so important, when the risk is far too high.

Jihoon’s gaze keeps flickering to the door, knowing that your father, his boss, will be pissed if he finds Jihoon in your suite, even if you’re both in the lounge and not the bedroom. But still, there are rules to working for your family, and one of those rules is ‘keep your hands off of the boss’ little girl.’ A few times, men less wise, men newer to the gang, haven’t heeded the warning and have tried to hit on you or put a suggestive hand on your body somewhere, only to lose the hand or tongue that tried to tempt you into their beds. But Jihoon is smarter, he knows better, and he’s never tried his luck with you, even if everyone knows how he feels about you.

If any of the men are trusted with you as much as your family, it’s Jihoon. Your father always assigns Jihoon to accompany you when the need arises for someone to watch your back so closely. Your father knows that if anyone is as invested in your safety as the family is, it’s Jihoon.

Yet still, even knowing he is trusted with your safety entirely, Jihoon knows that it’s the only way he’s trusted with your body, and he’s certainly not trusted with your heart. So, he knows that if he’s caught in your private room so late at night and alone without it being on your father’s strict orders, Jihoon will be in a lot of trouble.

“No, I’m watching,” you reply firmly, leaving no room for argument, so Jihoon just nods and stands in anxious wait.

After a few more watches, you sigh and offer Jihoon his phone back.

He quickly moves forward to accept it politely. “Thank you, ma’am. Do you need anything else from me tonight?”

“No. Thank you, Jihoon.”

“Of course. I’d do anything for you,” he reminds simply. There’s a lot of weight to his words, technically, but he says them so effortlessly; like he isn’t promising you the world if you ask for it. He always makes it seem so easy to love you; like it makes all the sense in the world to devote himself to your safety and happiness and even risk his own safety by sneaking behind your father’s back to do things like this for you.

Honestly, you think that at this point, your father and brothers must know that Jihoon has been in your house many times when only you’re home, at your request, despite the orders that none of the gang are allowed to do as much. But they know the man will never do a thing wrong to you; that he respects you too much to ever try to force himself on you or convince you to be with him in any way. He’s had over a decade to try and hasn’t done so once, even when you bluntly asked him what he expected his love for you to gain him. He had said, ‘Nothing, I expect nothing. I love you of my own choice, not yours; it’s not your problem.’ And it was left at that.

But your family will never give him permission to be near you privately, except for jobs, because they don’t want him to potentially get ideas. They want to protect you in every way, including the way others perceive you. Knowing that you let a man below your status touch you intimately, let one of your father’s men touch you, it would bring shame on your name. If not for that, you know Jihoon would be allowed to be by your side as much as he wants, because you wouldn’t turn away his platonic company. Jihoon may be the closest thing you have to a friend, or at least, was.

Suddenly, you’re thinking about Sangmin and how, with Wonwoo in hospital unable to stick to his word to keep an eye on the man, and you in an entirely different city, there’s no one to look out for him. You can’t take him with you, you never want to bring the kind-hearted man into your world, so you need to come up with a plan to protect him.

“Actually, I have one more thing to ask of you tonight, Jihoon.”

“Anything,” he promises, and you know he means it.

In the morning, once you’re strapped into the back of the car, and Jihoon is driving the pair of you to your apartment, for you to clear everything out that is tied to you and end the lease, Jihoon hands a brand-new phone to you. He’s already charged it and set it up with a web page open on screen, showing an apartment.

“That’s the best bet; it’s neutral territory, but the landlord has some shit in his records. That means it’ll be easy to twist his arm,” he informs as you look through the apartment listing, humming as he talks.

“Good work, Ji. Did you find him?”

“Of course I did,” he scoffs cockily, making you look up and smile as you look at the side of his face from your place behind the passenger seat. “Are you doubting my abilities to track people? Do you forget who taught you everything you know about tech?”

“I think there’s supposed to be a ‘ma’am’ in there somewhere,” you remind him teasingly.

“Do you forget who taught you everything you know about tech, ma’am?” he corrects without missing a beat, in a playful tone that he only brings out when it’s just the two of you, and he’s not worried about being caught with you when he’s not supposed to be. Today, he’s with you under your father’s orders directly, so Jihoon is relaxed and his usual, playful self. Your friend.

“Like I could ever forget, my genius little tech nerd,” you coo and lean forward to pinch his cheek.

“Hey!” he complains, reaching back to nudge you away and also make you settle back in your place safely. Though, there’s a smile on his face, and you’re only now remembering how much you enjoy spending time with Jihoon. You’re only now realising that you missed him.

Knowing it will fluster him; you decide to tell him as much. “I missed you, Jihoonie.”

“Ah.” As expected, Jihoon’s ears and the back of his neck immediately darken, spreading a fierce blush over his cheek and even to his cheeks. “I missed you too,” he responds quietly, shy yet pleased with your confession. “I’m glad you’re back, ma’am.”

“I’ll cook dinner for us once we’re back home, and you can catch me up on everything that I’ve missed the past year, yeah?”

“That sounds really good; I’d like that a lot.”

As soon as Sangmin answers his motel door and finds you on the other side, he throws himself forward to pull you into a warm, tight hug. You wrap your arms around him and return the embrace, so glad to see him safe and sound after two months, while also not knowing when you will be able to see him in person again after today.

“Can we come in a minute?” you request.

“We?” Sangmin questions, pulling back to look over when you point to your right, where Jihoon is standing respectfully back to let you have this moment of reunion. “Oh, you’re not Wonwoo.”

“No, Wonwoo is…you won’t be seeing him anymore,” you admit and tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “So, can we come in? I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, yes, of course, come in,” Sangmin consents and moves aside to motion you both in.

The room is pretty simple, but it’s clean, warm, and safe, with a little kitchenette and his own bathroom.

You perch on one of the two rickety chairs at the tiny table as Jihoon casually wanders around the room, naturally doing a safety check to make sure there are no potential threats to you here.

“Who is he?” Sangmin whispers as he sits opposite you at the table and leans on his elbows, closer to you to keep his curious words between you.

“He’s a friend from childhood,” you answer, which isn’t a lie; Jihoon was your friend as a child, before he was sworn into the gang and had to give up the title, officially at least. It’s just not the full truth, but Sangmin doesn’t need to know the full truth. “How are you, are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing better than I have been in a long time; I have a job now!” he beams proudly.

“Wonwoo told me. Congratulations, I’m really proud of you, Sangmin.”

“Thank you, I’m proud of me too.” He looks over as Jihoon returns from the bathroom and moves to stand by the motel room door, behind Sangmin. “So, you’re okay now? Wonwoo’s wife has given up on trying to hurt you?” He asks as he turns back around to look at you.

“Well, not out of choice; she’s in no condition to hurt anyone,” you answer honestly as you think about the video Jihoon had recorded of Wonwoo’s wife, strapped up to so many machines in a private room and barely holding onto life.

Your brothers really hadn’t gone easy on her; even your father had taken part in punishing her for having you abducted and hurt in the first place. The only reason they hadn’t beaten her to death was that Wonwoo had been brought to them and took their attention away. And honestly, you really couldn't care less about if the woman makes it or not. Jihoon had told you that, from what he could gather from the notes on her chart, the doctors don’t have high hopes that she’ll survive or even wake up.

Part of you doesn’t want her to survive because then, if she’s gone for good, Wonwoo will be free of her and have a chance to be happy, even if it’s not with you. You want him to be happy in whatever way he can.

“So, you’ll be back at work, and I can walk you home again?” Sangmin asks with a bright smile, excited at the idea. “I made sure my schedule will align with yours for when you’re back.”

“About that.” You reach across the small table to take his hands into yours, heart aching as you watch his smile fall into a frown. “I’m going back to my hometown; I won’t be around anymore.”

“Oh.” He frowns and looks aside a little, thinking hard before nodding. “Okay, I can meet you there; I know there’s branches of the store all over the country, so there has to be one in your hometown. I’ll talk to my boss and get transferred,” he decides, looking so determined that it both warms and breaks your heart.

“Sangie…”

“Oh…you don’t want me going with you.”

“You’re my best friend, you know?”

“And you’re mine, even if I’m almost old enough to be your father.”

“It’s better for you to stay here. There’s stuff you don’t know, and I don’t want you to know about me, but please understand that it’s better for you to stay here, away from that side of me.”

Sangmin stares at you for a long moment before sighing and nodding. “I know you’re gang affiliated in some way; you were too calm when you were kidnapped to not be, and you were never scared by any rough looking people we passed when I walked you home. I think, even without me there, you would’ve been fine. You can probably handle yourself better than I can.”

“Probably,” you agree with a little chuckle. “I won’t deny all of that; I respect you far too much to lie to your face like that, but I don’t want you to know any more. You need to stay here to keep away from it all.”

“Okay, I understand. I wouldn’t survive in that world; I know I’m too soft.”

“You’re far too pure for it,” you agree. “I love your purity and heart, Sangmin, I never want to endanger it. I want you to keep seeing the world in hues of rose, not red like I used to before moving here; like I will again.”

“Why are you going back?” he asks, looking lost. “If you stay, you won’t have the red.”

“I can’t. I gave my word that I'd go back, and I need to stick to it.”

“I see.” He nods a little. “Will you visit?”

“I’ll try, but it may be some time; things need to cool off, but I really will try. But until then, we can text and call. Wonwoo said you have a phone now?”

“Oh! Yes!” Sangmin jumps up to grab his phone from the bedside table and bring it over. “I’m still trying to get used to the fancy new apps and emojis and things. Some of the kids at work have been teaching me, and we have a group chat. I really like the funny dog gifs.”

“You can send me as many as you like,” you promise as you find your own contact in your phone so that you can copy your brand-new number into Sangmin’s contact list and save it and then save his number into yours in return. “There!” You hand his phone back and can’t help but smile at his genuinely joyed, bright grin when he spots your name in his contacts.

“Thank you. My phone is even more precious to me now that I can use it to talk to you.”

“Mine too.”

“Ma’am,” Jihoon prompts, after checking his watch, so you look at him. “We need to get going if we don’t want to cut it too close and make the others suspicious.”

“Of course,” you agree and look back at Sangmin. “So, I want to do something for you, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but it wasn’t exactly realistic given the circumstances.”

“What is it?” Sangmin wonders.

“Give you a home, so I know that you will be safe and warm and can have the life you deserve.”

“I have a home now.” He motions to the room. “I don’t need any more than this.”

“I know you don’t, but I want you to. I want you to have your own apartment again, where you can make a home how you want it; you can decorate it however you want, sell the furniture, and buy stuff to your own tastes. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, not fancy but safe; no gang affiliations in the area or graffiti on the walls. Somewhere you can be proud of, I hope. I want that for you; you deserve that and a lot more, Sangmin.” You hold his hands firmly and settle your pleading gaze on him. “Please let me do this for you, so I know you’re safe and don’t have to worry about the roof over your head.”

The man stares at you consideringly for a long few moments. You know he’s not used to others doing things for him; even before he became homeless, he was always the one doing everything for others and getting nothing in return, so he doesn’t know how to accept help without guilt bubbling in his chest.

“Okay,” he gives in, voice soft and still reluctant, but he can see how important this is to you. You had posed it as a favour to you on purpose, knowing it would make him agree even if he doesn’t want to; because it’s for you. “But I’m paying my own bills.”

“Utilities. I’ve had a year’s rent paid.” He lets out a disapproving exclamation of your name in response. “I had to secure it!” you defend, pouting at him. “It was the quickest method at the last minute. But if you prove yourself a good tenant, the landlord will renew your lease next year, and then it’s on you. You can take this year to save up for it and buy a car and get your license renewed now that you have a solid address.”

“When you’re back next, I’m taking you out for dinner,” he promises determinedly.

“No,” you argue with a scoff, while straightening up before grinning at him. “Next time I’m back, I’m cooking for you.”

“Oh…okay, that sounds better,” he concedes easily. “I really miss your cooking.”

“I’ll cook whatever you want, and you can supply the ingredients, how about that?”

“Deal.”

“Ma’am,” Jihoon says; a reminder in the single word that makes you nod.

“Alright. Okay, pack up, Sangmin, we’re taking you to your new home, and then we have to go.”

“I can make my own way-” he tries to assure but you shake your head, cutting him off.

“Nope, I want to see your reaction.”

“Okay.” He chuckles and gets up to start gathering his belongings.

It doesn’t take long at all, and then once Sangmin hands in his key to the landlord and insists that he doesn’t need the deposit back, the three of you get in Jihoon’s car and head to the apartment.

Although Sangmin had been so hesitant to accept the gift, he looks so genuinely overjoyed as the pair of you wander around the comfortable, two-bedroom apartment, commenting on the furniture and making suggestions of how to make it more of a genuine home instead of a show home. It’s clear that he loves the apartment, and that makes you so happy and settled, knowing that he’ll be able to live somewhere he truly likes and is safe.

After promising to let him know when you’re home safe, you give Sangmin one last hug before leaving, heading with Jihoon back to the life you had hoped you’d left behind, but always knew it’s rooted too deeply within your blood to ever truly turn your back on.

Months pass. Months of falling right back into step with your father, taking up all of the jobs you pushed aside for a taste of normalcy. Not that it actually takes long for you to be back into your old routines. Barely two days after being back in your hometown, you’re splattered in blood with a maniacal glint in your eye that matches the one on your favourite blade.

Back to your old haunts.

Back to your old habits.

Back to your role as your father’s daughter.

Although you’re not set to inherit the throne, so to speak, as the youngest child, your father has always preferred having you by his side at meetings than your quick to action brothers. At least the two younger ones.

Your eldest brother, the one set to take over, is the most level-headed of them all, but he stopped attending meetings with your father years ago and instead heads his own meetings. The two of them tend to share the load, and that often means you being at your father’s side to give him a different perspective.

So, when after months, a meeting comes to be, to work on allying your father’s gang with the Ahns, you don’t hesitate in saying you want in. You know that Wonwoo will be there as the one set to inherit the gang, and you want to see the man with your own eyes after three months apart.

Of course, in those three months, you’ve kept your eye on Wonwoo. You know he’s healed fully now, if only for some lingering scars; including one across his left cheekbone from one of your brothers deciding to ‘ruin his pretty face’ with a too blunt knife, leaving a jagged scar a few inches long. You also know that his wife hasn’t healed.

Ahn Yerim is still in that same hospital room, still hooked up to so many machines to keep her alive, still on life support that Wonwoo won’t give permission to shut off. You have no idea why he’s keeping her alive when this is the perfect chance to be free of her, and a very big part of you wants to know what the fuck he’s thinking keeping himself tied to the psycho. Maybe it’s because of his father-in-law; you hope it’s that and not some kind of loyalty to his wife to preserve her life for as long as possible.

When you tell your father that you want to go with him, he’s hesitant at first, knowing that you want to check in on Wonwoo, but the man can be so soft on you at times that it only takes a pout from you, and he agrees.

Three months after leaving, you’re back, if only for a week.

The very first time you meet Wonwoo after months apart, it’s in a fancy, private lounge of a bar that’s been closed this week for the meetings, where he stands in wait with his father-in-law for your father to arrive.

Clearly, Wonwoo hadn’t expected you to be here, as his eyes widen fractionally when you enter the room at your father’s side, before turning neutral again as he collects himself.

The two older men greet each other familiarly, though there’s clearly more respect coming from Wonwoo’s boss towards your father than is reciprocated, but it’s to be expected when your family is much more powerful than the Ahns and have three times as much land under their thumb.

“Ah, this must be your daughter,” Mr. Ahn says, turning to you and bowing respectfully, knowing that his own daughter had almost been killed because of her actions towards you. “I apologise for my daughter’s stupid actions all those months back, please forgive her.”

“No,” you reply simply and move to sit down, while your father smirks amusedly before sitting at your side.

Wonwoo waits for his boss to sit before he does too, taking the space on the couch on the opposite side of the low table to you, allowing the two gang leaders to face each other directly.

“How can she earn your forgiveness?” Mr. Ahn continues, a hint of desperation in his eyes, knowing that if you turn to your father and tell him to tear apart the Ahns, he will, and there will be nothing that stops him until they’re all dead.

“Dying would be a start,” you deadpan, and your father chuckles, patting a hand on your knee as Mr Ahn baulks at you in shock.

“My daughter is the hardest to earn forgiveness out of all of my children; always so stubborn and hard to win over,” he muses, sounding proud of your tough shell.

“You’re asking me to kill my daughter?” Mr. Ahn asks, shocked.

“No,” you respond and pointedly make eye contact with Wonwoo before looking away. “Let’s just discuss what we came here for,” you decide. “Our potential alliance.”

“Good idea, Princess,” your father agrees and adjusts ever so slightly to get comfortable before the negotiations start and plans begin to get penned down, ready for the two powerful families to become allies and each become even stronger with the other backing them up.

When you get bored during the meeting and check your watch, you realise that Sangmin will be finishing work soon, so you decide that seeing him is much more important than sitting around for this.

“I have somewhere to be,” you declare and don’t wait for a response before getting to your feet, causing both Mr. Ahn and Wonwoo to get up respectfully.

“Take Jihoon with you,” is all your father says, still reading through the paper in his hand detailing one of the neighbourhoods in the city that Mr. Ahn is offering to your family.

“Of course I’m taking Jihoon with me,” you scoff and look between Mr. Ahn and Wonwoo, eyes catching Wonwoo’s mouth twitching slightly as if he wants to say something but is stopping himself, knowing he can’t. Not here. “I’ll see you both tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Do you need a guide, support while here?” Mr. Ahn offers.

“No,” you scoff, rolling your eyes and heading to the door. “Bye, daddy.”

“Bye, Princess; have fun with your boys.”

“Oh, I will.”

Jihoon is waiting outside of the room and immediately follows you without you having to say a word. The two of you had already discussed this; visiting Sangmin, so he knew it would happen sooner or later. He also knows how easily you get bored during these meetings, so he had expected you to leave early, and he’s just been waiting for you to appear and want to visit your friend.

“Did you do it?” You ask as the two of you exit the building into the parking lot and head to his car.

“I’m pretty sure I got the right car,” he confirms. “They all look the fucking same, and none of them are registered, obviously, so I took a very educated guess.”

“You didn’t go to school; you’re uneducated.”

“More educated than you, ma’am.”

“Ha, yeah,” you agree with a snigger as he opens the back passenger door. You slide in and click your seatbelt into place as he closes the door, then jogs around to get into the driver’s seat and start the car up. “Did the connection work?” You ask after pulling out your phone to unlock and hand it over to him through the gap in the seats.

Jihoon finds the app he installed on your phone, which will hack into other phones in close proximity and give you access to the devices. “Mm, there’s a bunch of new devices,” he confirms, after looking at the list. “You’ll have to go through them to find which one is his.” You groan. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to stalk him,” he reminds as he hands your phone back, so that he can strap himself in then pull out of the space and start the drive.

“Yeah, but how am I supposed to know which one is his?” You whine, clicking a random device number on the list to find the gallery and hope there’s something in there. Immediately, you find a bunch of nudes of a man and know it’s not the phone you want. “Ew, gross,” you mutter and delete the device from the list before going into the next. “I swear, if all of these assholes have dick pics in their galleries, I’m telling dad to pull out of the partnership.”

“Stop looking, I’ll do it,” Jihoon immediately says in offer, though his words are firm enough that they could be classed as a demand, that is, if you didn’t know Jihoon well enough to know he’d never order you to do a damn thing, even if he could.

“You’re driving.”

“I meant when you’re with Sangmin.”

“Then I won’t have my phone.”

“I don’t want you looking at random dudes’ dicks, ma’am.”

“Just yours?” you tease and grin to yourself as he blushes.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Jihoon blushes darker and grips the steering wheel with both hands firmly. “Please, let me do it,” he requests after a moment.

“Do what, show me your dick? How much you packing? I think at least six inches.”

“Ohmygod,” he whispers, eyes wide and glued to the road in front. “P-please stop teasing me, ma’am.”

You giggle and relent, not wanting him to have a breakdown behind the wheel and risk endangering you both. You’ll save your teasing for a time when neither of you can get hurt. “You can look through them for me, but you gotta be in the apartment until you find the right one and give me my phone back.”

“I’ll be in the hall outside.”

“No, that’ll look fucking weird; I don’t want to risk Sangmin’s neighbours asking him questions about the pink faced cherub in the hallway.”

“Stop,” he complains, cheeks flaring again despite having just started to cool, thinking you were done with your teasing. “I’ll stay in another room; just stop.”

“Deal.” You giggle and lock your phone.

When you arrive at Sangmin’s apartment, he’s only just arrived home from work moments before, so he’s still in his uniform, but he’s beaming excitedly, having taken your text yesterday that you’ll visit today seriously and has been waiting in anticipation all day for a further update.

“You’re here!” he greets, pulling you into a warm hug; you giggle happily as you return in. “Come in, come in,” he ushers you both in once your embrace breaks. “Hello, Jihoon, it’s good to see you again.”

“Oh,” Jihoon responds, surprised that Sangmin is speaking to him and sounding genuinely pleased to see him. “Oh uh, you too, Sangmin. Is it alright if I sit in your spare room for a little while?”

“Oh, you’re not joining us for dinner?” Sangmin asks with a confused frown.

“No…” Jihoon looks utterly bewildered at the thought that Sangmin thought he’s joining your dinner and hangout session. “I’m just here to keep her safe.”

“You can do that while joining us for dinner and to hang out. I bought enough groceries for us all! I figured you’d be by her side.” Sangmin heads to the kitchen, which you follow with a grin after you’ve removed your shoes and jacket.

Jihoon follows a moment later, still looking bewildered yet hovering in uncertain acceptance of Sangmin’s extension of dinner invitation. He hasn’t been invited to anything by anyone outside of the gang in so long that he doesn’t really know how to navigate this, but he’s willing to try. He doesn’t expect to become friends with Sangmin, but he thinks it would be kinda nice to hang out with a normal person for once.

“Go get out of your uniform, Sangie,” you encourage as you hand Jihoon your locked phone, and he perches kind of awkwardly at the dinner table to begin looking through it, while you move to the sink to wash your hands.

“Ah, I’d be a bad host to leave you both,” Sangmin retorts.

“Don’t be silly; I’m going to get started on dinner prep, and Jihoon is busy looking at dicks; we’re entertained until you return.”

“Ma’am!” Jihoon sputters, looking at you with red features of embarrassment as Sangmin blinks in surprise at Jihoon.

“I don’t think it’s correct to out people,” Sangmin says to you gently after a second.

“I’m not gay,” Jihoon corrects. “This is her phone.”

“Oh, you’ve moved on from Wonwoo?” Sangmin questions, accepting Jihoon’s response so easily, so trusting and looks at you curiously. Jihoon can’t help but stare at the man in wonder; it’s truly baffling to him that someone can be so trusting and accepting of others.

“No,” you scoff and wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll explain when you’re back from your shower; go wash the day’s work from yourself and get comfortable. We’ll be right here.”

“Are you really sure it’s okay?”

“Of course, wouldn’t say it otherwise,” you assure. Sangmin glances at Jihoon, who nods in agreement, before the older man lets out a breath and leaves the pair of you in the kitchen.

“Is it really okay that I stay, ma’am?” Jihoon asks softly, a few moments later, after just watching you get to work skilfully preparing ingredients for Sangmin’s favourite dishes.

“Have I told you to leave?” you retort, looking at him without fully lifting your head. Jihoon shakes his head slightly. “There’s your answer, then. Just find me the correct dick pics, like a good cherub and stop questioning your place by my side.”

“It’s not me you want by your side,” he reminds, while obediently looking at your phone to go back to checking through the devices and deleting any that aren’t the one you want access to.

“I want you by my side, not inside me. Though maybe if it wouldn’t hurt you. You’d probably be a good fuck,” you comment with a shrug as you focus on your task. You don’t need to be looking at Jihoon to know he’s turned a pretty pink, anyway, especially not when you can hear the choked sound he lets out before he pointedly stays quiet and pretends to be very invested in his own task.

The second day in the city goes pretty much the same as the first; a few hours sitting opposite Wonwoo while he pretends that he isn’t itching to talk to you, before you get bored and leave with Jihoon to meet Sangmin.

This time, you go out for dinner; Sangmin pays at his own insistence, and Jihoon looks almost like he accepts that you both want him there and he’s not out of place at your side.

“When are you going to talk to him?” Sangmin wonders as he watches you check your phone every time there’s a ping from either of the apps you had Jihoon install for this trip.

“Mm, tomorrow,” you decide, realising that the pings are the same as this time yesterday, and you can safely assume this is the daily routine. You don’t have to wait any longer before implementing your plan.

On the third day, when you leave the meeting, it isn’t as early as usual, but it is still earlier than the three men leave.

For the first time since arriving in the city, you drive yourself where you need to go, with only yourself for company. Jihoon knows where you are, of course, and you know that he has tracking apps on your phone that you’ll never find, so that he can be sure that you’re where you’re supposed to be, therefore safe. But he won’t interfere unless you deviate from your plan without warning or fail to answer if he calls.

Being back is strange in a lot of ways, but in others, it isn’t. This place, it became your home, and even now, three months later, something in you settles in the familiarity of it.

It’s a few hours before the beep of the lock disengaging echoes around the apartment, only the sound of the radio playing gently in the background; a new addition but a welcome one. There still isn’t a modern TV on the wall or an internet modem, but that doesn’t surprise you. The more homely touches do, however; the random knick-knacks around, more signs that this is a home, not just an empty shell of an apartment. You hadn’t expected them, but they make you smile.

You’re just finishing setting up everything on the dining table when socked footsteps approach from behind, joining you in the kitchen area.

Wordlessly, you both sit down in your seats, and just like he did in those first few weeks, Wonwoo shovels your cooking in his mouth as if he’s been starved for months. It makes you huff a short, amused laugh. He looks at you and can’t help but smile, yet neither of you say a word, not yet.

Despite there still being that familiar ease in the air between you, it’s laced amongst tension. You haven’t seen one another in months, haven’t talked in as long, and the last time you saw each other, things weren’t exactly normal between you. You had been desperate to leave, and Wonwoo had wanted nothing more than for you to stay, but he knew he couldn’t hold you here when you looked like you did. Of course, he soon found out why you wanted to leave so insistently, when your father and brothers beat the shit out of him and put him in hospital for a week, but still, he wished you never left.

There’s clearly a lot that needs to be said, things to be discussed, yet neither of you know where to start exactly.

After almost ten minutes of silently eating, Wonwoo is the one who talks first, “have you memorised my schedule or something?”

“I put a tracker on your car and hacked your phone,” you answer bluntly, making him look at you in dumb shock.

“You did what?” he mutters disbelievingly.

“Mm, first day back in the city,” you confirm with a nod, picking up your glass of wine to take a few sips before placing it back down. “You live a boring life, you know. No life outside of what your dear father-in-law tells you what to do. And ya know, visiting your wife.” You pull a disapproving face at the routine you had seen Wonwoo follow the past three days, today included, thanks to the tracking apps. At least his boring routine means you easily figured out what time he’d be home.

He rolls his eyes. “Sorry I don’t live up to your expectations, Princess.” You ignore the jab at your position, the name your father calls you.

“You should be.” You reach under the table, to pick up the item on your lap that had been waiting on the chair until you sat. The hesitance on Wonwoo’s features is obvious to you as he pauses in his movements to watch you cautiously; you assume that he thinks you’re about to pull a weapon on him for some reason. Yet you think the expression that takes over his features tells you that he would’ve preferred a gun to the gift bag you place on the tabletop pointedly.

“Did you go through my fucking closet?” he hisses, knowing he had hidden that gift bag away months ago, when you still lived here.

“I spilled sauce on my shirt,” you reason, suddenly inadvertently drawing his attention to the shirt on your body. It’s too big for you really, too broad on your shoulders that are nowhere near as wide as his, and you have the sleeves rolled up to your forearms to account for his longer limbs.

“Your clothes are still in your room,” he points out, eyes still on his shirt on your body as if he can’t make himself look away yet. It makes you feel smugly pleased that he so clearly likes that you’re wearing his clothes.

“I noticed. But they’ve been sitting there for months, and this is freshly washed; it smells nice.”

Finally, he drags his eyes up to meet your own and nods slightly, accepting your reasoning and honestly, not wanting to argue anymore and risk you going to change out of his clothes into your own. “Fine, but that bag wasn’t even with the fucking shirts.”

“Okay, fine; I was bored and wanted to find something juicy,” you admit with a dramatic sigh. “I expected fluffy handcuffs, or a pocky pussy shaped like a monster vagina.” You pout; upset about the lack of filthy items you found while digging around Wonwoo’s bedroom earlier.

“I forgot how fucking weird you are,” he mutters, turning back to his meal.

“How fucking rude! How dare you forget a single thing about me, Jeon Wonwoo!” you exclaim in offence, even if it’s mostly fake, just to wind him up. “I remember everything about you. Including that cute little mole on your right butt cheek.”

He sputters and looks at you with widened eyes. “I don’t have a mole on my ass!”

“Yes, you do. Get naked, and I’ll take a photo to show you.” He rolls his eyes and decides to eat instead of responding, knowing it’s for the best to just ignore you when you’re being ridiculous. “So, going to explain this?” you prompt, pointing to the bag. “You were supposed to return that.” He just shrugs, and you know that he’s too stubborn to be truthful right now, so you decide to give up on getting an answer and join him in returning to your dinner.

At least the atmosphere isn’t so tense now that you’ve had a conversation, even if no questions have been answered yet, or even really asked.

After you finish eating, and Wonwoo’s done cleaning up, just like he used to, he joins you on the couch and offers a fresh glass of wine.

You shake your head in refusal. “Already had one, I need to drive to the hotel.”

“I spent too fucking much on that fancy mattress you bugged me to buy you, for you to not sleep on it while here,” he scoffs and puts the glass in your hand before settling comfortably in his usual space.

“Are you asking me to stay for the rest of the week?” you tease.

“It’s quiet without you,” his answer is too honest, eyes too open on you, that you drop the attempt at being playful and decide to match his energy.

“Then go home.”

“That place never felt like home,” he reasons with a displeased twist of his features. “That’s her house, and I have these apartments to get away from her.”

“She’s not there anymore.”

“Still her house to me. I never liked it, and I don’t need to show my face to an empty house to stop accusations about cheating,” he points out and swallows a mouthful of his wine.

You give him a raised eyebrows look. “So, you’ve taken up living in the place you shared with another woman for almost three months.”

“The closest thing to a home I’ve known in a long time.”

“Are you drunk already, Jeon Wonwoo? One glass of red, and you get sappy.”

He takes the glass from your hand and motions to the door broadly. “Fuck off if you’re going to be a bitch when I’m trying to be honest,” he grumbles, embarrassed and offended that he’s genuinely trying and you’re making jokes.

“Give me back my wine, I need it for this,” you whine, making grabby hands towards him. With a sigh, he does as you ask, and you both take a few drinks. “So…” you start awkwardly, while staring down into your glass, not sure how to navigate this; being so serious, but you want to try. “This is the closest you’ve known to a home? What…” You lick your lips nervously and look at him. “Why is that?”

“I’ve been in a gang for-”

You cut him off while shaking your head, “I meant why this one. You said you have multiple apartments, why this one? I’m surprised you came back here after all that.”

“You know why.” He looks at you as if you look into each other’s eyes intensely enough, everything will become clear. It doesn’t. “Same reason I didn’t return the fucking necklace.”

“Let’s pretend I’m stupid for a minute,” you say, adjusting your position a little as your stomach flutters and heart heaves in your chest, anxiety rearing its inconsiderate head. “I know, it’s a tough ask because I’m clearly a genius, but just pretend I’m emotionally inept, and I have no idea what you mean.”

“They keep asking me for an answer,” he says, utterly bewildering you.

“Okay, I must actually be stupid because I have no fucking idea how that answers my question at all,” you admit in a questioning mutter.

“The doctors overseeing my wife,” he starts to explain. “I’m her next of kin; it’s my call entirely what happens to her. They told me from the start that she likely won’t wake, and even if she does, she won’t ever be the woman I married. I’d have to hire a team of nurses and shit and devote my life to wiping the fucking drool from her chin.”

You make a noise of understanding and nod slowly as you absorb his words. “So, that rumour’s true; she’s brain dead. More than before my brothers got their hands on her, I mean.”

“Yep,” he confirms simply before he finishes his glass and puts it on the coffee table.

“And the doctors are basically asking if you want to pull the plug?” Wonwoo nods in confirmation. “And you haven’t answered.”

“I’ve almost said yes so many times; just fucking wipe my hands of the bitch for good. I don’t want to have to look after her. I never even liked her, so I don’t want to be responsible for her.”

“Then tell them to pull the plug. I don’t understand why you haven’t already. If you even liked her, not loved but just simply liked, I’d understand your hesitance, but you pretty much hate her. What’s stopping you? Is it her dad?”

“No, he knows she’s never coming back, and he’s told me he won’t hold it against me if I tell them to do it. He said he’d rather she doesn’t wake and suffer for the rest of her life, and he knows she wouldn’t want to live like that either.”

“Then why haven’t you given consent yet?”

“It’s the dumbest fucking thing; it doesn’t even make sense,” he mutters, looking at the space between you as if he wants to move over to cut it in half, or remove it entirely.

“Tell me,” you insist, minutely shuffling closer encouragingly.

“I just keeping thinking that…what if that was you? And in that split second where I imagine you laid there, I can’t do it,” he confesses, genuinely shocking you as your heart speeds up and even skips a few beats in excitement and what you’re certain is more than just hope at this point.

“Oh… You’re right; that makes no sense.”

Wonwoo huffs a laugh and looks up at you. “You really are emotionally inept, aren’t you?”

“Says you.”

“We’re as bad as each other, I guess.”

“Mm, seems that way, Mr. Jeon.”

The two of you look at one another for a minute, so much and nothing at all being said in the air between you, the way your eyes don’t waver from one another.

Seemingly making a decision about whatever is on his mind, he nods determinedly and takes your glass to down the remainder, making you whine wordlessly and whack his leg in complaint. “I’m going to do it tomorrow,” he declares, putting the glass on the table beside his own.

“What?” you ask confusedly after staring forlornly at your stolen glass for a second, then looking at him puzzled.

“First thing tomorrow, I’m going to go to the hospital and sign the papers to end the life support,” he decides firmly.

You raise a questioning eyebrow. “And what if your weird little mind imagines me laid on that bed again?”

“Remember what you said you’d do with that necklace if I wasn’t married?” he prompts, making you nod in confirmation. “That is what I’m going to think about.”

Waking in your bed in the apartment feels both strange, and so normal that you momentarily forget that you’ve been gone for months. But it only lasts for a few seconds before you realise that your alarm is going off on the side table and you reach out to grab it and turn it off.

It’s earlier than you’ve ever woken here; not even 8am yet, but you know you have a meeting to attend at 9:30am, so you need to at least get up and shower ready to leave.

All of your toiletries are still in your ensuite. Actually, everything of yours that you left around the apartment is still where you last put it, so long as it’s not in the way. It makes your heart flutter every time you think of how Wonwoo hadn’t wanted to remove any trace of you, despite now living full time in the apartment.

Showering and getting ready doesn’t take that long; you’re wandering downstairs by 8:20 and realising that Wonwoo isn’t home. You know he’d be in the kitchen if he was. You both have to be at the same meeting, after all, and he’s always been awake before you.

It feels like normal to check the whiteboard on the fridge for a message from Wonwoo. There’s a fresh one in place, just as you suspected; though it simply tells you to bring your belongings from your hotel room here, and that he’ll get takeout for dinner tonight, so you don’t need to bother cooking for either of you.

Though, there’s no information explaining where he’s gone so early, so, of course, you pull out your phone and pull up the tracking app for his phone. The moment you see that he’s at the hospital, you exit the app and try not to feel excited at the potential that Wonwoo is currently giving consent to have his wife’s life support turned off.

It’s pretty twisted of you to wish for that, but you’ve never pretended that you’re not a twisted kind of person. Being raised as you have, surrounded by all the blood and mayhem your father didn’t try to hide from you once you became a teenager, well, that’s bound to twist a person’s mentality more than just a bit.

After texting Jihoon to tell him you’re heading back now, you leave the apartment to head to the hotel to meet everyone, ready to sit through another few hours of a boring meeting to discuss more details about the alliance.

As it turns out though, the meeting is cancelled for today, something you and your father are only told once you’re already at the bar. But there are plenty of Ahn’s men around that the two of you pass time talking to them to gain even more information on the gang; things that the boss himself won’t tell you, or perhaps even know about how his men work outside of his direct orders.

It's very informative and much more interesting than the meeting would’ve been, so you stick around for as long as your father does before all heading back to the hotel.

“You’re really doing this?” Jihoon asks as he watches you zip up your case now that it’s packed back up and none of your belongings remain outside of your luggage.

“Don’t sound so fucking dramatic, it’s like three days,” you scoff. “You know where I’ll be, you can track me and hack my phone; listen in and activate my camera when I’m in the shower, pervert.”

“I’ve never done that!” he sputters, blushing furiously.

“Your loss, I look great naked and dripping wet.”

“I don’t doubt it; you’re always beautiful,” he responds honestly, making you look at him and smile softly at his heartfelt compliment. “He’s a lucky guy, to have your heart like this.”

“Well…I wouldn’t take it that far,” you reply, diverting your gaze as your cheeks pinken ever so slightly.

“You’re blushing,” he teases.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Is that an order, ma’am?” He’s smirking when you look at him.

“Only if you send me a picture of your eight-inch wonder wrapped in your pretty hands,” you purr, smirking salaciously and he immediately looks away, once again back to blushing. “Ah, you’re so easy, Jihoonie.”

“Only for you,” he mutters and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Be careful with him, ma’am. Smart.”

“I have condoms.”

“Okay, good. I don’t want people to look down on you for having a child out of wedlock, or risking catching something from him.”

“Me either,” you agree. “Any other orders, cherub?”

“Yeah, stop calling me that.” He gives you an unimpressed look that makes you giggle, which in turn, makes his expression melt into something fond. “Call me whatever you want,” he decides.

“Simp.”

“Only for you.” He shrugs and moves to open the suite door when you head towards it with your luggage. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you there?”

“No, Jihoon. I can do it; I’m a big girl.”

“I know,” he chuckles. “I still worry, though.”

“Okay, daddy.” Jihoon short circuits, and you take the chance to leave, cackling to yourself at the dumbass, open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression he’s wearing.

When you enter the apartment, you immediately spot Wonwoo in the kitchen with his back to you as he leans on the island with both hands, attention on the paper atop the counter. He’s still wearing his leather jacket, and you assume he hasn’t been home long.

After removing your shoes and jacket, you leave your luggage in the entrance hall and walk over to peer around Wonwoo’s arm at the paper curiously. “Oh. Death certificate already? You don’t wait around, do you,” you muse, moving aside to lean back against the counter a little on his left.

“It was already waiting, just needed the details. Everyone knew it was coming. Even my father- well, I guess my ex-father-in-law knew.” He huffs a short laugh that’s barely an exhale of a laugh before looking at you. “Said he knew it’d be this week too, once he saw the way I looked at you Monday morning.”

You whistle impressed. “Damn, just say you’re in love with me, and get it over with.”

He rolls his eyes and finally moves to tuck the certificate back in the envelope, tucking his wedding ring inside too. It makes your stomach twist excitedly. “Don’t take it too far, asshole.”

“I’m very lovable,” you defend.

“Prove it to me.” He turns to face you properly; you mirror his stance so you’re facing one another, perfectly in reach yet neither of you reach out.

“Prove it how exactly?”

He opens his mouth without thought, then closes it before he can say the words, changing his mind as he shakes his head slightly. He takes a second before opening his mouth and saying something less impulsive, “Not now; I’ve literally just become a widower today, so I should at least respect my dead wife by not starting something with the woman who essentially killed her.”

“Hey!” you exclaim and reach out to backhand his bicep, making his lips turn up at one side, smiling amusedly. “I take offense with that! If I was going to kill her, I would’ve done it ages ago! My brothers killed her because of her own dumbass decision to kidnap me. And, well, yours for holding me up so long. You had more part in her death than me.”

“Okay, I can accept that,” he concedes easily, not even trying to deny it in any way. “Then I definitely can’t start anything with you; can’t let anyone know that I killed my wife for you.”

“How romantic of you,” you coo sarcastically.

“Very,” he grins, making you huff a laugh.

“So, just to clarify; you are no longer married, but you want to wait?”

“Yes.”

You hum for a few seconds. “So, you don’t want me to go put on that necklace?”

He stares at you dumbly for a moment as his mind whirls with the mental images your words spawn. “I didn’t say that,” he murmurs lowly, eyes darkening with lust as they focus back on you.

“So, you do?”

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely.”

He doesn’t hesitate to comply with a simple yet so honest and effective, “Please.”

It’s you who stares dumbly for a few seconds this time. “Oh, that was easier than I thought,” you admit in a mutter before smirking at him amusedly. “You really are desperate for a fuck, huh?”

“I can go without usually, but I’ve never wanted someone like I have you. So now I have the chance, yes, I want to take it,” he answers candidly, without any waver to his voice or lust heavy expression on you. “Never know what will happen in our line of work.”

“Hmm, true.” You glance around the kitchen for the gift bag that you know was on the counter this morning when you left, then at him with a confused frown when you don’t find it. “Did you really put it back away?”

“No. It’s on your bed waiting.”

“Presumptuous.”

“I just know neither of us would want to wait longer than necessary.”

“True,” you agree with a nod, unable to even pretend to try and deny his words, before starting to back towards the stairs slowly. “I’m going to shower, and you should too. I don’t want you to touch me with dead wife hands.”

“I didn’t even touch her,” he says.

You stop in your tracks and give him a flat, unimpressed look. “The air touched you both, Wonwoo.”

He rolls his eyes and then starts walking forward, towards you and the stairs while unzipping his jacket ready to remove it. “Whatever, just hurry the fuck up and get naked on my bed.”

“Demanding.”

He reaches out to grab the front of your shirt, technically another of his, once in front of you and stops you from backing up like you intend to. You glance down at his hand gripping the material then back up into his eyes with a raised eyebrow. “Before anything, I need to ask something.”

“No, I’m not going to call you daddy, no matter how much you beg,” you answer, tapping the tip of his nose once with your finger; he rolls his eyes and tugs you closer. “Okay, damn, I was joking, daddy.”

“Shut the fuck up, brat,” he retorts, though he’s clearly trying not to chuckle at your words. “And I know you call your dad that, so I definitely don’t want you calling me that. Keep your daddy issues out of our sex life.”

“Boring.” He gives you an unimpressed look. “Okay, fine, I’ll pretend I’m a serious person. What’s your question?”

“When did you get tested?”

“For what?”

“Anything you can pass on when you sit on my face.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen in clear interest. “Very recently; nothing to pass on. You?”

“Same.”

“Great. Shower; go clean my throne thoroughly,” you say and pat his cheek, though hesitate when you see the scar on his cheek and cup his face so you can run your thumb over it. “What did they do to your pretty face, huh?”

“Nothing your thighs can’t hide.”

“You know what? You’re so fucking right,” you agree then dart forward to press a far too quick kiss to his lips, then back up while he stares after you, in shock at first but then in challenge as you giggle. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” he confirms before you both rush upstairs to your ensuites to shower, more than just a little fucking excited to finally get to get your hands on each other.

Over the few days living back at the apartment, you and Wonwoo enthusiastically defile every inch of the apartment humanly possible, and then do it all over again, and again, and again.

Honestly, you have no idea how you both seem to have endless stamina and arousal in your veins to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. All it takes is locking gaze and suddenly clothes are being thrown off, and you’re reaching for condoms, which the two of you had great fun hiding all over the apartment to find again like a horny Easter egg hunt.

It’s even more impressive because you both still have to attend meetings, and Wonwoo has to meet with various people to arrange the funeral properly. He also has to deal with his wife’s belongings; none of which he wants to keep and frankly doesn’t care what happens to it, but he has to keep up appearances at least a little bit.

But, those three days pass far too quickly for your liking, and before you know it, you’re saying goodbye to Wonwoo with his number in your phone and his marks covering your skin under your clothes.

Honestly, part of you thought that now that you and Wonwoo have fucked it out, a lot, and have the opportunity to text and call whenever you want, that whatever is between you might fizzle out over the following few months apart. You thought that maybe, the novelty of finally being able to fall together would’ve worn off, and things would change. But you were very wrong.

Well, partially, because things do change, but not in the way you expected.

Every single night, Wonwoo video calls you, so that you can eat your dinner together despite the distance, and then you spend hours on call. Sometimes you’re quiet, each doing your own thing but just enjoying having the other there. Sometimes there’s nonstop talking. And sometimes, there is, of course, a lot of phone sex.

Even if the exact nature of the calls differ, he still calls and smiles at you so happily with a light in his eyes that you never saw in those months living together. But now, he looks like there’s no longer a weight dragging his heart down, and instead it’s allowed to flutter free, right into your waiting hands.

Wonwoo never hides it either, never tries to pretend that he doesn’t just sit and stare at you sometimes with a soft, content look on his face that always makes your heart flutter when you notice. He never hides how happy you make him, how much he adores talking to you, adores you.

He texts you every morning and at random points in the day just to check in and keep each other updated. Or send photos and memes he thinks you’ll like.

He sends random gifts to your house; flowers, food, lingerie, random knick-knacks he saw and thought of you, and you always show them to him on the next video call after you’ve decided where to put them. He always looks so happy that you’ve accepted the items and allowed them to be a part of your daily life.

The first time you send Wonwoo a gift in return, a giant bouquet of flowers, he calls you the second it arrives and excitedly thanks you so profusely; saying that no one has ever bought him flowers before, and he doesn’t know how to look after them, but he’ll do research and treasure them. Which he does; those flowers last far longer than you expect, thanks to his careful attention, and you can’t help but send him endless gifts after. He’s always so adorably happy and enthusiastic about whatever you send him, just because you had taken the time to think of him.

It’s honestly a side of him you really hadn’t known existed, a side so different to his usual persona that you feel like there’s something right in the depths of you both that ties you together and allows him to let himself be so free and honest with you.

The more you think about it, the more you take moments to just look at him on your screen as he talks or does chores, oblivious to your admiring gaze, the more you think that you might finally understand how Jihoon can be so devoted to you and willing to do anything to make you happy, even though he knows it will never get him anywhere with you.

You think you’d carve your heart from your chest and put it in Wonwoo’s hands if it would make him smile.

You think, that perhaps, he already has it.

Winter isn’t the best time to show off the private stretch of beach that your home overlooks, but it’s out of your control when Wonwoo turns up to deal with things on behalf of the Ahn gang in January.

But really, you don’t mind it, not when it means he’s finally right back within arm’s reach, and you can kiss his stupidly pretty face whenever you want, even if it’s chilled from the sea air blowing in as you sit on the blanket on the sand to watch the sun set.

He’s already been here for a few days, staying in your beachside home with you and defiling every inch of it at every given chance, too. But, it hasn’t all been about sex. There have been a lot of times where you just lay side by side, hands trailing over one another with no intention but to touch, to admire, to silently worship the other in a way you hope you can spend the rest of your lives doing.

There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it anymore, no doubt left in your mind or heart as you see your heart split in half and at home in his chest with half of his own, the other part in your own chest.

You thought having an incomplete heart was something bad, something to be feared and resent, but knowing Wonwoo has so willingly split his to complete yours and readily accepted yours as the other half of his, you think it’s the best thing a person could ever experience.

Even sitting here in the chill and talking about work, as you look at Wonwoo, all you feel is love. Although neither of you have said the words, have even discussed what your relationship is, you’re confident that he feels it too.

“He’s giving me more and more responsibilities now, like he’s getting ready to step down,” he informs, playing with the hem of your jumper, where he’s shoved his hand up the front of your coat to be closer to your skin and leech your warmth. You’re doing the same thing to him though, so you can’t really call him out on it.

“Gang boss Wonwoo, how attractive of you,” you muse and kiss his cheek before resting your head on his shoulder, making him smile at the cute action.

“Attractive enough to be Mrs gang boss Wonwoo?” Immediately, you straighten up to look at him in wide eyed shock at the abrupt question. Wonwoo removes his hands from you so that he can reach into one of his coat pockets and pull out a small, dark cube. A ring box.

“My dad will kill you if you propose to me without his blessing,” you mutter dumbly, eyes glued to the box as he shuffles to face you better.

“I know, so I asked him today.”

Your head jerks up to look at him wide eyed. “And he said yes?!”

“He doesn’t want his daughter being some asshole’s mistress, so he’d rather you just marry the asshole instead.” He chuckles. “It’d ally our gangs too.”

“I wouldn’t be your mistress!” you baulk offendedly.

“I don’t want you to be,” he assures. “I want to do it right this time; marriage.”

“What does ‘doing it right’ even mean, Wonwoo?”

“Not for business.”

“You just said it’d ally us,” you remind.

“That’s not important to me. If you said you want to run away and leave all this shit behind, I’d agree.”

You make an impressed sound similar to a whistle. “Damn. You’re whipped.”

He laughs and nods a little, while opening the box to show you the silver, diamond studded ring within. It matches the necklace you haven’t removed once since putting it on four months ago; you only remove the earrings at night so that they don’t dig into your skull when you sleep. “I am. You proved to me how lovable you are the past months, to the degree that I never want to spend a day without you, Princess. I really have fallen for you, and whether you love me or not isn’t important, because I’m confident you’ll love me sooner or later.”

“Definitely sooner,” you reply immediately, making his lips turn up into a smile.

“Yeah?”

“I won’t marry for a reason other than genuine love, Wonwoo.”

“What does that mean?”

You offer your left hand and wiggle your fingers impatiently. “Put the fucking ring on me, then let me ride my fiancé’s dick.”

Wonwoo doesn’t hesitate to pluck the ring from the cushion and slide it onto your finger, before pulling you onto his lap with a smile so bright it puts the setting sun to shame. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie, @tusswrites, @svtiddiess, @codeinebelle

Whatever You Want part two tag: @syluslittlecrows, @eisaspresso, @riseokau

#CosyHomeNet #svthub #kvanity #thediamondlifenetwork #keopihausnet #dovenet #jeon wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo mafia au #jeon wonwoo fluff #jeon wonwoo angst #jeon wonwoo comedy #jeon wonwoo fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen mafia au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen comedy

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shadamypositivity · 16 hours ago

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a negative post under the cut (not from me, I'm just commentating on it)

(See OG post below.)

due to the nature of my blog normally I wouldn't even bring this up but a) I'm bored while IT is working on my computer (AGAIN) and b) i like a good discussion.

I'm gonna skip over the obvious fallacies of shadamy being a fake ship (bc what does that mean, I have no idea) and that SEGA never acknowledges it (they clearly have) or markets Shadamy (if the Shadamy Sakura series and them being marketed together didn't clue them in, then they are willingly ignorant abt it lol)

I did want to discuss the Amy Rose Minnie Mouse aspect and her "purpose of the franchise" bc i actually have a lot of thoughts to this! And before I go one, it should go without saying but I do love SonAmy, it's very cute and they're characters who can have good chemistry and deserve good things! Anyway, here's my thoughts.

Amy being created to be Sonic's Minnie Mouse as far as I had read it was pressure from the company to make Sonic more marketable (i.e. adding girl character, hero saves damsel quests etc). What i love about how they went about it was flipping the script, especially for the era, it was more commonplace for damsel characters to be the sweet, love interest (Minnie, princess peach, princess daphne) that the hero pursues as a goal to complete as well as a reward for his efforts.

Sonic being adverse to Amy's advances, who is supposedly created to be the love interest, is unique and adds to his personality which was a really good move imo. it added to the edge that Sonic kind of gives as a protagonist, his sass, his impatience, his cock sure nature while also being altruistic and loyal of course, but him viewing Amy as a friend that he occasionally has to rescue and bear the affections of is objectively silly and fun.

Now, pertaining to Amy's purpose of the franchise being Sonic's endgame love interest, I do take a lot more issue with. Not only does it invalidate Amy's space in this franchise, making her no more than a romantic reward for the ending of Sonic's hero's quest (because, if SEGA thinks Sonic won't "slow down" for Amy now, it implies he will have to undergo some sort of change or, less noble, when he seems himself ready to reciprocate Amy's feelings on his terms, irregardless of how long he makes Amy wait for him) but it also ironically makes Sonamy make less sense canonically.

Like, if Amy is only meant to work as Sonic's female, romantic counterpart, why does SEGA not let it happen canonically? Because it's not a ship war thing honestly, most of the GP already assumes they are and there's plenty of valentines merch to suggest otherwise, so...why not just do it? probably because it doesn't make sense for Sonic's character and I don't just mean for SonAmy, honestly, I mean it for any and all Sonic ships. It isn't that Sonic doesn't love or wouldn't have romantic feelings, it's that I think he doesn't allow himself those attachments. Friends are everything in this world and I've always loved this franchise for showcasing an array of lovely strong friendships, but the difference in friends and significant others is that there's compromise, there's balance, there's giving up things, there's building a home and a family and doing things as 2 as opposed to only needing to worry about yourself. friendships are no less of a love than romance but there's also a lot more grace in friendships when it comes to responsibilities and emotional compromises. I'm getting into the weeds a bit here but what I mean to say is that Sonics character doesn't make sense for a romantic partner, free like the wind and on an eternal hero's journey. It has also never appeared to be a want of his to be able to have these things (but im willing to be proven otherwise) Maybe down the road it would, but that's not fair to Amy or any other partner for that matter. Amy's whole world doesn't need to revolve around waiting for her hero to be ready to accept her, especially to a character so full and rich in love and affections to give.

It doesn't escape me that one of Amy's most defining and strongest showing was because of Shadow. This is kind of where I can get extremely biased and go on and on about how great a story arc would be for Shadamy to become endgame. Briefly, Sonamy being canon kind of takes away from Sonic's character, while Shadamy enriches. Amy who obsesses and does everything for the attention of her first love finding her own purpose and making her world bigger by being her own hero which was the case for her finding her courage after feeling useless by helping Shadow to remember his promise just by being herself. Shadow who is jaded and hurt and isolated from friends and the world he now lives in finding love and affection and strength in those things because of Amy Rose's big heart. Idk, it's all very poetic to me.

So in conclusion, Sonamy and Shadamy good, but writing wise, Shadamy has a lot more going for it. One of my irl friends who watches sonic things over my shoulder has always taken issue with Sonamy being the canon default bc of her pursuing and Sonics pushing away. When I introduced her to the idea of Shadamy she hoped on with more enthusiasm haha probably bc it was around the mosth era and that was a pretty good showing for them haha. anyway. these are my humble thoughts. I'm not all knowing of this franchise or think myself correct in every way but idk. I don't think its fair to rule out character shipping just bc it wasn't the original intention. that happens all the time with things after all (RIP canon zutara) so maybe op can take a chill pill 😅

#the IT is still working on my computer as we speak akfjfjjf #cw negative #but not on my side tbh #but i am comparing ships which i dont really like to do #esp when im cool with both #but i digress #long post #these my thoughts #and i welcome others thoughts ^-^#sonamy #shadamy

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leapingbadger · 2 days ago

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Last Line Challenge

Thanks so much for the tag @archivewriter1ont! It's been a while since I've done one of these.

This is from my AU where Palps is dead and the Batch and about to discover the inhibitor chips. I'm not going to even pretend this is a line, it's a whole conversation because I had do much fun writing the banter.

Obi Wan was surprised to hear numerous voices coming from inside his quarters. “Wait, wait, wait. Hang on.” a cacophony of noise came out of a comm Cody was holding, “Wait…Tech…hang on I just…” Cody threw an apologetic look over his shoulder at Obi Wan and quickly turned back to the comm. “Tech…Tech…TECH…” Tech still rambled on, completely impervious to the Commander’s interjections. “HUNTER!” Cody yelled into the comm. There was a brief lull and a fumbling noise and static as the Comm changed hands. The tattooed face of the Sergeant Obi Wan had only met once in passing flew in front of the comm. “Sorry, Codes. It’s hard to get him to stop when he gets going.” Obi Wan heard a rather scathing retort from Tech in the background and moved closer to the chaos erupting out of the comm. “Oh, Hello General.” Hunter said formerly, saluting with his free hand. “At ease, Sergeant. We are no longer at war.” “Ah…yes sir…” “Wait…why is the General in your barracks, Codes?” Wrecker’s voice called presumably from across the room given the quieter volume. “It’s actually the General’s Quarters, Wrecker.” Cody replied, ignoring the implied question. “Don’t you read the holonet?” Tech said, exasperatedly. “Nothing on there’s worth reading.” Wrecker said dismissively. “The General and Cody are…” Tech seemed to falter when it came to describing exactly what they were and Obi Wan smirked as he waited for the appropriate response from the specialist. “Hunter?” Tech said asking for help. “They’re seeing each other, you idiot.” Crosshair interjected snidely. “You mean…” Wrecker started confused. “They’re in a relationship, Wreck. Don’t blow a gasket.” Hunter said calmly. “We can do that?” Wrecker asked in surprise. Obi Wan covered his mouth to stave off his laughter. Cody rolled his eyes and mouthed “I’m sorry” as the Jedi continued to chuckle. “Why, did you have someone in mind?” Echo asked curiously. “Well, I didn’t know Jedi were an option. That’s got to be interesting, right?” “Why don’t you ask Cody,” Crosshair said with a smirk. “Very interesting, actually.” Cody said with a smile, holding the holo out further so the group could see he and Obi Wan standing together, the Jedi’s arm pulling gently at his waist. “And technically we’re not supposed to be an option.” Obi Wan said with a smile. “But the Commander can certainly be persuasive.” “You fell for me first, Obi Wan.” Cody said with a chuckle. “You came onto me first, if I recall, Cody.” They stood grinning at each other, completely forgetting the cluster of men on the other end of the line. Hunter cleared his throat, an amused eyebrow raised, “Do you two need a minute?”

NPT for @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @indigofyrebird @clonethirstingisreal @dangraccoon

#codywan #tbb crosshair #tbb hunter #the bad batch #TBB AU #tbb wrecker #tbb tech #tbb echo #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #tag game

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isogenderskitty · 1 year ago

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i think it's interesting how steph is like... the nerds see her as part of the popular group, and sure we see her talking to the cheerleaders a little, but other than that she doesn't really seem to be one of them in the truest sense? i could fully believe that she feels like the tiniest bit of an outcast there, like she's just cool enough for max to give her a pass but she doesn't really click with them that well. she feels to me like the bridge between the popular ones and the nerds, which is appropriate i suppose for her place in the story.

#idk i just keep turning this feeling around in my brain #that she doesn't Quite feel like she's actually proper friends with that lot #in my mind steph is pretty lonely before she starts talking to pete and by proxy the other nerds #like... i feel like the cheerleaders are friendly with her but they don't really Get each other #or enjoy each other's company That much #maybe even on their side there's some slight intimidation factor of her being the mayor's daughter and it's still a bit isolating #poor girl :(#but it's ok now she has real friends :]#... well. at least one. i honestly can't tell if pete and steph would even hang out with grace after everything #even ignoring The Ending And What That Implies #even if that didn't happen #i still don't think??? they would be besties with her #which is interesting for like. yknow. the main protag group who's been through everything together #npmd #nerdy prudes must die #hatchetfield #stephanie lauter

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optimistic-autistic · 2 months ago

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nothing so aggravating as seeing people claim what Hades did was just a misunderstanding because he ''loved Persephone too much''. like i don't know about you, but it's pretty hard for that to turn into building a town based on slavery and later getting a girl and assaulting her (even if it's just implied, he still at least had to pretend to do something like it, because his goal was to make Persephone mad).

#blah blah gods can't really be expected to have human morality whatever #he's still a shit person #and i'd say it's not really implied even #it straight up happened. there are still so many innuendos in the show even if it was wayyy heavier pre broadway #the gods in general are complicated in their morals #hades built his town because by now he probably just sees mortals as expendable #that is probably true of all the gods inluding persephone #idk. like of course hades can be soft with seph and everything after the story. that is probably true and not really contradictory of canon #but i just can't bring myself to ignore everything else. what he does with the workers? how seph even agreed to stay with him after what he #did to eury?#they both probably don't even see mortals as full people. as much as seph cares about the world and the people in it she's still not immune #to that mindset either. hell she still charges the workers for the binocular machine. she profits off their suffering DIRECTLY #she's very hypocritical and it feels realistic to someone in her position #i can't really blame her for much because i can imagine how horrible she's had it #but at the end of the day she's still very privileged and not very aware of it #hadestown #esparrago post #sorry for my long ass rant i will shut up now #sa mention

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skitskatdacat63 · 8 months ago

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#lol i love seeing just straight up bullying on tiktok(/s)#someone(im guessing) went into a discord server for proshipping #and then posted their face reveals on tiktok!?!??!?!#basically saying: look how ugly and weird they look #like what the fuck #just bcs you dont agree with someones opinion ON SHIPPING #doesnt mean you should blast them on socmed?#they posted those pics in a trusted space :(#why are people so cruel and vindictive nowadays #people who make it their whole personalities to shit on pros OR antis are so embarrassing #just keep to yourself and keep your personal moral highground you know?#like they go low we go higher etc #cause on tiktok people will post very bait proshipper tiktoks #to the point where i honestly think they're 100% antis who just wanna sow discourse and disgust #like when i see those people im like just ignore them???#just dont engage man. you end up encouraging people to do worse and worse just to cause drama #but yeah antis in return will make all their posts 'correcting' these obv bait posts #like both of you get a life and just do things that make you happy. not things that obv upset you #idk it kinda sickens me how much time people devote to activities that clearly doesn't make them happy #even if youre pleased about dunking on people you morally disagree w +#wouldnt you feel happier engaging with content that yknow. fills you with genuine enjoyment?#not enjoyment fueled by disgust or morally superiority #idk some people feel like children so i shouldnt care too deeply. but the amnt of toxic behavior is so disturbing to me #the posting of faces got on my nerves badly. no matter if you disagree with someone #you shouldnt just straight up expose their face on your big acct BECAUSE OF DIFFERENCES IN SHIPPING OPINION #and the fact that the point is to imply they're all ugly. so fucking childish and disgusting #i reported but idk if that'd do anything. i wish i could have an honest dialog w people like that tbh #catie.rambling.txt

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rainybraindays · 5 months ago

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once again do not get why people act like Anthony is such a good brother

#rainy talks #I'm not gonna tag this but like #Anthony is pretty consistently a bad brother #he's so obsessive during Daphnes season that he stops her from having any suitors and then picks one with no consultation with her #he's generally a dick to Colin #like when Kate go injured and he came in trying to pick a fight; when no one bit he decided to target colin #who ends up having to be defended by Benedict and Eloise because he doesn't fght back which implies this isn't uncommon #and then in turn he turns on eloise #and also the way he generally ignores Colin; like even before his travels because what do you mean he was courting an got engaged to Marina #and you didn't expect it at *all*?? hes your brother??#and then his reaction to that; and how shocked Colin is at the apology implying that usually he does these things with mo apology #he absolutely decimated Benedicts confidence by sticking his nose in where it didn't beling #he ignores both eloise and Francesca #like almost as much as he ignores colin #really hes a good brother to Gregory and theoretically hyacinth #medicore brother to ben #and then shit to the others

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my-current-obsession · 2 years ago

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Me, delusional, foaming at the mouth:

ISH ROUTE??? POTENTIAL ISH ROUTE? PLEASE?

#even if tempest #otome #just saying his love for norna is kind of what made him turn evil #so anastasia SAVING him and redeeming him through love would be A+++#and the game even implied it would/should happen! she literally told norna to leave ish to her #and then just... ignored him in purgatory to pursue her own happy ending #so we were ROBBED and deserve a proper route with him (and not just a Q&A session)#if nothing else i hope he's got a big role again because i want to see and hear more of him #tetsuya kakihara did GREAT work with him. i'm most familiar with fran from code realize #but holy shit he popped off in this role. there's just an energy to it - sometimes malevolent sometimes playful #and i just WANT MORE. ideally he gets a route but failing that make him a prominent character regardless #for the record i'm ALWAYS greedy for more love interests in any game #(in this game alone i also desperately want routes for maya and hugo for instance)#but he's one of a small handful who truly seems like he SHOULD have been and just. wasn't.#so until the FD comes out and shatters my dreams i'll hold onto hope

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omarwolaeth · 1 year ago

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Thinking about how souls canonically do exist in universe, and how that might correlate to seeing different people as one in the same, all because their souls are identical (pieces of a whole)

#marwospeaking #arc v #I imagine. in a world where souls are most definitely a thing. that you use to communicate with the spirits accessible by cards..#.. and its a phenomenon big enough to base your whole self in them. some call some particular cards Their Soul. even people..#.. who have zero idea about the soul stuff in duelling partake in said stuff without realising because it's that socially ingrained - to th #.. you can kind of get a read of someone's soul. and can probably recognise people that way in time. or a duel.#Unfortunately the Yuboys and bracelet girls have identical souls (within their groups)..#.. and therefore would be easier to mistake as just Yuuya wanting to dress differently and. in true Yuuya fashion. is in costume about it #Their faces are identical. but for Eyes Are The Window To The Soul reasons. they're Too Identical To Be Different People for most people #Yuuto's face was what had Shingo and Yuzu thinking he was Yuuya. A part of his face is his eyes; so in that sort of world it's plausible #Arc v would've been better had it had at least one person who was face blind I think. Minor improvement but definitely funny #also horrifying if even this hypothetical character couldn't tell the difference between any of them #Because that would imply something about how splitting a person works #tldr. they all have Zarc's or Ray's soul in a world where the soul is a confirmed thing that exists and is used in..#.. day-to-day social encounters even if it's not acknowledged by most people. and therefore that might help in why they're very..#.. different but identical.#This is wholly a me thing but. if someone from a world with no confirmed soul existence ends up in a place that does..#(say Zarc getting murked made it really easy to slip out of one reality into another because Oh Boy that's four unstable dimensions..#.. fresh out the oven type of dimensions.) then does that person a) stay without a soul and. a1) dies or. a2) survives..#.. or do they b) suddenly have a soul and is that. b1) grown (painfully or not) as time passes or. b2) fully formed immediately? ..#.. because you need a soul for duelling reasons. so your monsters can respond to you (heart of the cards). at least in universe.#I'm asking that primarily because it actually has implications on how isekai work on a more subtle piece of worldbuilding that gets ignored #but to be fair I don't think you'd think 'oh can this character even duel because they got isekai'd'. because it's ygo and They Gotta #... honestly that's a post of its own but it was a related thing so I think it's fine to have here

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fionnaskyborn · 1 year ago

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one day when i am not busy dying on the inside and out i will write an honest-to-god essay about how people are, for the lack of a better descriptor but simultaneously for the lack of a more perfect one, too edgy about five.

#like yeah five is an edgy game and the darkest in the series and gloomier than all of its predecessors but. i lack the words for it now but #there are important little moments in five where light shines through the carpet haphazardly thrown over a pile of garbage that oft get #ignored in favor of pushing the agenda that everyone in five is filth down to the core and that's just not true #i just- deeeeeeep sigh. people are so shallow sometimes man #this is how we get those characters that do not resemble the original in the slightest that either take one trait of the given character an #then bloat and exagerrate it until the character is a caricature of themselves OR projections of what the people would like these character #to BE in order to... be able to wrap their heads around them and their motivations more easily‚ i guess??#i don't know it feels to me like people just don't want to bother with the intricacies of complex characters and that's how the wood plank #versions of characters get created and then passed around ad infinitum #sweet grouchy baby boy who never did anything wrong ever. man who is either an innocent little big guy or satan himself. guy who is #objectively one of the most flawed individuals in the series being worshipped as a hero (griffith syndrome). guy who is either depicted as #an obnoxious playboy who only cares about getting laid and having as much skin exposed as possible at all times or the most vile man on #planet earth while being neither. the fucking. masochist cyborg thing. i'm gonna explode #oh and if you point out that there needs to be depth to any analysis of these characters if you are to do them justice you end up with a #gaggle of people saying oh yeah of course everyone in here is awful and they all have pig hearts #and i'm just wondering why this is the default conclusion most come to and not‚ you know‚ the thought that complexity does not inherently #imply rottenness but rather that even in the most horrible of situations you can find something good #i'm not the happiest or the most fortunate of individuals but i still refuse to believe in the idea of inherent evil that's being sold for #cheaper than a copy paper pack these days #but that has nothing to do with this my point is if you're trying to do media analysis you've got to look beyond... i don't have a word for #this... i guess you could call them fanmade stereotypes? no that's not it‚ my point is that people need to open their eyes to how complex #motivations and circumstances and human connection are and face that complexity head on instead of rubbing the story with sandpaper until #it's satisfiable to them #logs

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kxllerblond · 1 year ago

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spends my last hour ranting about how the cod fandom replaces the only black dude on the team with some mULTIPLAYER CHARACTER not even in the main game. an hour well spent tbh

#also how they father/son duo lock his main would-be ship #despite it being just about a 1:1 to the fandom popular romantic ship banter wise etc #and the age differences between the two ships not even being that different #HMMMMM WONDER WHY WONDER WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE DIFFERENT #that they are both ignoring a character and implying he's too bABY or whatever to be shipped with any of the others HMMM #im thinking it starts with a r and ends with an acism #like brother he is a 26 or so year old man and he fucks ok /sorry/. he can be more than the shallow son figure to the 37 yr old yall reduce #him to. like broooothhhhheeeeeerrrr #having this man have raunchy nasty military man sex in my head out of SPITE tbh #anyway gn im off at 430 tomorrow :(#cw negativity

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saintrosalyn · 5 months ago

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JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained.

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor.

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left.

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge.

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off.

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator.

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room.

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you?

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him.

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life.

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon.

Freedom.

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing.

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours.

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat.

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient.

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet.

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow.

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.”

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you.

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either.

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs.

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone.

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it.

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard.

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours.

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #ghost x you #ghost #simon ghost riley #reader is delulu in this

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pencil-n-pen · 3 months ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can��t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.��

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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ventbloglite · 8 months ago

Text

I think we need to sit down and talk about malgendering.

Not misgendering, malgendering.

We all know what misgendering means. Misgendering is when a trans person (or to be honest, even a cis person) has their gender denied to them in some fashion by implying, suggesting or outright stating that their gender is actually Something Else and not the one they identify as.

e.g. A trans woman being told she cannot attend a certain class because it's 'just for women'.

Malgendering is when the trans persons gender is not questioned or denied and may even be affirmed - but only in a context in which it can be used against them in some fashion (to make judgements on them as a person, to exclude them from something, to incite bigotry towards them etc).

e.g. That same trans woman taking her shirt off on a hot day and being arrested for indecent exposure.

This is misgendering;- "You're not a woman, you're a man." This is malgendering;- "Trans women are women, so obviously they exist to serve men."* *obvs it is also transmisogyny and all malgendering is transphobia.

But what you don't want to hear is that malgendering is a form of transphobia mainly used against trans masculine people and nonbinary people.

Most people recognise malgendering when it's;

Using the term 'theyfab' to ridicule an agender person or making jokes about how an agender they/them user looks (to you) to be a completely cis woman.

But you need to look out for how;

Malgendering is treating trans men like their transition has turned them into women-hating predators because of your own predjudices towards men/trans man were always inherently women-hating predators because maleness is what makes you those things not your actual thoughts, words and actions.

Malgendering is not listening to how trans masc people are marginalised 'because men aren't oppressed though' as if that's not ignoring a huge part of their identity (the being trans part) and how that works.

Malgendering is telling trans men 'this is just what it's like to be a man, people treat you like shit and you have to take it or not transition'.

Malgendering is insisting that any trans man who calls any attention to the fact that he is indeed, trans, and has/had female anatomy and faces misogyny due to being raised and still perceived (by transphobes) as a woman is misgendering himself, all other trans men and 'weaponising his AFABness'

All of this is transphobia. All of this is bigotry. This kind of predjudice and bullying doesn't magically become 'OK' once you find the 'right' group to do it to. You either want to end bigotry and transphobia and identity-specific targetted hate or you want to perpetuate it. But you can't call yourself a trans ally, or escape the bigotry allegations whilst malgendering people. And no you're not being sneaky by slipping in your hateful predjudice comments and actions whilst validating their gender.

Malgendering is transphobia.

#transandrophobia #trans #trans*#transgender #transmisogny #malgendering

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butyoudidthis4what · 8 days ago

Text

No Man's Land

Jack Abbot x f!Reader

5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.

Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.

“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana.

She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we’re talking about Jack Abbot.”

“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible.

“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him.

Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”

Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore.

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”

Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.”

“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you.

“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways.

“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Saturday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.

“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.

“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.

“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”

Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”

“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?”

It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Saturday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”

“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”

Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.

“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”

“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”

“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him.

Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.”

You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.

“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest.

“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.”

“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple.

“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much.

“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp.

“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion.

He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you.

“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.”

Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”

“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”

“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.”

Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you.

“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away.

“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”

It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fucking happening to him again. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack.

“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.”

“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm.

“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him.

“I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder.

He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”

You bite your lip and smile at him.

“What?” He eyes you with suspicion.

You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”

He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”

“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack spins around.

“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack.

“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler.

He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.

“Jack-”

“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED.

Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby.

Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him.

She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse.

“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim.

Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”

Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you.

Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him.

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do.

He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole.

Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye?

“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”

He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?

“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby.

There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby.

“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”

“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled.

“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street.

He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.

“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”

He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.

The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening.

It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones.

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.

He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.

“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”

He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.

“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary.

The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel.

“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object.

You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”

“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling, but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious.

You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee.

“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way.

“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says.

‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page.

You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”

He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”

You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him.

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily.

“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”

You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”

It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own.

“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in.

“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”

“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He’d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.

Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.

“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable.

“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself.

“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands.

It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you.

You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once.

Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you.

“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit.

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be.

He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”

You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”

You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.

It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did.

On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.

You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.

You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise.

You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood.

It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.

Time. You were supposed to have more time together.

“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.

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