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certaimromance · 1 month ago

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𝜗𝜚 The Other Ghost Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

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Summary: When you start avoiding Spencer in the hallway, he thinks it's the end. But maybe your cat can prove him wrong.

Words: 7,1k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of anxiety attacks. angst. hurt/comfort. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I'm so sensitive because THIS IS THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER, and I can't believe it yet😭, but I hope I can post you the end of the series this week along with a couple of extras. I have an oral exam on Thursday (I'm a law student getting crazy), and after that I'll be more free.

Spencer Reid had grown used to the people he loved disappearing just when he needed them most. Always right after he’d let his guard down, when trust came naturally, and when things finally felt safe. That was when they left. Always.

But you don't.

It was a pattern he had identified throughout his life but stopped with you. Because you never left him.

You didn’t walk away the first time he told you about his work, when chilling details of old cases slipped out mid-sentence because his nerves got the better of him. You didn’t flinch when he recited gruesome facts with clinical precision, not realizing how heavy they sounded in a quiet kitchen at night. You didn’t leave the first time he launched into one of his long-winded explanations, full of theories and statistics you couldn’t quite follow but listened to anyway, because it mattered to him. You didn’t leave when he had to cancel dinner—for the third, fourth, fiftieth time—because the job called, because someone out there needed saving more urgently than he needed a warm meal or a quiet night with you. You stayed when he stood in your door with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, crying for the first time as he told you about the parts of himself that made him feel broken. You stayed when he talked about his mother—her illness, her mind unraveling—and the helplessness he carried like a second skin. You didn’t leave, not even when he tried to push you away, when the fear of being loved and then left again made him cold and distant, when he tried to make you angry enough to walk out.

You stayed. Every time.

And yet, he didn’t love you simply because you were the only one who stayed. Spencer loved you for you.

For the way you were always willing to help others without hesitation, stepping into people’s pain like it was your nature to offer comfort. For how you could take the dullest palette—whether a room, a canvas, or a person—and breathe something vibrant into it, as you had quietly and irrevocably done with him. For the way your heart held space for everyone, no matter how broken or distant they were. For how gently you loved your cat, speaking to her like she was family.

And of course, for how you had fallen asleep on the couch this night, curled under a blanket beside his godson’s bed, trying to soothe his fevered restlessness. Spencer had found you there, half-lit by the dim nightlight in the room, your features softened in sleep, your hand still resting near the child’s arm like a silent guardian. You looked so peaceful, so entirely present even in rest, and it had struck him then—undeniably and with a quiet ache—how beautiful you were.

God, the smile on his face and the way his eyes sparkled at the image were impossible to ignore.

“Let her sleep a little longer,” JJ said softly at his side, her voice warm and quiet now that she was seeing Henry resting. Her eyes flicked to the couch where you lay curled up, the soft rise and fall of your breathing matching her son’s. A small smile touched her lips. “They look so peaceful, don’t they?”

He nodded, his gaze still lingering on you with a mix of relief and something softer, something like admiration. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “They really do.”

After a moment of quiet watching, they both stepped softly into the living room, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as the first light of dawn seeped gently through the curtains. The room felt warm and lived-in, wrapped in the hush that comes just before the world fully wakes. Spencer lowered himself into the familiar armchair with a slow, measured breath, a strange calm settling into his chest, like something held tightly for too long had finally begun to loosen. Across from him, Jennifer eased onto the couch, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, studying his face and every subtle shift in his body, the way only someone who truly knew him could. Like a profiler, yes—but more than that, like a friend who already sensed his change.

“Now we can talk,” she said gently, folding her hands in her lap as she leaned back into the couch.

Spencer frowned, his brow furrowing as his gaze dropped briefly to his hands. “About what?” he asked, with his voice low and cautious.

JJ tilted her head slightly, her eyes warm but perceptive. “About you,” she said softly.

He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable beneath the weight of the question. “What about me?”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You look…happy, more relaxed than the last time I saw you.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, or at least not at first. They caught somewhere in his throat, tangled in the mess of thoughts that always seemed to surface when he least wanted them to. His mind, unbidden, drifted back to you. To the quiet, undeniable way you had started to change things in him.

Because the last time his friend had seen him—just three days ago at his firearm requalification—he had been a different version of himself. More haunted. His eyes had been distant, unfocused, like he was staring through paper targets and into something he couldn’t quite name. He had lingered in the office afterward, pretending to be busy, shuffling files that didn’t need sorting, letting the clock drag so he could avoid returning to his apartment. Because going home meant walking past your door. It meant risking the possibility of seeing you in the hallway, of catching your eye and feeling like a soulless person.

But now, everything felt different. He had released those fears and allowed himself to be close to you again. Closer than he’d been in a long time, if he was being truly honest. And even though it had only been a few hours in your presence, something about being near you had already begun to dull the sharp edges of his worries, like a soothing balm on old wounds. For the first time in a while, he felt…almost numb to the weight he’d been carrying.

“I’m trying,” Spencer finally said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Trying?” JJ echoed, leaning in a little, her eyes soft but insistent. “Come on, Spence, give me the real story.”

His cheeks flushed a gentle shade of pink, and his voice softened, almost shy. “Something good happened,” he admitted quietly, like sharing a fragile secret. “She knows how I feel…and, well, it’s mutual.”

A full smile bloomed on JJ’s face, sincere and full of relief. “I always knew it,” she murmured, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm, grounding him in the moment. “I’m really happy for you two.”

He smiled too. But then it faded, like the flicker of a candle disturbed by a sudden draft. He looked down again, shoulders contracted and his friend's full attention on him.

“But…?”

“She doesn’t know everything yet.” Spencer said it as if it physically pained him to do so.

JJ didn't speak right away. Her fingers intertwined again in her lap as she watched him, calm and steady without trying to get too much in the way. But the slight wrinkle between her brows said it all and more.

“Then she knows how you feel about her,” JJ said carefully, “but not everything that happened while you were gone?”

He nodded once. “No.”

The silence hung, but not heavily. Not accusingly. Just waiting for the voice of reason.

“You’re supposed to be honest if you want to build something real with someone, Spence,” she said gently. “You want that, don’t you? Something real?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted toward the soft spill of morning light seeping through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the living room floor.

He thought about the mornings when the scent of coffee lingered in the kitchen and your sleepy smile was the first thing he saw, framed by sunlight and messy hair. The quiet afternoons spent doing nothing and everything, folding laundry side by side, sharing half-finished books, the soft sound of your laughter carrying through his apartment. The nights when he came home late, tired and worn, and found you curled on the couch with a blanket ready for him, the lamp still on because you were waiting. Always waiting. How lovely it had become to return to that—to you—even in the middle of the night, when the world felt heavy on his shoulders. How grounding it was to know that when the sky turned gray with dawn, you’d be there, soft and warm, pulling him close like home was something he could hold forever.

That thought alone made his chest ache.

“I just want to do this right,” he said quietly, his voice nearly lost to the stillness of the room.

“Then be honest.” JJ leaned forward, her voice dropping even softer, almost like a secret. “Don’t keep shielding her from your past like it’s something she’s not strong enough to see.”

Spencer finally nodded, the movement slow and heavy, like it took effort just to admit the truth to himself. Her words settled deep in his chest, sinking into the hollow space he always felt when he thought of you: the ache of not being fully known and the fear of losing you if he ever was. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the skin stretched tight over his knuckles, trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. It wasn’t just guilt. It was longing. Desperation. The quiet, aching hope that maybe honesty could still be enough.

“I want to be honest,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with something like resolve. “But it’s hard. I’m afraid—”

“Afraid she won’t understand,” JJ finished gently, her eyes never leaving his. “Afraid she’ll walk away.”

He met her gaze, vulnerability raw in his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll lose her.”

“Then don’t wait,” she said softly. “Be the man you want her to see, and that will be okay.”

A long breath escaped him. Somewhere deep inside, a flicker of hope stirred, fragile but undeniable.

Maybe he just needed to find the right moment to tell you everything.

It was hard, especially because it was all his fault, being locked in his apartment knowing that you were next door wishing with all your might to never see him again. It was hard, it was painful, and it was so frustrating. It felt worse than anything that had happened to him before, worse even than any of the abandonments he had suffered earlier in his life, because this time, he himself had caused you to leave.

His own home had lost its warmth and familiarity, feeling hollow and foreign without you there. Two weeks had passed since you left, but the absence hung heavy in every corner. Your scent, the faintest trace of it, clung stubbornly to the air, though he fought against admitting it was fading. The candles you used to light, their soft glow once comforting, now sat nearly burned down to stubs, consumed by the many times he’d lit them. His favorite mug, the one you always used, remained untouched and perched in the exact same spot on the kitchen cabinet, making fun of his misery. Even Mittens, your beloved cat who once curled up at his feet without hesitation, had stopped coming by so often. It was as if even she sensed the distance between you two, as if she, too, was quietly mourning the rift his mistakes had created.

Because he never found the right time.

Every night since the last time you’d spoken to him, Spencer found himself haunted by the quiet of his apartment: an unbearable, echoing silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour. Without fail, he wandered aimlessly from room to room, his fingertips grazing the places your presence still lingered.

He’d run his hands along the worn armrest of the sofa where you’d fallen asleep countless times, your head resting against a pillow you’d claimed as yours. His eyes would linger on the small stack of books you’d half-finished, your place still marked by a folded receipt or a pressed flower. He hadn’t moved them. Couldn’t. The floral-embroidered blanket remained crumpled over the armchair, untouched since the day you left. The sight of it was like a punch to the chest. He could still remember how it looked draped over your shoulders, how it smelled faintly of your perfume. Because every inch of the space was saturated with you.

And from time to time, when the silence grew too loud and unbearable, Spencer would reach for the old records you used to play, the ones you’d eagerly recommended, full of warmth and nostalgia. He’d set them spinning on the turntable, letting the familiar crackle and soft melodies seep into the empty spaces of the apartment. But no matter how beautiful the songs were, they could never quite reach past the weight pressing down on his chest. The notes floated through the air like ghosts, brushing against memories instead of skin.

Even sometimes, in moments of weakness, he’d find himself picking up his phone without thinking, scrolling through your messages, staring at your name as if willing it to light up with something. Anything. Even a cold, angry “I hate you” would’ve been better than the aching silence. Or maybe a mistake, an accidental call you didn’t mean to make but hadn’t stopped because you missed him, too.

But the screen stayed still. Black. Lifeless.

A blank reflection of your absence.

And every time it didn’t ring, it was like losing you all over again.

Because he never found the right time.

With each memory dug deep into his ribs like glass, aching with the kind of pain that made him want to scream. But he never did.

Not even once. Not even after the first time he really saw you since that morning in his car.

When Spencer stepped out of his apartment at just the wrong moment, he found himself caught off guard. Across the hall, your door creaked open after two long days of silence, two days where you hadn’t even ventured out except to grab your food delivery. Time seemed to slow as he spotted you emerging, hair still damp from a recent shower, loose strands clinging softly to your face. Your skin was bare, save for the faintest touch of makeup that usually framed your features so gently, now barely there. You wore your favorite worn-in clothes—the ones you always claimed were your “comfy armor”—soft, faded, and unmistakably you.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But his mouth remained closed, his voice buried under the guilt and the sharp pain of watching you from afar. He needed to come closer, to say how sorry he was and beg for forgiveness until maybe you would understand.

But now you weren’t alone. Your best friend stood beside you, chatting softly, her eyes flicking knowingly toward him. She gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, an unmistakable signal that he was there. Her presence made you seem even smaller, as if she were your shield, silently guarding you. The way she looked at him made it clear in an instant: she already knew everything. Because you had cried to her. Trusted her. She had picked up the pieces while he stood in the wreckage, unsure of how to fix what he’d broken.

You didn’t look at him.

Not even once.

Your gaze remained firmly ahead, like you’d trained yourself not to see him, like acknowledging him might unravel the hard-won peace you were barely holding onto. You didn’t rush, didn’t flinch, but you might as well have been walking past a stranger.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. You never turned around.

But your friend did.

Just before the doors closed, she looked at him one last time: stern, protective, almost telling him it wasn't time.

Because he never found the right time.

And then the elevator was gone with all his happiness because you, finally, were avoiding him in the hallway.

“I’m just asking for the sake of asking,” Spencer lied, the words barely convincing even to his own ears. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers threading through tangled thoughts, trying to smooth down the frustration that had built up again.

It was the third—no, fourth—time this week that he’d called his friend and boss, not to catch up, not to check in, but to ask the same question he’d asked again and again, dressed up in different words. He needed to work. He needed to get out of his head and out of his apartment before he went completely mad. The isolation, the guilt, the endless, suffocating silence…it was all too much. He needed the chaos of the job, the clarity of having a purpose, of being needed by someone, by anyone.

On the other end of the line, Emily sighed, heavy and audible through the speaker. He could almost hear her setting aside the file she’d been reviewing, its papers rustling softly like leaves in the wind.

“I want to have you back,” she said, her voice low but honest, carrying that familiar note of empathy only Emily could pull off while still sounding like a boss. “We all do. But I still don’t have an official answer yet.”

He knew what was coming before she even reached for it.

“I’ve been reviewing the return files,” she continued, flipping through something on her desk. “According to this report, you’re still missing your full psychological clearance.”

Spencer froze, jaw tightening.

Of course. The exam. The one he’d sat through half-awake, unshaven, raw with heartache, and haunted by too much truth. He had been too honest. Too transparent about how hollow he felt, how guilt clung to every inch of his skin like a second layer. He’d spoken as if he were still bleeding, and maybe he was. It hadn’t occurred to him then that honesty could work against him. He just needed to say the truth at least one time.

“I understand,” he muttered. “Maybe I should…do it again.”

“Again?” Emily asked, confused, before the implication landed. She went quiet for a beat. “Spencer…”

There was no judgment in her tone, just concern. And maybe a little sadness.

“I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready. You know that, right? You don’t have to prove anything, we can wait for you.”

“I’m ready,” he insisted, though even he heard the crack of uncertainty threading through his voice. “I need to be back.”

Emily didn’t reply right away. He imagined her studying his file, weighing the truth in his voice against the data on paper.

Finally, she exhaled. “Okay. If you say so…maybe I can talk to the Bureau psych team. Try to arrange something. A follow-up exam, maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”

Relief surged in his chest like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “But Spencer?”

“Hm?”

Her voice softened, the way it always did when she was threading careful empathy between her words. “JJ mentioned something…and if you need to talk—”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Loud and frantic. His head whipped toward the front door of his place. The knocking came again, sharper this time, rapid like whoever was on the other side couldn’t afford to wait another second.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Someone’s at the door. I should check—”

“Of course,” Emily said at once. “Take care of it. And…take care of yourself.”

He ended the call and rose to his feet, heart already hammering again. Something about the knock, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t someone delivering a package or a neighbor with a complaint. It was desperate, and that made his heart beat faster and imagine the worst scenarios.

And when he finally reached the door and opened it, what he saw on the other side stopped him in his tracks. It was bad, very bad.

You. Breathless. Eyes glassy with tears. And barely able to speak.

He was in shock, seeing you after an entire week apart. Seven long, aching days where he’d tried to convince himself that the idea of you showing up at his doorstep again was impossible. That whatever bridge had once connected the two of you had finally burned, quietly and without ceremony.

You stood there, framed by the dull glow of the hallway light, hair messy from what looked like hours of pacing or tossing in bed, and your eyes red-rimmed and glistening with fresh tears. You weren’t dressed to be out long; just slippers, soft sleep pants, and one of your worn-in shirts. The one you used to wear curled up beside him on his couch. The sight of it made Spencer’s stomach twist and made his fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked instantly, his voice edged with panic as his eyes swept over you in a frantic scan, checking for blood, bruises, any sign of harm. His heart was already racing, thundering in his chest as his mind jumped to the worst-case scenarios. He stepped forward slightly, instinctively, as if ready to catch you should you collapse right there in the doorway.

But you shook your head quickly, breath stuttering. “Have you seen Mittens?” you asked, your voice cracking like it physically hurt to speak. “Tell me she’s with you.”

“No,” Spencer said, panic creeping into his own voice as he quickly scanned the hallway behind you, as if she might magically appear. “No, I—I haven’t seen her in a while. A couple of days maybe.”

“No?” you whispered again, like you couldn’t believe it, like the word itself might shatter you. Your shoulders shook as another tear slipped down your cheek, and you clutched your arms around yourself like you were barely holding together.

“She loves you,” you went on, the words tumbling out in a rush. “She always runs to your door. She likes your books and your blankets, and she sleeps on your couch sometimes when I’m gone. She feels safe with you.” You looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please…please, tell me she’s with you.”

But she wasn’t.

And for a moment, Spencer wished more than anything that he could lie. That he could tell you what you needed to hear, just to take that pain off your face.

“Please.” You whispered, trying to calm the trembling of your hands. “Please tell me she is with you.”

He stepped forward instinctively, hands lifting halfway like he meant to take your shoulders to steady you, but stopped just shy of touching you, as if he wasn’t sure he still had the right.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” he said softly, his voice low and careful like he was trying not to scare you off. “Breathe. You’re shaking.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate to ease some of the panic etched across your face.

“Come inside, okay?” he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for you. “Sit down. Tell me everything, and I’ll help you. I swear I will.”

His tone held no hesitation, only quiet urgency: the kind of calm he used at crime scenes, the kind he only used when everything was falling apart and someone needed to hold it all together. Only this time, it wasn’t a stranger. It was you. And God, it wrecked him to see you like this.

You hesitated, but the weight of it all—the panic, the grief, the bone-deep exhaustion—was too much. Your knees were already starting to give, so you let him guide you in. The moment you stepped across the threshold, a familiar ache hit Spencer in the chest. You hadn’t been here in weeks, since that night you two kissed, and still it felt like you belonged more than he did.

You sat on the edge of the couch like the floor might give way beneath your feet if you leaned back too far, your whole frame tense and folded inward. Your hands wouldn’t stop moving, as if they were trying to keep your heart from spilling out of your chest.

“She’s gone,” you whispered, the words barely making it past your lips. Saying it out loud seemed to make it worse, like admitting it gave it more power. Your voice trembled, thin and raw. “I was staying at my best friend’s place for a few days, I couldn’t—”

You stopped yourself, but the silence that followed said more than your words could.

You couldn’t be in your own home because he was next door. And he knew it.

“I came back two nights ago, and she wasn’t there,” you went on, swallowing hard. “At first I thought she was hiding or maybe mad at me. That she was anxious or curled up somewhere weird like she does when she’s nervous. But I’ve looked. Everywhere. I’ve torn the whole apartment apart. I checked the windows, the closets, under the bed, and behind my paintings. I’ve walked the hallways and talked with our neighbors—”

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, eyes filling again.

“She’s just…gone.”

Spencer’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He knew exactly what Mittens meant to you. She wasn’t just a pet, not by a long shot. She was your comfort on sleepless nights, the quiet, steady presence that stayed when everything else felt too loud. You’d adopted her six years ago, during one of the darkest periods of your life, and from that moment on, she had been your anchor. She had curled up beside you through heartbreaks and anxiety attacks, padded softly after you through every apartment move, and greeted you at the door like you were the most important person in the world. She was your family. Your safest place. And the fear of losing her now, after everything, felt like the final thread pulling loose. He could see all of that in your eyes, and it made his chest ache.

He knelt in front of you, trying to meet your eyes. “Okay. Okay, listen to me. Cats, especially indoor cats…they get curious, they slip out through open windows, sneak down the hall, and hide in tiny spaces for hours. And sometimes they come back after two or three days like nothing happened.”

“But she’s never done this before,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “Never. She always waits at the door for me. Always.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice gentle and steady. “But it doesn’t mean something bad has happened. Cats are incredibly smart. Remember that study I told you about? A cat traveled over two hundred miles just to find its way back home. They navigate using scent and memory, it’s amazing how strong their instincts are.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, brushing your sleeve across your wet cheeks. “Please, not the migration theories right now…I can’t think,” you whispered, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

“I’m not trying to be clinical,” he said gently, his voice steady. “I just want you to hold onto hope.”

That was so him. Always trying to be your calm in the chaos.

Even when his own heart was breaking, even when you were the storm at his door, he’d steady his voice, soften his eyes, and make space for your pain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He suddenly stood and moved to grab his phone. “I’ll call Garcia. She can help us make flyers and maybe put together a post for local missing pet pages online. I’ll print them myself. We’ll check every vet and shelter within ten miles, I swear. We can even look into pet tracking services or security footage from nearby buildings if she slipped outside. Whatever it takes.”

You stared at him, trembling, overwhelmed, but grateful. “You’d…you’d do that for her?”

Spencer met your gaze, and for a second, you both just looked at each other, everything unspoken thick in the air. “I’d do it for you.”

Silence.

Then, with your voice barely a whisper, you said, “I’m sorry for showing up out of nowhere…I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your words hung in the air, fragile and trembling, like they were afraid to exist. You weren’t just apologizing for the timing; you were apologizing for the heartbreak between you, for the silence that had stretched too long, for all the things you hadn’t said but had felt every day since you’d drifted apart.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, his voice warm and sure. “You don’t have to apologize.”

And for the first time in weeks, as you let your forehead fall into your hands and your shoulders shook in silent relief, Spencer felt something shift, something he hadn’t let himself believe in for far too long. Maybe he could still be someone who mattered. Someone you could lean on when everything else felt too heavy. Maybe, in all the quiet unraveling of the last few months, someone still needed him. And God, he needed that more than he could ever say.

He moved quietly through the kitchen, his every motion careful and deliberate, like he was afraid that even the clink of a spoon might shatter what little calm was left in the room. His long fingers reached for your favorite mug: the one with the faded constellation print he’d memorized long ago. He cradled it gently, thumb brushing over a tiny chip near the rim, as if the act of holding something so familiar might anchor him, too.

He busied himself with the tea, pretending his hands weren’t trembling ever so slightly, pretending he didn’t keep glancing back at you. You were curled in on yourself on the couch, your shoulders drawn tight, your hands trembling softly in your lap like you were holding something fragile, your hope, maybe. Spencer’s heart ached at the sight. He wanted to say something, to reach for you, but instead he turned back to the kettle and let the silence stretch, trying, so desperately, to be the calm you needed when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Then, boom.

A sudden clap of thunder cracked the silence, and a second later, rain started tapping sharply against the windows. Not a light drizzle. Not a gentle mist. This was full, cold, heavy rain, washing over the street like it had something to prove.

Spencer paused, staring out the window at the downpour. And then he heard it: your breath catching behind him.

He turned just as you stood abruptly, already making for the door.

“No, no, no,” you said under your breath, panic spiking in your voice as you rushed toward your shoes, your arms fumbling into the sleeves of a hoodie that wasn’t even zipped. “She hates the rain, Spencer. She hates it. She’ll be terrified out there…what if she’s cold, or trapped, or trying to get back and—”

“Wait, hey,” he said quickly, abandoning the tea and moving toward you. “You can’t go out like that.”

“I have to!” You snapped, the fear laced in your voice so sharp it nearly broke him. “She’s alone. She’s out there, and it’s raining, and she doesn’t know how to be alone!”

“You’re in slippers and pajama pants,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not even zipped up. You’ll get sick. You’re shaking.”

You were already trying to pull open the front door, but he reached gently across and closed it with his palm, keeping it shut, not with force but with care. Your eyes flared with desperation, tears streaming freely again now, but you didn’t resist him. Not really. You just looked defeated.

“I can’t just sit here,” you whispered. “I’ll go insane. I keep thinking…what if she’s waiting for me to find her?”

“I know,” he said, softer this time, resting one hand lightly on the doorframe beside your head so you didn’t feel caged in. “I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked at him.

“I’ll get dressed, grab an umbrella and a flashlight, and I’ll drive,” he said, already mentally mapping out the search radius and already calculating the best routes and how many flyers they could distribute in the area in under an hour. “You can direct me to the places she might go: quiet spots, favorite windows, bushes where she hides. But you need to be warm. You need to stay safe too. I need you safe, okay?”

That last sentence slipped out before he could stop it, but he didn’t take it back. He meant it. You mattered to him. And he would search every alley, every corner of this city if it meant bringing Mittens home and easing that sorrow in your eyes.

Your lip trembled, and then, finally, you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Spencer squeezed your arm gently. “Go grab a coat and real shoes. I’ll bring the tea in a travel mug, and then we’ll go.”

And as you disappeared down the hallway toward his room, he turned back to the kettle, which had just started to hiss with steam. He poured the tea carefully, screwed the lid onto the mug, and looked out the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass in frantic lines.

He didn’t know where Mittens was yet.

But he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he wouldn’t stop searching until he brought her home to you.

The rain hammered relentlessly, a steady drum against the city’s darkened streets and the car’s thin windows. You’d searched every alley, every hidden nook you could think of, places where Mittens might have slipped away to hide. Your voice was raw from calling her name over and over, hoarse and cracked, fading into the night air with no reply. The cold crept into your bones, soaked through your damp coat, seeping into your sleeves and chilling your arms. Your pants clung uncomfortably to your legs, heavy and cold. Strands of your hair stuck to your forehead and cheeks, plastered down by the rain. Your fingers trembled, not just from the chill, but from the gnawing, desperate worry that tightened your chest like a vise.

Spencer sat quietly behind the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and you in the passenger seat, worry carved deep into his features. He wanted to say something, something to ease the storm inside you, but all he could do was keep driving, letting you search, hoping somehow you’d find her.

Hours seemed to stretch and blur until your voice finally broke through the silence, shaky and fragile. “Let’s go back.”

The words were barely a whisper, and you didn’t mean to sound like you were about to break, but the tremor in your voice gave you away. Spencer reached over, gently resting his hand on your arm. You flinched for just a moment, overwhelmed by exhaustion, but didn’t pull away.

When you arrived back at your apartment, the heaviness settled in like a physical weight. The air inside felt colder somehow, emptier than it had before you left. Spencer stood beside you, still dripping wet, umbrella forgotten by the door, curls matted and clinging to his forehead. You peeled off your coat with numb fingers, the fabric clinging to you, soaked through. Water pooled quietly on the floor beneath your feet as you moved toward the bathroom, your movements slow and heavy.

“I’m just going to dry off,” you muttered, voice hoarse.

Spencer nodded, his expression gentle. “I’ll put the kettle on again.”

You barely acknowledged him and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You were ready to strip off your wet clothes, to let the warm water wash away the cold and the worry, to let the tears fall freely, maybe to sob like you hadn’t been able to before.

But then, something.

A low, soft purr drifted through the stillness.

Your breath caught in your throat. The bathroom was dark, but in the dim shadows, movement caught your eye.

There, nestled inside the bathtub, curled into a perfect little ball of gray fur, was Mittens. She was wrapped in something soft and achingly familiar, one of Spencer’s sweaters. Maybe he’d left it behind during one of his quiet visits, or maybe you had taken it for yourself long before things between you began to fall apart. Either way, it still carried the faint, comforting scent of him—books and soap and warmth—and somehow, that was what your cat had chosen to curl up in.

For a moment, you just stared, breath hitching in disbelief. The ache in your chest loosened just a little. “Mittens, my baby…”

You sank slowly to the tile floor, the chill of it bleeding through your soaked clothes, but the cold didn’t matter. Not now. Your hands trembled as you reached out, barely daring to believe she was real. But then your fingers sank into the soft, familiar fluff of her fur, and you let out a sound that was equal parts relief and disbelief.

You gathered her gently into your arms, cradling her against your chest like something sacred, your cheek pressing into the warmth of her tiny body. She was damp but purring: loud, steady, and unbothered. Her eyes blinked up at you lazily, like she hadn’t just broken your heart by vanishing. Like this was all just a nap to her. As if she’d been waiting here the whole time, perfectly content, wrapped in the one thing that still smelled like home.

Her purring vibrated through your bones. You clutched her tighter, your body beginning to shake as the weight of the last few days hit you all at once.

“Oh my God…” you whispered, voice cracking. Tears spilled freely now, hot and sudden as relief and love overwhelmed you.

She was okay.

She. Was. Okay.

“Spencer!” you called, your voice cracking sharply through the apartment. It wasn’t loud, but it was urgent, raw with emotion, with disbelief, with the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Footsteps echoed almost immediately, fast and worried. Spencer appeared in the doorway a second later, breath catching as he took in the sight of you: soaked, kneeling on the bathroom floor, cradling Mittens in your arms like something fragile and precious. His eyes darted from you to the bundle of gray fur, then back to your tear-streaked face.

“She was here,” you whispered, voice shaking. “The whole time. In the tub. With your sweater.”

Spencer blinked, and for a moment, his mouth parted like he didn’t know what to say. Then a soft, stunned smile tugged at his lips, the kind that made your chest squeeze.

“Of course she was,” he murmured, stepping inside slowly, crouching beside you. His eyes were warm, soft with understanding. “She missed you.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “I tore this place apart,” you said, voice hoarse. “Twice. And she was just…here. Curled up like she never left.”

He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair gently from your face, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. “Cats hide in the places we forget to check. They go where they feel safe,” he said, his voice quiet.

“I feel like such an idiot,” you whispered.

“No,” Spencer murmured gently, his voice quiet but unwavering. “You’re not. You were scared. That doesn’t make you foolish.”

You exhaled shakily, your breath catching on the edge of another sob that didn’t quite make it out. Slowly, you sat back, your arms still wrapped protectively around Mittens. You looked up at him: eyes swollen, red-rimmed, but steady in the way that only comes when exhaustion has stripped away every layer of pretense.

“You can go now,” you said quietly. Your voice was soft, barely audible, but the words landed between you with surprising weight. “Thank you…for everything. Really. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, but didn’t push further. He just nodded once, slowly, like he understood that you were done for tonight. That anything more would only stretch the fragile thread you were barely holding onto.

He moved toward the door, his steps hesitant. One hand found the frame as he lingered there, half in shadow, half in light, like he wasn’t sure which side he belonged on anymore. His eyes stayed on you, something unreadable flickering in their depth.

After a long pause, his voice broke the silence.

“I know this isn’t the right moment,” he said. “Maybe it never will be. But I have to say this before I go.”

Because he never found the right time.

You stayed quiet, watching him through the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer continued, the words quiet but cutting through the air like glass. “I really am. For all of it.”

He exhaled slowly and met your gaze again, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “You were right. About me shutting you out, about pushing you away. If I’d let you in…if I’d let you be there with me, maybe things would be easier for me to bear.” He shook his head slightly, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “But I’m not sure it would have been better for you.”

Your throat tightened. Still, you didn’t speak.

He took a step back, then gave a small, almost defeated smile, like he was apologizing for all the mistakes you both had made. “I’m sorry for lying to you. Not for trying to protect you, because that’s who I am, I guess. Always trying to be the protector, even if it ends up hurting the people I care about most.”

You looked down at Mittens, who had settled quietly in your lap, utterly oblivious to the wreckage of hearts above her.

“Have a good night,” Spencer finished, and this time, he meant it like goodbye.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away. The gentle click of the door closing behind him was painfully final in the quiet room. You stayed sitting there, clutching your cat close, feeling the warmth of her small body against your chest and the weight of everything he had just said settling deep inside you, lingering like the fading echo of his footsteps down the hall.

For the first time since you had discovered the truth, you were no longer angry and hurt because he had just put a band-aid on your wound.

Because maybe he found the right time.

Sadly, what you didn’t know, what neither of you could have known, was that this moment, this moment together brought on by your cat's antics, would be the last time you would see him for what would feel like an eternity. At least for three more agonizing months.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee @23moonjellies @lolnothx06 @nnab

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #matthew gray gubler #mon’s fics ♡

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thesmithseatmealive · 1 month ago

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Yandere Tomoe Headcannons

Warnings: Yandere, DARK ROMANCE, if you aren't comfy with that please scroll! Nsfw and sfw, non/con, primal, (I made Tomoe kindve primal yk..animal like?), SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Summary: My personal idea on Yandere Tomoe and how it went down hehe

A/n: I know there isn't much left of this fandom but I still love Tomoe, he's one of my top three! Hope you few that's left enjoy! (P.S I wrote this at 6 am, running on an alani and no sleep so it's not my best writing)

wooooowheee! If you caught this sly fox’s eye, you’re screwed.

Lets say you- a human somehow stumbles upon the shrine years after Mikage left poor, poor, lonely Tomoe behind! While the shrine spirits kind of freak you out you can’t help but be curious (and desperate for shelter from the brutal storm), as you stumble into the shrine. Plus the shrine spirits are so kind and welcoming.

Yandere Tomoe who almost kicks you into Narina mistaking you for Mikage, and then a stupid little human girl. But fuck, why do you smell so good? And why doesn’t he wants to throw into the rain? What nonsense. He supposed the shrine is there to help humans. So he decides you can (will) stay.

“I- I’m so sorry! I can go! I was just looking for shelter from the storm! I think I passed a bus stop on the way here, I’m sure I can take shelter there! Ill be out of your hair-”

“What utter nonsense, you will stay. Mikage would have my head if I let some runt of a human girl die in a storm.” Tomoe groans, grasping your arm tightly to prevent you from running back into the storm. His nails catch your wet shirt, slightly snagging it. You jump from the sudden touch. You turn and look up. Since when did fox men exist? And who was Mikage?

“Uhm, I really don't wanna be a bother.” You squeak out like a mouse.

Tomoe’s grip tightened, leaving no room for movement. He shook his head and sighed. “What a nuisance. Your complaining is only bothering me more, human.” Tomoe couldn’t bring himself to let you go. Something urged him to keep you there. Maybe Mikage’s kindness to humans had rubbed off on him. He dragged you deeper inside the shrine, producing a women’s pajamas out of no where, forcing you to dress in them with the excuse you’d get all sick and have to stay longer.

That night you had slept warm in the shrine, Tomoe watching you through the night.

When you awoke you found the shrine spirits who explained the other world and its creatures, including Mikage and Tomoe. They begged you to stay and take on the roll of land god after learning of your awful story. In truth, your boyfriend had broken up with you and left you on the street with your stuff. But you were just a human and in no way could you ever be a land god.

Yandere Tomoe who had rubbed his scent on the back of your neck before you left, for some ungodly known reason. He couldn't stop himself, some deep possessive, primal instinct urged it. The shrine spirits pout when you leave, wishing you had stayed. Plus Tomoe had never looked so happy with a human in the shrine. They were sure you'd fit in.

Yandere Tomoe who can’t get you out of his head weeks later, you’re practically fucking haunting him.

Mikage who, while stalking Tomoe, noticed his foxes’s need for you. He finds you in town fighting with your Ex. You poor thing, you obviously need a place to stay, and his famliar is in need of some company!

Mikage who interrupts your fight and whisks you away for a walk to cool down. Who is this kind stranger? You think, and why did he just kiss your forehead?

You who in confusion of the sudden disappearance of Mikage, find yourself on a similar path. You sit down on a sidewalk, confused and upset. You still have no house and you’re lost and another storm is coming. How shitty is your life?

Yandere Tomoe who appears beside you, a sly smirk and lazy position as he fans himself.

“Oh my what do we have here? Abandoned like a stray kit again?” He purrs, tensing when he senses your new land God marking. He internally curses Mikage, but at least this will work in his favor. You jump at the fox’s sudden appearance and sigh in defeat, feeling mocked.

“Don’t look so down dear, You are now a land God, however that is. I am inclined to take you back to the shrine. It will now be your home. Come now, don’t want you getting roasted by lightning would we?”

Yandere Tomoe who whisks your defeated self back to the shrine and helps you learn the duties of a land god over the next few weeks. (Of course the shrine spirits were too scared to correct Tomoe when he took majority of your duties on.)

Yandere Tomoe who needs you trapped, he can’t let you leave like Mikage.

Yandere Tomoe who grabs you by the nape of the neck, dragging you into him and leaving no room for struggle. His lips meet yours in an aggressive kiss, forcing himself as your familiar, and he can't help but nip your bottom lip licking at the blood with a groan.

Yandere Tomoe who is now your familiar, and refuses to let anyone else near you. (He definitely has kicked Mizuki into the clouds for coming near you.)

Yandere Tomoe who is extremely possessive, going on a fiery rampage anytime you get near other yokai or become endangered. Sometimes he curses himself for letting himself be under your control so you can stop him from ripping these stupid fucking yokai to shreds. (Little did you know, he knew his loop holes and got away with killing taking care of the idiotic losers who tried you.)

Tomoe leaves no room for another lover in your life. He will refuse any lover, as they are not worthy of a land god such as yourself. (Yes he has said this about gods far above your power, no he does not see anyone but himself worthy of you.)

Yandere Tomoe who does not proclaim himself as your lover even months into your bond.

Tomoe strikes me as the type to not let you have another lover, and not be your lover himself at first. Its not that he doesn't want to be yours, he’d fucking kill to pin you down and show you how really skilled his fingers are- I think Tomoe just lacks the concept of proclaiming a relationship..? Like in his mind, he's your familiar and he's already imprinted on you, meaning your his, no questions needed. You just haven't expressed being ready to mate yet!

You who obviously is tired and a little frustrated. You haven't been able to go out on a date in months. You’ve gotten passed your ex and you’re ready to party, move on and get it on with someone else! But your white haired familiar refuses everyone! He acts offended as if you shouldn’t dare to be attempting going on a date anyways. I mean Tomoe is hot- and its not like you haven't considered him as you’re lover, but he seems so disinterested. And all the weird things he does can be chalked up as normal yokai and wild fox behavior- right?

I mean it's definitely normal that he bites you occasionally on the neck for no reason at all! And its completely normal he refuses to let anyone in your room. That is your sacred place! Only you and him of course are allowed inside! And of course he insists on dressing you himself every day. This is normal duties of a familiar, no reason to be shy. And don't mind him constantly wiping his hand across your neck or hair. No he didn't wipe anything on you, just his scent! It warns others away from you.

Yandere Tomoe who snaps one day. You stupid little girl…you lied. You lied to your familiar. You said you were going out with your friend, and of course he followed you! He had to keep you safe, so many yokai like to prey on land gods. And yet he watched as you met up with a guy. You let him take you to eat. The fucking moron couldn’t even make you a homemade meal? Pathetic. Not worthy.

Tomoe had his final straw when you let the man hug you. How dare you let some runt touch you? Have you no self respect? He of course ripped the human man away from you, throwing him away. But his focus was on you. You fucking smelt like that pathetic trash.

“Tomoe-”

“Start talking. You let a fucking pathetic, weak, incapable human man touch you? Am I not enough? Do I not serve you everyday with only your well being in mind? And you lie to run off with some human?” He spat out, looking down on you. You had never been this scared of Tomoe before. His ears were pinned back, and he looked like a god of rage and hate.

“I deserve to be able to date and find love! I have a right to choose who i think is deserving of my time! He was nice and caring Tomoe! And a girls got needs, God whats your problem?” You screech, attempting to shove Tomoe away to go find wherever your date had landed. A hand shot out and clutched at your waist dragging you back into Tomoe’s hold.

“Love is what you seek? From a puny human man who only wants in your skirt?” He growled, watching you squirm in his hold. His left hand dug into your hip, causing your skirt to rise slightly, and his right wandered farther up. His nails dug into your neck as he tightened his grip with anger, growling in your ear. “I am all that you need. If you seek to mate so soon, then I will mate you, let it be clear the only reason I waited was because I assumed you weren’t ready for me. But now I see. If you’re sneaking away so foolishly, you are clearly ready to take me.”

Yandere Tomoe who fucks you into another dimension that night. Obviously if you’re seeking attention from others he hasn’t been giving you enough, and with that reasoning he doesn’t stop. Cooing as he ruts into you harshly, watching you babble incoherently. He can’t get enough. He needs you pumped full of his cock and seed.

You’re drowning, you think, all you know is pleasure and Tomoe- too much. You briefly aware this is your 7th round, and he's unrelenting, showing no signs of stopping. He refuses to let you rest. You wanted attention didn’t you? He was gonna give you it.

Yandere Tomoe who so meanly overstimulates your body, pushing it past its limits. But he talks you through it, cooing and purring how good you are for him.

Yandere Tomoe who leaves your body covered in him- scratches from his nails litter your hips and thighs from the mating press he had you in for a few rounds, bite marks from your breasts to your neck- foxes really do like marking what's theirs. His cum seeping from your cunt, leaving you bloated from how much he let your pussy milk from him.

Yandere Tomoe who only stops fucking you when your start passing in and out, pussy leaking his seed, and you look ruined of him. Even as you strangle the line between passing out, he still gently pumps his cock deeply into you. Slowly of course, ensuring you stay cock drunk and pliable for him!

Yandere Tomoe who clutches you tight, a soft purr coming from his throat in contentment as runs his sharp nails through your hair, doting on you. His poor baby. So ruined for him.His tail is wrapped around one of your thighs as he holds you throughout the rest of the night.

Yandere Tomoe who is so sweet and cunning in the morning. That smug smirk never left his face. You finally were fully his, marked and claimed!

Sweet Tomoe who wont let you walk (as if you could even try), and bathes you begrudgingly. He hates having to bathe his scent off of you, but all is well, he’ll cover you in it again later tonight.

Yandere Tomoe who wont ever let you go, hoping you learned your sweet lesson. He’ll take care of his little human.

A/n: Ty for reading, I hope you enjoyed! ASKS are open for those who have any ideas or requests. I'd like to keep these fandoms alive. Love you guys!

#yandere #Yandere Tomoe #yandere tomoe #tomoe x reader #kamisama kiss #Tomoe x reader #tomoe #Tomoe #Mikage #kamisama hajimemashita #fanfic #anime fanfic #smut #Anime #yandere blog

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lostintransist · 2 months ago

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The Second Duchess

Y'all, Noona's brain worms got me again. AO3 | This will be two parts. | This will end bitter. A/B/O dynamics, vaguely victorian, there will be an actual ghost in part two, odd power dynamics.

When John found you, a foreign lady, visiting a neighboring earl, he thought he had found redemption.

His first wife had been designationless, like you. He and his pack, Johnny, Simon, and Kyle, had ill-treated the first duchess. Her final words, left in an open letter, lingered over them all, even now.

You were supposed to be better. Every tale of you spoke of your bravery, your dedication, your loyalty. I found them all to be lies. When my corpse haunts your memories, may you think on it with more fondness than you ever did me.

The people who claimed the right of parentage over you had sent you to a foreign court in the hopes that someone would take pity on you. Foolish attempt really. No one at home wanted you; no one here would either.

All your life you had been discarded. Set aside for your lack of designation, you learned to cope. The scarred skin at your neck where your gland had failed to grow in the womb became your favorite place to decorate. If not with necklaces, then with art. You had learned how to paint on your body and create wreaths that wound round your neck; you set new standards because you could not do much else. If people were going to stare, why not give them something to look at?

Running wild became your favorite way to use your lack of designation. You could ride a horse side saddle or sitting forward like a man. You could ride better than most men in either seat. The stable hands at home got used to a horse disappearing for a few hours. You always stabled the horses you used, fed them, and brushed them. They stopped complaining after they saw how well you cared for the animals.

You hired art teachers and painted nude bodies. Music teachers taught you how to listen to the lewd songs sung in the taverns and play them at dinner parties. Languages were mastered; the curses were the things you memorized first. The cooks blustered when you demanded to be taught, but when you threatened to hire someone to teach you they quickly gave in.

The maids taught you on the sly the cant and candor of the working class. When they told you of the needs in the community you worked directly with the women who headed each group in need. Connections were gathered like coins in a purse and guarded like a hen over her chicks.

Without quite knowing how you became a woman of influence. A whisper or a word in the right ear and you could turn the tide on harmful policies. If you declared a business untenable for their use of child labor or the way they treated their workers the working class would not patronize them again.

That same level of leverage never breached the bubble of the aristocracy; hence, how you found yourself shipped away to start again.

The weeks warning your mother had given you had been enough for any in your contact to fire off letters to kin and foe alike of your coming. Even letters to foes told of your abilities to conquer changes.

Dock workers had a penchant for overindulging in your country. Men overindulging left women and children bereft of comfort and stability. You had been working at the underpinnings of fact before you had been shipped off.

No one noticed where you wandered, even here in this new country. No one cared. Just this morning you had sat down with the head of the laundress of the city to see what pieces you could shift. Their letter had arrived first, and tending to their needs would become your first priority. They needed childcare.

Children often needed tending and older children needed to be taught reading, writing, and arithmetic. An aging governess or two could be convinced to play school teachers and a maid without a reference could become a tender. Most of the legwork would arise from connecting with the women who would care for and teach the children. The juxtaposing issue would be where to house them and the children during the day. The price per child needed to be reasonable to the laundress and enticing to the governesses and the maid.

Censure, while a familiar disrespect, never became easier to bear. It bit at your flesh like the slap of hands. You had been relegated to the piano in the corner of the room while the other women partook in after-dinner sherry.

You hated sherry. You hated all alcohol really but sherry most of all. It tastes of lies and disappointment in its syrupy sweetness. Shuttering those memories, you focused on playing through a key change and into a jaunty tune; lewd would be a more accurate word, for the song you had learned down at the docks.

All these thoughts swirled through your head as your fingers played without you. Being so deep in thought you failed to notice the men had rejoined the party.

The knuckles rapping the top of the piano before your eyes brought you back to your body. Your motions paused the last notes you played lingering in the air. It is doubtful anyone was listening to you anyway.

A broad man leaned against the piano. His hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. A neatly maintained beard, sun-kissed wrinkles around his eyes, as well as the fine cut of his coat completed the look of a lord. Being unfamiliar with this county’s aristocracy you offered a demure smile.

“Can I help you, my lord?”

“Where did a thing like you learn a tune like that?” His voice is rich and cadence firm.

“It is astounding the things musicians will teach you for the right incentive.” Settling your hands back to the keys you began to play a medley of your favorite drinking songs.

“Why do you not hide it?” His voice is as a surprise as it is unexpected.

Decorum meant different things here. Like it being acceptable to ask about one’s secondary gender.

“Why would I hide something I am not ashamed of, my lord? I am not causing harm to others by existing,” you lift a brow as you glance at him quickly.

He stared at the paint ringing your neck. The style of dresses here, that your great aunt had draped you in despite your protests, involved low necklines and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The corset cinched around you held up the dress. You had painted flowers and vines. Now, if anyone stared overlong you could assume they were observing your skill with a brush and not the scar where your scent gland should be.

Transitioning into a light, airy tune that has been well accepted by “higher” society you stole glances at the lord. You had yet to be introduced, but his dismissal of decorum intrigued you. Not many men approached you for a chat, even less without being introduced as an oddity first.

“Would you take a turn around the room with me?”

And there went your interest. Like with anyone who did not conform to society’s standards, you were propositioned every so often. Pursing your lips, you don’t look at him again.

“If you can gain an introduction before I depart for the night, I will consider it.” Focusing back on your fingers you played around a key change into a moving piece.

This bit of music sounded a bit like weeping when you played it.

He would not find your aunt anywhere near this room. She had consumed a fair amount of dairy in the soup course and would be leaving rancid deposits for the maids to clean in the morning. Once she felt well enough to travel she would send someone to collect you to the carriage. No one else here could claim acquaintance to the point of introductions.

As you predicted the lord could be seen drifting from person to person questioning and pointing toward you where you played still. All shook their heads and peered around for your aunt. Nearing forty minutes later a maid approached you, hands clasped neatly in front of her white frock.

“Ma’am, your aunt awaits you in the carriage,” her voice is mouse quiet even as her eyes dart to and for.

“Thank you for telling me. Can you inform the butler I will need my things?”

The notes lingered before dying, suffocated under the volume of conversation. The lord noticed though. As you slipped around seats and finally into the front hall, he followed. The aged butler held out your shawl, gloves, and hat.

One glove on and buttoned at the wrist you started on the other one when he appeared. The lord gave a near-silent dismissal to the butler. When you turned you found your hat and shawl held hostage.

“My things, my lord,” your hand extended for your things.

“While I was not able to obtain a formal introduction, I wanted to introduce myself. Duke John Price, at your service.”

Plucking your bonnet from his hand, you hum. Duke Price glared at you as tied it in place.

“How wonderful I avoided the misfortune of being introduced to a duke then being as lowly as I am, hmm?” You glanced at his face.

His sun-kissed wrinkles are now plucked with frustration.

“Will you be returning my shawl or shall I brave the night with bare shoulders, Duke Price?”

You let the title remind him of his place in the scheme of life.

The blue of his eyes reminded you of the center of a flame, scorching in its heat. You saw the decision in the tilt of his head. Standing stiller than the statues you saw dotting this land, you did not fight when he settled the shawl around your shoulders.

“Travel safe. I look forward to our upcoming introduction,” Duke Price held to the end of the shawl as you stepped back.

“Must not have much to look forward to in this country,” you let derision drip from your tone.

One more step back and you are free. A hand behind your back finds the doorknob and you are out. Now the footmen are looking to the door as you descend the stairs.

“What kept you?” Your great aunt’s voice bites from the dark of the carriage.

“It took some time for the butler to gather my things,” you lie. Climbing in and sitting forward on the bench to peer out the door window, Duke Price watches you from the door.

Sliding back the darkness hides you from view.

John fired off a letter before the sun had risen. I have found her. I will return when wed.

It took weeks before he secured your acquaintance. He tried though, gods, the way he tried. You would have laughed if he didn’t disrupt so many damn meetings.

A local Chaplin had agreed to offer room and board to the two governesses and the two maids who would be watching and teaching the children. A different church, whose Bishop agreed, would serve as the care space and classroom. The two churches would have no fees, but negotiating the prices that would remain fair for the laundresses and the women caring for the children became the sticking point.

The women all raised their voices. It was as if they could shout a little louder than their neighbor they might be clearly heard. In times like these, you were grateful for your nose blindness. Someone had once explained that the overlapping scents of anger reminded them of a barn fire, acrid and dense.

You finished finalizing the numbers on your page before standing. Snatching up your mini abacus, because math in your head forever alluded you, you placed it in a pocket of your skirt. Both hands lifted your skirt. Once your feet could move freely, you stepped onto the chair and then onto the long table where the discussion had devolved.

Both boots planted firmly you released your skirt and shoved fingers in your mouth to whistle. The piercing sound cut through all of the noise. All of the women sat down and glowered at each other, and you.

Movement at the door of the room tipped your annoyance into rage. Duke Price stood in the doorway. This was the fourth meeting he had appeared in.

“The Duke of Price has two seconds to be gone from this room or he will be funding this project for a year.”

Your pointed glare and sharp words caused all the women at the table to turn and do the same. These were proud women. They would not accept charity, and the offer of it would be seen as offensive. The duke narrowed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows.

“Close the door, my lord. If you are incapable of such a feat one of these lovely women would be happy to assist.”

The iron lock clicking into place turned all eyes back to you. Pinching your fingers to the bridge of your nose you shut your eyes and took a deep breath.

“Here is the pricing that accommodates everyone. The women handling the children will not need to cover room and board, which will reduce their incoming monies. In turn, that reduces the burden per child for the laundresses. Now, you must decide among yourselves,” you open your eyes and scan the laundresses now, “If you wish to pay a per child fee or a flat fee. Tally your votes and inform me of your decision. This scheme will begin on the first.”

The women who handled the dirty laundry for the city nodded and rose. They spoke among themselves as they exited the room.

The older governess, Brenton, if you recall correctly spoke up now. Her white hair gleamed under her dowdy cap.

“Who will be supplying the learning materials? The pay for watching the children will not cover that.”

You climbed down as you thought over how to obtain the needed materials.

“There is an irksome lord that I will make pay for the displeasure of my constant annoyance.”

All four women shared a look. They had worked under several lords and ladies and knew this would be a formidable task.

“Well,” Miss Brenton clapped her hands twice, “We will leave you to your trial ma’am. If we can be of any assistance before our work begins, please reach out.”

“Thank you. I know this is going to be an odd period of transition for all of us.” Settling at the head of the table as the other stood, you gestured to the door. “Miss Brenton, if you don’t mind, could you play chaperone for a moment?”

“Must say, I am interested to see how this plays out.” Tucking her skirt back down Miss Brenton sat back down.

Pulling out a clean sheet you began to note down the needed items, chalk and chalkboards, readers, nappies, blankets, cribs, the list went on. The click of heavy-soled shoes stopped at your side. Paying it no mind, you continued. A second sheet joined the first, transferring a list of vendors that would help funnel money to the bottom where it was most needed. Some were spouses of the laundress, others were brothers, fathers, or uncles. All were low class and would provide solid work.

A total of three sheets filled you ensured each was dry before stacking them. Folding them into neat thirds, you turned and handed them to Lord Price.

“You are a difficult woman to make an acquaintance of,” he took the papers held in proffer. “What is this?”

“The bill.” Standing, you let the chair legs scrape against the floor. “Miss Brenton, can I interest you in having company on your walk home?”

The shrewd woman looked near apoplectic at your handling of a duke.

“This is a lengthy bill.”

If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

Lord Price’s eyes were upon you when you finally let your head finish turning. No smile graced his lips. Shame. For all he had made your last few weeks as painful as a throne in the thumb, he was nice to look at.

He wore a blue today. His eyes shone with the gold stitching on his jacket and vest.

“It has been extraordinary lengths you have gone to bother me; this seemed a fair request.”

Neither gaze shifts when Miss Brenton choked on air.

“Consider it done,” Duke Price tucked the list into his inner coat pocket. “May I join you ladies on your journey?”

“Of cour—”

You cut Miss Brenton off with a hand and a sharp look. Turning that sharp look on the lord, you speak your piece.

“No. I do not know what your intentions are with me, and frankly, I am tired of finding you amidst my business. The only men who pursue me do so for my,” you gesture to your scarred neck, “eccentricities.”

A string attached to your stomach could not have pulled tighter than if it were looped to a kite. This conversation made you wish you could skitter into a hole, a church mouse hiding from god. This would be the sixth time you had told a man no.

The duke huffed a laugh.

“I have enough eccentricities roaming my home. What I seek is a chance to see if we would get on well.”

His blue eyes left heated trails as they worked across your face. Goose flesh rose on your arms. Chest and further down where you dare not think of the flesh continued to rise. Every bit of you reacted.

“Why?” The question is breathy, haunted with questions.

Duke John Price held the sword of Damocles at your neck. The blade yearned for a taste.

You spent your days in the shadows. Confronting men who could take what they wanted was the only time you thought you knew what it was like to be whole. Acid bullied the back of your nose.

“I am in need of a wife. Someone who has the skills to manage others.”

He is not done. You don’t care.

“Choose any of your fashionably young countrywomen then.” Ripping your eyes from him, you stack your papers and close your ink well for travel. “There is a full troop of them yet unwed who would kill for the chance to lay in a duke’s bed. They have all been trained to manage households.”

The string in your body is cut. A tangle now lives in your chest.

“Miss Brenton, was it?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Can you give us the room for a moment?” The kind command would take more fortitude than the aged governess possessed.

A beseeching look to the matronly woman did not save you. Her wrinkles quivered as she slowly stood.

“I can give you three minutes m’lord.”

He inclined his head as if accepting a toast from a royal.

As the door swung shut you formed a plan. Stepping to the opposite side of the table, for distance and a barrier, failed. The toe of your boot caught the leg of the table. Papers fluttered from your hands as your knees cracked against the stone floor. Duke Price was there in an instant. He lifted each paper, laying it neatly in a stack.

Tears pricked at your eyes. You hadn’t moved from your fallen position. Head hanging to your chest you held back from weeping by the breadth of a string.

“Why will you not leave me be?” The words are harsh, strangled by the tightness in your throat.

“When hunting foxes, one strategy to attempt is sending them to ground. Where do they hide when they can no longer run?” His demeanor was cool, his voice soothing. “You run in circles, managing to better every bird, twig, and rock you brush against in your escape.”

Sniffing, you set about finding a handkerchief to wipe your face; you refused to face the laundress’ if they knew you used your skirts as rags.

A blue handkerchief in a gloved hand drifted below your nose. Lifting it, careful to not touch even his glove, you dab your nose.

Somehow you had managed to drip ink into the crease where your nail becomes flesh. Gloves hurt your hands after a time. You had managed to work around wearing them. No one noticed. No one ever noticed. And if they did they didn’t care to police a grown woman who had no prospects.

“I have a pack, they are wonderful and I would burn the world for them. I need a wife who can see. I am looking for someone who notices the needs overlooked, connects with those unheard, and sends war captains on impossible journeys. If you had allowed an acquaintance between us weeks ago, I could have courted you slowly.”

Duke Price holds out your papers. They crinkle in your delicate grip as you press them to your breast.

“I do not believe you.”

His cloth pressed to your nose cannot prevent all the vile feelings filling up your bones from injecting themselves into the words.

No one wanted you. Even the one who had lied in word and deed to make you believe he did.

Brokenness allowed you to see because you could not smell; that did not make you valuable.

“And what would make you believe me?” He curls nearly in half to peer up at you.

A duke is on his knees, craning his need to get a look at you. What the hell had this world turned into?

Sniffing again, you straighten. Plans. You can make plans.

“A contract. Legally binding even in marriage. Make it two. One to court me and become engaged and the second retaining my rights to leave this country unhindered, if I so desire, if marriage were to come to pass.” You study him now. The wheels are turning in his mind.

“And what of the consequences of reneging on either contract?” A single brow is lifted in your direction.

“I imagine your solicitor has worked with you a long time, my lord. If he does not think of something suitable, I would be happy to revise and return it for review,” you lift a brow in response.

Games were easier. The rules never changed. Once understood, you could slide below notice and return to living life and helping where you could.

The man before you lifted both cheeks into a full smile. Your heart dropped into your heels still below your butt. He had a beautiful smile.

“They will be at your door for review before the week is out.”

“You have not yet gained an acquaintance, my lord, it might be rejected at the door,” you gave him a saucy wink and a watery laugh.

“I think a contract will be introduction enough.”

He held out a hand. You shook it, grip firm. Twice it bobbed before he turned your hand over and laid a kiss on your knuckles.

Catching sight of your lifted brow from his position he threw you off balance, again.

You had been to sea. Once only, were you out during a storm.

Then you had clung to the railing until a man in a slicker had slid a rope around your waist and helped haul you below deck. That wild energy that had commanded you to land came now. This time though? You longed to dive below the waves. If only to see if the storm could touch the seabed below.

Solicitor Allchin sat stiffly in the sitting room of your great aunt’s home. He wore black as if born to it, hair flounced the appropriate amount to show he would be fastidious and dogged in a task.

Your nails, trimmed short, bite into the fabric coating the arms of the wing-back chair. The crazy fool had actually done it. Two contracts lay strewn on the tea table before you. Unable to continue to read, they had been thrown down.

“Allchin?”

The man startled at being addressed. He had been taking surreptitiously deep breaths. If anyone believed you to be afflicted with no scent gland upon meeting you would call them a liar.

“Yes ma’am?”

“What is your opinion of Duke Price?”

You refused to call him John. It felt like ceding ground in a war you didn’t intend to entrench in.

“He is a fair man, mostly. Cares well for those that he considers his, discards those he doesn’t.” Allchin spoke firmly. Confident in his honesty.

“Thank you. That will be all. I will return these with any adjustments within three business days.” Standing would be beyond your power. If you rose the only thing you would manage is the three steps to vomit in an oriental vase.

“Ma’am,” Allchin rose, tugging his coat neatly into place. “If I may? I have a question.”

“You may not.”

Rage fluttered in your chest with hummingbird wings; it stung your eyes, water filling them.

Allchin nodded once and saw himself out. Lifting the paperwork, you read what you could. He had tilted everything in your favor. If you agreed to an engagement you could keep it quiet until the bans were read. Either party could break the engagement and you would receive a settlement for cover “pain and suffering.” You would retain full autonomy and legal status as a person in the event of a marriage. Property bought or sold in your name would remain yours.

Working itself out seemed to be working in Lord Price’s favor.

Someone, and if you ever found them you might actually hurl them down the stairs, had told your great aunt about the visit and the paperwork.

“What is this I hear about an offer?”

The testy old woman had called you to her office like a child. She opened and shut a fan in one hand. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

Blinking slowly, you release a breath.

“I did not think you could hear at all anymore, Aunt.”

Slam. The fan cracked against the edge of her desk.

“Do not test me, child! Have you had an offer?” Her frail voice betrays none of her age as she shouts.

Disdain drips from your canines like blood from a throat you clenched between your teeth.

“I lost my childhood to bigotry and hate. I will not lose my adulthood to it as well. Any business between myself and any man who might make an offer is none of your damn business. Only those who care about my welfare are welcome to that knowledge.” The temperature in the room changed, flashing cool before heating up with a rage you knew waited to boil over.

Turning on a heel, you stride from the room.

Any calls from your aunt fall on deaf ears. You lock yourself in your room and squirrel away the paperwork. Not well enough.

One of the maids must have found them. Word reached you as you were fitted for a wedding gown that your aunt had offered a hefty reward for the person who could pry the information from you. You thank the young woman pinning the skirt and ask after her children. She smiles as she tells you of her daughters and their clumsy attempts at stitches.

Masterlist | Part 2

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap cod #john price x reader #soap mactavish #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #captian john price

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iwantyouto-eatme · 1 month ago

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-BLOODIED HANDS

description! when shauna loves someone, she will do anything to protect them, even getting her hands a little bloody.

parings! shauna shipman x reader

contents! cannibalism, angst, kissing, described violence, shauna being a bitch but what’s new.

not proofread!

calling the weather cold was an understatement.

they were freezing.

the winters air chilling their bones, making their stomachs churn.

since the loss of jackie, you and shauna had been close to say the least.

you filled the void that was once jackie, and you could slowly start to see the light come back into shauna's eyes.

but there was still a darkness to her.

a darkness that would never leave.

you would complain of hunger, like everyone. but instead of shauna yelling at you like she did the others, she'd promise you food.

"ill get you something soon, i promise" she'd soothingly whisper into your ear.

and that she did.

the big clothes you wore and the makeshift scarfs barley even kept you the slightest bit warm anymore, you were doubting any ounce of survival through this winter.

you had all done it before, well most of you.

but this time, you weren't in the comfort of four walls and a roof, you were in small huts that only just kept the cruel weather out.

your only real ounce of warmth, was shauna.

who knew the evil girl could have some kindness to her?

you would sleep in her hut every so often, needing the comfort of the girl you knew so well and so deeply in love with. she would share any berries or small rations of food she had with you and would hold you until you were fast asleep.

she would never be there when you woke up in the morning however.

too afraid she would end up like she did with jackie.

become so attached, and then loose you just like that.

the day dragged on with no sight of shauna.

this was usual though, she'd disappear all day and come back in the middle of the night to find you curled up in her hut.

but this time was different.

you stirred when you heard footsteps in the cabin.

it was shauna.

her hands coated in blood, her shirt too.

a plate of meat in her hands.

"bon appetite, princess" she placed the plate infront of you.

you shouldve questioned her on what the mysterious meat was.

the rational part of you considered the fact that nat, travis and any of the others had been unable to find stable meat in weeks. there was no way shauna had just found it on her own.

but the desperate part of you couldnt care less.

the meat was warm, chewy even. blood dripping down your chin and hands as you ate it.

shauna stared. she usually did, but this time was different.

her gaze was laced with admiration.

if only you knew what you were eating.

"oh my god shauna i love you so much. youre incredible" you mumble between chews.

she slowly kneeled infront of you. closer then she should have.

she grabbed your chin and gently wiped the blood away, smearing it between her own fingers and your mouth.

you could feel the tension more than the weather now.

her dark eyes staring deep into yours. darting between your own eyes and your mouth.

"is there uh, do you need something?" you asked nervously.

"um yeah" shauna said, moving slowly towards your mouth.

before you could mumble out another nervous string of words, her lips crashed into yours.

it was messy to say the least.

the blood from the meat you had just consumed smearing all over shauna’s lips.

shauna’s hands everywhere but where they should be.

it was beautiful. nothing could ruin it.

then she pulled away.

“did you like the treat I bought you?” she said with a slight grin, a grin you’d seen before in situations you didn’t want to remember.

“y..yeah” you, once again, mumbled out.

“you know who it is?” your heart stopped.

you guys had stopped eating people a while ago, akilah having enough animals in the pen to keep you alive during the spring meant you didn’t have to resort to those extreme measures anymore.

“what.”

“you didn’t answer my question princess”

you fucking hated that nickname.

it was too sweet for you.

you weren’t a perfect princess like jackie, who that nickname clearly started from.

“i have no clue shauna. who is it” you spoke hoping the shaking in your body didn’t show in your speech.

“the funny thing is, i don’t even know. she was so useless i never even learnt her name.” she laughed.

shauna fucking laughed over the death of someone.

this wasn’t new. shauna wasn’t good. but you didn’t wanna believe that.

you wanted to see the good in her. the stuff that she would hide from everyone.

except you.

so seeing shauna become a literal monster, it wasn’t great for your little mindset.

“it was so good. i haven’t done that in forever baby. god i literally watched her fucking be so scared and then just die. i wish you could’ve seen.”

and deep down you wish you did.

she seemed so proud. you liked when she was like that.

instead of the usual deep scowl on her face, she wore a grin that she was proud of.

and maybe, just this once, you’d ignore that fact that you were in love with a she-demon, people eating, monster.

and also ignore the fact that that same monster just kissed you.

#shauna shipman #shauna x reader #shauna shipman x reader #yellowjackets #spotify #wilderness #y/n #yellowjackets x reader

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moonieandi · 11 months ago

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snapshots | stanley pines x f!reader

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines

warnings (TW): swearing

tags: fluff, early relationship described, vague-pining

notes: this is probably just for me… but if anyone enjoys it then ill endeavor to continue it in some fashion. No note beyond that i just really really really like stanley.

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked my new masterlist of parts concerning this one-shot turned series. thank you, and enjoy!

word count: 2.3k

| masterlist | part ii |

His earliest memories of her are hastily intertwined with the abrupt disappearance of his estranged brother.

There is a sudden break in his memory, between following Ford to the crumbling shack’s basement, to returning upstairs without him, and eventually opening the door to her very hazarded face.

Her head had been engulfed by a too-big hat, hair matted and stringily stuck to her flushed face, thanks to the bitter winds that racked northern Oregon that winter. She had hauled ass from the “middle-of-nowhere�� bus stop to in-town, to the shack. Miles, he had presumed, and her wet socks had solidified the fact.

If he had known she would appear at the shack's front entrance not even a week after Ford had disappeared before his very eyes, then he would count himself lucky for the forewarning, because she made in through the front door like a tidal wave.

He eventually welcomed the intrusion, of course, but it took not even 10 minutes for his hackles to rise after she implored at the whereabouts of his long-gone brother. Unfortunately for Stanley, she never once bought the practiced lie that he was Stanford. A lie that he only had the courage to voice now, but it fell weak on her ears. Of course, she had known poindexter… and of course, she had no inkling of Stanley’s own existence. Stanford had never spoken of his no-good brother then. Another nail in the coffin, next to the nails Stanley had put there himself.

She spoke only in bursts as if it pained her. Voice dry from the winter air.

“Where is he?” She frantically waved a pressed paper around, previously having been folded up in her pocket. “He asked for me, so where is he? Where is that idiot?”

“Look hun, I have no idea what you're talking about.” Hands dragging through his too-long hair. “I’m him, he’s me, now what did I send ya again?” He moves to reach for the paper, but she crumbles it in her mittened hands, clutching it like a lifeline.

His lie is weak, but he could do without the intrusion after the long week of attempting to compile his brother's ramblings in that god-forsaken journal.

He didn’t even know her name for fucks sake.

This was never the fault point in his lie to her though. Because she knew instinctually that he was not Ford, and that was all that mattered conclusively to her in the end. They shared features, that was something she could not easily deny. The same curve of their jawlines, the same texture of hair, the same set eyes, but she knew simply by the way he talked that this was not her former colleague.

Her colleague was not nearly as broad-chested as the man in front of her. Not as sure-footed as the man in front of her, and despite them both sharing obvious features, wasn’t as striking as the figure painted in front of her.

Unfortunately for her predicament, the man in front of her made her nervous, suddenly. Whether it was the sudden realization that she had entered this random man’s home, or that she was entranced by the way the distant kitchen light lit his features. She was unsure.

Looking back at the paper, and then again at his large outstretched hand, she admitted defeat to her curiosity surrounding him. She would need a cup of coffee.

Sighing, she brought the paper back to its original place in her pocket. Taking off her hat, her shoulders began to droop. She had walked miles, and she would get an explanation from him no matter what.

“Do… do you have any coffee?”

Movement in the shack was constant.

He was used to the usual up and down the basement stairs nowadays, and the usual venture from room to room also.

The woman had a habit of nesting. Much like his own mother.

She constantly had to move things, change around Ford’s shitty sci-fi bullshit, and rearrange cupboards. The first month she took to doing it he figured it was her way of simply coping with the reality of their shitty situation, but after the third month, he changed his toon.

My god was she short, but oddly fucking mighty.

It was on the third month he had caught her rearranging the livingroom finally. It had been the most intimidating room in the shack, thanks to the mud-soaked 80’s carpet, and the mysterious tanks that Ford just had to store upstairs for some reason.

Luckily in their cohabitation, they both agreed that Ford’s stuff all needed to be moved from out of site. Not really for them per se, but more so so they could both catalog all his bullshit. Cataloging was something she insisted on, so he got very used to random sticky notes with her small handwriting. He would admit that his knees began to ache not too many weeks ago from the constant movement of Ford’s shit to the basement, but he more or less refused to let her assist in the move when it came to walking down the very steep flight of stairs.

He didn’t want her to fall, okay?

He didn’t want anything to happen really, in regards to her. He tried to separate genuine feelings when it came to her presence in general. So when they eventually parted ways, it wouldn’t feel like another nail.

But she had to goddamn move everything in this house, and he got the distinct feeling she didn’t enjoy the fact that none of it was really theirs to move. She had insisted though, one night, that it was important that they made themselves comfortable.

“I’ll take the goddamn fall for this, mmk Stanley?” A slight upturned smirk on her lips. “Ford can yell at me all he likes, but if we are stuck here for some time let's not live like he’s just around the corner.”

Despite his constant bickering about her and the stairs though, he found her upstairs one evening, attempting to move the long three-person couch from one of the rooms to the downstairs living room.

She blushed, caught red-handed. “Okay okay, but this would be better downstairs in front of the T.V., no?”

He tisked, hands on his hips. “And ya’ just couldn’t wait, huh.”

She laughed while he reached for the other end, cursing under his breath. “Can’t leave you alone for a minute.”

The couch did make it downstairs, but not without some cursing, teamwork, and some pinched fingers when taking it around the bend to the top of the stairs. Stanley leading in front, holding the majority of the weight the entire way. Not that he would tell her that.

The couch made a home in front of the tiny box T.V. that they had, and they both enjoyed the comfort it brang. The shag carpet wasn’t as comfy to sit on as the couch.

They both sat with a grunt, after adjusting the long couch.

“Ah, now this I could get used to.” He flung himself onto the couch, closest to the back door.

Popping down, she made her home on the other end. “Mhmmm. Good plan, good decision, go team!” Her hand extended out for a fist bump from him.

His hand dwarfed her own as he met her in the middle.

She was smart, he realized, too smart for the likes of him.

She was quick as a whip for sure, with knowledge of a hodge-podge of things, and half the time she talked when they were both downstairs he didn’t have a clue what she was saying. He hated it down here at times, her rambling reminding him of his faintly forgotten childhood. She was so different in the basement. She was so different from when she was upstairs. Like she turned it on and off.

She herself knew that Stanely probably didn’t understand most of what Ford had been doing, but at times she felt she understood even less so. So she spoke it to him, to fill some void when they were down there. The void being Ford, of course, the bridge between the two.

She couldn’t help but get the inkling that Stanley did not think fondly of the basement, whether it was due to her ramblings, or because this was essentially his brother's coffin, she didn’t wish to ask. It was the one thing she hadn’t bothered to voice yet.

He had been assisting with moving the portal's original structure all week. She needed the area cleared, to properly reassemble the shape of the portal and then lift it to its original place on the basement wall. The pulley mechanism was hastily drawn out somewhere in the control room, but she also needed a proper understanding of the material's weight and durability to calculate the simple engineering equation.

Of course, she attempted to do this without looking up from her scribbles.

Stanley’s movement around the basement set her on edge. The sweat-soaked tank top, the curly messy hair, the broadness of his chest, the god-damn grunting as he moved material around.

I mean, okay, she had asked him to do this specifically, but she… was beginning to forget why exactly she had. She had also offered assistance, too, which he shrugged off like he had the furniture.

Right, yes the weight she needed the weight.

“Umm Stanley, have you been able to find in the journal what kind of material this is?”

He grunted, metal falling to the wayside as he turned to her. “Nah Doc, couldn’t find shit.” He lifted his tanktop end, dabbing at his forehead. “But I can tell you one thing, ain’t like anything I’ve seen before.”

“Hmmm. You are right, this is almost too heavy to be normal steel, and it seems Ford didn’t exactly weld these pieces together. There’s no evidence of tig welding traditionally used.”

He moved closer, his hand on his hip, the other extended.

“Lemme check the diagram again, he leaves weird shit in the ledgers all the fucking time.”

His hand grazing her own, she passes over the journal.

He flips to the part of the portal page they have access to, his fingers meeting his tongue as he flicks from page to page. Contemplatively, his hand rests on his chin, and the entirety of the book rests in his own hand.

Leaning over like that, he takes her breath for a moment.

“See here.” He grabs her forearm, pulling her back in front of the journal still in his grasp. “He writes this cryptic message in the ledgers around the drawing, but it cuts off because we only got one part of this bullshit.”

She sighs deeply, her hand running through her hair multiple times.

“Fucking hell Ford goddamn it.” She quickly rethinks, hands waving to push Stanley back a bit. So she can breathe again. “I’m sorry, really, I just mean-”

His laugh is low and shakes his shoulders until his head falls forward, his hand meeting her own on his chest.

Breath gone, again.

“Doc, ain’t no way we gonna get this done unless we curse him out from time to time.” His hand engulfs hers, making her form a fist he brings it to his head, knocking his temple. “I curse him too from time to time, but usually up here.”

“Stanley, I really am sorry. I just-” A sigh, a shake of her shoulders. “I wanna know what the hell he was thinking, Stanley, I wanna understand I really do, but I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know what to do.”

Three months of rearranging upstairs combined with the two additive months spent in the basement had drained her, and he knew it.

She was different down here, changed. That’s why he fucking hated it down here. Because it upset her like this. She was too pale down here, too weary, and too goddamn self-conscious.

The thing that had plagued him for so long, the inadequacy he felt all his life when compared to his other half, was seeping into her subconscious. Ford wasn’t even fucking here, and he had somehow made her feel less than. He had been working all his life to feel equal to him, but that was his own cross to bear, and his own nail to hammer. Not hers.

He didn’t think much of letting go of her hand, in favor of grabbing her chin. Tears made trails down her dirty round cheeks, eyes wide. He thinks she stole his breath for a minute.

“Now listen here Doc, you ain’t gotta do this alone. I never wanted you to do this fucking alone, that’s not why I told you everything.” He takes a step forward. “I told you everything because I know we can figure this out.”

She sniffles, moving closer, leaning into the warmth of his hand. Her own curled up into his dirty tank top, journal forgotten on the floor in favor of comfort.

“It’s gonna take some time.” She mutters under her breath, only answered by the laugh in his chest.

“Don’t I fucking know it Doc.” A pause. “But… I mean at least we got each other, right?”

A smile blooms on her face, her heart slowing under the struggling reassurance Stanley was attempting to bring.

“Mmm, yeah.” Sniffling, and nodding. “Ya, I have you Stanley.”

“And I you, Doc.”

He steps closer, encasing her in his large arms, her head making a home in his shoulder. He was warm, she noted, and strong under her withering confidence.

His hand reaches up, knocking on her temple. “You can’t be calling me Stanley while we are upstairs, I hope ya know.”

She nods in his chest. Only down here can he be Stanley to her now, even in her mind.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls imagine #stanley pines #stanley pines x reader #grunkle stan #stan pines #stan pines x reader

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loreleiloon · 12 days ago

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(Variation of my other post)

What if, due to fighting villains so much, Hero contracts a serious illness that threatens to completely debilitate them.

Hero is nothing without their crime fighting work, so they seek out one of the best doctors in the city.

The doctor gives Hero a drug that keeps the illness in remission. But Hero needs to come in for injections twice a week.

Hero complies with this schedule religiously. After a few months, not only is the illness almost gone, but Hero feels better than they have in years.

And the doctor is so kind, so understanding. They never ask Hero where they get their bruises or broken bones, just patch them up good as new. As if they know exactly where Hero was injured.

For once in Hero's life, they are the ones being taken care of. They forgot how incredible that feeling was.

One day, the doctor steps out with a flustered nurse while Hero is getting injected.

"I'll be back soon," they promise on the way out. "Just sit tight and wait for me." Then with a swish of their doctor's coat, they disappear behind the door.

Hero obliges, letting the drug soothe the aches in their bones. But then the machine cuts off abruptly. Hero looks but the IV bag is still half full.

Confused, they ease off the operating chair. The plug is attached to the outlet. All the wiring seems fine.

Then Hero notices that the doctor left their clipboard behind. Hero's never read the clipboard. They can't even remember the last time the doctor let the clipboard out of their sight.

Hero knows they shouldn't but the notes are about them, after all. Besides, they want to know what the doctor thinks of all their strange injuries so poorly explained.

The first page is normal medical jargon. Hero flips through the second, third, fourth.

It's not until they reach the last page that they find handwritten notes.

"Strongest at .5 meters"

"Test 3mg more of Haepoxulin."

"Monitor activities during witching hour more closely."

"Do NOT taser right leg. Femur still healing."

Hero tested their step on their right leg. The leg felt healthy, better than healthy. What did the doctor--

A sharp pain shot up Hero's leg. Their knee buckles. Hero clutches the arms of the operating chair, agony locking them in place.

"You've been wanting to read that, haven't you?"

Hero's eyes whip towards the door. Supervillain stands in the doorway, holding the doctor's coat over their arm.

Hero tries to lunge, but the pain keeps them in place.

"What did you do to the doctor?" Hero yells, hatred burning from their gaze. "If you touched a hair on their heads, I'll--"

Supervillain shakes their head. "Ever the savior. To busy asking what I did to them," shaking out the coat, Supervillain pulls it over their shoulders, "to wonder what I did to you."

Hero's blood freezes. There's that roguish grin the doctor always wears, that stubborn cowlick the doctor can never comb down.

"You--you're--how?" Hero's heart twists with rage, confusion, hurt. "Was it all a lie?"

"Of course not. I couldn't have my favorite Hero dying. Who would thwart my plans? Life's so boring when everything goes your way," They press a small button on the device in their hand, "Don't you think, Hero?"

A thousand shock waves jolt through Hero's body. They crumple to the floor, writhing from the neurons coursing through their blood.

Supervillain clicks the button again. The agony stops at once. In its place, healing strength flows into Hero's muscles.

Hero's eyes roll back in their head. Consciousness weakens and the world swims into darkness.

Before Hero can fully pass out, they turn their head to ask Supervillain one more question: "Why...?"

Supervillain's, no, the doctor's roguish grin is the last thing Hero sees before the world goes dark.

"Why not, Hero?"

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lokisis · 3 months ago

Text

Today's one-shot brought to you by... the spam fam! Mostly @laughingfranki but there were others too! Hi!

You sigh. This was going on, what, week four of Spamton living at your place? It wasn't that you hated it, god no, it was just... difficult sometimes. He was used to the harsh conditions forced upon him for years. Hiding things, stealing money (yes, you noticed), hoarding items. It was all things you were unfortunately accustomed to.

But you really, really, wanted him to stop eating your trash.

You only noticed maybe a week in, when you were taking the bin out and noted how light it was compared to all other times. A quick look inside confirmed that, yeah, something had definitely been rummaging around inside. A tasque? Do they even eat? You brought these thoughts up with Spamton when you went back inside.

You didn't miss the way his eyes flickered away in a panic. He insisted it was nothing, just a lingering worry of tasques. But you didn't buy it, especially when you caught him red-handed not two days later. Head first in one of your cans, looking for something. When you made yourself known, he panicked. Hard.

You know he feels ashamed and maybe even embarrassed about his behavior. You also know he isn't quite capable of turning his life around on a dime. But man, it was getting to you. Every few days it would be the same song and dance:

"Spam. Why are you digging around in my trash."

"EAHEHAH [Angel]!! IM JUST SOURCING WAREsD THATS ALL!! ! IM NOT IM NOT- [Stop! Thief!]!!! YOU KN0W THAT!! RIGHT?? RIGgHTT???"

So when you opened the door to your home, and saw he wasn’t in the living room, you had a sinking feeling he had done it again. You shut the door with a huff. At this point, you almost wished he would just own up to it so he didn't attempt to hide the garbage afterwards.

Is that... a mean thing to think?

You walk into the kitchen and, lo and behold, he was face first in the trash can.

You didn't have the energy to be angry. "I'm back."

His head immediately pops up at the sound of your voice. He's got a bagel wrapper in his mouth. [Angel]!! WHWW WHEN DID YOU-" it falls out of his mouth and onto to the floor.

You sigh again. You pick it up before he can and place it back where it belongs. "Just now. Look, can we talk?"

His smile immediately strains. "HEHE HEAHE IF YOUR. YOU’RE LOOKING FOR [mony payment] YOURE [$#!%] OUTTA LUCK!! IM NOT. IM NOT GIVING YOU MYY !!!"

"Spamton." You place a hand on his shoulder and his teeth snap closed. "I'm concerned about your, er, eating habits. Look, I'm not going to stop you if this is what you really want, but..."

He's looking at you like he's seconds away from running. Disappearing again.

"But I get food for both of us and I'm willing to cook for you if that's what you need. I just don't want you to get sick or- or-" Or worse.

"Is my home not safe enough for you? Did I do something wrong?" It's an insecurity you've had for a while. You've seen the slight flinches at the doors being shut. The constant surveillance of rooms as if something were hiding in wait. "I want this to be a safe place for you and me. So what can I do? Please."

You see the way his eyes roam the room. "I... I DON'T. I DON’T KNOW." He won't look at you. "I DON’T KNOW." There’s a moment where you think that's all you'll get out of him. It wasn't out of the norm for him to give incomplete thoughts and answers. But instead he chooses to surprise you: "I'm scared. I'M SCARRD ONE DAY ILL I'LL WAKE UP AND [It was all a dream]. ONE DAY YOULL TAKE THIS AWAY BECUZ IM NOT IM NOT GOOD ENOUVH IM N0T I M nOTT NOT-"

And when his eyes finally meet yours, completely terrified, you have to hold your own back from tears. That's enough, you think, that's enough. You squeeze his shoulder and he immediately stops. He's still heaving in breaths, like at any moment he could break.

"Spamton, I wouldn't do that to you. And I know me saying that means nothing but I promise I'm not going to kick you out." He's shaking under your hand. "I brought you here because I care about you. You could hole yourself up in your room and I wouldn't do a damn thing. I just wanted to know why you were doing," you gesture to the forgotten trash can, "this. If it makes you feel better then I won't bring it up ever again."

He hasn't calmed down at all. You wish you were surprised.

"Ok?"

He barely nods his head, but you let go all the same. He quickly shifts out of your sight, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You hear a door close not long after.

Great. You fucked up again. Good, good, good. You take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds before letting go. He's your friend because you sought him out. He ended up here because you pleaded with him for days.

...You have to wonder if he even sees you the same way.

That gets the tears flowing. He probably thinks you're an overbearing weirdo. Just someone to leech off of until you get mad. He probably doesn't even like you.

You don't bother making dinner.

-♡-

By the time you get ready to leave for work, he still hadn't shown his face. You fucked up big time, no doubt about it, and decide it's best for both of you to just go.

He's the only thing on your mind throughout the whole damn day. You forgot to eat breakfast, and didn't pack a lunch. What a fucking joke. You were complaining about his eating habits? You're hardly any better. He's still on your mind on your commute back home.

You hesitate at the door. What if he didn’t want to see you again? What if he left while you were gone? Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why did you have to ruin a good thing?

You're already riled up by the time you relent and open the door.

You weren't expecting him to be out on the couch, sprawled across it like he owned the thing. He idly chews on a toothpick before noticing you.

"[Angel]!! YOU'RE [Right on time]!!" He sounds far too happy to see you. He flicks his thumb towards the kitchen, "GOT A [Pizzer] IN THA OVEN FOR YA. SHOULD BE EREADY SOON"

You close the door behind you, dazed. "You're... making pizza?"

"[Thaaat's right]!!!"

"...Why?" You can't help letting the question fall out. After what happened, why would he even bother?

His head tilts down slightly, just enough for his eyes to stare through you above his glasses. "DON'T THINK I DIDN'T NOTICE." The coldness in his voice makes you shiver. He looks away, fiddling with the toothpick once more. "YOU DIDN'T MAKe DINNER. OR [Breakfast, lunch and ]"

He's read you like a damn book, and you aren't surprised in the slightest. This is what reeled you in. This is what made you want to know Spamton. The observant, witty, and frankly terrifying puppet was far more interesting than any ride in the city.

"Are you planning to charge me for this too?" You chide.

He sputters, turning slightly red around his already painted cheeks. "IM NO [House maid]!! GET YOURSELV A DIFFERENT FREAK FOR THAT!!"

"Right, of course, because there's so many people like you."

He leans over the back of the couch, a smirk clear on his face. "THERE AIN'T NO ONE LIKE [Me] SWEETHEART."

"Yeah, I know." You lean over the opposite side of the back of the couch, just to the side of him. "It's why I like having you around so much."

You see his smile drop in your periphery. "...YOU?? YOU LIKE..??"

"Yeah I do. Which is why I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to upset you I just-"

"[upset you]??? ANGEL YOU HELP ME [See the light]!!! YOU'rE D4MN RIGHT!! I GOTTA STOP TREARTING THIS PLACE LIKE [Filth] AND START TREATING IT LIKE IT RELLY IS!!!" He stands up on the cushions. It doesn't give him much more height. "THIS IS [My mansion, My city, My world]!! MY [Comeback Specil]!!! I CANT KEEP [$&*%]ING AROUND!!"

The smile he wears is genuine when he turns to you. "AND THE FIRSTS STEP IS [Wine and Dine] YOU. GET YOU ON A [Hot date]!!"

You chuckle, feeling an all too familiar heat rise to your face. "Treating me to a 'hot date'?"

"DON'T YOU KNOW IT."

Even if the hot date was, admittedly, a little burnt.

#spamton x reader #writing tag

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aliciajadee · 29 days ago

Text

Hey y'all! It's been quite a while since I last posted online, and I know many of you've wondered where I've been. I've been trying to figure out the best way to update you all, but I've found that figuring it out hasn't been easy. I thought I'd just start with a little post here. It's been 165 days since I've uploaded a full-length video to YouTube, and almost a month since I've posted on TikTok. I didn't mean to disappear from the internet, and it's not that I haven't wanted to create and upload it, but that I just haven't been capable. The first few months of 2025 were not the best time for me. I was struggling with my mental health immensely, and as a result, my physical health declined too. I ended up in the hospital with complications relating to my T1D, and that took a really big toll on me. Talking about my mental health and chronic illnesses is something I've always tried to be open about with you because it's real. Just like you all, I am human. I struggle and I get stuck, sometimes (a lot of the time) I need help and time to heal and quite frankly get my shit together. I want to just say thank you all for allowing me that time I so desperately needed.

For months, I was anxious about making a return to YouTube. I was running low on inspiration, and every time I pulled out the camera, nothing felt right. I just felt like anything I tried to make wasn't good enough. I was receiving messages and comments every day asking where I was, for the most part they were kind messages but a lot of them were hostile and made me feel like crap. All I wanted to do was crawl into my bed and rot.

Then I started back at school with my Photography course! I've talked about this on my channel before and for the most part it’s going really well. I found it difficult to try wrap my head around my coursework, my job and doing social media, I was only just getting back on track and the thought of having so much on my plate was (and still is a little) extremely overwhelming. So I stopped prioritising making content because it stressed me out. That’s the truth of it.

About a month or so ago I felt like I was ready to come back. I was excited to be making content again and I felt like I had a hold on everything. Then I got adenovirus… 2025 really isn't my year y’all.

Basically this virus gave me conjunctivitis and I wasn't able to see or really open my eyes for over 2 weeks. It was hell. The virus has now cleared, i'm no longer super contagious, i don't look like a zombie but it did leave me with scarring on my corneas. No, I'm not kidding. I cannot see. My vision has significantly decreased, even when I'm wearing my glasses it makes no difference. I haven't been able to go to my classes for almost a month now. I can't really see anything, even writing this has been quite difficult. Hopefully my vision returns soon, I'm seeing specialists and doctors weekly but this has been really hard for me.

I'll probably make a video talking about all of this soon but for now I'm just focusing on trying to get better. I really hope you can understand.

I love you and hope to be back real soon xoxo

-Alicia

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eternallyordinary · 3 months ago

Text

"He Belongs To You" - Part 23

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series masterlist<3

Summary: A lead breaks through the silence—and with it, the recent past comes roaring back in a way Homelander never expected.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture, Psychological manipulation, Gore / graphic violence, Mental illness, Death, PTSD themes, Suicide, Disturbing imagery, Obsession

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Two weeks and two days.

Two weeks, two days, twelve hours, and thirty-eight minutes since you vanished, if we’re being technical.

No trace.

No warning.

Just gone.

Homelander paces the floor like a caged animal. He hits things. Destroys things. Kills anything that so much as breathes wrong in his direction.

At his lowest, he finds himself buried in the scent of you—

Sniffing a pair of your underwear he stole from your hamper like some deranged, lovesick pervert.

He just needs to feel you again.

To touch you.

To know you’re still real.

He storms down the hallway, boots echoing like war drums against the marble floor of the tower. There's another lead, or... more like another dead end in the making.

He’s heading to one of Vought’s "white rooms"—cold, sterile, suffocating. They might as well rename them kill rooms at this point. That’s all they’re used for now.

Today’s suspect? A supe who happened to grab a coffee at a place you liked.

Once.

Wrong place, wrong time. Which, these days, is all it takes to die.

This is interrogation number... twelve? Fourteen? Twenty? To be honest, he’s lost count. But he'll wipe out the whole fucking super human race if it leads him to you.

—

The white room hums with silence.

Fluorescent lights buzz faintly above. Cold steel walls. One metal chair. One man strapped to it.

Homelander stands in the corner like a statue. Watching. Waiting.

The supe fidgets in his restraints, forcing a laugh he hopes sounds casual.

“Hey, listen… if this is about the property damage in Midtown, I already squared that with—”

“You think I give a fuck about that?”

The man’s smile falters.

“Okay… so, what is this?”

A long pause.

Then, slowly, Homelander begins to pace. Step by step, boots echoing against the floor.

“You stopped at Mocha & Co. two weeks ago. 8th Street.”

“Yeah, sure. I mean—I think I did?” He shrugs awkwardly. “Coffee’s not a crime, right?” He tries to joke.

Homelander doesn’t laugh.

He leans forward, placing both hands on the table, his eyes locked on the man like crosshairs.

“She loves that place.”

“…She? I… don’t follow.”

Homelander stands upright again, slowly circling him.

“You’ve heard the rumors, right? The whispers. Something about supes going missing? Hm?”

The supe swallows. His voice drops.

“You mean… all those disappearances? I thought that was fake.”

“Oh, it’s real. Very fucking real, David.”

Another pause. The silence weighs like concrete. David blinks rapidly, the panic starting to set in.

“Wait, wait—I didn’t know. I didn’t know anyone was—Jesus, I was just getting coffee. I swear, I—Man, you have to believe me!"

Homelander cocks his head.

“Funny. You were only in town that one day. What was so special about that day, David?”

“Yeah—yes, I was just passing through, patrol got rerouted—”

“You think I believe in coincidences? You think I’m fucking stupid? You show up at her favorite coffee shop the same week she disappears. And you expect me to think that’s random?”

“It was! I swear to God—”

“Swear to me.”

The man’s breath hitches. He tries to lean forward, but the cuffs dig into his wrists.

“I swear I didn’t do anything! Who is this about?!"

Homelander exhales slowly, his voice chilling now—too soft.

“You're making this very difficult, David.”

“I swear to you—”

But it’s already over.

Homelander grabs the table with one hand and flips it like paper, sending it crashing into the wall.

Then he’s on him.

A hand to the throat.

Squeezing.

Lifting.

The man gasps, legs kicking wildly beneath him.

"You should've just gone to Starbucks."

With one brutal motion, Homelander drives his fist through the man’s sternum. The sound is wet. Horrific. Organs rupture. Bone cracks. Blood splatters across the sterile white wall like an abstract painting.

He drops the body. Turns.

Walks out without looking back.

Another day, another mess someone else will have to clean.

—

Homelander storms into one of Vought’s executive lounges, blood still drying on his gloves. His jaw ticks. His vision is vibrating red around the edges.

He’s hit another road block. Another worthless fucking supe who didn’t know a thing.

He doesn’t even know why he came in here. Probably just to breathe. Or break something.

But the second he enters, he hears voices. Two interns. Barely old enough to buy a lottery ticket. Sitting on the sleek velvet couch, sipping their energy drinks without a care in the world.

Homelander freezes in the doorway. They don’t notice him at first. His eyes narrow in on them.

“Get the fuck out.”

The interns jump so hard one drops her drink.

“Now.”

They scramble to their feet, fumbling for their things.

“And for fuck’s sake,” he calls after them, “why are you watching the news like you’re 70? What, you want me to install a landline for you next?”

The door slams behind them.

He grabs the remote to turn the TV off. Thumb hovering over the power button.

But before he can press it—

“...Developing now: 27-year-old Andrew Bellamy has officially been declared missing and dangerous following his escape from the Bellwick Super Human Psychiatric Facility two weeks ago...”

The TV flickers to footage—security cam stills of a man in hospital scrubs. Hair messy. Expression blank.

“Authorities report that Bellamy killed a nurse during his escape and fled with another patient, who was later found safe.”

The image cuts to stock footage of police tape, flashing lights.

He’s barely listening. About to click it off.

Then—

“This escape comes just days after a separate incident: the death of Bellamy’s younger brother, Eli, who was found dead at a rooftop party here next to the NYU campus. In light of Andrew’s disappearance, he is now being considered a suspect. Neighbors describe Andrew as unstable, violent, and obsessive.”

Cut to: a previous neighbor of the family on her front porch, stringy gray hair, talking into a handheld mic.

“I always said he was trouble. His brother was the good one. Smart, respectful. But Andrew? That one’s been off since he was a kid. Honestly… I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who killed Eli. I pray to God they find him…”

They show a photo. Two boys, side by side.

Homelander barely glances—

Until his eyes catch on one of the faces.

Wait.

He squints, stepping closer to the screen.

No.

It’s him.

The college kid from the rooftop.

The one who made you laugh.

The one Homelander snapped like a twig and forgot just as fast.

The remote in his hand creaks under the force of his grip—then finally shatters.

The TV keeps playing. Flickering.

“If spotted, do not approach. Bellamy is considered extremely dangerous. Please call the number below.”

And suddenly, everything slots into place with horrifying clarity.

The timing.

The rooftop.

The death.

It’s all connected.

And he missed it.

He fucking missed it.

Because Eli had meant nothing to him. Just another body. Just another stupid human who wanted something that didn’t belong to him—you. And now, that oversight has cost him everything. But not for long.

Because now? He knows exactly who to kill next.

Homelander steps closer to the screen, breathing hard.

“I found you.”

And just like that—his blood runs cold.

And then hot.

And then lethal.

The cock suckers brother is a fucking supe. It all makes sense.

But why? Why you? You didn’t do anything wrong.

Homelander has this thought briefly. But then he remembers…

No.

You did nothing wrong.

But he did.

Homelander did.

And this—this was revenge.

The first of many, he realizes. A long, inevitable list of people who will come for you, not because of anything you did—

No, no, you are perfect. They will come for you to hurt him.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if it were Butcher, storming in with his little rat pack of wannabe heroes. That would’ve made sense. That would’ve at least felt like a fight worth having.

But this?

A nobody.

A broken, grieving brother of some boy he killed without a second thought.

He didn’t see this coming. And that makes him furious.

Rage surges through him as he rips the TV from the wall, slamming it down again and again until it’s nothing but shattered glass and plastic dust.

This is his fault. All of it. He can’t control himself. His jealousy runs so wild it devours anything that looks at you for too long—

Even a harmless, soft-voiced college kid who never stood a chance.

Stan Edgar had called him bad product once. A failure. A weapon without a conscience.

He used to scoff at that. Used to lean into it.

But now? Now, he can’t even pretend.

Because he’s not a hero.

Not to the world.

Not to Vought.

And maybe not even to you.

And the weight of that? It crushes him.

Andrew Bellamy.

He doesn’t know this man. But he knows one thing: He took you.

Now it’s not a question of if he’ll find you. It’s when. And God, help anyone who gets in his way.

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tag list: @raginginkedslut @lilyalone @emily048 @naty-1001 @helreyy @forest-green-1994 @rainbowangel @harlowedoktravelsthemultiverse

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