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jovialsongdefendor · 11 hours ago

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Why I Don’t Think Kris Hates the Player – At Least in the Pacifist Route

I’ve seen a lot of people saying that Kris from Deltarune outright hates the player, that they resent us for controlling them. And I get where that idea comes from, after all, there are moments when Kris clearly pulls away from our influence. The way they rip out their soul in the opening sequence is undeniably unsettling. But personally, I don’t fully believe that Kris completely hates the player, especially if you stick to a more pacifist approach.

I think it’s too simplistic to say Kris automatically hates the soul in every scenario. If you consider that the player is essentially an outside force taking control of their body, it’s natural that Kris would be wary or uncomfortable. But being uncomfortable isn’t the same as hating. Over time, especially if you play kindly, I believe Kris at least comes to tolerate and maybe even rely on us a little.

Some of the warmest moments in the game (like when Kris quietly follows along as Susie and Ralsei bond) feel almost like they’re letting us help them navigate a world they don’t fully understand alone. It feels like a fragile partnership rather than pure hostility.

One of the little moments that shows Kris doesn’t totally resent the player happens during the quiz scene with Tenya in Deltarune Chapter 3.

It’s such a small detail, but if you pay attention, it’s very telling. When Tenya asks what Kris’s favorite food is, the possible answers include “Chocolate” and “Pie.” Most players automatically think it’s chocolate because it seems like the obvious, I mean kris like chocolate. But if you wait before selecting, Kris actually coughs softly, almost like they’re trying to get your attention.

That cough is a clue. It’s Kris’s way of subtly nudging you toward the real answer: Pie. This is what their mom, Toriel, bakes for them. It’s part of their identity and their memories.

The fact that Kris helps you here, even just by coughing, says a lot. If Kris truly despised us with no nuance, why would they bother giving any hint? Why not let us embarrass them in front of Tenya and Susie by picking the wrong answer?

I think this moment shows that Kris is willing to cooperate sometimes. They don’t want to be completely misrepresented or misunderstood. Even if they’re not thrilled about being controlled, they’d rather give a little signal than have you say something that feels wrong to them. It’s one of those scenes that makes me think Kris’s feelings about the player are way more complicated than simple hatred.

Another moment that really shows how layered Kris’s feelings about us can be happens in the secret minigame from Chapter 3.

If you’ve played it, you know what I mean—when you enter that hidden arcade cabinet, you control a tiny pixel version of Kris inside the screen. It’s a funny, almost nostalgic moment. But when you finish the game and the little Kris sprite pops back out, something happens: Kris drops the controller.

At first, it just looks like they’re surprised. But if you don’t move right away, you’ll see their expression change. Their face loses color and goes this pale bluish tone, almost like they’re scared or sick. It feels like they’re genuinely afraid of what you’ll do nex, if you’ll make them pick the controller up again, or force them into something they don’t want, or kill them.

But here’s the detail that sticks with me: if instead of approaching Kris, you quietly walk away from the scene, Kris doesn’t go pale. They don’t back away. They just stand there, like surprise? We dont know.

It shows that Kris is always bracing themselves for the possibility that we’ll push too hard. They’re prepared to shut down or recoil if we don’t respect their space. But when we choose to step back and give them time, their fear doesn’t fully take over.

To me, this scene proves again that Kris doesn’t automatically hate us. They’re scared, yes, but their fear seems rooted in uncertainty, not just resentment. It’s like they’re waiting to see if we’ll be kind or invasive. When we respect them, we avoid making them feel that cold, trembling dread. Is like they call us for something in the begining of the game, but scared of what we will do.

Moments like this are why I think Kris’s feelings about the player are complicated. It’s not pure hostility. It’s a cautious, wary hope that maybe, if we’re gentlesharing control doesn’t have to be so frightening.

After Kris get back to taking control, assuming you didn’t walk right up to them or force them into anything, Susie comes into the room. She looks at Kris for a second and then asks, almost casual but with a hint of curiosity:

"You into these kinda games?"

If you didn’t scare Kris before, they won’t look pale or frightened now. They just stand there, calm but a little tense, waiting for what you’ll choose. It’s a big contrast to how they react if you invade their space, they don’t flinch or drop their gaze.

Then, you get a choice: you can tilt Mini-Kris’s sword cursor to “Yes” or “No.”

If you pick No (by turning the blade away) Susie shrugs, walks over, and unplugs the arcade controller herself. She says:

"Then don’t play it."

And the mini kris disappears.

This moment connects to something bigger: the relationship between Kris and the player. The question isn’t just what we want, it’s what Kris wants, and whether we’ll ever respect that boundary.

And this idea comes back again during the Spantom fight later on. When Spantom gets his strings cut, he collapses limp—like a puppet whose master lost interest. It feels unsettling, because it makes you wonder:

If we ever get bored of Kris, if we let go of the “controller” or decide we’re done, would they fall the same way?

Just another empty body, waiting for someone else to pull the strings.

Nobody really knows the answer. But the way the game sets up these parallels, Kris’s fear of being forced, Susie stepping in to unplug the controller, Spantom’s body hitting the floor, makes it clear that being controlled is something that haunts Kris, what if we get bored of them.

And it’s why I don’t believe Kris hates us outright. They’re scared of what happens if they lose themselves completely. They’re scared of if we complete deltarune, they will stop existing all togueter.

Maybe the scariest part of that scene—and honestly, of Deltarune as a whole—isn’t just Kris’s fear of being controlled.

It’s the fear of what happens if we stop.

When Susie unplugs the controller and tells Kris, "Then don’t play it," there’s a strange, heavy silence. For a second, it feels like Kris is relieved, like maybe they have a little more say in their own life. But right after, when you remember how Spantom falls, a worse thought creeps in:

What if Kris doesn’t only hate losing control, what if they’re terrified of having no purpose at all? Remember the boss in this secret minigame that sayed a part of kris enjoyed this?

Spantom’s body drops like a lifeless doll the moment its strings are cut. It’s not struggling. It’s not resisting. It’s just gone.

That image echoes something unsettling about Kris. If we, the player, decide to close the game, to turn away and never come back, what happens to them?

Does Kris stand there forever in a blank room, waiting for someone to move them again? Do they feel their consciousness fading like Spantom’s, becoming nothing but an empty shell? Or are they trapped in a half-dream, aware that we’re gone but unable to act?

So, in my view, while there’s always an undercurrent of tension between Kris and the player, the pacifist route suggests that a small level of trust can grow if we’re careful not to push them too far.

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jinx-xxed · 11 hours ago

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Dad!Remmick Headcanons

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; This was bound to happen because I can never resist writing something like this and Remmick was asking for it, like just look at him 🤕 this is roughly a pt. 2 to Desperate Soul since this whole idea stemmed from that monstrosity lmao 🙏 please excuse how self-indulgent these are thanks (I had so much fun writing these I was kicking my feet and giggling)

Content; Pure fluff, extremely domestic, pregnant reader, human reader, girl-dad Remmick, nameless daughter, difficult pregnancy, dhampir daughter, vampirism, some lore stuff, scenting, Remmick purring (sorry not sorry), soft Remmick, protective Remmick

Wc; 3.9k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

☆ Remmick notices the change in your scent first. He knows every detail of you by heart, carries you with him every time he goes out into the night, so when your smell shifts, ever so subtly, he clocks it immediately. It’s barely there, the undercurrent of something new, something fresh and sweet like the blooming buds of spring. He thinks for sure his nose is playing tricks on him, that maybe he really is getting too old, that it can’t possibly be the one thing he’s always been hoping for.

☆ There’s a day when you come back home from a few errands, when you’d slipped out while Remmick was busy cleaning so he wouldn’t ask too many questions. You’re quiet coming in, your movements careful, each breath tight in your lungs. You find him in the kitchen, curtains drawn, putting away the dishes. He knew you were there as soon as you stepped inside the door but he lets you be sneaky, lets you turn him to you with shaky hands, lets you hold his face with a tenderness that has him fearing something’s wrong. It’s then that you tell him—you’re pregnant. You say the words in a trembling whisper, as if saying them too loudly would break them, make them untrue.

☆ Remmick goes still, struggling to process, before he sinks to his knees. His hands, now shaking just the same as yours, come up to clutch at your sides, fingers pressing in. He puts his face against your stomach, his breathing ragged, his eyes shut tight as tears form behind them and run down his cheeks. You card your fingers through his hair as he cries, a quiet, sacred thing between you. He murmurs his prayers to you like you’re a pastor, words cracked at the ends but still full of reverence, spilling an endless array of thank you’s and promises and praises while he clings to you, emotions he’s never known before swirling in his chest.

☆ Remmick becomes obsessed with your scent, more than he already was. He spends half the day with his face nuzzled into your neck like he’s trying to engrave your smell into his lungs, and scenting you is the first thing he does whenever he comes back home. He loves the way your smell changes, gaining a milky undertone, turning soft around the edges, full of good things and the promise of what’s to come.

☆ When your bump starts showing, Remmick is sooo annoying about it. You can barely move without him on you, always wanting to feel that little life fluttering beneath his hands, the tiny heartbeat in sync with yours. He’ll talk and sing to it constantly, humming little half tunes and telling it about mundane parts of the day. It’s like a ritual for him to say good morning and good night to your bump; he tells you it’s to make sure the baby knows papa’s voice.

☆ Remmick gets even worse when the baby starts to kick. Those vampire senses of his give him some innate connection to the baby that you couldn’t possibly understand, and he seems to sense their movement before even you do. His eyes will shine brighter than you’ve ever seen them, cold palms pressed so delicately against your stomach so he can feel his child beneath. “This one’s gonna be a fighter,” he says to you with all the confidence in the world.

☆ The pregnancy isn’t easy on you by any means. It seems the further along it gets, the more and more of your life is sucked out of you. You know it’s mostly because of the baby being half vampire, already doing their job of draining the soul out of somebody, regardless of if it’s their own mother. There’s some days when you can’t even get out of bed, your legs shaking too much and your head feeling light, your skin clammy. Remmick takes care of everything on days like those, letting you rest while he completes every task and chore with precision. He doesn’t let you feel guilty about it for a second, telling you that you don’t gotta worry one bit, that all he wants you to do is lay there nice and comfortable to ease his nerves.

☆ Remmick is like a mother hen with you, always hovering, always making sure you eat the meals he meticulously prepares for you that are full of strange ingredients to strengthen your blood and boost your energy. He follows you like your shadow, waiting for the moment you’ll need him and he’s eager to take anything off your hands. Even if you think you’re alone for just a moment, trust that Remmick is right around the corner, never straying too far.

☆ Remmick worries about you like crazy day and night. It’s as if somebody turned up the dial on his protectiveness, increasing it to the point that he’s hesitant to even go out and feed, something deep within him telling him he needs to stay with you and the baby to keep you safe. Then there’s the worry, the dark, sickening thought that maybe the pregnancy will be too much for you, that he’ll lose the both of you in one go. When he starts thinking like that he has to hold you real close, telling himself that he wouldn’t let that happen. You always return the gesture, cradling him gently in your arms, kissing softly along his face, promising him that you’re right here and won’t be going anywhere.

☆ It drives Remmick insane when he can’t follow you outside whenever you run errands, instead leaving him behind to pace by the door like a worried dog waiting for your return. The same can be said if you decide you want to sit on the porch swing to take in a little sun after being stuck in bed for days. He’ll be sat tucked inside right by the door, safely in the shadows but still close enough to you to calm himself. He has to admit he loves the way you smell afterwards though, your skin full of warmth and kissed by the scent of fresh summer blooms.

☆ On the nights Remmick does go out, his hunger undeniable, he always brings you back something. It very much reminds you of a cat bringing back a gift for its owner, though thank God Remmick doesn’t give you dead birds or mice. Instead it’s little trinkets he thinks you’ll like, new books to keep you occupied while bedridden, or fresh ingredients for a dish he plans on making for you. He’s always eager to see your reaction, to know you appreciate his efforts while he’s out there drinking the blood of some innocent person. You always do, always giving him a little kiss on the cheek as a thank you.

☆ Then on the other nights he’s able to stick around, when he can stave off his hunger, you’ll find yourself being ushered to bed as soon as it gets too late. You don’t complain since you’re constantly tired anyway, gladly letting Remmick bring you into his arms, bundling you up nicely while he whispers sweet nothings to you. His fingers will run up and down your back, leaving pleasant goosebumps in their wake, or he’ll massage along your belly, making it easy to drift off. He soothes the tension in your shoulders, he takes off some of the weight you bear.

☆ It isn’t until close to the third trimester that you get the nursery together, both of you too scared before to have too much hope. Remmick builds much of it himself, putting his old skills and calloused hands to use, while you paint the walls in soothing colors, the curtains in the room safely drawn tight.

☆ You didn’t know at first, but Remmick had consulted an old, old acquaintance of his, an ancient hag he’s known for longer than you could even comprehend. He asked her about what to do, how to help you and your baby, to make sure you both survived. The old woman wasn’t super comforting, telling him flat out that it was rare for a human mother to live through a dhampir birth, but it was still possible, and you seemed strong enough to do it.

☆ The old woman becomes like a midwife of sorts, visiting every so often to check in on you. She makes you uncomfortable at first, this strange hag invading your home, staring at you intensely, poking at you and your stomach, speaking in a thick, ancient accent, but you trust in Remmick and his devotion to you and the baby. He’s always glued to your side when she’s around, those red eyes of his glowing dangerously like a warning, as if daring her to make a wrong move. He doesn’t like her any more than you, but he knows that no human doctor would be able to help you the way she can.

☆ The birth nearly ruins you. The pain of the contractions is like nothing you’ve ever felt, your body seizing with each one, every ounce of energy you have going towards your baby. The old woman coaxes you through it, she ignores the blood that spills from you, tries to get you to push past the agony and dizziness with experienced hands soothing your tense muscles. And then Remmick—oh, Remmick is a mess. He can sense the way your life thins, listens to your sounds of pain that he so desperately wishes he could ease. He clutches your hand in both of his, red eyes gleaming and teeth elongated from the thick scent of blood in the room while he whispers prayers to a god he’s never believed in before just for you. As selfish as it may be, he knows he’d turn you in a heartbeat if things turned dire, if you really couldn’t make it through. He’d sink his fangs into your throat, let your blood coat his mouth, just so he can keep you here with him, but he holds steady in his faith in you, in your resilience to death itself.

☆ It’s not long before the cries ring through the room. Your daughter takes her first breath, her tiny lungs belting out a scream to rattle the skies. You sink back into the pillows instantly, tears and sweat staining your cheeks, your chest heaving. In that moment it’s like the only thing keeping you tethered to life is Remmick’s hand in your own, his grip strong and unwavering as he whispers things to you, the words unable to be heard over the ringing in your ears but comforting nonetheless.

☆ The old woman bundles your daughter like she’s done it a hundred times before, cleans her with a care that would be unthought of for withered, clawed hands like hers. She murmurs something to your child, something quiet and sacred and holy right against her forehead, something neither you nor Remmick will ever know.

☆ It feels like your head finally comes above water when your daughter is placed in your arms. Your sobs start anew when you look at her little face, the small, wet curls sitting atop her head. She’s utterly perfect to you, she’s everything you could’ve wanted and more. You can already tell she got some of Remmick’s strong features, got his eyes, but he’ll never stop telling you how much she reminds him of her mama. She coos and gurgles, her cries having quieted after the words of the old woman. She squirms in your hold, already eager to get out of her binds. “That’s a strong one ye got there. Ye hands will be right full if she’s anytin’ like ‘er bastard o’ a father.” The old woman tells you, and you manage a laugh.

☆ Remmick can only stare in awe at the tiny bundle in your arms. His side is pressed against yours on the bed but he finds he can’t move much more than that. He can’t bring himself to, something inside of him hesitant at touching this little being that’s so innocent, so pure. He feels undeserving of such perfection, feels like if he shifts even an inch that this image before him will shatter and disappear. It isn’t until you nudge him that he snaps back into himself, those red eyes meeting yours and your tired, understanding smile. “C’mon,” you urge quietly, bringing your daughter closer, “she’s yours too, y’know.”

☆ Remmick hesitates for a second longer before he reaches a shaking hand forward, claws tucked far away, and runs his finger along the softness of her cheek. Seeing her react to his touch, being able to feel her beneath him, feel that she’s real, breaks him. The tears fall and they don’t stop, especially when you place your daughter fully in his arms. She’s the sweetest damn thing he’s ever seen, his baby girl. When she reaches those tiny, chubby hands up towards him, he knows that it’s over for him, that his heart and soul have already been surrendered to her. He’ll spend the rest of his cursed days thanking you for this blessing.

☆ Your body takes its time recovering, and you find you aren’t out of the woods just yet. It’s slow going, your strength utterly spent on bringing your daughter into the world. Before she leaves, the old hag assures you that you’ll make it through, and she provides you with plenty of strange medications to take, made from ancient herbs you’ve never even heard of. She tells you that it’s a miracle both you and your daughter are so healthy and alive, and gives some final tips on proceeding with a dhampir child. She’s much the same as a human being, though she’ll need blood and will show vampiric traits on top of that, and she’ll grow quicker than your typical human baby. The woman says it won’t be easy, but you should be fine as long as Remmick sticks around. She then mutters that she has no doubts about that front, the man being like a pest you can never get rid of. It makes you smile—she isn’t wrong, of course.

☆ Remmick fits into fatherhood like it was made for him, like he’s been waiting his entire eternal life for the chance to prove it. He holds his daughter like she’s the embodiment of everything good in the world, always so, so very gentle with her. After centuries of destruction and pain, he allows himself to be softened, refuses to let the horrors of his existence anywhere near his baby girl.

☆ Remmick is extremely doting and diligent when it comes to his daughter. Him being a vampire allows him to keep watch late into the night, eyes smoldering with red trained on the crib while you get the rest you so desperately need. As soon as she begins to cry he’s there, picking her up in steady hands and holding her right against him, shushing her in the gentle way he always does, the way that never fails to get her to quiet down. He can’t stand the sound of his baby crying, it breaks his dead heart like nothing else.

☆ It’s during one such night when she begins to wail that you discover something fascinating about Remmick. You’re woken up as soon as she starts to cry but he tells you with a kiss to go back to sleep, that he can get her. You don’t object, couldn’t with how exhausted you are, so you lay your head back down and shut your eyes—before you hear something strange. A low rumbling noise, almost like a vibration of sorts, quiet and oddly soothing. You sit up, looking for the source, only to discover it’s coming from your husband. He’s holding your daughter right against his chest, letting her feel the rumble of his purrs as he rocks her, the sound seeming to put her right back to sleep just like a cat calming its kitten.

☆ Remmick catches you watching him and if you aren’t mistaken he seems… embarrassed. You can see the way he ducks his head in the dark, the purrs stuttering in his throat as he clears it. “It’s ah… somethin’ I found I could do. Comes with the whole vampire thing I guess.” He mutters to you.

You smile and chuckle lightly. “It seems she enjoys it an awful lot. Wish you woulda done it for me sometime before, it’s calming.”

He matches your smile then and comes over to you with your daughter in his arms, sinking down onto the bed so, so carefully so he doesn’t disturb her. “I’ll do it for ya anytime ya want, darlin’.” Remmick promises while you snuggle into his side. His purring begins again, louder this time, his whole body gently vibrating with it. He feels only happiness and contentment with his two girls soundly asleep on him.

☆ Remmick gladly takes over the job of mixing blood into your daughter’s baby food when it makes you too nauseous. There’s pride in his chest when he watches how eagerly she eats, her eyes always shining a little brighter after getting some blood in her system. You don’t ask where Remmick gets it from, pretend not to notice when he comes home with a few jars of it. When it keeps him here with you for longer stretches of time, keeps your daughter full and happy, you can’t really complain.

☆ Your daughter runs you both ragged with her energy. There’s been multiple instances where Remmick has snatched her up mid toddler-sprint to doing something dangerous, his reflexes thankfully able to match her own no problem. She giggles to the high heavens every time he does, every time he hauls her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, meanwhile he’s telling her she’s gonna give her poor papa gray hairs.

☆ It ruins Remmick when your daughter gets too old to sleep in her crib in your shared bedroom. He loved having his baby girl right next to him, loved being able to hear her little heartbeat and tiny breaths, and part of him can’t accept that she’s so big already. You console him while you both make your daughter’s new room into something perfect for her, fitted with little painted stars on the walls, lots of books, and all her favorite toys and stuffed animals.

☆ Remmick tucks her in every single night. As soon as she starts getting tired, he’ll sit in her room with her, either singing a lullaby or reading her one of her favorite stories while she curls into him, his deep, gentle voice lulling her to sleep with ease. Once she’s out, he’ll smile fondly, moving her off of him so very carefully so he doesn’t wake her, and pulling the blankets tight around her. He places the softest of kisses to her forehead, whispering that he’ll love her forever, before switching the light off and ducking out of the room.

☆ There have been times where he can’t bear to move her so he’ll lay there with her all night, holding his little girl close while she sleeps, her human warmth bleeding into him.

☆ The more she grows, the more you discover the steady personality your daughter has. She’s incredibly smart and strong-willed, eager to help those around her and endlessly curious. She’s also been known to debate her way out of punishments, using her charm and quick wit to stump both you and Remmick on occasion. He’ll pretend to be upset but he’s secretly cheering her on, glad to see the feisty, confident girl she’s growing into, just like her mama.

☆ Remmick absolutely beams when her vampire traits first really show themselves. She opens her mouth and proudly shows off all her teeth sharpened to little points, that familiar unnatural gleam in her eyes. Remmick laughs, picking her up to swing her around while she giggles. “That’s my girl!” He exclaims. “Just like papa, sweetheart. Ya look beautiful.”

☆ There’s some days when Remmick feels like he failed in some way. It’s always when you and your daughter go outside, when the sun is able to touch your skin and not burn it to a crisp. There’s something like regret that boils in him while he watches you both out in the grass, merely catching glimpses through the safety of a curtained window, wishing so badly he could join you. Whenever your daughter asks why he won’t come out too, you gently explain that the sun hurts him, that it’s not safe for papa to be out when it’s bright, that it’s sort of like how the sun makes her so weak after a certain amount of time. You can see the understanding click on her face and she nods.

“I’ll protect you from the sun, papa!” She boldly declares once, making something in Remmick crack.

“Thank ya, my sweet girl.” He says, hugging her tight.

☆ Your home is always full of music, either from the record player by the fireplace or Remmick himself, and dances in the open space of the living room are a common occurrence.

☆ The first dance is always reserved for you. Your daughter will sit on the couch and watch in awe as Remmick sways with you to a slow song, nothing but love and devotion glittering in his eyes when he twirls you, his strong features softened in the gentle lighting. You’ll share a kiss that has your daughter looking away before Remmick is pulling her in, making her smile and laugh as he dances her around with expertise. He brings you in as well, dancing to the melody of an old jazz record with his two girls, nothing but joy and warmth buzzing in the air.

☆ Both you and Remmick sing old songs that you’ve known all your lives, sharing pieces of yourselves with your daughter. Remmick is eager to pass down his history to her, to teach her ancient things of his homeland that no other would remember, like centuries-old phrases and dances. She always listens so intently whenever he tells her a story of ancient Ireland, of the culture and people. It heals part of him to do so, to know it’s not just him anymore, bearing the brunt of his memories alone.

☆ Different times of the day warrants different types of songs on the record player. There’s always a rowdier one during the morning and afternoon, the melodies loud and energetic, leaving your daughter bouncing on her toes. Then there’s the quieter ones for when the moon shows her face, gentle piano and saxophone flitting through the halls while Remmick’s voice lowers a few tones, murmuring gentle things to his little girl who’s not so little anymore as he holds her, her face smooshed against his shoulder as she dozes off.

☆ Instead of hatred and vengeance, Remmick finds himself full of love and happiness instead. For once in his long life he looks forward to the next day, surrounded by his little family, you and your daughter and him. It’s perfect.

#how did this get so long omfg #wolf shut up challenge impossible #I think I’m going crazy #hope you enjoy ^_^#these were so sweet they made me sick #grgrrgggrrr dad remmick BARK BARK BARK #I will make that man a father (threat)#sinners Remmick #remmick #remmick x reader #vampire fanfic

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astrids2th · 3 days ago

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HEY HEYYY so I seen your poll and I fear I need fed Vera fics so absolutely yes it’s a great idea 🙏

Come quietly. Pt 1

Lorraine Warren x Fem!Ghost!Reader

Summary: Since the strange would-be ghost hunting couple, Ed and Lorraine Warren, moved into your house, you have been doing everything in your ghostly power to try and drive them out. But nothing seems to work. The couple seem entirely unaffected by your tenacious attempts. And so, you see no other option than confronting the psychic lady in your home head on. But she immediately sees right through your anger.

Warnings: None yet!! Maybe some mommy issues hidden in between the lines some places. And mentions of death of course.

A/N: Sorry for my bad English, it isn't my first language. <33 And thank you so much for your message Anon! I really appreciate you reaching out.

word count: 2k

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~ 1978 ~

It had been exactly a month now since the intrusion on your home. A month of violated privacy, and a month of your disgruntled antics in retaliation to the squatters now apparently determined to stay settled on your property. Now, a month might not seem like a lot of time, especially not to mortals who always seem in such a rush to get everywhere and do everything before their inevitable, impending deaths. But in the context of eternity, a month was far too long. For so many years since your death, and then your resurrection in spirit form, you had always had had this house to yourself. The house you’d grown up in and the house you’d consequently also been killed in. And now these pricks thought they had the right to just settle down and claim it as their own. They’d even put a sign on the door of the study, YOUR study. ‘Ed and Lorraine Warren, Paranormal Research Centre’. In all honesty, it was almost comical. If only they knew.

However strangely so, it seemed they actually did. The woman at least, the man you weren’t so sure. It appeared he just sort of believed anything the woman said, which you supposed was a nice change since your time. But those nice changes were far and few between. Truly, look what they did with the kitchen! Absolutely atrocious!

The woman, Lorraine apparently, had sensed your presence practically as soon as she’d set foot in your house. As usual, you’d quickly gotten to knocking down stuff, messing with the lights and shouting like an angry toddler, in an attempt to scare them off like you always did whenever the habitual foolhardy teenager and their god-complex encroached on your personal space, in their hunt for a cheap high. It had of course caught the attention of the couple and the small group they’d brought along with them, as intended. But what you had not expected, was for the woman to look right at you. Not right through you like you’d gotten used to since departing from the world of the living, and by extension, also from the human line of sight. No. No, she looked right at you. Actually perceived you. Furthermore, you’d much less expected them to actually move the fuck in. Who the hell moves into a house where they’ve just been ambushed by a rather discontented ghost? No one does! At least no sane person, that’s for sure!

To be fair, these people definitely were far from sane. During the first couple days, the lad, Ed, had spent most of his hours in your old bedroom, creating some rather… Well, interesting illustrations, to put it kindly. They certainly were no Picassos, but you supposed you’d seen worse. Much worse, in fact. Though you found him the less interesting of the pair to tease and taunt, as it seemed none of your tricks actually really got to him. It was infuriating. You’d smash a mug off his desk, he’d hum and clear it up, leaving you seething in the corner of the room. You’d pick every painting off the walls of YOUR bedroom, and he’d chuckle and remark that ‘they’d look better rearranged anyways’, in turn causing you to furiously storm out the room. You had quite literally swept every single piece of paper on his desk, off of it and onto the floor. And the moron had just calmly picked it all up! ‘must’ve been the wind’, he’d mused, closed the window, and gotten straight back to work. It had sent you on a rampage, bolting down the stairs and taking every picture along the wall beside you, down alongside you, smashing their frames in the process. Dear god, these people would be the metaphorical death of you!

Now the wife however was different. Jaded from whatever work they were doing, yes, but not quite as desensitized. She had a harder time ignoring your presence, as you were sure Ed was adamantly trying to. At points, you were actually concerned she was the one pursuing you and not the other way around. Whenever you made your presence known in a room, you’d see her gaze travelling to every corner, as if trying to catch you with her eyes. And she’d sometimes even get up and look around, reaching out as if convinced she’d be able to touch you if she tried hard enough. And maybe she could, you couldn’t quite be sure with her. It was… Strange, to say the least. A tad bit unnerving.

Today it was a Sunday. The day of the Lord. And yet, in spite of all the crosses that Lorraine had littered this house with, there sure as hell was nothing holy about this dump of a house. Only you, and your ongoing effort at driving this happy-wholesome family out of your house. However, today, you started out your day with an agenda. Not just aimless chaos anymore, no, that clearly wasn’t working with these people. Instead, you’d laid out a plan. As much as you hated doing so, you were going to make contact. Clear up some things verbally, communicate your feelings like the sensible 100-or-so-year-old adult you were. And then you’d threaten their lives and hope they left. Bulletproof plan right there.

Recently, Ed had been moving things around. Renovating, "modernizing" things, changing the house from how you had known it. And you were at your absolute wits end. Nobody touched your stuff. And especially not kooky would-be ghost hunters.

You rumbled your way up the stairs, making as much noise as possible on your way, as you’d made a habit of doing since this all begun. Your footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor as you made it up to the second story of the sizeable home, where you then moved down the hall. This would be the room that the pair had now apparently claimed as their own. It made you grimace and scoff softly, before pushing open the door and slamming it hard behind you, hopefully calling attention to your attendance. Your mother’s old room. Still as it had stood, which was lucky you supposed. If that man had laid even as much as a hand on your mother’s furniture you would’ve surely sent him tumbling out one of the windows by now. Now that you thought about it, you were surprised you hadn’t done that yet. Idea noted down, you thought.

Lorraine was nowhere to be seen in the large bedroom, and you stood for a moment, wondering. It was early in the morning, but the pair had proved to be quite the morning people. Yet another thing to be annoyed about. Only psychopaths get up this early, you were sure. But Ed had gone to the gardens, you could see his silhouette through the dusty windows, working away with the overgrown gardens; which had been left entirely up to the wits of nature since your untimely death. Which was then subsequently followed by the departure of your family and refusal by locals to move in. Your doing, of course.

But your eyes then fell on the half ajar door leading to the ensuite bathroom, and you could hear the quiet hum of a faucet, before it was swiftly turned off, replaced by the sound of bare feet on tile. Well, that explained the empty chambers.

For a moment you paused, considering whether postponing your confrontation might be the right choice. You were a ghost not a pervert after all, and you didn’t choose to remain forever wandering earth just to spy on women showering. Though you quickly brushed off the idea. You had a mission for God’s sake, and you were no wimp...

And so, you quickly crossed the room and slipped into the bathroom. There you were grateful to find the apparent psychic at least half covered by a fluffy, white towel, so you were spared the awkward decision of whether to cover your eyes or not. She appeared relaxed, meaning she most likely hadn't caught sight of you yet, otherwise she'd be less calm, that was for sure. So you decided to proceed, and you let your ghostly form glide past her to inspect the room while she stood before the mirror, plucking in her earrings. When you had satisfied your own curiosity, and made up your mind, you came to a halt, standing behind her like a looming monster in a cheesy horror flick, glaring at her through the reflection of the wiped down mirror.

You had been left in mostly the same condition that you had taken your last breaths in, if a bit diluted, not entirely solid. An echo left behind from a former person, flickering and halfway ebbed out. Like rings in water, slowly disappearing. And so, you hoped that the sight of you in your bloodied up night clothes would frighten her enough to take you seriously once you spoke. Like a Bloody Mary of sorts.

The room was left in a thick silence for a beat, the only sound being that of the jingling of chandelier earrings as Lorraine struggled to place them just right. Perfect like always. It only made that all-to-familiar warmth rise up inside you, like water boiling in your lifeless veins. A sensation that you dismissed as anger. Not… Anything else. Nothing weird.

Then you spoke; “This isn’t your house.” It was a whispered statement, a soft, bristling assertion with all of your conviction behind it. Lorraine didn’t react immediately, and you found yourself momentarily put off by the calmness. Had she even heard you? Had you misjudged her entirely? Perhaps she wasn’t a psychic at all and you’d only mistakenly locked eyes that first time, it had all been a chance occurrence. Nothing more. But then for once she was the one who surprised you and not the other way around. The wrong way.

In a swift, elegant turn of movement, she tilted her head towards you, and faced you, eyes once more meeting like they had back then. You wondered how your expression looked to her. Surprised? Confused? Or angry? Preferably the last one. You didn’t get to wonder for long before she too spoke. “You're right. It's not. Bit it’s not yours either. Not anymore,” she uttered calmly, though with an ever present apprehensiveness behind the carefully crafted veneer of calm she put on.

"But there's something is keeping you here, isn't there. Why is that?" She asked with a genuine compassion, a desire to help. Her kindness made you want to both cry and gag all at once. She spoke as if you were simply another person, in any other mundane situation. Just a painfully normal, tranquil morning with birds chirping away outside the bathroom window, likely building their nests this time of the year. Just like they had likely been doing this exact day, all those years ago when it had been your mother changing in this bathroom.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m alive! You know that I’m not. I never sold this house,” you snapped at her with a sudden defensiveness, your frustration coming off you in waves that you were certain she could sense on you easily. You wore your emotions like a second skin, and really, with your current state, it was the only tangible thing you had left. And in any case, calm and adjusted people who could control their emotions while alive, likely didn’t become ghosts. People like you became ghosts. Angry people with unfinished business.

“No, I know you’re not alive. That's the problem. You shouldn't be here. So, what is it you want?” Lorraine then surprised you once more by asking matter-of-factly. And you could practically see before you how your expression must look to her, as you were left stunned into silence, eyebrows furrowed in utter bewilderment. What did you want? What did you want? In your 100 years of death... How dare she. How DARE she make you question your own motives!

“I- I do not want anything from you! I want you out of here is what I want! Nothing more!” You quickly rebutted, refusing to stand down from your initial objective. Once more you attempted to put on a brave face, glaring her down. But all you got in response was a small quirk of her lip, turning into what could only be described as an amused expression. She was entertained it seemed. Entertained by you. Infuriating...

And in your indignation, you scoffed and took what was supposed to be a threatening step towards her, your fingers itching to reach out and shake the woman violently, though you refused to lower yourself to such lows. Your mother had raised you right, in spite of the rather unfortunate end which had met you. And you would not lay your hand on another person. Only, perhaps Ed. And even with him, you were only throwing things at him so technically you weren’t exactly making direct contact. “I have every right to be here! This is my house, psychic!” You asserted once more, narrowing your eyes into angry slits as you stared her down. Another beat of silence, and Lorraine simply quirked a slim eyebrow, and placed down the makeup powdering puff she’d been dabbing her face with, to instead face you fully.

“Then show me around.”

☆═━┈┈━═☆

(A/N: This is a little taste test! <3 Tell me if I should continue this series!)

#astrids2th #fanfiction #wlw #reader insert #vera farmiga #the conjuring #lorraine warren #vera farmiga x r #vera farmiga x reader #x reader #lorraine warren x r #lorraine warren x reader #the conjuring movies #lesbian #x you

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chosaraki · 2 days ago

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The mechanical heart

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Jaegyeon Na x R.femele.

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Y/n With Luffy style energy from One Piece

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Busan still smelled of smoke and betrayal. The ground vibrated not only because of the nervous engines in the streets, but also because of the tensions between gangs, kingdoms, and old broken alliances. But there, away from the chaos and the eyes of James Lee and the "kings", there was a place that seemed to stop in time.

A simple workshop, full of grease, laughter and an old radio that played Korean trot music mixed with Japanese pop from the 80s.

There she was.

With her fingers stained with oil, a jumpsuit tied at her waist and an elastic band on her wrist, Yuna - the daughter of master Han, the soul of that workshop - worked smiling as if the world had never collapsed on her.

- "Dad! Bring the carburetor from the van! This one is giving piti!" - she shouted, with the energy of someone who had just won a prize.

His younger brother ran by with a wrench almost bigger than him. The mother did the math at the entrance table, trying to keep the prices fair as always.

They weren't rich. But they also didn't let anyone leave there feeling that they were exploited.

It was in this scenario that Jaegyeon Na stopped her impeccable car - the famous Initial N - right in front of the workshop.

- "Tch. Don't touch it." - he murmured, pushing a boy who was wiping the hood with a little dust.

Yuna ran to him, jumping. His mechanics boots jingled with the silly keychains hanging. A cherry, a teddy bear, a miniature of Initial N itself.

- "Eeei, look at the delicacy, king of Incheon! You're going to break my helper like this!" - she said, giving him a light punch on the shoulder, dirtying his expensive T-shirt with a grease finger.

He frowned.

- "You soiled my... Saint Laurent."

- "I'll get you dirty, but I'll fix you too." - she blinked.

Jaegyeon felt an intense desire to roll her eyes, but something in him simply... relaxed with her.

Her family was different. They knew who he was. They knew who he was with. They knew the blood, the fame, the anger.

But there, he was just a demanding customer with a loose screw and an electric girlfriend.

While Yuna was lying under the car, squeezing a piece, Jaegyeon sat near the entrance, crossing her arms, watching everything. Her father passed him with a slight nod.

- "Do you want coffee?"

- "No."

- "You're going to take it anyway." - and left the glass next to him.

Yuna muttered some invented music, hitting her foot on the floor as she worked.

- "You know, if you let someone move this steering wheel, maybe it would stop locking."

- "If someone touches this steering wheel, it will be with one hand less."

- "Fear~." - she sang.

After a few minutes, she left under the car, took off her gloves with snats and put her hand on her waist.

- "Ready. Now Initial N is better than new. But I'll charge extra."

- "Extra why?"

- "For having to deal with your ugly face for an hour."

— "...I pay in silence."

- "And I charge in kisses." - she smiled.

Jaegyeon looked away.

———————

That afternoon, two men from another workshop in the region entered with arrogance. They had heard that the "King of Incheon" was there, and they wanted to impress - or intimidate.

- "Hey, Jaegyeon. Did you need some adjustments? We do something better than these kids here... for a more... realistic price."

- "Realistic like you charge 500 thousand for an oil change?" - Yuna replied, without any fear.

- "Girl, mechanics is war, not charity."

- "Maybe for you. Here we don't tear off anyone's liver."

- "You want to know—?"

Jaegyeon got up.

I didn't say anything. It just stood still.

His cold look and simple presence have already caused a heavy silence. The guys took a step back. One of them tried to laugh.

- "Relax, king. It was just a joke."

- "The grace is over." - Jaegyeon said.

They left.

Yuna looked at him.

— “You didn't need—”

- "They were making noise. I hate noise."

- "I think you just didn't want them to speak ill of me."

- "Shut up."

She smiled even more.

———————

When night fell, and the other family members were already collecting the tools, Jaegyeon was still there.

Yuna brought an old blanket, threw it over it, and sat next to it.

- "You could smile more."

- "You could talk less."

- "But I smile. And you keep coming here."

- "...Because you are the only person in this rotten place who still looks human."

She looked at him with an almost childish glow.

- "You are too. But you hide behind a car with a rabbit sticker."

Jaegyeon looked at the Initial N and... almost... almost let a corner of her lip rise.

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

- "As long as you let me fix your car... I think I can also try to fix you."

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The workshop was already closed.

Lights off, tools saved, the radio finally silent.

Just the sound of the soft wind passing through the open windows and someone's heart beating a little harder.

Yuna was sitting on Initial N's hood, her legs swaying, jumpsuit open to the waist, showing the tight blouse underneath, stained with grease and sweat. She held a can of soda, and her face still had traces of energy that never died.

Jaegyeon was leaning against the car, next to her, arms crossed. Observing.

- "Do you want to know what's funny?" - she asked, smiling.

- "...No."

- "You are my most boring client, most demanding, most full of manias and... you are the only one I let touch me with my hand dirty with blood or oil."

He looked at her sideways. Jaegyeon's eyes always carried a natural tension, as if each blink calculated the weakness of the world. But there, in that stuffy garage, he blinked slower. Less defensive.

She threw the can away and slipped off the hood, stopping right in front of him. So close that the smell of grease, cheap perfume and watermelon gum stuck in the air between the two.

- "You're ashamed, Jaegyeon?" - she provoked, raising her face to look into his eyes.

- "I'm never ashamed."

- "Then kiss me."

He stared at her. For a few seconds, the whole world seemed stopped.

And then... he obeyed.

His hands held her waist tightly, pulling her hard, but carefully. The kiss started dry, fast. But she smiled against his lips, and that made him loosen up.

Yuna threw herself against him, her arms around her neck, her legs intertained between his, as if she wanted to glue the bodies. The whole workshop seemed to melt around them.

- "You're my favorite car now." - she whispered, laughing against his lips.

- "If you call me a car again, I'll leave you without brakes."

- "Promise?"

He pushed her against the hood gently, climbing over her, kissing her neck with intensity. She laughed, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, guiding, as if she knew exactly what to do to dismantle the most dangerous man in Incheon.

- "You're all closed on the outside, Jaegyeon..."

- "And?"

- "But inside... you just need someone who knows where to press."

He kissed her again. Long. Deep. As if you needed her to breathe.

There, between tools, parts and engine smell, Jaegyeon Na - the cold king of Incheon - was no longer a legend.

He was just a man in love.

By the grease-stained hands of a girl who smiled like the sun.

And for the first time...

He was willing to let himself be dismantled.

—————————————————————————

Jaegyeon Na, the cold and eccentric king of Incheon, falls in love with Yuna, a cheerful mechanic and in love with what she does, who has the vibrant energy of Luffy.

While he lives between strategies and threats, she lives to fix engines and smile without fear.

She is not intimidated by his icy look or his reputation - she just wants to take care of him as she takes care of the cars: with attention, firmness and love.

And he, little by little, puts aside his armor of pride to surrender to a new, raw and true feeling.

In the midst of Busan's chaos, they are each other's refuge.

He's in control.

She is freedom.

Together, they are like engine and fuel: explosive, but made to work side by side.

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Imagine and request for: @bia-chan347

……………………………………………………………………………

#lookism imagine #lookism x reader #lookism #lookism x you #fanfic #lookism manhwa #lookism webtoon #looksim #anime #lookism imagines #lookism spoilers #lookism imagine #jaegyeon na #lookism incheon #Incheon

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keeps-ache · 6 months ago

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i have Thoughts

#just me hi #i'm gonna ramble now check this out Lmaoo:#ofc any major belief built on hating someone sucks. like fundamentally #and mostly the idea is that you would be protecting yourself and the Similar-to-yous (which is U-2.0)#and it's confusing like. what do you get out of this ?#ik there's the satisfaction. the deep feeling of security you get in your stomach believing that you're right and your anger is purifying #that you're somehow anointed for persecution by Words and Actions you see through the other side of a water glass #and i don't know what i'm tryna say. i'm confused hjfshvgh #of course there's fear. there's a lot of fear. but it's very selfish fear. the kind that makes you protect others because they're Just like #you #and i dunno. what's the point ? so you hate somebody. that's cool :)#how can you love people then. do you love people because they are people or because they have faces you wish you had ? or you can see faces #on them that may not be there ? or they say your face can be like theirs if you only try and never stray ? or that you've had this face all #along. why change? you can't change it's wrong #i dunno man. this makes no sense !!#isn't it always scary to hate everything ? i know it is #like yes the world hates everyone anyway but what is special about that ? what makes this fear worth so much more than another person ?#i dunnooooooo ♪#maybe im just naive! but holding onto somethin like that until you find solace in misery is no way to be baby! i'm gonna go eat snow outsid #//anywhoooooooooo i AM drawing. and that IS in fact a lie i've been procrastinating on it for some timeeeeeeeeeee ggoroughhhhhhhhhhhh LMAO #i don't wanna :( but i REALLY wanna you get what i'm sayin hfshjgjfsh #it could be so easy.. life could be a dream life could be a dream... doo doo doo doo ba dee...... ♪#i need to find an animal for this though and i don't wanna 😔 i do hate this part of the process jfhgfjghjsf #don't like.. researching animals..... it's Not fun lol #but i must prevail. because it's inevitable that i do :/ oh wells #so i'm gonna GO and watch my VIDEO and have a SNACK and DRAW :33 because i WANNA. okey doke hjfshgs #TOODLES 💫💥#//edit: also lowkey i feel like hate is too weak word for this kinda thing ykno? like damn what's got the gates of hell open dude chill Lol #okay BYEEE

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freakalot · 4 months ago

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letting gojo fuck you raw might have been a mistake, especially now that he wants kids..☆

(part 1 here)

yes—it felt good. heavenly, even. feeling him fill you up without a contraceptive barrier between you might overlap an ego death on the life-altering-experiences venn diagram.

but now your boyfriend throws a tantrum whenever you tell him to wrap it. he pouts and whines and stamps his fucking feet like a child at your child-preventative measures. he’s too tall to act like a toddler—if you didn’t secretly enjoy the pining you’d hit him upside the back of his head and tell him to stop sulking.

“we’re too young to be parents,” you’d tell him as he rubs his uncovered cock through your folds, from your entrance up to your sensitive clit and back down.

his counter? “the earlier we start, the longer we have to try for more.”

“maybe youre forgetting the whole ‘jujutsu sorcerer, could-die-at-any-moment' thing?”

“are you forgetting that i’m the strongest? plus, i think i’d look hot saving the world wearing a baby carrier… not that i would endanger our kid like that. bad point, ask me a new one.”

“we aren’t playing trivia.”

“cmon,” a tap of the head of his cock to your clit. “humour me.”

“alright, children are fucking expensive.”

“babe, you’re not serious—you do know i’m filthy rich, right? capitalism fears me. i’m like that rich disney duck with the top hat and—”

you point a finger in his face. “put a goddamn condom on or you’re banned from sex for a month, scrooge.”

and he blinks, pretends to be offended at how responsible you are, and then falls into an easy smile because sex with you is more than enough for him. when he sinks into you, condom-covered or not, he falls a little bit more in love each time.

but it is not the same and you know it.

the weight of him on top of you is the same. as is the snapping thrusts of his hips into yours and the gentle circles he traces over your clit and the way he moans your name once he’s sheathed fully inside of you. it’s the same.

but it’s not the same as taking him raw. it’s not the bulge of his veins against your velvet walls. nor is it the beading precum at his tip dripping inside of you, or the filthy fucking drawling moans he lets out when he fills you to the brim.

“you’re so beautiful,” he's moaning like he's in heat. completely enthralled with every aspect of your being, satoru groans and moans and snaps forward into you like he's trying to breed you regardless.

and you're so full, stretched to your limits with his cock pulsing inside of you, but you don't feel satiated like you could. you've tasted it once, the feel of his cum spilling into you, the knowledge of what it could do to you. to him. he would look good as a dad. god, him holding a baby in his arms...

"pull out."

gojo stops immediately at your words, blinking the lust from his eyes in an immediate shock change of expression. he's looking you over, making sure you're not in any pain, before pulling out of you completely with no questions asked. he's always been good like that—sure, he'll whine about wearing latex but he'd never push you past your spoken limits.

"you wanna stop?" he asks gently, already reaching for a washcloth to wipe you down with. his eyes watch you carefully, obsessed with your interest and comfort: you have to stop yourself from laughing at his panic. "we can watch some TV or go to bed or i could make you—"

his words die in his mouth when you reach down to his still-hard cock and slowly pull the condom that covers it from the top. it slides from his length with a little resistance before finally pulling over the head and snapping back at your hand with a subtle sting.

"fuck me," you meet his eyes.

"what? you said—"

"satoru. fuck me. breed me, even. how many other ways do i have to put it? i want you to fuck a baby into me."

he blinks again. no witty comment, no awful smirk or joke about being a dilf. you've gone and rendered satoru speechless. when he does finally move his lips, it's not to dirty talk you like expected.

"we aren't married."

you can't help but laugh. "what?"

"i'm going to marry you first, and then you are going to make me a dad. i have it all planned out, babe, we can't have drunk honeymoon sex if you're pregnant. though you would look fucking beautiful on a beach somewhere with a baby bump. god now i'm conflicted."

"you have it planned?"

the thought of satoru planning this out hits you, him thinking about a future with you, a ring on your finger, embracing the stress of parenthood together so well that when the kids move out and you're old and grey, you abhor having a silent home.

"so are you going to propose or not?" you look at him.

again, he blinks. "right now?"

"why not? do you have a ring?"

satoru looks at you, smiles, and slips off the bed—still naked—to reach into the bedside drawer. a small black box sits in his top drawer, ironically under a pile of condoms. he holds it in his hand and returns to you with a kiss to your knee, and then one to your inner thigh, and another just above your clit. he works his way up your stomach, of course stopping to bite at your nipples when he reaches your chest, and then presses himself fully against you once his lips find yours.

when he pulls away, you're met with the sight of a ring you had pointed out to him months ago. had he really been planning this long? "i knew i was going to marry you on our first date," he says, but then counters, "actually, that's a lie. it was when i tasted that sweet pussy of yours for the first time, but that's not as romantic."

you smile, bracing yourself for a long-winded speech when satoru suddenly pushes the tip of his now-uncovered cock inside of you. you gasp, and he swallows it with a kiss before taking your hand in his and slipping the ring down your finger with a breathy; "will you marry me?"

"yes," of course, is your answer. which warrants a sudden deep thrust from your now-fiancé as he bottoms out inside of you.

"yeah?" he nips at your neck. "you'll marry me? gonna make me a dad too, huh? gonna fill you up, baby, gonna breed you out and—"

"i thought you said—"

"changed my mind. now, lift your legs up: you're not leaving this bed until i've knocked you up, pretty."

#gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo

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xenosagaepisodeone · 18 days ago

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I've seen what happens when people Get Worse. I've orbited a lot of people who Got Worse (especially online). If you listen to people who Got Worse it's all the same: they don't have consistent, meaningful social support, they've been hurt too many times and they can't open up out of fear that the next betrayal is going to drive the knife right through the artery, they end up spending too much time alone and develop secret languages, meanings, thought cycles completely inscrutable to anyone who has never had to rely on such rituals to survive, they get caught in a cycle of reopening and licking their wounds because the progression of time is so unrewarding and stagnant that the past is basically always the present, and the present is already the future, they become mean, they become strange.

some people might offer to help them but it's rare they ever know where to start, let alone exhibit compassion without grimace. admittedly, even for genuinely compassionate people, it isn't the easiest thing. if the person is someone who is stuck in their ways or doesn't know you, they don't really have a reason to be receptive to your help. "why should I waste my time on someone who is just going to become another memory of heartache? someone who will carelessly hurt and abandon me?" and such. an earnest attempt to help can feel like an attempted assault to them. at the same time, the meaningful interpersonal relationships that these people need will not survive if built on pity or fleeting self-gratifying feelings of "building" someone into your idea of a desirable person.

I don't know where I was going with this, but I always found it hard not to see myself as only a few degrees removed from these people. one or two safety nets separated from being completely trapped. unable to feel safe in not just the world but also my own body. a cosmological dead end. I stay away from habitually engaging in the obvious things can that make trying to change when you're at this point difficult (alcohol, drugs, etc), but if temperance is how you maintain stability in the face of rock bottom, you're basically already there, right? you're there and your body just hasn't caught up. maybe I'm just being dramatic because it's late. hows everypony finding the new deltarune chapters.

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yanderedrabbles · 4 months ago

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I'm thinking about a huge ex-warrior of a yandere. Big and bulky and all too familiar with bloodshed. You'd think years in the king's army would have hardened him, made him callous and cruel. But that's not true at all.

An ex-warrior yandere who cares so much about preserving life because he knows exactly how fragile and easy it is to take. A huge, scarred, mountain of a man who gets soaked to the waist in the dead of winter to save a drowning kitten. Who holds the shivering, mewling, runt of the litter in his hands with a gentleness you've seldom seen.

An ex-warrior yandere who doesn't even eat meat anymore. Who doesn't accept work slaughtering and butchering pigs when the holiday season comes around, even though folk offer him good money for his strength.

A good man, despite it all. Too good for you.

War is a terrible thing and you end up a prisoner almost entirely on accident. Said to be a spy though you're nothing more than an unlucky commoner who angered the wrong people.

He ends up a prisoner too, hauled off the battlefield when he's too injured to put up a fight. Just another prisoner of war, a dime a dozen. He's thrown into the duke's lockup and forgotten.

Whatever fate had in mind, you end up in the same dungeon. Cells next to each other, with nothing to do but tell stories and shiver.

It's miserable there. The gaolers are cruel for the sake of it. The meals are scant, the drinking water not much better. It's the sort of place where dying is considered the lucky option. And maybe you'd have given in, the both of you. Just closed your eyes and let your bodies waste away.

But unlike so many others, you have each other.

You can't see him and he can't see you. All either of you have is a voice in the dark. And somehow, that's enough.

Maybe you manage to escape together or maybe the Duke is defeated and his prisoners liberated. Whatever the case, he's right by your side when you step into the sun again.

How many years has it been? When was the last time you saw the sky?

You were sweet once. Kind, gentle. But years in the lord's prison have changed you. You're sharp and prickly now, slow to trust and even slower to forgive.

An ex-warrior yandere who sees the hurt under all your layers of indifference. Who decides right then and there, that first moment in the sun, that his one goal in life is to keep you safe.

An ex-warrior yandere who says he'll be your guard until you reach your destination, wherever it may be. You're weak, you're unfamiliar with the changes in the world. Anyone can come along and take advantage of you.

An ex-warrior yandere who follows you with a sort of quiet, implacable devotion. It doesn't matter if you're prickly or sharp tongued or so ruined that you fear your heart is forever frozen over. He'll always be there - two steps behind you to guard your back.

You try to send him away. Try to tell him you didn't need a guard dog. He just looks at you and says he's not going anywhere. Not forceful, but gentle and firm. He isn't leaving you, not when you're so scarred from the war that most days you don't speak more than five words to anyone.

It's baffling. Why does he care about forgotten detritus like you? What good will it do? He's still strong, still handsome despite the scars. He can still have a normal life.

But no. He chooses you.

Chooses to walk with you from one village to the next. Chooses to sleep rough even though folk offer him work. Chooses to endure the rain and the cold and the long nights spent sleeping on hard ground.

"Why?" you ask him time and again. "Why follow me? Why make me your purpose?"

He looks at you over the fire, a small, slanted smile on his face.

"Why do you think?"

You can't quite manage to puzzle it out, though anyone who sees him at your side can almost immediately tell.

Eventually, you settle down. A broken down old cottage at the edge of the woods. A place the villagers are all too glad to hand over. Better you than the vines, even if your eyes do frighten them.

An ex-warrior yandere who fixes the cottage for you, brick by brick. Who cleans out the overgrown garden and trades his labour to buy you seeds. Violets and lilacs and daffodils. Mint and thyme. All the plants you told him you missed the most when you were locked away.

An ex-warrior yandere who spends his evenings sitting next to you at the hearth, not speaking much, just resting his head on your knees and carving wood. Thinking how lucky he is to have this bit of quiet. That all the years of war and captivity were well worth the price if it means having you.

An ex-warrior yandere who slowly heals the broken parts inside you. Who teaches you to watch the sky and the path of the birds. Who teaches you to breathe deep when the nightmares come. Who sits awake with you when you're too afraid of your past to sleep.

An ex-warrior yandere who tells people in the village that you're his wife, even though you've never even kissed. When you ask him about it, he just shrugs his massive shoulders and says it's safer that way. And it's only the trees that know the truth - he calls you his wife because he likes the way it sounds.

For a while, things are good. You tend your herbs and make your tinctures. For a while, he believes he's put his sword behind him for good.

But your past follows you. The angry lover who called you a spy, maybe. Or a lord who isn't satisfied that his secrets are safe with you still around. Whatever the case, they come at night. Watch you, wait for their chance.

You don't notice them, too focused on your brews and potions.

But he does.

When evening comes, he picks up his wood ax and tells you he wants to bring back a few more branches for the night.

"But we've got plenty. And it's dark."

He smiles then, warmed by your concern.

"I won't be gone long, dove. Just a short walk. Keep the food warm for me."

And it is indeed a short walk. He catches them by surprise, awfully quiet for such a big man. They don't even have time to scream or grab their swords before he's cut them all down.

An ex-warrior yandere who wipes the blood off his face and inspects the blade of his ax.

"Ruined," he sighs. "She'll give me hell for it, I hope you know that."

The cooling corpses have no reply.

An ex-warrior yandere who returns home with a stack of firewood and a bunch of wildflowers.

You take them from him and breathe in their perfume.

"Lovely. Thank you."

That makes him smile again. Look at you, saying thank you. Accepting his gifts. It's been a long road to get here. If he closes his eyes he can still see you on that first day, too bitter and angry to even say please.

The flowers fill your whole cottage with their wild mountain smell, and you don't notice the faint trace of blood underneath the perfume. And if he has his way, you never will.

An ex-warrior yandere who swears off his old life. Who swears off violence and death and blood. Unless it comes to you.

He'll burn villages to ash for you. Cut so many throats he can drink the blood like water. He's a good man, but for you he'll throw it all away.

And those who are stupid enough to try it? To hurt the only good thing he's ever had?

Well, they find out awfully quickly exactly what happened to the Butcher of Brostick. They learn awfully fast that a man can change his name, but it's a much harder thing to change his nature.

An ex-warrior yandere who is the kindest, sweetest man you've ever met. Who doesn't raise his voice or pick fights. Who's always at your side when you need a place to lay your head. Who loves you with the deep, immovable devotion of an oak reaching for the sun.

An ex-warrior yandere who always washes the blood off before he comes home.

#Inspired by Blackthorn and Grim by Juliet Marillier #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #reader insert #x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x you #male yandere #yandere x darling #Yandere warrior #Soft yandere #Fem reader

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kominigiru · 1 month ago

Text

he wishes for the cloths of heaven.

summary: You’ve lived through his descent into obsession countless times, through fire and ash, through the birth of the man you fear he will become. And in every cycle, Phainon doesn’t remember. Until he does.

contains: 3.2k wc, gender-neutral reader, yandere phainon, time loop, regression

fic masterlist

[01]: ENTRY HOUR

It always begins the same way.

You’re in the market, standing at the heart of the square as if summoned there. A crowd surrounds you, murmuring with low excitement, their eyes bright with awe and ignorance. They speak in half-whispers; about the man on the ground groaning in pain, and about the hero standing over him like judgment given form.

You look down. The stranger clutches his ribs, coughing between gasps after having been punched to the gut. You remember this part. He’d brushed past you earlier, jostling your bag, maybe trying to take a coin or two. But he never got the chance. He always never will.

You already know how this goes.

Phainon stands before you. He’s beautiful in that tragic, unbearable way. Familiar. Haunting. Comforting only because once, a long time ago—or maybe in a dream you keep reliving—you know him.

Or thought you did.

Or still do, in that aching, slow-poison kind of way.

He sees you. He always sees you.

There’s no trace of blood on him. No soot or scorched scent—as if violence has never dared to touch him. He turns to you, holding up the small cloth bag you dropped. The fruits you’d bought earlier, still nestled inside.

You don’t move. You’ve done this too many times.

His head tilts just so, the smile staying carefully in place—but his eyes flicker, uncertain. There’s always a moment where something falters in him. Like he’s waiting for this loop to be different. Like he knows.

“Hey…” he says. And then, with such sincere concern that it used to tear at you: “Are you alright?”

You answer the same as you always do, voice too smooth from repetition. “Yes, thank you.” A pause. “Sorry.”

(What are you apologizing for? Dropping the bag? Running too late into the day? For what will come?)

You’ve tried changing the script before. You’ve snatched the bag and bolted. You’ve ignored him entirely. Once, you told him to leave you alone.

You always wake up the next loop with ash in your lungs.

Delaying it is the best you can do now. Stalling him with politeness. It’s the only thing that buys you time.

Phainon’s smile stretches, and the gleam in his eyes sharpens. You see pride there. Relief. Devotion—so bright that it burns. As though your words were something sacred, and he, the ever-faithful priest, has been waiting all day just to receive them.

Your stomach coils. Your heart flutters in your chest, treacherous and weak. There’s a warmth that spreads inside you—slow, crawling, and wrong.

(It disgusts you.)

You take the bag. His fingers brush yours. The touch is light, but you feel it like an ember pressed to skin.

“I was worried for a moment,” he says. “You looked pale.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

Phainon eyes you like he wants to believe that.

The crowd behind you is dispersing, now that the performance is over. The groaning man has been dragged away by guards. Another faceless thief punished. Another small disturbance silenced.

He walks beside you now. You don’t remember starting to walk, but somehow you’re moving down the cobbled path, and Phainon is there, matching your pace.

“You always carry too much on your own,” he says, gesturing at your bag, tone light, teasing.

You manage a polite hum, clutching the bag tighter.

And then, soft as ever, he says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

The words knock the breath out of you. Not because they’re unexpected—he always says them—but because they never lose their weight. They fall on you like stones, each one heavier than the last.

He doesn’t know—doesn’t remember—that you’ve lived this moment a hundred times before. But you do.

And every time he says that, he means it. Like he’s aching for you. Like he’d burn the world down just to see you smile again.

(And one day—soon—he will.)

“I’ve been busy,” is what you always say.

You don’t remember when you started giving that answer—only that the truth became harder and harder to find each time you looped. Once, maybe, you gave him a different response. Something honest. But that was in your first life, a hazy memory blurred by ash and time. You were a different person then—softer. Naive.

You barely remember that version of yourself now. That first life feels like a dream slipping between your fingers, too distant to hold onto.

Phainon’s expression doesn’t shift. He wears the same understanding look he always does when you say those three words. The same gentle smile, the one that once felt like sunlight and now presses like a knife around your throat.

You used to love that smile. Now it just terrifies you.

Because you’ve seen what lies beneath it. What it becomes when devotion rots into obsession. When love sharpens into something that cuts.

“Teaching the children, right?” he says.

You nod, too stiff.

The script continues.

You can almost recite his lines along with him. Sometimes he teases you—“I’m starting to think they’re stealing you from me,”—and sometimes he drifts into memory, speaking of those student days beneath Professor Anaxa’s guidance, when everything was simpler and he didn’t look at you like the world ended and began in your eyes.

This time, he doesn’t say either of those things.

And that should’ve been your first warning.

He’s quiet a moment too long. You feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unfamiliar in its stillness.

Then…

“Do you not get tired?”

Your body locks up.

Your breath stills.

Your heart thunders.

He has never said that before.

Everything else has looped like clockwork, minor variations aside. But this line—it’s foreign. It doesn’t belong. It’s like hearing a wrong note in a melody you’ve memorized, jarring and wrong in a way that sends ice through your veins.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean…?”

Phainon meets your gaze, and something in his expression has changed. There’s no confusion. No soft amusement. Just a quiet, unreadable calm that makes your fingers tighten around the bag you’re carrying.

The street around you fades into background noise—the shuffling feet, the clatter of carts, the merchants haggling. It all feels far away now. Too far.

“You work so hard,” he says gently. “You wake up before the Lucid Hour. You teach all day. You give and give and give. Do you ever think of stopping?”

Stopping?

You can’t speak. There’s something stuck in your throat. You feel as though you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and he’s just taken a step toward you.

Your fingers tremble.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know,” Phainon murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You have me. I’d take all of it from you, if you let me. The work. The weight. The burden.”

The choice, you think, but don’t say.

Because he doesn’t mean help. He never has.

You’ve heard this voice before—not here, not now, but after. After he becomes the man that you will fear. After the city burns. After you beg him to let someone live and he smiles and says, “Why does it matter? You’re safe. That’s all that ever mattered.”

Your throat is dry. You force a smile. “I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

“But does it make you happy?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer. And somehow, you know he’s not expecting one.

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the warmth of the sun on him, and beneath it, faintly—smoke.

“I think,” he says slowly, like tasting the thought for the first time, “you’d be happier if you didn’t have to pretend.”

Your stomach sinks.

Something’s wrong.

He’s never spoken like this before. Not in this part of the loop. Not with this kind of clarity.

You step back without meaning to. He notices.

A beat passes.

Then Phainon smiles again, gentle and knowing.

“You’re scared,” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sad. As if your fear is the only thing in the world that could ever wound him.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Maybe not you, but everyone else—he has. He will.

You’ve seen it.

A thousand endings where fire blooms across cities. Where blood coats his hands and your name spills from his lips like a prayer.

You swallow. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says softly, stepping aside.

You walk away. You don’t run. But your mind screams at you with every step.

Something changed.

You don’t know how many more loops you’ll endure.

The Curtain-Fall Hour slips quietly into the Entry Hour, and like every time before, you wake with the same bitter awareness tucked beneath your skin:

You will live this day again.

And again.

You rinse in silence. Your eyes are hollow in the basin’s reflection, like you’re watching someone else go through the motions. But the moment water touches your face, you’re brought back.

Children. Teaching. Routine.

That is your anchor. That is what keeps the world from spinning out of control.

You towel off and set to work, peeling and slicing the fruit Phainon had retrieved for you yesterday—the fruit that should have been stolen, had he not intervened.

You grimace.

His name alone sends a tight ripple down your spine. You hate how even thinking about him can still stir emotion. And worse—familiarity. You hate the way your fingers still remember the shape of his hand brushing yours. How your chest still reacts like it did the first time, when his love felt like sunlight and not fire.

You refocus.

Small slices. Bite-sized. Easy to chew. You’ve done this hundreds of times—maybe more. You know the measurements by heart. The right sweetness that will make the children smile.

By the time Lucid Hour glows through the windows, you’ve baked enough fruit cookies to feed a full class. You tuck them into a woven basket, along with a book or two.

You step out, prepared for normalcy—needing normalcy.

But normalcy is a luxury that has long abandoned you.

You always meet them near the Court of Seasons. And when you arrive, the children are already there.

And so is he.

You freeze the moment you see him.

Phainon stands with the children, cloaked in soft laughter. His snowy hair gleams in the sunlight, his posture relaxed and regal, yet casual. The children giggle around him, tugging at his sleeves.

It should be picturesque. It would be, if not for the twist in your gut.

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s never here during this time. This hour is always yours—yours and the children’s. He should be at the palace or riding across Amphoreus on duty. In every loop before, he’s absent until midday at the earliest.

Another deviation.

Your throat tightens.

When you step closer, the children notice you immediately, and the quiet thrill in their voices momentarily cuts through your dread.

“You’re here!”

“Good day!”

“What are we reading about today?”

You manage a small smile for them. “Good morning,” you say gently. “I brought something sweet today, since you’ve all been doing so well.”

Their excitement renews, loud and bright.

And then—Phainon turns.

He’s already smiling, but when he sees you, it deepens—bright and full, like the kind of smile carved into marble. You’ve seen that smile before, so many times.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, as if it’s been longer than a day. “I was waiting with the children for you. They’re really good kids.”

“They are,” you say cautiously, casting a glance toward him.

The children chime in again, voices overlapping.

“Of course!”

“Our teacher taught us to be well-behaved!”

Phainon laughs—and you hate how natural it looks. How convincing. His upper body shakes slightly with the motion, and you catch the way he glances at you mid-laugh, as though gauging your reaction.

You don’t smile.

“You’re not busy today?” you ask, voice careful. Your grip tightens around the basket.

His answer comes too fast.

“No,” he says, all ease and affection. “I made sure I had free time today so I can spend it with you.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out at first. You force something neutral.

“You didn’t have to… trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Phainon replies. His gaze lingers too long. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your stomach twists.

Wrong. This is wrong. This is too early.

He shouldn’t be this close again yet. Not until the week’s end. Not until the dream burns out and resets again. But here he is, planting himself into your quietest hours.

You glance at the children. They’re already picking out books from your basket. One tugs at your sleeve.

“Can we read the one about the lion that swallowed the sun?”

You kneel and nod. “Of course. That one’s a favorite, isn’t it?”

Phainon lowers himself slowly beside you, uninvited. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, head slightly tilted.

You hand the child a cookie and feel your skin prickle as Phainon’s hand brushes near yours again. Not touching. Almost.

His hand stops just short of yours.

You stare at his open palm, hesitant and confused. There’s no trace of malice there, not in the way his fingers hover so gently, or in the slight curl of his wrist like he’s trying not to reach too far.

“Can you give me some, too?” His voice is soft, almost pleading. There’s a tightness in it. Something like longing. Something like loss.

You blink at him, incredulous. “These are for the children,” you say, tone flat.

He tilts his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Well, can’t you spare a few for a friend?”

Friend.

He says it so gently. So deliberately. Like he’s testing it. Like he’s waiting to see if it feels wrong to his own ears.

You stare at him for a few moments, gaze unblinking. There’s something pathetic in the way he’s crouched beside you, palm outstretched, expectant. Something childlike and pitiful. It’s almost surreal—he, the one who would one day set the world on fire for your sake, looking at you as though this is what he truly wants. A sweet from your hand.

You sigh.

You reach into the basket and pick out two biscuits. You press them into his open palm.

“I will only give you this much and no more,” you tell him, eyes hard. “You understand?”

With his other hand, he lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Yes, teacher!”

There’s laughter from the children around you, who seem to think he’s being silly. They don’t notice how tightly he holds the cookies—how he almost crushes them with his hand. They don’t see how his smile flickers for a fraction of a second, like he’s about to say something else—something not meant for this moment.

You don’t give him the chance.

You turn to the children, your voice warmer now—on purpose. “Who else wants cookies?”

Their hands shoot up with cheers and excited chatter, and the next few minutes are spent in a whirl of handing out treats and books, settling them down on the blanket. You read aloud, letting the familiar rhythm of the story wrap around you like armor.

And Phainon?

He sits beside you the entire time. Silent. Patient. Watching.

He doesn’t eat the biscuits.

He holds them in his lap, fingers curled protectively around them as though they’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for just a second, you risk a glance his way.

His eyes are on you.

You quickly return to the text, trying not to let it show—the thrum in your veins, the fear that’s blooming slow and heavy in your chest.

The script is slipping.

The lesson ends as it always does—with the children full of laughter and crumbs, chasing each other, their minds still buzzing from stories and sweets.

You pack the blanket in silence. The books are neatly stacked. The empty basket rests in your arms like a final weight. And then—

“I’ll walk you home.”

You freeze.

Phainon stands beside you with that easygoing smile.

“…You don’t need to,” you say, your voice careful, light. “It’s a short walk.”

He only tilts his head. “I know.”

You blink. “Then—”

“But I want to,” he interrupts, taking a step closer. “It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

You grip the handles of the basket tightly.

No. He shouldn’t know the way.

“Phainon,” you start, tone low. “You have duties, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “It can wait a little longer.”

You swallow thickly. “You’ve never said that before,” you murmur, as if testing the words.

He stops. Blinks once. Then smiles wider. “Haven’t I?” It’s innocent. A tease. But it isn’t.

Because his voice dips—just slightly—into something heavier. As if he’s catching up to himself. As if a thread has pulled taut somewhere behind his eyes, tugging at buried things.

You don’t reply. You just start walking. And, of course, he falls into step beside you.

The path is quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the hush of wind through the trees, the soft clicking of your shoes on the stone path, the creak of your basket as you hold it tighter and tighter.

Phainon walks with his hands behind his back. He hums a little, like he’s trying to pretend this is all normal. Maybe for him, it is.

“You used to hum that,” he says suddenly, voice gentle. “When you cooked.”

Your steps falter.

You never hummed that song in this life. Not even once. You haven’t sung it since—since before—

“…That’s not possible,” you whisper.

Phainon turns to you. “What’s not?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You focus on walking, faster now, hoping to outpace the dread growing inside you.

“I missed this,” he speaks, unprompted, again. “Walking with you. Watching your shoulders relax a little, when you think no one’s looking.”

You stop. You stop walking entirely.

Slowly, you turn to face him.

His eyes are shining. Soft. Full of something—longing, ache, a grief he doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Phainon,” you say, and your voice comes out hollow. “What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his smile falters.

Then he leans closer, head tilted, like he’s peering through you instead of at you. And in a voice so quiet it could be mistaken for prayer, he murmurs, “I keep seeing you die.”

Your blood runs cold.

He tilts his head the other way, searching your face, eyes glassy now. “I don’t know when. Or how. Sometimes it’s fire. Sometimes it’s… worse. But you’re always gone. And I’m always too late.”

You can’t breathe.

“And every time I see you again,” he adds, his voice breaking into something raw, “it’s like I’ve finally come home—until I remember you leave me.”

You stagger back.

He doesn’t follow.

He just looks at you, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Why does that keep happening? Why do I keep waking up without you? Why does it feel so real?”

This time, you run.

[02]: LUCID HOUR

crossposted on ao3!

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #phainon #phainon x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere phainon #yandere phainon x reader #🍙 ely writes

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verstappenverse · 13 days ago

Text

In Every City, It’s Still You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After weeks of hiding your fears that Max cheats on the road, your confession leaves him heartbroken that you think so little of his love. (Requested)

2.2k words / Masterlist

Max's texts come in at 2:13 a.m.

Landed. In the hotel now. I miss you.

Try to sleep.

Talk tomorrow. Love you.

You stare at your phone for a while, the bluish light casting sharp shadows over your face in the dark room. The words are sweet, comforting even, but they don’t settle the unease coiling low in your stomach. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.

You type, Miss you too. Sleep well, and hit send. But it feels... hollow.

It’s not him. Not really. Max hasn’t changed, he still texts you every time he lands, still calls you baby in that low, tired voice that makes your heart ache. But something around him has shifted, and you feel it all the way from home. The messages feel like a thread stretched too thin, too tight, trembling, like it might snap if you pull just a little harder.

Because it isn’t the distance anymore. It’s everything else.

It’s the way girls throw themselves at him in the paddock every day, effortlessly pretty, sun-kissed, always laughing too loudly when he’s around. The influencers in the hospitality suites who watch him like they already belong to him, cameras flashing like they have something to prove. The blonde in Canada who sat on the pit wall like it was her throne, perfectly poised and knowing exactly where the lenses were. The brunette in Imola who wore Max's number on her cheek like it meant something personal.

And you were... here. Alone in bed, scrolling through tagged photos with a growing ache in your chest and a nauseating swirl of insecurity you couldn't quite explain.

You know Max loves you. He told you. He shows you. But some nights, like tonight, you can’t stop the slow, creeping doubt. The fear that love isn’t always enough when you aren’t there. When someone prettier or bolder or more his world is.

You turn your phone face-down and blink hard into the ceiling, trying not to cry, because it isn’t him.

It’s you. Spiralling.

And you hate that you can’t stop.

It isn’t like Max has ever given you a reason to doubt him. He doesn’t flirt. He isn’t sneaky. He never makes you feel small or uncertain. He makes time for you, even when he’s exhausted and halfway across the world. He calls when he says he will. He texts when he’s landed. He checks in between meetings, between media, between practice sessions.

But even the most reassuring routines begin to feel fragile when you spend your nights alone, scrolling through social media feeds that turn love into a ticking time bomb.

On Twitter or TikTok it’s like cheating wasn’t just a possibility, it was a guarantee. People talk like it’s an open secret. Like all of them do it. Like staying faithful is a joke, not the norm.

And you hate how easily those posts get under your skin.

One comment in particular has lodged itself somewhere deep in your brain, rotting quietly.

You think any of them are faithful on the road? They’ve got girls in every city babes. You’re just the one they come home to.

You remember reading it in bed, the words hitting harder than you ever wanted to admit. You’d stared at it for too long, re-reading it like it was some kind of warning meant specifically for you.

Maybe it isn’t about Max. Maybe it’s just a bitter stranger talking from experience. But what if it wasn’t?

What if Max is different without you, surrounded by constant temptation and girls who don’t hesitate?

What if all the love you give to each other at home isn’t enough to hold his attention in Singapore, or Brazil, or Vegas?

What if you’re stupid for thinking you’re the exception?

The thought makes your stomach twist, hot and cold at the same time. You hate yourself for even questioning him, but the doubt creeps in anyway, quiet and venomous. Because love isn’t always louder than fear. And lately, fear has found a voice you can’t ignore.

It comes out on a random Wednesday.

Max has a few days off and is finally back in Monaco with you, curled up on the couch, wearing sweatpants and eating cereal out of the box like he’s a college student and not a multiple world champion.

You’re quiet, distracted, picking at the hem of your sleep shorts while some Netflix show runs in the background.

“Babe?” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been weird since I got back from Canada.”

“Have I?”

Max sits up a little straighter, the playfulness gone. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow, staring at the bowl in your hands. You don’t meant to say it, but maybe you need to.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter than you expected. “I sometimes wonder what really happens when you're away.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

You feel your heart begin to race. There was no easy way to explain it, no version of this that wouldn’t hurt him. But keeping it inside had only made it worse. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to look at him, to see the confusion on his face.

“Okay… just don’t take this the wrong way,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls. All the time. At afterparties, on boats, in clubs. They throw themselves at you. And I know you say you love me, I do, I hear you, but…”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Max, people like you… you have options.”

Silence.

You keep going, even though your throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not. I just, I’ve seen what people say online. About how no driver, no athlete stays loyal. That it’s just how it is. That they all cheat. That it comes with the territory.”

You glance up again, and what you see in Max’s eyes feels like a punch to the stomach. Hurt. Pure, disbelieving hurt.

He stares at you like you’d just slapped him.

“You think I cheat on you?” he asks, voice low, almost stunned.

You flinch. “I don’t know. I think… I think maybe you could. One day. And I wouldn’t even know.”

He stands up so fast the phone on his lap clatters to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, how could I not take that the wrong way?” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You really think that little of me? You really think I’m capable of looking you in the eye and lying to you like that? Of touching someone else and then coming home to you like nothing happened?”

Your heart drops. “No, Max, that’s not—”

“You think I’m out there fucking around in every city I go to?” His accent thickens, voice rising with disbelief. “That I land and what? Just start looking for a warm body?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, pacing now. “You just implied that for all this time what, you’ve been sitting here imagining me cheating on you and not telling me?”

Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to seem insecure.”

“You’d rather just assume I’m a liar?”

“No, Max, fuck—no. It’s not like that. It’s not even about you, it’s... God, it’s not even logical, okay?” You were scrambling now, words tumbling faster than your brain could sort them. “It’s just there’s this stigma, okay? That athletes are cheaters. That they all are. And I guess some part of me thought that was just… part of the deal.”

Max stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So because other people fuck up their relationships, I’m guilty by association?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You are, though,” he snaps, stepping back like your words burn. “You’re saying you don’t think I’ve done anything, yet, but you’ve already decided I probably will.”

“I’m saying I’ve seen it happen!” you cry. “To people who swore they’d never do it. Who looked just as in love as we are.”

Max stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling.

Then, quietly, “You think I’d put you through that?”

Tears well up in your eyes. “No. But I’m scared that you could. That one day I won’t be enough.”

“You think I’d just wake up one day and decide you weren’t enough?” he asks, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “That I’d throw us away for what, something easy? Something empty?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whisper. “But it’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, don’t get too comfortable. Saying people like me don’t keep people like you.”

Max looks like he wants to yell or be sick. His fists are clenched, jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

Then, just as suddenly, his face crumples.

He sits back down.

And says, more softly than you expected, “I love you.”

You sniffle. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, a barely-there fracture that makes your heart squeeze. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like the words were caught on something sharp on their way out. He looks down for a second, just a flick of his eyes, then back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, more deliberately this time. Slower. Like he wants you to feel every syllable. “I love you.”

His hands ran over his thighs before curling into loose fists again.

“Like… when I’m away, I go to bed early because I miss you,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And I mean physically miss you. Like my chest fucking aches and everything feels too quiet and I stare at the ceiling hoping you’ll call even though I know you’re asleep.”

You blink, stunned by the rawness in his tone.

“I check my phone like an idiot,” he goes on, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Every five minutes. Just to see if you sent a stupid meme or said goodnight again. And if you didn’t, I reread the last thing you said. Because it makes me feel closer to you.”

You feel your eyes start to burn again, but he isn’t finished.

“When I come home and you’re here? It’s like—” He breaks off, searching for the right words, his brows knitting together. “It’s like I can breathe again. Like I stop being whatever version of me the rest of the world expects and I just… exist. As me. As yours.”

He let’s out a breath, slower this time. Measured.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what some idiot online thinks is ‘normal’ for a driver or a man or anyone in this life. I don’t care what the stereotype is. I don’t need a club full of models or some yacht party to feel important.”

His gaze locks onto yours, eyes fierce but tender.

“I don’t want options. I want you. You’re it for me. You always have been. And I need you to know that. Not just hear it, not just nod and say okay know it. Because I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t want one.”

He exhales, like saying all of it left him exposed in the best and worst way.

You wipe at your cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice hoarse. “Do you have any idea what it does to me to think you’ve been carrying that around? That you’ve been hurting because you’re afraid I’ll leave or stray or whatever the fuck people think drivers do?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair to you. I know that.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not. But I get it. I do.”

You look up.

“I’ve seen what fame does to people,” he says. “I’ve seen guys ruin good things for a pretty face and some attention. And I hate that you’ve had to wonder if I would do that to you.”

You feel like the smallest person alive. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “Not the version of me that strangers make up. Me. The guy who texts you at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing from you. The guy who thinks about you twenty-four seven even when I’ve got a million other things to focus on. The guy who looks at other girls and doesn't feel a damn thing and only thinks, ‘none of them are you’.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I do trust you, I’m just terrified of losing you and—” you whisper, “I just let the noise get in my head.”

He pulls you into his chest.

“Next time it gets loud in there,” he murmurs against your hair, “you come to me. Let me be louder.”

You nod, arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I love you so much.”

Max presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine. You hear me? I don’t want anyone else. Never have. Never will.”

You let the truth of that settle into your bones like warmth.

Maybe people will always talk. Maybe they’ll always be stories and rumours. Maybe they’ll always be stereotypes and assumptions and endless temptations.

But you aren’t dating a stereotype.

You’re dating Max.

And Max? He only ever wants you.

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luna-azzurra · 9 months ago

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Some Tips for writing internal conflict

Wanting Two Things at Once Imagine your character really wants to chase after something big, like a dream school, a major opportunity, or maybe even moving to a new city. But at the same time, they’re terrified of leaving behind everything they’ve ever known. Or maybe they’re in a relationship that’s holding them back, but they can’t bring themselves to let go. Show them getting pulled in two directions, torn between their ambition and their fear of losing the people or places that ground them.

Right vs. Wrong Sometimes, your character will know deep down what the right choice is, but it’s the most difficult one to make. Like, maybe they see someone getting bullied and know they should stand up, but doing so could make them a target. Or maybe they have to decide between helping a friend and doing something that could ruin their own future. These moral dilemmas create intense internal conflict because it forces them to question who they are and what they stand for.

Doubting Themselves We all have moments where we wonder if we’re enough, smart enough, strong enough, brave enough. Let your character wrestle with that same doubt. Maybe they’re the kid who has always been told they’re special, but now they’re in a place where everyone is just as good, and they start to wonder if they even belong. Or maybe they’ve been through something tough, and they’re not sure if they can bounce back. These moments of insecurity make your character feel human, like they’re trying to figure it all out, just like everyone else.

Dreams vs. Fears Show your character dreaming big but getting frozen by their own fears. It’s like wanting to ask someone out but being terrified of rejection, or wanting to move away for college but being scared to leave home. Let them imagine all the things that could go wrong , that moment when fear makes them doubt if they should even try. But also show their desire burning just as strong, making it impossible to ignore. That’s the heart of internal conflict: they’re stuck between wanting something so bad and being afraid of what it’ll cost to go after it.

Beliefs Being Challenged As your character grows, the world will start challenging their beliefs. Maybe they grew up in a family that drilled certain values into them, and now they’re meeting people who see things differently. Or maybe they’re experiencing something new, and it’s changing their perspective. It’s like when you think you have everything figured out, and then life throws something at you that makes you go, "Wait, maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time." This kind of internal conflict is powerful because it forces the character to question who they’ve always been.

Keeping Secrets If your character is hiding something, like a mistake they made, feelings they’re afraid to admit, or a truth they don’t want to face, that secret becomes a huge part of their internal conflict. The fear of being found out or of dealing with the consequences can create a constant pressure in their mind. Maybe they’re scared they’ll lose their friends if the truth comes out, or maybe they’re dealing with guilt they can’t shake. The tension comes from their battle to keep it hidden while knowing they can’t keep it locked away forever.

Pressure from Everyone Your character might feel like they’re trapped between what they want for themselves and what everyone else wants from them. It could be pressure from parents, who have their whole future planned out, or pressure from friends to fit in or follow the crowd. Maybe your character wants to be true to themselves, but they’re scared of disappointing people or standing out too much. This kind of internal conflict is super relatable because, at some point, everyone feels like they’re stuck between living for themselves and living for others.

Fear of Failing Sometimes the biggest obstacle isn’t the external challenge but the internal fear of failure. Your character might have big dreams, but they’re paralyzed by the thought of messing up. Whether it’s competing in a sport, performing on stage, or just trying something new, the fear of not being good enough can be overwhelming. Maybe they’re afraid that if they fail, everyone will see them differently, or worse, that they’ll see themselves differently. The internal conflict comes from their desire to succeed battling against their crippling fear of failure.

#writing #writerscommunity #writer on tumblr #writing tips #character development #writing advice #oc character #writing help #writer tumblr #writblr #writing prompt #novel writing #creating ocs

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itneverendshere · 1 month ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SEVENTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of mental and physical health issues.

In a matter of days, your bump decided to take on a life of its own.

You'd looked the same for months —nothing that screamed months pregnant. Then, last week, something inside you had clicked into place, your belly suddenly rounded out. There was no denying it now; there was no more wondering if you were bloated.

You looked pregnant.

Seven days ago, you were still able to fit into your regular jeans, brushing off the snugness as a result of a big lunch. And now, your belly recognized the timeline and proudly announced, there’s definitely a baby in here.

It was wild how everything changed overnight. Shirts that fit fine last week suddenly rode up like crop tops.

You were already at the hospital every week—more than most—hooked up to IVs, getting poked and monitored. You were exhausted, but better, lightheaded on good days. The bump showing up so suddenly only added to the fear. You found yourself blurting out questions to your doctor, "Is this normal? Because it doesn't feel normal."

She always said yes. Or some version of it. A nod, a glance at the monitor, everything was textbook. But your chest stayed hurting long after the appointment ends.

You haven’t left the house in five days, except for your hospital visits.

You haven’t sat on the steps or cracked open a window wide enough to feel like you're still part of the outside world. You were hiding from the looks, the questions. From yourself. From the surreal curve of your stomach that had hijacked your reflection.

Sarah hasn’t been able to come around—work, shifts, life—and you haven’t let her see a single picture. On the rare occasions she brings up the baby, you change the subject. You say, "Fine," and send a blurry photo of your hand instead. You don’t want her to see it.

You haven’t seen anyone.

Rafe checked in every other day, like clockwork, texting. He asked if you needed anything. You said no. You always said no. If you didn’t want him at your appointments then, it was worse now. You couldn't stomach the idea of him seeing the bump. Of him looking at you and the thing growing inside you, forming a shape under your skin, and yanking you out of the life you once knew.

You knew it was stupid and weak. And kind of pathetic, honestly.

You told yourself that a dozen times a day, a mantra meant to snap you out of it: You couldn't hide forever. But the thing was—there were still months left, and you already felt like you’d hit some breaking point.

You’d been ordering food and whatever else you needed. Groceries, toiletries, overpriced juice you didn't like—anything to avoid setting foot in a public space. The idea of running into someone you knew, or locking eyes with a stranger in the cereal aisle, felt like a nightmare.

Your staff hasn’t been around much since you found out you were pregnant. You paid them like nothing’s changed. They came once a week now, and you made sure you were nowhere to be found when they’re around—either gone or locked in your room, a lonely ghost in your own house.

But today, it changed.

You woke up and the sun felt less hostile through the curtains.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for too long, hoodie lifted enough to see the curve of your belly. It was bigger than yesterday. Or maybe you were looking harder. You pressed a hand there and decided you were done being scared like this.

You were done letting the fear do the driving. You couldn’t stay locked away until your water broke or one of you died—God, no. Even if it was just for groceries, you wanted to try. You needed to.

So you called Sarah.

You didn’t overthink it, which was new. You chewed on your sleeve while it rang. She picked up, breathless, with loud background noise.

"Hey babe! What’s up?"

“Hi.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, and the background noise started to fade; she was moving somewhere quieter. “You sound weird. Tired-weird. Sad-weird.”

You half-laughed, eyes burning. “That obvious, huh?”

“Kind of,” she said gently. “You’ve been MIA. I figured you were nesting or something, but…” She paused. “Is something wrong? With you? With the baby?”

You shook your head before you remembered she couldn’t see it.

“No. I'm fine. He's fine too, as fine as he can be when I’m the one growing him."

“Hey,” she scolded, not unkindly. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not—” You stopped mid-sentence, rewinding. Trying again. “I’ve been hiding. A lot. I haven’t been out.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that. You don’t text back or answer my calls.”

“I’m sorry.” You sighed, rubbing at your face as the guilt settled on your shoulders. “I want to go outside. The store, something normal.”

Sarah brightened instantly. “That’s great!”

“But I… I don’t want to do it alone.”

Her voice softened. “Of course. I’ll come with you. When do you wanna go?”

You bite your lip. “Now. If you’re not too busy.”

There was a pause, and you knew the answer before she gave it.

“Shit,” she groaned, clearly torn. “I want to so bad, but Poguelandia is slammed. We’re short-staffed, JJ fucked his leg up, and there’s already a line out the door. I haven’t sat down since eight a.m. I’m so sorry. I literally haven’t even peed in four hours.”

You tried not to let the disappointment win. “Oh. No, it’s okay. I figured.”

“I can try,” She insists. “If I leave now, maybe I can swing it—if I skip lunch and—"

“No,” You cut in, “Seriously.”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll get someone to cover—”

“Sarah.” You took a breath. “I love you, but please. Don’t stop working because of me. If you drop everything, I’m gonna feel worse.”

“You sure?”

You smiled, even though your eyes were burning again. “Not even a little bit. But I think that’s okay.”

“I hate saying no,” She muttered. “I hate that I can’t be there. But…”

You tensed up, pulling the sleeve of your hoodie over your hand.

“…I do know someone who can.”

You go quiet.

“Sarah…”

“Hear me out. He’s been texting me, asking if you need anything. He’s been trying to respect your space, but also losing his mind because he doesn’t know how to help. If you called and said you wanted to go walk into traffic, he’d probably volunteer to drive you.”

You let out a dry chuckle. “That’s comforting.”

“I mean it,” She insisted. “He’d show up in a heartbeat.”

You leaned your head against the wall. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” you repeated, “My bump. It’s showing now.”

You could practically hear her blinking through the line.

“Wait. Since when?”

"Last week," You let out a breath. “I woke up and—bam.”

“Oh my God,” she gasped. And then again, breathier this time. “Oh my God.”

You could picture her hand flying to her mouth, the half-spin she probably did when she got excited.

“I wish I was there,” she breathed. “I want to see you.”

You shut your eyes, fighting the sudden tears. “It’s not cute, Sar.”

“I didn’t say it was cute,” she scoffed. “I said I want to see you.”

You didn’t want to be seen like this, swollen and pale, hoodie hanging off your frame. And your stomach—this round, undeniable thing you couldn’t suck in or pretend away anymore.

“I thought I had more time. To ease into it.”

“That’s why you’ve been inside.”

It wasn’t a question.

You sank further against the wall, socked feet curling on the floor. “I’m falling out of my skin.”

“It’s okay that it freaks you out. You’re allowed to feel whatever you want.”

You finally exhaled. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do this.”

“One step at a time,” she said, warm even through the phone. “Starting with this one. Groceries. Hoodie on. Sunglasses if you want. One aisle.”

You closed your eyes, “If I call him… if he comes… he’s going to look.”

“If you wanted him to rip his eyes out, he would.”

You blinked.

“I’m not kidding,” Sarah added, “He’d walk with his head down the whole time, hands tied behind his back, take a vow of silence, whatever. If it made you feel even a little safer.”

Your throat closed up, a laugh tried to force its way out but died on arrival.

“I don’t want him to have to do that,” You said quietly. “I don’t want to feel like a freak show.”

"You are not a freak show," Sarah said, sounding insulted. “You’re pregnant. And scared. And beautiful, by the way, but I won’t push that one right now.”

Your hand drifted to your stomach without thinking.

“I don’t want to go with him.”

“I know.”

“But I want to go.”

“I know.”

You were quiet for a moment, chewing on the inside of your cheek, unsure if agreeing to this made you brave or desperate.

Sarah seemed to feel the hesitation swell on your end of the line, so she added, “If I could send one of the Pogues, I would.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” She said. “But… they don’t know.”

“Oh. Right. I didn’t tell them.”

“It’s a lot. And they love you, but—yeah, it’s a lot.”

You rubbed your temple.

“It’s not like this is something you just drop in a group chat.”

You snorted. “Guess not.”

You swallowed, eyes moving to the mirror across the room—a sliver of your reflection visible, your shape under the hoodie. You didn’t want to shut people out. But every part of you had folded inward the second your body started changing, and you didn’t know how to stop it.

Sarah’s voice came back. “So… Rafe?”

You closed your eyes.

“Yeah. Fine. Tell him.”

Cameron Development. 3:17 PM.

Rafe was two seconds from throwing his fucking clipboard through the drywall.

"That doesn’t go there," He snapped at one of the newer guys on site, not looking up. His pen scraped across the paper harder than necessary, carving through the thin report sheet. "Jesus Christ, y’all can’t read labels now? It’s marked clearly, in red—RED, Sean.”

Sean stammered something behind him, but Rafe had already turned, muttering under his breath about incompetence, how he couldn’t keep babysitting everyone to get basic shit done.

His shirt clung to his back from the heat, his boots were caked in mud from the storm last night, and his patience was nonexistent. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten.

He hadn’t seen you in days.

And it was killing him.

You were always good at acting fine over text, but Rafe knew the difference between your fine and “fine.” He couldn’t tell through a screen if you were tired or biting your nails again.

“You okay, Rafe?” someone asked cautiously, probably Dan or Tyler—he didn’t care who anymore.

“No,” he bit back without missing a beat. “But thanks for asking.”

He hated this version of himself, that let everything build up until it spilled onto the wrong people. He disappeared back into the trailer and slammed the door behind him so hard the hinges rattled.

He leaned over the desk, head hanging between his shoulders, taking a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to help. His hands were gripping the back of his neck.

This was exactly what Dr. Sanders warned him about.

The outbursts, the impatience.

How his frustration got in the way of everyone who didn’t deserve it. No one should be punished for his shitty mood—especially not some fresh-hire kid just trying to do his job. He’d been doing so good, with weeks of keeping his voice level, reminding himself to step away when things got too loud inside his head. And now here he was again, snapping over labels and yelling at people who were trying to help.

His phone buzzed.

Sarah.

He stared at it for a second before answering. “What?”

“Chill with the attitude,” She snapped right back. “I’m calling for a reason.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose. “Sorry. Bad day.”

“No kidding,” she muttered. “You’ve been biting the head off everyone down there?”

Rafe didn’t deny it.

He sighed, annoyed, eyes on the ceiling. “What?”

“I need a favor.”

His stomach dropped so hard it made his head swim.

“Did something happen to her?”

“No,” She added quickly. “She’s fine. She...she’s not doing great.”

Rafe sank down into the chair. “What do you mean not doing great? What’s that mean? Be specific, Sarah, I swear—”

He bit the inside of his cheek. He’d tried. Called, texted. Waited when you didn’t answer. Backed off when Sarah told him to give you space.

“She’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” Sarah confirmed. “She wants to go out. Grocery store or something and she doesn’t wanna go alone.”

He sat forward. “She said that?”

“Yeah,” Sarah replied, “I can’t go—Poguelandia’s insane right now. There’s a line out the door. But I figured… maybe you could?”

He was already grabbing his keys. “Where is she?”

“She’s home,” Sarah confirmed, “Don’t pressure her, okay? She almost didn’t call. She’s been going through it. Be gentle.”

“I am gentle,” he snapped.

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to whoever you just yelled at.”

“They can’t do shit, Sarah.”

“Rafe.”

He sighed, dragging his palm down his stubble-covered jaw.

“I’ll be cool,” he muttered.

“You better be.”

Rafe didn’t bother to hang up properly; instead, he shoved the phone in his pocket and dashed out of the trailer, boots crunching gravel as he headed for his truck. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Let Dan or Tyler or whoever pick up the slack for once.

You hadn’t answered his texts with more than one-word replies in four days.

It’s insane to remember, back when things were good, you would leave voice notes in the mornings, call him out of the blue to complain about traffic, shitty coffee, or the weird commercial you saw.

Now, you didn’t want to go to the grocery store unless someone was with you.

You never asked for help, not when your car wouldn’t start, not when you had a fever, not even when you got a flat tire at midnight.

You were stubborn, hyper-independent. The fact that you asked for company meant that something was wrong.

None of this knowledge, however, prepared him to see you.

Oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder and the swell of your belly—your, his baby, right there, growing—so obvious now that you weren’t hiding it behind hoodies or blankets or clever angles.

Rafe stood there, blinking like a fucking idiot.

Holy shit.

That was his kid.

It didn’t feel real until this second. Not even when he felt it for the first time. Seeing your bump—round under that stretched cotton tee—sent him down a rabbit hole between awe and panic.

You squinted at him.

“If you’re gonna stand there and stare the entire time, you can leave.”

That got him out of his stupor.

“No—sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice came out fast, defensive, hands already up. “I wasn’t—I mean. I didn’t mean to. I just… wow.”

He had to drag his gaze back up before it got disrespectful. You looked good. No—you looked insane. He wanted to compliment you, tell you how fucking unreal you looked right now, how bad he wanted to walk up behind you, press his hands to your stomach and kiss your neck. But that would get him a punch and a restraining order against him.

Your brow ticked up.

Rafe scratched the back of his neck, stepping inside when you didn’t slam the door in his face.

“You look…” His lips parted, closed, parted again. “You look—pregnant. Not bad. Not bad pregnant. I mean, you look—you look good. You look like—like a mom.” He made a strangled noise. “I’m screwing this up.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“I meant that in a nice way,” He mumbled, defeated by his brain.

“I’m sure you did,” You brushed past him toward the couch.

Rafe wasn’t staring in the stunned, silent, holy-shit way anymore. He was watching how you moved a little slower, hand resting under your bump as you loweredto grab your purse. Your breath faltered a little when you adjusted it on your shoulder, pressing the edge of your thumb into the small of your back without thinking.

He’d missed so much.

You looked at him expectantly. “Let’s go.”

“Oh—right.” He stepped back, forgetting how doors work. “Yeah. Grocery store. Got it. Let’s go.”

You arched a brow at him as you locked the door behind you.

“Seeing you like this.” He gestured vaguely at your stomach, still not looking directly at it like it might cast a spell on him again. “It’s—I don’t know.”

You opened the passenger door and shot him a tired look. “You gonna cry in the produce aisle?”

Rafe snorted, almost indignant. “What? No.”

In a matter of seconds, he was already by your side, hand out, ready to help you into the passenger seat.

“I got it,” You brushed him off with a roll of your eyes.

Rafe didn’t back down. “You shouldn’t have to.”

One of your dainty hands was already gripping the doorframe as you started to hoist yourself in.

“Watch me.”

He hovered anyway, hand out so he could catch you midair if you so much as wobbled.

“Stubborn,” He grumbled under his breath, not loud enough for a fight but loud enough for you to hear.

You settled into the seat with a small wince—barely noticeable unless someone was paying very, very close attention.

Rafe was paying attention.

Your eyes flicked to him. “See? Fine.”

“Mmhm,” He wasn't convinced, reaching in to buckle the seatbelt before you could swat him away.

You narrowed your eyes in annoyance.

“You gonna bubble-wrap me next?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

You shook your head, settling into the seat with a wince.

“Wait—does it hurt?” He crouched, hand halfway extended toward your stomach, but hesitating. “Sitting? Standing?”

“Rafe,” you warned.

“What?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “I’m just asking.”

“Drive.”

He backed off, hands up again like you were pointing a loaded gun at him.

“Okay. But you gotta tell me if something’s wrong, alright?”

You sighed as he closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side. Once you were on the road, Rafe glanced at you out of the corner of his eye every five seconds.

“You sleep at all?”

You shrugged.

Rafe tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “Do you need anything around the house? How's the treatment?"

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

His face dropped.

This was why he didn’t push. You had a way of cutting through bullshit with a single sentence, and even now, with your delicate tone and your eyes on the horizon, it still hurt like a bitch.

He was jittery and wide-eyed the entire drive. This was more than a ride to the store, this was you not shutting him out. This was you, in his truck, after so long.

“I’m not trying to,” he said quickly. “I’m not. I swear.”

Rafe drove with one hand on the wheel and the other twitching in his lap, dying to reach for you but knowing better. He put on your old playlist, passed the turn to the fancier store on the north end and drove straight to the quieter one near the marina, where you wouldn't have to deal with crowds.

Once he parked, he turned toward you fully.

“Do you want me to come in with you, or—?”

Your eyes flicked to him. Finally.

He saw it.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Please.”

That please just about ripped his spine out.

He would've gone even if you’d called him every name under the sun. Would’ve shown up if you told him to eat shit and die. He’d crawl through glass if it meant he got to be near you like this—You were here, and you’d asked him for something.

This alone felt like a second chance he didn’t deserve.

He opened the door without another word, rounded the truck, and reached your side before you could try to climb down on your own.

This time, you let him help. His hands were warm under your arms as you eased onto the pavement.

“Okay?” he murmured.

You nodded.

This was the type of shit he used to dream about in silence, lying awake at night with his face buried in your old pillow after crying more than he’d ever admit. Wondering if he’d ever be allowed back in ordinary parts of your life again. The boring stuff—the errands, the grocery runs. The seatbelt arguments. The way you pointed out the weird snacks he always bought.

"There's not a lot of people this time of day," Rafe said gently, clocking your silence. “But if it feels like too much—”

“I’m fine.” Your voice sounded flat.

Even if the store was mostly empty, there were people. And people had eyes and mouths.

As far as everyone knows, Rafe and you broke up months ago. You pulled your hood lower. That instinct to hide didn’t surprise him, but it crushed him all the same.

He fell into step beside you, arm brushing yours sometimes on purpose. Inside, there were a couple of older folks milling around. A teenage boy stacking cereal boxes. A woman with a crying toddler.

You tugged your sleeves over your hands and went straight for the carts. Rafe snagged one before you could, wheeling it behind you without a word. You glanced at him, eyebrows adorably pinched.

“What?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Let me be useful.”

Eggs. Milk. The prenatal vitamins you forgot last time. He didn’t flinch when he saw the label on the bottle, and dropped it in the cart for you with a nod.

You moved slowly, partly because your legs ached and because you were stalling. You didn’t want to rush when no one had paid you any attention yet.

Rafe walked behind the cart, guarding it, you. Shoulders squared, eyes always flicking around the aisles, ready to throw hands with anyone who so much as whispered something sideways. He caught how clutched your purse tighter, the sharp breaths you tried to hide.

At one point, a woman walked past, gave Rafe a long look, and then looked at you. She didn’t say anything, but you stopped. Went still.

Rafe was at your side in a second. “Hey.”

You swallowed. “She looked at me weird.”

He hated that you had to feel like this—hide so much.

“She looked at me weird.”

He kept close, shadowing your steps, the tension in his body never fully easing. Every time someone glanced at you, at the swell of your belly, he felt oddly overprotective.

It was no longer just about being in love. It was turning into something primal; his heart, his very soul, had been hooked and tangled with you and the little life growing inside you. And fuck if he wasn’t going to guard you both with every ounce of strength he had.

He caught up when you paused again in the juice aisle.

“Need help?”

You reached for a bottle on the top shelf—cranberry, your favorite—but it was behind a stack of other ones. You stretched, finger grazing the edge, a grunt slipping from your lips as you rocked onto your toes.

Rafe moved fast.

So fast, it startled you when he was suddenly behind you, one hand sprawled on your lower back, the other bracing your hip. He reached over you with ease, snatching the bottle like it was nothing, but he didn’t pull away immediately.

Your breath hitched.

“Easy,” he murmured, right next to your ear.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks hot. “I had it.”

“Sure you did,” He muttered, passing you the bottle. His thumb brushed your spine. “Not lettin’ you bust your ass in a juice aisle, alright?”

“I wouldn’t have,” you retorted.

When you turned to face him, you were closer than you anticipated. His hand dropped, but he didn’t step away. His gaze dipped to your mouth.

Dangerous territory.

Rafe’s throat bobbed. “You smell the same."

Your lips parted, surprise blooming behind your eyes.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Rafe had been this close before. That night at the gala. When everything went sideways and his lungs felt like they were filling with cement. He hardly remembered how he got outside, but you were there—hands on him, voice killing through the noise in his head.

He remembered your touch. But he hadn’t been able to get a whiff of your scent, not with a clear head and a heart pounding for an entirely different reason.

Now he could.

Your breath was mingling with his, and God—the same scent that used to cling to his shirts when you stayed over, it haunted his pillow for weeks after you left.

Warm. Familiar. Completely fucking overwhelming.

He swore your eyes flicked to his lips for the briefest second.

Rafe couldn’t look away. Wouldn’t, even if he should’ve—for your sake. Your chest rose and fell in measured breaths, and he stupidly hoped you felt it too. That same unbearable pull between two people who had been here before. Who had known each other too intimately.

Your mouth was parted a little, glossy. He remembered what it tasted like, how your breath hitched when he kissed the corner first, the way your fingers always knotted in his shirt—

Fuck, he wanted to taste it again.

Just one kiss. One slip.

His hand twitched at his side, inches from your waist.

One step closer, and he could feel you. The curve of you now, fuller, warmer, carrying something that belonged to him—

“Excuse me, young man?”

Rafe’s soul nearly left his body. Both of you jerked apart, like you were sixteen again, getting caught making out in church.

An old woman in a lavender sweater and orthopedic shoes was peering up at him, one hand on her cart, the other gesturing at the same damn top shelf.

“Would you mind grabbing me one of those apple juices?” She asked sweetly, oblivious to the tension thick enough to butter toast with.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, sure.” He cleared his throat, grabbing one for her.

Second juice save of the day.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, tucking it into her cart with a nod.

Rafe managed a polite smile, still in a daze. “No problem.”

The woman rolled away, humming to herself.

He turned back to you, but you were already looking anywhere but at him, biting your lip in a way that was going to make him lose it.

Neither of you said a word. He wanted to—shit, he wanted it so bad, for you to meet his eyes again, to look at him like you felt it, too.

Rafe stepped back and let his hands curl around the cart handle.

“You need anything else?”

You dropped the juice in the cart like nothing happened, face shuttered, voice absent as you said, “I still need rice.”

No softness. There was no trace of you, pressed against him just a second ago. You turned away, and he followed silently, shoulders tensed, feeling it slip.

That sliver of closeness now gone.

The wheels of the cart squeaked as they rolled over the linoleum, the only sound between you. Rafe kept behind you by a step, scared that getting too close might spook you. You only added things to the cart in silence. He observed how your fingers curled around the boxes and how your lips pressed together when you had to crouch or twist too far.

He meticulously catalogued everything.

Useless instincts—stupid, protective, tender ones—that wouldn’t shut the fuck up inside him. He wanted to reach for your hand in the spice aisle as if it was still his to hold.

But you weren’t looking at him anymore. He despised that he had been hoping for it—that desperate, pathetic twitch in his chest every time your head moved even slightly in his direction. Just like a dog waiting to be called. Fuck.

“Think that’s everything?” he asked, ignoring how his palms were sweating.

You nodded.

Alright. He’d wait.

At the checkout, he paid without hesitation. You didn’t argue.

Neither of you spoke as the cashier scanned your groceries, though Rafe handed you the bag with the eggs without asking—muscle memory. By the time the trunk was shut and you’d both slid into the car, the tension had mellowed down.

He started the engine, pulled onto the road.

A few minutes passed before he spoke.

“So… did you talk to Topper?”

He wasn’t looking at you directly.

His eyes were fixed out the windshield.

He knew. Topper had told him earlier in the week, he was his best friend, there was no universe where that conversation hadn’t already happened.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeated, like he hadn’t heard you the first time.

“We talked,” You said simply.

A stoplight turned red ahead, and he eased the truck to a crawl. He should’ve left it alone. But his mouth was already moving.

“He told you about Sofia?”

Your turned toward him instantly, startled.

“What?”

He glanced over, admiring how beautiful you looked when you furrowed your brows.

“You know?"

Rafe nearly laughed. It wasn't funny—okay, it was a little—but the sheer absurdity of it, the disbelief in your voice took the cake. Did you still think she meant something to him?

Rafe ran a hand down his face as you studied him, all wide-eyed and wary.

"Why wouldn't I know?"

Your brows creased further, "She's your ex."

"No," He clarified, "She's not."

He hated even saying it out loud, it sounded real fucking dumb now.

A half-assed attempt to feel something when he was trying not to think about you.

Rafe blew out a slow breath.

“You thought I’d care?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. You get weird about shit sometimes.”

“I don’t care that they’re talking.” His thumb tapped the steering wheel. “I care that you thought I would.”

"Can you blame me?"

No, he couldn’t. Of course you were going to assume the worst after the shit he pulled.

“Right,” Rafe bit down on the inside of his cheek.

The light turned green, but he waited before easing on the gas. You kept your face turned to the window, it was probably easier to talk to your reflection in the glass than to him.

You used to talk to him, say things. It was a sacred language, just for him. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, not to a beat, just to do something.

You moved beside him, adjusting your seatbelt so it didn’t dig into your stomach. He clocked that instantly.

“Seatbelt too tight?”

A small shrug. “It’s fine.”

Bullshit.

You shouldn’t be sitting like that. You should be lying down, with pillows under your knees, and someone taking care of you.

“I could buy one of those, uh, extender things,” he offered, “For next time.”

“I’m not asking for anything."

He kept his hands at ten and two, eyes fixed on the road. Every other second, he’d steal a peek, catch the side of your face in the window’s reflection, how your arms were folded across your chest even though the A/C wasn’t blowing.

“You cold?”

“I’m fine.”

It wasn’t true.

Rafe knew you were uncomfortable; you kept fussing in your seat, three times already.

“They got the good ice at that place. The chewy kind. You want me to swing back around, steal a cup?”

You gave him the smallest, driest laugh. “Gonna rob a Sonic now?”

God, he missed hearing your laugh, even like that.

“If you wanted it bad enough.” He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “We can talk, you know."

You clicked your tongue in annoyance.

“We’ve already talked about it.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t keep talking.”

You scowled at this nerve.

“And say what, Rafe? What could you possibly say that hasn’t been said?”

“I—fuck, I don’t know. I’m trying.”

A sound of disbelief escaped you.

“You weren’t trying when you left.”

He recoiled like you slapped him. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. You know what is fair?” You said, bitterly. “You walking around like this thing isn’t growing inside me. Like I don’t have to carry it and feel it and decide—”

You stopped yourself, biting your tongue hard. Closed your eyes.

Rafe’s voice dropped. “I didn’t walk away from that.”

You stopped yourself. Bit your tongue hard. Closed your eyes.

“I didn’t walk away from that. I’ve been showing up. Every day. I know that doesn’t erase how I left, but I’m trying. I want to be here. However you’ll let me.”

He heard you inhale—tight, restrained. Then you turned to him, eyes red-rimmed. You were still pissed, guarded. But you were looking at him.

And fuck, finally.

That stupid part of him—the one that wagged its tail every time you threw him a bone—lit up. He could live on scraps if it meant you’d look at him like that again.

Rafe meant it with every fiber of his body.

If you asked him to drive across the country for a specific brand of prenatal vitamins, he’d do it. If you wanted him to sit outside your door and not come in, just so you’d know someone was there, he’d do that too.

“I’m here. Even if it’s just to grab apple juice off the top shelf or to punch Topper in the face if he says the wrong thing.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes.

“There she is,” he teased, squeezing your leg gently. “Was starting to think I’d hallucinated that smile.”

“Don’t push it.”

He smirked, couldn’t help it , even if you were half-ready to rip his head off, it was better than that cold silence. He didn’t miss the way your eyes softened, that split-second slip where you didn’t hate him.

Or you still did, but not fully.

Rafe’s hand lingered on your leg before he cleared his throat and pulled it back, gripping the steering wheel again like his life depended on it.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m not really good at doing what I’m supposed to.”

You gave him a look, that familiar, flat stare. He knew you'd rather bite glass than admit he was charming sometimes.

“And what are you supposed to do, huh?”

Rafe glanced at you from the corner of his eye, not trying to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Thought that was obvious,” he said, casual, “Love you."

You scoffed, disbelieving—he was the one being ridiculous.

“Oh, go eat shit.”

He fucking loved you.

The laugh burst out of him before he could stop it, all teeth, not mocking, only helpless. You turned your face to the view again, but he saw the corner of your mouth twitching like it wanted to smile.

“You’re so—” you started, cutting yourself off with a frustrated noise.

You looked so fucking beautiful. That expression on your face, that shit wrecked him.

"Charming?"

You were flushed from the heat, cheeks warm, hair frizzy from the humidity, and still, all he could think was how unfair it was for you to look like that and not be his anymore.

“I was gonna say insufferable.”

“That too,” Rafe said, grinning. “Multifaceted.”

“Wow. You’re actually proud of that.”

“Course I am. You used to like that about me.”

"No, I tolerated it. Big difference.”

His tongue clicked against his teeth, turning onto the long road that led toward your neighborhood.

“Coulda fooled me. Especially that night after Barry’s party.”

He was feeling bold, sue him.

“That was a lapse in judgment.”

He bit back a smile, but it was in his voice when he said, “Pretty long lapse. Five-hour lapse.”

“Oh my fucking God."

He glanced over at you, head tilted. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m grimacing,” you corrected, poorly. “Because this is painful.”

You stayed still, only the sound of the tires on the road and the distant hum of the A/C between you.

But it wasn’t that bad anymore. He snuck a glance at your profile, the curve of your cheek, how you leaned into the door, but didn’t flinch away from him like earlier.

He wanted to tell you again—that he loved you, that he still loved you, that he wasn’t going anywhere—but he knew better than to say it twice in a row.

The phone buzzed on the dashboard, Rafe saw Sarah’s name lighting up the screen.

He held it out toward you. “Here. You wanna talk to her?”

You took the phone, and as you pressed it to your ear.

“Hey, Sar."

He missed the nicknames you used for him—the ones that made his chest warm. Those little names that made him feel like he was the only person who got to hear them.

“Hey! So you two haven’t killed each other yet. That’s nice!”

"Shut up."

"I can stop by later! JJ's doing better. You want to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes, please. I could use that.”

“Alright, I’ll be there.” Sarah signed off with a promise, and the call ended, "Call me if you need anything. Love you."

"Mmkay, love you too."

The way you said it—automatic—made something burn to ashes inside him. He wanted to be the one you said that to the most. He wanted to hear it from your lips; it meant the world.

He used to be the one you said that to without thinking.

"Here—"

He noticed you stop mid-sentence, inhaling, then you turned slowly to him. Then the screen on his phone lit up, showing the lockscreen—unchanged since last year. That picture of your 18th birthday, the two of you caught mid-laugh, arms thrown over each other.

Rafe squeezed the wheel gently, thinking to himself how lucky he was—even if you didn’t say it aloud—to be the one you looked at that way once.

"It's a nice picture," He offered.

"Yeah."

"You ever miss it?”

Your shoulders pushed back, your body catching the question before your brain did. Your mouth tensed and he braced himself for the worst.

"Missing something doesn’t mean it still fits.”

You handed the phone back, not bothering to wait for a response or caring if there was one.

Doesn't mean it still fits—he deserved that.

But it wasn't going to stop him from wanting to try it anyway, even if it tore straight through him.

886 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year ago

Note

hotch sister idea-- convincing hotch to take you out to dinner with the whole team because you "want to properly meet his friends" (i'm a sucker for team dynamics) but then being shy and cute with spencer the entire time to the point that hotch notices and gets a tad protective...but ends with spencer getting her number or something

thank you for requesting 💌 —you attend a party with your older brother in a not so secret plight to see Dr. Reid. You fawn, Spencer flusters, and Hotch drinks a tad more than usual. fem, 2.3k

cw for mentions of past child abuse

The car is quiet besides the tread of the tires on asphalt. You click and unclick the clasp of your shoulder bag, checking for your purse, getting worried your purse isn’t in there, and checking again.

“If there’s something you want to ask me, you can ask me.”

You move your gaze to your brother. His quietness can make you nervous, a reflection of your father but with none of the cruelty. “I don’t want you to get mad at me if it’s stupid.”

“Well, I won’t. I promise.”

You know he won’t, but sometimes the fear remains. Even when you’re far from being a kid. “Do you remember when I got suspended for, um, disrespectful behaviour? My senior year?”

Aaron turns the wheel with care. “I do.”

“And we went for ice cream.”

“Yeah, honey, I remember.”

That’s the point you’re trying to make, maybe. That tenderness sewn into the middle of his sentence. If your dad knew you’d been suspended again he would’ve made you feel it. You remember the sinking sensation in your chest waiting for him to pick you up, having written the speech he’d give you in the car ride home in your head ten times over, the sting of his palm grazing your cheek before you’d even seen his hand. So you waited in a total violent panic, head rush, wondering if anything was worth anything, when Aaron arrived to pick you up.

How did you know? you’d asked.

I changed your emergency contact. I hope that’s okay.

“You asked me what I wanted and…”

What flavour did you want, honey? he’d asked. Honey, like he loved you, the only person in the whole world who’d bother asking. The only man who’d take you for ice cream at seventeen years old to cure a bad day.

“And you burst into tears,” Aaron says.

He’d sat down opposite you in his suit, torn from one of his trials, and you can’t remember anymore if he was an attorney or already in the FBI, but you can’t forget how he’d taken your wrists into his hands and asked you not to cry.

“When you took me home, Haley asked me if you’d upset me, and I didn’t know how to explain it so you said yes. And she shouted at you for a whole half hour.”

“Why are you thinking about this now?” he asks.

Maybe because college is over and you’re forced to move on. Aaron asked you to try hard and you have, but now you have your degree and you don’t know what to do with it, you’ll get a job, and then what?

“I’ve been thinking about… my love life.”

“Oh. And you have to talk about this with me?” he jokes.

“I don’t have anybody else.”

He tears his gaze from the windshield. “That’s not true.”

“But…”

He turns into the parking lot outside of Dan’s Fine Wine Bar and pulls into a tight space with ease. He hesitates before he flicks off the engine, turning to you with a smile. “You’ll always have me,” he says, “and we can talk about your love life. I want to. God knows you’ve heard enough about mine this last year.” You both grimace. “But if I have to listen one more time to you talking about Spencer–”

“You said you wouldn’t get mad!”

“Honey.” He takes off his seatbelt and opens the door. “I’m not mad. But imagine your younger sibling comes to you one day to tell you they have feelings for your employee and try to find some sympathy for me!”

He clambers out of the car. You rush after him, unbuckling your seatbelt and nearly smashing your door into the car next to you. The air outside is cold, and you didn’t bring a jacket even though Aaron told you to twice, so you can’t mention it aloud. “I don’t have feelings for him.”

“You have a crush. You’re too old for it.”

“I am not.”

He gestures for you to walk in front of him as he clicks the fob for the car and the doors lock automatically. “I don’t understand what this has to do with your suspension.”

You chew on your cheek. Neon from the wine bar mottles your skin as you pass under it and through the door, air quickly turned from cold to temperate, the smell of old rain replaced by carpeting and beer. When you lift your head to his gaze, he’s still waiting for your answer. “You told me things wouldn’t be that hard forever. I was just wondering when it’s safe to say you were right.”

He grins at you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to give you a rough hug. “Right now. Be happy right now, honey.”

“There they are!” Penelope calls from a table near the back. Suddenly, Aaron’s entire team of work colleagues stand up where they’ve dominated a whole row of tables and booths alike to greet you. “Oh my gosh, I missed you!”

You met Derek a long long time ago, and JJ around the same time, but everybody else is basically new. College was busy and Aaron busier —there was hardly ever time to visit, and when you did it was to see him and Haley. Meeting his friends was somehow put off.

You’ve since been introduced to Emily and Spencer, so Aaron directs you to David Rossi first. That’s the main team done quickly. But then he has to introduce you to Anderson, Sweeney, Kelly, Cory, Davidson, etc. So many agents for one man’s birthday. Anyone would think Derek Morgan was a celebrity.

“Happy birthday!” you say, when you finally get a moment to speak.

Derek reaches over the table to hug you quickly. “Thank you, gorgeous. We’re thrilled you’re here.” He pulls back, elbowing Penelope lovingly. “Aren’t we, mama?”

Penelope squeals and jumps for you. “So thrilled!”

Aaron touches your back, as if to say, I’m here, before taking a seat opposite Rossi. You hear snippets of a conversation about whiskey and when, but you’re distracted, because suddenly Penelope’s forcing you to sit down in her vacated seat, smack bang between Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid.

Dr. Spencer Reid. “Hi,” you say quietly. Can’t help it. You remember how you’d reacted when you met him the week before last and wonder if it’s too late to pretend you’re cool —you’d gotten so worked up about him. He wrote a bunch of papers you had to read for your degree, some of the most sophisticated theory on elliptical math you’d ever read, and you’re supposed to act like he’s just a normal guy?

It doesn’t help that he’s model pretty. You’d never have thought of him as he is now over email, his huge brown eyes, pale skin, the flicking curl of his hair behind his ears. When he turns his head, he has indents on his nose from a pair of glasses you wish you’d seen. You clear your throat.

“Hi, Y/N, how are you?” Spencer asks.

“I’m gonna go get a drink now,” Aaron says. “What do you want?” he asks you.

“Um, anything. I don’t really wanna drink.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he says with deliberateness.

You feel heat like a rash on your neck. He’s embarrassing you doing his dad routine.

“You look pretty,” Spencer says.

You hide your hands under your thighs. “You think so?”

“You look beautiful,” Penelope says from across the table.

“Didn’t inherit that Hotchner scowl,” Derek says with a grin, “I thought it came with the name.”

“I learned how to do it the day they signed the adoption certificate,” you nudge in, “I just keep it to myself. I think Aaron has it down.”

Everybody within hearing distance laughs at you, to your relief. To your left, Spencer’s shoe hits your heel.

“So weird to hear his real name,” Emily says, tipping her drink to the side, ice and sugar on the surface. “I thought for sure you’d have to call him Hotch too.”

You look around in surprise. “He can’t be that bad. Does he really frown so much?”

You’re told vehemently that your brother is a grump, which is something you were aware of, just not experienced in. Sure, he’s had his unhappy moments, no one can smile every second of the day, but if everyone is to be believed he’s the sternest man alive. Eventually things drift into storytelling. Aaron brings you your drink with a straw and a napkin wrapped around the base, and you find yourself listening to a graphic rehash of Derek’s first case with the BAU.

Spencer’s leg is a coal at your side.

Your self preservation runs out. “You don’t drink?” you ask, nodding to his glass bottle of coke.

“I– I never did. I never had the opportunity. I’ve never even been to a party.” He pauses. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”

“I didn’t go to parties either,” you say, overjoyed to find common ground so quickly.

“I mean, I was never invited, but highschool parties didn’t seem like my thing. And, you know, I was twelve.”

“You were twelve in highschool?”

He’s doing that thing you noticed the day you met, where his lips move before he’s ready to talk, his emotion clear. “You weren’t?” he asks, not quite smooth but enough to make you laugh suddenly.

“I wish! I could’ve been done with college years ago.” Your brows pinch together. “Wait, so did you go to college as a kid?”

“I mean, sort of.”

“What? No wonder you didn’t go to any parties, that must’ve been insane. When I was twelve I was still setting my Barbie’s up for dance parties. Aaron has a photo of me dressed up in mom’s old clothes.” You lean forward for a sip of your drink.

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s a photo of me just like that when I was twelve, too.”

You laugh so hard you almost choke.

A cup comes down hard somewhere behind your turned head.

“You okay?” Emily asks.

She wears a smirk you don’t understand, a joke you’ve missed. You peer past her to look to Aaron for advice and find him rather sullen, hand curled tightly around his drink. You try to give him a signal to ask if he’s alright, but it’s to no avail.

“I’m fine, sorry, just a joke.” You turn back to Spencer. “That’s adorable.”

You’re breathless talking to him. He must notice, but Spencer doesn’t say a word.

If someone asked you why he caught your attention, you’re not sure you know the answer. He’s pretty, undeniably, and it’s fascinating that you used his theory while you were in school, but fascination isn’t endless. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you. No ones ever given such a clear sense of awe; he gets stuck on you, his eyes tracing your cheek and your nose and your lips. It’s noticeable, but it isn’t unwanted. You keep coming back to his smile as he talks, the flash of his teeth.

“I honestly didn’t know Hotch had a sister,” Spencer says.

“He was keeping us apart for a reason,” you say insistently, “I just don’t know what that reason is yet. He must’ve known you were the Dr. Reid I’d been reading.”

“It makes it sound like you’re reading me,” Spencer laughs. “Like, my hands.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Do I want you to what?”

“To read your palm?”

“You know how?”

“No parties, remember?”

Spencer gives you his hand. He has nice hands, big but slim-fingered like a pianist’s, though if he plays isn’t something you know. You angle it flat careful, your thumbs to either side of his open palm. “What do you want to know?” you ask.

“What can you tell me?”

You hum gently. “You have your life line, your head line, your heart line– your love line.”

“What does that– that mean for me?”

You press your thumb to his mount Jupiter, a soft hill of his hand under one of his fingers where the heart line begins. “Your desire for love, and your capacity for it. See how deeply curved it is?” you ask, drawing along his heart line gently. “It means you’re warm, and loving. That you could have a great love.”

You look up, his hand held gently between yours. “But I could be really wrong. I haven’t done this in so long, I might just be making stuff up.”

You sound insecure to your own ears, cringing away from his hand, but Spencer ducks his head just a little to keep your gaze, and he smiles at you softly. “It’s okay. I like your reading, even if it’s wrong. Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Aaron would buy me any book I asked for growing up, he…”

Your brother, sitting only a few seats away, can’t find it in himself to regret that particular generosity even if the sight of you holding Spencer’s hand isn’t one he wants to see. It’s odd. You’re fully grown up, and it’s not like Aaron thinks Spencer would ever hurt you purposefully, but it’s hard to see anyways. He can admit to feeling like a father watching his daughter finding a first love; he can’t keep you forever and he doesn’t want to, but it’s still hard to watch as you descend into giggles that border on dizziness.

“This is a good thing,” Rossi says. “You’ll never have to worry about her being out past curfew.”

Aaron laughs, it’s funny, and then he knocks back his drink.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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happy74827 · 7 months ago

Text

Talk To Me

[Eggsy Unwin x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: With your boyfriend sneaking out 24/7 and always returning with carefully concealed injuries, it's only natural to be concerned.

WC: 3033

Category: Slight Angst + Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

I watched Carry-On last night (10/10 so good), and it got me re-thinking about one of my favorite films. Kingsman supremacy 🙌

『••✎••』

You loved Eggsy. Dearly. Truly.

You loved him so much that sometimes it scared you. How fiercely your heart clung to his smile, how tenderly your hands always seemed to reach for his, how naturally your entire world had shifted around him without you even realizing it. He was yours—scruffy, sweet Eggsy Unwin—and you believed you knew him. At least, you thought you did.

But then, the nights started.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Everyone had their own struggles, and Eggsy never struck you as someone who’d open up easily about his. He’d always been the type to handle his own problems, to wear his hardships like armor rather than show them. But that was before the late-night disappearances, before the quiet footsteps across your floorboards, before you’d wake up in a cold bed at 3 a.m. to find him gone.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual—so gradual you could almost convince yourself you were imagining it. One night turned into two. Two turned into a week. And before long, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The first time you tried to confront him, you did it gently. You’d asked him if everything was okay, masking your concern with casual curiosity. "You seem really tired lately, Eggsy. Is work being a pain?"

Eggsy had smiled, all teeth and dimples, and said, "Nah, luv. Just gotta lot on my plate, s’all."

You believed him because you wanted to.

But then there were the bruises.

The first one you noticed was along his jaw, faint and shadowed under the soft light of your kitchen. He’d winced when you kissed him there, just a tiny twitch of his lips, but enough to make you pull back. "You alright?" you’d asked.

Eggsy had waved you off. "Yeah, yeah, fine."

"Fine."

The word had felt too tight on his tongue, too forced. But you’d let it go because that’s what you did when someone you loved was hurting. You gave them space.

Except the bruises kept coming, each one a little harder to miss than the last. The faint cut above his brow, the stiffness in his shoulders when you hugged him, the way he’d flinch—just barely—when your fingers brushed against his ribs. And you noticed. Of course, you did. How could you not?

There was the other stuff, too. The sudden shift in his wardrobe. Gone were the trainers and bomber jackets, replaced with sharp suits and polished shoes. He’d started wearing glasses—ridiculous little round things that didn’t even have a prescription—and he carried himself differently now. Straighter. More serious. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the change. You did. Eggsy looked good in a suit, and you’d told him as much. But it was the why that lingered in the back of your mind.

Everything about him was changing, and yet you were still supposed to believe he was fine.

You weren’t stupid.

And so tonight, when you’d felt him slip out of bed yet again, something inside you had snapped. Enough was enough.

You stayed awake, feigning sleep as you listened to him shuffle around the room. You heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the muted sound of a zipper, and then the quiet groan he let out as he bent to tie his shoes. He was trying to be quiet, but you could feel his movements, his tension, the exhaustion radiating off of him like smoke.

The front door closed behind him.

For a moment, you thought about following him. Your mind painted a dozen possibilities—none of them good—and the urge to know was almost overwhelming. But something held you back. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the sick feeling that if you saw what Eggsy was hiding, you wouldn’t be able to unsee it.

So, instead, you stayed. You waited.

And you waited.

Hours slipped by, the quiet hum of the room punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional thump of your restless heartbeat. You sat in the darkness, curled up on the couch with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

It was almost dawn when you heard it—the sound of keys fumbling at the door.

Your breath caught as the door swung open, and there he was. Eggsy. Exhausted, disheveled, and dragging himself inside like he’d just run a marathon. He tripped over the shoes you’d left by the door, letting out a hushed curse as he stumbled and caught himself on the wall. "For fuck’s sake…"

You watched him for a long moment, your heart twisting. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale under the bruises, and there was an air of defeat clinging to him that you’d never seen before.

Your hand hovered over the lamp beside you.

Click.

Light flooded the room.

Eggsy froze. His wide, tired eyes met yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

"…Where were you?"

Your voice came out steady—colder than you intended—but you didn’t care. You needed answers.

Eggsy straightened up, wincing slightly as he did, and ran a hand through his messy hair. "What’re you doin’ awake?"

"Where were you, Eggsy?" you repeated, softer this time.

He opened his mouth to answer, but you saw the hesitation in his eyes. That flicker of guilt, of indecision. And it hurt.

You watched him—really watched him—take in the situation, his gaze darting from you to the lamp and back again. He looked so tired, the dark circles under his eyes stark against the pale exhaustion in his face. His bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might lie to you.

He always did that when he was nervous, chewing his lip like he was trying to hold the words inside.

And then he sighed.

"Look, luv—"

"No." You cut him off, surprising even yourself with the sharpness in your voice. Your heart was pounding now, a steady thud in your chest, and you swallowed the knot rising in your throat. "Don’t 'look, love' me, Eggsy. I’ve given you space. I’ve ignored the bruises. I’ve let you—whatever this is—carry on without question. But not anymore."

Eggsy’s mouth closed. He shifted on his feet, his wince almost imperceptible, but you caught it. You always caught it.

"Are you hurt?" you asked, voice trembling slightly despite the resolve you tried to hold. Your eyes dropped to the faint, bloodied scrape on his knuckles and the stiff way he held his side. "Jesus, Eggsy…"

"I’m fine." The words came out fast—too fast—and though they were meant to be firm, they only sounded hollow.

You flinched like the word was a slap. "You’re not fine."

He sighed again, this time deeper, and rubbed a hand over his face. "It’s complicated."

"Complicated?" you echoed, your voice pitching with disbelief. "Complicated is when you forget an anniversary or don’t know how to split rent. This isn’t complicated, Eggsy—this is you sneaking out in the middle of the night and coming home bruised and battered, and I’m scared."

There it was. The confession you’d been holding back. The thing that had been gnawing at you for weeks, clawing at your chest every time he slipped away. Your voice broke slightly, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst, and Eggsy’s face softened in a way that almost broke you.

You could see the guilt then, raw and unguarded, etched into the lines of his expression. He took a cautious step forward, but you held up a hand, needing the space to breathe.

"Do you…" Your voice faltered. You didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to voice the fear that had whispered in your mind during the loneliest hours of those nights. “Do you not trust me, Eggsy? Is there something you can’t tell me?”

Eggsy’s head snapped up at that, his brow knitting as if you’d insulted him. "What? No. No, it’s not like that."

"Then what is it?" Your voice cracked, and for the first time since this all started, you felt your eyes sting with tears. "Because I’m running out of scenarios, Eggsy. I thought maybe… maybe it was someone else, maybe you’d stopped loving me. But then I’d see the bruises, and I’d hear you groaning in your sleep, and…" You trailed off, pressing a hand to your forehead. "I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when you’re falling apart right in front of me."

The room was silent save for your quiet, unsteady breaths. For a moment, you thought Eggsy wouldn’t answer, that he’d slip into that shell of his again and leave you stranded in this mess of unanswered questions.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he crossed the room in two quick strides, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss—not like the ones he’d give you after long days or lazy mornings. It was desperate and grounding, like he needed to make sure you were real and that you still loved him despite everything. You froze for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of his lips on yours before you melted into it. Your hands gripped his wrists, holding onto him like an anchor as your heart hammered against your ribcage.

When he finally pulled away, you stared at him, breathless and reeling.

"Eggsy—"

"I’m sorry," he muttered, his forehead resting gently against yours. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you think that. Any of that." His voice was low and earnest, the accent softening as the words spilled out. "You’re the only good thing in my life, alright? The only thing that keeps me goin’. It ain’t you—it’s me. I’m just… I’m tryin’ to keep you safe."

"Safe?" Your brows furrowed as you leaned back to look at him. "Safe from what, Eggsy?"

He hesitated. You could see the war playing out in his eyes—the push and pull of wanting to tell you the truth but still trying to protect you from it. He was holding something back; you knew that much. Something big.

Finally, he exhaled slowly. "It’s work. The bruises, the nights—I can’t tell you everything, but you gotta trust me when I say I’m doin’ it for you. For us."

"Eggsy…"

His thumb brushed along your cheek, and you realized then that you were crying—just a little.

"You’re right," he admitted softly, the words heavy with guilt. "I shoulda told you somethin’. Not everythin’, but… somethin’. I just didn’t want you to worry, love. Didn’t want you to see this part o’ me." He smiled faintly, the corners of his lips tilting upward. "You deserve better than this mess."

You stared at him, the boy who had somehow become a man without you noticing. His rough edges were still there—still scrappy, still stubborn—but there was something more now, too. He carried weight on his shoulders, weight he hadn’t let you see until tonight.

"I don’t care about the mess," you whispered, your hands sliding down to hold his. "I care about you. And if you’re hurting, I want to know. I want to help."

Eggsy blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear that. Then he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up tightly as if trying to shield you from the rest of the world.

"You’re mental, you know that?" he mumbled into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Too good for me, you are."

Eggsy was warm against you, his arms solid and grounding, but you couldn’t let yourself melt into it—not entirely. Not when you could still feel the lingering tremor in his body, the careful way he was holding you like he was afraid of falling apart completely if he let go.

So you didn’t let it slide. Not this time.

You pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, your hands sliding to rest against his chest. He avoided your eyes for a beat too long, gaze flicking toward the floor as if the answers to all of your questions were scattered across the floorboards.

"Eggsy," you said softly, forcing him to look at you. "You’re doing it again."

His brows furrowed slightly. "Doin’ what?"

"Avoiding." You swallowed hard, your voice gentle but firm. "You keep saying you’re trying to protect me, but from what? From you? From whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself into? I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with half-truths and cryptic excuses."

He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a tight line as the silence stretched between you like a taut wire. You watched him, the Eggsy you knew—the one who laughed too loudly, who lit up rooms with his smile—hidden behind this new, heavier version of himself. A man weighed down by secrets you weren’t allowed to touch.

You felt your throat tighten. "If you’re in trouble, I need to know."

"I’m not—"

"Gary." You said his name softly, but with enough weight that he stopped, his shoulders sagging just a little under your gaze. You could see the walls going back up, the way his expression started to close off again, and your heart ached. This wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about digging into things he didn’t want to share. This was about him—the man you loved. The man standing in front of you with bruises and exhaustion, painting him in shades of worry and pain you didn’t recognize.

"I love you," you whispered, the words breaking through the quiet. His head snapped up, his eyes finally locking onto yours. "I love you, Eggsy. But this—" you gestured gently between the two of you "—this isn’t fair. You don’t get to shoulder all of this alone. Not when I’m right here."

You could see the cracks in his resolve then, the guilt splintering through his expression like fractures in glass. Eggsy exhaled, a heavy breath that deflated his entire posture, and he reached up to cup your cheek again, his thumb brushing faintly at the tears still lingering there.

"It ain’t trouble," he muttered after a long pause, his voice low and rough like gravel. "Not like you’re thinkin’. I ain’t into anythin’ shady, I swear."

"Then what is it?" you asked softly. "Please, Eggsy. I’m not leaving. I’m not running. I just need to know what’s doing this to you."

He hesitated again, clearly grappling with something you couldn’t see. For the briefest moment, you thought he might tell you—might rip off the Band-Aid and let you into whatever world he’d been keeping you out of. But then, as if on instinct, he sighed and shook his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting his own against it again.

"You don’t wanna know, luv," he murmured, voice so soft it nearly disappeared into the space between you. "I promise you don’t."

You stared at him, your heart twisting painfully. You could feel it now—the invisible door he was trying to close, to lock between you—and the worst part was, you knew he thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was protecting you.

But all you felt was the sting of being shut out.

"This isn’t fair," you said again, your voice trembling slightly. "You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle, Eggsy."

His lips parted slightly, and for once, he didn’t have a rebuttal. He just looked at you—really looked at you—as if weighing the woman in front of him against whatever dark reality he’d been hiding.

"I can handle it," you pressed, your voice steady this time. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. I can handle you."

Eggsy pulled back slightly, his hands slipping to your shoulders. There was a flicker of conflict in his eyes, and for the first time that night, you saw a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface. "It ain’t about you not bein’ strong enough," he said finally, his words slow and deliberate. "It’s about me not wantin’ you to see the worst parts of what I do."

"What you do?" you repeated carefully, and you saw him flinch—just barely—like he’d said too much.

"Eggsy, I don’t…"

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Jesus Christ, I’m shite at this."

Your eyes searched his. Part of you wanted to press further—to keep pushing until the dam broke—but the other part could see his exhaustion, the way he was leaning slightly against the counter like his legs were struggling to hold him up. He looked so tired. So defeated. And you hated it.

You let out a soft sigh, taking his hand and lacing your fingers through his.

He stiffened.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was a question lingering between you, the same one you knew he was struggling to answer.

Tell her.

Don't.

It felt like an eternity had passed when you finally said his name, squeezing his hand gently.

His gaze lifted to yours.

And you let it go.

You didn't push. You didn't demand. You didn't ask. Because this wasn't a fight, you were going to win.

He wasn't ready.

So, instead, you just said, "Promise me something."

"Yeah?"

You hesitated, the words feeling heavier on your tongue than they had any right to be. You swallowed the lump rising in your throat and whispered, "Promise me you’ll come home."

Eggsy stilled.

It wasn't much of a request—more of a desperate hope that this wasn't all leading to some unavoidable ending you weren't ready for. It was an offer of surrender. A silent, exhausted plea to put the pieces back together, to stitch up the cracks before they could break.

He studied you, his tired eyes roaming over the lines of your face as if he could read the question lingering there.

And then he pulled you into his arms, a hand cradling the back of your head. You felt the warmth of his embrace, the weight of his body against yours, and your arms wrapped around him as tightly as you could. For a second, you weren’t sure if he would answer. If he even could.

And then, in the softest voice you'd ever heard, he whispered, "Always."

"For you, always."

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