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hyuny-bunny · 1 year ago

Text

baby said | Y.J. + H. H.

genre: established relationship, rockstar bf x groupie gf x rockstar bff, smut, a touch of fluff, a sprinkle of angst, M X F X M,

wordcount: 6.2K

part I

MNDI (+18) CW: oral (both m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, afab reader, use of she/her/hers/girlfriend, pet names (baby, angel), slight degradation, hyunjin is a whore, voyeurism, riding, squirting, fingering, slight breeding, cumplay, spanking (slightly), teeny bit of angst w/ a splash of fluff, slight overstimulation, threesome, M X F X M, mxm smut

a/n: proof read ? god no. if i miss any warnings please do let me know. also took me several days to pump this out so if you hate it, don't tell me :') peep the nana reference mwahaha

summary: after concert celebration with hyunjin and jeongin takes a turn... for the bed

Since that night in the green room, Hyunjin seemed to have slightly reeled in his behavior. Emphasis on slightly. He remained the flirt he was but less… opportunistic in his advances physically, less pressing you into walls & corners, opting to redirect the energy to his flirty advances. Jeongin noticed his hyung had become more affectionate with him, doting on him like a child or making suggestive remarks. But, no one spoke of that night.

Jeongin had purposely left that door unlocked. While the target in mind had been Hyunjin, he was willing to expose any poor soul's eyes to the lewd state he had you in that night. Jeongin had lucked out on seeing the look of shock, and terror, mixed with pleasure that painted his face. Finally, he had shown Hyunjin that his attempts would remain futile as long as Jeongin had you wrapped around his finger… Or in this case his cock.

Tonight was a big night for the band, Minho had made some calls and was able to arrange for a talent scout to watch them play. He happened to be an old friend of Minho’s but the timing never worked out until now. It was a sold-out show in the city, it had left them antsy and anxious for days leading up to the show. Pressure to be perfect, to show this label what they were and could be. You had never seen Jeongin as stressed as he was, it was to the point that sex had been put on pause until after the show. It didn’t offend you but it was hurting to see Jeongin this way without being able just to take the weight off his shoulder for a moment. In consequence, it leaves you starved. You still cuddled every night and his kisses were endless but you missed him inside you. Needed him in you like you needed air to breathe.

You arrive at the venue, making your way toward the hall that leads backstage, you show your credentials to security before making your way to the green room. The door was closed, Minho leaning against the frame with his head pressed to the wall.

“Everything alright?” You ask, his head finally peaks up to look at you.

“What do you think?” He asks sheepishly, half laughing and shaking his head.

“That bad?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this quiet, not even when they’re sleeping” You sigh knowing exactly what he meant.

“Is it alright to go in?”

“Yeah, go for it. The talent scout is here so I’m gonna fetch him” Minho gently grabs your shoulder in passing “Do. Not… Tell them that I’m bringing the scout in. They’ll all just jump up to their feet and mob him like puppies to kibble.”

“Yes, sir” You laugh knowing he’s probably right.

You knock on the door before walking in. Chan is twirling a drumstick in his hand anxiously, Jisung is hunched over in a ball on the floor fidgeting with the scratch in the wood coffee table, and Jeongin is sat back on the couch with a shaky knee biting back his lip. He only ever bites his lip like this when he’s too lost in thought. Matter of fact, they’re all too consumed with their thoughts to have even noticed you’ve walked in. You sit next to Jeongin causing him to snap out of his dazed state.

“What if I suck?” he asks without looking at you

“You won’t” He’s fixated on something across from him.

“But what if i do?”

“You won’t”

“But-”

“No head. Ever.”

“... that’s a bit cruel don’t you think?”

“Jeongin, look at me” He finally tears his eyes to look at you. His posture softens a bit. You lean forward to kiss his cheek, bringing your lips to his ears.

“You will do amazing like you have always, and I will be there watching, screaming, and cheering you on like I’m the only person in that room tonight.”

His face turns to lean into the hand that caresses his face.

“And when it’s all over, you can have me anyway, anywhere, and however you want, okay?”

There’s a flush across the top of his cheeks with that last comment.

“You know I love you right?” He whispers just low enough for you to hear

“I know”

He looks gorgeous, the black smokey eyeshadow makes his eyes even more striking against the ginger color of his hair. A decision that was made on impulse this past week but has somehow made him look even hotter. You survey the room once more noticing someone was missing.

“Where’s Hyunjin?” You ask which now has Jisung looking up from the coffee table and has Chan dropping his drumstick.

“He’s in the bathroom probably trying to yank one out, he ran through his speed dial fucks, none could be at his beck and call this week so he’s been particularly moody” Chan says so casually it's almost typical. There’s a slam against the wall coming from the bathroom and a loud shout. “See.”

The door to the bathroom is suddenly yanked open and a very frustrated-looking Hyunjin is standing in the doorway. His chest heaving as he puffs out a breath shooting Chan a glare. He’s wearing a black jacket with a velvet finish, a white tank top that scoops a little too low, and black jeans with docs to finish the look. He doesn’t spare you a glance before walking over to the vanity to put his rings on. You look at Jisung who has also zoned out. You slip off the couch to kneel next to him, he looks at you now at eye level with him.

“ I don’t think I need to tell you that they all wouldn’t be here tonight without you Ji, right?” He silently nods. “Good then lets put on a show none of them will forget.”

You kiss the crown of his head before standing up and turning to Chan.

“And you… just be hot and play those drums”

“The ever-encouraging words of our lovely, Y/N, ladies and gentlemen,” Chan applauds you as you curtsey. Hyunjin is sitting on the vanity looking at you, there’s something about his eyes that sends a shiver straight down to where you’ve been aching all week. It’s the same look he had in his eyes that night he grabbed your hand to feel up his tattoos.

“You on the other hand,” You point a wavering finger to Hyunjin “You’ll find something to stick your dick in tonight, so for the love of god, try to be less pissy until it’s all over.”

“I’ll hold out hope, maybe if I’m lucky enough, it'll be you,” He rolls his eyes and lets the comment slip past his lips before he’s able to catch it. It leaves your face flushed and the rest of them shooting a look of bewilderment at him.

The tension is cut by Minho walking back into the room, indicating its almost time for them to go on. On cue, you blow Jeongin a kiss to which he obnoxiously catches and presses to his lips. Hyunjin’s comment rolls around in your head until you get to the bar to grab a drink. You know him enough to know when he’s joking but this didn’t sound like it. The look of shock on everyone's face was just confirmation. You see a seat and ask the guy sitting left of it if it’s taken, he sheepishly says it's all yours. You shed the coat you've been wearing, lined and trimmed in faux fur with intricate embroidery, revealing your long-sleeved mini-black dress. You took note of the way his eyes drank everything in, you smiled looking at him again.

“Are you a big fan of the band?” You ask trying to make small talk, intrigued by his presence. He wasn’t dressed like anyone else here, he wore a grey hoodie and jeans, and a mop of soft brown hair sat on his head matching the softness of his eyes.

“Can’t say that I am just yet. This is my first show, and you?”

“You’re in for a real treat. I’m a huge fan you could say. Been to almost every show.” His eyes widen a bit at this. “Oh really? Just here for the music?” He asks with raised brows.

Without another word, you wink as the lights dim and the crowd screams.

This had to be one of their best shows, the energy from the crowd only amplifying their stage presence. You had never seen them performing as passionately as they had tonight. They all moved and played so perfectly in sync, on top of nailing every drum solo, guitar solo, and long vocal note. The lights had come on and your drink was empty once again. The guy who had been next to you had stood up lingering inside taking a phone call. Minho was the first to come out, he walked to security first to let them know to usher the remainder people out as quickly as possible.

“They’ll be out soon, the talent scout wants to see them to discuss a deal. The venue said we could have it in the attached restaurant so can you please take these orders and grab us a booth?” Minho asks while frantically looking around.

“Boo if this is my reward for being Jeongins girlfriend, I’m expecting a cut of this deal too” You pout at Minho who is waving you off.

You give the waiter the order for the 7 of you before sitting in the booth. It's a rounded booth with an extra chair at the open part of the table. You had given the coat to the host at the entrance but your legs felt cold with the mini dress riding up your thighs in this booth. It isn’t long before you see Chan and Jisung, dressed more casually and strutting to the table. You step out the booth to hug them both and congratulate them on the show. Minho is making his way down soon with Jeongin and Hyunjin in toe. Jeongin is grabbing you by the face to give you a kiss leaving you giggling at his enthusiasm. He tries to kiss all over your face before Jisungs groans and interrupts. You end up sandwiched between Jeongin and Hyunjin, which unfortunately does nothing for the ache between your thighs, the smell of their cologne is all you can breathe in, and the roughness of their jeans brushing against your exposed legs. They were both notorious for manspreading, so any thought or notion you had about legroom was out the window.

Hyunjin seems to either not notice or care about the way your legs try to scoot further from his, you opt to cross your legs over each other, causing your boyfriend to notice and slide a hand onto the thigh that was buried under the other leg, his hand smushed between your thighs and so close to where your panties are dripping for him. Jeongin carries on with his convo with Chan who sits next to him. You take a shallow breath trying to focus on anything else, this piques Hyunjin’s interest.

“What’s got you so worked up?” He asks lowly into your ear while throwing an arm around the back of the booth seating that cages you in.

“I could ask you the same” You scoff when he reaches to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I’ll share if you do? Here I’ll make it easy for you,” He riches for his drink tossing back the last of his drink, you watch a droplet slip down the side of his mouth just missing his lips. As he sets the drink down he’s leaning incredibly and his lips are practically pressed against the shell of your ear. “I would love nothing more than to rip that dress off your body, lay you out on this table, and fuck you while your boyfriend watches. And I know you haven't been fucked for days with how tense our Innie has been.”

You cough trying to suppress the moan you let slip, luckily it only has Jeongin turning to check on you with concern. You tell him you choked on air before he gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze and a kiss to your temple. He promised to make it up to you tonight for the dry spell he left you in this week. Hyunjin has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, his gaze fixed on the guy now walking to your table and waving to Minho. It’s the same guy from the bar.

“Ah finally. Everyone this is Seungmin, he works for Capitol Records.” Seungmin waves coyly until his eyes meet yours. Min goes around introducing you all.

“This is Jisung, our singer, Chan, our drummer, Jeongin, our lead guitarist, and Hyunjin, our bass player. This is Y/N, our unofficial assistant and resident groupie.” Minho laughs at that comment but earns him a shin kick from Hyunjin. You roll your eyes extending a handshake.

“I’m Jeongin’s girlfriend. I think it's fair to say that Assistants and Groupies have better benefits than I do but it’s nice to meet you. Formally, that is.” You smile coquettishly. You always knew better to play into the flirt act when it would benefit them.

“It’s nice to have a name to put to such a pretty face.” You blush but it's sincere. The rest are side-eyeing you suspiciously Jeongin only has a questionable look on his face, you mouth ‘tell you later’ to him which melts the furrowed brow expression on his face.

“Great news,” Seungmin says as he sits in the seat between “The company wants to sign you a two-record deal. Some terms are negotiable but I’ll need an answer tonight.”

“What are the terms?” Chan is the first to speak.

“55k sign-on bonus, 15% cut on ticket sales, 10% on album sales, and we keep the royalties.”

“No.” Jeongin says firmly. Seungmin has a shocked look on his face.

“We want our royalties, we write everything ourselves. We’ve produced everything ourselves up until now. Our royalties and right to the music is non-negotiable.” Jisung speaks up but there’s not a single thought of consideration for the offer on his face.

Seungmin looks to Minho for help, “I told you they weren’t gonna crack on that,” he says with a shrug.

“We’d be willing to give a portion of the royalties, but not all.” Hyunjin jumps in.

“20% for you and 80% for us” Chan says.

“You’re twisting my arm on this guys.” Seungmin looks at you all with pleading eyes, it’s so cute it almost works on you. You see why he’s the scout now. He stands up to pull his phone out “Let me make a call.”

He walks away leaving the 6 of you at the table quite, a bit jittery and anxious. Your mind brings you back to what Hyunjin said a few moments ago when you feel fingers brushing the side of your thigh where the hem of your dress rides up. You don’t have a chance to say something to him before Jeongin has a look of distress on his face, his grip on your thigh is getting a little tighter.

“I hate this. Everything about this makes me so anxious.’ He leans his head on your shoulder slumping back. You caress his face making him look at you.

“I can call Yasu, he might be a little helpful. Besides, unless he has some paperwork on him for you to sign at this very moment, which I highly doubt, nothing is final until you put pen to paper.” Yasu was a lawyer your friend of yours, very intimidating to look at with his dark sunglasses always on, the height, the piercings, and his bald head. He was a sweetheart but he had a cold look that always helped when you were going out.

“Please, could you?” He looks at you with his puppy eyes, you kiss his forehead before pulling your phone out to call him.

“Let me out, I gotta make a call.” You say to Hyunjin as your pulling up Yasu’s contact information. He doesn’t budge, “Hyun.”

“Gotta crawl across, baby, I don’t really feel like moving.” You wait a moment.

He can’t be serious. While you’d normally argue with him, you needed to call Yasu before Seungmin came back.

Fuck it.

Without a second thought, you put your legs over his lap before scooting yourself across his lap. That’s when you feel it, he’s hard. You're pulling your dress down again.

“You know you’re a real pain in my ass?” You huff

“I was hoping it would be a pleasure”

You look past him at Jeongin who’s still processing what he saw once again, he needs another moment.

You scurry off to a secluded corner to call Yasu.

It’s a brief conversation, he warns you of what to look out for and to call him first before signing anything.

“Hey, can I ask you something unrelated?”

“Of course.”

“If my boyfriend's band member who is also my long time friend, won’t stop flirting with me despite walking in on me and my very loving boyfriend having sex… what do i do to make him stop?”

He says nothing, you can hear him sigh deeply on the other end.

“Hyunjin.” It’s more of a statement then question, you hum in response. “Throw him a bone.”

“In what way?”

“That’s up to you. Goodnight.”

Your head spinning with ideas. You store it in the back of your mind for a moment before walking back seeing Minho waiving the waiter over to collect the bill.

“What happened?” You ask Jeongin who stands beside Jisung out of the booth.

“We’re renegotiating tomorrow afternoon, let Yasu know we’ll need him if they want to sign,” Jeongin says while wrapping an arm around you. You're texting your friend once more, giving him the details of when and where before he confirms he’ll be there first thing.

Jisung, Chan, and Minho had departed with their goodnights by the time you refocus on your surroundings. Hyunjin is still lingering, standing next to the both of you.

Throw him a bone.

“Hyun, you want to come out with us for a few drinks?” Jeongin asks. It seems someone has already beaten you to the question. Hyunjin is glancing at you once more before that stupid grin is back on his face.

“Sure. I got no one better to do. Sorry, I meant nothing better to do.”

You’re walking down to the speakeasy bar down the street a few blocks over, it was pretty hipster. Dark velvet walls, gold lighting fixtures, and indie shoegaze music. It looked like a burlesque hall but hipster men and women sprinkled everywhere. You often came here for a fun time after a show, it seemed as good of a time as any.

Hyunjin grabbed your drinks while you grabbed a table in the corner tucked from everyone else, your back to being sandwiched between the two of them. You take what was probably your third drink of the night, it’s liquid courage. Every time you felt a buzz like this, your actions were a bit unpredictable. You're swaying a bit, Hyunjin is staring at your lips. The entire time you’ve been sitting here, they were two chatterboxes not sparing an ounce of attention.

“Truth or dare?” You ask. Jeongin is leaning into your back with his head pressed to your shoulder.

“Truth,” Hyunjin answers without sparing a glance at Jeongin, he’s intrigued by the mischief in your eyes.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” Hyunjin’s brow raises.

“Yeah. I do. How does that make you feel?”

“Gotta play the game right, Hyunjinnie,” You say taunting a finger at him.

“Fine, truth or dare?”

“Dare.” Jeongin is pressing his lips into your shoulder.

“Take your panties off.” Your chest is fluttering, your boyfriend groans a bit.

“How do you know I’m wearing any?”

“Prove it, then.” You shake your head while you lift off the seat to pull them down a bit before shimming them off. You pick them up tossing the black thong into Hyunjins lap.

“Good girl.” Jeogin nips at your ear, and you let a moan slip while his hands start to paw at the flesh of your thighs. “Truth or dare, Hyunjin?”

‘“Dare,” Hyunjin’s head tilts like a confused puppy as he speaks.

“Kiss me.” Your pussy is drolling with the way Hyunjin is looking at you. You feel yourself getting hotter under his gaze.

Without another second passing, Hyunjin’s lips are attacking your own. It was everything you imagined, his lips were soft and full against yours. His kisses are wet from the way his tongue is dancing with yours. He has a hand in your hair pulling ever so softly, yours tangling in his hair while your other grips at Jeongin who sits behind you. He pulls away to bring his free hand up to your boyfriend's face, he grabs him by the hair pulling him in for a kiss. There, smushed between the two of them, you have the perfect view of their lips and tongues fighting for dominance. The wet smacking and saliva connecting their mouths have you whimpering. It was so lewd to be pressed between the two of them while they moaned and gasped into each other's mouths. They both pull back looking at the flush across your face while panting for air. Jeongin is the first to attack your neck on the side closest to him, and Hyunjin follows suit. You let out a whiny gasp, rubbing their thighs up and down before moving to their crotches feeling the strained hard cock’s beneath their pants. Jeongin’s hand makes its way to your exposed cunt, this pulls you out of your lust-filled haze. You remember you're in public again. You’re pulling Jeongin off once more too.

“Hotel. Now. Not here.” His lips are tinted pink and glossy from hickeys he's just sucked into your skin.

He groans but silently agrees grabbing your purse, Hyunjin pulls away from your neck reluctantly. Pulling you with him out of the booth. Jeongin is leading you out of the now crowded bar, holding your hand while Hyunjin keeps a hand on your waist right beside you. Your heart is racing, pounding against your chest. The walk back to your hotel feels like an eternity, Jeongin is repeatedly slamming down the elevator button with impatience. Hyun is pressed firmly against your back, his arm wrapped around your waist and his hand splayed on your tummy. Never been more thankful to have him holding you so firmly in fear your legs would give out any moment. Hyunjin nips at your ear teasingly while you feel his growing erection poke into your back. The elevator dings, Jeongin dragging the two of you inside. Once the doors shut on you three, Jeongin kisses you once more, his hand rests on your throat holding you in place. Hyunjin is groaning at the sight feeling himself harden even more at the sight of his friend dominating you, his hands are feeling your chest. Hyunjin slips a hand underneath your dress from behind, feeling the way the lack of panties has only made your pussy droll with excitement for him.

You're pulled off the elevator in a swift motion by the two of them, being straight into the room and onto the bed. You're ripping your clothes off while the other two ogle at the scene in front of them, you fully naked in front of them.

"Who's first?" You ask smirking, trail hand between your thighs, turned on by the sight of the two of them staring at you with hunger in their eyes. They turn to look at each other but Jeongin does the unexpected. He's grabbing a fistful of Hyunjin's hair leaning into his ear.

"I want to watch you eat her out first. You can manage that can't you?" Hyunjin is wincing in pain and pleasure before muttering out a yes. "Good, strip your clothes then."

Hyunjin is throwing his clothes off haphazardly around the room, Jeongin sheds the last of his clothes before he settles down on the bed sitting behind you. Hyunjin is down to his boxers, staring at the both of you before sliding them down revealing his cock. He's big like Jeongin, he's not as long but he's just as girthy if not more. You haven't stopped playing with the slick between your thighs, having enjoyed every moment of the strip show, you glance back to see Jeongin, stroking himself looking between you two. Hyunjin is pulling your hands away from yourself pining them above your head. He's laid atop of you, the feeling of his tip so close to your entrance has you whimpering and wiggling under to get some friction.

"Not so fast. I've waited so long for this." He mumbles with his lips just brushing your own, he goes in for a kiss. It's short but filthy with the way his tongue slips. He pulls away, he holds your wrists in one hand to bring his hand down to your face and squeeze your cheeks.

"Open." You open your mouth only for him to spit right onto your tongue. "Swallow."

You do as he says.

"Fuck, I'm gonna ruin you, such a good girl." He glances at Jeongin while moving his way down your body with teasing kisses. Jeongin gets the hint and leans forward to take hold of your wrists.

When he finally gets to your thighs, you're already whining for him to do anything. He takes his time watching you through lidded eyes, kissing the inside of your thighs until he's faced with your cunt. He licks a strong stripe up flicking your clit leaving you gasping for more, pushing a thigh up and over his shoulder, he starts with slow but firm licks your clit. One arm stretched across your hips to hold you in place while his free hand repeatedly slaps to the outside of your thigh. After enough teasing, his mouth is fully latched to your cunt, messily slurping up every drop of you. You’re screaming out at his torment, looking up at Jeongin who has let up on his grip on your wrist. He's enticed by the way Hyunjin's face is buried in between your legs. He uses his free hand to grope your tit, massaging the boob in his hand and leaning down to kiss you. You're moaning into his mouth when you feel Hyunjin's finger now brushing your g spot. You feel your eyes rolling back and the knot in your stomach about to burst, the feeling of his lips sucking at your clit, and your back arching off the bed begging to feel relief. You can feel Hyunjin’s fingers pick up pace and his tongue flicking repeatedly as you feel your orgasm approaching, and then the rubber band inside you snaps. Legs shaking, body twitching, and cries pouring from your throat as your release drips down Hyunjin’s face.

With every touch, your skin feels like fire as you lay there trying to come back to the present. You almost missed the way Jeongin pulled Hyunjin from between your thighs, attacking his face with hot, sloppy kisses, desperate to know what he tasted like with your release coating his lips. When you regain consciousness, Hyunjin is flipping you over onto your stomach, lifting your hips in the air.

“Are you okay? Do you want to keep going?” Jeongin is leaned down by your face. You nod and whisper yes, throat tired from the screams you let out moments ago. He kisses your forehead before maneuvering to sit in front of you, his legs spread while his cock leaks with precum. His tip is angry red, begging to be touched. You’re reminded that Hyunjin is behind you when you feel a harsh smack on your ass, fingers playing between your folds. He gripped his cock with one hand, stroking himself a few while aligning your hips into place. You feel the way he rubs his tip against your dripping cunt, you wiggle your hips begging him to just put in.

“Please... Hyun please just fuck me please,” You plead while gripping the bed, nails digging into the comforter.

“Anything for you, my angel. Such a dirty girl crying out for my cock arent you?”

He’s slamming his hips into you giving you little time to adjust to feeling, his cock brushes against your cervix. He’s thicker then Jeongin, you can feel every ridge of him inside you. You yelp clenching down on him which causes Hyunjin to groan loudly, digging his fingertips into your hips. He moves slowly pulling himself out before bottoming out inside you again. Your whimpers only egg him on, Jeongin is fisting himself, all thoughts consumed by your moans and the way Hyunjin is slamming himself in and out.

“Gonna fill you up so good. Watch me empty my load into your angel girlfriend, Jeongin.”

Hyunjin picks his pace up, the sound of skin slapping echoes in the room while he pounds into you from behind. You attempt to bury your face in the blanket you lay on top but Hyunjin is drunk on the way you cry out in pleasure, he wants you crying out his name while Jeongin watches. He pulls you up by your hair, lifting you to hold yourself up on your hands, he wraps an arm around your throat, leaning over your body to chokehold you. He continues his merciless thrusting and looks up to Jeongin while he grunts burying himself inside you to the hilt. He has a catlike smirk on his face while you cry out again feeling his tip brushing that spot inside you again. Jeongin is rapidly unfolding at the sight, but he can’t bring himself to release yet. Hyunjin lets you go before pulling out of you leaving you crying out at the empty feeling. He flips you onto your back, you roll over like a ragdoll now that every muscle in your body is worn. He settles on his lifting your hips into his lap before beginning to pound into your cunt. He holds your hips in the air while your back is arching once again, he’s so close and this new angel is bring him close to his own climax. Your whole body shakes and pussy clenches down on him, trying to milk every last drop of cum out of him. With a few sloppy thrusts, he climaxes inside you, painting your insides white with his cum. Your 2nd orgasm falters off as you aren’t as close, when you feel him pull out, your legs shake, needing him to finish what he started. You pant in place aching to feel your release. You look up at Jeongin, your boyfriend who watched his best friend just dump his load into you.

“Sit on my face.” It’s all he says, it's all Jeongin needs to say. He couldn’t cum, not when your pussy was dripping with Hyunjin’s cum. He needed to taste. When he finally scoots down the bed low enough for you to straddle his face and hold the headboard for support. He gives your ass a hard slap, gripping your hips down to smother his face, he was going to eat you out like you were his last meal. Without another second to spare, his tongue is dipping in and out between your folds, Hyunjin’s cum pouring onto his tongue. Lapping every drop into his mouth like you were spring water in the desert.

Hyunjin had been watching this play out. Trying to catch his breath but he’s hard again, he can’t ignore the burning desire in his stomach to suck Jeongin off right now, when would he ever get another opportunity like this again? He makes his way back onto the bed push Jeongins legs apart, before settling down right between them just like he had done to you earlier. You look over your shoulder catching a glance before Hyunjin is spitting on your boyfriend’s cock to start stroking him. You had a burning feeling in your stomach recalling back to that night Innie fucked you on the couch remembering the fever flush that came over you seeing the way Hyunjin drank the image up. You brought back to reality when Jeongin groans into your pussy, overwhelmed by the feeling of Hyunjin taking him all the way down his throat. Jeongin snaps his hips up causing Hyunjin to gag and tighten his throat around him, you grind your hips into his mouth looking down at him while leaving another harsh smack across your ass.

You’re close to cumming again, your hand fisted in Innie’s hair while he moans into your pussy. He picks up the speed rapidly flicking his tongue on your clit, your thighs hurting from both the approaching orgasm and keeping yourself up from suffocating your boyfriend. Hyunjin is sloppily sucking your boyfriend off, pulling off for a moment to lick at his balls before flattening his tongue, and licking a long stripe from his balls to his tip. You once again feel your orgasm washing over you and cum shakily down on Jeongins face, he gleefully takes your hips in his hand helping you ride out his orgasm. You pull yourself shortly after to keep yourself from falling into full overstimulation, Hyunjin still lies between your boyfriend's legs, bringing Jeongin close to his own orgasm. Jeongin lifts his head up just enough to watch him shove Hyunjin’s head further down on his cock once more, holding him in place while he empties himself into his mouth. Out of breath, Innie lays there while Hyunjin slowly pulls his mouth off, letting Jeongins cum drip down out of his mouth back into his cock.

Panting, out of breath laying next to Jeongin, you hug his arm leaning your head on his shoulder. He smooths your hair down kissing your forehead muttering an ‘I love you’. The bed shifts when you feel Hyunjin lie next to you, you're all worn out, tired, and sore. Jeongin is the first to move with shaky legs, he makes his way to the bathroom to run a bath for you. Hyunjin is holding you in his arms, his head is pressed into your shoulder.

“I love you… I love you both so much… this won’t ruin us right?”

You roll over in his arms to look at him, Hyunjin had tears welling in his eyes. You knew him better than anyone else, his efforts to find a home in someone else’s body were all efforts made in a vain mindset, that sex could somehow fix the hole he had in his heart. He was always going to be in love with you, in love with you both. His heart held as much love for you as it did for Jeongin, someone he was never quite sure would ever reciprocate the love in the same way.

“No, this changes some things but it’ll never ruin us. Come on, let's shower, we can talk things over in the morning. For now, we can hold on to this moment.”

A tear slips past, you wipe the tear away from his cheek rubbing a soothing thumb over his face. Hyunjin walks to the bathroom first, Jeongin comes back out for a moment.

“Baby, I think you’re gonna have to help me to the bathroom. My legs feel like jello.” You tell Jeongin as laughs, he’s still hard so his erection still stands tall when he stands in front of you.

“I got you,” He picks you up bridal style, you wrap your arms around his neck. He stops for a moment with you like this. You cup his face and kiss him, a sweet one, a reassurance that you love him. He presses his forehead to yours, “I have so many mixed emotions right now… but I know… I need you both… more then ever.”

“I’m right there with you. Now, let's shower please, I’m begging you.”

After having both of them hold you up in the shower to wash, a cooperative effort to clean up the mess you left behind in the bed, you finally settle under the new sheets and comforter after having to ask the hotel housekeeping for shamefully. You wore one of the many band t-shirts Jeongin had, it was just the right amount of worn to feel soft against hot skin. Hyunjin grabbed spare clothes from his room before returning to the shared room for some much-needed cuddling and aftercare. You’d fall asleep sandwiched between the two of them, Hyunjin pressed to your back and your head on Jeongins chest.

You wake up the next morning to your phone blowing up, Hyunjin and Jeongin both passed out in a comatose sleep. You scramble across the bed to reach the dresser.

"Hello?" You ask groggily.

"Where are you and where is the other half of this band? I'm with the rest at the record companies office and the meeting is in 20 minutes." Yasu's voice is like a splash cold water to your face.

"Oh FUCk-" Your shoving the other two awake, shouting something about meeting and company. They both drop to the floor scrambling to find clothes.

"They'll be there soon maybe 10 minutes, 15 at most." You say as you watch the flee out the door.

"I'll try to stall till they get here... you said "they"... did you?..."

"I took your advice... and that's all I'll say."

596 notes · View notes

clementineinn · 1 month ago

Text

in my place, all my troubles

abstract: amid the sleepless hum of a New York investigation, tension simmers just beneath the surface. as the case unfolds, one profiler finds himself unraveling in ways the evidence can’t explain—watching her warmth, her light, fall too often into someone else’s orbit.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: angst & fluff (sorry i can't help myself when it comes to lovey dovey spencer)

word count: 12.9k (literally poured blood, sweat, and tears into this DAMn)

note: ngl, this took me forever lol. i kept rewatching episodes to try to get the "crime lingo" down bc i literally know nothing fbi related jdfjkfdsk. but anyways, enjoy this angsty piece on jealous spencer mwahaha!!

Upstate New York had a way of swallowing sound—not like silence, but like memory. A hush that wasn’t serene so much as suspended, thick with the kind of stillness that pressed inward rather than soothed. It was the quiet of waiting rooms and church basements, of shuttered windows and roads slicked dark with rain. The sky hung low over Kingston like an old wool coat—heavy, colorless, and reluctant to let anything through. Clouds bruised the horizon, unbroken, smeared thin across the valley in shades of lead and pewter.

Trees stood bare as bone, their branches slick with last night’s rain, reaching crooked toward the pale daylight like they’d forgotten how to bloom. The ground was soft underfoot, not with spring, but with rot—wet leaves clinging to boots, decomposing into the earth with every step. Wind threaded through narrow streets, not howling, but whispering—low and slow, like it knew secrets it wasn’t ready to tell.

Even the town felt muted. Storefronts stared blankly into the cold, their signs faded and windows steamed. A single light flickered in the precinct’s side entrance, buzzing faintly above the doorway as if trying to stay awake. Somewhere nearby, a raven called once, sharp and brief, before the sound was swallowed whole.

It wasn’t peace. It was tension with nowhere to go. And in the middle of it all, the Bureau had arrived—unmarked cars lined up like sentinels, agents stepping out into a world that felt like it had braced for them.

The first Bureau SUV rolled through the fog like a ship into harbor, headlights catching in the sheen of rain still slicking the asphalt. Tires whispered over the pavement—more glide than roll—carving ripples in the shallow puddles that had pooled overnight along the curb. The second vehicle followed close behind, its wipers sweeping rhythmically, as if the beat of glass and rubber might somehow hold off the quiet unease threading through the morning.

The street outside the Kingston precinct was washed in that particular gray that came with river fog—thick, unmoving, wrapped low around the shoulders of the trees like damp wool. Nothing stirred. Not the wind, not the crows hunched on the power lines, not the sun behind its veil of pale steel clouds. Even the town felt like it was holding its breath.

When the passenger door clicked open, Y/N stepped out first. The moment she straightened, the wind caught her coat in a brief flare—black wool, tailored and clean, snapping once against her legs before she smoothed the collar up with one gloved hand. The cold bit harder than expected; she didn't flinch.

She always dressed for the weather, but never forgot herself in the process—navy slacks pressed to a perfect crease, a charcoal sweater soft against her frame, tucked at the waist with the practiced ease of someone who didn’t have time to fuss but still wanted to feel like herself. Her boots—heather-gray suede, modestly heeled—clicked lightly against the damp sidewalk, the sound quiet but sure.

She paused just outside the SUV, eyes lifted to the building before them. The precinct loomed like so many others had before it—functional, forgettable, a structure made of fluorescent lights and overworked officers. But Y/N was already reading it like she would a crime scene. Measuring the weight in the windows, the stories caught in the walls. Beneath the stillness of her expression, something sharp moved—restless and coiled. A familiar tension.

It had only been two days since the third body—twenty years old, a college sophomore found curled into a drainage ditch with burns that didn’t come from fire. Y/N hadn’t slept since the flight out. Not really. The facts circled in her mind like crows: the timeline, the escalation, the signature. Every hour without a pattern was another hour someone could vanish.

Behind her, the rest of the team moved with practiced coordination. Hotch emerged next, purposeful and silent, shoulders squared like he could part the fog through sheer will. Morgan followed, already scanning the street, one hand resting near his hip holster. Prentiss and JJ flanked either side—quiet murmurs passing between them, the ends of sentences fading into breath.

Rossi stepped out last, coat collar high, eyes already fixed on the precinct doors. He didn’t speak. He rarely had to.

Spencer trailed a few steps behind the others, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, the hem of his coat brushing rainwater off his slacks with each stride. He walked like he was somewhere else—half here, half still trapped in the victim's last known movements. His hair was a little wind-tousled, his gaze distant but flicking now and then toward Y/N. Noticing the way her shoulders held steady. The way she didn’t fidget like she usually did after long drives. The way her expression was calm—but not quiet.

She didn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Inside the precinct, the air hit like a wall—thick with breath and overuse, laced with the sour trace of old coffee gone bitter on the burner and the lingering sting of copier toner. Voices layered atop one another in tired cadences: clipped phone calls, muttered updates, chairs scraping on linoleum. It was the kind of sound that never really rose but never stopped either. A low, ceaseless murmur—like the building itself was trying to remember everything it had seen.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and insistent. Their glow wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It laid across everything in a jaundiced smear—making pallid skin look sallow, casting shadows in all the wrong places, turning even the most innocuous stack of papers into something clinical and cold. One of the bulbs near the far corner flickered every so often, a hiccup of light that no one seemed to notice anymore.

The space was crowded—not just with people, but with fatigue. Desks sagged under the weight of their own clutter: manila folders frayed at the edges, crime scene binders left gaping, polaroids curling slightly at the corners. Maps were tacked to the walls alongside printouts and booking photos, their surfaces covered in looping red pen and coffee stains like someone had tried to trace chaos into something logical.

The walls had been painted beige once, but years of grime and tape residue had dulled them to the color of dishwater. Boot prints tracked across the scuffed linoleum floors, half-erased but never gone. Even the air felt used—breathed too many times, recycled through too many lungs without ever quite making it clean again.

Somewhere near the back, a box fan hummed inside a cracked window, its blades stuttering on every third rotation like a lung trying to exhale. The radio static from a dispatcher’s desk popped in and out of coherence, little bursts of coded urgency rising and falling like distant thunder. A phone rang. Then another.

Spencer stepped in just behind the others, the strap of his satchel dragging a faint indentation into the fabric of his coat. His fingers tightened around the worn canvas without thinking. He shifted his weight slightly, eyes doing what they always did—sweeping the room, cataloging everything. The angles of desks. The pattern of foot traffic. The way a young patrol officer to his right murmured into a shoulder mic without breaking stride, the cord coiled taut like a nervous habit.

This place wasn’t new. It was every precinct they’d ever entered and none of them at all. It reeked of long hours and longer silences. Of caffeine and secondhand trauma. Of good intentions ground down to routine.

But through it all, Spencer’s gaze found her.

Y/N, just ahead, already tuning in. Already working. Already lighting the edges of the room—whether she meant to or not.

Then—

From one of the side offices, a man emerged.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His steps were slow, purposeful — not sluggish, just grounded, as if he knew everyone in the building would move around him if needed.

“Chief Halberd,” he said, extending his hand before he even crossed the room. His voice was gravel-thick, tinged with the fatigue of someone who’d seen too many bodies and buried too many leads. Still, it held command.

“You must be the BAU. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

Hotch stepped forward, the natural gravity in his stance anchoring the exchange. “Aaron Hotchner. This is my team—Agents Morgan, Prentiss, Jareau, Rossi, Y/L/N, and Dr. Reid.”

Halberd nodded briskly as each name passed — his gaze quick, perfunctory. No delay. No pause. Just recognition.

Then came the man just behind him.

“Detective Nate Carroway,” he said smoothly, tugging off a pair of black gloves as he stepped into view.

He was younger than Halberd by at least a decade, maybe more. Well-groomed in a way most field detectives weren’t — a sharp jaw lined with the shadow of a beard, dark hair pushed back, eyes that flicked quick over the room and landed with unnerving ease. Charisma radiated off him like cologne — not overwhelming, just persistent. There was something magnetic about him, something easy. The kind of man people liked on instinct. The kind of man who always had an answer in a room full of silence.

“I’ve been working the case details since the first body turned up,” he continued, rolling his gloves into one hand. “You’ve got a hell of a team, Agent Hotchner. We’re lucky to have you.”

If Halberd was the anchor, Carroway was the draw. There was something magnetic about the way he moved — like a man used to being listened to, even when he wasn’t the one speaking. He was handsome in a way that didn’t try too hard: stubble lining a strong jaw, dark eyes alert but relaxed, a leather holster slung diagonally across his chest like it had been tailored just for him.

His voice carried — smoother than the chief’s, a warm baritone shaped by confidence and long hours in interrogation rooms.

He nodded toward the group. “Your name gets around—in a good way. Glad to finally see it in action.”

His gaze swept across the team — but stopped, unmistakably, on Y/N.

There was nothing indecent in it. No leer. Just focus. Measured, sure. Entirely aware.

Y/N noticed his gaze linger a moment longer than expected—curious, not crude—and offered him a soft smile in return. “Agent Y/L/N,” she said kindly, her voice light and sure, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “It’s good to meet you. Thanks for the welcome.”

There was no trace of discomfort in her voice, just her usual kindness. She didn’t mention his stare. She didn’t need to. Her tone was warm—natural. The kind that soothed witnesses, that made even bristling detectives feel like they’d just been understood. It was the way she always sounded in the field. Spencer knew it by heart. So did everyone else on the team.

But something about the way Carroway reacted to it—

The way his smile deepened—not wider, just more real. The way his eyes lingered—not invasive, but deliberate. The way he leaned forward just a hair, like the rest of the world had dulled.

“Trust me,” he said, still watching her. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Y/N nodded politely, already turning slightly toward the wall of maps and pinned case details behind them. Her focus shifted easily—her hands already brushing the edge of a case file someone had left half-closed.

Beside her, Chief Halberd was already speaking. “We’ve mapped three major dump sites within a five-mile radius,” he said, gesturing toward the main whiteboard. “There’s a pattern, but it’s not clean. The third body threw off our initial radius projection.”

“We saw that in the report,” Hotch replied, stepping forward. “Were the remains moved postmortem?”

Carroway answered this time, smooth and measured. “Possibly. Or the unsub's changing comfort zones. We’ve got canvass reports still coming in.”

As they spoke, Carroway’s eyes didn’t follow the diagrams or the conversation.

They followed her.

Spencer, from his quiet place just behind Hotch, said nothing.

But his knuckles whitened slightly around the strap of his satchel.

The whiteboards along the back wall rose like monoliths—covered in crime scene photos faded by copier ink, timelines scrawled in half-erased marker, maps spotted with thumbtacks that formed patterns like bruises across the city. The overhead lights hummed a dull monotone, casting everything in a sterile pallor that leeched color from skin and paper alike.

Y/N nodded once at Carroway’s words, already stepping past the cluster of introductions. Her focus shifted without pause to the case boards, her eyes moving quickly—cataloging, scanning, absorbing. She didn’t wait to be led. She was already moving, already locked into the rhythm of the case like a dancer finding a familiar beat.

Carroway started to follow, clearing his throat lightly. “We’ve flagged some witness inconsistencies from the first scene. I can walk you through them.”

But she was already reading a notation on the map, leaning in slightly. “This section—was the body facing the street or angled toward the alley?”

“Alley,” he replied after a beat. “Face down. No obvious drag marks.”

She gave a small nod, filing it away. Her boots clicked softly against the dull linoleum as she shifted her stance, black slacks moving with quiet precision. Her sweater hugged her frame beneath the tailored line of her open coat, the edge of her Bureau ID swaying lightly. Her hair, slightly tousled from the cold, caught the fluorescents just so—strands shining like dusk through a windshield.

And Carroway watched her.

Not obviously. Not in some inappropriate way. But it was frequent—his gaze falling back to her again and again, as though gravity didn’t allow it to stray for long. There was charm in it. That subtle, practiced kind some men carry into every room: easy and harmless and just a little too smooth. But where others might have glanced at the whole group, he watched her move.

Spencer saw all of it.

He stood just behind Hotch, unmoving—shoulders rigid, spine straight, the folder in his hand hanging limp by his side. The hum of the precinct seemed to dull around him, swallowed under the slow press of something tight and unwelcome curling low in his chest.

The smell of printer toner. The buzz of voices. Carroway’s voice—low, confident—somewhere behind them.

And Spencer’s eyes fixed to the sway of Y/N’s step.

Hotch, still tracking the board, spoke again—focused, precise. “Let’s pull the satellite mapping from yesterday’s dump site. See if there's overlap with the alley’s trash pickup schedule or any recent construction permits. I want a timeline in the next hour.”

He turned slightly, his voice following like a directive across the room. “Y/L/N, if there’s any witness detail on foot traffic near the alley, you and Prentiss get it on the record. And if anything points east of the river, flag it immediately.”

Y/N nodded without turning. “Understood.”

Then, silence again. Then, Hotch again.

“Reid, Rossi—get the ME reports. Morgan, JJ—start working the dump site angles. Y/L/N, Prentiss, go with Detective Carroway. He’ll bring you up to speed on witness statements and initial interviews.”

It was crisp. Commanding. The kind of tone that split conversations clean in half.

The team dispersed like clockwork.

It was crisp. Commanding. A voice honed on years of consequence and sharpened by the weight of federal silence—the kind that didn’t need to rise above the din to cut through it. It simply was, and everything else stepped back to make room.

Hotch’s directive sliced clean through the room, scattering conversation like birds startled from a wire.

The team moved with the fluidity of practiced instinct. Not rushed—never rushed—but with that purposeful precision that came from too many years spent chasing the shadows of terrible men. Chairs scraped. Pens clicked closed. Jackets shrugged back into place. Somewhere near the vending machine, a cup hit the trash can with a hollow plastic clatter.

Y/N was already moving. She pivoted cleanly, boots gliding soundlessly over the scuffed linoleum as she turned toward a narrow corridor half-hidden behind a cluster of worn filing cabinets and a forgotten rack of spare uniforms. Her steps were quiet, certain, the faintest echo of heels softened by the low ceiling and yellowed ceiling tiles above. She didn’t hesitate—not even when her name had only just been assigned.

“Thank you,” she said, casting the words like a breath over her shoulder.

The syllables fell softly, light and unhurried, as though she were already immersed in something deeper than speech.

Carroway was close behind, his stride matching hers. Not urgent. Not intrusive. But angled—always slightly turned toward her, a magnetic tilt of the shoulder, a subtle lean of posture that betrayed attention too steady to be professional. His boots made a heavier sound, rubber soles wet from outside tracking faint prints with each step that ghosted and blurred behind hers.

They passed through the short hallway, dimly lit by a buzzing fluorescent panel that flickered once, then stilled. The office ahead was small, a box of a room crowded with overstuffed evidence boxes and dog-eared case files stacked like brittle towers. The windows were fogged along the edges, rain pressing lazy rivulets against the outside glass. Someone had left a radiator humming faintly near the far wall, filling the space with the low, metallic smell of heat against old dust.

Y/N stepped inside first, her eyes already scanning. Not out of suspicion—but hunger. That steady, quiet hunger she always carried in these moments. The need to know, to understand, to pull truth from static.

Her gaze found the photo first—crooked on the corkboard, slightly curling at the corners. It wasn’t framed or labeled. Just tacked there, a fragment of horror on display.

A woman. Late teens. Shoes missing. Her limbs half-curled on a bed of crushed pine needles. Bruises painting the delicate skin at her collarbone like fingerprints of dusk. One hand outstretched toward nothing. The flash had caught the glaze in her eyes, and it made the image feel too alive. Like something still lingered there.

Y/N's brow furrowed—not in fear, but in quiet absorption. She leaned forward slightly, enough to send the smallest movement through the fabric of her coat, enough to catch a single lock of hair and let it fall forward across her cheekbone.

Carroway stood beside her now. Just a pace away. His shoulder was turned fractionally in her direction—attentive. Not overbearing, but present in a way that marked intention. The kind of presence that carried weight even in silence. That leaned closer not to crowd, but to remain near enough to witness.

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t change. But—

As she took in the photos, her head turned. A gentle glance over her shoulder, her voice barely more than breath.

“Em?” she asked, soft, like she was calling a friend across a crowded train platform, sticking her head out of the room and into the hallway. Her steps slowed half a beat.

Back by the main desk, Emily lifted her chin and waved, already peeling off her gloves. “Right behind you.”

Y/N smiled, brief and quiet, and turned back into the room.

Carroway waited as promised, his posture casual, hands tucked into the front of his coat. He didn’t mind the delay. If anything, he looked pleased. At ease.

Spencer hadn’t moved.

Not really.

Just watched.

The corner of his jaw ticked once.

Then again.

His knuckles whitened just slightly where they curled around the edge of the folder in his hands.

The buzz of the precinct resumed its familiar pitch, but in Spencer’s ears—it all sounded just a little too far away.

Emily didn’t move immediately.

Morgan gave her a look. “You stalling?”

She smirked. “No. Just enjoying the view.”

Morgan chuckled low. “Detective Handsome’s got it bad already. Did you see the way he zeroed in on her like she was a hot lead?”

Emily tilted her head thoughtfully. “Might’ve been subtle if he hadn’t been doing it the entire time Hotch was talking.”

Spencer, who had already started flipping open the ME file, made a quiet noise under his breath. Disapproving.

Emily looked over at him, one brow lifted. “Don’t start frowning like that unless you want it to stay that way.”

“I’m not frowning,” he said, still reading.

Morgan grinned. “You’re definitely frowning. Like someone just insulted your favorite theorem.”

Spencer’s voice was calm but clipped. “It’s unprofessional. He’s clearly distracted.”

Emily folded her arms, dry. “Right. And you’re clearly not.”

Spencer finally looked up. “I’m not distracted.”

Morgan leaned on the edge of the desk, grinning. “Reid, you’ve had one eye on her since we got here. You’re tracking her like a trained bloodhound.”

“I’m not—” Spencer caught himself. Took a breath. “I just think Carroway’s presence is… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” Emily repeated. “He’s the chief’s second-in-command.”

“Exactly,” Spencer muttered. “Shouldn’t he be coordinating efforts, not hovering around one agent?”

Emily leaned closer, stage-whispering with mock intrigue. “Or maybe he just likes her.”

Spencer’s jaw twitched.

Morgan gave him a sympathetic clap on the shoulder. “Look, man. She’s warm, she’s smart, she listens like no one else. You think he’s the first guy to notice that?”

Spencer said nothing.

Emily softened, just a little. “She’s not flirting back, you know.”

“She’s just kind,” Spencer said, quieter now. “She’s always kind.”

Emily gave him a long look—knowing, but not cruel.

Then she turned on her heel. “Guess I better go rescue her from the swirling orbit of Detective Smitten.”

“Good luck,” Morgan called after her. “Try not to get caught in the gravitational pull.”

Spencer didn’t watch her go. But his pen tapped once. Then again. Then again.

Spencer stood just outside the conference room, his silhouette cast long against the hallway floor by the overhead fluorescents. The file tucked beneath his arm had slipped slightly, one corner pressing into his ribs. In his other hand, a cooling paper cup trembled faintly, more from how tightly he gripped it than the weight it held.

He hadn’t moved in several minutes.

Through the wide glass wall, the room inside glowed softly with artificial light. A low murmur of voices—indistinct—filtered through the pane. Not loud enough to hear, but enough to feel. Steady. Rhythmic.

Y/N sat at the far end of the table. Her legs were crossed neatly at the ankles, back straight but not rigid, posture attentive. Her expression, Spencer noted—not for the first time—was exactly the kind that made people talk. Calm, open, engaged. Her pen hovered over a blank page, her head tilted just slightly, as if to better catch the shape of a truth not yet spoken.

She wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But her presence was the kind that invited trust.

That’s just who she is, he reminded himself.

But then Carroway leaned closer.

The detective was angled toward her, elbows braced lightly on his knees, voice pitched low enough to be private but not secretive. His expression was focused—relaxed. Polished. Like everything he said was meant to land effortlessly.

Spencer’s jaw clenched.

When Y/N let out a soft, brief laugh, it flickered across her face like sunlight skimming the surface of water—gone almost as soon as it appeared. Spencer had heard that laugh before. Had earned it, in rare, golden moments. He’d known the sound of it in quiet hotel hallways and on long rides home from cases that nearly broke them. But here, it set his stomach turning.

Because Carroway was looking at her like it meant something.

And Spencer was starting to believe maybe it did.

Y/N shifted in her seat, just slightly, knees turning a fraction in Carroway’s direction. Her shoulders were still angled toward the witness—but her gaze flicked sideways. A light in her eyes. Curious. Amused.

Interested, Spencer thought. Or maybe entertained. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His fingers curled tighter around the cup.

It didn’t help that Carroway was the kind of man who made people listen. Not because he demanded it, but because he fit so easily into the rhythm of conversation. Charismatic. At ease. His attention didn’t press—it coaxed. Even Emily and JJ had laughed at something he’d said earlier that morning, their heads tilted toward him with that low, familiar camaraderie of shared humor. Spencer had seen it.

He just hadn’t expected to see it from her.

Inside the room, Carroway said something again—something soft, Spencer assumed, because it made Y/N’s brow rise with interest. She leaned in by no more than an inch. Just enough to make Spencer’s heart stutter in his chest. She responded, mouth curling upward—not quite a full smile, but warm.

Friendly.

Maybe more.

Spencer looked down at the file beneath his arm and realized he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His coffee had gone lukewarm. His temples throbbed.

She’s just being kind, he told himself again, but the words felt flimsy now. Brittle.

He didn’t hear Hotch approach, but the voice behind him snapped like a rubber band stretched too thin.

“Reid,” came the quiet command. “I need those timeline estimates in my hand in ten.”

Spencer’s throat was dry. “On it.”

Hotch’s footsteps receded, fading back into the steady churn of the precinct.

Spencer stood frozen for another moment, gaze flicking once more toward the glass.

Y/N was speaking again—focused on the witness now. Professional. But when she glanced back at Carroway, something about the ease in her face made Spencer turn away.

He couldn’t do this right now.

He left the hallway in silence, footsteps brisk, head down.

The file under his arm creaked softly as he gripped it tighter.

And the coffee cup, still full, landed in the trash beside the break room door without a sound.

They regrouped at the central table an hour later—though “table” no longer felt like the right word for it. It was more of a battlefield now, every inch littered with the debris of unraveling a human mind. Case notes stacked in uneven piles, post-its curling at the edges, printouts spread like maps to a war zone. Folders burst open with scribbled margins and red circles drawn in haste. The air smelled like toner and fatigue, underscored by the metallic bite of too-cold coffee.

Coffee rings bled like ink stains across manila covers, some still damp, overlapping like old bruises.

Y/N stood near the head of the table with JJ and Emily, her body angled toward the overhead light that flickered every fifth second like a nervous tic. She was reviewing a spread of new forensics photos—fingerprints, partial treads, mud-blurred impressions. A strand of hair had slipped forward from where she’d tucked it, brushing her cheek as she leaned over the files. She didn’t notice. She was already halfway through connecting dots no one else had seen yet.

Spencer hovered at the periphery—close enough to listen, too far to be seen.

His fingers turned pages in the file in his hands, but none of them registered. The paper was a blur. Words lifted from the page like smoke without meaning. His jaw worked tight. His eyes, traitorous things, kept drifting back to her.

She looked calm. Composed. Lit gently by the overhead flicker and the pale glow of the task lamp beside her. The sweater she wore caught the light softly, hugging the lines of her shoulders like it had been made to. There was a highlighter tucked between her lips, and her boot tapped unconsciously against the floor in a quiet rhythm only she could hear.

He’d seen her like this before—brilliant and quietly focused. But now, it wasn’t just him seeing it.

Carroway strode in from the hallway like the kind of man you saw at the end of a polished campaign commercial—broad shoulders, sure hands, dark coat still dusted faintly with rain. He held a fresh folder under one arm and walked like he’d always belonged in rooms like this.

“Crime scene updates from the east side dump site,” he said, dropping the folder onto the center of the table with a practiced kind of ease. “Still no positive matches, but one of the tire treads lines up with an earlier print we flagged on the service road. Might help narrow the vehicle search.”

“Good,” Hotch said from the corner, not looking up from the map he was reviewing. “Prentiss, take point on that. Reid—start running vehicle ownership data based on the radius we discussed.”

Spencer nodded automatically. But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because she had stepped forward again.

Y/N leaned toward the photo Carroway had set down, one hand grabbing the highlighter out of her mouth and then braced lightly on the table, the other pointing with a delicate precision. “See how it curves here?” she said, fingertip just above the ridge of the print. “That’s not a flat surface—he drove over something uneven. Maybe a culvert or broken curb.”

Carroway’s eyes followed her finger, but not just her finger. “Sharp eye, Agent Y/L/N.”

She smiled—small, modest, a soft curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ve been staring at these prints all day.”

And Spencer felt it.

That awful, twisting thing. Tight and low in his chest. Like something ancient had uncoiled behind his ribs and didn’t know how to settle again.

Carroway’s gaze didn’t linger inappropriately. It wasn’t lewd. Just appreciative. Warm. The kind of look that wasn’t a violation, but an invitation. An acknowledgment of something seen—and admired.

Still, Spencer’s throat went dry.

His eyes fell to his own file, to lines of text he couldn’t focus on. His knuckles whitened slightly around the folder’s edge.

Emily slid in beside him with the quiet grace of someone who’d been watching the whole thing for a while now. She bumped his elbow just slightly—light, but grounded.

“You should talk to her, you know,” she murmured.

“I am talking to her,” Spencer muttered without looking up.

“Not like that,” Emily said. Her voice was soft but firm, the tone she used on victims who needed the truth gentle but real. “Like a person. Not a profile.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The words snagged in his chest.

So instead, he turned away—folder clutched too tightly, the edges biting into his palm—and walked out of the bullpen toward the printer room. His steps were stiff, deliberate, almost too quiet. The shadows in the hallway swallowed him whole.

Back at the table, Y/N glanced toward the doorway he’d left through.

Her hand lingered above the photo just a moment too long.

Then she blinked, straightened her spine, and turned back to the work.

By late afternoon, the precinct had settled into that familiar kind of lull—the kind that clung after long hours and longer silences. It was the static rhythm of too many hours stretched thin over cold light and colder cases. Not silence exactly, but a hush made of paper shuffles, soft radio murmurs, the tired sigh of someone pinching the bridge of their nose at the end of another dead lead.

The air buzzed faintly, an undercurrent hum from the aging fluorescents that flickered in imperfect rhythm above. That kind of artificial light that never quite felt like light at all—too yellow, too sterile. It bleached everything it touched, casting a dull haze over whiteboards and laminates, turning paper coffee filters the color of old teeth, and making the red circles on the crime scene maps look more like dried blood than ink.

Mugs—half full, half forgotten—rested precariously on cluttered corners of desks. The coffee inside had long gone bitter and cold, its surface shimmering faintly with the oily sheen of time. Sleeves had been rolled and pushed and tugged again and again until the creases were permanent. Files lay open where minds had wandered, notes scrawled in the margins with pens that had run dry three times over.

The air itself smelled lived-in. Not foul—just used. Burnt coffee and stale printer toner. Fabric softened by too many hours of wear. The faintest trace of pine cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in days. Outside, the snow had begun to melt in slow, muddy sighs, and the precinct carried the aftermath in its corners—bootprints tracked in across the linoleum, puddles in the shape of soles turning to ghost stains beneath desks. Damp coats hung over the backs of chairs, sleeves dripping into faint halos on the floor, collars steamed from the heat of too many bodies crammed into a space not meant for long-term comfort.

There was weight in the stillness. Not grief. Not panic. Just the heaviness of knowing too much and not enough all at once.

Somewhere in the corner, a desk fan rattled with every turn, clicking softly like a nervous tic. The phone rang, once, unanswered. Then again.

And above it all, the boards loomed—case files mapped out in red string and pushpins, photographs with blurred faces and time stamped sorrow pinned like ghosts to cork. Under the fluorescents, every face looked a little too pale. A little too lost.

Spencer sat at the central table with his back too straight, fingers poised over the keyboard but unmoving. The victimology matrix blinked on the screen before him, half-filled with names, locations, variables that once felt like progress but now blurred together. There had been a new lead—something about proximity and trail overlap, a possible cluster of vehicle sightings near the service road—but he wasn’t reading it.

Not really.

Because across the room, Y/N stood at the secondary table near the copy machine, sleeves rolled past her elbows, a pen tucked behind her ear, sweater stretched soft across her shoulders. She was leaning over a series of fresh prints, her voice low and thoughtful as she pointed something out to Emily and JJ, her other hand braced lightly on her hip. The small glint of her necklace shifted with the angle of her chin as she spoke.

“See that imprint?” she said, fingertip hovering over a photo. “The leaves are flattened, but only in one direction—he stopped here. Maybe turned the body before dragging it further.”

Emily leaned in, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “Could explain the scuff marks near the east edge. That dirt pattern wasn’t from the tires.”

JJ nodded. “If we overlay that with the timeline, he was in the area longer than we thought. That’s intentional.”

And then Carroway appeared—smooth as ever—emerging from the hallway like the casual hero of a small-town noir, jacket still zipped halfway from his brief step outside. The chill of upstate air clung to him in the form of faint dampness on his collar, his sleeves pushed up just enough to suggest effort without sweat.

He smiled easily, stepping into their circle.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he said, his voice warm with a familiarity he hadn’t earned. “Three for three today. If you keep solving everything before the rest of us catch up, you’re going to put the whole department out of work.”

Y/N laughed—polite, brief. Not flirty. Just her usual—sunlight-in-the-fog warmth. “Pretty sure there’s enough crime to go around.”

Carroway’s grin deepened, his eyes steady on her. “Still. You’ve got a sharp eye. You ever consider transferring to a city that doesn’t travel with its own jet?”

She just shook her head, turning back to the photo spread with a smile. “Tempting. But I don’t think I’d survive without Garcia.”

Spencer clenched his jaw. The cursor on his screen blinked like a pulse.

He didn’t realize Emily and JJ had both glanced at each other until Emily smirked, elbow nudging JJ. “Detective’s got it bad.”

JJ, more gentle, just murmured, “He does seem… interested.”

“She’s not picking up on it,” Emily added, crossing her arms. “Too busy being brilliant.”

Spencer’s stomach twisted.

Because from where he sat, it didn’t look like she was too busy. It looked like she was leaning just a little closer than necessary. Like her smile lingered for him. Like her laugh came easier in Carroway’s orbit. And maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe she did. Either way—it wasn’t for Spencer to decipher anymore, was it?

Morgan appeared behind him, setting down a fresh file with a soft thump.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Spencer didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Morgan drawled. “Just... staring holes into the back of Detective Charming’s head.”

“I’m analyzing his behavioral consistency,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan snorted. “Sure you are. And he just happens to be stationed next to Y/N every time you start typing.”

Spencer didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have one—because every possible answer felt too close to the truth.

Across the room, Carroway reached past Y/N to hand Emily a photo, his shoulder brushing hers as he did. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to register it. Her brow was furrowed in thought, eyes darting between photo and printout, wholly absorbed in the case.

But Spencer saw it.

Saw the way Carroway watched her—like she was the answer to something he’d never dared ask. The way his focus dipped with every shift of her weight, every tilt of her head. And Spencer hated that it wasn’t just obvious. It was effortless.

A warmth he could never replicate.

“I’m going to review tire patterns from the north trailhead,” he said abruptly, standing too fast. The chair legs groaned against the floor.

Morgan raised a brow. “That’s… very specific.”

Spencer was already moving.

“Just don’t pull a muscle trying to ignore her,” Morgan called after him. “You’re not built for denial.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Because the silence that followed him wasn’t empty—it was full of things he couldn’t say.

The evidence board was quiet now.

Most of the team had filtered out for dinner or a break, but Spencer remained, crouched beside an array of tire tread overlays and timestamped location markers spread across the precinct table like a disassembled watch.

He didn’t need the room silent to think. But silence helped.

Here, with no one around to distract him—no voices, no glances, no Carroway—he could finally breathe.

He slid a photo an inch to the left, matching it against a radius map from the earlier dump site. The patterns were narrowing. He knew it. The unsub was returning to places with emotional weight—each site a recursive loop of some unresolved trauma.

He could feel the shape of the profile forming beneath his skin.

He just couldn’t see it clearly yet.

“Hey, Spence.”

The voice came like a break in the storm—low, familiar, golden at the edges. Like the first shaft of sunlight through a rain-soaked window. Soft enough to miss if you weren’t waiting for it.

But he was.

He looked up—and there she was.

Framed in the doorway, haloed by the muted gold of the hallway’s lamplight, she looked like something conjured out of sleep and half-lit memory—a flicker of warmth in the weary hush of the precinct. The light didn’t just hit her. It softened around her, like it had chosen to bend gently at her shoulders, spill in low amber tones along the line of her jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the fine curve of her wrist where she cradled the mug in both hands.

Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows, exposing forearms that bore faint creases from where she'd leaned too long against paper, maps, thoughts. The sweater she wore—charcoal-gray, loose in the way worn-in things always are—draped along her frame like it knew her. Like it had studied the shape of her for years. The steam from her mug curled upward in slow ribbons, catching the light just so, turning to breath before vanishing into the still air.

Strands of hair had fallen loose from behind her ears, soft and errant, clinging in feather-light arcs to the curve of her cheek where rain or fatigue or time had left their quiet fingerprints. There was a blush to her skin—not cosmetic, not feigned, just the flush of hours awake, of movement, of some hidden reserve of warmth she carried even now.

And her smile—

God, her smile.

It broke across her face like morning over water. Too wide for the hour, too bright for the overexposed fatigue hanging in the air like static. It was the kind of smile that should’ve been saved for a different life—one without blood or case files or the slow erosion of good sleep. But it was hers. And it was real. That smile always had been.

It didn’t ask for attention. It didn’t perform.

It just was—easy, unguarded, crinkled at the corners of her eyes like it had bloomed there first. And for a second—just a breath in time—it erased everything else. The clatter of keyboards. The ache in his shoulders. The bruising quiet in his chest that he’d been trying not to name.

She wasn’t even trying to glow.

And somehow, that made it worse.

She tilted her head slightly, then stepped into the room—and he heard her before he saw her. The sharp, soft click of her heels against the linoleum rang out like punctuation in the silence, delicate but sure. Not loud, but undeniable. Measured steps that carried with them something certain, something that grounded.

Each tap echoed just enough to remind him she was real, that she wasn’t a figment conjured from too many sleepless hours and not enough courage.

She moved like warmth itself—shoulders relaxed, gaze already scanning the room with quiet precision—but it wasn’t just the heat of her presence. It was the way the air seemed to shift around her, to bend subtly toward her orbit. Like wherever she went, the room remembered how to breathe again.

“You okay?” she asked gently, voice lighter than it had any right to be after the day they’d had. “You’ve been hiding out in here so long I was starting to wonder if you’d merged with the case files.”

He blinked once. Twice. Swallowed.

“I’m fine,” he said—too quickly. Too practiced.

But her gaze didn’t falter.

Just softened, as it always did for him.

Like she could see the static clinging to his thoughts, the tension woven into his posture. Like she’d trace it all with her fingertips if he let her.

Her eyes held his a moment longer—steady, open, impossibly kind.

Then, as if sensing he wouldn’t offer more, she smiled again—smaller this time. Gentler. It lingered like moonlight caught in fog, like something made of hush and half-formed hope.

And then she moved. Past him. Just close enough.

The air changed around her.

It was subtle—barely more than a shift in temperature, a brush of motion—but to Spencer it was tectonic. Like the breath of a new season stirring through an open window. And with it came the scent of her shampoo, trailing behind her like a whispered secret: sweet, soft, unmistakably hers.

It smelled like wild honey and blooming jasmine—sweet in a way that wasn’t cloying but golden, ripened, like fruit left out just long enough to glow. There was something gentle in it, but decadent too—like the memory of sugared tea sipped on a porch in late summer, or the faint trace of blossoms pressed between the pages of an old book.

It clung to the damp curls brushing the slope of her neck, delicate and unrushed, warmed by skin and rain and the hours she’d worn it. The jasmine was soft and heady, petal-thick, like something from a dream. But it was the honey that caught him—amber-sweet, sun-spilled, deeper than it had any right to be. A sweetness that bloomed slowly, curling into the back of his throat, thick and molten and almost unbearably tender.

It wasn’t the kind of scent designed to dazzle. It was the kind you didn’t notice until you were close. Really close. The kind that settled into the air around her like it belonged there.

Like she belonged.

His blood rushed, molten and dizzying. A flush crawled up the back of his neck, hot beneath his collar.

She didn’t notice—couldn’t possibly know what she’d done to him with something so innocent, so quiet. She was already turning toward the others, her steps light, her presence soft as ever.

But the scent stayed.

“I brought you tea,” she said simply, holding out the mug like a peace offering. “Stole the last of the honey packets. Hope that gives me extra credit.”

And just like that—she was light again.

And he was drowning in it.

“Don’t ask me what kind. I just picked the bag with the prettiest tag.” She set it beside his elbow, leaning on the edge of the table.

He gave a faint nod. “Thanks.”

She studied his face for a second too long.

“I’ve missed talking to you today,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

Just went back to his file, pen moving with mechanical precision across the corner of a victim’s timeline.

“I mean, I know we’ve been in the same room, but that doesn’t count,” she added, light. “You’ve been… elsewhere. Galaxy brain mode.”

His lips twitched, almost into a smile. But it didn’t make it.

“I’ve been working,” he said instead.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, just playful.

“Right. Of course. The Spencer Reid black hole of intellectual intensity. How could I forget?”

Still, nothing from him. Not really.

She leaned in just a little, voice gentler now. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

He didn’t answer that either.

Instead, he shifted the stack of papers between them. “We need to cross-reference the tread spacing with the eastern sector security footage timestamps. The pattern’s emerging slower than it should.”

She blinked. “Okay…”

Something in her voice faltered, just a fraction.

But when he didn’t look up, she straightened. Her smile dimmed slightly��not enough for him to feel guilty, but enough for him to notice.

She took a slow breath.

“You know,” she said, still teasing but softer now, “I’m starting to think you like maps and tire tracks more than me.”

That one hit something low in his chest.

He looked up—just once.

And for a split second, he saw her as she really was.

Eyes warm. Open. Crinkled at the corners from trying too hard to reach him.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even know what she was competing with.

Because it wasn’t Carroway.

It was the thought of losing her to someone who didn’t have to try so hard to not be cold. Someone who didn’t have to keep reminding himself not to want more than professionalism would allow.

Spencer closed the folder with quiet finality.

“You should get some rest,” he said. “We’ll need you sharp tomorrow.”

Y/N paused. The spark in her eyes flickered—but didn’t go out.

She nodded once, slowly. “Right. Of course.”

And then, just before she left the room:

“I’ll see you in the morning, Spencer.”

Not Spence. Not this time.

Just Spencer.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The footage came through at midnight.

Spencer had barely gotten two sips into the cup of tea Y/N had left behind when Garcia’s alert pinged into the shared drive. He moved fast, skimming the timestamps, locating the eastern perimeter cams.

By 12:13 a.m., the team was gathering again.

Coffee replaced sleep. The overhead fluorescents buzzed to life like they resented being disturbed.

“Got a partial plate,” Garcia’s voice crackled through Morgan’s speakerphone. “It’s grainy, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure the vehicle matches our earlier dump site photo. Black Nissan, three digits visible. Cross-checking local registrations now.”

Hotch was already assigning roles. Spencer barely looked up from the monitor.

“Carroway, take Y/L/N and Prentiss,” Hotch said. “There’s a witness who might’ve seen the car parked near the trailhead. She’s an older woman—tends to sit on her porch late.”

Carroway nodded. “She knows me. We’ve spoken before. I’ll keep it short.”

Y/N stepped toward the coat rack, zipping up her outer layer with quiet efficiency. The zipper caught slightly near the collar, and she tugged it gently with gloved fingers, the sound delicate in the hush of the room. She looked over at Spencer—just for a moment.

Her eyes searched his face like they were hoping for something there. Some glimmer. Some thread of softness she might still reach for.

But he didn’t meet her gaze.

Not this time.

Instead, he turned back to the whiteboard, the overhead lights catching faintly on his lashes. “Check if she’s mentioned anything about the car’s exhaust,” he said, voice steady but distant. “Our guy might be modifying the muffler—sound dampening.”

Y/N didn’t move right away. Just blinked once, slow. Her shoulders didn’t slump, not quite—but something in her posture stilled, as if a tether had quietly snapped.

And then—Morgan caught her eye.

It was just a flicker, a glance between teammates, but it landed like weight. Her gaze met his, startled for half a second by the fact that someone had seen. That he had seen. And for a breath, she couldn’t quite hide it—the sadness softening the line of her mouth, the brief fracture in the brightness she always wore like armor.

But then she nodded once, like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t mattered at all.

And turned away.

“Got it,” Emily said, already moving.

Spencer heard them leave. Her voice mingled with Carroway’s down the hallway—cordial, curious. Focused.

But not cold.

Never cold.

That was the thing about her. She didn’t need to flirt to light up a conversation. She just existed in the space beside someone and made them feel like the most important thing there.

Even when they weren’t.

Even when someone else was watching.

The precinct lights buzzed faintly overhead, humming in that way that only overworked bulbs could—thin and constant, like a headache waiting to happen. The walls were tired beige, plastered in maps and taped-up mugshots, the corners yellowed with time and too many late nights. Somewhere behind them, a copier clattered out pages, its rhythm too sharp against the low murmur of conversation.

The team had clustered around the central bullpen table, half-empty coffee cups balanced near notepads, a box of glazed donuts open like a peace offering from a rookie cop who hadn’t known what else to bring. JJ leaned against the table’s edge, recounting something that made Emily snort into her paper cup. Even Hotch cracked a tight smile behind his coffee. Rossi gave a low chuckle and shook his head.

Spencer sat at the far end of the table, spine straight but gaze unfocused, stirring the same cup of tea he’d made nearly twenty minutes ago. It had gone lukewarm.

Then—

She walked in.

Y/N. Hair pulled loosely back, still damp from washing the rain and grit of the case away. She’d changed into a soft gray shirt layered under a navy quarter-zip and her usual field boots, laces tucked messily. Her badge caught the light as she moved. There was something quiet in the way she smiled at the team—sleepy, but warm, like she hadn’t let the weight of the day steal her brightness yet.

She slid easily into the spot between JJ and Emily, offering a quick “Morning,” as she set down a file. Her fingers brushed JJ’s sleeve as she pointed to something in the report—casual. Close. Familiar.

And of course—

Carroway followed a moment later, all easy charm and shoulder-set confidence. He didn’t sit right away. Just hovered behind her for a second longer than necessary, one hand resting lightly against the back of her chair. He leaned in, saying something too low for Spencer to hear, a glint of humor tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And she laughed.

Not the polite kind. Not the work-laugh people used to keep energy up during briefings.

A real one.

Unfiltered and round-edged. Soft and full, the kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle and her shoulders relax for just a moment, like it slipped out before she could remember the day wasn’t over.

Spencer felt it like a fist behind his ribs.

Because he’d spent the last four days tracing her steps in crime scene photos, listening for her voice through earpieces and radio static, and memorizing the cadence of her laugh in moments when it was meant to be shared with him.

But now?

Now it belonged to someone else’s punchline.

And he hated himself for noticing.

Across the table, Morgan raised an eyebrow at him. Didn’t say anything. Just watched him, the way friends did when they knew the exact shape of what you were trying to hide.

Spencer looked down. Took a sip of his tea.

Bitter. Still cold.

A shuffle of movement pulled his gaze back up. Y/N was leaning forward, elbow grazing Emily’s as she reached for the grainy satellite print of the trail routes they’d discussed earlier. Her brows furrowed as she traced something with her finger.

Carroway leaned in again, pointing at a different angle, voice soft, easy. A joke or maybe a note about the route. Whatever it was, it made Emily laugh too. JJ smirked behind her coffee lid. The whole circle of them felt warm. Alive. A center of gravity that pulled.

And then—

Y/N glanced up.

Right at Spencer.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud.

Just a look. But it carried something in it—open, careful, almost hopeful. Her mouth curved slightly, a smile not meant for anyone else. A quiet question in the shape of a moment: Maybe this time, he’ll smile back.

He didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Something clenched too tight in his throat, and all he managed was a single blink before dropping his gaze again, letting the pages in front of him blur together in grayscale lines.

When he looked up again, she’d already turned back toward Emily.

But something in her had dimmed—just slightly. Her posture was still open, her voice steady as she murmured something in response to Carroway, but the light in her eyes had flickered. Not vanished. Flickered like a candle catching on a draft no one else noticed.

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach as far this time. A softer curve, more reflex than spark.

And Spencer felt it like a missed step on familiar stairs.

Carroway was still talking. Emily nodded along. JJ made a quiet comment and earned another laugh.

But Y/N?

She nodded too, polite as ever, focused and present. That same gentle light still shone through her—but it felt muted now.

Still there. Just not for him. Not in that moment.

And it was his fault.

Spencer sat very still, the ache in his chest louder than the tea would ever be.

And he told himself it was just the lighting. Or the noise. Or the rain still running in rivers down the windows.

Anything but what it really was.

The rain had been steady for hours, clinging to the sides of the perimeter van in fat drops, tracing lazy paths down the windows like veins. Inside, the hum of low conversation and soft static filled the air, cut occasionally by the sharp click of a keyboard or the squeal of distant tires against wet asphalt. The team was quiet, focused. Waiting.

Garcia's voice crackled through the headset like a lifeline. "Still got eyes on the interior feed—camera three is a little glitchy, but our mystery guest hasn’t doubled back. You’re still clear."

Spencer sat forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the monitors. JJ stood beside him, arms crossed tight against her vest, jaw set.

"If he’s cornered," JJ said, "he might try to draw it out. We need to anticipate a misdirect."

Rossi, standing just behind them, offered a short nod. "He’s been escalating fast. I don’t think he came here to surrender."

Spencer didn’t respond. His eyes tracked the flickering feeds, switching between angles. The warehouse loomed gray and jagged in the rain, like the husk of something long-dead.

The clock ticked past 11:00 p.m. when the radio finally buzzed alive.

"Confirmed sighting," came Carroway’s voice, clipped but clear. "Back entrance of the warehouse—suspect entering alone."

Spencer straightened immediately.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. "Move in."

Like muscle memory, the team fell into place. Morgan and Prentiss swept toward the north wall, boots slick on the pavement. Hotch followed tight behind Y/N and Carroway as they moved to flank the rear.

Spencer stayed at the comms hub with JJ, scanning the grainy footage. The exterior lens, fogged by rain, shimmered with silver threads that distorted the structure’s angles. He spoke without looking up.

"Any movement?"

JJ leaned in. "Nothing since he entered. Think he’s alone."

Spencer nodded once. "Y/N?"

JJ glanced sideways. "Last I saw, she was stacked just behind Emily on the side entrance."

He didn’t say anything more. Just stared.

The arrest, when it came, happened fast.

Five tense minutes passed. Then the door burst open. The suspect stumbled out, wild-eyed, soaked, a makeshift blade tucked against his lower back. He didn’t get a full step before Morgan closed the distance and knocked the weapon clear. Hotch was there instantly, locking the cuffs with a force that brooked no argument.

Spencer watched it all unfold from across the lot, his breath caught tight in his chest. Rain fell harder, a dull roar against the van roof.

The unsub dropped to his knees in the mud.

And there she was.

Y/N stood just behind Emily, hair damp and plastered to her temple, one sleeve pulled up past her elbow. Her chest moved with shallow, controlled breaths. Her gaze was alert.

She was fine.

Spencer didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it released all at once, leaving him dizzy in its wake.

The tension didn’t evaporate. But it thinned, enough to breathe again.

She was okay.

They returned as a unit, boots dragging through fractured gravel and ankle-deep puddles that swallowed light whole. The rain hadn’t let up in hours—it fell in sheets now, relentless, a cold that bit through Kevlar and skin alike. Each breath fogged the air in uneven clouds, visible proof of the way the night pressed in.

Their silhouettes blurred in the downpour, fractured by the glow of the SUV’s floodlights. Water streamed from the edges of tactical jackets, pooled in the folds of sleeves, dripped rhythmically from the rims of hoods and the curls of damp hair clinging to foreheads and temples.

Carroway laughed—a low, easy sound that somehow cut through the storm.

“Next time,” he said, his voice half-muffled by the collar of his jacket, “we skip the Kevlar and pack wetsuits.”

Emily huffed a breath of amusement. “As long as they’re bulletproof.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, but it was distracted, half-formed. Her gaze was already drifting forward—past the lights, past the conversation. Past them.

To him.

Spencer stood beside JJ, motionless save for the faint curl of steam rising from the rim of the untouched coffee in his hands. He hadn’t stepped into the rain—not once—but the cold still crept in under his coat, settling sharp in the crooks of his elbows and the base of his neck. The overhang above him offered dry shelter, but not warmth. His coat was buttoned haphazardly, forgotten in favor of focus, and his shoulders were slightly hunched—like he’d been bracing for something that never came.

His hair stayed dry, but the air had made it static-soft around the edges, and the pale glow from the SUV's lights caught on the curve of his jaw, throwing him into partial silhouette. There was tension in his stance—quiet, restrained. Not restless. Not twitchy. Just the kind of stillness that comes from holding too much in for too long.

Y/N’s fingers brushed Emily’s arm.

“I’ll catch up,” she said softly, already moving before she finished the sentence. “Need to ask Reid something about the profile.”

Emily nodded, wiping at her dripping brow. Carroway didn’t notice. He was busy turning toward Morgan, launching into something about coordinating statements with the local deputies, his voice still lined with that infuriating charm.

Spencer watched Y/N break away from them, her footsteps light but hurried through the muck. Her boots kicked up flecks of gravel and rainwater with every step, and even soaked to the skin, even with fatigue written into every line of her posture—she glowed. Her hair clung to her cheeks in soft strands, droplets running down the curve of her jaw. There was mud on the hem of her pants and a smudge across one wrist where she must’ve steadied herself on something rough.

But her eyes—they were bright.

Like something had cracked open in her. Lit her from within. Her cheeks were flushed, glowing with adrenaline and rain and that quiet electricity she always carried after the sharp edge of a standoff had dulled.

And her smile—

It hit him before she even spoke. Wide. Too wide. Crinkled at the corners, reckless in its honesty.

“Hey, Spence,” she said, and it was soft in a way nothing else around them was. The rain kept falling—unforgiving, heavy—the storm humming against metal, against gravel, against skin like a second heartbeat. But her voice cut through it like light through stormclouds, gentle and golden even as it shivered.

He turned toward her, barely.

“Crazy case, right?” she said again, her breath fogging faintly in the narrow space between them, disappearing into the cold.

The chill in his voice wasn’t biting—but it wasn’t warm either. Distant. Hollow. Like something left out too long in a cold room. “Yeah. It was.”

She gave a small, shaky breath, too quiet to be a sigh. Her clothes clung to her—soaked through and heavy with rain. Her coat, dark and drenched, dripped steadily from the hem, a thin rivulet of water trailing down one boot to the gravel below. Her sweater had molded to the shape of her arms, darker at the seams, the fabric stretched and dripping. She hadn’t stopped shaking—not entirely. Not since the arrest. Her fingertips were pink and raw from the cold, curled slightly at her sides as though her body was trying to shield itself from the sting of it all.

Droplets slipped from the curve of her temple, down her jaw, gathering in the delicate hollow of her throat. Her hair, soaked to its ends, stuck in gentle waves against her skin, framing her face like brushstrokes half-erased by weather.

Still, she didn’t wipe them away. Just stood there, watching him. Steady in the way only she knew how to be.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft, but trembling faintly around the edges now—whether from the cold or something else, he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m fine,” he said too fast. Too sharp. The words brittle in the air between them.

She blinked. Once. Then again, slower—her lashes weighed down with rain. A flicker of confusion crossed her brow. Hurt, maybe. Or just tiredness, slipping past her guard.

“You sure?” she asked, her voice quieter this time. “You’ve seemed a little… I don’t know. Distant.”

She hugged her arms around herself slightly, as if the words alone weren’t enough to warm the space he was leaving between them.

He didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted his grip on the mug, eyes flicking down and away. “I’ve just been focused. That’s all.”

Her smile dimmed—not fully, but enough to feel it. Enough to see something in her shoulders dip the slightest degree. Something smaller.

“Right. Of course.”

She didn’t move. Just lingered there beside him, the rain seeping into the seams of her sleeves, her boots planted solidly in the gravel.

Spencer said nothing.

Y/N gave a quiet sigh, masked behind a chuckle. “Well. At least no one got shot. That’s got to count for something, right?”

He offered a pale shadow of a smile. “Yeah. It does.”

The silence between them wasn’t charged. It wasn’t even heavy. Just hollow. Like something important had already passed by, unnoticed.

The rain whispered behind her, a constant hush against metal and gravel.

She didn’t move yet.

Just stood close—close enough that the mist clinging to her sleeve began to bead faintly on his coat. Her eyes flicked down as she noticed, and she gave a soft laugh, a little embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she murmured, brushing at the spot where her arm had touched his. “Didn’t mean to get you wet. You feel warm.”

She said it like it surprised her. Like the heat radiating from him had caught her off guard after hours of bone-deep cold. And maybe—just maybe—she’d hoped he might offer some of it back. Not in words. Just in nearness. In that way he used to stand a little too close when she needed grounding. In the way he used to look at her like she was the only steady thing in a world constantly pulling itself apart.

But Spencer didn’t reply. Didn’t move.

Her hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

Then dropped.

And then she turned.

She stepped back into the rain, the light from the SUV catching her hair as it swung behind her, damp curls catching in the wind. She returned to the others without another word—back to Emily, to Morgan, to Carroway, who glanced up the moment she approached and said something too quiet for Spencer to hear.

But he saw the way she smiled again.

Gentle. Bright.

She laughed—just once—and it echoed in Spencer’s chest like something falling.

Not shattering.

Just sinking.

And still, he stood under the awning, perfectly dry, perfectly still, and somehow the only one who felt like he was drowning.

The precinct felt different now.

Not silent—there was still the low murmur of voices, the hum of tired electronics, the distant rattle of a printer finishing its last job—but the air had shifted. The weight that had hung thick for days had finally thinned, like fog lifting from a field. The unsub was in custody. No one had been hurt. And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the tension had unspooled from everyone’s shoulders.

Outside, rain still whispered against the windows in a steady, rhythmic hush. But inside, there was warmth again. The buzz of a space beginning to breathe.

Spencer stood at one of the long evidence tables near the center of the room, his fingers carefully smoothing the edges of manila folders as he reorganized them into the transport boxes. The methodical motion was grounding. Reassuring. It gave his hands something to do while his mind caught up with itself.

Nearby, JJ and Morgan were by the exit, laughing over bitter coffee and half-wet sneakers.

“I swear, if these boots don’t dry by morning, I’m putting in for hazard pay,” Morgan grumbled, lifting one foot and inspecting the muddy tread.

JJ snorted. “You say that every time we work in the rain.”

“Yeah, and one of these days, someone’s gonna take me seriously.”

Emily was still on the phone across the bullpen, her back turned slightly as she spoke in low tones—likely a final update to Quantico. A vending machine buzzed beside her, lights flickering faintly against the rain-slicked windows.

And across the room—

Spencer’s fingers paused.

Carroway stood close to Y/N, leaning with that familiar, easy confidence of his—hands in the pockets of his jacket, posture casual, voice pitched just low enough to not draw attention but not so quiet that it couldn't be heard.

“You know,” he said, brushing a bit of lint from his coat as he spoke, “if you ever feel like sticking around a couple extra days, I could give you a tour of the area. Show you the local coffee spot, maybe the bookstore—if you’re still into that.” His smile curved, warm, in a way that made Spencer’s stomach drop. “Or… if you ever find yourself back in New York.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened slightly.

But then—

Her reply.

Y/N smiled. That smile Spencer knew—gentle, sure. Not dismissive. But not wavering, either.

“Thanks, Nate,” she said, her voice soft, steady. “That’s sweet. But I’ve already got someone in mind.”

Carroway didn’t miss a beat. His brows lifted just slightly, like he’d expected as much. “Lucky guy,” he said, with a quiet nod that carried more weight than the words alone. The respect in his tone was genuine—but it didn’t quite mask the disappointment in his eyes. There was something a little wistful in the way he looked at her, like maybe, in another life, he’d have tried his luck.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped just a touch. “He should know it. You’re… remarkable.”

Y/N laughed—soft, almost shy, the sound wrapped in modesty and something older than pride. “He doesn’t always know it.”

Her gaze drifted, unthinking, toward the back of the room—toward a shadow standing still beneath the pale halo of a flickering light. Her smile didn’t fade, but something in it changed.

A softness that didn’t belong to the moment they were in.

And Carroway saw it.

Didn’t push. Didn’t press.

Just offered a nod, and a quieter smile of his own.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Y/N offered Carroway a small, rueful smile—one corner of her mouth lifting with that same easy grace he’d grown to admire over the last few days. Her eyes flicked briefly past him, toward the far end of the room where Spencer stood, half-lit by the harsh fluorescence overhead.

“Speaking of,” she said softly, with a touch of dry humor, “he’s waiting for me.”

And she turned, not in a rush, but with quiet purpose. Her boots tapped gently across the floor, each step unhurried but sure. As she crossed the room, her hand skimmed the edge of a nearby desk, fingers brushing a forgotten pen, a coffee ring, a file left half-open—as if grounding herself in the familiar clutter of it all. When she reached him, she didn’t speak right away. Just let her presence settle beside his like warmth slipping into the chill he hadn’t realized had been sitting heavy in his chest.

He didn’t look at her at first. His fingers stilled over the last folder, but they didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She slid the file box closer, nudging the final reports into place.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sorry about earlier.”

The words were quiet—gentle in that way only she could manage, like they weren’t meant to scold or stir, only soothe. And they landed in his chest with the weight of something sacred.

That broke him.

Spencer exhaled. A real breath this time—one that left his lungs without curling back in around his ribs. He looked up, fully, truly, meeting her eyes like they were a lighthouse after a long night at sea.

“No,” he said, voice low and edged with remorse. “Don’t be sorry. I was the one being an ass.”

She shook her head too quickly, her expression laced with that instinctive kindness she never seemed to turn off. The kind of grace she gave freely, even when he didn’t deserve it.

“You weren’t,” she said. “I just… didn’t know if something was wrong. You didn’t really look at me all day.”

He winced. A flicker of guilt cut across his face like lightning behind his eyes.

His mouth moved before his thoughts caught up. “I noticed Carroway.”

She paused, the subtle kind of stillness that said everything. Her hands slowed where they’d been helping him sort files—those same fingers that moments ago had left ghost-warmth against his sleeve.

Spencer’s voice dipped into something quieter, like he couldn’t trust it to carry more than the truth. “I know nothing happened. I know you weren’t… interested. I just…”

He swallowed hard, throat tight, the taste of regret thick behind his tongue.

“I think I let it get to me anyway,” he admitted. “Which isn’t fair to you.”

Her eyes softened—barely, but enough. She reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, the motion as practiced and graceful as the way she moved through crime scenes. The rain hadn’t fully dried from her yet. The ends of her hair clung to her sweater, curls curling like commas against her temple. Her sleeves were still pushed up, exposing chilled skin, and the hem of her sweater bore faint watermarks that hadn’t yet warmed.

But her face—her face was steady.

“Spencer,” she murmured, and his name had never sounded softer, more meant for him alone. “You don’t have to explain.”

She glanced, briefly, toward the corner where Carroway now stood, gesturing animatedly in conversation with Morgan. His posture was relaxed, his smile easy.

But Y/N’s attention didn’t linger.

“I meant what I told him,” she said, turning back to Spencer with eyes that didn’t waver. “I already have someone in mind.”

Spencer’s pulse kicked hard at that. But it was the pause that followed—the smallest breath longer than necessary—that unraveled him completely.

“Not that he always knows it,” she added, teasing softly.

His chest tightened, but it wasn’t that sharp pinch of jealousy anymore. It was gentler now—an ache, yes, but one blooming with the fragile shape of hope.

He looked at her like she was a page he’d been afraid to turn for too long. Like every detail—the way her lips curled at the corners when she teased, the way her lashes stuck faintly together from rain, the faint rose of her cheeks still thawing from the cold—needed to be memorized. Archived in full color, burned into the quiet library of his mind.

A flush bloomed across his neck, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do I know him?”

She tilted her head, smiling—this one smaller, secret, and just for him.

“You might.”

And in that instant, the hollow distance that had stretched between them all day felt less like a chasm and more like a bridge they’d both started crossing at the same time.

Spencer blinked, slow, and breathed again—like it might stick this time.

“I’m sorry I pulled away,” he said. “I thought I could hide it better. I just… I didn’t want to mess things up.”

Her smile widened—not into something bright and teasing, but something warm, rooted. Familiar.

“You didn’t,” she said. “You just made me miss you.”

Spencer’s throat worked around a breath, his voice tangled in something he couldn’t quite name yet.

“I missed you too.”

She beamed then—one of those too-wide, too-warm smiles that didn’t belong in a precinct or under fluorescent lights, and yet lit the whole damn place anyway.

“I forgive you,” she said, bumping his arm lightly with her own. “But only if you let me walk you to the jet.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that your way of asking for a seat next to mine?”

“Maybe,” she said, already grabbing the files from his hands. “But only if you’ll share your coffee.”

He paused, the air between them thick with unsaid things, rain still drumming softly against the glass behind him.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her, as if it might be the last time he could.

His eyes swept across every detail of her face, slow and reverent—cataloguing each one like a page from a book he’d never dare lose. The damp strands of still wet hair clinging in curling tendrils to her temple. The faint smudge of tired eyeliner beneath her lashes, softened by the rain. The flush still blooming faintly across her cheeks from the cold, from the adrenaline, from being alive. The fine lines near the corners of her eyes, crinkling faintly as she smiled at him—lines he knew by heart now, not because they were imperfections, but because they were hers.

Her mouth, pink from the wind, parted just slightly in anticipation of whatever he might say next. He loved the way it curved, the way it softened when she teased, the way it trembled sometimes when she was fighting not to feel too much.

He wanted to memorize it all. Not just to remember—but to hold. To keep.

Something in his chest ached. Something deep and bone-quiet and full of awe.

“You can have the whole cup.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff

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dreaisgrayte · 1 year ago

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HEHHEHEHEHEH WHATS UP MY BBG? I hope you have had a good day/night! I have this idea in my head that I'm ITCHING to get out but you can feel free to ignore❤️

Can you do what would happen and what would Sanemi, Giyu, Tanjiro, and Obani do if reader got turned into a demon during a battle?

LIKE I SAID FEEL FREE TO IGNORE!! YOU DA GOAT BBG❤️

GEHEHE I'M DOING SO GREAT! 🫶🫶I HOPE YOU'RE DOING EVEN BETTER THOUGH 😡🥹 It was raining here all day and I was a worrisome parent and got soaked going to check on my kitties🥰🥰. (also why would I ignore such an angsty request MWAHAHA😈)

Includes: Sanemi Shinazugawa, Giyu Tomioka, Tanjiro Kamado, and Obanai Iguro CW: pretty much reader dies in all scenarios, but... yeah no my heart hurt writing these so there's no hope for any of us. Death, angst, sadness.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

The demon’s claws slice through you, tearing your skin apart. You fall to the ground, crumpled and bleeding

“San-Sanemi,” You choke out, the life draining from your beautiful eyes.

A vengeful scream erupts from his throat, burning his very vocal cords as he rushes the creature

Its head falls to the ground with a gruesome thump, Sanemi dropping to his knees next to your corpse. “YN...I’m so-”

Your eyes, they’re open and your pupils pull into slits. His next breath catches in his throat. “Sorry,” He breathes, his eyes stinging with hot tears

He picks up his nichirin blade, using it to help him into a standing position. Sanemi’s choked sobs echo through the forest valley. The glint of fresh sunlight reflecting off of his blade as he plunges the tip into your heart. The sun is cresting over the mountains in a new dawn.

Your garbled noises nearly drive him to the brink of whisking you off to a shadowy haven, but you wouldn’t want to live out your life being the very thing you fought so hard against.

As the ashen belongings of your body blow past him he feels like he’s just stabbed himself through the heart.

“Sorry…so sorry.” He cries, but the sunlight dries his tears.

Giyu Tomioka

He was by your side one second then cornered off by a second demon. He wants to remain close to you and protect you, but as he lands the final blow to the demon in front of him he catches the tail end of the demon lifting you by your throat.

His blood runs cool, the demon’s features twisting in a cruel sneer as it makes you lick up the blood from his wounds.

Too late, too late, too late

Just like with Sabito, Giyu was too late to save you. His head spins, running through possibilities to somehow not fuck up again

Tanjiro and Nezeko were a special case, who’s to say Giyu would break through to you? And when he didn’t? Would his heart finally go numb? The risk was too great.

The demon has dropped you and ran off, leaving you panting on the ground. You touch your throat, hacking up the blood it tried to feed you. A glimmer of hope sprouts in Giyu’s chest. Maybe you had saved yourself? You meet his gaze, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Giyu,” you smile, the one he’d grown accustomed to seeing every morning when you greeted him. “Giyu, I need you to be strong,” you start, but he can’t hear you. He doesn’t want to.

“No, I’m not strong,” His voice is trembling. His body aches with the knowledge of what you’re about to request of him. He couldn’t do it. You meant too much to him and he was a selfish man. When everyone else ignores him you see through his suffering to the little boy underneath, scared of being seen for the fraud he was.

There’s that smile again. “Giyu. You’re a Hashira, you’re more than strong – you’re kind. You know what you have to do. Please, before it’s too late.”

Giyu’s body feels limp as tears mix with his sweat. He was too weak to save Sabito, but he could still save you. He yells into the night, a pained scream that rustles the birds from their branches.

Your head thumps to the side, fanning into dust as he sinks to his knees, sobbing over your remains. Turns out – he wasn’t numb after all.

Tanjiro Kamado

You’re bloody, a demon standing over you, it’s foul stench dripping round droplets onto your wound

“Let’s see if you have the heart to kill one of your own, slayer.”

Tanjiro had been through this before, with his younger sister Nezeko and things were turning out alright with her.

Would his bond be strong enough to snap you out of the demonic craze? You had acted like an older sibling to him, watching over his progress and always cheering him on. Often he thought the gods had blessed him with you so he would have someone to look after him when he had no one.

“YN!” He screams, the demon slipping away into the night. “YN talk to me. If you can still talk that means there’s still time.” But the veins on your face bubble and contort your expression to one of hatred.

Tanjiro falls back on his hands, heart loudly echoing in his ear. “YN, please… it’s me…your little brother.” But it’s far too late to work on your once human heart. As you rise to your feet Tanjiro stumbles to his as well

His katana is shaking in his grip. You were a demon, but also his friend. He can’t see through his blurry vision.

“Pathetic,” you spit, then before Tanjiro can will his heart to do what he knew he couldn’t, you spill into the shadows

His vow to cut the head from Muzan Kibutsuji’s body grew a thousandfold that night

Obanai Iguro

You had been on this mission for weeks now, fighting side by side. Obanai had grown fond of you.

That was until a demon stole you away, reminding him that fondness sprouted weaknesses. However, he tracks you down regardless.

The demon had set up in a cave, the dawn making this rescue mission easier, but as he steadily slides into the heart of the cave he finds you’ve been tied up, dried green blood on your lips

“Fuck,” Obanai hisses into the darkness, searching around for the creature that did this to you

“It’s gone Obanai…” You drawl, your voice raspy and strained. He winces at the state of you.

He rushes to untie you, hoping it’s not too late and the insect Hashira can work some miracle cure on you. If Obanai was fond of you he couldn’t even imagine how the corp members felt about you.

It had been a while of your fighting off the urge to turn, there had to be hope for you. If only he could get you back to headquarters fast enough…

As if reading his mind you shake your head solemnly. “Please, let me see the sunrise one last time,” you croak, gaze drifting to the sunlight filtering in from the cave’s entrance.

Obanai squeezes his eyes shut, the electric buzz of his heart making it hard to fulfill your request. He was stagnant, breath quickening as you pleaded with him.

He offers you his hand, willing his chest to return to steel. He leads you to the outside world and your grip tightens as you step into the sun. Obanai’s body aches with unrelenting sorrow. If only he’d kept a better eye on you.

Soon enough, a faint ‘thank you’ blows past him on the wind, and he rushes away from the spot, not willing to look at what he had so carelessly taken for granted.

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abrushstrokeofsilver · 17 days ago

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day 7! THIS IS THE DAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!! enjoy some angst :D

(yes i see the irony of this being angst for a prompt called "sunshine", but i've had this idea in my head since day 2 of this week DO NOT STAND IN MY WAY OF ANGST MWAHAHA)

better close ups:

The lyrics came to X surprisingly naturally, for not having heard the song in years (last he heard it was from Dr. Cain humming it unconsciously). Even with the intentions of the song being sweet, he knew his voice was breaking before he even finished that verse. He knew what it was like to have the light of his life snuffed out in front of his very eyes. He knew what it was like, holding the person who kept your heart warm as their life slipped away. For the very person he was singing this song to, Zero, was the person he’d lost. This song was almost a request of Zero, though he knew he couldn’t promise to never die. As his tearful words tied off the song, a wistful wish crossed X’s mind: to be able to stay together forever, no more death or tragedy. Just them, happily ever after.

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merakiui · 9 months ago

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Wailing reading that damn riddle fic aaaaaa. Okay again, not a riddle fucker but the fic fucks me from behind. Absent during the eels' fic release but here I am, present for Riddle's???

But well my favorite part of the fic has to be… there are few. Riddle taunting us with the locket, Riddle asking us to sit down, both Riddle and Reader just acting like there’s red in the scenery, reader’s reflection urging us to escape is also a cherry… Moros’ eyes flickering from gray to red then to gray, yummy…

When you made it look like we got our victorious ending, I was like, “damn this isn't Meraki if it’s not a bad or angst ending” and bam, moros is backkkkk. I'm salivating for Moros's return. It's not Meraki if there’s no breeding or this kind of ending where it benefits the Yan.

But I can't help but wonder how Octatrio’s moros version would be…. Azul's crybaby moros... crying when he looked at us leaving... (kicking legs, him screaming 'he had enough' just before he OB), Floyd's moros might be more emotionally sad than angry if compared to Jade's(?)

While Floyd was thinking about finding a way to drag you back just because he was heartbroken and lonely, Jade was thinking of a way to drag you back out of... anger? Definitely something more sinister than all them 3 combined.

AAAAAA (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) OMG OMG FANTASTIC ART!!!! I love the necklace around darling's neck,,, Moros trapped within, only able to cry and whine like a baby mwahaha.... so perfect. This is exactly how I imagine it hehe. The children make Moros's Looking Glass into a pretty necklace and now darling wears him around like a badge of honor. It's her "I survived the weird monster in the mirror" symbol of pride. And Moros/OB!Riddle himself!!!!! So sinister with the locket!!! That proud and devious expression is so amazing!! >w< he's such a taunt! >:(

LOL it really isn't a merakiui fic if there's no breeding kink or overall bad time for the darling. ^^;;;; it crept in only slightly during the part where Moros looks at darling and basically hints that he'd knock her up if it wasn't for the fact that she's infertile. Moros is a freak. OTL

:O omg the Octa Moros!!! Azul would be so volatile,, definitely immensely jealous of his counterpart. Such a hateful creature. >_< I think if any of them has a chance at having darling all for themselves it would likely be one of the twins. Jade's Moros has the patience and the intelligence to play an expert role, which hides the ominous anger bubbling just beneath. Floyd's Moros can appeal to darling's weak emotional state as she grieves the original Floyd...... aaaa but Azul's Moros is much too dangerous. He will throw a tantrum when she refuses to be his!!! Just one of them is bad enough, but if you have all three pining for you.... ;;; good luck,,,

#twisted chit chat #mellowwillowy

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azure-rigel · 5 months ago

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Hi hi!! About your demon cultivator SJ and Plant Spirit SY teachers au:

I'd been wondering how Shen Jiu got into demon cultivator but then I realized that, wait, he DOES have an ass of a shizun, so maybe that's how. Which means whatever the canon SJ had got going on, he'd have much worse in this au. He'd be more evil, more direct in his cunningness, more of the badass villain that he is.

Okay now that led me into thinking about those I-can-fix-him posts but with plant spirit SY, and who's to say he hadn't made it worse instead? As in, SJ and SY do have to spend quality time (a lot of time, even) to open up and do his part in fixing SJ, plus they do kinda share the same memories (I think I remember one of your posts saying SY shares SJs memories) and life force and all, but BUT hear me out. SJ never had never met such a pure soul before, not with any malicious intents that humans reek of, and SY is such a precious gem how could he not attached? Sneakily inserting insecurity and anxiety+attachment issues here...

Maybe that's why SJ yeets LBH into the Abyss? Because the kid got too close to his kind of adopted brother? But that said, he saved Ming Gan and Ning YingYing among other kids. So this goes against my theories because I portrayed him as more unstable and an evil-ey person. (Close to Bingge, I guess?)

Okay so perhaps Shen Yuan did heal Shen Jiu and maybe LBH wouldn't be yeeted off a cliff out of jealousy. He's kinder here anyway.

First of all, thanks for the ask! I'm very excited to answer your questions :) sorry in advance cause I wrote it at different times so it's a bit long and wonky, (ᵕ—ᴗ—) so be prepared lol

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How Shen Jiu became a demonic cultivator

Shen Jiu didn't get into demonic cultivation as much as he stayed in it- it was a direct pipeline from Wu Yanzi's tutelage to becoming an established demonic cultivator himself. (I haven't figured out the specifics yet, but what I do know happened is that when they visited the Immortal Alliance Conference, Shen Jiu recognized Yue Qingyuan and fled.)

I think that canon Shen jiu would have killed himself before turning to demonic cultivation as a lifestyle, so in my au Wu Yanzi is different from canon. While he was he was just as much of an asshole and bastard, this one was at least a competent teacher. The way Shen Jiu travelled as a wandering cultivator is based on his lifestyle whicle travelling with Wu Yanzi. The man used to take him to demonic sects in an attempt to have him learn their cultivation techniques aslong with the various aspects of demonic cultivator culture, which is completely different from the lifestyles of immortals.

In my au demonic cultivation is something that CAN be done right but only if you start cultivating early and correctly. As an example: Ming Fan is going to become a perfectly healthy demonic cultivator as long as he follows his shizun's teachings and is brought up in the right environment. (cursed grounds with plenty of demonic qi)

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Which means whatever the canon SJ had got going on, he'd have much worse in this au. He'd be more evil, more direct in his cunningness, more of the badass villain that he is.

Is this SJ worse than canon SJ? Yes but also SY is there so it's toned down a bit. he's kinda projecting onto sy with his qi-ge xiao jiu issues. he'll get better over time, I swear, but I also wanted sy to be kind of an enabler initially. (for the angst. because he's a plant spirit and doesn't have the right context for sj's actions and how self-destructive they are)

Okay now that led me into thinking about those I-can-fix-him posts but with plant spirit SY, and who's to say he hadn't made it worse instead?

mwahaha Exactly! Shen Jiu really will protect A-Yuan any way he knows how.

SJ never had never met such a pure soul before, not with any malicious intents that humans reek of, and SY is such a precious gem how could he not attached? Sneakily inserting insecurity and anxiety+attachment issues here...

I SWEAR you picked this out of my head, that is exactly the dynamic they have going on asfksfsdagdf

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Maybe that's why SJ yeets LBH into the Abyss? Because the kid got too close to his kind of adopted brother?

kind of YES? The comments on the sj's bad disciplinary methods poll reminded me of how utterly sj hates men(thx @kgne-k) and taking @meemawdeen's suggestion shen yuan now takes on all male disciples and shen jiu takes all the female disciples!

I now have a silly goofy idea where the disciples have a 'hidden rivalry' which is official in sj's eyes, except they also actually really vibe with each other <3

SJ sees it like bai zhan peak and qing jing peak but toned down(?) while to shen yuan it's like 'ah, my disciples must be permenantly in the awkward getting to know each other polite stage'

but my actual mental image is closer to like, 'all-boys boarding school within two blocks of an all-girls boarding school' (this is an extremely niche reference stemming from my preteen hyperfixation on ruskin bond and enid blyton books so feel free to ignore it)

SO ANYWAYS, because of this 'rivalry'+forced divide (enforced by sj, though sy has no idea) it takes sj a good three years to realize that the sweet personal disciple apparently attending to and being fawned over by shen yuan is NOT ning yingying as he had previously assumed but instead. his Fucking half-heavenly demon disciple who can't even get his seal to break. Cue Shizun re-introducing 'Throw him into the Endless-Abyss' into the list of 'Possible ways to get Luo Binghe's seal to Break (so we can finally Use his Heavenly Demon Blood)'.

So this goes against my theories because I portrayed him as more unstable and an evil-ey person. (Close to Bingge, I guess?)

It's interesting that you thought of him as close to Bingge cause I do too, but more like- a bing-meified Bingge? Does that make sense? Like he used to be totally down for a few rounds of murder and ritual sacrifice but now he has kids and a brother to look after so its off the table (◔_◔)

He's kinder here anyway.

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I hope I answered all your questions, please tell me if I missed anything! Thanks for reading if you made it this far <3

#svsss #svsss au #shen yuan #shen jiu #demonic plant spirit! sy #demonic cultivator! sj #shen twins #scum villian self saving system #scum villain #luo binghe has appeareth #i did not mean for him to yet

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last-words-ofashootingstar · 1 year ago

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hiii could you do more of Baby!Seonghwa pls?? I loved it and i can’t stop thinking about it since i’ve read it, amazing work btw thanks <3

Medicine

❥Yandere Park Seonghwa x fem reader

➯a/n: this is a work of fiction and does NOT represent a healthy little and caregiver relationship, or a healthy relationship of any kind. i'm back at it with my mommy hwa shenanigans while tweaking with the shells plot line mwahaha

takes place before Baby (you don't have to read to understand but it gives this some extra spice)

✃ "I'd burn alive just for the soft light on your face." -Paper Doll, Flower Face

✫彡wordcount: 3k

♡'･ᴗ･'♡(ಡ‸ಡ)(¯ ³¯)♡genre: yandere, angst, hurt & comfort

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: stockholm syndrome, periods and period blood(non descriptive), everyone is morally grey, non sexual nudity, references to sh and violence(not towards reader), it's fair to say seonghwa is a murderer lol, jongho and baby bff agenda as hinted at in the first part, more exploration of how the members are affected, one mention of sewer slide, mingi needs a hug fr, not proof read

⁂perm taglist: @stvrfir3 @tunaasan @marievllr-abg

✩index: little space; a regressed state of mind where one feels like a child. hyung; a name for an older male friend or sibling, used by other males.

MATURE UNDER CUT MDNI

Seonghwa was certain that he could handle anything you threw his way after five months of being his captive in his care.

He knew you well, better than he knew himself most days. Even before he had 'taken you home', he tried to learn everything about you to make the transition easier. Some things though- were impossible to know.

You hadn't gotten your period since before your 'big move', as he called it. He read up on all things womanly to be better prepared so he knew that stress could cause you to skip it. And it did for a long while. Now, though, you were starting to settle in.

He knew they were painful. But nothing prepared him for the heartbreak when he saw you in the state you were in now.

He had just gone downstairs to get the mail, but that was apparently all the time it took for you to lock yourself in the bathroom.

"I don't know what happened, Hyung!" Mingi was just as panicked as Seonghwa at the moment, he felt responsible for whatever was happening behind the locked bathroom door. What if you had gotten into their razors? It would be all his fault... His Hyung trusted him with his Baby and she dashed away before he could even register it.

Everyone saw the shift in you the past few days, moody and hungry and tired. One of the managers even had the nerve to ask if you could be pregnant. As if Hwa would ever let you skip your birth control.

"She just ran off! Everything was fine," Mingi continued as he jiggled the knob relentlessly, slapping his palm on the wood while calling out.

His voice was so loud in Seonghwa's mind. He was so overwhelmed. Scared. Full of rage.

And then they heard the shower turn on.

At least he knew you were alive in there.

"Baby?" He pushed his younger member out of the way and knocked on the door much gentler. "You know you can't take baths alone. Open the door and let me help you."

There was no response.

"Now, Baby."

Only the sound of the water hitting linoleum tiles.

"Don't make me count to three."

Mingi backed up at that. He hated when he counted just as much as you did.

But he didn't have to count, when he heard the tiniest sniff from over the pelting water his body reacted for him. His shoulder came in contact with the door and in the next second he had broken through the frame of the door.

Mingi looked on in shock, eyes fixed on the metal lock on the door which was still stuck out in place. They followed to the doorframe, splintered open. Then they fell to you, curled up naked on the bathroom floor under the raining water. He looked away at that, turning and crouching down to pick up the broken pieces of wood to busy himself until he knew you were okay enough to leave you in Seonghwas care alone.

Seonghwa had kneeled next to you, uncaring as the water soaked the knees on his pants. Even more uncaring as he leaned over your face, blocking the water with the back of his head and soaking the collar of his shirt and his hair. The scorching water dripped from his hair to your face as he cupped it in his hands, inspecting you for any damage on the surface.

"Baby, my baby, what's wrong?" The pain in his voice was just as present as the pain in your face. Wound tight like your eyebrows as you winced.

"H-hurts." Was all you could manage, groaning as he untucked your arms from around you to inspect you further. You were fine on the surface.

"Hyung..." His head snapped back to Mingi, who held out your shorts pinched between his fingers, touching them as little as possible. There was a dark spot on them, red and angry as it stained the pattern.

He looked down slowly, eyes meeting the drain as it sucked up the pink tinted water.

ఌ

It took all the convincing in the world from Seonghwas part that for you to remember that you weren't dying. That this happened to big girls every month. Eventually he managed to dry you off after letting the water sooth you for a while and set you up with a pad from the box he's had under the sink since he brought you home.

But then again, some things he couldn't have been prepared for. You told him your periods weren't just painful, they were debilitating. He wished he would have asked you before hand to be more prepared- but now he knows better for next time!

He set you up on the couch with a sock full of uncooked rice that he'd heated up placed on your stomach while he did frantic research on his phone. He peeked back and when he saw you were fast asleep, tuckered out from fighting the pain, he made a beeline downstairs- not even bothering to wait for the elevator and essentially jumping down the stairs.

He barged right into Yunho and Yeosangs dorm, making a mental note to scold them for not locking the door later on. But for now he was on a mission for his baby.

"Hello, Yeosang," he greeted briefly as he barged into the room as well, going straight to his shelf of supplements and vitamins. He could only stare dumbfounded as he scooped up what he needed and left. "Bye, Yeosang."

"Hello, Yunho." He spoke as he passed him in their kitchen. He raided the pantry and left with a simple, "Bye, Yunho." The both of them looked on in confusion as their Hyung left the dorm, not bothering to even shut the door.

"Yah, that's ours!"

Yunhos yell when unheard -or rather uncared for- as he was out the door just as fast as he came, desperately rushing down the hall as they looked on.

ఌ

That was how everyone ended up in the top story dorm, watching in confusion and anxiety as Seonghwa sat down his stolen goods on the coffee table infront of the couch, careful not to wake you. He went to walk off, and Wooyoung opened his mouth, "is she o-"

"Shh!" The eldest shushed harshly, shutting him up as he sped walked away.

"Hey, thats mine!" Another victim of Seonghwas thievery followed his Hyung with a sleepy grimace, blinking confusedly at the scene in the living room.

They had all seen some strange behavior from their eldest member, especially through the past nine months that lead up to this. The day you met was like a switch flipped in his imbalanced mind.

They hated you for that. Or rather, hated the idea of you. Every one of their moral compasses was spun in a complete three sixty when their Hyung kidnapped you those five months ago. He wasn't the same. For the good or bad, you changed Seonghwas live, all of their lives-

For bad, you had been the reason that Hongjoong had to pick dirt from under his nails after covering up one of his best friends sins. You were the reason Mingi had to take a three week hiatus to cover recover from the bruises from when he made eye contact with you. You were the reason that a quarter of their staff had to be paid off when the word spread, just to keep everything from going public.

But then- you were the reason that Seonghwa had started smiling again. The reason he tossed his blades into the river. You were the inspiration to eight different songs in only these few months, one of which was a major break through for them. Your childlike attitude beamed through the apartments.

You brought a certain light to their lives, one that was emitted from the fires of Hell.

They promised themselves they'd be indifferent to you, to not get involved as much as possible for the sake of their own sanity and morals. And yet, here they are.

Gathered in the living room with heavy hearts as they looked over you, silently begging for Seonghwa or Mingi to tell them what was wrong with you.

"Hyung..." Jongho spoke as softly as he could, his eyes couldn't help but fixate on the way you held yourself like you wanted to disappear. "What did you do to her?"

He, out of everyone, was most worried.

He hated this situation just as much as the others. Hell, he was still fighting himself every day to turn his Hyung in- even if their entire worlds would come crashing down. Because he hated to see you in pain. An innocent person suffering because he was too cowardly.

You were attached to the hip the second that Seonghwa let you out of his room. You dashed for the scariest looking member... because he was less scary than the man who snatched you up, who you thought you could trust. You hid behind his arms as everyone else looked on, simply staring in the disbelief of what their once trusted and kind member had done.

Hongjoong was in the same boat, just as troubled as Jongho was with the entirety of what had become their lives. He prided himself in the fact that he was a good person, through and through. He did good deeds when no body was looking, simply because it spread good feelings. All he ever wanted to put in the world was positivity. But when he saw the tears that his best friend caused, his heart made him simply look the other way. You didn't like Hongjoong much. His picture in Seonghwas room taunted you, made you resent him for being so obviously close to the source of all your pain. But he didn't treat you any different for it.

"Park Seonghwa, you promised you wouldn't hurt her like that," Hongjoong sneered through his teeth, ready to grab his only Hyung by the ear when he heard a small grumble from the couch.

You blinked. Once, twice.

And then you broke into a waterfall of hot tears.

"Hey, Baby it's okay," Seonghwa tried to soothe you, only to be pushed flat away from you as Jongho came and took his seat infront of the couch where you were situated.

"Hi, little bear," he cooed, taking you into his arms immediately when you weakly opened yours. He moved slowly as he sat on the couch with you in his lap, but slowly wasn't slow enough to stop the aches from pulsing through your veins on what felt like a molecular level.

It was Wooyoungs turn now to feel brave and stand up to Hwa- well, stand over him as he watched his baby with tears of his own welling up. "She's never cried this hard, what did you do?"

"Baby-"

He was pushed back down as he reached for you, a begging pout on his lips as Yeosang held him down by his shoulders.

He didn't know what had changed in his members but he knew it was shit timing. You needed comfort and calm, not to see your caregiver held down and restrained from you.

A pink sock hit Yeosangs head and he looked up with soft shock written on his features as he met your eyes. You immediately looked down, you still weren't allowed to look them in the eyes and you most definitely didn't want a punishment ontop of natures own. "Don't hurt my Mommy..."

"Honey, did your Mommy do this to you?" Yunho asked as he bent to your level.

You simply shook your head. Were they really fighting over your well-being? Why didn't they do that months ago when this whole fiasco started? You blinked away the thought as another teeth gritting cramp hit you. You hid in Jonghos sweater, trying to quiet down your sobs.

It wasn't all for naught though, as you could hear Mingi finally speaking up when he returned from the kitchen, a baby bottle of juice in hand that he sat down with Seonghwas thieved goodies. "She got her period..." Some of them immediately started cooing over you, and while you couldn't tell who with your head trying to burrow its way into Jongho to hide, it still made your ears feel hot with embarrassment.

"Oh, poor baby," San was the first one to speak, plugging in the heating pad he was robbed of minutes early with zero hesitation, gently draping it over your lower back.

"Get off me," Seonghwa finally snapped and pushed Yeosang and Wooyoung away, crawling on his knees to the couch. "Baby, I've got some stuff to help you but you'll have to come off Jongho, okay?"

You had a hint of defiance in your pain filled eyes as you peeked from the plush sweater you were hidden in. "No, big bear," you put on the cutes and hugged Jonghos neck tighter.

"I know big bear is comfortable," he bit his tongue as he looked at the way you so willingly curled into his youngest members lap for comfort that he should be providing, "but give me five minutes, I need to take care of you."

"Come on, little bear," Jongho sat up as careful as possible, ignoring the tug on his heart as you whined. He cared for you, of course. But he feared Seonghwa more.

Wooyoung couldn't bear to watch anymore, taking San's hand and disappearing down the hall. He used to look up to Seonghwa, now he could barely look in his eyes.

Mingi followed their lead, he wanted to be strong and comfort you, but he simply couldn't handle another second of seeing you reduced to tears. He'd never watch you cry again. His heart couldn't take it. Maybe that made him a coward of a man, but he didn't care at the moment.

That left Hongjoong sat across the coffee table with Yunho, Yeosang lowering himself into the armchair, and Seonghwa on his knees infront of you as you clung to Jonghos neck.

"Good..." He was certain there was blood filling his mouth from the way he bit down on his tongue. "I didn't want to leave you so these will do for now until I order your own, right?" It was rhetorical-was it? It's not like you had a choice in the matter. But he was so kind that it made your brain foggy. Like he really cared of your opinion for a moment.

"Magnesium, zinc, and vitamin d," he explained as he took one from each of the bottles. "More vitamin d," he sat the bottle of juice next to your legs. "And comfort," he drug the basket of sweets that he used as rewards for good behavior to the edge of the table and let you take a peek, seeing the new and unfamiliar chocolates on top.

Intrigued by the fancy looking wrapper, you reached out. Seonghwa only put the medicine in your hand. "Medicine first, Baby. Then you can have all you want from the basket."

Seonghwa was a lot of things but he wasn't a liar, never to you.

So, you sucked it up and took the medicine.

ఌ

Later that night, everyone besides Hongjoong and Jongho had returned home (save for the three that actually lived in the apartment with you). Mingi didn't exit his room, not even for dinner. San came and joined movie night after Wooyoung left.

The movie long ended, leaving everyone in the room dead asleep besides Seonghwa. How could he sleep at a moment like this? His Baby could wake up at any moment and need him.

So, he just sat and watched over the most important people in his life. His best friend, laid on the couch with his head on the opposite end as you, curled into a ball with nothing but a stuffed monkey to keep him company. His youngest member, laid on the floor with a pillow to his chest. And San, he was-

"Hyung?"

He was awake. Seonghwa perked up a bit, blinking away that familiar look in his eyes before he turned to the armchair where San was draped in a strange position. "Hyung, you should go to sleep..."

Both their eyes drifted to you, sound asleep. He'd either have to curl up behind you on the couch with Hongjoong or move you to your shared bed.

"You know..." San sighed, almost silently. "I hate you for what you did to her. For what got us here. But I would be lying if I said you didnt take good care of her. You love her, don't you?"

"I love her more than life." It was a declaration that was as easy as breathing. Though he'd never said it out loud to anyone other than you. Until now. Seeing you like that... "I love her. I never want her to be in pain like that, you don't understand, San. I was ready to kill myself if she was dying."

"Don't be ridiculous-"

"I'm serious."

The look in his eyes told him he was was. He would never joke when it came to you. He was always dead serious. He would rather not be in this world at all than be in it without you. "I know you don't understand, I'm not asking you to. But I had to do what I did. I had to do it. I had to."

"I know." And he did. San knew that, by all means Seonghwa didn't have to do what he did. He didn't have to kidnap you and keep you imprisoned in their dorm and buy people off to keep their mouth shut. But Seonghwa thought that he did. His mind had convinced him, and there was no turning back.

That first night, when they found you tied to his bed, that was all he could say. I had to. I had to. I had to. With his head tucked between his knees like a scolded child defending themselves- although everyone was too shell shocked to even say a word until Wooyoung broke the silence with a simple, 'what the fuck.' I had to. I had to. I had to.

"Do you?"

San licked his lips, took a deep breath, and rolled around to face the back of the arm chair. "I know you, Park Seonghwa. And you did what you believed was necessary. I can never agree with your reasoning... but I'll never fight you on it. Take your baby and go to bed. We're all tired."

Seonghwa couldn't see them, but there was fat tears rolling down San's face. He hadnt cried over this. But something had finally faded away and let him. He never referred to you as that. He liked to think you'd enjoy being separate from the life that Seonghwa had built for you. Not that you could notice most of the time, forced so deep into little space that your head felt light and fluffy like a bag of cotton candy.

He must have finally come to terms with the fact that this was reality.

"C'mon, baby girl," he heard him whisper, followed by a small groan as you were picked up. He waited until he heard Seonghwas door click. And he let all his tears free fall.

Seonghwa set your tired form down on your side of the bed, crawling in after you while trying to push away that itch in his brain that was screaming that he forgot your nightly routine. He tucked that little voice away and settled in bed, bringing the soft comforter over you both and melting into his pillow with a sigh.

He gathered you close as gently as possible and rubbed your back, staring up at the ceiling and listening closely to your breathes as they evened out to quiet snores.

A smile played at his lips.

For a moment he felt like everything would be okay. You had your medicine-

He felt you curl closer to his warmth, and he brought his finger tips up to brush your loose hairs back with a tenderness reserved only for you.

-And he had his.

ఌ

#ateez #yandere ateez #park seonghwa #yandere seonghwa #yandere fic #seonghwa x reader #baby series

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