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oceaneyesinla · 2 months ago

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I RAN OUT OF TAGS (i am so sorry i just have too much to say)(i've written too much i'm so sorry)

I will continue my love of the Shinazugawa brothers under a cut <3

Sanemi loves genya so much i actually can't

genya is the one place where sanemi can be sanemi and not a hashira of the corps

the continued beef between tanjiro and sanemi is so fucking funny they really are beefing in every lifetime

also inosuke stealing the boar head and sanemi calling him the rabid one is fantastic I love him just judging his little brothers friends

Um the reference to genya looking like their dad and sanemi wondering if it had come from him was entirely uncalled for and heartbreaking, thanks

genya asking if everything is okay 🥺 these brothers make me want to CRY

sanemi having a private trust for genya and SETTING ONE UP FOR READER damn boy you are down bad pls just admit it and call her 😭

ugh just sanemi looking out for his little brother, worrying if he's eating, wanting his opinion on what's going on, rough housing with him - LOVING HIM

'there's a girl gen' 'a real one?' still gets me every fucking time

genya just immediately understanding just how down bad sanemi is and also being horrified that he's essentially ghosted her

genya reminding him of their mom please I might actually cry (fun fact I did tear up a lil bit when I finished reading bc this was so good)

peach the way you've written their bond is perfect

'you were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky' that paragraph is my favourite one of the whole piece; I love the symbolism and it describes so well everything he feels for her (and I'm a sucker for using astronomy and sky metaphors)

that ending is everything- so simple and absolutely perfect

Peach thank you for such a wonderful story <3

COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.

This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.

CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.

chapter one // masterlist

Sanemi doesn’t remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

You’ve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.

Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.

He’d fucked you — though some small voice in his head quips that he’d done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), he’d done it without using protection — and he came in you.

Whatever rule book he’d played by before, it no longer mattered. It’s been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense he’d had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.

Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.

And despite knowing he’s in the wrong, Sanemi can’t help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.

He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if you’re willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldn’t be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldn’t be smart.

More importantly, Sanemi doesn’t want you thinking he feels entitled to your body — or your affection — now that he’s had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.

Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while he’s fully dressed.

Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.

He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.

He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey.”

You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. You’re beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.

“Hi,” you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.

He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him.

Whether it’s out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he can’t say.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you got up before I left. Didn’t want you to think I just dipped.” Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. “But now that you’re up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.”

At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. “Since — y’know —“

He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But it’s apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.

“I don’t need it.” You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.

Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but he’d assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.

“Yeah, you do,” he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night — of how tightly you’d gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as you’d felt the first spurt of his cum fill you — flashes through his mind. “We didn’t use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made —“

“I don’t need it.”

Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he should’ve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but he’ll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.

No matter how in love with you he is.

“Yes, you do. I’m not lettin’ you get pregnant —“ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.

With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.

You wave it at him, sarcastic. “No, I don’t, dumbass.” And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. “I’ve been on birth control since high school.”

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. “You don’t need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.” You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. “My periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.”

He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.

“I can still take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you offer. “But I’ve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.”

“Nah,” he clears his throat. “If you think the pill is enough, then that’s fine by me.”

Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

“Feel okay?” He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blush again. “I think so,” you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. “Maybe a little sore, but I guess that’s normal, right?”

“Yeah,” and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Sanemi blinks. “Well — yeah.” It’s not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and it’s not one he’s particularly keen on exploring at the moment.

Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. “So —,”

“—So,” he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.

This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He would’ve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.

“I should go,” he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one that’s started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.

You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun he’d laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.

“Will I hear from you?” Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.

The guilt in Sanemi’s knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldn’t be surprised — he can’t be, really. Not when he knows you’ve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.

Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way — that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever — stings.

“‘Course you will.” And he means it — and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things he’d meant; things he doesn’t want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.

But he also said things that probably mean he’s fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.

He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. “‘Til next time.”

You don’t respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.

Mine. He’d said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. You’re fuckin’ mine.

Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, he’s fucked.

—

When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.

Life in the Silo was suffocating and he’d often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks.

He’d never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever be to flying free.

He finds his bike where he always parks it – in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless.

He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corps’ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you.

Almost.

—

It’s nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but it’s one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own.

No matter how shitty it is.

Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck he’ll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasn’t spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did.

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to reach out — he does, very much so. He’s wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.

Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.

As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.

An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemi’s forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water can’t un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name –

With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration – and longing – out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.

—

Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment.

It’s not that he regrets doing what he did with you – he doesn’t, not by any means. And that’s exactly what makes him so selfish.

Deep down, he’d wanted to be the one to do it – taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And he’d been weak, unable to stick to the code he’d sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. He’d broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.

He should’ve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.

Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections he’d ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, he’s taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.

Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that he’d abandoned – namely, the rule for not getting attached – before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesn’t know if he can bend, let alone break.

Number one: once you’re in, you’re in.

No one leaves the Corps unless it’s in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all.

There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them – usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.

In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didn’t take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.

A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.

Himejima’s success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few who’d tried since Sanemi’s own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught.

Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out – but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes.

Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces – blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing – were circulated through the Corps’ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.

A warning. A reminder.

It is not just a risk – it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you won’t be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, they’d be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, he’d heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces?

That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for.

No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think – than to wish – for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens.

But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, he’d be damned if he said the idea of trying wasn’t tempting as hell.

—

The days mount alongside Sanemi’s self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you – or him, for that matter.

It’s likely you’re only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space he’s made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him.

It’s hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same.

He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense he’s created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.

The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. He’s used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corps’ boogeyman; the monster who’d come knocking should they forget their obligations.

Customers don’t know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.

But the job Uzui has sent him on isn’t like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isn’t accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemi’s been tasked with collecting isn’t particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengoku’s garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesn’t do cars.

It’s not his place to question orders, however, so he doesn’t. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and he’d rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.

The ramshackle store he’s been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing — Kizuki territory.

Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzui’s client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.

Survival, as he’d learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. He’s survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.

It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemi’s hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple.

It’s drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door.

The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows he’s being followed.

It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isn’t stupid enough to think they’re trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers don’t lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.

His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.

Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.

That’s when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him would’ve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised by the tail, and it’s even less of an oddity that he’d been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known he’d need the cover.

They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when he’s on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and he’s not there. Not yet.

There’s a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.

“Fuck.” His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs.

It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.

The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley nestled between the high rises of the business district. He’s too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; he’ll have to try and lose them.

Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails aren’t as wise.

They know he’s affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members — pathetically named Demons — who think they’ve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.

Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. He’s no fucking mouse, and he’ll be damned if he end up in their trap.

His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him.

He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, it’s his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemi’s lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street.

Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.

“What.”

“Looks like you’ve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.” A familiar voice intones through his speaker.

Sanemi smirks into the phone. “Two. You offerin’ to help, Uzui?”

There’s a crackly laugh on the other end. “Go south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. It’s a straight road.”

Sanemi’s mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City — a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this.

“No innocents,” he warns. “We ain’t them.” The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys.

A banal moral line, but they’ve got to draw one in the sand somewhere.

“Just focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,” Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

“And I’m the one getting you out of it.” Uzui finishes smoothly. “Be grateful I was tracking your ass.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he can’t worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.

Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.

If he’d been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.

He shakes it off; doesn’t matter. He just needs to drive.

An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank.

Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, he’s stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.

If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears he’ll never shit talk a car again.

Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. They’re getting bold; Uzui’s assistance will mean jack shit if he doesn’t get to Market soon.

He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go.

Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesn’t have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer –

The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash.

A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.

Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesn’t dare breathe, and doesn’t think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate.

The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two –

Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driver’s seat, the car’s speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst.

Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the car’s inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies.

His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemi’s hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear.

“Clear.”

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales.

—

He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms.

The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi can’t be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driver’s side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him.

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location.

The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzui’s homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, there’s been a market for selling bodies.

At least Uzui takes care of his workers – pays them well, makes sure they’ve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didn’t entitle them to rough up the merchandise.

Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzui’s joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemi’s birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genya’s arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after he’d been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.

Perhaps if she’d been employed by someone like Uzui, she would’ve lived. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, he’d never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you.

And no matter; Uzui’s whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corps’ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores.

Time and time again, that was their mistake.

It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking it’s still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.

When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; it’s a smart business tactic on Uzui’s part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the club’s main floor.

Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietor’s office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down.

Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and it’s that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While he’s certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it.

Their hands aren’t yours.

The guards in question are two of Uzui’s favorite girls — Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldn’t dream of being stupid enough to wear.

Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. “You wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?” Sanemi snaps irritably. “Or under my balls?”

“If you’re looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” A gruff voice — Makio’s, he thinks — chuffs back.

He rolls his eyes. “Pleasure is his business.”

Neither woman bothers with an answer.

“Clean.” One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him.

Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzui’s office and waves him through. “Hina’s inside. Don’t linger.”

“Never do,” Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the club’s surrounding speakers.

For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzui’s office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the club’s logo.

A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller — more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and it’s just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldn’t as it is a subtle dare that they try.

But Sanemi knows better.

It’s a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isn’t stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here.

Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the club’s sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isn’t tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight.

It’s a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, he’d wager a fair amount of cash that the office’s tidiness had less to do with the club’s loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor.

“I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru – the third of the silver-haired Hashira’s favored girls – was never anything short of genuine.

If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizu’s had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump they’d had the misfortune of being born into.

But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoon’s events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.

He only hopes she understands.

Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzui’s great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the desk’s surface. “Here’s his fuckin’ money.”

The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesn’t bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap.

Sanemi’s brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand.

“Tell him I took my cut. If he’s got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. I’m outta here.”

If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. “You’re not going to lie low?”

“Fuck that.” Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone else’s problem.”

He’s out the door before she can say goodbye.

—

Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corps’ territory.

While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasn’t been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction.

By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means it’s the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.

He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon.

Great. He’ll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you.

The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the bar’s patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. He’s in no particular mood to smash in anyone’s teeth.

Good thing he’d stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didn’t care to lie low following the brush he’d had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corps’ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out.

And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all.

He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.

The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he can’t get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genya’s school — his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.

Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.

Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isn’t your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you.

I love you, Sanemi.

You’ve laid all your cards out on the table already; it’s his own damn fault he hasn’t figured out how to show his hand. So no, he can’t be surprised you haven’t reached out, considering he hasn’t been able to say a damn thing at all.

Since you’re already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. It’s Thursday, so you’ve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release he’s been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series you’d turned him on to, one he’d stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time he’d squirreled away.

Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours? Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether you’ve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, you’ve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He’s not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, he’s liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence.

No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he can’t have.

He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices.

A quick glance at his phone confirms it’s late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city.

He’ll need to pay it a visit soon; he’s got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But it’s been a few days since he’d received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge.

If his ruse is discovered, after all, it’s not just him who’s fucked.

Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. He’ll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesn’t go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, he’ll grow a pair and figure out what the hell he’s going to do about you.

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but he’s long since stopped being able to feel the sting. “Heard it all before.”

Crimson spills down the man’s face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut.

When it came time to collect on the Corps’ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier.

The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.

Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. “P-please — tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one —“

“Mr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.” Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. “Where’s his money?”

The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi can’t be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission he’s so desperate not to make.

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over.

His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can.

Fingers tight around the man’s collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomioka’s bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the man’s mashed cheek.

Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back.

“Fifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.” He gets the man’s arm into position. “Last warning.”His target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. “Or else the next time you see me, it’ll be at the Wisteria overpass.”

The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemi’s threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corps’ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isn’t worth the bullet. But it’s effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the man’s feet.

If he thinks that’s the extent of his warning, however, he’s sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesn’t deal in empty threats.

Sanemi’s grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the man’s wrist.

Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. “N-no —!”

But there’s nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone.

Message received; job done.

So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally – peacefully.

Not someone who deserves to have you.

As usual, the numbness doesn’t set in until after he’s finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he can’t feel.

“Fifty grand.” Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. “One week.”

That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until he’s heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi can’t even feel the wind whipping at his face.

The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare he’d prefer to avoid.

Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while he’s like this.

Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis that’s taken him over is one Sanemi hasn’t had the stomach for even before you’d so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that he’s had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, you’re not an option.

And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others.

Sanemi’s thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. It’s been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so he’s due to make a call.

Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastard’s voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.

He waits only two rings when the other line answers.

“Aniki?”

“What are you doing?” Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. “You just get outta class?”

It’s a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brother’s schedule committed firmly to memory, but it’s an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit.

“Yeah,” Genya confirms and there’s a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. “I’m on my way back to the dorms now, and then – uh, practice.”

Sanemi snorts into the speaker. “You don’t have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.”

While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacher’s backgrounds, and every detail of his brother’s time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like he’s not butting too much into Genya’s life.

But he won’t tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genya’s activities. His safety.

His brother makes a disgruntled sound. “Well – I’m – we’re going to Tanjiro’s. For dinner. A few of us.”

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I give a shit if you hang out with ‘im. As long as he ain’t gettin’ your ass in trouble.”

Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genya’s ability to handle himself – after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him.

In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid who’d run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.

At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, he’d always known his little brother had their mother’s heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if he’d had to bury his brother, too.

No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away.

Genya’s reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. “He really is a good guy –”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and you’re keepin’ your nose clean.” Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. “I just think he’s annoying.”

He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. “I wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.” And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, “Dinner on me. Anywhere you want.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I – sure!”

Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. “What, I can’t come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?”

“No!” Genya��s voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemi’s memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. “I always wanna see you – but – I mean, is everything…good? With you?”

Sanemi can’t help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. “Yeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.”

“Okay,” Genya sounds skeptical. “You sure you’re good?”

Your face flashes through his mind. “Yeah. It’s just nothin’ I wanna discuss over the phone.”

It’s not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but there’s an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genya’s school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you.

“Okay,” Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. “Sanemi –”

“I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Don’t be late, alright? I’m gonna be hungry.” Sanemi cuts his brother off. He’s not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasn’t yet checked. Not after he’s spent most of his life living with one eye always open.

It’s his brother’s turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. “Okay. I’ll see you then. I gotta get back —“

“Yeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.” Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. “I’ll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.”

His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it.

Now that he’s confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few days’ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice he’s been waiting on would come through. In fairness, it’s been a few days since he’d last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once he’s sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.

To the untrained eye, the private folder is unassuming; a collection of apps marked “Misc.,” hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos.

Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated.

But Sanemi can’t imagine anyone — cop or Kizuki alike — who would give two shits about his porn habits.

He taps the icon marked “BustyBeauties” and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after he’s entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries.

Right there, at the top, is the message he’s been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory.

His impending visit to Genya really couldn’t be at a better time. He’d strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school.

A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before he’s due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting.

The line picks up on the third ring.

“Rengoku?” Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. “Remember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.” He pauses before adding, “And a suit.”

—-–

Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion.

When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldn’t so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, you’d be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor.

As a Hashira, however, he’s allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesn’t crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and that’s exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods.

“Recon,” Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengoku’s many vehicles that he tosses his way. “Gotta blend in, y’know?”

“Apologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,” his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. “I’m afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.” Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City — a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his family’s long-standing ties with the Corps. “Though I doubt anyone will notice while you’re wearing that suit.”

Sanemi waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. As long as I keep stickin’ my nose up, I’m sure I’ll fit right in with those rich fucks.”

Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite he’d been born into. It’s a good thing, too; after all, Rengoku’s silver spoon hadn’t prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was.

He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members.

Despite his fellow Hashira’s apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didn’t seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.

Whatever. It certainly isn’t the tin wad of junk he’d been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him.

Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driver’s side and closing the door.

Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course it’s a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengoku’s garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway.

The car’s interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesn’t dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed.

He still prefers his bike.

He stops at a gas station once he’s about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.

The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent.

Sanemi Shinazugawa’s childhood had been anything but typical. But if he’d been normal, he imagined this is what it would’ve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.

No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket.

His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society he’s about to pretend he’s a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.

Besides, Sanemi doesn’t do ties. He can’t stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like he’s being strangled by blended silk.

Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroom’s age and mildew-spotted mirror. It’s a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him.

The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.

—

Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway.

It’s almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. It’s respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo.

The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the City’s dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with.

Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldn’t deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates.

It isn’t long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit.

Gloved security men open the building’s double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.

The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique banker’s lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. It’s toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens.

“Mr. Masachika,” a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. “Punctual as always.”

Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt he’d once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when he’d been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.

Besides, he didn’t think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning.

Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountant’s eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside.

That’s his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountant’s firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits.

The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so it’s no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors.

Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight.

The accountant’s clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see you’re here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?”

“Indeed I am,” the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. “The Principal’s estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.”

“I see.” The accountant’s fingers move quickly over her keyboard. “Before we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.” Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. “It’s an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system won’t allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.”

“Of course.” He presents her with the documents he’d had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (“the poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,” he’d told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits.

His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when he’s wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense.

The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?”

“Fifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,” Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. “And another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.”

The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed.

A bead of sweat slides down Sanemi’s spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.

“Very well, Mr. Masachika,” the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. “And we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/N’s trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.”

Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency.

—

It’s a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brother’s school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that – a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The school’s dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it.

A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadn’t been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy.

Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl.

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff.

He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the school’s campus. In an instant, Sanemi’s little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement.

With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.

It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; it’s relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life.

“Aniki!”

“Hey, brat.” Sanemi returns his brother’s wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. “How’ve ya been?”

Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemi’s neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car he’d managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as he’d pat his brother’s back.

That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didn’t beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.

“‘M fine,” Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?” His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sanemi cuts off his brother’s question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. “Side effect of the gig. You know that.” He tugs at the shirt’s starchy collar in discomfort. “Where’d ya wanna eat?”

“There’s a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.” Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. “Good for the dollar too.”

Sanemi scoffs. “We’ll stop there on the way back. I’m takin’ you to get something decent first.” Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. “They feedin’ you here? You feel scrawny.”

Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genya’s shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well.

It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing he’s done since they’d talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics.

As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genya’s youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle.

Normally, he’d admonish his brother’s poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brother’s unscarred, smiling face.

—

Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genya’s suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill.

“Seriously, the hell am I payin’ them an arm and a leg for?” Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. “Thought their big braggin’ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.”

“Yeah, but they cut you off after fourths.” Genya’s eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. “It’s okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.”

He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks — a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi.

Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. “Not hungry?”

He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. “Not like you.”

Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.

Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks.

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.”

Genya’s head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red.

“Thanks, Aniki.” He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. “I know my math grade wasn’t the best —“

“It’s an improvement from last term. That’s all I care about.” Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. He’s been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes.

But there’s nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.

“You hangin’ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?” He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I haven’t properly vetted?

“Still ‘em,” his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. “Muichiro ‘n Zenitsu, too.”

“What about the other one?” And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. “The one with rabies.”

His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. “Inosuke?”

“Yeah. That thing.”

“He doesn’t have rabies — he wore a taxidermied boar head one time —“

“Yeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Dean’s office because he’d stolen it.” Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call he’d received right in the middle of breaking Maeda’s left leg. He’d had to shove the toe of his boot into the rat’s mouth to keep him quiet while he’d borne the brunt of the Dean’s condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the school’s natural history displays.

As though he’d been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother.

Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.

Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink.

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

The boy’s head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin.

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. “The fuck does that mean?”

“N-nothing!” Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemi’s accusatory glare. “Just, you’ve never — at least, you’ve never told me about anyone you’re seeing —“

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.”

His brother eyes him carefully. “But…you are now?”

For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.

“Things…escalated. Between us.” Sanemi frowns. It’s the most judicious way he can put it; he doesn’t exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, there’s no other way he can phrase it. “And I don’t know what’s gonna happen going forward.”

The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genya’s cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork.

“You…like her though, right?”

Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. It’s a truth he’s hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after you’d fallen asleep on him that night.

He’s in love with you. And fuck if that’s not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.

Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. “And fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadn’t crossed the line, but well,” he gives his brother a wry grin. “Since when have I ever made shit easy for myself?”

For a moment, there’s no sound but that of Genya’s fork scraping across his plate. “What does she think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

Genya’s eyes widen in something like horror. “You mean - you all —“ he turns scarlet. “You all did — whatever — and you haven’t talked to her since?”

His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea.

Only when he can’t avoid his brother’s discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. “Shit, Gen,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to do about her at this point.”

The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “You want to be with her though, don’t you? Like, date and stuff?”

Sanemi scowls. “I don’t know. I’ve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I can’t even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ain’t boyfriend material.”

Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission, I guess.” He glances up and this time, he doesn’t cower under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Are you?”

But Sanemi doesn’t know the answer to his brother’s question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldn’t still be stuck in this limbo.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Aniki.” Genya’s voice softens to something almost gentle. “You’re allowed to do things that’ll make you happy. I wish you would.”

Sanemi doesn’t have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death.

That’s exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. He’s already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesn’t need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman he’d never known.

Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. “I’m tellin’ you all this for a reason. You know how I’ve got stuff for you, if somethin’ happens to me?”

His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, “The accounts?”

“Jesus, be more obvious, why don’t you?” Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cup’s watery contents in a single gulp. “Yeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?”

The one Sanemi had brought to his brother’s dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods.

“Good,” Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. “Put this in there, too. It’s for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I don’t want you going near it, understand?”

Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.

A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.

It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door.

—-

The walk back to Genya’s campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, he’s purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether he’s simply acting on his own hesitancy, he can’t say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him.

If he’ll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasn’t changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can.

All of it is for him, after all.

Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation he’d had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brother’s likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.

It killed him, every time.

He won’t get choked up in front of Genya – he won’t. He’ll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.

Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess I’ll be headin’ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.

“I think,” Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. “I think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, you’ve been making decisions to survive, y’know?” And he shakes his head. “You’ve never done what you wanted. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me but —“

Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. “I think it’s time to be selfish for once, Aniki. You’ve earned it. You can’t survive on your own.” He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. “You know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. It isn’t often that he’s caught off guard; even less than he’s left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brother’s eyes. “It’s not that simple. Me bein’ selfish has consequences.”

“But — I mean, you’ve already made a choice in a way, right?” Sanemi’s gaze snaps to him as Genya’s hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. “You might as well enjoy it.”

He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genya’s cheeks turn pink. “When the fuck did you get so grown?”

“Yeah, well,” his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. “Maybe you just needed to hear you’re allowed to be a little happy.”

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?”

“Yeah,” Genya admits with a toothy grin. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, y’know? Maybe she can make you nicer.”

Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. “An asshole, huh?” With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brother’s neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genya’s head. “Still an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?”

“Ani — Sanemi —!“ Genya wrestles with Sanemi’s arm, helpless against his elder brother’s playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.

Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it would’ve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known.

Just two boys.

But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad.

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?”

Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. “I’ll text ya when I’m back.”

As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying.

“Stay safe, Aniki.” His voice is small.

A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll try,” Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brother’s arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again.

He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. “Go on,” he juts his chin toward the dorms. “Not having you gettin’ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.”

The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. “I know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.”

With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.

And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes.

–

The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence.

It’s done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bike’s lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi won’t impair his senses if he can help it.

Besides, after Genya’s too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think.

The day he’d been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemi’s future had ended. The moment he’d been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As he’d searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, he’d known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, they’d only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashira’s head.

So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought he’d given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin.

Until you.

Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer he’d gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once he’d seen it, he’d not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when he’s old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.

A life created out of his love for you. With you.

It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. He’d never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what could’ve been to keep him warm. There would’ve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place you’d hold in his heart.

You would be safe and he would’ve been alone, as intended. As needed.

But he’d gotten greedy; and when you’d looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be.

Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driver’s window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, he’s never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way.

And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brother’s question packs more punch than he’d initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives.

Is there any choice left to be made at all?

Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do hadn’t been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corps’, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasn’t that the entire reason he’d let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded – in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage they’d been born into?

That had all been before; he’d lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasn’t until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself.

You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadn’t known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadn’t been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less — he simply didn’t know how to do anything different. But he’d made a choice the moment he’d laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.

So what does he want?

The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.

He wants you. Only you.

Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

#peach you have done it again #by it i mean made me lose my mind #compass might be my favourite work of yours #pls don't hold me to that i love all of them #sanemi waking up next to reader 🥺#'his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he's fully aware of what he's doing'#oh he loves her so much 😭#reader just drooling on him i love it #the way you've written his inner conflict is so engaging #he knows that its dangerous and he feels that its wrong but he can't help but love her anyway #the way you describe reader from his POV when he goes back to her in bed makes her seem like an angel #i love how he's gearing up to give her the birds and the bees talk #then she's just like dude birth control and periods are a thing #ahhh the whole scene is a little bit awkward and a little bit loving and infinitely beautiful #all of the world building you've done in this chapter is incredible #all the little nods to canon places and events and even the bar being called kasugai #i love that kind of stuff #and the way you've written sanemi #kind of resigned to his fate but at the same time hoping for freedom #not wanting to put reader in harms way but also desperately wanting her by his side #letting himself look through the bars of his cage at the life they could have #learning more about uzui and his place in the corps is so interesting #it fits him so well #and i love how you've written makio suma and hina #sanemi's MOM 🥺#in every universe mama shinazugawa loves her babies #had to take a second when i read that I'll be hobest #that one hurt #the fact that when he's falling apart and needs someone he calls genya 🥺#he's such a good big brother im going to cry

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nereidprinc3ss · 5 months ago

Text

do you believe me now? | 7

in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader sleep together for the first time

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: loss of virginity, oral f/m receiving, so much praise, pain during sex, unprotected sex, cr**mp**, bit of overstim, soft dom spence, if u don't like that freak shit (love and intimacy) this is not for u, spencer is a nerd, they're both nerds actually and that factors in heavily, you may get more from this part by FIRST reading how they met in this bonus chapter a/n: thank you all for being patient, ilysm, this was the most laborious thing i've ever done for no reason and also this part changed so many times and is not what i expected it to be so pls go in with tempered expectations and keep in mind that this story is more about the characters and their specific relationship dynamic than just being porn. i truly have no idea how you guys will react to this but i sincerely hope you love it and them like i do<3 also it's twice as long as the other parts so feedback would be very very appreciated! again i love u all and enjoy the penultimate part!

Spencer’s lips are on yours, and you weren’t expecting it—hell, you weren’t expecting him to be in your apartment. After all, he’d wished you goodnight and walked out only a moment ago.

“Spencer—wh—”

But he’s insistent with his lips, kissing you bruisingly over and over like there’s nectar on your tongue and he’s parched for you. Still, he has enough decency to not completely ignore you, exhaling a quick excuse over your flushed lips.

“I missed you.”

This time, though, you dodge his hungry kiss. Part of you thinks, as he watches you, eyes alight and breathing heavily, that he sort of likes your playing hard to get. It’s not something you do very often, admittedly.

“We’ve been apart for like, maybe a minute.”

“I didn’t even make it to the parking lot.”

Your face heats.

“Well you can’t just—you can’t just walk in like that! And I thought you said we weren’t supposed to mix fighting with pleasure.”

“Then start locking your door. And I thought you said we weren’t fighting.”

You roll your eyes in response, though your heart is still pittering in your chest.

At least his hands move to your arms, stroking up and down relatively chastely—although he has this way of making everything seem intimate. Especially when paired with those amber eyes of his—glowing like a candlelight beacon in the window guiding you home. He speaks in low, appeasing tones and darts his tongue over his lips.

“I originally said it’s a bad idea for couples to sleep together after an argument. But you know—makeup sex is ubiquitous across culture and time because it works. Anger and arousal trigger a lot of the same hormones, specifically norepinephrine which is involved in feelings of longing and—”

“Spencer.”

“You know what else?” He mutters in a way that feels dangerous. “It tends to feel better than regular sex.”

That earns a shaky exhale from you. Whether from irritation or arousal is anyone’s guess—probably a combination of both.

“So you came back to fuck me?”

It’s probably evident to Spencer from your choice of language that this already isn’t going exactly as he’d planned. He doesn’t answer right away—just regards you, gaze bouncing between your two eyes like he’s trying to calculate your level of anger.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You push him away and move to walk down the hall.

“Maybe your window of opportunity has passed.”

A warm hand wraps around your wrist in the dark of the hallway and he pulls you back until you’re falling against something tall and warm and lean. The smell of polished amber and sandalwood overwhelms your senses.

“What’s wrong, angel? What happened in the minute I was gone to change your mind?” His voice is scratchy like a favorite record. It’s the voice he could hold you captive with. The one you have a very difficult time saying no to.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, unintentionally leaning back against him. “What happened to change yours?”

His response comes pressed against your ear, half-lost in your hair.

“You’re upset that I changed my mind. I thought you wanted this, honey.”

“I do,” you admit, letting your head fall back against his shoulder and bringing his arm to wrap around you. “And if you hadn’t walked out earlier I would’ve done it. But… I’m tired of us doing everything on your timeline. You just… you expect me to be amenable to what you want, constantly.” His nose and lips press into your shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I’ve been begging you to sleep with me for I don’t even know how long. And you keep changing your mind, and I feel like you’re being really confusing about it. Obviously you don’t have to sleep with me, you never did, but I just feel kind of… jerked around. And you did it again tonight.”

A beat of silence.

“I understand your frustration,” he appeases, securing both his arms around you. You cling weakly to his wrist, to his warmth, like he’s a tether in a storm. “Would you prefer to wait until you initiate it?”

“No. Yes! I don’t know,” you huff, disentangling yourself from his arms and continuing toward your bedroom. “Now I’m annoyed at you again.”

He follows you right through the door.

“Just tell me what to do! I don’t want to be annoying.”

“I can’t. I’m being unreasonable.” You flick on your adjoining bathroom light and examine yourself in the mirror. Yeesh. The eye makeup situation is abysmal after all the crying that has taken place over the course of the evening.

“So choose to be reasonable and tell me what you want from me. I’ll give it to you.”

You frown at your reflection, pushing your hair back and rubbing at some excess mascara.

“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m not choosing to be unreasonable. My thought process regarding the situation is inherently unreasonable and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s just the way I feel.”

“The feeling being that I’ve been too domineering over how our sexual relationship has unfolded?”

Spencer watches you in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed as you tip some makeup remover onto a reusable cotton pad. You try not to check him out as you nod, but it’s impossible—with his sleeves rolled up to show defined forearms cradled in capable hands, and his hair all messy.

When he pushes off the wall you freeze, unsure of his next move—until he’s gently spinning you around and taking the bottle and cloth from your hands.

“Maybe it would help,” he begins, soft as he focuses on the new task, carefully bringing the round to your right eye so he can remove the bleeding mascara. You allow your eyes to flutter shut. “If I remind you why I’ve been so hesitant.”

“Because you hate giving me joy.”

He laughs, nothing more than one huff from his nose.

“You’re spoiled and we both know it.”

Point taken, as he gently wipes your makeup away for you. Your silence is his cue to continue.

“Everything I said about worrying that you would regret choosing me is true. It was especially true when I thought you felt lukewarm toward me. And all of that confusing stuff I said in the phone is true too—having sex for the first time is incredibly intimate and weird and sometimes scary. If you’re not 100% sure about your partner, or if you think your feelings are unrequited, it’s hard to be completely comfortable in such a vulnerable situation and your likelihood of getting hurt or having regrets skyrockets. I know that from experience. I wanted better for you than what I got. Still, I know it was wrong to project my feelings about the significance of sex onto you. In that regard, you’re right. I was being domineering, and I guess… I guess to an extent I’m still deflecting. I shouldn’t be trying to pretend like it’s about you when in reality I mostly just didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to go through that again, and that’s okay, but I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was something you could have changed.”

You try to process that.

“Go through what?” You whisper hoarsely. Something about having him at such close range while he takes such care with you feels whisper-y.

“Sleeping with someone who didn’t love me back.”

Your reply is small.

“Oh. Right.”

How could anyone not love him back?

Spencer’s reply is simple and kind, without a hint of, obviously you dumb bitch—which is pretty much what you’re thinking to yourself.

“Does that make sense, lovely? Do you understand why I wanted to wait?”

He lets you ponder for a while in comfortable-enough silence as he finishes removing your eye makeup with a characteristically gentle hand. When you open your eyes, he looks genuinely content, screwing the lid back on the bottle as if he’s got an eternity to wait for your answer.

“Yeah. That part makes sense. But why did you seem so… I don’t know, like, wishy-washy about it?”

Spencer’s eyes dart up to meet yours, brows slightly raised. Then a small laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him.

“Because I’m obsessed with you. I thought about you like that constantly. I still do.”

Your breath catches at the casual admission.

“Oh.”

Spencer hums, setting the bottle down before tenderly thumbing away some excess mascara that he must have missed from under your eye.

“You didn’t think it was easy for me, did you?”

“Well… kind of,” you admit, tracking his eyes until they meet yours.

“Not sleeping with you has been among the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when you started begging me. That first time, when I picked you up from Penelope’s and you asked me why we hadn’t had sex yet…”

He trails off, still rubbing at your cheek as he loses himself in thought.

Eventually, you grow impatient, prompting, “what?”

“It’s not a nice thought.”

“Well, you have to tell me now,” you insist.

He half smiles, thumb straying to your lips.

“It was just… you had no idea what you were talking about, and you were ready to throw a tantrum in my living room until I gave you what you thought you wanted. Part of me was imagining bending you over the couch right then, since you thought you were so ready.”

It feels like someone has snipped the pulley that keeps your stomach in place.

“Spencer,” you splutter, convinced your cheek is tangibly heating under his touch as your head reels at the revelation that he could have such a deeply dirty and mildly sinister mind.

“I told you it wasn’t nice.”

You swallow.

“Is that… is that still what you want?”

His brows flicker again and he tucks hair behind your ear.

“To bend you over my couch? No.”

Your face warms even more and you turn to leave the bathroom, sick of his teasing.

“Okay, goodni—”

“Hold on.” Spencer catches you by your waist and pulls you back into him for the second time tonight. A dangerous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t want to bend you over my couch.” He laughs, slipping a hand under your shirt to rub your back. “You know what I want. I’m more interested in learning what you want.”

“I want…” Your eyes dance between his, and your heart flutters against the confines of your chest as you realize what you’ve wanted for so long is finally yours for the taking. “I want to stop talking about it.”

His expression neutralizes and you know it’s probably intentional to stop whatever feelings you assume him to be having color your decision.

“Oh?”

“I just think we’ve talked about it enough.”

Before he can say another word, or ask you another question, you kiss him with such passion there’s no way he can doubt how much you want this.

Only a moment passes before he allows himself to lean into it, cupping your face between reverent hands and taking control of the pace of the kiss, slowing it down until you can hardly breathe. Your little noise of want has him quickening the process, pressing against you until you’re walking backward out of the bathroom. It’s like the first crack in a dam. After that, everything becomes inevitable.

Your knees hit the back of the bed and you sit down hard on the mattress, smiling up at him. You skim the front of his thighs with your palms as he smooths your hair.

Spencer groans, leaning down and kissing you til you’re on your back.

“Don’t make that face.”

An affronted huff from you breaks the kiss up and he pulls back to study your expression.

“What do you mean don’t make that face? I was just smiling at you.”

“I know you were. And you have such a pretty smile it makes me feel guilty about… defiling you.”

Your brows flicker up and your mouth drops open with an affronted scoff.

“Watch yourself. I’ll defile you.”

“You already have,” he admits with a half-laugh as he kisses you again. “My mind was never this dirty before we met.”

“Hm. Tell me you like my smile.”

He pauses and then chuckles dryly against your mouth.

“I love your smile. You’re gorgeous. Any more demands?”

Pleased, you shake your head and pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Not currently.”

“Really?” he murmurs, trailing kisses over your cheek and down your jaw, “I’d do just about anything you asked me right now. You don’t want to take advantage of that?”

The sensation of his lips just below your ear threatens all rational thought in your brain, but you manage a reply with only a slight delay and a hint of a waver coloring your tone.

“I shouldn’t have to demand things. You should just know to do them.”

His kisses drag lower, warm and unhurried and you’re trying not to let your hyper-sensitivity from going a week completely untouched show—but you doubt he misses the way your breath catches, or the barely audible squeaks, or the arch of your back or the tightening grip on his shirt.

“Well, for future reference—” he nips at a sensitive spot and you gasp quietly, even as you tilt your head to offer him more access. More room to bite, if he so chooses. “—I happen to enjoy it when you make demands of me. Especially when those demands entail letting me call you pretty.”

“I’ve never not let you call me pretty before,” you huff. It’s a touchy subject, and Spencer can probably sense your hackles rising, but he has you right where he wants you and so he pushes anyway.

“No. But you never believe me. We’ve had this conversation. You always act like I’m walking you to the gallows when I compliment you.”

It’s hard to make a defense when he’s leaning his weight onto one arm so he can unbutton your jeans, when he’s looking down at you with sparkling onyx and scorched-earth eyes like you’re something to be consumed. But not violently, no—ardently. Like fruit heavy on the vine. Like you’re a religious rite to the devout and deluded. A sacrament.

But it’s not a blind passion. Spencer knows you; every inch of you and every loose thread on your soul begging to be pulled. He knows you and he still wants you like this. To be perfectly honest, you’d never thought you’d feel comfortable handing yourself over to someone like this—vulnerable and all your layers of armor shed. Never in your life would you have thought you could trust a person so implicitly that you’d hand them a knife and show them exactly where to press, that you’d say, I know once you open me and you see me you’ll not want to change a thing.

You adore him. Cosmically. Enormously. In every dimension. He’s lodged so deep in your heart you have no choice but to love him eternally.

It’s deep in the midst of all these very profound revelations that you realize Spencer has stalled with your zipper undone. His hand has strayed to your hip, to sweetly push your shirt up and trace love letters into warmed and downy skin with his thumb.

“I just wish you could see yourself how I see you,” he says softly, the weight of the truth a strain on his vocal cords.

Sometimes, he is so kind it’s like a punch to your stomach. You’ve never been quite as kind as him. And nobody’s ever been as kind to you as he is. You’ve done nothing to deserve his kindness, but you know he needs a place for it, and you’re here with open arms.

He studies you a moment longer, swallowing as his eyes trail over your face and lower. You want to reach out and brush strands of caramel hair out of his face, but he seems to be thinking so hard you’re hesitant to distract him.

“I’ve never told you this, because I know you’d just shoot it down, but… you are genuinely the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”

Something twinges in the depths of your stomach—the darker shades who live there and exist solely to whisper not enough not enough not enough to you every minute of every day.

But they’re simply not a match for the softness you find when you do reach out for his hair, or the way he looks at you. Spencer loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist—not a cuff, but an affectionate hold.

“Do you believe me?”

There’s so much earnest hope in his voice it almost jars you. He so badly wants you to understand how feels about you—he’s been trying to tell you for months and all you know how to do is refute his praise and insist on your worthlessness.

Ever since Spencer, you don’t see the faces on magazine covers or in superhero movies, no matter how mathematically flawless they are. Nobody gets close to being as beautiful as he is in your eyes. He’s in an entirely different echelon, and despite how you feel about yourself, you have to accept that he might feel the same about you.

“I do,” you say, equally soft, and 100% honest. You believe that he believes it, and that’s enough. It’s all that matters.

The shallow knit of his brow loosens. His lips ease into a suggestion of a smile. But it’s most visible in his eyes—the way smoldering coals reignite, melting the amber glass of his irises until they’re molten.

The way he kisses you then, you’d think you’d lassoed the moon and pulled it down from the sky for him. But apparently all it takes to make him incandescently, contagiously happy, is to accept a compliment.

There’s a renewed sense of urgency on his breath as he kisses you deeply and quick enough your heart is racing. It only goes faster when he remembers his previous task and begins tugging your jeans down, but he doesn’t even bother to pull them past your knees before his hand is creeping up your thigh. Goosebumps race each other across your body as you try to remember what it feels like—what he feels like. But you can’t, even as his thumb fans over your inner thigh and pushes it open, gently encouraging you to give him more access to you.

“You’re not wasting any time,” you breathe against him while he traces the edge of your underwear.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Judging by the way the tips of his fingers only barely shy away from the fabric, he really wants the answer to be no. But you know in his searching gaze that he’d never push you.

“No, it’s fine. As long as we… don’t go this fast the whole time.”

“We won’t.” The hasty words are of lower priority than the next kiss he plants to your swollen lips. “We won’t. I just missed you so much.”

“Yeah?” You giggle airily as he drags his fingers over your clit through the material, trying to ignore the way it makes your head spin.

“Yes. Yeah.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, so… desperate for you, as he drops his lips to your neck and presses barely-there kisses everywhere he knows you’re sensitive. Just the feeling of his breath against your skin has you shivering. His hand between your legs only brushes your most nerve-dense spot, but a few touches in and you’re already wound up, like if Spencer doesn’t give you more soon you’ll burst. And not in the good way.

When he finally commits to actually kissing your neck, you squeak, warmth emanating from that spot just below your jaw all the way to your toes. The frantic energy of earlier is slowly melting away, and he loses focus with his hand, as it begins straying wider, stroking your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach. It’s like your nerve endings are on overdrive, delivering twice as much feedback to your brain as they normally would. Each touch feels like he’s conducting electricity over your body, like you’re a plasma ball. He’d probably like that analogy—you, a core of alternating voltage, and him, the conductor, tracing a path and giving all those electrons an easy release. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d tell Spencer you found a way to work Nikola Tesla into your mutual sex life, and he’d probably propose on the spot.

But that electricity is building fast—even more so when he drags his lips down just above your collarbone. Your breath hitches, simultaneously trying to crane your neck to give him more room, and curl into him so as to escape the stimulation. Finally he pulls away, and losing the softness of his mouth while the air feels so cold against the places he’d kissed almost hurts.

“You’re a mess,” he chuckles affectionately, raising his hand to brush hair away from your face before stroking the heated high point of your cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s teasing, but so low and gentle and honeyed it swirls your stomach.

“Whatever you want,” you admit quietly. It’s a shy confession more than it is a salacious flirtation because he already has you. And you want nothing more than for him to act on that in any way he so pleases. Whatever he does, it will be careful, and kind, and because he loves you. You know that no matter how he takes you apart—he’ll put you back together again.

“I don’t know if I can. You’re all jumpy.”

God, he has the prettiest smile—even when it’s twisted with sarcasm and a thin veneer of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t be teasing and just can’t help himself.

“I’m not,” you defend, face heating further. “I’m not nervous. I don’t know what it is.”

That sticky sweet tone is back, pooling in his eyes and dripping all over you like nectar as he languidly looks you over.

“I didn’t say you were nervous. Just a little bit jumpy.”

It’s not accusatory—he’s simply stating a fact. Easy, gentle, designed to soothe.

You shrug helplessly and chew on your lip, unsure of how he wants you to respond. It’s definitely true that excited as you are, you’re slightly on edge. You feel taut as a string on a guitar, tense and waiting to be yanked at any second.

His expression is serene, and his thoughts inscrutable as he continues lavishing you with his eyes, down to where he’s lying over you and back up. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for a moment as he formulates his words.

“Can we try something? There’s this tantric exercise that might help you relax.”

Your brows draw earnestly and you nod up at him, not requiring any convincing even though you have no idea what he’s talking about.

Spencer directs you to sit up, and you do—kicking your jeans all the way off so you can sit criss-cross with your hands braced on your ankles.

He’s next to you on the bed, at a slight angle, one of your knees in his lap. You blink at him.

“Now what?”

“Now you give me one of your hands,” he says, tone tinted with a hint of an amused smile, as if your impatience is funny to him. Of course it probably is.

Frowning only a little, you unlock your left arm and hold it out for him, watching curiously as he takes your one hand between his and flips it palm-up.

“Did you know,” Spencer begins, voice low and confidential, “that the fingertips are the second most sensitive part of the human body?”

“What’s the first?”

“Lips,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your hand where he’s brushing the tips of your fingers light enough it almost tickles. “They’re both incredibly important for keeping you alive, which is why they’re one and two. But you’ll be particularly sensitive anywhere you’re vulnerable.” His words are trailing off as he brushes his thumb over your palm and to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Like here.”

His knuckles skim up your forearm, to the crook of your elbow.

“And especially here.”

You’re fascinated as he traces back down the length of your arm and over your inner-wrist, feather light. Then up once more, with the blunted edges of his nails, and your breath catches. You’ve never noticed how sensitive such an innocuous part of your body could be, but it has your stomach flipping—more so when he looses a breathy laugh. “You know, some people are actually able to reach orgasm just by light stimulation to this area.”

Your response is just as airy—you don’t recognize your voice when it comes out like that, hanging in the pitch black between you.

“Really?”

An affirmative hum from him, as he lifts your hand and places an intentional kiss over your pulse at the bend of your wrist. Your chest aches and heat is pooling in your stomach as his gently trails them up the delicate skin of your arm. Maybe you should be embarrassed by the reaction you’re having—after all, it’s just your arm. But he treats every part of you like it warrants love and attention and intimacy. Even the parts you typically ignore. Certainly parts you never considered to be sexually or romantically relevant. It’s dizzying. It’s like magic.

“Arms up,” Spencer finally directs, just as sweetly as he’s doing everything else, and helps you tug your shirt over your head. Every brush of fabric, every seam against your skin registers more than it normally would. Everything is heightened, and despite your state of undress you’re still warm. “Your neck is really sensitive, too. It’s the most commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.”

Erogenous zone. Of course this all comes back to biology.

“Tilt your head for me, honey.”

Utterly entranced and useless to not abide by him, you do so. Spencer brushes your hair over your shoulder, and if the slip of it down your back weren’t enough, the graze of his fingertips against the nape of your neck has you shivering.

The warmth of him at your throat feels completely brand new, despite having already had his lips there only minutes before. But now they ghost over your skin with a kind of novelty, and your own lips part in silent pleasure, head lolling to allow him greater access.

“Lie back.”

Without hesitation (but perhaps a bit sluggishly in your stupor) you obey, sliding down until you’re propped up only by pillows once more. Spencer takes his place propped above you once more, thighs slotted with yours as he quickly picks up where he left off.

The sweet kisses are perfect and feel so much better than you’d ever thought to notice before—but at the same time your core aches and there’s that pressure building again that’s starting to get to you.

“Spencer,” you try, and it comes out hoarse but you don’t care at all. “More.”

“You want me to leave marks?”

And the offer is so tempting you’ll wait a few more minutes to ask for what you really need, nodding semi-frantically and ‘mhm’-ing desperately.

As he gently latches onto a spot that will require concealer later but feels fantastic for now, one of his hands slips down your side, just barely letting his nails skim, and your back actually arches. It’s a shocking amount of stimulation for being nowhere near any sexual hotspots. That tiny caught breath dissolves as his fingers continue down just as lightly over your hip and thigh. Your muscles tense as you chase and run away from the feeling. It’s ridiculous.

There’s no point in trying to keep your eyes open now—they grow heavy and you let them fall shut as he sucks another love bite to your throat.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s kind of weird.” He says, voicing your thoughts as he eventually decides the mark will be sufficiently dark.

“Yeah,” you agree, lacking all eloquence as he caresses every sensitive place you didn’t know you had and your hips writhe minutely in a little desperate dance of your own creation.

“Most people aren’t aware of the potential of the erogenous zones that aren’t actual sex organs. They don’t pay attention to them. You know what else is an interesting function of erotic stimulation to areas that aren’t directly involved in reproduction?”

“Hm,” you hum as his hand skims to your back. You lean into it and he promptly undoes your bra with a single hand—a skill you’re not even sure you have.

“It releases not quite as much oxytocin as an orgasm but more than sexual pleasure alone. So you’re less tense before sex than you usually would be, and you’re primed to build more trust and feel more connected with your partner during.”

God, he’s a nerd. And it’s so, so hot.

You roll over on your back again and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth flickers as he takes in your expression, before trailing downward, following the path his fingertips make over your skin as they tug the straps over your shoulders. Trying to stop him, to be shy, would be a pointless venture. He’s seen you like this and you want him to see you again.

A shaky exhale of his own brings a little smile to your face as he pulls your bra away and observes the newly bared skin with a hunger that you can feel.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes cast pointedly down and thumb brushing over the side of your right breast.

“You mentioned.”

“I’m not allowed to say it again?” He teases, leaning down to kiss you soft. Your lips curve against his.

“You can say it as many times as you want.”

Spencer hums, finally thumbing over your breast’s sensitive peak. It sends a chill down your back and seeing as you’re already worked up to the point of near insanity, the pleasure from such a simple touch is much stronger than it would be otherwise.

“Good. Because I missed you a lot.”

After that, he doesn’t waste much time—only toying with your flesh for another minute as he kisses you before his hand is skimming down your abdomen and dipping below the waistband of your underwear.

“Please,” you whisper, tilting your hips toward him when he doesn’t move to touch you anymore.

“Please what?”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He smiles at this, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as his hand travels lower. Fingers slip between wet folds and he begins making the lightest of circles over your clit.

“You’ve probably been waiting long enough, huh? I should be nicer.”

Your answer is a breathy almost-whine as you seek more friction against his hand.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing down harder. The sensation sends sparks down to your toes and you attempt to clamp your legs shut around his wrist. “These need to stay open,” Spencer chuckles, “or else I can’t help you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The words are a sweet sing-song against your cheek as he kisses you there, before hooking his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and pulling down. You try to help wiggle out of them as best you can, gasping when he tosses them away and immediately returns his hand between your legs. He dips his head down, tongue lathing over your breast, and teases you with the tip of one finger circling around your entrance.

“I need—”

“Shh. Let me worry about it.”

With that, he’s dipping his ring and middle fingers just barely inside of you to the first knuckle, then back out, before pushing a bit deeper, and repeating the cycle until they’re as far as they’ll go. When he slowly starts fucking you with them, still mouthing sweetly at your breast, you’re ready to melt.

The room is quiet except for your breathy mewls, the lewd, wet sound of his fingers inside of you, and the blood rushing in your ears. Soon your breast pops from between his lips and he finds somewhere else to leave his mark. Spencer is turning you into a work of art, with his fingers, with his mouth. You don’t mind at all. You’d let him sign his name, if he could—but you doubt he’d let you get his name tattooed.

Soon you stop fighting the perpetual tug of your lids down and let them flutter shut, loosing a freer moan as he brushes over that sweet spot inside you. Even when he’d told you how to find it over the phone, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like this—maddening enough to have your hips twisting again and that hot bed of coals in your tummy sparking.

“Spencer,” you warn, leg twitching as he stokes the fire beyond the point where you can passively enjoy it. Either he’s got to slow down or he’s got to let you burn all the way up. You practically jump when you feel his tongue flick over your clit—you hadn’t even been aware of his shifting positions. Maybe you’re more out of it than you’d previously thought. Your eyes shoot open and he does it again. “Oh, fuck.”

The words are simple, quiet, and apparently that’s not enough. Before you can even process the sensation of the tip of his tongue on you he’s latching onto your clit, suckling in a way that has your vision momentarily going out. You cry out and kick involuntarily, hips jumping up, but he captures your leg and presses you down into the mattress so no matter how much you squirm and squeak you can’t get away.

“Fuckfuckfuck, Spencer I wa—ah—sn’t ready—oh my god.”

He remembers his fingers deep inside you and begins rutting them and you hiss, inhaling sharply through your teeth before letting it all out in a tremulous moan. The orgasm is building up so quickly it almost feels like an attack on your poor body as you try to process it all to no avail. Every sound you make is a vulnerable mess of pleasure and pain, a clear fear of surrendering to something inevitable. Of course, it doesn’t really hurt at all. As usual, he’s blindsided you. Found you unprepared. You rake your fingers through Spencer’s hair, continuing on with your shaky moans that sound half-worried.

“Oh, please.” Really, you’re just pleading to be put out of your misery. It’s in moments like this, as the black is creeping in around the edges of your vision and your thoughts become threads in the tangle of an existence knotting in on itself with no discernible end or beginning in your mind until everything is completely abstract, that you’re reminded why the French refer to orgasm as the little death.

Your fingers lace tight enough in the wilds of his hair to pull, and he groans against you, and those vibrations are your undoing. You succumb to the dark momentarily but he continues a loving assault of gentle kisses to your clit—careful enough so as to be inoffensive even after the euphoria abates and you’re hypersensitive, still relishing soft strands of hair between your knuckles.

You’re breathing hard as you blink your vision back, looking down at him as he looks up at you from his place between your legs and rubs the top of your thigh.

“I wasn’t ready,” you pant, lips flashing into a tired smile that doesn’t hold a candle to his own livelier one.

“Took it like a champ.”

If you weren’t already so warm his sarcastic comment would inspire more heat in the apples of your cheeks.

“Dr. Spencer Reid using sports idioms?” You smile as he climbs back up your body.

“It’s unreasonably sexy that you said idiom and not simile.” He kisses you, grin mirroring yours, and you don’t complain about the slick still on his lips. “And look at that. Not afraid to kiss me when I taste like you anymore.”

“I remember what you said,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, glowing amber pools in the low light. The words echo in your head from the first time he’d gone down on you and you’d been hesitant to taste yourself.

One day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.

“So do I,” he points out needlessly. “Eerily prophetic, hm?”

“I think you just like going down on me,” you laugh.

Without the light on, his smile is just as brilliant as usual.

“You might be right about that.”

Another interlude of quiet begins, but you don’t mind it. Taking this slow, as desperate as you’ve been for it, feels nice. Easy. Waves of burning need ebb and flow, but for now, it feels nice to be bathed in his candlelight gaze, know you’re loved, and nothing else.

“What next?” You whisper after a long moment, lifting your hand to trace the line of his jaw. He leans into it slightly, lips brushing your palm.

“That’s up to you, angel. What’s going to make you feel most comfortable?”

Your bottom lip rolls between your teeth as you think and he tracks the movement, corner of his mouth twitching fondly.

“It might help if you weren’t fully clothed.”

“I think we could probably do something about that.”

He pecks the tip of your nose playfully and then he’s pushing off the bed. Your brow wrinkles as you follow suit only partially, sitting up with your legs folded under you and pulling the sheets over your body to combat the chill and the vulnerability of being completely naked.

“Oh, my god. You had your shoes on that whole time?”

“I got distracted,” Spencer defends, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to slip the loafers off.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, watching the adorable way he pushes his hair out of his face as he rushes. He’s so clearly excited—it shows in the flush of his cheek and his even worse than usual coordination.

“But on my bed?”

“I’m sorry,” he says without seeming very apologetic, leaning down to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressing his lips to yours. “I’ll pay to have your comforter dry cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one. I don’t care.”

“How chivalrous.”

“I am,” he insists against your lips, shaped by what is surely a boyish smirk.

Unsurprisingly, you get lost in the kiss, dropping the sheet to hang onto his shoulders. Spencer takes advantage of the once-more revealed skin, rubbing your thigh with slow passes in a way that has you all lit up again already. It doesn’t help that his tie is skimming right over the recess between your folded thighs as he leans over your seated form, kissing you deeper as the moments pass.

“You’re distracting me now,” you scold, but your voice is quiet and smiley as your noses brush.

“Do you want to help me with my clothes?”

You nod, heart hatching like a cocoon and already slipping a finger into the knot of his tie so you can tug perhaps not gently enough. He chuckles, bracing himself with his fists on either side of your lap as you pull and yank until the fabric comes loose and you slip it from around his neck, flinging it blindly for dramatic effect. Then he slowly draws back to his full height, until you’re about eye-level with his chest. His gaze fixes on you, feverish and intent as he finds the buckle of his belt without looking. The slide of leather on leather, the jingle of the metal has the hairs on the back of your neck rising and you fight a chill as he pins you with his stare—feeling rather powerless as he towers over you, still essentially fully clothed while you’re completely naked.

You probably shouldn’t be as thrilled by it as you are.

Spencer tosses the belt on the floor and watches on, utterly charmed as you rise to your knees. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, careful fingers.

“See?” You murmur bashfully. “Helping.”

His voice is equally as soft.

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

The tension in the quiet room gets to be too much and you have to focus hard on the task at hand, failing to bite back a twisty smile. For once, he keeps his stupid perfect mouth shut and lets you push the fabric of his open shirt from his shoulders in humid silence.

Your fingers skate down his torso and you watch the muscles tense. You wonder if he notices the way he pulls you slightly closer or if it’s subconscious as you both track the path of your hands.

“Your button is on the wrong side,” you note, voice wavering slightly, once your fingers stall at the waistband of his pants.

Spencer chuckles. You feel silly.

“Men and women’s clothing tend to have the buttons on different sides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, before the words come pouring out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m still a little bit nervous, I think.”

“That’s okay,” Spencer assures you, hands gliding up and down the soft lines of your waist. “It’s okay that you’re nervous. But I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”

You nod, not looking away from the exposed skin of his torso.

“And if at any point you need to take a break or stop, you’ll tell me.”

“I will, but… I don’t need to stop right now.”

“Then you can go as slow as you want.”

You swallow and take a moment to gather yourself before continuing on undoing his pants. With his assistance, you pull them down, and with them his boxers tug an inch or two lower, exposing a subtle v-shape before it disappears beneath the waistband. The fabric is obviously tented. A ball of nervous anticipation spins faster in your stomach, drawing all the heat in your body down between your legs. He’s pretty everywhere. You’d nearly forgotten.

Spencer’s stomach tenses under your light touch as you drag your fingers down, down, just to the waistband. It’s then that you look up at him for permission to continue, and find his eyes already on you, heated and intense.

“Go ahead, honey.”

Again you find yourself quite excited to touch him, but you start cautiously, simply letting your hand fall over the shape of him through the fabric. Even that has his chest rising and falling at a slightly quickened rate, and one of his hands finds your unoccupied one, twining them together. That small gesture inspires you to bolden your explorations, becoming more insistent in the way you palm at him. He feels big, which is a concern of yours. But you try not to let that intimidate you.

Already he’s quite hard, you suspect from going down on you earlier (which is flattering as much as it embarrasses you) and your fingers graze a small wet patch of fabric. You fixate on the shaky little breath he releases as you push down his boxers with new fervor, and his cock springs up.

He’s still perfect.

You smear beads of precum down his tip, and he sighs, letting his head fall against yours as you both watch. A few coquettish pumps and he’s humming, kissing your face and dragging his lips down your neck where he makes a home for himself. Apparently the sight of your hand wrapped around him had been too much to bear.

“So good. Missed this.”

“It’s just my hand,” you whisper, a little insecure that he’s maybe playing it up for your benefit.

“It’s you.”

His voice is so breathy, you sort of have to believe him.

“Can I…?”

Too nervous to voice what you really mean, you trail off, but it apparently doesn’t matter to Spencer. He lifts his head like he’s in a stupor but you’ve said something urgent.

“Anything you want. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay. Um…”

You let go of his hand (and his dick). Spencer automatically rotates to accommodate you as you end up on your knees on the wooden floor in front of him.

“This is what you want?” He breathes, already pushing his fingers through your hair and gathering it back as you look up at him and nod.

Very quickly you have him back in your hand, trying to remember what you learned from the few times you’ve done this. You start perhaps a bit softer, less eager to prove yourself than you have in the past—simply dragging him over your tongue before enveloping his tip in your mouth, and releasing with a pop. Despite being overtly, explicitly, and undeniably sexual, there’s something almost chaste about the way you handle him. It’s a (dirty) expression of love, and you think he understands that as he rubs at your cheek affectionately.

Eventually, however, you get too excited, and you take him into your mouth in earnest, bobbing your head slowly and seeing how much of him you can take without gagging.

Spencer makes the prettiest noises—they’re breathy, and not ostentatious, but he’s got such a nice speaking voice it’s like his gasps are bars in a song. You whine around him, wriggling your hips in a rather pathetic display, and then all too quickly he’s tugging your hair so you can’t keep him in your mouth.

“What?” You ask, closer to pouting than you’d care to admit and voice slightly hoarse. “You said I could do anything I want.”

“Not if you’re that good at it. Come here.”

He helps you up and catches you in a deep, messy kiss before you’ve fully regained your footing, swaying against him, but he holds you fast, pulling away slow like strings of honey trail between your mouths.

Spencer’s eyes are fixed on yours, lips parted in a sort of wonder before he glances down to your own mouth, wiping the shine from your bottom lip. Any moment you’re expecting him to say something, to tell you you’re beautiful or perfect or that he’s in love with you—but instead he just meets your eyes again, that same wonder-struck look on his pretty face. A tiny, breathy laugh forces itself from his chest like you’re a genuine miracle.

You feel so observed—seen in a way you’ve never been seen, looked at closer than anyone has ever looked at you before. And he still looks at you like you’re the human embodiment of love, the closest mortal manifestation of the divine, Galatea come down from her marble pedestal. The way he looks at you has your heart pounding and your breathing hastened. Adoration has never been something so physical, so tangible, ever before in your life. Your blood hums at the frequency of his electromagnetic field—an energetic aura that surrounds each person and can be detected from several feet away, as he’d explained it to you. It originates from the heart and if you spend enough time close to someone, syncs up the beating of your most vital organ with theirs until it’s a perfect match. Maybe that’s why, almost as quickly as your heart had begun to pound, it slows again, and you feel any reservation flush from your body like a fever.

“Okay,” you breathe, cataloguing every angle and curve of his face to store with all the rest, all the moments that feel important. Of course, you’ll never remember them like he does yours. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest.

“Okay?” Spencer asks. He understands the confirmation for what it is, and searches for signs of hesitation on your face while rubbing reassuring circles into your hip. You nod resolutely.

As he lays you down on your bed, it feels like you’re entering some kind of altered state. Everything is muted and glowing with a watercolor aura in the dark and you really only care about the man on top of you and the way moonlight dances on his skin and the way he smells like smoky amber and rain. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed under you, before sweeping your hair from beneath your shoulders into a corona around your head. All the while his eyes are so soft on you, just like his hands, and his lips when he leans down to touch them to yours.

One of said hands finds its way to your jaw, trailing down over your neck and collarbone, before settling over your breast where he swipes a thumb over your nipple, lightly, slowly, several times.

Once again you’re struck with the odd feeling, even with his hand on you like this, that the situation isn’t sexual in the way you’d anticipated. It’s not pornographic, or even very dirty. Everything Spencer does, even as his hand sneaks down between your legs, he does because he loves you.

“One more like this,” he mutters against your jaw after a moment.

“Why?”

Your impatience yields a smile you can only feel against your skin.

“Just want you relaxed and feeling good. That’s all.”

When you assent, his fingers are already slowly pushing inside you.

It seems you’ve entered some sort of time warp as well, because you reach a gentle peak in what feels like record time, aided by his easy murmurings and saccharine praise.

“Perfect. That was perfect,” Spencer says with a kiss to your shoulder as he slides his fingers from you and you feel yourself literally dripping onto the sheets. “Can I ask you something before we get carried away?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sweet and compliant as pleasure dulls your inhibitions for the second time tonight and your head lolls into the pillows.

“Baby,” he croons, voice soft as worn paper as your lids flutter and lashes brush febrile cheeks, thumbing over the heated skin. “Need you a little more alert, sweet girl.”

“’M trying,” you whine, though it’s half self-effacing laugh. Spencer chuckles too as you shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to reinvigorate yourself. “Okay. Go.”

“Well… we don’t have any protection.” Before you can groan, loudly, he hurries on. “And that’s… I’m okay with that, if it’s what you still want. I trust you. But there will come… a moment of reckoning. And I need to know where I should… reckon. So you don’t end up surprised.”

Now you’re really laughing—a giggly mess beneath him as your arms loop over his shoulders.

“Stop it,” he whines, pressing his nose to your cheek as you turn your head in an effort to not snort at your boyfriend to his face. “That was for your benefit, you know. You get squeamish.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you refer to it as reckoning.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase. When I come, you essentially have two options. Inside, or on your stomach. Tell me where you want it.”

Your breath catches and your stomach does that tripping-over-itself thing again.

“Um…”

Another fond half laugh, at your expense, is pressed against your skin. It’s enough to prompt you into answering—he doesn’t have to say anything to make his point about your being squeamish.

“Inside,” you mutter, shy as you attempt to bring him closer so he won’t be able to look at you quite so closely. You wonder if he’s remembering the conversation you’d had over the phone last week—before he’d accidentally kind of broken up with you—about this very subject. You certainly are.

“Okay. I want you to have everything that you want.” A few kisses to your neck later, between nips, he speaks again. “Just need to hear that you want this one more time.”

“I want this,” you repeat, obedient and honest, plain and simple. “Now, please.”

Spencer responds by first kissing you, firm and loving. It soothes you, and he punctuates it with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s reaching down and guiding himself between your legs. You feel surprisingly calm, more overcome with love and the light pleasure rolling down your back as he drags himself over your clit than you are by nerves. Still, you pointedly hold his gaze, not looking down in case you psych yourself out. He slots himself in place, tip resting against your entrance.

“Remember, if you need to stop at any point—”

“I remember,” you cut him off hurriedly.

Okay. So perhaps you’re still slightly nervous.

He watches you, sympathetic though you’re not sure what for.

“I need you as relaxed as possible, okay? I want this to be easy on you.”

You take a moment, scanning your whole body for tense muscles. When you feel sufficiently relaxed, you offer Spencer a small nod, and at that, he begins pushing into you ever so slightly.

At first, it just feels foreign. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, you’re not sure he’s moving at all—until he finds resistance and the odd full feeling changes to a hint of burning stretch. Your hips jump and your breath catches, and Spencer stops immediately, relieving the pressure with a tiny shift in position.

“It’s gonna hurt,” you realize, eyes darting between his like he might be able to tell you otherwise. You’d always been aware of the possibility, but you were holding out hope that you’d be one of those people who didn’t experience any pain their first time.

“Just for a minute. Then it’ll feel good, angel.”

You swallow and nod. At the end of the day, you trust him completely. You trust him enough to let him hurt you.

“Super deep breaths for me.”

He watches intently as you follow his directions, taking several deep breaths in succession, before he begins pushing into you once more. The pressure builds and builds until he pushes past that point of resistance, and it’s like he’s breaking you in two.

“Ah,” you gasp, abs twisting as your body tries to escape the sensation without any input from you.

“I know. I know, baby, that was the hardest part. Breathe.”

He drops his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles with light pressure to distract from the pain.

You nod, lips pressed together tight as the deep ache muddles your brain. It’s an insistent pressure against something does not seem to want to budge. It burns and stretches and is laced with sour, flirtatious pleasure so that you can hardly tell what it is you’re feeling. Mostly, you’re dizzy and hot.

“Relax, just like that,” he strains, looking down. “My good girl. We’re almost there, baby.”

Cries spill unbidden from your mouth and your eyes shut as he continues to open you up deeper, until finally, finally, his hips settle into the cradle of yours.

Spencer sighs a curse under his breath, so quiet you don’t think it was meant for you.

He’s inside of you. It’s bizarre.

You whimper, and he snaps out of whatever revery he’d been in.

“You okay? How does that feel?”

You take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes and trying to clear your head to no avail—your thoughts are like TV static.

“I’m good. I need… I need a minute.”

“You can have as much time as you need. It’s a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, voice small and weak.

“I bet,” he agrees, peppering soft kisses all over your face. “But you’re doing so well. Proud of you, brave girl. You’re doing so well and we’re gonna make sure it feels good soon, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

“Will you please kiss me again?” you whisper, and Spencer’s brow knits with concern.

“Of course, angel. Of course I’ll kiss you,” he says, and makes good on his promise with his lips on yours. It sweetens the ache. “I’ll do whatever you want. You can have anything. You’re so perfect.”

He kisses you again, just as lovingly, and soft, like you’re delicate. All the praise is only contributing to your lightheadedness, but you don’t mind at all. It feels good.

“You can… you can move.”

“Okay. We’ll go really slow, yeah?”

He waits for your nod before his hips are pulling back and you arch at the odd sensation. When he pushes back in, eyes carefully locked on yours the whole time, you keen slightly, frowning and brain shorting out as it tries and fails to process this new feeling.

“Uh-huh. You’re okay, I promise.”

At first it doesn’t feel good. It mostly hurts. But slowly, the pain begins to abate as you acclimate to having him inside of you, and he’s careful the whole time.

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

He sounds concentrated on the task at hand—you’re entranced by the sight of him above you, the parted lips, the unkempt hair over the brow furrowed in pleasure and focus. But he’s never too busy for you.

“Does it… um—” you pause to hold back a whine—“what does it feel like for you?”

At this, he slows even further and chuckles—it’s a strained, slightly breathy sound.

“For me?”

“Mhm.”

“You feel perfect, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

The slight fry in Spencer’s voice as he curses, which is a rare event in and of itself, flips your stomach, turns you on immensely. The idea that you’re giving him pleasure too—it’s almost overwhelming. That’s when it starts feeling good.

“Oh—” you squeak, jaw dropping and bucking your hips inadvertently as the first bolt of true pleasure shocks deep in your core. He hums.

“Yeah, is that it, sweet girl?”

But you can’t answer for a long moment. Your brain is melting as your legs lock around him.

“Mm—it’s—it feels…”

“I know it does,” Spencer murmurs.

You whine and press your face into the curve of his shoulder as each thrust gently rocks your body. As the pace picks up bit by bit, you feel yourself clenching hard around him. His hips stutter and he hisses.

“Ah. Can’t do that, lovely.”

“What? Did I hurt you?”

He laughs breathily.

“No, you didn’t hurt me. You almost pushed me out. You have to relax.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “’M trying.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I know you’re trying, baby, you’re being so good for me.”

Your nails skim his back—a small expression of a much larger desperation. Once he’s sure you’re relaxed around him, begins going faster.

Your gasps and soft moans come more often now as he finds a steady rhythm and it feels so different when he’s actually fucking you. It feels like he’s everywhere. Every time your hips meet you feel the sweet shock of it in your teeth, your toes, the back of your neck. In the best way, you feel consumed by him. It’s not at all like you’d imagined, and it’s perfect.

“Wait, Spencer,” you breathe, struggling to form the words. Immediately he stops again, lifting his head from your shoulder to examine your face.

“What is it?”

He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, panting and strained and it feels good to hear.

“I wanna watch.”

For a moment his eyes dart between yours like he’s trying to determine what you really mean—but you said exactly what you meant. Then he laughs, a huff of air from his nose as he presses his head to yours and gives you a quick kiss.

Your toes curl as he readjusts his position, holding himself a little higher and resting your heads together so you can both look between your bodies.

“There,” he murmurs as he slowly begins to withdraw again. “Like that?”

But you can’t answer, because you’re too busy whimpering at the sight of him pushing into you. The feeling seems to increase tenfold as you watch it happen. Distantly you wonder how the fuck it fits.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Like that.”

Spencer takes this as a blessing to find a pace again, slower now as he seems to be just as enthralled by the sight as you are.

“Give me your leg,” he rasps after a few moments like that, and you don’t know what he means exactly but you lift your right leg slightly only for him to press his hand to the back of your knee and push toward your chest, effectively opening you up and giving him more range of motion. It also enables him to fuck you even deeper. Again he slows, apparently savoring the feel of you yielding around him all the way down to the hilt.

Black spots dance in your eyes as he settles at your deepest point—not pain, necessarily, just overwhelming sensation. Your jaw drops and you choke out a moan as he presses into recesses you didn’t know you had, as he shows you a part that you might have gone the rest of your life without knowing existed. He stops there, like that. Everything stops there, like that. If the cars on the road below ceased to drive, if the airplanes froze in the sky, you’d not be the least bit surprised. Somehow, you’ve unlocked a small eternity. There’s no sound but your joint heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. The words just come bubbling up out of you in a little whine.

“I love you.”

Spencer’s breath pauses for a moment before he’s letting it all out at once, brushing his lips up the ridge of your nose before they settle on your forehead in what seems like a permanent kiss. A few breaths in, you allow your eyes to flutter shut. Your heart rate slows down a touch, and you settle into the moment, never having been quite so content as you are like this—never having felt quite so adored and safe.

“I love you,” he finally echoes, voice rasping, lips still pressed to your skin, still breathing against your hair. When he starts to move again, drawing back ever so slowly, you hiss softly. He raises his head from yours, and you look away from where he’s pulling out, meeting his eyes just in time for him to push back in, just as deep. They shine in the mostly-dark room and you moan unabashedly. It’s a high-pitched, sweet thing, nothing that will have the neighbors complaining—but so clearly true, from the depths of your soul, an expression of everything you’re feeling—not just the pleasure.

Although that’s good, too, as Spencer shapes you to him again and again, the head of his cock kissing places nobody’s ever been and places you hope nobody else will ever venture to. This is all you need. Him.

“Jesus,” Spencer groans, eyes fixed on your face as he fucks you slowly. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, too new to this kind of pleasure to find it anything other than mind-boggling and world altering. Your lips are still parted, allowing each sound to pass without filter. “Listen to you, beautiful.”

When he stops again, just to look down and marvel at you, you’re conflicted. On the one hand, you can taste the pleasure on the back of your tongue and he keeps taking it away when it’s so close. But on the other—you’re just as overwhelmed as he said you’d be. Your body has never had to process this kind of sensory information before, and you’re exhausted, but it’s so good.

“Spencer,” you manage. He looks up, pupils blown and eyes lidded where they’d normally be wide. “Please don’t stop.”

He swallows, spurred into action again as soon as you say it.

“Good?”

You nod and whine again as he picks up the pace bit by bit, remembering to push your leg back once more so he can get as deep as you need him.

“So good,” you exhale at the top pitch of your voice. Your brows pinch and you release a fuller moan as Spencer finds a speed that’s fast enough to constantly feel good no matter where he is. You’re gasping for breath, back arching—and he finds a new angle, catching against the spot inside you that renders all those years of human evolution that gave you sentience and intelligence a waste. He chuckles airily at your series of series of affronted moans and halted gasps.

“Right there? That's a good spot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, go—fuck, fuck!”

It feels so good it almost hurts, and your eyes are stinging to prove it. Your legs clamp tighter around him and you realize there’s a very lewd wet sound and you can’t believe that’s you.

“Spencer, you’re—oh my god, I love you,” you whine, and it sounds like you’re pleading for your life. At this makes his own sound of pleasure, and hastens his messy circles on your clit as if in reward.

But it’s too much all combined.

Your hand claps to your mouth to obscure the loud, licentious moan that comes out—but Spencer immediately moves his hand from between your legs to grab your wrist and pin it gently to the bed, intertwining your fingers.

“Don’t do that. Let me hear.”

You nod, and he lets go of your hand to return his fingers to your clit. If possible you get wetter around his cock—you can feel yourself gushing.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine as if pained.

“Yeah? Gonna finally let me feel you cumming, angel?”

He has a filthy mouth when he wants to. The words hit like high voltage to your core and the very pit of your stomach. You can’t even respond beyond a desperate sob.

“Show me, baby. I’m right here. Let go.”

You cum around his cock with a broken cry and it’s like a purge of every drop of angst you’d felt over the past week or so—hell, it’s a purge of all the insecurities that had bubbled to the surface since you started dating him. None of it matters anymore. How could it matter when you have him? When you have this?

The orgasm washes you out like a tidal wave, taking everything with it. It’s strong, and it’s so good, so intense, your body is overwrought with sensation and it’s too much even though it’s perfect. Your brain is drawing a blank as it tries to react to the feeling, and it’s like every button on the damn panel has been hit.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Spencer grits, and you feel it in the way he adjusts his position, shifting as he grips at the edge of the mattress for leverage and the thrusts become messier, needier. You gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair, turning your head to ghost your lips over his forearm. It’s not entirely surprising when his own lips find your shoulder—but the feeling of him finding his release just as his teeth sink into your skin does come as quite a shock. It doesn’t hurt, and you’re sure there’s no skin broken, but it’s an undeniable fact that he has grounded himself in the throes of passion by biting down on you.

Inside you, he feels hot. Searing, almost, as his spend tries to fill space that doesn’t exist. There is absolutely no room for anything else inside of you. Stars dance in your eyes at the overstimulation, but long after he’s finished he’s still fucking into you—albeit much slower and with far less technique. Spencer moans like a two bit whore, like he’s reached pain to a point of ecstasy, and to you it’s as good, as special as the singing of the planets. If he’s as sensitive as you are now, it’s no small feat for him to keep going on like this. It’s a testament to how much he doesn’t want it to be over. The pleasure is carrying him away, but you’re beginning to feel how soft you must be and how if he continues on like this you may bruise like an overripe peach.

“Spencer,” you manage, skating your hand up and down his back in what you hope are soothing lines. “Baby.”

He whines as his lips detach from your shoulder, but his hips finally slow to a stop, nestled inside you.

“Jesus, fuck, I'm sorry,” he breathes, opting now to bury his face in your neck (with significantly less biting this time).

You’re still reeling, toes still curled, still struggling to breathe as your head spins and spins and spins. His chest pushes against yours with every heaving breath, hot and heavy on your skin, and that’s the only sign he’s still alive until his hand eventually reanimates in your hair, scratching your head tenderly.

For a span of minutes, you stay like that—silent, twined together like caducean serpents. His weight on top of you is perfect. This, the lack of differentiation between your body and his, is perfect. You don’t know where he ends and you begin and you don’t need to. It’s a blissful moment.

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, lifting his head to look at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair and sparkly eyes.

“Hi.”

He smiles.

“You’re so pretty.”

“You too,” you murmur, moving your hand from his back and pressing your thumb into the hollow of his cheek. His eyes map the curves of your face as he pushes your surely askew hair back.

“How do you feel?”

It takes you a moment to seriously consider his question, scanning your body for any undue pains, but for the moment, you find none, beyond a dull aching throb that you can manage.

“Good. Tired.”

You wince at the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. Spencer hums sympathetically and presses a sticky kiss to your lips which makes it a little better, though you can’t ignore how uncomfortable all the previously pleasant wetness has become between your legs.

“Here—stay here, I’ll get a wash cloth and—”

“It’s fine,” you insist, holding on even as he tries to roll off of you. “I just need… will you stay here for a little bit?”

“Of course,” he promises, now pressed close to your side and propped up on an elbow, “whatever you want.”

You lavish in his gaze, warm like a spotlight, as he strokes your cheek and plays with your hair. Very quickly you’re lulled into a doze, eyes fluttering shut. Minutes stretch. You feel drunk on waking dreams, and perfectly at peace. Safe.

“Angel girl,” he christens you fondly. More than anything, it’s an observation, so lovely it sinks into your skin like a balm, soothing every tired muscle and little mark he’d made. Even half-asleep, it makes you smile.

“You’re an angel,” you slur, reaching blindly for him, and he chuckles, catching your wrist and helpfully settling your hand on his cheek.

“I thought you were asleep.”

You hum, “mm-mm,” looking up at him with just as much adoration as he has for you. Those cuddle hormones must be kicking in because soon you’re attempting to pull him back on top of you. He doesn’t quite comply, probably for fear of crushing you—rather he settles next to you, gathering you in his arms.

Silence blankets the two of you, but it’s not unpleasant as you just watch each other with barely-there smiles curling your mouths. This kind of intimacy still manages to give you butterflies, even after everything else you’ve done. This kind of satisfaction, reverie in the sound of each other’s blood flowing and lungs filling. Setting aside words because you don’t need conversation as a pretense for wanting to be around each other anymore. You don’t need an excuse to look at him like this. You don’t need words any more than you need clothes. It’s enough to just be.

“I love you,” he says, a soft reminder, and entirely redundant with the way he’d already been looking at you, touching you.

“I know. I love you too.”

The smile flickers brighter on his face.

“And thank you.”

Your eyes narrow minutely as you consider what he could possibly be thanking you for.

“For what?”

“For loving me. And trusting me. It’s…” your heart squeezes as you realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. He takes a moment and clears his throat. It’s incredibly endearing. “It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

You look down, thumbing at the sheets where you’ve hoisted them over your bodies.

“You do realize how lame we are if we have sex and both immediately start crying, right?”

At this he laughs loudly but not loud enough to pop the little bubble you’re in, and you look up just in time to catch the brilliance of his smile, the way it changes his whole face and he becomes superhuman in his beauty, the lines that form by his eyes and the way they narrow and crystalline tears bead his lashes like precious gems.

“Don’t cry,” he requests gently, hypocritically as your own eyes sting. The way his smile fades is like the sun setting. Gorgeous, like everything else he does. “You’ve cried so much, honey. Please don’t cry.”

You sniffle, gathering yourself.

“I’m not. That would be pathetic.”

Spender leans forward to kiss you tenderly a few more times. Ordinarily you’d worry about coming across as clingy when you hold onto him so closely and so insistently like this, but for now you don’t care. Neither does he, it seems, as he seems unable to get you close enough. Eventually, you end up curled against him, head tucked under his chin and dozing on and off as he traces shapes into your skin.

“What are you writing?” You mumble some time later, cheek smushed against his shoulder. He only responds with a soft hm, like he was lost deep in thought. You clarify, “it feels like you were writing something.”

“She Walks in Beauty.”

Your lips pull into a sleepy smile.

“The Lord Byron poem?”

The first time you’d met Spencer, he’d inadvertently caused your painstakingly annotated copy of Lord Byron’s works to go flying all over a cafe, and then kindly helped clean up the pages and reorder them for you in record time. Among the poems had been She Walks in Beauty.

“Yeah. I was trying to figure out when exactly I fell in love with you, and as someone who is deeply skeptical about love at first sight, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I keep coming back to our first conversation. I mean, I believe in genetic compatibility, and how that contributes to attraction and what we think of as chemistry, but—”

“Wait, what about our first conversation did it?” Your cheeks ache from smiling as you speak. “As I recall I was being a bitch and I was covered in coffee.”

He laughs dreamily, still tracing letters over the small of your back. You wonder what part of the poem he’s at now.

“Yeah, mean to me and covered in coffee is pretty much exactly my type. But I think it was actually the annotations on that copy of Lord Byron’s works. They were so insightful, and personal, I—it kind of took my breath away, and I know I shouldn’t have read them all but I couldn’t stop. You were compelling, and charming, and funny and wildly intelligent and beautiful and… and I didn’t stand a chance.”

Everything aches. It’s a good ache. Despite being seconds from tearing up all over again, you snort. He never told you about that first day.

“You thought me writing ‘sister fucker’ in all caps every time he mentioned Augusta was charming?”

“Oh, obscenely so. But now that I’m looking back, I feel like… I feel like I can’t remember not being in love with you. I mean, I remember when I realized I was, and that was later. But it was like I met you, and then I was just… waiting for you to catch up.”

You grab his hand and interlace your fingers, watching the way the ambient nighttime light from the window and the bathroom dips them half in color.

“We were pretty much on the same page. I was debating courthouse versus small intimate ceremony as soon as you left.”

You watch him watching your joined hands, features soft and relaxed, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as he speaks.

“Definitely small intimate ceremony. I have too many friends who would kill me if they weren’t invited to the wedding.”

You giggle and pretend the thought doesn’t give you butterflies. You imagine a ring on your finger, the one he’s got between his own. Marriage had never been something you’d considered. Not when you had no reason to. It seemed like something for other people. But maybe one day, it will be for you, too.

“Did you know Lord Byron had a daughter who is regarded by many as the first computer programmer? She wrote the first algorithm for a theoretical machine that was so complex it couldn’t be built with the technology available at the time. It was called an Analytical Engine.”

He sounds almost wistful as he gives you the utterly unprompted, but still welcome, abridged version of her life. The description is ringing a bell—but you can’t quite place her, sleepy as you are.

“What was her name?”

“Ada Lovelace. She was exceptionally gifted. The odds of parent and child being so extraordinary in their respective fields are incalculable, but from a purely theoretical perspective, negligible. I mean, they’re both massive historical figureheads. That’s extremely uncommon.”

You adore it when he goes off on these tangents—the passion that stains his voice, the ardor that grips him until he has no choice but to tell you exactly what’s got him so excited. You could listen to him talk for hours. It means he’s here with you, and he wants you to love what he loves.

Since he met you, that’s all Spencer has wanted—for you to love what he loves.

You want the same.

“Pretty name,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.”

part eight

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic

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emilicious0 · 10 months ago

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lucifer x f!reader who's like a mother figure to charlie

(pls tell me if you want me to write more of this or more for this man)

□ you died in 1920 after avenging your son's murder and then taking your own life

□ you stumbled across the hotel by accident and decided to step inside out of pure curiosity. you heard that this hotel "rehabilitated sinners" but never really thought of going in because all the hope you had was lost a long time ago

□ at that time, only charlie and vaggie were there, and they were very welcoming

□ despite you being a powerful sinner with the ability to control minds, you avoided using it due to your personal beliefs, which is why you never became an overlord even though you could have

□ you never felt like hell was your place to stay, feeling alone with no one to trust or call a friend

□ when you met charlie and heard her ideas, you started to believe in a much brighter future and even hoped to rehabilitate yourself

□ over time, you and charlie grew closer, and as a former mother, you began to think of her as your daughter.

□ charlie also started to see you as a mother figure, though she still loved lilith

□ you became a mother figure to the whole crew, earning respect even from alastor to some extent, angel dust really missed a parent-like figure in his life

□ when Charlie invited her father over, you were a bit worried about whether he would notice your mother-daughter relationship with charlie and how he might react, given that she still had a mother

◇◇◇

□ after lucifer excitedly greeted his daughter, he noticed you immediately (after the strange red deer demon he didn't like but still).

□ you had a strong yet soft aura, with a beautifu smile on your face (which was rather nervous, but he didn't notice cause he is smitten)

□ everything about you made him feel butterflies in his stomach again, and the strange tingly feeling started to creep up in his chest

□ after charlie's introduction, you held out your hand: "it's an honor to meet you, sir."

□ lucifer began stumbling over his words, his face red all of a sudden "o-oh, yeah! ha-ha! thank you, beautiful! I mean, not beautiful! wait, no, ha-ha, you are beautiful, but that is not what I meant, ha-ha."

□ you smiled, noticing the resemblance between him and charlie and how genuienly sweet the ruler of hell seems

□ meanwhile lucifer is facepalming himself trying to figure out what to do with his new found crush

(gif not mine)

#hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer morningstar x reader

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propertyofwicked · 8 months ago

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YOU OWE ME - LN

warnings: none, just fluff (inspired by that one CL stream). this is so short pls forgive me

(also, anyone else seen the pics of lando in aus? FERAL for that man.)

“tier 1 sub - max can you tell lando to get off his computer and let me in the flat please im freezing” max reads out, bursting into laughter, “youre in trouble mate.”

max hears a travelling shout of swearing, getting quieter as lando’s headset is thrown to the desk and his entire body hurtling towards the front door.

“shit shit shit shit,” lando shouts, his fingers struggling with the keys left on the inside of the door. finally he manages to unlock the door and pull it open to see his girlfriend, rosy cheeked and a less than impressed expression.

“lando, how many times have i said to take the keys out of the door if you lock it and im not home - especially if youre not going to answer your phone.”

“im sorry baby, im sorry i know - i forgot,” he mumbles, his hands taking yours and bringing them to his face. he flinches slightly at the sheer coldness of your fingers, “do you want a drink? hot chocolate? tea? coffee? it’ll warm you up”

“i’d love a cup of tea,” you smile sadly, shrugging your horribly thin jacket off. honestly, with the typical english winter, your jacket was almost useless in combatting the cold winds anyways. you move to follow lando into the kitchen, watching him fill the kettle and move to grab a mug from the cupboard.

“come here,” you say, opening your arms slightly for lando to move into. he moves to you instantly.

“you’re not angry at me?”

“no, i am. youre just warm” you say, looking up to smile at him. his hands fall to your waist, gripping your hips and hoisting you up to sit on the counter, but he doesn’t move back into your embrace. instead, his arms move to take his hoodie off himself, and pull it over your head.

“better?”

“slightly,” you're still smiling at him as you adjust the hoodie - lando can tell you're not angry at him, just slightly irritated.

“the heating’s on, my office is warm - you wanna go sit in there whilst i finish your tea, angel?” he asks, his hand stroking your cheek, “max is on call if you wanna talk to him for a bit? he’s streaming but you already know that,” he grins, his tongue sticking into the side of his cheek.

“i think max’s chat deserve to know how bad of a boyfriend you are,” you joke, hoisting yourself off the counter, ready to march on in and complain to the stream. lando’s hand catches your arm, spinning you back into his chest. his hand comes back to your cheek, and tilts your head back.

“im sorry baby, you know i am,” he frowns slightly - you reassure him that he is forgiven by pressing a small kiss to his lips. once again you go to move, but he pulls you back in, kissing you again - repeatedly pecking kisses all over your face and eventually your lips. his tongue swipes your bottom lip, begging for more. you pull your head back slightly, desperate to go and rat him out to max but his teeth nip down on your bottom lip again to prolong the connection.

“i don’t think so, lan,” you giggle, smiling up at him again. lando groans and swears you almost skip your way to his office, excited to tell max as he prepares for a night of grovelling.

“max. you’ll never believe this man,” you sigh, after popping lando’s headset on your own head.

“y/n! how are you?”

“freezing, max. and £10 poorer now i’ve had to sub to your twitch to be let into my own flat.”

“oh yeah, thanks for the sub,” max laughs out, looking at the chat, “it’s ok, chat reckon you should invoice lando for the inconvenience.”

“i think i might have to you know, although he’s making me a cup of tea right now and i might be able to pout my way into a takeaway tonight.”

“y/n that man is so whipped i don’t think you need to pout your way into him doing anything for you,” he responds, his emphasis on anything making you grin slightly.

minutes later, lando comes into the room, using his foot to kick the door open in front of him, his hands full with your mug and your lip balm. hang on, lip balm?

“here you go baby,” he says, placing the mug down on the coaster on his desk, “i put honey in it for your throat, and i brought your lip balm ‘cos your lips are dry,” he grins as he hands you the lip balm.

“my lips wouldn’t be dry if you’d answered the phone the first time i rang you,” you say, the eye roll evident in your voice, even to max who couldn’t see your face.

“hang on, y/n, how does he know your lips are dry?” max interrupts, his laugh travelling through the headset.

“because max, when two people love each other very muc-”

“ew stop it,” lando interjects, as he sets up a second set of headphones to join in the chat.

“he’s trying to regain my love with physical affection.”

“i can tell from your tone that it’s not working.”

“well, after that ‘ew’ i think i may have to revoke all physical affection.”

“you wouldn’t,” lando gasps, his hands dramatically clutching his chest.

“order dominoes and ill reconsider. you owe me.”

“yeah lando, and send her £10 to cover the cost of the twitch sub,” max shouts, siding with you, “chat also think you should, as a courtesy.”

you don’t say anything, but turn to look at him, puppy dog eyes and a pout to complete the look.

“fine! fine,” he laughs again, holding his hands up in surrender, “i was going to offer anyways.”

“sure you were,” you and max manage to say simultaneously.

an hour later, your food had arrived and your saying goodbye to max and his chat, as lando goes to the door. however, by the time you shuffle into the living room, lando has began setting up netflix, sat next to a mound of blankets he’d brought in from your bedroom.

“hey you, come ‘ere,” he says, leaning his back against the arm of the sofa and tapping the space between his legs. once you were settled, your back resting on his chest, he leans to grab the pizza box on the coffee table in front of you - it went down quickly.

“funny how hungry you get when you’re left shivering in the freezing cold for hours," you think out loud.

“it wasn’t hours and i didn’t do it on purpose y/n,” lando whines, scoffing slightly at the time embellishment, absentmindedly playing with your fingers as he did.

“i know baby, i’m sorry. you’re forgiven,” you start to feel bad for him. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, before manoeuvring you both further down the sofa until he’s laying completely flat, and you roll over so that your head can lay on his chest. the two of you lay in silence for a few moments, the tv still playing quietly in the background, and you feel his chest moving with every breath.

lando's hands wander underneath his your hoodie, and begin to trace small shapes on your skin, making you shiver slightly. then, a thought hits you.

“someone needs to make a compilation of F1 drivers accidentally locking their girlfriends out because they’re streaming,” he laughs as you say it, your whole body shaking from the shuddering of his laughing, "it seems to happen more than you'd think."

“hey! i wasn’t streaming - max was, i was just there. AND! i paid you back, charles never paid his girlfriend back for the sub.”

“oh, aren’t you generous.”

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando x reader #lando smut #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #formula 1 #mclaren f1 #mclaren #lando norris fluff #propertyofwicked

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joelsflower · 2 months ago

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love language | origins!logan x f!reader

logan told you one million times he didn’t want anything for his birthday… anything besides you, lingerie and the moonlight.

a/n: hiiii <33 lis disappeared but is back again and apparently still obsessed with the concept of hot old men unwrapping you like a present. the hugh jackman fever hit me VERY hard and im down bad cough cough enjoy! also to enhance the experience when i say “he looked up at you” pls picture him exactly like in this picture ☝🏼and expect to feel something growing in ur belly in the next 9 months

wc: 4k

warnings: 18+ mdni. pure smut and fluff!! lingerie, logan is obsessed w reader, older!logan (i picture him in origins cause wtf is this man and reader in her early/middle 20s but up to you! legal ofc!!) fingering and eating out but brief cause reader is hot to go!, blowjob, facefucking & deepthroat (not rough), unprotected piv (wrap it up!), creampie, AFTERCARE!!! like SO MUCH logan is soooo soft!dom in this the whole time is like toothache sweet cause it’s a lis fic and yes. they are IN LOVE yall. oh and also reader is a kindergarten teacher (oops

🎀🎀🎀

“Stay”

You grabbed his wrist the moment he recollected his will to leave the end of the bed. Logan’s eyes turned soft, finding you from over his shoulder and turning around to follow the sunlight that kissed your cheeks.

“I wish, angel,” he cooed, both hands brushing your cheeks while his body towered over you “but someone already made me late, huh?”

You gave him a shy smile to meet the smirk that adorned his features, both of you sharing the memories of your bodies tangled just minutes prior. “Wanted to give you a present,” you almost whispered, remembering the one hundred times he told you he didn’t want anything for his birthday.

Not a cake, not a present, not a party. Nothing. Just you.

Logan’s smile faded, but you knew he wasn’t mad. With large hands embracing your neck softly, he kissed you on the forehead, “told you,” on the nose, “you are,” on the jaw, “the only thing i want”, and on your mouth, leaving the taste of him to linger on your lips throughout the whole day.

Your eyes slowly drifted up to find his gaze, the back of your head now resting on his palms.

“Promise” he gave you a sterner look before walking towards the door, “I promise,” you whispered, following as the smile you had earned earlier returned to his face, his back only turning to you when he heard the words fall from your lips.

But it was only a half promise. After all, he still wanted nothing but you, right?

🎀🎀🎀

The day passed by very slowly. You didn’t work on fridays, so you spent the most of it correcting some grades and planning the activities for your next week’s classes. You missed the kids, you can’t lie, and having glue and glitter all over your house definitely distracted you from the little something that was waiting patiently inside a very fancy box on the back of your closet.

The sun was setting around the time Logan would be home and you also had finished all the things you had planned earlier, so you used the time you had to take a shower and get ready.

The scent of some very sweet flower graced your nostrils when you pulled the lid of the heart-shaped box. Your eyes glowed in awe when your fingertips brushed the delicate baby pink lace, the little hairs on your lower belly goosebumping with anticipation, thinking how beautiful you’d feel in it and how the man that loved you would feel about you in it.

And that’s when you heard his steps on the stairs.

Logan arrived silently, and in part to make sure you hadn’t burnt yourself out making some sort of surprise for him. It’s not that he didn’t trust you, but all the glitter and glue on the table and the all the silence scared him a bit.

“Baby?” He called you while undressing himself down to his black t-shirt and boxers. “Oh, hey you,” his expression softened when his eyes found your head peaking from the bathroom door, gaze savoring the sight of him slowly unbuckling his belt.

“How was your day?” you asked watching him from the same spot, the muscles of his arms flexing when he reached to close the door and turn off the lights. Exactly how he said, the only things he wanted for his birthday were you, the lingerie he still didn’t know about, and the moon watching the two of you through the window.

“Great. Apparently someone told the guys it was my birthday and they let me work on paper today. So… Not so tired as I usually am.”

“I’m not sorry for that,” you smiled, knowing exactly who told the guys it was his birthday.

“I know,” he reciprocated your smirk, offering a hand in your direction. “Come here.”

Your breath got momentarily caught in your throat, excitement bursting in your body like fireworks in your veins.

“Close your eyes,” you said.

“Sweetheart-“

“Please?”

And how could he not? When your soft voice asked so nicely for him to? And the sweet and at the same time sexy scent of your perfume bewitched his thoughts? With your eyelashes blinking up at him and making the cold of his claws run to the lower of his spine? If closing his eyes would end the distance between you, then he would.

You then stepped carefully towards him, trying not to bump onto his knees and ruin the surprise.

You took both of his hands within yours, playing his fingers with your smaller ones. The simple contact made him shiver, the warmth of your presence washing all his tiredness and worries away.

“Could sit here with my eyes closed and just smell you forever”

You grinned. You knew his senses were heightened and definitely wanted to play with it tonight.

“Well, you told me you didn’t want to receive anything,” you then brought his hands to the sides of your thighs, the firmness of his palms on your soft skin sending shivers up and down your belly.

“Not totally true,” he thumbed your leg, fingertip brushing dangerously close to the fabric.

“Mhmm,” your hands glued on top of his and guided them a little lower, his palms now resting on top of the delicate, lacy garters adorning your thighs, “but I want you to feel it.”

Logan’s thoughts were in completely caos. Which of course, could only be translated by the grin on his face. You were close enough that he could not only smell your perfume and your scent, but knowing that he was the one causing that and with so little effort drove him insane. He could hear your accelerated heartbeat and used the grip on your legs to soothe you, moving his thumbs up and down, up and down, very slowly, feeling the contrast between the lacy fabric and your thighs.

“Yeah?”

You agreed silently, using your grip to move one of his hands all the way up to your belly in a very slow motion, to then release them both and let Logan’s fingers dance freely around your body.

The one hand he kept down gripped your thigh harder, snaking down to the back of your knee to bend it over his own leg, giving him better access to the rest of you. The thumb on your belly caressed around of your belly button in small circles and traced all the little flowers and bows on the thing garter that hugged your waist and decorated your breasts. The image being painted on Logan’s mind was already enough to make his underwear start to stiffen.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, and it felt like the first fresh breath he had taken in the day.

The contrast of his rough digits with your delicate skin made your body a too tight space to contain yourself, inching closer to him at every touch. He then surrounded your middle with both of his arms and gave your stomach a kiss, your fingers playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck when he moved his face upwards, his chin rested on your tummy, eyes inching to meet yours.

“Can I see you, princess? Please?”

You hummed a quiet “mhmm”, and when he looked up at you with the most lovelorn eyes you had ever seen, you weren’t strong enough to hold back and kissed him.

It felt like the first kiss you two have had in a lifetime; deep, warm and wet. Your tongues danced together while his arms kept you impossibly closer, hands tightly holding from the back of your thighs to the top of your spine. When you parted to breathe, his eyes found yours again;

“There’s my girl. Let me see you, baby,” he held your hand in his and you took his signal to do a little spin, showing him your lacy one-piece.

“Happy birthday, love” you whispered, hands resting on his shoulders to balance yourself, one leg returning to rest on his.

“So you’re my present, hm?” Logan waited for you silent confirmation, palms devouring your thighs and ass while the kisses that he so gently placed on your knee slowly inched forward, “and do I get to unwrap you, angel?”

At that moment your walls were already pulsing with desire and your mind was already empty of words. You felt his lips wrap at a very special place on your inner thigh while his opposite hand moved up to message one of your boobs. You knew it wouldn’t take much for any of you to release control and quit the teasing, and being both on the verge of bursting the whole day waiting for the other, that was the time and the place.

You whimpered when his hand moved down and cupped your clothed center, his lips now distributing pecks on your hip while your nails dig in his shoulders.

“Gonna let me taste you, sweet girl? Hm?” He kissed your beating clit trough the lace and you nodded your head fastly, not being able to hold back anymore. You knew very well the animalistic look he had on his eyes now and the way his hands couldn’t rest in just one spot; he wanted nothing but to devour, explore and adore you.

With your consent, Logan wasted no time in sliding the delicate fabric to the side to meet your leaking pussy. The groan that left his chest when he saw your juices dripping to down your legs put your whole body on fire, followed by the cold that ran through your veins when two of his digits gently spread your lips apart.

“Fuck, look at you,” his thumb toyed with your clit, drawing little circles with a small pressure of the pad, “that’s how wet this little pussy gets for me, hm? Left you waiting the whole day to take care of you… Bad ol’ man, ain’t I?”

“N-no, you’re g-ood,” you managed to take the words out, eyes rolling to the back of your head and nails digging impossibly deeper into his shoulders when his digits lowered down and teased your opening, “and I wanna. Fuck. Wanna be good for you, Logan.”

“Oh, you are, princess. You’re my best girl.”

Pressing your clit between his lips and tongue, he sucked and savoured on it as if you were the source of all life on the planet, the most succulent fruit to the most starving man, like he himself once said; the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. His fingers pumped in and out of your hole rhythmically, hitting deeper and deeper each time. His other hand gripped your ass tightly and pressed your lower body impossibly closer to his face, making you moan loudly with all the stimulation.

You felt your walls start to clench his digits and pulled his head back by his hair to join your mouths in a wet, hot kiss, your other hand slowly removing his own from your sopping pussy, your shaking legs leading you to straddle him.

In his lap, the kiss only deepened; your and his movements were desperate, constantly searching for each other. You gripped his shirt by the collar and helped him take it off of his body, his muscular torso greeting you. Your hands eagerly pressed against his chest while Logan dig his fingers deep into your waist and moved you back and forth, your cunt pooling his underwear with the grinding of your exposed center on his throbbing and neglected cock.

“Wait- Logan, wait,” you pulled his roots again, making him moan.

“I’m here,” he rest his forehead on yours, fingers playing with the ends of your head while your breaths and heartbeats found the other’s rhythm.

“Wanna suck on you”

“Get on your knees for me then,” he demanded after a moment staring at you, trying to hide in his smile the excitement that flooded through his body.

You removed your body from his finding balance on his shoulder, lowering down to your knees on the carpet with the help of his arms around you.

He looked so, so beautiful like this. His prince hair and strong shoulders outerlined by the glowing moonlight that touched his back. His arm muscles tensin when one palm rested on his thigh and the other lowered down to finger-kiss your face. The “thank you, I love you” look he had on his eyes the whole time you were together. Who wouldn’t get get on their knees for this?

“That’s it princess, comfortable there?” You nodded and spread his legs a little, giving you space to kneel closer. He gave you another peck on the lips and moved his hands to rest flat on the bed, giving you all the freedom to do your thing.

You started by running your hands up and down his thighs while kissing down his abdomen, the thick path of hairs on his belly tickling your lips. Slowly, your hand snaked to his boxers while your mouth kept him distracted, licking the angry veins on his happy trail.

You palmed him eagerly, the volume of his member filling your whole palm and a little more. This first contact was enough to earn a raspy groan from his chest and some beads of precum that pooled on the little wet patch between his tip and boxers, where you butterfly-kissed before finally putting his underwear down.

You used your hands to spread his precum down and pump him a bit, desperate to have him in your mouth, you kept moving up and down while your mouth lowered to wrap around his tip, nursing on it like it was your favorite lollipop.

Your messiness has Logan seeing stars. Spit and precum was all over your face already, tongue darting up and down his shaft with desire. He almost screamed when your fingers played with the very top of his head and you lowered your mouth to his balls, suckling each into your mouth carefully.

“Jesus baby, that’s my girl, fuck-“

But it wasn’t enough. You were starved for him, for his pleasure. You waited the whole day to see his mouth hanging in bliss and you also wanted him to have what he wanted. You took his mouth of off his balls and kept lazily stroking him, lashes batting up to meet his eyes, “Fuck my mouth?”

Logan couldn’t believe how such a cute thing like you could look so sexy saying such filthy words. He loved it.

“Are you sure?” You nodded.

He then motioned for you to scoot back a little so he could get up, positioning himself in front of you, now both of you in front of the bed, sides facing the window.

He could die like this. The last thing he would ever see in his life could easily be you, on your knees, fucked out face with his precum and spit all over your face, with the moonlight reflecting on your rounded eyes just waiting for him to love on you. And he would die peacefully.

“Gonna start real gentle, ‘kay?” he assured you while brushing your hair back to hold it in his hands, one wrapping around the strands at the back of your head and the other holding his member.

“Lemme see this pretty tongue, baby’” he waited for your mouth to hang open and positioned his tip on top of your waiting tongue, tapping and circling it there. Logan kept teasing you (and himself) for a moment like this, smearing the leaking tip of his cock all over your mouth, tracing your tongue and lips at a torturing pace until he understood the desperate look in your widened eyes and scrunched brows, a silent “please”.

“Shh, gonna give you what y’want, princess. Suck on the tip, hm? Just the tip. Like you were doing before,” you loved when he ordered you around like this, especially when he looked so big towering over you and his voice was so low and deep like it was right now. You wasted no time in closing your already plump lips around him and deliciously suffocating his bulbous head in your mouth.

“That’s it bub, fuck. That’s my girl,” he loved when you were so obedient like you were right now during sex, his own little princess. His free hand stroked the part of his cock that wasn’t enveloped by your lips, using the mix of your spit and his own precum that was everywhere by now.

Your hands left your lap to dig into his thighs and your movements started to get more shallow, eyelids heaving and lashes blinking slowly up at him. You knew what you wanted, and Logan knew too, and he was gonna give it you.

The hand that was on his cock moved up to hold your jaw and the back of your head, inclining it up a bit so your face was now completely turned to him. This simple move of his already made his cock slip a little further into your mouth, taking a moan from both of you.

“Shhh, angel, yeah, that’s it,” his firm hold in the back of your head allowed you to stop moving and he slowly started to move his hips, pumping his cock in and out of your mouth carefully to not gag you. Not right now, at least. “Gonna give it to you slow, baby. You can take it, can’t you?” He knew an answer for you wouldn’t be exactly available at the moment, but you gave your best to manage out a nod, “know you can, bub.”

Logan kept his pace for a while before roughening and fastening it a bit to prepare you, tightening his grip on your head and steading the movements of his hips, his cock now halfway into your mouth, in and out, in and out. He felt your lips and throat loosening and the gagging sounds leaving your lips were driving him insane, his bones were on fire from keeping back and not just fuck your throat like he (and you) wanted.

When his tip kissed the edge of your throat you let your eyes close and your hands fall to his calf, letting him know you were ready, “just a bit more, sweet girl, just-“ his tip entered your throat with ease, curving a bit to follow its anatomy. When your lips finally touched the hairs on his base and his whole cock was seated into your hot mouth, he stilled completely.

You could hear his heavy breathing as if he ran a marathon in five minutes. The silence between the two of you letting you know that if he said or did anything he was surely cuming at that right moment. Logan’s eyes were closed and his head turned to the ceiling, brows furrowed trying to contain himself.

Your fingers caressed his leg slightly, reminding him you were ready, and when his gaze turned down to give you attention, dark and serious, like a big wolf preying down a little bunny, you knew what he was feeling. It faded quickly though when his eyes found yours, his rough expression turning into a smile, “you’re my best girl, aren’t you? That’s what y’wanted babe? To choke on my dick?”

You blinked your eyes assuringly, the heaviness of your eyelids taking a sexy, deep laugh from his chest. His hand left your head momentarily to caress your cheek with the back of his point finger, “think you can swallow for me?” he whispered.

You’ve done that before, and the feeling was nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced, the both of you. And you felt that it was coming by the calm and patient way he was dealing with you tonight. Logan was always careful to ask for things that edged your limits, always trying his best to keep you safe and comfortable. And who were you to deny the birthday boy what he was asking for?

You prepared yourself and slowly clenched your throat, suffocating his tip in the curve of it. Tears involuntarily pooled and fell from your eyes with the overstimulation and the feeling of oh, being so full of him, of his cock angrily pulsing in the whole extent of your mouth and now your throat. Logan’s eyes turned to the back of his head and his mouth hanged open, his fingers flexing in your hair to not lose control.

“O-one more time ba-“ and before he could even finish his sentence you were swallowing him down again, this time earning a loud and raspy groan from him, “fuck! baby, c’mon,” he carefully pulled himself from your mouth, cock hanging angry and desperate from your activities. “Need to feel you,” and kissed you hungrily.

He pulled you by your arms and intertwined them around his neck, tapping your bum slightly in a sign for you to jump in his lap. Logan was careful to drop you on the bed, never parting your lips and laying with his whole body weight on top of you. The hairs on his chest feathering over your nipples and the kiss of his tip over your folds were growing in you a type of desire you couldn’t quite decipher.

Sweat, spit and love were everywhere, your bodies swayed under the moonlight as if you were one. While your tongues fought for space into the other’s mouth, he reached a hand down and starting to thumb your clit, applying a delicious amount of pressure that had your mouth unplugging from his with a whine. When you felt his head finally circling your hole, you released him and turned around.

“Like that?” Logan watched as you switched positions, large palm finding your lower back while you placed yourself tummy down on the bed. “Can we?” you whispered, looking at him over your shoulder.

Logan smiled; if you kept being this cute he was going to fuck the sense out of you without effort. His other hand reached behind your knee and lifted it, giving him more easy access to you. Positioning himself into your entrance, he slipped his cock up and down your folds, your juices mixing in a squelching sound.

When he felt your hole flutter and your eyes close, your smaller fingers gripping the sheets, he reached up and kissed a drying tear in your cheek, “shhh baby, g’na go slow, ‘kay?” you nodded. There’s no exaggeration, Logan was big. Big and wide and veiny and filled you in all the right places.

The moment his head eased into you, you were seeing stars. The way your walls spread to welcome his girth made your mind fuzzy and all your senses heightened, the moan he left ecoed in your brain and the touch of his hand embracing yours burned like fire. He slowly pressed forward until his cock was perfectly engulfed inside you, both his member and your walls pulsing in unison.

“Move,” you mewled, fingers gripping his thumb in need. Logan used the hand on the small of your back to balance himself, starting to pump in an out at a perfect pace; not so fast but not so slow, deep, deep as he could to kiss every inch of your cunt and rearrange your insides.

“Pussy so warm, angel. Gripping me so tight,” he sad in your ear, “my little sweet gift.”

Stars exploded all the way down your spine, the fullness of his cock pumping your pussy and the weight of his body pressing on top of yours drove you over the edge, your walls gripping him tightly while you came, bringing his thumb into your mouth.

“That’s it, sweet girl, come for me,” he kissed your temple, “gush this cock, it’s all yours,” Logan slowed his pace inside you to let you calm down, caressing your hair and distributing kisses around your teary eyes.

“Think you can take a bit more, princess?” he whispered gently in your ear, his cock still throbbing inside you, “just a bit and I’ll be done. So I can fill your pussy up and good? Keep you full and plugged with me, hm?” You nodded with his thumb still between your lips and felt his hips meet your ass again.

It was so good. The overstimulation had you throbbing nonstop and your head in the clouds. Logan’s groans and moans were music to your ears along with his “that’s it, princess, fuck”, “whose’s pussy is this, hm? All mine to fuck and love on, ain’t it?”, “yeah, baby, that’s my sweet girl. Taking it so good f’me”, until he himself could take anymore, his cock pulsating and balls stiffening, until his voice got muffled by a low groan and you felt his seed fill you completely, gushing your insides and spilling down and off your walls.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered, tired. His forehead rested on your temple as you both calmed down, breathing harmonised. Logan awaited until you opened your eyes and delicately pulled his thumb from your mouth, brushing your hair off of your face.

“Hi,” he smiled.

“Hey,” you reciprocated, receiving a little peck on the lips, that turned into many many kisses all over your face while his palm messaged your back. “Thank you, sweetheart. Gonna pull out now, ‘kay?”

While Logan left to the bathroom to clean himself and find a cloth to clean you, you rested your chin on your forearms and stared up at the full moon through the window, sweetly reminiscing the last hour and thanking her for him. On moments like these all your mind could process was Logan Logan Logan.

“Here, bub,” he carefully whipped the fluids from your pussy, the pair of you giggling when you clenched in sensitivity, “c’mon, I draw the bath.”

You hand Logan spent another hour in the warm bath, cleaning and caressing and stealing kisses while the bubbles danced on your skin. You rested your head on his chest and lifted one finger, using the others to simulate a lighter to lit up the “candle”. “Here, make a wish,” you motioned it in front of his face, taking a laugh from him, who closed his eyes and made some funny faces to amuse you. He then blew your finger and playfully bit it, “what did you wish?”

“Well, I can’t tell you, can I?”

You kissed him and closed your eyes, laying back to your position on his shoulder.

“You. You’re my only wish.”

🎀🎀🎀

#my first logan pieeece #like ms carpenter said #i’m so fucking hoooorrnyyy #hope you guys like it i had so much fun writing it and have soo many ideias for him!#logan howlett #logan howlet smut #logan howlet x reader #x men x reader #x men fanfiction #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #wolverine x you #wolverine fanfiction #lumberjack logan #my writing

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karinasbaby · 5 months ago

Text

yang jungwon — sea salt.

P. princess!reader x pirate!jungwon (17+) | W. unprotected sex, jungwon is mean asf in the beginning, petnames (doll, angel, baby,princess), mentions of maids & jake, cursing, hair pulling, mentions of proposals? teasing, cockwarming, both jungwon & reader r in love, scandalous behaviour ngl, breeding kink with jungwon, idk about the rest | WC. 2.3k | A,N. this one’s for @intromortal pls accept my pirate jungwon cuz i wrote this for u (the other jungwon variants should be worked on soon pls pray for that) everyone say thank u nia & hana for this :D !!

p.s this was b a r e l y proofread !!

“did you hear that the princess got a new proposal?” the helper whispered quietly, right hand covering the side of her mouth cautiously from the guards standing around the halls. “when does she not?” the other helper besides her rolled her eyes at her friend’s words.

“i wonder how long it’ll be till his majesty chooses a husband for her.” she chuckled making the shorter one’s eyebrows furrow in dislike, “i don’t think he will, he still has a soft spot for our princess.” her eyes lowered to the marble floors beneath her feet in thought.

“isn’t this her eighth proposal though?” her hands held the baskets of fabrics closer to her hips, “ever since she turned of age her personality changed.” snickering, she quickened her pace to finally grace the knitting and tailoring wing of the castle, passing past the doors of your own sacred chambers.

“she has not! she’s just… conflicted over the proposals i assume.” the helper argued as she tried to match the steps of her friend’s, lowering her voice by a bunch when she walked past your gates.

where your head was stuffed against your satin pillows, one large veiny hand covering your mouth to silence your whimpers as your lover’s movements came to a stop once he heard the womens’ voices outside.

“eight proposals huh?” jungwon laughed right besides your ear, his grip loosening when their bickering became distant, he leaned down to press a searing kiss behind your ear, his sweaty body pressed against your warm one, tangled between your silk sheets. “when were you planning to tell me, angel?” his hot breath fanned your shoulders making you shiver beneath him.

“s-soon.. i was g-going to tell you soon.” you choked out, trying to ignore the leap in your heart as your secret was revealed, while also trying to ignore the fact that jungwon was buried to the hilt inside of you as he spoke to you almost casually.

“hmm… what are you gonna do?” he hummed, his hips gradually beginning to thrust back into you again, he moved back and forth, back and forth making the squelching sounds of your previous releases resonate in the chamber, your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head as you gasped at the feeling of his cock practically massaging your dripping walls that sucked him deeper and deeper in.

“you’re not gonna accept those, obviously.” he chuckled, speaking like it was the most clear decision to take, his hands tightened around you at the mere thought of you accepting said proposals, who dared to even think of having a chance with you in the first place?

sure your relationship would be controversial, probably flip the whole kingdom upside down at the news of the dear, beloved sweet princess whom everyone loved and adored dating a pirate.

the son of the most dangerous pirate at that.

it wasn’t like anyone from your own family knew, as the second anyone would find out about the remaining aroma of sea salt wafting around your room relating to a pirate and not a new fragrance you’ve been investing in, all hell would break loose.

and you weren’t putting your or jungwon’s life at risk like that. no matter how deep your love and desire for him ran through your veins, the louder the desperate calls of your heart for his presence became, you could never risk announcing your sweet love affair to the kingdom.

and though jungwon did not fit the typical or known standards for pirates at all, the mean demeanour, greedy mindset and rogue personality was a complete opposite of jungwon’s loving, intimidating and charismatic nature.

he was everything you prayed for, every tinge of detail that you hoped you’ll find in the princes and mayors that proposed to you.

he was protective, with his manly and dauntless personality, he drew you in to his life. carefully luring you into the trap of his love. the sweet souled princess that fell head over heels for a pirate that wouldn’t even think twice of risking the whole world for her.

and just as in love you were with jungwon, the same applied to him if not much more, the young pirate who had been eyeing you for years by now, couldn’t believe his luck when he finally realised you reciprocated his feelings which he believed were fruitless.

he knew that the second his calloused, rough fingers brushed against your own soft and delicate skin, he was yours and you were his.

“what do you think their reaction will be like if they knew their pretty, innocent princess was getting fucked by a pirate every night, hm?” he mocked, pushing his head closer to yours so he can lick a long, tantalising stripe around the shell of your ear, making you whimper as he began to roll his hips in delicious circular movements.

“getting bred by a pirate’s dick so well every night. fuck— wonder what they’ll think when i finally knock you up and everyone questions who the dad is.” cursing behind you, he slithered one hand between your connected bodies to toy with your swollen clit, the contact instantly making you shake under his buff form.

“what are you gonna say then, doll? gonna tell them about how you couldn’t help it? gonna tell them about how wet your pretty little cunt got for me?” he teased and mocked and taunted you making tears rush down your cheeks and drop one by one onto the sheets, your body felt like it was lit ablaze with his slow, demeaning thrusts that only made your climax build up quicker. your hands gripped around the thin expensive fabric that was coated in both of your sweat and shimmering arousal.

his hand then lowered to cup your dripping pussy making you mewl onto the blanket you pushed closer to your mouth to silence yourself, “gonna tell them about how this princess couldn’t handle me? sucking me in and milking me so well, isn’t she, angel girl?” chuckling next to you, his smile only widened at your sniffles. deciding to completely stop all of his thrusts and only focusing on your throbbing clit, his middle and ring finger moved in mouth watering circles while his cock twitched inside of your snug walls.

you gasped as he began to litter your shoulders and back in countless bites and kisses, altering between sucking your skin and licking against your neck as he relished in the way your legs shook under him the tighter the coil in your stomach became, “don’t even dare to cum without my permission.” he quickly warned in a whisper, “or else i’ll fuck you till the next morning.” suddenly, you heard the footsteps of a different maid echoing outside of your chambers, from the familiar whistle you recognised her as the head maid who always came to check on you.

especially during the early mornings.

you froze under jungwon’s hold, he quickly realised the second he noticed the approach of a bunch of footsteps and decide to chuckle, humming as he focused on the way your breathing became irregular in panic and your walls tightening around him in anxiety making him groan, a sound he proudly let out loud to echo in the room making you gasp quietly in shock, “j-jungwon—“ “what, baby?” he quickly cut you off, his smile widening the louder the sounds behind the door that hid your scandal became.

“jungwon! she’s coming h-here.” you whispered loudly, panic settling deeply into your veins at the thought of the head maid, an old woman who practically raised you, opening the door to the sight of the princess getting pounded into her royal mattress by a pirate. “wanna let her hear how loud your cunt gets for me then?” he let out a laugh after his own words, “jungwon—“ he didn’t allow you to finish your sentence that got cut off by a moan as he suddenly moved to rest atop his knees.

holding you tightly by your hips, he began to piston his dick inside of your sopping wet walls, you bit your own sheets to silence your moans from resonating inside the room, the only way your body was showing the amount of pleasure jungwon was forcing into it was by the tears that aligned your waterline, your shaking legs and the mixed wetness of your and jungwon’s release dripping down your entrance before getting pushed back inside of you when he thrusted back in.

“let them hear how wet your pretty pussy gets for me, doll.” he groaned, his hand reaching forward to grip tightly around your hair, the burn in your scalp making you whimper beneath him as he ordered you to listen. “listen to how bad your cunt wants me, baby.” his hand quickly moved to cover your mouth when your whimpers got louder, and comedically enough. he made you listen to the nasty squelching noises of his thrusts and your soaked pussy right when the knocks of the head maid against your door echoed in the room, “so greedy for me, right?”

you gasped in fear while jungwon just kept quickening his pace, making the sounds of sex curtain over the knocks at your door which came to a halt. the maid inevitably hearing the questionable noises echoing from the princess’ chambers, “f-fuck— jungwon please, we c-can’t-“ “can’t what, doll? can’t let them know that you’re about to get filled up with pirate cum, hm?” he teased, cooing once your tears from overstimulation and the pleasure raked over his hand that moved to caress your jaw gently.

he softly pulled your head back, making you turn to face him and allow him to see your reddened eyes and rosy cheeks, he pouted mockingly before quickly pecking your swollen lips, “don’t worry, baby. nothing’s gonna happen.” his soothing words were quickly forgotten when the head maid called out for you from behind the doors, “your highness, is everything alright?” her concerned voice made your sobs get muffled by jungwon’s continuous kisses.

“jungwon, please—“ “shhh doll, don’t worry. listen to me. everything’s gonna be okay, you trust me don’t you?” he reassured you, his voice turning gentler and softer as he began to ghost his fingers around your neck, “listen to me like the good girl that i know you are.” he smiled at you through his sweaty darkened locks and flushed face, his cat-like eyes blazing with adoration and lust for you when you nodded at his words, he continued thrusting inside of you, making sure to press his swollen tip for longer periods right against your warm cervix just to feel your breath get caught around his fingertips.

“now cum for me, angel girl.” he ordered while pressing a sweet kiss against your jaw, relishing in the way your weakened body instantly responded to his words by tightening and gushing around his dick, he growled quietly next to your ear while your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he continued fucking himself deeply into you.

with your intense release, you felt him reaching deeper and deeper inside of you the longer he kept fucking you through your orgasm, your broken whispers of his name caught his attention from the twisting handle of the doors to your rooms, that’s when he finally heard the long-awaited “madam! the princess is still resting. she asked me to delay her morning bath for until she wakes up and asks for you.” jake, the royal guard huffed breathlessly after rushing countless, gigantic royal corridors to reach and stop the head maid from entering your room.

where he knew jungwon was practically balls deep inside of you right now.

jungwon sighed heavily, finally losing himself in the feeling of your warm cunt engulfing his pulsing length perfectly, with the aftershocks of your orgasm finally subsiding allowing you to rest and relax against the sheets, jungwon lowered himself to litter multiple kisses around your jaw and the back of your neck while you regulated your breathing.

with him still so deep inside of you, he returned his hands to your hips and began to chase his own high, finding the way you mewled in overstimulation under him so endearing. “just a bit more, princess. you can take a bit more for me can’t you?” he questioned, his breathing heavy as he felt the neediness and arousal rushing through his veins for his much needed climax, he smiled in pride when you nodded with your eyes closed against the pillows, tightening around him purposefully to hear his sharp groans and to push him further towards the edge.

“taking me in so good. such a perfect princess for me.” he threw his head back, sweat droplets rolling one by one down his chiseled abdomen and buff form between his unbuttoned white, pirate shirt. his thighs flexed as he tasted his orgasm right on the tip of his tongue, the intense sensation making him close his eyes while he thrusted against your hips that began to bounce back on him.

“fuuuccck just like that, doll.” he praised, his words making you whimper against the pillows in pure exhaustion and overstimulation, you pushed against him just a few more times before his hands stilled your hips as he buried himself deep inside of you, emptying his load and painting your warm walls white completely. you both groaned at the fulfilling sensation before jungwon finally plopped down right next to you on your royal bed.

he quickly pulled you inside of his arms, noticing the way your eyes became droopy in slumber, you lifted your leg against his hips, making him smile lovingly at the silent ask, he gently pushed his sensitive length back inside of your drenched cunt, “the princess wants me inside of her so she can sleep again?” he asked, even with your eyes closed you could hear the smile in his voice. you nodded your head as he pulled you closer towards him, allowing you to feel him as deep and as close to you as possible. just the way he knew you needed.

“sleep well my princess.” with that final fatigued whisper from jungwon, you fell asleep in his embrace with no worries about the eight proposals, the head maid or the way you were going to have to word your next rejection.

while jungwon only wondered about where the fuck jake took the head maid.

a,note. i hope this did not disappoint any jungwon girlies 🤞 & to hana i know this wasn’t our original idea for pirate jungwon, i might have to make a diff post for the one we came up with cuz i love that one too ! thank u for reading :] !

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pupkashi · 4 months ago

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satoru loves you & he’s tired of being your friend

a/n: loosely inspired by taehyungs song fri(end)s i hope u guys like pls lmk what yall think plsplsplspls

word count - 1,764

masterlist

the only light illuminating your living room was from your tv as it played your favorite comfort movie, one you’d seen countless times before. the familiarity of it had you dozing off on your couch, in and out of sleep as you lost the battle with your heavy eyelids.

there’s a soft knock on your door that has you jumping out of your skin, heart racing loudly in your ears. you pause the movie, wondering if maybe you’d hallucinated it and it truly was time for you to go to bed.

knock, knock, knock

your palms are sweaty, checking your phone before standing up. there’d been no missed texts or calls from anyone you knew, who the fuck knocks on a door at 3:24 in the morning?

you grab the baseball bat by the door, peeking through the peephole and being met with tousled white locks. a color of hair you’d be able to spot a mile away, one you’d grown to care for.

“what are you doing at my door at four in the fucking morning?” you whisper-yelled, setting the bat down and opening the door wider to let the man in. he gives you a small smile, one hand pushing his hair back and out of his face and the other holding his side.

“sorry sweet cheeks, didn’t wanna go home just yet” he mumbles, stepping in and standing by the doorway, waiting for your instruction.

“d’you get hurt? are you bleeding?” the annoyance in your voice is gone, and it makes satoru relax. he gives you a small nod, shrugging his shoulders and trying to play it off.

“nothing that won’t be healed by mornin’” you roll your eyes at him, muttering a small ‘come on’ and walking to the bathroom down the hall. “i miss you y’know” satoru says softly, watching as you searched for the first aid kit under the sink, grabbing the box and making him sit on the toilet lid.

“did you really?” you scoff, not meeting his gaze as you grab a soft rag, running it under warm water. satoru furrows his brows, confused as to why you think he wouldn’t have missed you.

“‘course i did,” he replies, opening his mouth to continue but closing it quickly when you turn to face him.

“can i take your blindfold off” you ask, your hands fiddling with the damp rag before setting it down when he nods ‘yes.’ you find the small knot hiding in his hair, gently undoing it.

the black blindfold loosen instantly, and you’re quick to gently take it off his head, setting it on the counter. his hair flops onto his forehead, falling almost perfectly to frame his face. despite the countless times you’d seen his eyes, your breath still hitched in your throat when you looked into them.

you try not to stare too long, brushing his hair out of his face and cleaning the dried blood on his face. satoru doesn’t take his eyes off you, eyes tracing your every feature. his gaze is one you always faltered under, growing nervous when he’d stare at you for too long.

“what” you ask, a small nervous smile forming on your face. satoru shakes his head, a small upside down smile on his face as you wipe the cut on his cheeks with an alcohol wipe.

“you’re just real pretty” he says, watching as you bite your bottom lip, surely trying to stop the smile fighting its way into your face.

“is you side hurt too?” you motion to where his hand is covering, trying to brush past the compliment he’d given you.

“healed it up a good amount while you were cleaning me up” he shrugs, lifting his shirt and showing you the brand new scar, “I’m not completely helpless.”

“no you’re the strongest” you tease, throwing away the used items and washing your hands. “did you wanna shower? you look like you could use it” satoru pouts at your words.

“don’t have to be so mean about it” you laugh softly, drying your hands before you’re standing in front of him again. you let your hands brush through his hair, exposing his forehead before you press a kiss to the skin.

“sorry angel, you’re the one who woke me up” satoru lets his eyes close softly, heart sinking a bit when you pull away from him.

“I’ve got some clothes you’ve left over so I’ll leave ‘em on the counter” you smile, closing the door behind you and sighing softly.

how’d you get to this point? how’re you stuck between friends and something more?

friends don’t feel the way you do about satoru. friends don’t place feathery kisses on their friends scars. friends don’t act the way you two act.

satoru steps out of the shower, smiling when he realizes his clothes smell like you. his heart leaps when he exits the restroom, finding you still awake and waiting for him on the couch.

“waiting for someone?” his voice makes you jump a bit, shaking you head and watching as he sits next to you. “did you have plans for tomorrow?” he questions, watching as you send a text.

“told them something came up,” you shrug, “figured you need me more.”

the words tugged on satoru’s heartstrings. there was a never night you hadn’t been there when he needed you. you’d been there for him since the day you’d met him, there to comfort him and ease his racing mind. you were there to calm him from panic attacks and frustrations, help him through grief and stress. everything.

you were a great friend.

he hated that word. you weren’t his friend, you were something more. he knew how he felt about you, he had an inkling feeling you felt the same. so what’s stopping him?

satoru shakes the question out of his head, focusing instead on the tv. the end credits are rolling but you’re not looking away, eyes unfocused and your mind elsewhere.

“should we go to sleep?” satoru whispers, a feathery touch to snap you back to reality. you nod with a small smile, the two of you making the familiar walk to your bedroom, satoru turning off any lights and closing the bedroom door behind him before slipping in next to you.

you’d always liked having your head on his chest, you were able to hear his heartbeat this way. the rhythmic pitter-patter never failed to make you smile or help you relax. it also gave away anytime he was nervous.

“your hearts beating real fast” you state, not looking up, instead continuing to draw circles in the palm of his hand. “what are you thinking about?”

there’s too many thoughts in satoru’s head, so many that he can’t begin to process a single one of them. so instead he blurts out what had been on his mind all night.

“i love you.”

you never thought people were telling the truth about time stopping when something like this happened. you’d always figured they romanticized their life a little too much.

but you felt time stop.

your fingers faltered and you felt your breathing hitch in your throat. your stomach erupted in butterflies, face hot and your eyes wide as the three words landed on your ears.

there was a million thoughts in your head, memories flooding in. spring nights around a fire pit, hot summer days at the beach, cool autumn afternoons carving pumpkins and cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate. and in every one of them you bit back three words while staring at the white haired man.

“you don’t have to say it back” satoru begins, his heart beating even faster than before, “i just- I’ve been think-” you sit up quickly and cut him off, shaking your head and finally looking him in the eyes.

“I love you too,” you smile, letting yourself enjoy the the moment of euphoria the two of you felt upon hearing the other say the three words you’d dreamt of.

there’s only a second of silence before satoru’s blue eyes are looking at your lips, flickering up to meet your eyes momentarily. all it takes is you leaning in ever so slightly.

his hands are cupping your cheeks, crashing his lips against yours, a sense of urgency as his lips move against yours. he tastes like his vanilla lip balm and toothpaste, smiling as the words replay in your head.

“what’s funny?” he mumbles against your lips, laughing softly, not bothering to pull away from your lips. satoru’s cerulean eyes are fluttering open, completely focused on you.

you pull away a couple inches, staring into his eyes, you can see the emotions swimming in his eyes, love and excitement written over his face as he takes in your beauty.

“just happy” you reply, “never thought you’d put the end in friends” satoru pouts comically at your words, shoving his face in your lap and groaning softly.

“‘m sorry” he grumbles, “new to all the relationship stuff” there’s genuine frustration and remorse in his voice, it makes you smile as your run your fingers through his hair, tugging softy.

“‘s okay” you say, “thought technically I’m not yours since you haven’t asked me” he knows you’re poking fun at him, not rushing him into anything.

“don’t worry,” he says, sitting up and adjusting himself to lay down next to you, smiling when you lay your head on his chest, “gonna make you mine as soon as i can.”

the words make your heart flutter again, a sheepish smile on your face as your cheeks and ears burn.

“alright smooth talker let’s get some sleep.”

funny enough satoru feels the weight on his shoulders grow lighter with your body weight pressed against him. he feels a sense of serenity running his fingers up and down your exposed skin.

you can see goosebumps rise where your fingertips touch, smiling softly and holding back a giggle as your fingers ghost over his abs, causing him to shiver.

it’s different from before, more intimate.

satoru wonders why he was so afraid of baring his heart to you in the first place. he can’t find an excuse as he watches the golden ray of sunshine hit your face softly, causing you to stir. he’s still as he watches you immediately nuzzle your face into his side, falling back into a deep sleep in his arms.

it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep too, a smile on his face when he feels your grip tighten.

lovers, he thinks, it has a nice ring to it.

taglist (send an ask to be added): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

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flwrstqr · 5 months ago

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𓈒 ENHYPEN AND THINGS YOU DO TO GIVE THEM BUTTERFLIES ˒

── ୨୧ enha x f!reader 𝗀enre. fluff, imagines, ot7 works 𝒘𝗈𝗋𝖽 counts . . . 1387 𝔀arning not proofread, kisses, petnames┊DANi NOTEZ ‎⸝⸝⸝ what if i wrote ot7 works for the rest of my life ◞[ continue on to . . . library , request ]

! feedbacks and reblogs are highly appreciated and encouraged! PLS REBLOG ♡

HEESEUNG (이희승) : WEARING HIS CLOTHES

you’re staying at heeseung’s place and feeling chilly, so you grab his oversized hoodie and put it on. it's oversized on you, the sleeves falling past your hands and the hem hanging well below your hips. the familiar scent of his cologne envelops you. as you walk into the living room, heeseung looks up and freezes, his eyes widening and cheeks flushing.

“you’re wearing my hoodie,” he says, voice slightly shaky.

“yeah, I was cold,” you reply with a smile.

heeseung stares at you, butterflies in his stomach. “you look so cute, angel," he murmurs, stepping closer. “can you wear my clothes for the rest of your life? because you look too adorable right now.”

you laugh softly. “I think I can manage that.” heeseung grins, pulling you into a sweet kiss.

rest of the members below !!

JAY (박종성): LOOKING INTO THEIR EYES

you and jay are sitting together on the couch, the room quiet and cozy. you find yourself gazing into his eyes, unable to look away.

jay notices your intense, loving gaze and feels a rush of butterflies in his stomach. he tries to maintain his cool, but the way you’re looking at him is making him feel flustered. his cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and he nervously runs a hand through his hair.

“what?” he asks softly, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “why are you looking at me like that?”

you smile, reaching out to gently cup his face. “just thinking about how much I love you,” you say softly.

jay’s eyes widen slightly, and he swallows hard, trying to steady his racing heart. he’s so head over heels for you.

JAKE (심재윤): WHEN YOU CALL HIM A PETNAME

you and jake are hanging out, just enjoying each other’s company. he’s telling you a story from his day, and you’re listening, a smile on your face. as he finishes, you can’t help but blurt out, “you’re so cute, my pretty boy.”

jake freezes, his eyes widening in surprise. “y-your what?” he stammers, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red. he’s so flustered that he momentarily forgets how to speak, his heart pounding in his chest.

“my pretty boy,” you repeat, grinning at his adorable reaction.

he rubs the back of his neck, trying to hide his embarrassment. “new petname?”you laugh softly, reaching out to take his hand while giving a small nod.

jake finally looks up, “just don’t say it in front of my members, okay?”

you giggle, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “deal. But when it’s just us, you’re my pretty boy.”

he smiles, his heart fluttering at your words. “i like the sound of that,” he whispers, squeezing your hand. “a lot.”

SUNGHOON (박성훈): KISSING HIM

you and sunghoon are spending a quiet evening together, sitting close on the couch. suddenly, you lean in and press a soft kiss on his cheek.

sunghoon’s breath catches in his throat, and he freezes for a moment, feeling a rush of butterflies in his stomach. His cheeks turn a shade of pink as he looks at you with wide eyes, his heart racing.

“did you just…” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, his words trailing off.

you smile warmly at him, your hand gently resting on his arm. “I did,” you confirm softly.

sunghoon swallows nervously, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. “I-I liked that,” he admits shyly, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

you then lean in again, this time pressing a gentle kiss on his lips. the moment your lips meet, a soft sigh escapes sunghoon’s throat, his whole being leaning into the kiss he quickly melts into the kiss, closing his eyes and his hands snaking up to your waist.

SUNOO (김선우): WHEN YOU WHISPER SMALL THINGS TO HIM

you and sunoo are sitting close together, enjoying a quiet moment. leaning in, you softly whisper in his ear, “You make my heart skip a beat, you know that?”

sunoo’s cheeks flush immediately, and he glances at you with wide eyes, a shy smile playing on his lips. his heart races at your words, feeling a rush of warmth and happiness.

“r-really?” he stutters, his voice barely above a whisper, clearly taken aback.

you nod, your voice gentle as you continue, “every time I see you smile, it makes me all fluttery,”

sunoo’s breath catches, his gaze flickering with a mix of surprise and delight.

“you always know how to make me feel…” he starts, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words, his heart overflowing with emotions.

JUNGWON (양정원): PULL HIM CLOSER

you and jungwon are standing together. you decide to pull him closer by gently gripping his waist or the collar of his shirt.

jungwon's eyes widen slightly in surprise, his cheeks instantly flushing with a rosy hue. he tries to maintain his composure, but his heart races with butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach. his gaze flickers to meet yours.

"hey," he manages to say softly, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he tries to hide his flustered state.

you smile back, "i just wanted to be a little closer to you," you say with a gentle teasing tone.

jungwon clears his throat, his fingers nervously adjusting his collar "I-I'm okay with that," he replies.

you laugh softly. "you're blushing," you tease playfully, noticing how his cheeks have turned an even deeper shade of red.

he looks away briefly, trying to regain his composure. "am I?" he murmurs, unable to hide his smile. "maybe it's because you make me feel like this."

you gently stroke his cheek. "you're too sweet," you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

RIKI (西村力): PLAYING WITH HIS HAIR

one of your habits is gently playing with his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands absentmindedly.

today is no different. you're sitting close together on the couch, engrossed in a movie. without thinking, your hand finds its way to riki's hair, lightly tracing patterns and twirling small sections.

riki's breath hitches as your touch sends a jolt of warmth through him. he feels a rush of flustered excitement, his heart beating just a bit faster than usual. despite the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he doesn't say anything. he's too shy to admit how much your simple gesture affects him.

he steals a glance at you, his cheeks faintly tinted with a blush as he watches your focused expression. his gaze lingers on your face, admiring the gentle curve of your lips and the way your eyes reflect the flickering light from the TV screen.

meanwhile, your fingers continue their dance through his hair, oblivious to the effect they're having on him.

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boyfhee · 5 months ago

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﹙𝓲ssue﹚: calling them “pretty boy” ... ( 엔하이픈 )

ㅤㅤ﹙2214﹚ ㅤ장르 fluff, fluff, fluff est. relㅤㅤwarnings kissing, pet names, mentions of make out in hoon'sㅤㅤᐢᗜᐢ i think i will go back to my roots and write long hcs >< happy reading and pls rb & leave feedback iNDEX

HEESEUNG

you two were having a movie night, his eyes not leaving the tv screen even for one second, not until you notice that the packet of chips on your lap is empty and the other one is on his side. “hee, can you pass those chips, please?”

your voice manages to distract him from the movie and he gives you a blank stare for a brief second before registering your words and passing you the snack. “thanks, pretty boy.”

and those words catch his attention— brows knit together as he turns his head towards you, eyes wide open in amusement. “what did you call me?”

“i called you a pretty boy,” you stifle a laugh at his reaction, noticing how his cheeks turned a shade of pink as words fell of your lips. “cause you're so so pretty,”

he laughs at your words, although with a hint of shyness and averts his gaze to the screen. his cheeks only heat up more when he hears your soft giggles, something that is music to his ears. he turns to look at you again, putting an arm on your back to pull your closer. “you're the prettiest, angel.”

JONGSEONG

you were going through the pictures from your date earlier today, while jay laid on the bed with his head on your laps, sighing softly at the calming action of your fingers brushing through his soft locks.

“you're so pretty, 'seong,” you whisper softly, quite literally enamored by how effortlessly stunning he looks in the pictures. “not a single bad pic,”

he doesn't respond for a few seconds, a bit taken aback by your words before he ends up laughing, making you put your phone aside while he lifts up his face from your lap to look up at you. “are you sure ‘handsome’ isn't the word you were going for?”

“that too, but you're my pretty boy,” you say with a chuckle, leaning down to brush your nose against his, a touch so feathery it makes him smile and lean in for a kiss, but you are quick to put your forehead against his instead. “the prettiest boy.”

and he shakes his head at your words, unable to stop himself from smiling. he props himself up on his arms and then sits up in front of you, cupping your face to pull you in for a kiss. “sounds fair, since you're the prettiest girl ever, darling.”

JAEYUN

“hey, pretty boy,” you chime in with a smile, deciding to swing by his classes because you haven't seen him since the morning and the withdrawal is hitting both of you.

first, he gets excited after hearing your voice, having missed it even though it has only been a few hours since you two have gotten off the phone. and secondly, his eyes literally spark up at the sight of you, even more so when he hears your words. “pretty boy?”

you nod, pressing your lips together and lean against the doorframe. “yeah, do you not like it?”

“oh, i love it, babe” he tells you, putting emphasis on the word ‘love’ as he walks towards you, putting his arms around you to pull your closer. he leans in for a few quick peaks, whispering in between. “you should call me that more,”

you laugh at his words with a nod and make a mental note of that, playing with the loose strands of hair in front of his forehead. “i will, pretty boy.” — you best believe he's kissing you every time you call him that.

SUNGHOON

you simply stand against the wall, arms behind your back as you watch him put on his shoes, a soft smile dancing on your lips. “see you tomorrow, pretty boy.”

“oh, hell nah,” and he closes the door just as soon as he had opened it, turning to look at your with a cautious expression. “you cannot just say that so casually,”

you stare at him in surprise for a few seconds before laughing, pushing yourself off the wall to stand up straight. “say what? pretty boy?”

“see, you're making me go crazy,” he sighs, watching you laugh at his antics and a smile creeps up his lips as well, but he hides it well, taking a few steps in your direction and lifting you up in his arms, walking to the couch. “now we have to make out again!”

“hoon, put me down!” you yelp in surprise, although the laughter erupting in the room made everything much better. he does put you down, on the couch in fact, laying you down on the soft material with his lips hovering over yours. he doesn't give you the chance to complain, immediately pulling you into a chaste kiss.

SUNOO

he came over to pick you up for your date but heavens had another plan since it started showering right before you were planning to leave. the plan was to watch a movie, until sunoo said he wants to paint your nails.

and now you're sitting in front of him on the bed, your one hand in his and eyes on him, while his attention is on your fingers, putting the nail paint ever so care, not wanting to ruin it for you. “you're so pretty, 'noo,”

he looks up at you in surprise before his lips curl into a smile, a slight hint of red on his cheeks that he manages to hide by looking back at your hands. “i don't know what you mean. you're the prettiest,”

“no, you are pretty,” you say a bit dramatically, with a pout and all, making him scoff slightly.

he finishes up with your nails shortly, putting the nail paint away, almost melting at how adorable you look with that pout. he leans in closer, planting a tender kiss at the corner of your lips. “well, i have to keep up with my pretty girl,”

JUNGWOON

“good morning, pretty boy” you whisper softly over the silence as soon as he opens his eyes, sunrays entering through the window and adorning his face, making him look prettier than ever.

“good morning, beautiful,” jungwon takes a few seconds to push away the sleepiness, although not really succeeding as a yawn interrupts his words. “what's gotten into you?”

“nothing, i just want to call you pretty,” you brush a few strands of hair from in front of his eyes, the smile never leaving your lips and you find bliss in the quiet mornings with your boyfriend.

“that's new,” his voice is not louder than a whisper, laced with drowsiness as he throws his arms over your waist to pull you closer and nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck. “but i like it,”

you can't help but smile at his actions, leaning down to kiss his forehead and brushing your fingers through his hair. it's quiet for a few minutes before you feel him lift up his head and speaks through a sweet grin. “call you call me that again?” — and why would you refuse?

NI-KI

you were on call with your boyfriend after the movie date, not really wanting to hang up but knowing it was late. you lean further into your pillow, speaking with slight disappointment in your voice. “‘night, pretty boy. i love you,”

“wait,” and you were just about to hang up before he stops you. “what do you mean ‘pretty boy?’”

you chortle at his words, clearly visualising him with that confused expression, brows furrowed. “i mean you, because you're a pretty boy,”

“i am?” you laugh again at his words, more when he laughs as well, finding him absolutely adorable especially when you can feeling him blushing in just the way he sounds. “say that again,”

“you're my pretty boy,” you repeat and he hums in approval, trying to be cool as he chuckles, but you know he's probably laying on the bed and smiling while looking at the ceiling with the cutest smile— or maybe not.

“good, now say it to my face,”

now it's your time to look at the phone screen in confusion, staring at his caller ID. “what?”

“i'm outside, open the door and call me pretty”

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cameronsprincess · 4 months ago

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thinking about frat rafe cameron……….. *sigh*

CW: frat!rafe, that damn backwards hat, protected sex (though i won’t describe him busting in a condom but know it’s there), pussy slapping, rafe calls reader a whore.

daydreams 𓆩♡𓆪 main masterlist 𓆩♡𓆪 taglist form

he looked so fucking good. with his tight fitting coors light shirt, dark denim jeans, white nikes and that damn hat that sat backwards on his head.

you knew better than to get involved with a frat guy, hell, you knew better than to get involved with rafe cameron. but god, he looked too good, and you had consumed a few drinks, making you bolder and more confident to approach him.

he teased you at first, being his typical frat guy self. he was kind of an ass, but in a very sexy way. saying things like “oh, does the needy girl wanna fuck me?” or “you couldn’t handle me, baby.”

and he was sort of right. rafe was huge. the biggest you’d ever had or seen for that matter, and he was currently splitting you in two, each thrust of his hips sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain through your entire body.

“doing so good, angel. taking my dick like a good fucking whore, yeah? that’s what you are right? my little fucking whore?”

your teeth sink into your lower lip, only a small pathetic whine escaping you.

rafe lifts his body up, creating enough space between your bodies for his hand to land a harsh slap to your sensitive pussy.

“answer me, or i’ll stop and you won’t cum.”

you whine loudly, screaming his name before stuttering out, “yes! g-god yes! i’m your dirty little whore!”

the corners of his lips tilt up into a smirk, his hand slaps your pussy again before he lowers back down pressing his body flush against yours and continuing his brutal thrusts.

in, out. in, out. the force of which he’s pounding into you has you seeing stars, your teeth chattering and legs shaking as that sweet familiar feelings builds in your lower belly.

“fffuck— fuck, rafe! g-gonna cum!”

his pace picks up — if that’s even possible — and he drives into you fast and rough. your pussy clenches tightly around his dick, your orgasm rushing through you. bright, white light covers your vision, toes curling and body shaking as he fucks you through your high.

his hips begin to stutter, dick swelling inside you before he comes undone, his own release rushing through him. he drops his head into the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he grunts and groans into your sweat slick skin.

he slowly pulls himself from inside you, rolling onto his back and clasping his hands on his chest, breathing heavily and trying to come down from his orgasm.

“shit, you’re a good lay. come around more often, we can have some more fun.”

pls, i suck at endings😂 let’s just fuck forever 😇

#₊˚ෆ daydreams #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron smut #frat!rafe #frat!rafe cameron #rafe cameron concepts #college au #frat daddy

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wysteria-bloom · 8 months ago

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⚝ " i'll never smile again "

The hazbin boys are visibly stressed

Warnings : I used female pronouns. There are mentions of Valentino. Highly suggestive in Vox's part because yeah it makes sense. Alastor offers to go on a murderous rampage with the reader 🥰

Genre : Fluff, suggestive

A/n : I hate the people in my life and they stress me tf out so I'm writing to vent my frustrations out. :) I only included my favs in this one but if you would like a part two with other characters then say the word.

Characters : Alastor, Vox, Lucifer

▢ vox ᯤ

- Offering sexual favours -

Vox growled to himself gently as he typed away at the screen in front of him, eyes honing in obsessively on the words and news articles.

He was on media control right now because fucking Val blew up on Angel in public today.

Now he's forced to get rid of every media that is sculpting Valentino out to be the bad guy.

Whoopee fucking doo.

"Fuckin' Val... stupid idiot.... stupidly hot idiot." He sighed out, running his hands down his face tiredly then his eyes widened with an idea,"... Where's my assistant."

"Here, sir."

"Fuckin' christ-!" He yelped out at the sudden voice and he spun around quickly in his chair, coming face to face with her amused little shit-eating grin. He glared, scowl on his lips," You been there the whole time?"

"Yes, sir." She nodded, hands folded in her lap modestly.

"You're a little creep, y'know that?"

"Yes, sir."

He sighed and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the painful cracks that resounded from them," You seen the media?"

She nodded," yes, quite the 'clusterfuck' as you would put it."

His lip twitched in amusement," perfect descriptor, honestly." He then clicked his fingers at the screen," Is Troy on today? Tell him to deal with the rest of the articles pl-"

"It's Troy's day off today, sir." (Name) interrupted, walking so she was standing next to him, she leaned over him a little to click away at the tabs he had opened," But I will call him to come in. You need rest." She replied promptly.

Vox watched her with an almost sleepy look in his eyes, watching her close down the articles with quick and manicured claws.

"What would I do without you, eh?" He hummed out.

A chuckle flitted from her lips and he found himself entranced by the sound of it," I think you'd do well for yourself without me, sir." She reassured with a gentle voice and stepped away from the desk a little, turning to face him," would you like me to accompany you to your room?"

He blinked and then smirked," how forward of you, sweetheart." He cooed out with that sultry tone of his," Take me out to dinner first, yeah?"

She tilted her head to the side with an owlish blink,"... Would you like to go to dinner? Would that be a better form of stress relief for you that the first option?"

His mouth fell open with a shocked look as he stared at her, a little buffering symbol in the top right corner of his screen for a moment before it disappeared, a dark blush appearing on his face," f-fuck wait... w-were you suggesting we..."

"We have sex? Yes. I hear it's a rather fantastic way of stress relief and you are a rather sexually frustrated individual so it would-"

He place a hand over her mouth as he stood from his chair, basically towering over her.

There was a hungry look in his eyes as he let that charming grin twitch onto his lips," You're about the best damn fuckin' assistant I've ever had."

She smiled beneath his hand and grabbed onto his wrist gently, maneuvering it so she could place an oh-so-gentle kiss to his wrist whilst looking into his eyes," I'm honoured, sir." She hummed out in a sultry fashion.

Vox gulped, his self-control snapping, red leaking from his mouth," I'm gonna fuck the shit outta you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, sir."

▢ alastor ⍋

- Expressing your issues over a glass of giggle juice -

A sigh and a huff fell from her lips as she made her way into the hotel lobby, shoulders sagging from a long day of work.

There seemed to be nobody in the lobby as she walked over to the bar and poured herself out a glass of whiskey.

"Late-night drinking? That's not like you." The familiar static of Alastor graced her ears.

(Name) blinked and looked over to him, noticing how tensed his smile seemed. His eyes looked... genuinely exhausted. His ears flopped downwards ever so slightly.

"Looks like you should be joining me," She hummed back and grabbed another glass, wiggling it at him suggestively.

He watched it for a second before relaxing and grabbing it, sitting next to her at the bar and pouring the liquid. He took a sip with her and his smile seemed to curl in a more soft way now.

"Hm, I dare say my dear, that does just hit the spot doesn't it?" He hummed out, a more relaxed expression on his face.

"You can say that again. No wonder Husk is an alcoholic, I understand the appeal after having an awful day." She replied with a nod of agreement," yknow, sometimes I wish Hell was just a personal purgatory instead of me having to deal with other people's shit."

"Agreed. It gets tiring, doesn't it? Makes you want to go a little batshit insane, yes?" He said this with a polite tone of voice, ears perked up.

"I want to go on a murderous rampage every second of every day."

"We could join forces if it ever came to that. We would kill twice the amount of demons."

She grinned at him," how flattering. You'd go on a murder spree with me, Al?"

He pressed a hand to his heart to express his genuine sincerity," Dear, if I ever say no to a question like that then I give you my full and utter permission to kill me in the most brutal way you can think of." He replied honestly, and (name) didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned but she found herself laughing along anyways.

"What a charmer," She grinned at him brightly," You can be so romantic when you want to, hm?"

"Romance has nothing to do with it. It is merely etiquette." He tilted his head at her, resting it in the palm of his hand, expression seemingly brightened from just a conversation with her," what's got you so downtrodden?"

She deflated a little, smile tired," Overworked and under-appreciated for the work I do." She replied simply, taking a sip of her whiskey," I'll never smile again~" She sang sadly.

Alastor perked up at the familiar song," until I smile at youuu~" he serenaded, smile only widening at the sound of her amused laughter.

Then he looked her over, an almost disappointed glint in his eyes," I still wonder why you work for that insolent shitbox after all these years." His smile seemed to sharpen at the thought of Vox," He doesn't deserve you at all. Not a single bit."

(Name) shrugged," I'm helpless, what can I say?"

"You're not. You're a strong woman, (name). Stand up for yourself. And if you can't stand?" His eyes glowed sinisterly," Break his legs off so you can."

She stared on for a second before raising her glass," Most sound advice I've heard for years."

Alastor barked out an amused laugh and raised his hlass to hers, "For that compliment? I will break his legs for you if it is needed, darlin'. "

Clink went their glasses as they enjoyed each other's company for a while longer.

▢ lucifer morningstar ⚝

- Gentle caresses and positive affirmations -

"Okay so... meeting with the angels next week... then I have to call Michael- eugh cowabummer... then I have to-"

(Name) watched her friend flail around his office with a concerned frown on her lips, arms crossed over her chest.

He's been so stressed lately. He had that little break in between where he could just... chill.

And make his cute rubber duckies.

But now with everything in the hotel, he's had a lot more work on his shoulders. Specifically with Heaven, as unfortunate as that was.

She saw his claws scratching through his hair as he paced back and forth, as though he was entranced by all these... issues. He's so entranced he's forgotten she's there with him.

So she sighed and lifted herself from the wall and walked into his walk-cycle path, grabbing onto his shoulders before he could crash into her.

He blinked in surprise and met eyes with her, a dumbfounded expression on his face," Oh... Hey."

She smiled," Hey."

"Sorry, you've probably heard me complain enough lately. Your pretty ears must be burning with all the yapping-"

"Of course not, Lou..." She huffed out, interrupting him with a frown of disapproval. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his arms, rubbing gentle touches of comfort," I think you've got too much on your plate lately - you using me as an outlet to vent to is the least of my problems."

He deflated a little, a tiredly wry grin on his lips," You're... you're too nice, y'know that?"

"What? You'd rather I spit and degrade you~?" She flirted teasingly with a fanged grin.

"No thanks... for now." He then sighed and moved his head to rest on her chest, cheek smooshing against her collar bone," I need a vacation."

(Name) laughed as she threaded her fingers through his mussed-up hair gently and soothingly," You were basically on a vacation already, hon. Now's the time to get back to work. Put all those wonderful thoughts and dreams to good use."

He melted in her arms, closing his eyes slowly as he wrapped his arms around her waist. This felt more domestic than platonic, but the two of them were too focused on eachother to admit that.

"You'll stay, right? I like having you here." He mumbled tiredly," U-unless you don't wanna which I totally understand and a-accept... y'know, you don't have to be here if you don't want t-"

"Stop worrying you dummy." (Name) chuckled out,"... I'd love to stay here with you."

"Phew..." He huffed and grinned sharply," Good to hear... a-amazing to hear!... Y... you're the best."

"Don't I know it~!"

#alastor x y/n #alastor x you #alastor x reader #lucifer x y/n #lucifer x reader #lucifer x you #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #vox x y/n #vox x you #vox x reader #vox x valentino #im sad and tired #writing can only save me from the bleak reality that is life

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enthusiasticharry · 6 months ago

Text

the one where YN is the governess for Harry's children, and they cannot hide their growing affection for each other.

author's note: part one of governess!yn (who is my lil angel baby). after the love on good omens, i finally got my mojo back and i'm back with another work! pls be kind and definitely let me know what you think (and what you would like to see in part 2!)

word count: 12.4k of mutual pining (but they just don't know it yet), friends to lovers, employer/employee relationships going out of the window and meddling modistes!

WARNINGS: death during childbirth, child abandonment, parent death, death of a spouse (you have been warned)

let me know what you think of daisies here! mwah <3

YEAR ONE

“Noah!” YN called from where she sat on a picnic blanket on the house grounds, “Slow down, wait for your sister!”

“But Miss. YN,” The younger boy groaned, a second away from stomping his feet YN assumed, “She’s so slow.”

“Noah,” YN warned again with a tilt of her head, watching as the little boy stopped and waited for the even smaller girl behind him, “Thank you.”

YN loved her life.

Whilst YN had not had the easiest of upbringings in life, she had truly found her passion and calling in being a governess. The Styles household had not been the first family she had worked for – but they were her favourite. Noah, the six-year-old little boy, was bubbly, mischievous and had a penchant for teasing his younger sister made her life interesting every day. Honorah, who was just three years old was the complete opposite of her brother – quiet, sweet and the happiest little girl YN knew.

The family that YN had been with before were difficult to work with. There was an absent father and a mother who interfered with YN’s work too much for her liking so when Mr Styles asked her to come and work for his family – she did not even have to think about it. Mr Styles loved his children, but from what YN had heard – he had loved his wife too. Mrs. Styles had died during the birth of Honorah, and from what YN had experienced it had shaken the family.

YN had started working for the Styles about three months ago. Before, Mr. Styles had relied on his mother and his household staff to aid with the upbringing of his children. Unfortunately for them, his mother had been unable to continue helping in her old age and that was when they sought out help from YN.

“Miss. YN,” Honorah’s voice shook YN out of her daydream, “I picked this for you.”

“Thank you, Norah,” YN smiled, accepting the small daisy that the girl was holding out for her, “This is a lovely daisy.”

The girl sheepishly smiled, rocking on her feet slightly as she stood above the older woman. YN smiled, tapping the space on the blanket next to her for her to drop down.

“How about this…” YN smiled, pulling out some paper and pencils that she had packed in a basket and placing them in front of the girl, “I packed these for you, would you like to try and draw the daisy?”

Honorah nodded, accepting the paper and pencils from YN. The older woman watched with a smile on her face as the girl carefully placed the daisy down in front of her, her tongue slightly slipping out from her lips in concentration as she grabbed the pencil and started to sketch. In her peripheral vision, YN could see Noah chasing what looked to be a butterfly around some of the flowers in front of them.

YN loved the summer, and the Styles children did too it seemed. They had a perfectly good classroom spare in the house to use but when the weather was this lovely, YN saw no need to keep the children holed up within the four walls. They had completed spelling tests each earlier in the morning, and seeing as though it was a Friday, YN saw no need to overwork the children.

“Miss YN,” Noah screamed, running over to her with his hands clutched tightly in front of him, “I caught it!”

“You caught it?” YN’s eyes widened, trying to match the younger boy’s excitement, “What did you catch, Noah?”

“The butterfly I was chasing!” The younger boy’s words were followed by a giggle and a small shake of his shoulders, “It is tickling me.”

“That is probably because it is scared, Noah,” YN explained, placing the younger boy’s hands in hers, “Remember how small the butterfly is? Small enough to fit in your hand. Even though you are a little boy, you are big and scary to the butterfly.”

“Oh,” Noah’s face dropped, his shoulders dropping slightly, “I do not want to scare it.”

YN nodded, “Should we let it go?”

Noah nodded, accepting YN’s help when she cupped his hands and opened them and there was the butterfly. It immediately flew away from them, and Noah saw that as the opportunity to go chasing after it again, Honorah could not resist abandoning her drawing and running after her brother.

YN leant back on her hands lightly and watched as the scene unfolded in front of her. YN had come to terms with the fact that she would not have children of her own, and these two little ones filled that void. YN had been trained with people that she knew would not be the kindest of governesses and at most hated children and she swore she would never be like that. She had been dealt this life, but she was not going to let it change her.

“The last time he caught a bug it took us three hours to convince him to set it free,” YN jumped at the sound of Mr. Styles’ voice from the side of her, the man standing a few feet away from her with his hands in his pockets.

YN smiled, turning her attention back to the children, “I must admit I am surprised he gave it up so easily.”

Mr. Styles chuckled, his hand pointing to the blanket next to her, “May I join you?”

YN nodded, “Of course.”

She tried not to stare as he sat down. There was a decent amount of space between them, and whilst YN’s legs were curved to the side of her – Harry’s extended in front of him. YN would be lying if she said her employer was not attractive. Even with his mood which often reflected the tragedies he had experienced in his life – his features still stood out to YN. Mr. Styles was not shy about eye contact, and every time YN was under his gaze her heart fluttered – just as she was now.

YN looked out at the children who were now chasing each other around a tree, “They completed their spelling lessons an hour or so ago, and instead of keeping them indoors I thought this was a better way for them to spend their time.”

“I am in no position to criticise your methods, Miss YLN,” Mr. Styles nodded, a chuckle escaping his lips as he watched his son taunt his daughter from behind the tree, “If anything, this will ensure that bedtime goes smoothly.”

YN chuckled, watching as the children spotted their father and came bounding over to him. Noah immediately latched onto his father’s side, with Honorah wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Papa, did you see?” Noah’s beaming face almost shouted at his father, “I caught a butterfly! But I let it go because it was scared.”

“I did see, Noah,” Mr. Styles nodded, pulling down his son’s shirt that had rolled up at the back, “It was very nice of you to let it go.”

Noah nodded, obviously trying to suppress the smile on his face due to how his father was happy with him. Honorah, obviously feeling slightly left out of her father’s attention, picked up her half-finished daisy and passed it to him.

Even though YN knew the difficulties of making sure that each of the children had equal attention, Mr Styles did it so effortlessly. After YN’s first experience with a family, one in which she was sure that the father had no idea as to what his children’s names were – it was a lovely sight. He managed to ensure that each one of his children knew that they were loved, and he did everything he could to ensure that they did not feel the hole that the loss of their mother created.

“How about we go inside for supper?” Harry offered to the children, both of whom nodded their heads and scrambled to stand up.

YN took that as the opportunity to start packing up the things she had brought out with them and retire for the evening. Just as YN was about to fold up the blanket, Mr. Styles had already beaten her to it. He smiled at her as he offered the folded blanket to her, which she accepted with a nod of her head and placed it within the basket.

Just as she was about to turn and walk towards the house, Mr. Styles cleared his throat.

“Would you like to join us for supper?”

“Oh,” That stopped YN in her tracks immediately, “I… I should not…I would not want to intrude.”

“You would not be intruding,” Mr. Styles shook his head, “I am offering. There is no need for you to eat alone when you can dine with us.”

YN contemplated his words for a second or so before nodding with a small smile on her face, “Thank you.”

Walking side by side, the two adults followed the children as they ran ahead – a supper waiting inside for them.

For the last three weeks, YN had not eaten alone.

To anyone else, that may have not seemed a fate that would be something to be concerned about – but it was strange. It had started with the supper after the day in the garden with the children and had then been followed by an invitation to breakfast the next day.

YN supposed that it had been for ease, and even more so to allow for her teachings of the children to continue into the rest of the day rather than just to the previous allotted times. The only issue that YN had found with the new arrangement was how YN was being affected by the newly increased amount of time she was spending with Mr. Styles.

Throughout the day YN did not see much of him (just like before) as he tended to retreat to his study to take care of the estate and any other issues that may be presented before him. During mealtimes, however, Mr. Styles now took his place to the left of her at the dining table.

Their conversations never strayed far from the weather, food or most likely the children. Whilst it was strange for YN to join them for these meals, there was a slight comfort that was now found between the two of them. YN never saw Harry converse with friends or leave the house late at night to engage with mistresses which had been a favourite pastime of the previous husband she worked for. A part of YN just assumed that maybe he was lonely, and a conversation with someone that was above the age of six was something that he wished for.

There was also a side of YN that missed the quiet that eating alone gave her. It allowed her time to pause and think. Whilst she loved her job, and she loved the children more than anything YN often wondered what her life would have been like if things were different.

Similarly to the Styles children, YN’s mother had died in childbirth. She had known nothing of her but that information. Her father, a gentleman from the city had remarried almost immediately and his new wife had wanted nothing to do with YN – so she had been abandoned at an orphanage. It was only due to her father’s lineage (even though she had not the faintest idea of who he was) that she had not been made to work, and instead had been trained to be a governess.

YN often wondered what would have happened if that was not the case, if she had not been abandoned in the way she had. She could have been married and had children of her own by now. At the age she was (eight and twenty) the only way in which she could even register the thought of getting married was to a businessman in the village, and yet she did not venture into the village long enough for that to even be a possibility. These thoughts would swirl around YN’s head, just as they were doing now, but then she would be reminded of how fulfilled she was in this role and none of these thoughts would matter.

Whilst YN would often brush these thoughts out of her head, there was a slight comfort in imaging what her life could have been.

YN sat on the steps outside of the residence, a cup filled with tea next to her and the light summer’s breeze a comfort to her. It was deep into the night, and there had not been movement in the house for a few hours and YN was at peace. Dressed in just her nightgown and shawl, the only comfort to her being the silence and the night sky – YN was happy. This time, whilst it had become few and far between recently was the time that she cherished.

“It is a lovely night.”

YN jumped out of her skin at the sound of Mr. Styles’ voice behind her, just as she had done in the garden a few weeks ago. With a hand pressed firmly on her chest in hopes of calming her heart rate down, she turned to look at the man.

“Mr. Styles,” YN gasped, her hand still clutching her chest, “I am afraid you quite terrified me.”

“I apologise,” He offers her a smile, “I heard footsteps earlier and I thought it was the children, but then I saw you sitting out here, and I am now assuming it was you.”

“I apologise,” YN was quick to insert, unable to hide her embarrassment at the situation, “I had no intention of disturbing you.”

“I am most certain you did not,” He pointed to the space on the step next to her, as though asking her permission to sit down and she nodded, watching as he dropped down next to her, “In fact, you were very quiet, it is just me who is a light sleeper. Since my wife…I became the one who had to listen out for the children.”

YN’s body froze when she heard Harry mention his wife. It had been Mr. Styles’ mother who had initially told her about the death of Mrs. Styles. YN had never heard Harry even mention her. She had not a single idea as to whether he spoke to the children about her. She assumed that whilst he may not speak about her now, he must at some point speak to them. YN knew what it was like to have not met a mother, and she knew the pain that it causes and would certainly not ever wish that upon anyone else – especially not those darling children.

“We had another eventful day in the garden today,” YN explained, “I attempted to teach the children how to play pall mall with the old set I found but we instead ended up with a game of cat and mouse – and I am therefore not surprised that they are worn out.”

Harry chuckled, “My family and I used to play pall mall when I was a boy. I had hoped that I would get around to teaching them, but I never had.”

YN’s eyes immediately widened, “I apologise if I overstepped Mr. Styles – I was merely attempting to make use of the day.”

“No, no do not apologise,” Mr. Styles shook his head, “I heard their joyful glees earlier in the day – I would allow for anything to continue to hear those sounds.”

YN wrapped her arms around her knees, bringing them closer to her chest, “I know that I have given you this information before, but you do have two beautiful children, Mr. Styles.”

Mr Styles’ face beamed a smile, as though he was proud to be hearing such information. If YN had heard this information about her children she would not have been prouder to be a parent. Mr. Styles’ face reflected that.

“I wish I could take all of the credit but indeed I cannot,” Mr. Styles sighed, a hand running over his face, “Norah, is, well… she is exactly like her namesake. My wife was sweet, gentle, and kind. She was inquisitive, just as Noah is. Unfortunately for him, he may have inherited my unfortunate mischievous side which I had as a child.”

YN chuckled slightly before offering him a small smile, “It must be lovely to see her in them. To know that she is still here, in them.”

Mr. Styles hesitated. YN’s heart dropped, the fear that she had overstepped coursing through her veins.

“Mr. Styles, I apologise,” YN’s chest started to rise up and down, this time from the nerves rather than being scared, “I completely overstepped. I did not mean to offend you.”

Mr. Styles shook his head, “You did not, and please forget the formalities – call me Harry.”

YN nodded, “I am still sorry if I offended you, Harry.”

“You did not, YN, I can promise you that,” Harry offered her a smile which settled any of the woman that might have still harboured, “In truth, you are correct. Whilst she is no longer with us, I see her face every day. I see the aspects of her that I fell in love with day after day. Whilst it does not fill the hole of what we have lost, it offers a sense of comfort that I am more appreciative of than words could ever explain.”

A comfortable silence loomed over the two of them, the words that had just been spoken dancing around them, invading their thoughts. It was at this point that YN felt her sense of loss wash over her.

“I, uh, well…” YN offered Harry a sad smile, “My mother died giving birth to me too. I do not wish to bore you with the details, but I did not have a father looking out and loving me in the way that you do. Your children will be grateful in the future for that – I promise you.”

Harry nodded, “I am ever so sorry for your loss, YN.”

YN shrugged, “It was a long time ago now, Harry. Whilst I do not advocate the idea that wounds heal with time, I suppose that the effects of such become easier to deal with.”

“I tell them stories of her every night,” Harry offers her a small smile, “I will not allow them to forget her.”

“Then that is all that you can do.”

YEAR TWO

“I do so wish that I could dress you proper, Miss YN,” Miss Francis, the modiste, spoke as she continued to pin the dress on YN’s body.

YN chuckled, “I do not need them, Miss Francis. It would be a waste of an expense.”

The older lady sighed, continuing to pin the length on YN’s new-day dress. It was in a delightful lilac, trimmed with lace that around the cuffs and soon to be the hem.

“But you would look so gorgeous adorned in the latest fashions,” YN sighed but allowed Miss Francis to continue, “I do not know if you have heard, but Mr Jacobs’ son is looking for a wife.”

YN sighed and shook her head, “You know that I do not entertain myself with the idle gossip of the village.”

“Well, I for one believe you should,” Miss Francis stood up, her eyes focusing directly on YN, “You have done your duty as a governess, and I am sure the Styles’ are nothing but grateful for your service but there is a time where one must think for themself.”

YN shook her head, not allowing her words to infiltrate her mind at all, “I would never betray my role. Those children need me… Mr. Styles –”

“Mr Styles can find another governess at the drop of a hat,” Miss Francis sighed, “I am sure that if an advertisement went out today there would be a line from here to London hoping for the role.”

YN scoffed and shook her head, “We both know that is an exaggeration.”

“From here to Manchester, then,” Miss Francis corrected.

YN sighed and stepped off the podium, allowing Miss Francis to help her remove the dress on her body and return to the gown she had arrived in. Today the children had gone with Mr Styles to his mother’s house, something that they did every so often and allowed for YN to have a day just to herself. It was a rarity, and in some parts, YN was thankful to receive these days but sometimes she truly did just miss the children. She would also be lying if she said that she did not miss Harry.

In the last year that she had worked for him, she would say that their relationship grew to what YN would deem as a friendship, to more than just an employer-employee relationship. That in itself was something she cherished alongside the life that he had given her. They still ate meals together with the children, and more often than not in their alone time she would find herself in his company. Even if the room was quiet – they would be together.

To anyone looking in, their situation would seem strange. In all honesty – it was. But no matter how strange the situation, YN would not change it for the world.

“I am happy just the way I am, Miss Francis,” YN smiled at the woman, “I do not need to change anything.”

The older lady just scoffed, “Well, if you are ever to change your mind I would be happy to arrange a meeting.”

YN just shook her head, “I promise that shall never be the case.”

It was at this point that YN could tell that the older woman was slightly annoyed with her, “I shall send your gown to the Styles residence when it is ready.”

“Thank you, Miss Francis,” YN smiled, “Do not be too angry with me.”

“I am not,” Miss Francis shook her head, “I just wish that one day you realise your full potential, my dear.”

YN left the modiste with her brain spinning with the words that Miss Francis had said. It was not that she was taking account of anything that Miss Francis said about marriage because she knew that was not on the cards for YN. She had made her peace with that a long time ago. It was more so that YN was struggling to decipher what the older woman meant by saying that she had not met her full potential.

All of her life, YN knew that her only job in life was going to be a governess. The orphanage had made that very clear to her, and fortunately for YN – it was also something that she enjoyed. That was her potential. That was the start of it, and that was the end of it. There was nothing else that anyone could say to change that.

It began the age-old question discussion again. It started YN’s spiral as to when she would think about what life could have been like if certain things were different. Then, no matter how much she would imagine what her life could have been like – she always circles back to right now and how this was where she wanted to be.

Sighing, YN stepped out from the side of the building and onto the road in hopes of crossing it and continuing her journey home. Just as she was about to step out, a hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her back by the side of the building. It was just as she had been pulled back that a carriage went riding past her, too fast for the speed of a normal carriage.

It was only then that YN realised that whoever the person was who had pulled her out of the way of the carriage had pretty much just saved her life.

“Oh,” YN sighed, her hand lifting to rest again on her chest – her heart rate rising once more.

“Are you okay, miss?” The saviour asked, his hand reaching out to touch her arm.

For the first time, YN’s eyes turn to meet the man and they widen. He was tall, and the only word that YN would have to describe him would be rugged. But in between all of that ruggedness, he was handsome, and YN was not ashamed to admit that.

“I am fine,” YN offered him a small smile, “I… Thank you for that. I fear I was not paying much attention to my surroundings.”

“I gathered that,” YN’s eyebrows furrowed at him, “From the way you ignored my calls for you to stop.”

“I, uh, I did not hear you,” YN chuckles, “I was just…”

“Not paying much attention,” He chuckles.

It was then that YN realised that her hands were shaking. In the adrenaline of it all, she supposed that her near-death experience was finally catching up with her body.

“I… I, uh, thank you for… saving me,” YN nodded, pointing across the road, “But I must be getting home.”

“Allow me to fetch a carriage for you, miss?” YN shook her head at the gentleman’s offer.

“No, I cannot, but thank you,” YN gave him a small smile, “I would very much prefer to walk.”

“Then allow me to escort you,” The man continued to press, obviously not wanting to take her no for an answer, “Just to ensure you are out of the path of any other carriages.”

YN chuckled but again shook her head, “Sir, even if I was to say yes I know better than to accept offers from strangers.”

The man offered her a smile, “Well, that is an issue that is immediately fixable – Mr Jacobs, it is lovely to make your acquaintance Miss…”

“…YLN,” YN chuckles, realising by the second that this man was insanely stubborn, “But I assure you, Mr Jacobs, I am perfectly capable of walking myself home.”

“Well, Miss YLN,” Mr Jacobs presses, “How about instead of me walking you home it turns out that the two of us are just walking in the same direction.”

YN tilts her head at the man, “I fear that may be worse.”

“Yes,” The man laughs, unable to stop himself, “I knew that the minute I said so.”

There must have been something that made it so that once Miss Francis had mentioned this man to her she would meet him. YN would not say that she believed in fate, but this was certainly an odd coincidence.

“Whilst I am not saying yes to your offer,” YN started, offering the man a small smile, “I suppose I cannot stop you from joining me if you do so wish, Mr Jacobs.”

“Very well,” He opened his arm out in the direction she had been walking in, “After you, miss.”

YN makes it obvious that she double-checks whether or not any carriages are coming down the road before she attempts to cross it. Her heart has calmed down, as well as the shaking in her hands but in all honesty she would rather curl up with a book and relax.

“Seeing as though we are walking in the same direction, would it be improper of me to ask you a question or two?” Mr Jacobs prompted from the side of her.

“I would say that I owe you as much,” YN sighed, offering him a small smile, “Seeing as though I could have been in a very different situation if it was not for you.”

Mr Jacobs laughs, “Yes, I must admit saving one from a carriage is a much better play.”

YN shrugged, “Ask away.”

YN was surprised. The conversation, barring the near-death experience, seemed to flow with ease. More often than not, YN found herself laughing. Whilst she loved the conversations that she had with Harry, and she would say that he was her best friend within this world – it was nice to converse with someone who did not necessarily know her.

Whilst it had been nice (as it always is) to play make-believe for a little while, she knew that the second the turn-off for the Styles estate came into view she would have to return to her reality.

YN stopped just at the turning, and Mr Jacobs had not anticipated this as he continued to walk. She cleared her throat, and that was when he stopped and turned around – his eyebrows furrowing at her stopped movements.

“This is me,” She pointed down the road.

He pointed down the road, “The Styles estate?”

“Yes,” YN nodded, lifting her hand to brush her hair out of her face, “I… I am their governess. I work with the Styles children.”

“Oh,” Mr Jacobs seemed to relax slightly, “An honest profession, I must say.”

YN just smiled, “I do appreciate you walking with me, and also not allowing the carriage to run me over.”

Mr Jacobs shook his head, “Do not mention it – I would do it over again if you needed.”

YN opened her mouth but shut it again almost immediately. YN just decided to offer him a smile instead.

“Well, thank you again,” YN pointed down the path, “I must go but I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

Mr Jacobs nodded, “As I wish you do too,” YN turned and started to walk down the path when his voice called out again, “Stay out of the way of any carriages!”

YN could not help the chuckle that left her lips at his words.

The second that YN had returned to the house she had dropped down in the drawing room and stayed there. The house was still silent, letting YN know that neither the children nor Mr Styles were back at the house, and surprisingly to her YN was thankful for that.

Near-death experience aside, YN had enjoyed herself. It was always a pleasure to see Miss Francis (even though she enjoyed meddling more than anything) but the real shock of the day had been her walk and subsequent conversation with Mr Jacobs.

The issue that YN found herself in was that the bridge between her thoughts and her reality had started to merge. From one conversation YN could not presume that she was going to marry the man and she was certainly in no place to do that – but she could not say that the prospect was not there.

YN could have been sat there for an hour, or maybe even five by the time that she was knocked out of her daydreaming. She had not even heard Harry walk into the room and it was only when he moved to stand in front of her was when she realised that he had returned.

“I have been looking for you everywhere,” He sighed, dropping down on the settee just next to her, “Did you not hear me calling your name?”

“I seem to be doing that a lot lately,” YN sighed, offering him a small smile but saying no more.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, confused by the state that she was now in which was very different from the one that he had left her in this morning.

“That was not ominous at all,” Harry stated as though it was the most obvious thing, but YN seemed to be paying no attention, “Are you going to give me an explanation at all?”

“I was nearly hit by a carriage today.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes widened, his body immediately leaning towards her, “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

“No, no I’m fine,” YN shook her head, leaning back on the seat she was on, “I am just…”

YN’s sentence trailed off and then she did not say a single thing. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed again, and he decided then that he did not believe her, “Are you sure you were not injured? You did not bang your head or anything?”

“Harry, I did not hit my head!” The exclaimed rather loud, earning a laugh from Harry from across the room, “I am perfectly okay.”

The silence washed over them again. YN’s eyes continued looking forward, out of the window and to where the trees were slightly swaying in the breeze. She could hear the children squealing throughout the rest of the house, and she was reminded that they were probably happy from spending the day with their grandmother.

“How was your day?” YN asked, still not looking away from the window, “How did the children enjoy it?”

“They loved it, as they always do,” Harry shrugged off their questioning, “But, and promise me you will not be angry with me –”

“Harry, we both know that if you start a sentence with that I am probably going to be angry with you.”

“I know this but still, I have to ask,” Harry sighed, “Are you positive you are okay?”

YN went silent, her hands messing with a loose thread of fabric on her dress. Harry looked at her, still unable to figure out why on earth she was acting so strangely.

“Do you ever think of marriage?”

Harry’s mouth opened once, before shutting again. He then sighed, and then the realisation of what had been said washed over her and her eyes found his.

“Harry, I am so sorry,” YN shook her head, completely unable to understand why on earth she would have said that, “I should not have said that, God, I do not understand why I said it.”

“No,” Harry shook his head, “I must admit I was a little shocked but do not apologise. My mother had a lot to say about marriage earlier today.”

“She did?”

Harry nods with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “She just mentioned how beneficial it would be for Noah and Norah if they had a mother in their lives. And when I say mentioned, I mean brought up every other sentence.”

YN chuckled. She would be lying if she said she did not love Harry’s mother. She was lovely, and just a ray of sunshine. Whilst she had not experienced having a mother in her life, she did have some idea as to what it would have been like to have a meddling mother. She also had the experiences with Miss Francis, and she gathered that it must have been something like that.

“So, you have considered it?” YN asked, her fingers still pulling on the thread of her dress.

“No, I would not say that,” Harry shook his head, “I would not say consider, but rather had the idea in my head for a few seconds before removing it altogether.”

YN laughed, “I honestly do not blame you for such.”

“Have you…” Harry’s eyes found her, “Thought about it?”

“I do, sometimes,” YN shrugs her shoulders, “I would not say very often but sometimes I find myself doing the same as you. I think about it, and then I remove it from my brain.”

YN laughs, but Harry does not join her. Once she realises her laughter drowns out, she finds herself under his gaze. She should not be so surprised that someone she has lived with for almost two years now knows her so well, but it still shocked her. Just as it had done earlier on in the day, YN found herself unable to stop the increasing of her heart rate. It was silly. He had not even said anything to her, and yet she was completely and utterly a mess under his gaze. It should not be like this, and yet it was.

“It is not unnatural to think about marriage, YN,” Harry says, and YN can tell that every single word he was saying was sincere and he believed true, “Whilst as your employer I should be saying to you not to marry because my children and I… they need you, I cannot in good conscience say that. If marriage is what you wish – then nothing should stop you from doing so. As your friend, I would even go as far as to say that any deserving man would be lucky to have you as his wife.”

YN was silent, taking in his words with nothing but shock swirling around her head. To hear him say those words, as well as the look his face held whilst he said them shook YN to her core.

“Harry I…” YN shook her head, attempting to not focus on the tears that were starting to collect in her waterline and more so on her breathing.

Harry cleared his throat, attempting to mask the awkwardness that now loomed over them, “I apologise if I spoke out of turn, YN.”

“No, you did not,” YN shook her head, “And I appreciate everything you have said, Harry, I truly do but… today must have just been a lapse in my judgement. I would be lying if I said that I am not happy here because I truly am.”

YN’s face could not help the smile that crossed her features at the sight of the one across Harry’s lips.

“I truly do not believe that I could have asked for a better life, and you are the one I have to thank for that.”

Harry just nodded, “Whilst as your employer I am more than happy to hear those words, as your friend I am just delighted that I have managed to help you in this way.”

YN smiled, finally feeling as though whatever mood she had found herself in after today had been brushed off. She stood up, her eyes catching Harry’s as she motioned her head towards the door.

“Let us go find your children and get them ready for bed before they terrorise the rest of the staff.”

Harry laughs and stands up, following YN out of the room and towards the sound of children’s laughter down the hall.

YEAR THREE

“Noah, it is not appropriate to throw food at your sister,” YN warned from her seat next to Harry.

The little boy did not seem to care about her warnings and continued to load grapes onto his spoon and launch them at his sister.

“Noah,” Harry was the one to warn the little boy this time, “Pass me the spoon?”

Harry held his hand out for the spoon. Noah continued to hold the spoon, his eyes darting between his father and the grapes set out in front of him. Harry just raised his eyebrow at his son who sighed and placed the spoon in his father’s hand. YN watched as the boy picked up the grape and without his spoon launched it at his sister.

“That is it, Noah,” Harry shook his head, “If you carry on with this behaviour you will be staying here instead of going to your Grandmother’s house tomorrow.”

That was all that the little boy needed to drop the grape that he had picked up and sit up straight in his seat. YN pursed her lips in hopes of suppressing the giggle that was attempting to escape her lips at the child’s antics.

“How about the two of you go to the classroom and wait for Miss. YN?” Harry asked, a smile present on his lips, “I just need to have a quick word.”

YN nodded, wiping her hands on her napkin, and placing it on the table next to her plate. YN watched with a smile as the children started a race upstairs to the classroom. YN knew that they were going to be a handful today as they always were when they were going to see their grandmother. It was as though the excitement of waiting for tomorrow was too much for them.

“Is something the matter?” YN asked, taking a sip of her tea.

“I had a question to ask you,” Harry started, “It is about tomorrow.”

“Oh,” YN smiled, “Do you mean your birthday? Something about your birthday?”

Harry sighed, shaking his head and the girl giggled. YN knew that Harry did not enjoy his birthday and that made it ever so easy to tease him.

“It is unfortunately something about my birthday,” Harry sighed, “Even though I am not supposed to know, I do know that my mother is throwing a ball for my birthday tomorrow night. She has tried to for the past few years, and I asked her to wait, and she has.”

“That should be lovely,” YN smiled, “I have heard from others how enjoyable your mother’s balls are. I hope you have a lovely time, no matter how much you hate it.”

Harry shook his head, knowing that he would be unable to stop the girl’s teasing, “I was wondering whether you wanted to join me? At the ball?”

YN’s eyes widen. That was certainly not what she was expecting him to say. YN thought that she would do what she normally does when Harry and the children go to his mother’s house which was have a day to herself. She honestly would never have thought would be what he was going to say to her, and yet here he was asking her this.

“Harry I…” YN shook her head, “I… even if I did, I do not have anything to wear.”

“That is an easy rectifiable issue,” Harry sighed with a smile on her face, “I will take the children for a few hours this afternoon so that you can go and see Miss Francis.”

“I do not… how will she even manage to…”

Harry shook his head, “Please stop your worrying, there is no need for it. Do not worry about the cost or the timing for I am sure that Miss Francis will be happy to do this for you to attend the ball.”

YN just shook her head, “I shall be so out of place, Harry.”

Harry placed his hand on the table, leaning forward to offer a comforting look, “No you will not. You will be with me, and I am positive some of your acquaintances from the village shall be there. And even if they are not, it is my birthday, and you are my best friend, and I will not go unless you are there.”

YN sighed and shook her head, “You will upset your mother by doing that.”

“You will upset me by not coming,” Harry retorts quickly.

YN sighs, and nods her head, “Will you send word to Miss Francis that I shall be coming to see her later?”

Harry beams a smile at his friend and nods, “I will do so immediately.”

A few hours later YN was standing in front of Miss Francis with an already complete dress on her body. YN was shocked, and confused as to why there was an already complete garment ready for her but then she remembered Miss Francis’ penchant for meddling and the fact that Harry knew that she would not have been able to say no to him.

“When Mr Styles sent word of the ball a few weeks or so ago, I knew that this fabric would be perfect for you,” Miss Francis explained as she pinned the hem of the dress for the girl.

YN’s mouth opened in shock as the older woman’s words registered in YN’s head, “I saw you just a week ago to alter my winter dresses and you made no mention of the ball.”

The older woman’s face broke out in a smile, “Mr Styles wished for it to remain a secret and who am I not to oblige?”

Even though YN was pretending to be annoyed with the woman, she was sort of pleased that she had only been told about the ball the day before. Whilst the children had known they had been going to their grandmother's for the last few weeks and each day they had become more and more excited, YN would not have experienced that. If YN had found out about the ball at any time before today, she knew that she would have convinced herself not to go. Finding out so late and knowing that a dress had already been made for her – there was no way that she could convince herself not to do so.

“This gown is truly beautiful, Miss Francis,” YN smiled, “You truly have outdone yourself.”

“I have said to you all along my dear, if you allowed me to dress you in the latest fashions you could have suitors lining outside the door.”

YN sighed and shook her head. Since YN’s conversation with Harry last year after her near-death experience with a carriage, she had not even thought about marriage. When she had said that she was happy during that conversation – she had truly meant it. She was happy in her current situation, and she would not change it for the world.

But, seeing herself in this dress she would be completely and utterly lying to herself if the thought had not crossed her mind one more time. This could have been her life if things were different – these outfits, and balls could have been her day-to-day life. But, there were balls, and these dresses were now her day-to-day in this life and to her that meant everything.

“I must admit, Miss Francis, I am completely out of my depth with this entire thing.”

Miss Francis just shook her head, “Do not worry, my dear. There is no pressure on you, at all. At most, you will have a few drinks, some sweet, possibly a dance if you are lucky and that is it.”

YN sighed with a chuckle, “Goodness, I have not danced in years.”

Miss Francis placed a comforting hand on YN’s arm, “As long as you do not stand on your partners’ feet, I believe you shall be okay.”

“That is easier said than done, Miss Francis.”

The older woman aided YN out of the gown and into her previous outfit so that she could make the last amendments to her gown.

“If I were you, every time that you find yourself nervous, or without somebody to talk to I would just remind yourself of why you are there – because Mr Styles is your friend, and he wishes you there.”

YN reached out to grab Miss Francis’ hand and give it a gentle squeeze, “Thank you. If anything, I am lucky that you are my friend.”

Miss Francis held up her finger as if to delay that thought for a second and moved into the back room. She came out with a wooden box in hand, unlocked the clasp and passed it to YN.

“This belonged to my mother. It was a family heirloom of sorts,” Miss Francis explained, “I always thought that I would pass it to my children, but that never came to be. I wish for you to have them, and to wear them tomorrow.”

YN gasped as she opened the box, placing her hand on her chest as she peered at the matching diamond necklace and earrings that were inside. YN had seen the jewellery that many members of society wore, and whilst this was not like that – YN preferred it more. The earrings were modest, with a tiny diamond falling from a gold stud and the necklace matched. It was beautiful, and it was timeless.

“Miss Francis, I do not know what to say,” YN shook her head, “I cannot accept this.”

“You can, and you will,” The older woman nodded, “You are the closest thing that I have to a daughter in this world, and this is your first ball, and you deserve to show yourself off.”

YN chuckled through the tears that were collecting in her waterline, shut the box containing the jewels and wrapped her arms around the older lady. Miss Francis laughed in obvious shock at the girl’s antics.

“I do not know how to thank you,” YN muttered into the woman’s shoulder.

“Do not thank me,” Miss Francis shook her head, “Just promise me that you will have a good time and enjoy yourself.”

“I promise,” YN nodded.

YN had never felt more out of place in her entire life.

She knew that the way that she had grown up was different to those in society, but being surrounded by them in the way she was truly allowed YN to realise how much of that was true.

YN did not even know where to begin.

That was how she ended up standing, hovering by the wall as people mingled and danced around her. She had arrived with Harry earlier in the day but had left the family alone to celebrate with each other. Once she had joined the festivities of the ball, she still had not seen the birthday boy. Of course, he could have been anywhere in this room and YN would have missed him entirely due to the amount of people there.

With a sigh, YN’s eyes fluttered around the room until she spotted Harry and his mother walking into the room. YN would be lying if she said that the smile adorned on his face did not cause a matching one on hers. He truly did look happy. His eyes were wide, and his cheeks were red, and YN wondered whether or not he had some liquid courage before joining the party. YN could not blame him and chuckled to herself at the thought.

“Miss YLN,” YN jumped out of her skin slightly at the sound of a voice next to her, but relaxed when she saw that it was only Mr Jacobs, “Is something amusing you?”

“Oh, no,” YN shook her head with a small shrug, “Just an amusing thought, that is all.”

Mr Jacobs just hummed, “I must admit, it is nice to see you. When I received the invitation for the evening I did wonder whether or not you were going to make an appearance, and I am happy that you did.”

YN just smiled, dropping her head slightly. She had not seen Mr Jacobs (or thought about him at that) since the almost fatal carriage incident day. It amused YN to no end that had not been the case for Mr Jacobs, and he had thought about her. Maybe she left more of an impression on people than she had thought.

Mr Jacobs looked around the room and cleared his throat, “How are you enjoying yourself so far?”

YN chuckled again, “I would be withholding the truth if I did not say I am slightly overwhelmed, but, I must admit there has been a lovely turnout to celebrate Mr Styles’ birthday.”

Mr Jacobs just hummed again, “That itself is not surprising.”

YN’s eyebrows furrowed in the man’s direction, “And why would that be?”

Mr Jacobs lifted the glass he held in his hand up to his lips and shrugged, “I heard that Mrs Styles extended invitations to every eligible lady in the county, as well as a few from London, seeing as though Mr Styles wishes to take a wife.”

YN nearly choked on her spit at his words but attempted to cover it up in hopes of not raising any questions. This was the first that she had heard of this subject. The last time that she and Harry had conversed on this subject he had made it painfully aware that he was not thinking at all of marriage. Of course, that conversation had been almost a year ago and his intentions could have changed since then. The only question that floated around in YN’s brain was – if so, why had he not said anything to her?

“Oh,” YN faked a laugh, “Well that does make sense. If Mr Styles wants to marry again, he should ensure that he makes the correct choice.”

Mr Jacobs’ eyebrows furrow, “You did not know that he was looking for another bride?”

YN lightly shook her head, “I am not shocked, though. I am only his governess, he does not have to discuss such important, personal matters with me.”

“I just thought that since you had been invited to the ball perhaps you were friends,” Mr Jacobs pressed, confusing YN slightly.

“To a degree, yes,” YN nodded, “But not to the degree of discussing these matters, I suppose.”

Mr Jacobs nodded, finished his drink, and placed his glass down on the table behind them. YN had hoped by that point their conversation would be over, and she could go back to watching the room – but that was not to be the case. YN was admittingly shocked when Mr Jacobs extended his hand out before her.

“Miss YLN,” He spoke, a small smile etching across his features, “Would you do me the honour of joining me in the next dance?”

“Oh,” YN shook her head, “Thank you, Mr Jacobs but I will have to politely refuse – I have not danced since I was a child.”

“Well,” Mr Jacobs shrugged, “To me, it seems there is no time like the present to start again.”

YN watched from over his shoulder as other couples began to migrate to the dancefloor. Exhaling a nervous breath, YN nodded and placed her hand into Mr Jacobs’. He led her towards the dancefloor, and they somehow ended up directly in the middle. Her eyes fluttered to the left and the right of her before they settled directly in front. Mr Jacobs offered her a smile, and that was seemingly all it took for her nerves to dissipate almost completely.

The music started, and they danced.

What YN could not see as she moved around the room, her hand tightly placed in Mr Jacobs was the two eyes watching her from across the room. Harry had been speaking to one of the many ladies that his mother had invited without his knowledge (he will remember this for next time) when he saw them. There was not a possible way that he could have missed her. When he had instructed Miss Francis to make her a dress, he knew that the older woman would succeed at making it beautiful but the only word that seemed to stand out in his head was breathtaking.

Harry tried to listen to the conversation he was in, but he could not. The only thing he could pay attention to was how she floated around the dance floor. She was smiling, an indication to him that she was enjoying herself. At one point he even saw her share a laugh with Mr Jacobs, a man that Harry knew of but not very well. A wave of longing washed over him, a longing for that to have been him.

“Mr Styles!” A voice called from the side of him, “Mr Styles?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, turning back to the lady who had grown impatient at the expense of his distraction, which was now finishing thankfully.

“I asked whether or not you enjoyed dancing?”

Harry’s eyes caught YN walking over towards the refreshment table, alone, and he saw this as his opportunity. He excused himself from the lady, who stood there in shock and watched as he walked away. Harry made a beeline for the refreshment table, ignoring any calls of his name the entire way there.

YN had just picked up a glass to take a sip when she felt someone beside her. She turned, saw that it was Harry and smiled – only for that smile to drop when she saw the expression on his face. The once smiley Mr Styles had been replaced with a look of sadness. It concerned YN to no end.

“Harry?” She dropped the drink back down on the table, “Is everything okay?”

He sighed, “I require some air. Would you care to join me?”

YN just nodded, knowing that he was probably wanting to talk to her more than have some air. Saying that, the room was quite stuffy with the amount of bodies occupying it so she would not be shocked. She followed him through the house until they could slip out of the back door. There was a chill in the air, seeing as though it was February, but that was not the important thing right now.

YN stood by the door, hoping to guard herself from the child slightly as she watched Harry pace in front of her. With each step, she grew more concerned for the man.

“You are worrying me now, Harry,” She started, her voice turning to a slight plead, “Would you please tell me what is wrong?”

Harry sighed and stopped his pacing before turning and walking so he was standing just a few feet from the girl.

“If you wish to marry Mr Jacobs then you should do so.”

YN feels as though all of the air has been sucked out of her body. Her heart begins to beat uncontrollably – the only sound she can hear is her heartbeat throughout her body. Out of everything that she thought he was going to say, that had certainly not been it. She could not even imagine why it had made him act in this way.

“Harry, I…” YN shook her head, unable to hold back her laugh, “That is… I had not even… I only danced with the man Harry.”

Harry shook his head, “I need you to know that if you wish to marry him, then you should.”

YN laughed again, “Harry you are being preposterous! You cannot just go around saying things such as that! But, seeing as though you have said such things, I would like to reiterate all of the information which you already know – I am happy just as I am, with you and with the children.”

Harry sighs, “You do not have to lie to me, YN. I can take the truth.”

“By this display of emotions Harry I find that very hard to believe,” She shakes her head once more, “And even so, I am not lying to you. I merely offered a dance, and I accepted and whilst I do not have the most experience with balls – I have gathered that this is something that usually happens at them!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at YN once more, and that is when she noticed that his chest was heaving just as much as hers was. The more that they were standing staring at each other, the more confused YN became. That all came to a head when Harry turned and walked away from her, walking into the house without a single second look at her.

YN watched him as he walked away, and she was overwhelmed with the want to cry. She took a deep breath, lifting her hand to rest a hand on her chest in an attempt to calm her breathing. YN took a few steps away from the house so that she could rest against the wall surrounding the steps, the chill in the air the last of the worries.

YN sighed, lifting her hand to her forehead in hopes that would help regain even an ounce of or so of calm again. It was no use though as all she could think about was Harry, and what was the reason behind his sudden outburst of emotion.

“Oh, Miss YLN,” YN lifted her head at the sound of her name, “Are you quite alright?”

There was a part of YN that wanted to groan slightly at the fact that Mr Jacobs had somehow found her even admits the festivities. Instead of groaning, however, YN, found herself offering him a smile.

“I am fine,” She nodded, “Just needed a breath of fresh air.”

Mr Jacobs nodded, approaching where she was sitting on the wall. She did feel bad for the man, seeing as though he was the cause of so much turmoil and yet he had no idea of it. At the end of the day, Mr Jacobs had technically done nothing wrong, and she could not blame the man for something that was between herself and Harry.

He dropped down on the wall with an adequate space next to her and ran his hands over his trousers, “I did wish to ask you something after our dance, before I realised you had disappeared.”

YN just nodded, “Of course, Mr Jacobs.”

“I do not wish for you to read too far into this, Miss YLN, but I do enjoy your company,” Mr Jacobs started, “And, even though I had wanted to do this the last time I saw you I knew it would be inappropriate, but now I do not think the same.”

“Mr Jacobs, you do not have to justify yourself to me,” YN offered him a small smile, “Please, ask whatever it is you would like.”

Mr Jacobs nodded, “Would you care to join me for a promenade tomorrow?”

For the second time in a short period, YN found herself short of breath. She could not believe how these declarations were coming one after the other.

YN knew that if she lingered on the thought too much she would lose herself or talk herself out of it. She supposed, in deciding for herself for once she nodded her head at Mr Jacobs.

“I would very much like that.”

YEAR FOUR

“Do you think Father is scared of bees, Miss YN?” Noah asked, holding YN’s hand as they walked back towards the house.

YN shrugged her shoulders slightly, “I do not know, Noah, you should ask him yourself.”

The little boy nodded, “I do not wish for them to sting me, but I would not say that I am scared of them – not like Norah is.”

The little girl’s head perked up at the sound of her name, “I am not afraid! I just do not like them very much.”

YN chuckled at the discussion between the small children. They both pulled away from YN once they reached the steps to the house, turning it into a race just as they did with everything. Sighing, YN followed them up the steps slightly slower than they had done. Once she stepped inside the house, she saw both children standing in the doorway of the sitting room with shocked expressions on their faces.

“What is it?” YN questioned, turning to look at what both of the children were staring at. She stopped in her tracks at what it was.

Sitting on the settee was both Harry and Mr Jacobs. YN could not figure out the expression that Harry’s face held, but she could see that Mr Jacobs seemed to be one of happiness. YN placed a hand on the back of the children’s shoulders.

“Why don’t you both get yourself cleaned up for supper?” She smiled, ushering the children out of the room before she stepped inside.

YN stayed standing up just by the door as she watched the uncomfortable air that seemed to be passing between the two men. In all honesty, YN believed that this was probably the first time that they had met properly. They had both been a topic of conversations with YN but had never spoken directly. It caused YN’s stomach to twist.

YN had agreed to meet Mr Jacobs the day after the ball mainly to spite Harry, and the words that he had shared with her just a few moments before. What she had been surprised by was the amount she had enjoyed herself. Their walks had been few and far between over the past year or so, as YN would not have let herself forget the real reason she was there in the first place – and that was the children. She could tell that Mr Jacobs had wished for more, but she was unable to give him that. In all honesty, she did not know whether she wanted to give him that.

She had not expected him to show up at her house, though.

“Mr Jacobs,” YN greeted with a small smile, “It is lovely to see you.”

“As it is for you, Miss YLN.”

YN’s eyes flickered between Harry and Mr Jacobs, “May I ask the reason for your visit?”

Harry cleared his throat and stood up, looking at YN with an unreadable expression on his face, “He is here to ask you a question, YN. Or really, to ask me whether it is agreeable for me if he was to ask for your hand in marriage.”

YN gasped. Out of everything that Harry could have said, she had not expected that. Whilst it had shocked her, there was another feeling present that YN couldn’t quite put her finger on.

With a slight drop of her head she looked towards Harry, “Mr Styles, would you mind leaving the room?”

The second YN said those words, she regretted it. The expression on Harry’s face had gone from unreadable to pained, and she knew that she was the cause of this. She hoped that he would not let himself get too worked up over this. Whilst YN had no idea as to how this would play out, she had hoped that Harry would have a little more faith in her than to just abandon him in this way.

With a nod, Harry nodded and walked past her to leave the room. The door shut behind him, and she was finally alone with Mr Jacobs. That was when she realised the other emotion that was swirling within her – it was anger.

“Miss YLN,” Mr Jacobs stood up, “I had hoped that I would be able to…”

YN shook her head and held her hand out so that he knew not to take a step closer to her, “I do not want to hear it, Mr Jacobs.”

He stopped in his tracks, his eyebrows furrowing at her words, “Miss YLN, if I have done something to offend you –”

“You have,” YN nodded, unable to hold back her anger, “You have offended me, Mr Jacobs. You have offended me by coming to my place of employment to ask for my hand in marriage instead of coming to me.”

“You have avoided me for weeks, Miss YLN,” Mr Jacobs responds, his tone turning stern, “Of course, I had wished to speak to you first, but I was unable to do so.”

“So you thought your best course of action was to show up here and what?” YN sighed, laughing slightly at the absurdness of the entire situation, “Ask Harry for my hand in marriage?”

“I only wished to ask…” Mr Jacobs stopped in his tracks, his expression changing once more, “Harry?”

YN shakes her head, even more confused, “What?”

“You call Mr Styles by his first name?” Mr Jacobs presses once more.

YN scoffs a laugh, “Yes I do, Mr Jacobs, but I do not see how that is your business.”

“I think it is,” Mr Jacobs nods, “Seeing as though he is your employer, and you call him by his first name.”

“Yes,” YN nods, “My employer who is also my friend, and has been for the past four years.”

Mr Jacobs scoffs, “I should have known. I should have known when you were at the ball, even more so when you refused to join me on promenades, and this has just made it even more apparent.”

YN shook her head, “Made what even more apparent?”

“That your affections lie with Mr Styles, or Harry is it?”

YN could not believe what she was hearing. It angered her more so than she thought anything ever could. The audacity of this man to say such a thing – make such a claim when he did not the extent of the accusations that he was making.

“I think it is time for you to take your leave, Mr Jacobs,” YN stated coldly.

“No,” Mr Jacobs shakes his head, placing his hands upon his hips, “Not until I receive my answer from you.”

“I think my asking of you to leave is answer enough.”

Mr Jacobs sighs, “Will you not at least give me a reason as to why?”

“I said leave!”

“I will not,” YN was surprised at the level at which Mr Jacobs raised his voice, “You have no authority to order me out of this house.”

That was when the door opened and Harry stepped in, the look on his face matching Mr Jacobs in anger.

“That is where you are wrong, Mr Jacobs,” Harry speaks calmly, “This is just as much Miss YLN’s house as it is mine, and if she does not wish for you to be here anymore then you should leave. If you refuse, well that is when I shall step in – and I have no qualms in physically removing you from the property.”

Mr Jacobs looks at YN one last time before scoffing and practically storming out of the room. Once she hears the front door from the side of them slam shut, YN thankfully knows that she is in all clear. It takes all of a few seconds before she breaks down, the tears streaming down her face involuntarily.

“Oh, YN,” Harry takes one look at her shaking body, and he is there, wrapping his arms around her shaking body. The pressure of his body against hers was all she needed to collapse, her legs giving way and her body falling to the ground.

Harry is there to catch her, pulling her body even closer to his. Her hands grasp at the lapel of his jacket, hoping that would give her even an ounce of relief.

“Harry,” She gasps, the tears still streaming down her face, “I am so sorry.”

Harry shook his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.”

YN was sitting at the front of the classroom, the complete silence in the room offering an inch of comfort to YN after a difficult few days.

She was not necessarily one who thought that silent reading time was the best for the children, but she had no other option. The past few days she had not been herself, and unfortunately whilst she had tried to not let it affect her work – there was unfortunately no way that it would not.

YN was staring out of the window when the door opened, replacing the silence in the room with footsteps that could only belong to one person. It was at that point that YN realised that the children had not been reading, and instead had been occupying themselves in other ways. The pencil that Noah had been attempting to balance on his face fell off and clattered to the ground the second his father made an entrance into the room, and Norah dropped the hair that she had been attempting to colour with her crayons.

“Noah, Norah,” Harry addressed his children, “How about you go and find the cook. From what I have heard, she has a plate of treats waiting for you both.”

The children’s faces broke out into smiles, and they bounded past their father, the two of them making it a competition as they did. YN sighed, offering Harry a small smile as he closed the door to the classroom. It was the first time that the two of them had been alone since the incident occurred and YN supposed that was not for a lack of trying on Harry’s part – more so that YN had been avoiding him.

“I know what you are here to discuss, and I fear we cannot,” YN shook her head, watching as Harry leant against the children’s desk and crossed his arms over his face.

“We can,” Harry nodded, “You cannot avoid me forever, seeing as though we live in the same house, and you are the governess to my children. And more importantly, you are my friend.”

YN sighed, “There is nothing to say, Harry. We both know what happened, and I believe the best thing for us to do is move on as though nothing has happened.”

“But we both know that is not the case,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I know that you think the best thing for us to do is ignore the situation, YN, but we cannot.”

YN sighs and nods her head, “Very well, then. Say what you need to.”

Harry sighed and stood up, taking a step closer to YN from over the desk, “Did you want to?”

“Did I what?” YN offered him a puzzled expression.

“Want to marry him?” Harry asks, “Mr Jacobs?”

YN sighed and almost immediately shook her head, “No. I did not. If I had, I would have accepted his hand right then and there. I have told you time and time again, Harry, I am happy just where I am.”

Harry nodded, starting to pace up and down in front of her just as he had the night of the ball. If he was not careful, she would not be surprised if a scuff mark appeared on the floor from his shoes.

Harry stopped directly in front of her and nodded again, “Then marry me.”

YN’s eyes widen. Whilst the last proposal she was shocked and appalled by – this one, she was just shocked. YN could not even believe that those words had just come out of Harry’s lips, and more so that it was directed at her.

“Harry,” YN addressed with a laugh and a shake of her head, “You cannot mean that.”

“But I do,” He nodded, walking around the table so that he was directly in front of the chair that she was sitting in, “I do mean it.”

YN scoffed, “I understand if you are upset with what happened with Mr Jacobs but Harry, what you are saying is preposterous.”

“It is not,” Harry shakes his head, dropping down so he is at eye level with the girl, “I know that you wish to marry, YN, and I am saying – let that person be me.”

“Harry…”

YN’s eyes start to fill with tears, even more so when he reaches forward to grab her hands, “I know that I need to marry, and I know that somewhere, deep down you would like to. We are already acquainted, and I would definitely say that we are friends and I already know that the children like you. I mean – it makes perfect sense to me.”

YN sighed, beginning to shake her head again, “No, Harry you do not mean that.”

“But I do,” He nods his head, his eyes never leaving hers, “I do not think I have ever meant anything more in my life. I lov…” Harry’s eyes widen at his words and then he shakes his head, “I appreciate you more than anything, YN. You have changed my life and my children’s lives for the better. We do not have to care about what society may think, all we have to care about we think. Let me change your life.”

YN opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was truly and honestly in a state of shock.

#governess!yn #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x yn #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry styles series #harry styles historical fic

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mismatched-sockss · 5 months ago

Text

You're my future, past and present

» Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader » Word count: 6,4k » Warnings: spoiler mentioned for 9x23 Angels / 9x24 Demons, Spencer's POV, exes to lovers, set after s15, anxious!Spencer, reader feels guilty at one point, language? (one 'bitch' from reader to reader), mentions of past fights, minor misunderstandings, random old lady plays cupid <3, fluff, kissing, how many phrases for being in love can one pack in two paragraphs? me: yes., » A/N: my brain is on strike for finishing bingo fics for some reason, it instead gave us this so yay!, i'm still working on those of course but i can't tell when i will get the next one done (in the words of one Penelope Garcia: Why do the last 10% always take the longest?), hopefully by the end of the week; it's lightly implied that reader can get pregnant in the beginning but it's not explicitly said (only mentions of kids), which is the reason i tagged it as fem but no mentions of anything body related or any pronouns (i think so, please let me know if i missed pronouns), so it might as well can be read as gn; no body description --- pls take a look here for more info about my reader descriptions in general

⚶ masterlist ⚶

He should have asked Penelope for a favour to look you up, before he came here. He had no idea how your life had changed in all these years he hadn't seen you or if you even wanted to see him again. It didn't particularly sound like it the last time he saw you.

You could be happily married with kids for all he knew. The thought alone almost made him turn around without even knocking on your door. He didn't know what he would do if this was the case. Or maybe you didn't even live here any more, you could have moved; to the other side of the city, to another state. Another country. You had toyed with the idea to move to Scotland back then, it very well could be that you had acted on it.

Too much time had past, five whole years – five years, three months, twenty-one days and eleven hours, forty-two minutes to be exact; but who was counting, right? – and there was too much history, too much heartbreak. Too many reasons why it hadn't worked out.

The main – and kind of only – ones being his job at the BAU and everything that came with it. The travelling and never being home, not even a free day or annual leave really meant not getting called in, the late nights, the worries that he could get hurt and may not be coming back home, the worries when he got hurt.

You had your reasons to break it off and he still thought that you were right to do so. He never held it against you, never resented you for leaving. Because he understood. If the roles would have been reversed, he may would have made the same decisions.

This whole idea was stupid. Why was he even here. He should just leave.

What did he think would happen when you saw him? That showing up out of nowhere – with no contact since the break up, not even a single text message – and having a 'new' job would change everything and would make you jump back into his arms in an instant like nothing happened? Yeah... Sure...

Maybe, deep down and in the tiniest crack of his heart, he didn't even want you to open the door; didn't want to see your reaction to him just showing up and the inevitable rejection that would surely come. He was sabotaging himself, really. And if he would be more honest to himself, he'd knew that. Maybe he did, but just didn't want to see it.

Spencer had been pacing back and forth in front of your door for an eternity by now; walking closer to it and already lifting his hand to knock, but changing his mind before his fingers even came close and he was walking a few feet away to leave, only to change his mind again and repeat the whole ordeal. Over. And over. And over.

He just couldn't make his mind up, he didn't know what to do. It shouldn't be this hard to knock on a door. Especially yours. But maybe it was this hard for him because it was yours.

At one point, he, a man of science, even asked the universe to give him a sign, to show him what he should do; if he should do it or if he should go.

That's when it happened.

Right after, as he was walking closer to the door again, he tripped over his own damn feet and he ended up kicking the door with his shoe; not hard, but audible enough.

Shit. Not the sign he was looking for. A pedestrian screaming something outside that he could twist into an answer, a car honking when he either was close to the door or walking away; hell, even a spam mail popping up on his phone that had a certain word in the subject line... No, it had to be this way.

Now he had to knock.

Taking a shaky breath, he hit his knuckles against the wood a couple of times and started fidgeting with his fingers as soon as he had lowered his hands. His heart was in his throat as he waited anxiously. His mind in a constant battle of 'please be home' and 'please don't be home'.

A moment later – both too short and too long at the same time – the door opened just a crack and it was really you standing there. Not some random person that would tell him you moved. You.

You didn't turn your head just yet, looking back over your shoulder instead, you held out your arm behind you and said “Stay there” in a soft voice to someone behind you. When you turned you blocked the entrance with your body and kept your left hand on the door.

Your eyes grew wide when you saw him. Spencer probably was about the last person you would have expected to see when you opened the door. He couldn't bring himself to break the silence first, didn't dare to speak.

“Oh, hey... Uh-”, you stammered looking for words, blinking in confusion. For a moment you opened and closed your mouth, and he knew you were hating that you looked like a fish out of the water, before you gave up and just settled for another “Hi.”

“Hi.” He hated how shaky his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes for a moment, looking down at his hands and the floor before he met your gaze again.

“Wow, it- it's been a while.”

“Yeah...”

“How long 's it been? Five years?”

“Five years, three months and twenty-one days.” Spencer pressed his lips together before he could blurt out the hours and minutes as well.

You laughed – not mean, but endearing – and the sound combined with the smile that spread on your lips made his heart leap. “Right.”

God, how much he had missed your laugh; how much he had missed you. Now that you stood before him, it became evident, that all the longing and yearning he had felt in the past years had been nothing more than a fraction of what he was really feeling; repressed by throwing himself into work and keeping his mind off you as much as he could.

His love for you never went away, never dulled even the slightest bit, and seeing you now was almost too overwhelming for him, his feelings for you crashing over him, nearly sweeping him off his feet.

“Uhm, I was just about to go to the park with Cleo”, you started, shooting a look over your shoulder and Spencer's heart dropped. He could have sworn it stopped beating for a few seconds as well. The Stay there hadn't rung any alarms in his mind, it could have been said to any person really. Going to the park with Cleo however...

He really should have asked Penelope to look you up before he came. You had a kid.

And since he could only see the heel of your left hand and not your fingers, he couldn't be a hundred percent sure, but there was a high chance there was a ring on your finger.

“Oh, I'm sorry to hold you up. I'll just, uhm-”, he stammered choked up and pointed his thumbs over his shoulder, taking a step back, about to turn away and leave.

“No”, you exclaimed, maybe a bit too quickly and panicked, as you held out your right hand like you wanted to reach for his arm; even making a small step out of the door. “You don't have to leave. You could- uh, you could come with us? If you want to.” If he wouldn't know better, he'd say there was a pleading look in your eyes, begging him to say yes and stay.

His mouth opened, but no words came out, no matter how hard he tried. He didn't even know what he wanted to say.

'Yes sure, let's go to the park with your daughter and rip my heart into pieces seeing and hearing about you living the life I dreamt of having with you, with another man'.

A plain 'No.' would be too rude, wouldn't it? Even if he would add a 'thank you' at the end, it didn't feel right.

“She uh- she likes meeting new people, she's really open; sometimes I'm afraid she'll walk off with anyone. Come here, girl.” You looked over your shoulder again and tapped your flat hand against your thigh a couple of times, then some clicking and scratching could be heard behind you on the parquet floor.

The speckled snout of an Australian Shepherd pushed in the space between your knee and the door, then tried to push through further after seeing Spencer. With a laugh you took a hold of the collar and held the dog back from running out.

“Cleo, stay.” You squatted down next to her, petting her head and scratched behind her ear. ”I have to warn you, she can be a bit rough when she gets excited.” A wide smile was on your face as you looked up at Spencer. “I've been trying to teach her to not jump up on everyone she meets, but it doesn't stick.”

Just like that, he felt like he could breathe again. Cleo wasn't your daughter but your dog and the ring you were indeed wearing on your left hand was one he recognized from your jewellery box.

A relieved chuckle left his lips and he mirrored your position. He held out his hand for Cleo to smell before he touched her. She really was excited; she was pulling against your hold and tried to get closer, her tail was waggling so hard her whole body moved in the rhythm and she nudged her nose against his palm hard after a short sniff, so he would pet her.

You did your best to hold her back, but after Spencer verbally said hi to her and was petting her on both sides of her head she surged forward; your hand slipped from the collar and Cleo threw her whole weight against him, making him loose balance and topple over.

With an outstretched arm he held himself up, laughing, as your dog rubbed her head against his torso and hand and was spinning around a couple of times between his legs, repeatedly leaning herself into him with every turn.

“Cleo!” Your voice had a warning tone to it that hadn't fully replaced your laugh though, not until she let out a small bark and started to lick over his face. “No! Stop!” You pulled her away and moved her back into the apartment; Cleo only reluctantly complied.

Before he could react, you shuffled closer on your knees until you kneeled right before him and in between his legs. You reached out and started to wipe the side of his face clean; the sleeve of your sweater pulled over your fingers. “I'm so sorry, she's usually not that excited. I have never seen her do this to someone that isn't me.”

He froze when you got close and he felt your touch, every soft stroke leaving behind a trail of fire, even with the thin fabric barrier between you. One would think his heart couldn't pound any faster in his chest than it already had since he had laid eyes on you again, but it did.

“It's- hu, it's okay”, he stammered as he was watching you intensely, with wide eyes.

“No, it's not”, you said softly and took his chin between your thumb and index finger, slightly tilting his head to the side as you tried to get everything off. “Do you want a wet wipe or something? You can come in and wash your face if you'd prefer that.”

Spencer couldn't help the smile stretching on his lips, his heart warming over the fact that you were still looking out for him, after all these years; after everything that had happened and all the things that had been said the day you broke up with him. His hand moved on its own accord and he wrapped his hand around your wrist, stopping you. “Really, it's okay.”

You met his gaze, heat rising in your cheeks and it was like you only now realized how close the both of you were sitting and that you were touching him. For a second you froze, your eyes wide. Then, after a deep breath, you pulled back to bring some distance between you and cleared your throat, looking away.

He could tell there was an apology forming on your tongue, but you swallowed it down. You began to nervously fidget with the hem of your sleeve and cleared your throat. “So, uh, do you want to come with us? There is this coffee shop on the way that opened about six months ago and they're really good, we- we could grab a coffee and catch up...?”

“I'd really like that.”

It was easy, talking to you. The initial awkwardness and anxiety he had been feeling had quickly faded and the both of you were talking as freely and open as before, like no time had passed; and he was incredibly grateful for it. Neither of you had been going to personal topics for now though – the closest thing to personal in a deeper sense was when you asked about his mom –, the both of you had been talking more about everything and anything.

[..] Did you end up getting that book collection you had your eyes on? - When did you get Cleo? - Oh, do you remember my coworker Grace? All the rumours really were true! - Is your neighbour still vacuuming solely in the middle of the night? [..]

About halfway to the park you stopped at the café you had mentioned and while you were waiting in line, you told him about the different coffee varieties they offered; the flavours, how strong they were, how sweet, the seasonal ones. You had drunk your way through the list three times and until you decided on your Top 5.

He crinkled his nose in adoration as he was listening to you rambling about the coffee – what you liked about each one and why you didn't like another – totally engrossed by you; you had done this in the past as well and it made Spencer happy that you still were. It was adorable. He wondered, if you still wrote down your Top 5's in that little notebook you had always kept in your purse.

The one you recommended to him was really good, you had met his taste precisely; the perfect amount of sweetness just how he liked it, and with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon.

There were many occasions he was about to reach for your hand, it was almost instinctually when you were this close to him. He didn't know if you would let him, if you would want it. So Spencer didn't. Instead he buried his hand deep into the pocket of his coat to keep himself from reaching for you, holding a tight grip on an old pack of gum he forgot was even in there.

Throughout the whole way from your apartment to the park, Cleo was happily dancing around you, just shy of making one of you trip over her. That she didn't circle around the both of you to wrap the leash around your legs – all '101-Dalmatians'-like – was all.

After you arrived at the park you walked a bit further in until you came to a fenced area that seemed to be reserved for dogs for them to freely run around without having to be leashed. As soon as you unhooked the leash from Cleo's collar she dashed forward, joining a group of dogs playing.

Spencer and you sat down on a bench and just sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching her. His hands got clammy as he got nervous because of the proximity, and he tried to wipe them on his pants as discreetly as he could. You were sitting so close to him, your thighs and shoulders were almost touching; he could feel the warmth radiating from your body and with every soft breeze the smell of your shampoo got carried over.

“So, uh... How have you been?”, you asked after a few minutes.

He huffed out a small laugh and licked over his lips. Where should he even begin. “Long story short? Not good then somewhat okay, bad, worse, better, okay.”

"Sounds like one hell of a roller coaster."

Oh you had no idea how much. And 'hell' sounded about right to be honest. "You could say that... How about you?"

"Wasn't much going on for me to be honest. I've been... okay? After some time at least...”, you admitted nervously, following Cleo with your eyes. “Everything alright at the BAU? How is everyone?”

“Good, they're good.” Spencer started telling you about all the changes within the team, but he left out all the bad stuff for now – he told you about Alex leaving, about Tara joining after practically a 36 hour long job interview for the open position, JJ and Will having a second child, that Morgan left and had married Savanah and that they had a son as well, Garcia vehemently trying – but ultimately failing – to hate the newbie Luke.

“Rossi got married last year.”

“Really? Again?” You let out a soft laugh.

“He re-married his third wife actually. They got back together after-” He had to stop for a second and swallowed hard as the spark of hope was reigniting in his chest. If Dave and Krystall had found their way back to each other after thirty years and made it work, five years didn't sound all that bad in retrospective. He tried to play it off like he was trying to remember the exact number of years. “Around three decades, I think.”

“Wow... That's a lot of time..”

“It is.” For a short moment Spencer didn't say anything more, trying to muster up the courage to tell you he left the team as well.

“And I- uh” He huffed out a small laugh, nervous, and let his gaze wander over the meadow. There he goes... “I'm not- I'm not with the BAU any more, actually.”

“...Oh”

For a moment you didn't say anything else and his heart beat faster. He couldn't a hundred percent gauge what your silence meant. What the oh meant. Did you care? Were you relieved or maybe even sad for him? Could – would – it change anything between you, even after all this time? Would you give the both of you a second chance? Him?

Hope started to rise up again in his chest and he tried to stop it and keep it at bay, so it wouldn't take over him; it would only crush him even more to lose you a second time if he'd let it happen. Spencer's breathing became more shallow and slightly faster as he waited for you to say more.

He could just turn his head to look at your face of course, study your expressions to get his answer without you saying another word. He didn't. Something held him back; maybe it was only because he was respecting your wishes from years ago not to profile you. Maybe it was fear of what he would see.

He heard you clear your throat and when you spoke, your voice was shaking, almost undetectable however. If you wouldn't sit so close to him – and if it wouldn't be you and he wouldn't be him – one probably wouldn't have noticed. “Why not?”

“Re-assignment due to budget-cuts or something like that. There were a couple of people higher up the food chain than Emily that had it out for us for a couple of years now.” His eyes followed Cleo sprinting over the grass, chasing and playing with the other dogs.

“Emily is back?”, you asked. The last thing you knew was that she had left for London not long after she came back from the dead.

“Yeah, she took over from Hotch after-” He stopped himself.

Telling you about Hotch and Scratch and why Emily fully became Unit Chief of the BAU, meant he had to tell you about everything else; everything that had happened to him. He just wasn't ready for this yet. This would have to be a story for another day; for both your and his sake.

“Anyway, I uh- I'm teaching now. Full-time. Mostly at the academy and some colleges here and there. But all in all-” Spencer took a deep breath. “Fixed work hours and no travelling for longer than a day.”

Only when he felt you tense up did he bring himself to look at you. You were sitting up with a straight back, eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly pursed. Your eyes were darting around and he watched a muscle twitch on your jaw.

He quickly looked away again, concentrating on Cleo again, before he could read you more. He couldn't help it, it was hard not to and turn it off. By now profiling was in his blood, it was a subconscious habit he couldn't always control, it just happened. You didn't want to get profiled, so he did what he could do to not use his profession on you. If it meant turning away and not look at you, even if he was only looking just to see you, he'd do it.

Also, he knew that he was biased; another reason why he shouldn't. What he would see and read would not be accurate. Usually, this was not a problem, he could read body language and micro-expressions with a 99,42% accuracy, since he'd do it with a neutral stand. But right now it was personal.

What ever Spencer would see in your non-verbal communication, he was too involved to not let his judgement get clouded by his feelings for you, his hopes and his fears. He would only see what he wanted to see, or what he not wanted to see, depending on which part of his heart was winning at the moment; the confident and hopeful part, or the insecure and anxious part.

“That's... That's nice. Do you like it?” He wished, he knew what you were thinking right now. Your tone didn't give much away on how you were feeling, but you seemed a bit more relaxed to him.

“Yeah, it's fun. There are some key topics on the curriculum I have to cover of course, but other than that I have pretty much full reign over the subject matters. Learning is more fun when it is about something you're really interested in, so I take suggestions from my students for a lot of the lectures. It's been paying off already.” He smiled proudly. “They contribute more and most grades have gone up.”

Slowly, the longer you talked as the evening proceeded and the sun slowly began to set, he let himself go, allowed his heart to open up and he welcomed the prospect of having you back in his life – to what ever extent it may be, even if only as a friend if that was what you wanted.

His heart had leaped when you shared you weren't seeing anyone and it hadn't slowed down it's pace ever since. Both of you had been talking and asking about it in the most complicated and conspicuously inconspicuous ways one can ask 'are you dating someone?'.

Not only this, but you wanted to spent more time with him. Spencer couldn't believe his luck. It was almost too good to be true and he feared he might wake up from this wonderful dream any minute.

He could tell how nervous you were when you asked him; hands and voice shaking, fingers fidgeting with Cleos leash in your lap, your eyes not daring to meet his.

"Tonight is this big bonfire at the Benson's farm, you know, the one with the apple orchard? I was thinking of going and.. maybe if you- I mean, if you are free tonight and want, uh- Would you like to go with me?"

There was nothing he'd rather do, nowhere he'd rather be.

After a short stop at your apartment to bring Cleo home and for the both of you to freshen up, you made your way to the farm. It was a fairly short drive and the roads were mostly empty as it got later, a bright full moon illuminating the way now.

When you arrived, there weren't too many people present. It felt more like a large family gathering than a big event. At a decent distance were benches placed around the huge bonfire, there was a tent where various beverages and a few food options were served. Next to it stood a truck from the fire department and an ambulance; a precaution if the fire got out of control or someone got hurt.

The air smelled of smoke and burning wood, french fries, beer and Mrs. Benson's home made apple pie.

Sorry, Mr. Benson's apple pie as Spencer learned some time after you arrived. You introduced him to the hosts and you started to talk about a new recipe for the pie filling you had tried to make and Mr. Benson explained what he would have done different than the recipe you found had stated.

The Benson's were nice people – he had met them once when he had accompanied you to the farm to get apples and honey. You had gotten closer to them since then, dropping by to help them out from time to time, especially when it was time for the harvest.

He had to catch his breath as his heart fluttered, his eyes glued to your face as he watched you talk with old man Benson. The way your eyes wrinkled at the corners when you smiled and the excited glint in your eyes, how the fire painted beautiful orange patterns on your face as the flames danced high, fuelled by the soft breeze; combined with the silvery light of the full moon shining bright. You looked ethereal.

Spencer became increasingly aware of said man's wife and her three friends, who stood a little farther away. The women were whispering to each other and kept looking over, one of them not so subtlety pointing at the both of you. They weren't talking badly, not at all; they were smiling and giggling as they were talking, nodding at what the other ones were saying, swooning with their hands over their hearts from time to time.

It could only mean one thing – and he wasn't sure if he should be embarrassed about it, or not: that he all too obviously for everyone around looked as love struck as he felt; utterly bewitched by your beauty, completely head over heels, truly madly and deeply in love with you in every way, a total goner who was worshipping the ground you were walking on.

Thank god for the warm shine of the fire, or they would be able to see the blush rising up his neck in this moment as well... He just was glad that he had finished his piece of pie before this, otherwise he'd probably stand here with an open mouth and the fork frozen in mid air as he was looking at you. Now, that would have been a good picture.

What he didn't know though, was that they weren't just talking about the smitten look on his face, but yours as well. The longing glances you shot his way whenever he wasn't looking, how you were orbiting around him like the earth around the sun, a magnetic pull to each other that not even the both of you seemed to realise you had as you unconsciously stepped closer to the other when you stood too far apart. They talked about the fact, that you looked at Spencer with such a happy and beaming smile they hadn't seen on your face in a long time.

And that they could tell how hesitant and shy the both of you were about getting closer.

It's not like he didn't want to, believe me. The urge to hold your hand or wrap his arms around you – to kiss you – was still burning in every fibre of his body and it got more and more challenging to hold back, the longer he was around you. Leaving out the tiny part in him that was still afraid of getting rejected, he didn't want to impose on you by acting on it. He didn't want to possibly make you uncomfortable, so he left it to you to initiate any physical contact.

Admittedly, this was very much a bad plan if you were doing the same and were waiting for him to make the first move. However, the universe seemed to take matters in its own hands again.

Spencer had to remove himself from of the situation for a moment to restore some of his composure and not ogle you non-stop; especially not in front of all these people. He let you know that he would get the both of you something to drink and asked what he should get for you; when he came back, Mr. Benson had left.

For some time you stayed close to the fire, until he saw you lift your hand to fan yourself some air. “Too warm?”

You let out a small laugh and smiled at him. “Yeah, it starts getting a bit too much.”

He took the now empty cup from you and with a tilt of his head he signalled you to follow him. He gave the cups back to the person behind the make-shift bar counter and you walked a little farther away, putting some distance between you and both the tent and the fire. And the people too actually, the majority had gathered close around the flames in small groups.

“That's much better”, you sighed. “I like a nice fire as much as the next pers- oh.”

Before you could finish, you lost your balance when a body collided with yours from behind. You stumbled forward and Spencer instinctively reached out to catch you – he got a hold of your arms with a firm grip on them right above your elbows as you fell into him, bringing up your own hands to hold onto his shoulders.

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry, I must have tripped over something. Are you okay?”, the voice of a woman came from behind you.

Neither of you let go of the other as you turned to face her. Spencer recognized her as one of the women that had talked with Mrs. Benson earlier and the look on her face told a whole different story than her words; that she wasn't sorry at all and that it had been deliberately planned to bump into you.

“I'm okay, no worries. Are you?”, you asked her and quickly scanned her for injuries.

“Ooh, I'm good. I'm good...”, she replied, almost in a sing-sang kind of tone and a wide smile on her lips. She snickered softly and walked away, her hand raised with a lazy kind of flick in her wrist as a wave good-bye.

The both of you watched her walk away, baffled.

“Okayyy”, you let out as you kept your eyes on her for a moment longer. “As long as she didn't twist her ankle or something.”

You turned your head, and just like earlier in front of your apartment, it seemed like you only just now realised the position you were in when your eyes met his. How close you were and that you were still holding on to each other.

Only this time, you didn't pull away.

The world around him seemed to fade away, time standing still, as he held your gaze. Your breath hitched and when his eyes flickered down to your lips, Spencer felt your grip on him tighten, subconsciously pulling him closer to you. His heart was in his throat and it beat so loud that he was sure you were able to hear it. He let his eyes wander back up and when he saw that you were looking at his lips as well, he threw all caution in the wind and just... did it.

He let go of your elbows, took your face in his hands and leaned in, hovering his lips over yours for a short moment to give you an out, to give you time to pull away, but you didn't; instead you closed the small space that was left between you.

A long and deep sigh rumbled in the back of his throat when your lips met and he pulled you closer; as you leaned into him, your hands moved higher until your fingers were tangled in his hair, slightly tugging on it.

When you pulled back – more than reluctantly, but the both of you were still in public – , you were panting, your breaths mingling as your faces were still so close to each other. Spencer kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, not quiet ready to open them yet, afraid that when he did, he would wake up from an incredibly vivid dream.

“I'm sorry”, you suddenly choked out, which made him open his eyes in an instant. Tears were streaming down your face and you took a step back, keeping him at arms length. “I am so sorry, Spencer.”

“Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me, please.” Your emotions had changed so suddenly, he didn't know what happened, what made you cry. He wasn't sure what he should do, how he could help you calm down.

“I'm sorry”, you repeated, shaking your head.

“What for?” Did you regret letting him get close to you again; kissing him? Did you regret, that you hadn't just closed the door right in his face as soon as you had seen him this afternoon?

“Everything!” you choked out. “For how I acted all the time and for leaving like that, for leaving when I did. That I didn't contact you even once. For saying all those things, it wasn't fair. It never was. You didn't deserve it. I was so mean for no reason...” You sniffled and wiped the back of your hand under your nose. “I regretted every word the moment I said it, I didn't mean any of it. I couldn't stop talking and it was like I was losing control over myself and it all just came out and-....”

“Hey, I know...” Spencer took a small step closer to you. “In that moment it hurt, yes. And it took a lot of time until it stopped hurting; sometimes it still does. But I get it. You were scared. Some people get angry and lash out at the people around them when they are scared, especially directed at the person they are scared for; everyone reacts different. It's a totally normal reaction, I don't blame you.“

A sob came over your lips, your face twisting in pain. “Please don't be like that...”

His brows furrowed, a short and sharp pain in his chest. “Like what?”, he breathed out.

“So understanding... I acted like a total bitch to you! You should hate me... Why don't you hate me?” Your voice broke and got smaller with every word.

The corners of his mouth slightly raised to the whisper of a smile and Spencer closed the distance between you, lifting his hands to cup your cheeks. He wholeheartedly meant what he said next; there was not one thing he could think of that would change anything about it.

“I could never hate you.”

“You were shot. You needed me and left you alone and-”

“I've had worse. Before that day in Texas and certainly after”, he trailed off and softly shook his head when your brows furrowed even more, pain and fear so evidently in your eyes; he could tell that you knew he wasn't talking about anything related to the break-up.

“It's okay, I'm okay.” Spencer brushed your tears away, holding your face so gently in his hands as if you'd break into a million pieces if he wasn't careful enough. By the looks of it, you may very well would. Not a risk he was willing to take.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he stopped you from asking what had happened after, by placing his thumb over your lips. “Not tonight.” Gently, he brushed his thumb over your bottom lip to the corner of your mouth. “We'll talk about it all and I will tell you everything, I promise. Just.. not tonight, okay?”

He wanted to stay in that little bubble you had created a little longer and ignore everything else but the feeling of having you back in his arms, being able to kiss and hug and touch you again, he just wanted to revel in your presence and your love. Everything else could wait; the guilt, the talking it out, the pain and especially all the bad stuff he had held back.

You pulled him closer by the collar of his jacket until there was no room left between you. For a second you fought with yourself, your eyes darting back and forth between his like you were looking for something in his gaze before you acted on what you wanted to do. Then-

“I love you.”

Before he could say, think or do anything else, Spencer dove down and pressed his lips against yours, smiling widely into the kiss. His heart was racing and he felt like a huge burden had fallen from his shoulders that he didn't even know he had been carrying. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I love you.”

He couldn't hold back his own soft laugh when he heard you giggle happily before you said: “I can't believe you still want me...”

“It's you. It's always been you and it always will be you.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #ghosts can write #💜 s.r.#--- mismatched🧦

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