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sincerelybubbles · 5 months ago

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The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made.

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team.

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens.

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly.

The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore.

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work.

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap.

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead.

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay.

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle.

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away.

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you.

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator.

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work.

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick.

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it.

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt.

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you.

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk.

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it��s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day.

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team.

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness.

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams.

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

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one-green-frog · 5 months ago

Text

Family Knows Best

Platonic Yandere Batfam x male reader

(I couldnt really find a good gif)

The signs had been obvious. Almost too obvious. But here you were, trapped within the walls of Wayne Manor, surrounded by a family whose love for you was more intense, more consuming, than anything you had ever known. The strangest part? You didn’t mind.

Maybe you should be scared. Maybe you should be fighting to leave. But, really, wasn’t this what you had always wanted? A place where people actually cared about you? Where they loved you unconditional?

It all started with a simple visit.

Damian Wayne had walked into your small pet clinic one late afternoon, accompanied by a boy his age. In his hands, Damian held a tiny duckling, its fluffy yellow body trembling against his hands.

"It was alone," he had said, his voice sharp but carefully controlled. "I suspect its mother is dead. What are the chances of its survival?"

The look in his eyes told you just how deeply he cared and how scared he was for it's survival. He was young, but his concern for the creature in his hands was genuine. You reassured him that with the right care, the duckling would grow strong. You even offered him advice on raising it, though, deep down, you had wanted to keep it for yourself. Unfortunately, due to the lack of space you opted for another option. This boy, Damian Wayne, had probably enough space for the duckling, not to mention the resources he had and most importantly, the heart to care for something so small.

What you didn’t realize then was that your kindness had sealed your fate.

In the weeks that followed, the Waynes began appearing in your life in a frequency that couldn't be coincidence. First, it was Jason Todd, walking into your clinic to ask for advice for a "stray" cat he "found", you later realized that the cat was already part of the family for years. Then Dick Grayson, whose excuses were flimsier—he had seen a stray dog outside and thought he should check if you had seen it, then he lingered in your waiting room, babbling on and on about the most random things. Tim Drake came next, standing awkwardly in your doorway as he asked for information on exotic pets, his eyes scanning every inch of your tiny clinic as though analyzing everything about you.

It felt... odd. Wayne money didn’t typically find its way into the rougher parts of Gotham, yet here they were, weaving themselves into your routine, your space, your life.

Then the flowers started arriving.

Every morning, a fresh bouquet sat at your doorstep—rare, expensive arrangements that made it clear this wasn’t some random act of kindness. No name. No note. Just a silent reminder that someone was watching. At first you thought it was an accident, but the bouquets continued to show up, it made it obvious they were meant for you.

You told yourself you should be creeped out. But no one had ever sent you flowers before. No one had ever gone out of their way to make you feel special. No one would be bothered if you took them into your flimsy apartment. No one would complain and the flowers made your apartment kinder, nicer and just lovelier to wake up to

Then, one evening, Bruce Wayne walked into your clinic.

It was different from the others. The moment he stepped inside, the air in the room shifted. He didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. He moved with an easy confidence, his deep blue eyes fixed solely on you. His usual playboy smile on his lips that could melt anyone, and yet here he was, looking at you as if you were royalty.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his voice smooth, warm.

You were frozen in place. The billionaire, the man Gotham worshipped, was standing in your dingy little clinic, smiling at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

That was the beginning of the end.

He returned often. Sometimes he brought gifts, small, thoughtful things that showed he had been paying attention. A book you mentioned wanting to read. A coat after he “noticed” the thin fabric of your usual one. Every gesture was perfectly calculated, yet felt so natural, so effortless, that you found yourself leaning into his presence without a second thought. He came by at the same time everyday and you found yourself watching the clock closely, heart speeding up whenever it was almost time for his visit.

When he invited you to dinner at Wayne Manor, it felt inevitable.

And when he suggested you stay the night after a few glasses of wine? That, too, felt natural. It was late, Gotham is dangerous, not to mention that you didn't want to bother the nice butler.

When you woke the next morning, disoriented but warm beneath the heavy silk sheets, Bruce was already there, waiting with a tray of breakfast. His smile was soft but filled with something deeper, something darker.

“I’m so glad you’re here", he said with the same sweet voice.

Something was wrong. You knew something was wrong. The prince of Gotham not only invited you to dinner, let you stay the night and now he is in the room with a tray of breakfast? It was simply to weird to be true. But he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and for the first time in your life, you felt seen. You felt like you belonged on this place

So you stayed.

And stayed.

Days bled into weeks. You told yourself you could leave if you wanted to. That nothing was keeping you here. No one really forced you to stay. And yet... you couldn’t leave, it was like a higher force told you that you were right where you belonged, where you were cared for and loved. And then there was the family, so warm, so eager to keep you close. You weren’t a prisoner. Not really.

You were theirs.

Dick was the easiest to get attached to. He was light, warmth, and safety all wrapped into one human. Movie nights with him turned into deep conversations about life, love, and loss, his struggles with relationships, especially with his family since he works outside of Gotham. He would confide in you, let himself cry against your shoulder, and then whisper how much he needed you to stay, how no one had ever made him feel this way before. “You’re the only normal one here,” he would say, his fingers tight around your wrist. “You make everything feel right.”

Jason was different—quiet, intense, always hovering near but never too close. He would accompany you on walks through the gardens, listening more than speaking. When you talked about books, about the things that made you happy, memoriesfrom your childhoos, he would nod along, his face unreadable but always at peace. But you noticed the way he would subtly recommend books you might like, covering it under the guise of "a friend recommended it, but i haven't had the time to read it yet, why don't you give it a try", the way he perked up when you actually listened and bought the book and said you enjoyed it. He was quiet, but you could feel it—the way he held on to every word, the way his presence lingered long after he was gone. His action spoke of how much he looked up to you, a father-figure that he had a normal relationship with.

Tim was an enigma. He barely slept, barely ate, but he always seemed to be there. At dinner. During family time. During late-night kitchen visits where he would sit across from you, a coffee cup in hand, while you ate a bowl of cereal. He would ramble about theories, about mysteries in books he read, some "case" from a the series he watched and though you hardly understood half of it, you nodded along, letting him talk. He needed that. He needed you. A presence that didn't tell him to quiet down, didn't butt in to tell him he was a bit too paranoid.

And Damian? Damian clung to you. Always following you around, like a puppy. It started small—sitting beside you, leaning against you, watching you with sharp green eyes. Then came the possessiveness, the way he would glare at his brothers when they got too close, the way he fell asleep in your bed without asking. Not much time had passed before he called you brother

“I will not betray the honor of being by your side,” he had murmured one night, curled up against you. It was meant to be a statement, not a question.

And then there was Bruce Wayne. The man that looked at you as if you hung the stars. He cared for you like no other, always making sure you were alright. He spent most of his free time with you and he made sure you knew that he appreciated the way you brought the family together. Family time before you would often lead to fights, regret or just utter silence, but with you here, someone so ordinary in a special way the time spent together was peacful. Even Alfred the butler always smiled at you.

At this point you couldn't leave, be it because of you or because of the family that would made sure you wouldn’t.

They weren’t going to let you go. You were part of their family, their brother and son, the light of the manor.

And worse?

You didn’t want to leave.

Because no one had ever loved you like this before. No one had ever looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world. It was sick, it was wrong, it was obsessive.

But it was also love.

And maybe that was enough.

Being a part of this family was probably the one thing in your life that felt right.

DC has a grip on my life rn, so feel free to request something. But other than that, i hope you all have a great day :)

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

Text

A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn��t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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desirekento · 1 month ago

Text

GET IT TOGETHER | 七海.建人. Nanami Kento

SYNOPSIS: after the honeymoon phase, Kento became distant - you’re wholeheartedly convinced he doesn’t love you anymore, and that it’s all your fault

PAIRING: fem!reader x husband!nanami

WC: 2.3k words

CW: alcohol use, hurt/comfort | PART II

🌸 DEE SAYS: enjoy my first anime/jjk ff <3

🎧 — GET IT TOGETHER BY 702

Nanami had been distant for a while - snappy, disinterested, working until the late hours of the night. Affection from him felt obligatory: a cold kiss on the cheek before leaving the house and after returning; vague compliments, mostly about your cooking, that never really reached his eyes; a slow deterioration of quality time until it became a wistful fantasy to have his attention for five minutes.

“I’m busy, Y/N. Leave me be.”

Most of your conversations were strictly functional - then again, Nanami had never been one for what he deemed ‘superficial niceties’ (known to others as polite conversation). Had it not been for the fact that he’s mostly holed up in his home office, you’d be inclined to suspect him of cheating.

In all honesty, you had began to blame yourself. If there was another woman, then at least you wouldn’t feel this crushing weight on your shoulders. It felt as if you weren’t enough, that Nanami was sick of you and it was all your fault. He was constantly tired, constantly on edge… constantly unhappy. You were a failure of a wife, playing along with this farce just to feel some form of normality. Just keep swimming, you told yourself. All marriages go through a rough patch, he’ll come round.

Today was one of the rare instances that Nanami had to leave for an in-person meeting at his company, the quarterly report neatly tucked under his arm to read over beforehand. You had made him breakfast, but he didn’t eat, preferring to sip black coffee from the pot. You had tried to adjust his tie for him, but he’d pushed your hand away, fixing it himself. And then, like clockwork, like it was a necessary yet unsatisfactory part of his routine, Nanami kissed your cheek. Cold, brief, and apathetic, accompanied by a murmured ‘see you tonight’.

It had been all too much when the door closed behind him - you grabbed a nearby wine bottle and retreated to the bedroom to cry.

You weren’t one to assume love was like the movies - love for you had never been like the romanticised, fantastical bullshit the media tries to shove down everyone’s throats.

In the beginning, yours and Kento’s love had been quiet, simple even, but boundless. He may have not been the most flamboyant in his gestures, or the most poetic with his words, but Kento ensured you knew just how much he adored you. Stolen kisses when you were busy doing something, a soft inhale of your hair as he cuddled you close, a squeeze of your hand as you navigated through a busy crowd.

Kento didn’t bring you anywhere anymore. God, you missed the man you married.

Retrospectively, wine on an empty stomach at 9am was not a good breakfast, but you couldn’t help it. Your mind swirled around and around in circles as you tried to soothe it with alcohol - a futile effort. The more you drank, the more memories flooded your conscious, reducing you to tears.

Rather than going to do the food shopping, or cooking dinner, or anything of value, you simply sat in bed, drunkenly sobbing. This was only worsened by the wedding album you managed to procure from somewhere, staining the pages as you flipped through, sniffling and hiccuping.

Eventually, after a wasted day of drinking and sobbing, followed by more sobbing and drinking, you had passed out in bed, hugging the wedding album to your chest. The alcohol had numbed your senses rather than the pain, so you were none the wiser when Nanami opened the door in the early evening.

The first thing Nanami noticed was the lack of warmth. The house was freezing cold, the kitchen still had the remnants of his abandoned breakfast, and you were nowhere to be seen. He quirked an eyebrow, confused by your absence - usually you’d welcome him home with a smile, the smell of something delicious wafting through the air as you helped him out of his blazer. That was what he was used to, that was the routine you two had fallen into. Then he would kiss your cheek, compliment you on the food, and sit down for dinner. But there was no dinner, no help - no you.

“Y/N?” Nanami called out, setting down his briefcase with a sigh, shrugging his blazer off and tossing it on the nearby chair. “Y/N, I’m home!”

When he was met by nothing but silence, concern began to gnaw at Nanami. Not even bothering to remove his shoes, he paced to the bedroom, throwing open the door. None of the lights were on but he could see your faint silhouette under the covers, and Nanami rolled his eyes. You must’ve napped and overslept, he thought to himself, slightly irritated that you hadn’t prepared something for him to eat. He paced to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp, voice low and neutral, yet still tainted with a twinge of annoyance.

“Y/N, come on now. Surely being a housewife isn’t that tiring-”

He trailed off when he turned to face you, annoyance melting away as the light revealed your state of ruin. Dried tear stains ran down your cheeks, hair in disarray and your nose visibly irritated. Drops of red on the sheet concerned him, only for his questions to be answered by the bottle of wine now visible on the other bedside table. But the knife through his chest? Seeing you, his darling wife, whimpering in her sleep while clutching their wedding album.

Shocked, Nanami softly sat on the edge of the mattress, taking in the view with both concern and surprise. Now that he was fully focusing on you, he saw the dark bags under your eyes, the fitful sleep you were in clearly not relaxing. A tentative hand stroked the globe of your cheek, the usually smooth texture interrupted with the roughness of the tear stains. Nanami cupped your cheek carefully, as if you were fragile porcelain that would break under any pressure. His thumb rubbed smooth circles into your skin, and his brows were furrowed in concern as he spoke again, voice thick with emotion.

“Oh baby, I shouldn’t have let you get like this.”

Leaning forward, Kento softly tilted your head up slightly, pressing a sweet kiss to your slightly-parted lips. The scent of wine on your breath was overwhelming, and the ripple of unease it caused in his stomach only worsened the guilt gnawing at him. He knew he had been a pretty shit husband as of late, becoming more and more engrossed in work as they continued to up his workload, but this? This was the clearest indicator of just how harsh he’d been on you, and that made him feel more sick than the strong smell of wine.

He had failed you.

As he stared at you, engrossed in the sudden changes he hadn’t seen slowly building for months, you shivered against his hand, snuggling into it. For a second, an emotion flashed across your face - relief perhaps? - before you groggily regained consciousness.

“K-Kento..?”

Your words were slurred, and your eyes unfocused, barely able to hold his gaze as Nanami withdrew his hand from you. His other hand took yours, holding it tight as you groaned, trying to sit up. Kento shook his head, softly pushing you back down.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, lie down. I’m here, Y/N.”

Tears began to form in your eyes as Nanami began stroking your hair, finger twirling a strand of it, just as he used to do. The care in the action, the comfort, only worsened the pain festering inside you.

“Ken, I’m s-sorry… so fuckin’ sorry Ken..”

Brows furrowing further, Nanami scooped you into his embrace, tugging you closer when you clung to him and began sobbing.

“Sorry? Baby, what happened? You haven’t done anything wrong.” His palm flattened against your back, rubbing in circles as if soothing a child.

“You hate m-me! You fuckin’ hate me because… because I’m so fucking shit at being a wife! You- hic!- you don’t love me anymore!”

Nanami was rendered speechless by your outburst, looking at you with his jaw dropped. You still clung to him, fists crumpling the front of his dress shirt as you gasped for breath in between sobs. After his momentary short-circuit, his free hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer as his other hand still tried to calm you with its ministrations.

“Y/N, please don’t say that. There’s never a day where my love for you hasn’t been strong and steadfast. I don’t think I’m capable of hating you, my love.”

Tears welling in his own eyes, Nanami began rocking you back and forth softly, murmuring sweet nothings to you in a desperate attempt to calm you. As your sobs slowly began to subside into sniffles, Nanami tenderly tilted your head to face him, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I’m the shit husband, Y/N. I’m the one who made my wife believe I hated her even for a second.”

He sighed to himself when your eyes were still unfocused, silent tears still trailing down your cheeks.

“Okay, I’m gonna get you some food. I bet you didn’t even eat today.”

Nodding sluggishly, you attempted to sit up and was yet again denied, this time with Nanami holding you close. He then set you back down into the cushions, adjusting them for you, before standing.

“I think it’s better if you stay here and I make you something.”

As Nanami turned to leave, your hand quickly jutted out, holding his wrist tight. He turned to you, surprised by the strength of your grip as your eyes pleaded with him.

“Stay, please.”

Chuckling, Nanami took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles, biting his lip after they brushed against your wedding band.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise. You need some food in you asap, and I didn’t have time for lunch today.”

With a drunken pout, you nodded and let your hand drop from his, cuddling the wedding album once again. Nanami hid his smile, leaving the door ajar so he could listen out for you.

While not exactly a Michelin star chef, Nanami was a decent cook, and had whipped up a small bowl of soup for himself and some buttered toast for you in record timing. He brought it back to the room, pausing in the doorway as he watched you flick through the wedding album, eyes finally dry and looking fairly more sober.

“I’ve got some toast for you. If you’re feeling up for it, there’s still soup on the stove.”

You nodded, closing the album and gently placing it on the side before gratefully accepting the plate of toast. Nanami settled down into the nearby armchair, taking in grateful mouthfuls of soup. The silence was calm, even with the slight undercurrent of tension, only interrupted by the crunch of toast and the clink of spoon on bowl.

When everything was cleared, Nanami changed out of his rumpled clothes, slid into bed next to you, turned off the lamp, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You allowed yourself to relax into the embrace, brain still a little fuzzy from the alcohol. The silence stretched on, both of you wide awake but reluctant to speak.

“Work has been hell, Y/N,” he finally admitted under the cover of night, finger rubbing circles absentmindedly into your upper arm, “I was taking on so much that I barely felt human anymore.”

Your eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness, but you still turned to look at him regardless. You could just about make out the bridge of his nose, and a few hairs that had refused to gel down properly.

“I know it’s not an excuse,” he continued, “but it’s my explanation for my distance. I was so caught up in trying for a promotion, working my ass off to provide for you, that I didn’t notice I wasn’t providing for you in any other way.”

Turning, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat pick up a little from the contact. It was true, almost every waking minute Nanami had been working. His grip tightened protectively, pushing you closer to his body, relishing in the warmth your body provided. He sniffed, and you could’ve sworn that you saw a tear roll down.

“You’re my everything, Y/N. I don’t know what I would be without you. You make my black and white world technicolor, vivid with possibilities I never even imagined.”

His lips tenderly pressed against your temple, moving to pepper across the rest of your face, drawing a giggle out of you. This was a side to Nanami you had never seen, and you didn’t interrupt in fear it would dishearten him from continuing.

“Seeing you like this, it really changed my perspective on things. I’m not just here to make money for you, I’m here to love you, protect you, cherish you like I promised in our vows.”

His face hovered over yours, and you could just about see the glint of his irises gleaming back at you.

“It’ll take me some time, but please don’t give up on me, on us. Please never feel like I could feel anything other than unyielding love for you.”

Cupping your cheek, you could feel the cool metal of his wedding band on your skin. You cupped his hand with your own, interlocking fingers, tears forming again. Only this time, they weren’t sad.

“I love you, Y/N. I have loved you, I do love you, and I forever will love you.”

“I love you too, Kento. I couldn’t give up on you if I tried.”

Drawing closer, you could practically feel the smile on his face, just before he pressed his lips onto your own.

“Good. I’ll never give you a reason to try again.”

#✮ — desirekento #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #nanami #nanami x reader #nanami angst #nanami fanfic #jjk kento #kento x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jjk angst #jjk fanfic

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pearlymel · 9 months ago

Note

Ooo I know! It's just a little thought

What if capitano and y/n had their first fight in front of their kid?

"I told you I'm fine." You try convincing your ever so worried husband for the nth time.

The thing was, ever since you gave birth to your daughter, it's like he had a leash on you, not in a bad way. Capitano only wants to protect you and his daughter, and knowing his position as the fatui Harbinger, it had become difficult to keep an eye on both of you 24/7. So he trusts that you would tell him everything by the end of the day.

Capitano's protective nature was both endearing and infuriating at times, but you often appreciated his care. Today, however, his overprotective streak was starting to get under your skin.

The argument started as a simple disagreement about a minor decision, but had quickly escalated into a fiercer discussion.

"i want to keep you and our family safe." He said firmly, and he wishes you'd stop there to understand him.

"I only brought her with me to the market so she can learn how to socialize with people, and for her to experience picking treats with me."

"You were fine this time." he retorted, his voice taking on a slightly higher tone. "But what about the next time?"

You grit your teeth together in frustration, because really, this is getting ridiculous. "Maybe if you didn't think so much about it—"

He doesn't even let you finish before he speaks back, "How can I not think about it? Every time you leave this house, every time you're out of my sight, I can't help but worry." He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves, it's rare that he's ever arguing with you, usually when you're upset with eachother, he usually stays quiet.

"You don't understand. My job has shown me the worst of Humanity, the things they're capable of. I just want to keep you safe." Capitano holds on both sides of your arms, "i trust my men enough to accompany you. But i can never be truly sure that you're safe without me." He's upset, you know it by the way his eyebrows wrinkle together.

But you're not convinced just yet, "our daughter wants to go to the park sometimes. Do you know how many times i had to stop myself from refusing her everytime she frowns at me?"

Capitano's expression hardened again at your words, his jaw clenching tightly. "The park is dangerous," he argued back while applying a bit more pressure on your arms, "It's too open, too vulnerable. There are too many unknowns, too much that could potentially harm you and our daughter."

"It's not like we are going to die." You bluntly respond and it makes his eyes widen, even the sentence makes him shiver. He's one and only fear, not seeing you both because of one mistake.

Just as he parted his lips to answer back, a faint sound—a sneeze coming from the corner of the closet. One you recognise so well that it makes you stiffen in your place, and you notice Capitano pressing his lips into a thin line.

You both turn your heads until met by the little girl attempting and failing to hide on the side of the giant closet.

"she's watching," you whisper, glancing back at him and he nods before sliding his hands off you.

"You can come out," he called gently, his voice softer than the previous argument.

He knelt down on one knee as she stepped out from her hiding spot, his eyes wide with innocence and remorse for the argument she had witnessed. "Come here." He encouraged her, his arms opened slightly for her. And she hesitantly walks at first before taking confident steps towards the comfort of her father's embrace.

You join them after, kneeling down at their level and your husband opens his other arm to squeeze you in with them. Capitano's arm wrapped around her small form, holding her close against his chest.

"I'm sorry you saw us arguing," he murmured, "We didn't mean for you to hear all that." You continue softly.

Your daughter's head turned towards you, her eyes filling with tears as she heard your apologies. She looked between you and Capitano, her lower lip trembling slightly. It's like children can mimick their parents current emotions.

"Your mother and I just had a disagreement. We didn't mean to scare you."

"is everything okay?" She whispers quietly while fidgeting with her fingers together, "Yes." You both instantly respond.

her expression is still uncertain. "We promise," you reassured her again before he gives further more reassurance "Everything's okay, angel. Mama and papa are fine. We're not mad at each other. We're just... going to talk things through, okay?"

She then starts slowly nodding, "that's my brave girl." His lips curl upwards as he strokes the strands of her hair.

"and we will take you to the park."

Your daughter's eyes widened, a small gasp of happiness escaping her lips. She looked up at you, her eyes seem to sparkle even.

Meanwhile, Capitano's eyes narrowed at your declaration. He shot you a warning look, silently reminding you of his previous disagreement.

"... With your father of course." You laugh quietly and his shoulders seem to relax, "fine. We will all go."

"yay! Swings!" The little girl grins while excitedly holding her hands together.

"well, aren't you weak for the little angel?" You whisper to your husband, giving him a small smile, already having forgotten about your argument.

Capitano holds you both closer to him, as if relieved to have this little family in his life, the only thing that makes everything more bearable, "she has me wrapped around her little finger, just like her mother."

The link to my short capitano series :p

#you can read the series in my masterlist !!<3 #GUYS NO HE'S NOT ACTUALLY ROTTING 😂🙏 (😭)#il capitano x reader #capitano #capitano x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #il capitano #capitano x you #il capitano x you #genshin impact #fatui harbingers x reader #fatui harbingers

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fatuismooches · 8 months ago

Text

Dottore and his segments get a taste of their own medicine after giving you a job of your own. (In other words, you ignore their need for attention in favor of your work, they get pouty, just like you did.)

As of late, a peculiar sight had made its way into the lab. Actually, peculiar wasn't even strong enough of a word for the agents to use. They had nearly tripped over their feet once they saw the new area of their working quarters in the lab.

In addition to their Lord Harbinger's desk (that was shared amongst the segments depending on the day), there was now another desk on the opposite side of the room, and the cute decorations on it were quite noticeable. Photo frames and stationery. A comfortable and plush chair with a blanket that dropped over it.

... A plushie version of the Harbinger that laid on Dottore's desk, commissioned by you to motivate him.

(A side thought - the number of desks the Doctor had was something to wonder about. One in the lab, one in the office, one in the bedroom - no wonder things were always scattered around the place. But that was something for another day...)

And most importantly, you, Dottore's spouse, standing next to their Lord, rocking back on your heels nervously as he introduced you as their new co-worker.

—

It all began when you approached your husband with a very simple request.

"Dottie, I want a job!" You said with enthusiasm, smile as wide and proud as ever. The scientist paused his work and turned to look at you with a blank expression.

"... A job, you say?" You only puffed your chest out more at his confirmation.

"Yes, a job. I mean, being your lover is already a lot of work for my poor back, but I want to actually work with you! With your research and stuff, like the old days!" Your excitement was completely serious and were it not for your health, it would have been infectious for the scholar. Rarely did he ever meet anyone who was truly interested in his work. But of course, certain restrictions have held you back for a long time now.

"We've already been over this. My work is too dangerous for you," the Doctor sighed as he turned back around to continue whatever he was doing.

"I know, I know, but I meant other kinds of stuff. I've been thinking like... a desk job! It doesn't have to be anything dangerous! I could... sort papers for you? Oh, and you have one of those fancy stamps, right? I could stamp them too! I could rewrite your notes... ah, and the best part - I could help you write reports too! You always liked my essays, didn't you?" You were doing your best to provide Dottore with a convincing case, snuggling up against his firm back. Only another sigh escaped your husband, not really that convinced.

"Come on..." you inhaled his familiar scent, tinged with that laboratory smell that never seemed to go away, but somehow brought comfort to you. "I've been so bored lately... and lonely," you muttered the last part pointedly. "I just want some work to take my mind off things!"

Indeed, there was always limited entertainment and pastimes to occupy yourself with. It was especially boring on days you couldn't get out of bed, or when no segment could afford you attention...

"And you know what, I could give those agents of yours some writing tips, too!"

Yes, there had been many times his employees were not up to his standards, despite how many of them fawned over him (for some odd reason)...

"And I'll be helping you too! It's good for everyone."

Of course, you always felt rather good about yourself if you managed to help him, being the Second Harbinger and all...

"I suppose I shall give it some thought-" Before the man could finish his sentence you started squeezing him tightly while hopping in delight.

"Oh, thank you! So, when do I start? Do I get one of your huge desks too?"

"I didn't say yes yet, darling."

"Shh... we both know what you mean!"

—

And that was how you now clocked in at "work" every day with the agents (later than normal, but you had special privileges.) It was daunting at first for the poor souls, even the ones who secretly admired you from afar (being in the fan club and all.) Even though initially you were merely sorting papers, you were the most important person in that room.

However, soon enough, going to work in this dreary lab became a lot more cheery thanks to your sweet demeanor. Somehow, the atmosphere had become a lot less tense since the last time the segments visited.

The agents had little to no problem speaking to you like a normal person, after you had graciously given them tips on impressing the Harbinger.

"Psst..." you were hovering behind an unsuspecting agent, reading the report she had for Dottore, who jumped at your whisper. "You know, he might click his tongue if you give him that." Although her mask covered her face, you could see that half surprised at how you popped out of nowhere, and half agreeing with your words. Perhaps she felt comfortable enough to spill the situation to you.

"I-I am well aware of that," she deeply sighed, "but no matter what I write, my Lord always seems to be unsatisfied..." You patted her shoulder in sympathy. Having worked with Dottore since the Akademiya days, you knew very well of his distaste for certain things.

"Well, that's why I was hired, friend! To make his and your life easier! See, look here, that's a no-no, he wouldn't appreciate those details, mhm, but this needs to be elaborated on more, uh huh..." Of course, being the good spouse and employee you were, the report was converted into the best one that had ever landed on the Doctor's desk.

On your lunch break, they provided you with some juicy gossip about anything they could get their hands on (the fan club had long reaches, apparently.) Frequently you had to debunk things about Dottore... (the handbook was swiftly revised.)

Needless to say, things seemed to be going well. You looked happier. Motivated. Having new "friends" as your company (that still watched their mouth around you after a single glance from the segments.)

However... an issue arose after a while. One that seemed entirely stupid and impossible.

Now that you were so caught up in your work, when the segments finally had some spare time to come to you, they were... rejected. Yes, they had come to you, fully expecting your devoted attention and kisses that you always gave them without hesitation, but now turned away. (Even more embarrassing, sometimes in front of the agents who kept their eyes glued to their strange chemicals.)

—

It was Omega, of all segments, who was turned away first. The most confident and charming of the bunch left uncharacteristically silent. He had come up behind you and traced his hands against your neck, always being the one who had no shame in touching you. You only softly giggled at the sensation and caught his hand in yours.

"It seems you've been busy for a while, dear." In truth, it was mostly you seeking him out and not vice versa, but the segment hadn't seen you invading his office in a while. The space had gotten too quiet without you.

"Mhm! But I can't imagine how much work you do. My desk is nowhere as cluttered as yours," you smiled as you felt the segment kiss your lashes.

"What do you say to a break with me?" Omega offered, already knowing what your eager response would be.

"Nah, I can't right now."

...

Your words took a few seconds to process through his head.

"Pardon?"

"I have all this work, 'Mega, and other people need my help," you shrugged your shoulders as you swung your legs. "But don't worry. I'm sure we can spend some time later!" You kissed him on the cheek and pulled your chair in before continuing your work.

Omega, the greatest segment, was reduced to a blankly staring man who had been deprived of his lover's attention for the first time.

He was irritable for the rest of the day.

—

Beta was next, the poor thing.

You were always the one he blew off steam to, always willing to listen about his gripes and complaints, offering him consolation in the form of kisses and soft words.

However, you hadn't come to visit in so long, the segment was all pent up and now the agents were beginning to fall victim to him.

Fine then - he'd seek you out. Not because he needed you or missed you or anything of the sort. You were just... halting his progress with the lack of your presence. Yes, that was it.

And so the scientist, donning his grand pink bow tie, swung by your desk.

"So this is where you've been? How boring." Beta was not a segment that you'd want to do paperwork. He much preferred to be hands-on.

"Ah, Beta!" You brightened in delight at seeing one of your lovers. "I missed you!" At least you were always honest about your feelings.

... But to cut a long story short, Beta faced the same conundrum that Omega did.

Someone got turned into a floating Ruin Machine that day.

—

By now all the segments had experienced being turned away from work. Alpha's signature scowl had become permanent. Zandy was pouting the whole day as he missed his parent. Foxttore kept to himself with a pathetic sopping wet eye. His segments were fighting with each other inside his mind, a great nuisance.

All because you were too absorbed with your work to pay them any attention.

... The Doctor was now realizing that it sounded like a very familiar tune sung by you. So this was what you felt for days on end? Now, it was easier for him to understand why you were always upset if you were ignored too much.

Still, it was mortifyingly embarrassing that his segments were reduced to this pitiful state just because you rejected cuddles a few times. Regardless, it was up to him to solve the issue. After all... he missed you too. He wanted you to be around him more often again.

And so the Doctor made his way to his beloved.

There you were, all cozy on your seat as you sorted through some papers. Really, he had no clue you'd be this productive, to be honest. At least it was proof that your health hadn't gotten worse, considering how well you were handling this.

"Aren't you the one who kept saying to take breaks?" His voice made you jump a bit, having not heard him walk up.

"It's you, Dottie! I was wondering when you'd come around. And of course, I take breaks, Dottore. I have lunch with the other agents!" Ah, another party that's been hogging your attention.

"You know, this job has been pretty fun, Dottore! Everyone's real nice, we make jokes, I get to write about interesting things..." You continued to go on about the research and while usually he'd be intrigued by your findings, this time he had enough.

Dottore picked you up like a long cat as you squealed from the sudden grasping.

"What are you doing?!"

"You're coming with me," was his cut and dry response as he lifted you into his arms.

"B-But I have to work on the big report for Pantalone!" Dottore's eye twitched at the mention of the banker.

"Someone else can."

"But I-"

"I'm not listening to anything you say further," he plainly said as he walked with you cuddled into his chest as you gawked at him.

Could he be... jealous? A wee bit lonely? You kept your guesses to yourself as he eventually bought you back to his room and laid you on his bed, not even saying anything to you before sitting at his desk.

Did he simply miss your presence that much? You felt a bit bad neglecting your lovers that much. But to be fair, they kinda did the same... sometimes. You got up to console your silly husband, who was just a man in your hands.

"Hey... I missed you too, dear husband... but I had to make sure no one stole the title of best assistant from me!" Dottore only sighed at your foolishness.

Of course no one could ever replace you.

"I know you'd rather die than admit it... but don't worry. You're lucky I'm sensitive to your feelings," you teased as you kissed the top of his mask. "I'll pay more attention to you and the segments, before they cause another headache for you, love. You'll give me some vacation time off, right?"

You laughed at your own joke before Dottore pulled you into his lap, biting down hard on your neck.

—

"Beloved, would you care to join me in discussing your work?"

"You fool, they're obviously coming to my lab to activate a new Ruin Machine."

"But [Name] is supposed to play with me today!!"

"As if, they're far too busy to join you all with your silly games."

"You all will stress them out with this arguing. Now, why don't you join me for a cup of coffee instead?"

"Grr, gr gr, grr!"

It was good to be loved so deeply.

#smooches talks #dottore love notes <3 #fragile reader <3 #dottore x reader #just lots of fluff I whipped up as a mini apology for being inactive. >.<#idk if this seems random but i love this scenario #reader simultaneously feeling like they're helping zandik while also keeping their mind off sad things <33 #dottore happy seeing u happy but then gets jealous bc now ur glued to UR desk... unfair. tch... (he's a hypocrite)#divider by cafekitsune

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charliedawn · 1 month ago

Note

how about a reader who just loves making their vampire beloved smile? Reader loves making them happy, and just really wants to see them smile and have them laugh and. I just want to make them happy 🥹💜

(There has been a lot of controversy around the characters of Bert and Joan. I will make it clear right now. When I write about them, I will not associate them with the group they were a part of in the movie for obvious comfort reasons. With that said, enjoy. ☺️)

Remmick

You see Remmick standing outside. He seems far away—in a far away land of wonder and love. You smile to yourself. Your smile is sad for you know what that look means and where he is…In a world of green, love and family long gone. But, there is one thing that remains. You step closer to him, flashing him an expectant smile. “Hey Remmick…since you’re the boss of smooth moves, how about you show me that Irish tap dance of yours? I wanna see if I can learn a thing or two.”

He snaps out of his daze and eyes you for a long moment, that sharp grin you grew to know and love creeping onto his face—like he’s sizing up a worthy challenge.

“Why not?” he agrees with a twinkle in his eye, “Could be fun.”

He lifts his foot, tapping out a quick, rhythmic beat on the ground—sharp, precise, almost hypnotic. The sound echoes, crisp and alive. It sends dust and tiny rocks flying…

“Come on then. Try to follow, lass/lassie.”

You mimic his steps, a little clumsy at first, but catching the rhythm. He watches you intently and nods in approval.

“Not bad,” he admits with a rare chuckle. “Ye might just survive the next round of this dance.”

He offers you a hand, fingers cold and yet so sure. “Keep up, or I’ll have ye dance for eternity.”

You laugh, grabbing his hand, before looking into his eyes and catching a mix of pride and joy in his gaze. He leads you into another dance and you realise that even if you had to dance for all eternity…you wouldn’t mind. As long as your Remmick keeps smiling at you the way he does when he dances alongside you.

Mary

You find Mary sitting quietly in the corner, her usual stoic expression firmly in place. But not for long. You plop down beside her with a small, knowing grin.

“Hey, Mary,” you call her softly, “I bet you’ve got a smile in there somewhere. What do you say I help you find it?”

She glances at you sideways, unimpressed. “Good luck.”

Your grin widens. You then raise a finger for dramatic effect as you start searching for something in your bag. You then pull out a kitten out of nowhere and just settle it on her lap. The kitten looks up at her with big eyes and the tiniest mew escapes it.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

You lean in closer, encouraging. “See? Even the toughest can’t resist that one.”

Mary’s lips curl into a tentative, shy smile—the kind that’s been waiting for permission to come out.

You smile back warmly. “There it is. That wonderful smile. Told you I would help you find it.”

She shakes her head, almost embarrassed, but you catch the warmth shining behind her eyes. Sometimes, all it takes is a little patience and a little silliness.

Stack

You catch him alone by the garden. Stack stands there, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted just enough to make it clear he’s deep in something—memory, regret, or the kind of silence that’s lived too long inside a man. You approach slowly, holding something behind your back. He notices you, of course—he always does—but he doesn’t say anything. Just offers that subtle glance, as if to say “What brings you here, trouble?”

You step close. Not too close, not at first. And then, wordlessly, you hold out your offering: a small, battered harmonica.

“Play anything that’s in your soul tonight.”

He blinks. His eyes flicker from the harmonica to your face and back again. He hesitates before taking it. The sound that comes out is soft, smoky, and just a little broken. Not sad, but not quite whole either. A gentle blues melody, simple and slow, the kind that feels like rocking on a porch in the deep South with a storm in the distance and someone you love nearby.

When the last note fades, he lowers the harmonica, exhaling slowly. His fingers tremble, just slightly, as if they’d been holding more than music.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and lifts it gently to his lips. “That…was me.”

You don’t need to ask what it means. It’s all there—in the music, in the weight of his silence, in the way he now leans against you like he’s done running. The two of you sway together, slow and steady, your heartbeat keeping time where the harmonica left off.

“You’re trouble,” he whispers, voice low and warm. “The kind I never wanna lose.”

And right then, with the garden around you, the stars overhead, and his soul laid bare in your hand, you realize something simple and stunning: You’d give him a thousand harmonicas if it meant he’d keep smiling like this.

You find out about the sweet tea by accident.

Bo’s sitting on the porch one late evening. You bring him a mug of coffee, and he takes one sip before wrinkling his nose like you just served him poison.

“Jesus. That bitter shit again?”

You raise a brow. “It’s coffee, Bo. It keeps people alive.”

He squints out towards the treeline. “Yeah, well. Dead men like sweet tea.”

You blink. That’s all he gives you. No follow-up. No explanation. Just a dismissive shrug, a soft grunt, and back to whatever he was doing. But something in the way he said it sticks with you. So you take it as a challenge.

It becomes a little ritual. Each afternoon, a fresh pitcher appears in the fridge labeled:

Bo’s Sweet Tea. Touch and I break fingers. ❤️

You start slipping notes alongside it—tiny, scribbled-on sticky notes stuck to mugs, doorframes, even his boots when you’re feeling particularly bold. A doodle of Bo scowling at a sun wearing sunglasses becomes your favourite.

“You know this is excessive,” he comments, pretending he’s annoyed.

“You know I don’t care,” you retort, mimicking his unhappy frown.

And when he thinks you’re not looking? He traces one of the doodles with his fingertip. Smiling.

A few days later, you find one stuck to your mirror.

It’s not from you.

It’s a doodle. A rough, blocky drawing of a glass of sweet tea…with fangs. At the bottom, in a neat handwriting:

For the pain in my ass who makes even bein’ undead worth wakin’ up for. – B

Annie

Annie’s laughter is music—not the soft, delicate kind, but the kind that fills a house. It echoes down hallways, wraps around furniture, settles in your bones like a healing balm. You live for it. No joke is ever too dumb, no moment too small, if it ends with her eyes squinting shut and her hand slapping her thigh like she’s just heard the funniest thing in the world.

It’s not just laughter. It’s a sound that makes bad days forget they were ever so bold as to try. A sound that pushes back the dark.

A laugh that warms a room and chases away bad dreams.

You leave flowers by her bed. You cook next to her just to get her to smack your hand away from the spices. You recite her old hoodoo proverbs back to her incorrectly, on purpose, until she shakes her head and says,

“You are not right, child.”

And then she laughs. That rich, real laugh.

You treasure it. Collect it like loose change in your soul. Because that sound, that smile, those eyes crinkled with joy?

That’s magic.

“Keep that joy on you,” she whispers later. “It protects more than garlic ever could.”

And you will. Because that smile? That sound?

It’s worth everything.

Joan

She’s got that arms-crossed, thousand-yard-stare energy like she’s been surviving off spite and strong coffee for years. You approach her cautiously like you’re poking a sleeping bear—with a flower in your hand. She’s standing stiffly, arms folded, face all sharp lines and quiet rage. You tilt your head, giving her your most disarming grin.

“Joan. Darling. You ever tried…smiling?”

She’s standing with her arms crossed, elegant and unbothered, lips tight, chin lifted—like smiling would lower her credit score.

“I read somewhere that smiling releases stress. Wanna give it a go?” You attempt again.

Her gaze is ice. “I don’t feel stressed.”

You blink. “Really? You’re undead, bound to a hive mind, and stuck with Bert. That sounds stressful.”

She blinks at you like you’ve just insulted her ancestors. Okay. Wrong tactic. You hold up a badly drawn doodle of her you made earlier—exaggerated scowl, smoke coming from the ears, the words “World’s Grumpiest Sweetheart” scrawled underneath.

She blinks. “You’re lucky I haven’t buried you yet.”

You lean closer, teasing. “You almost smiled. Admit it. That was a pre-smile. A proto-smile.”

Joan turns away, muttering under her breath—but not before you catch it. The tiniest smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth.

You smirk. Victory.

Bert

He’s sitting in a chair upside down. Literally. Legs tossed carelessly over the backrest, head hanging off the seat like he forgot what gravity is. One boot is missing (thrown? stolen? hard to say), and the sock on his visible foot has a hole right where his big toe sticks out. His arms dangle limply, like a dead possum flopped on a porch swing.

You lean over him with a hopeful expression. “Bert, smile for me.”

At the sound of your voice, he whips his head around so fast you’re worried for his undead spine. “Ya wanna see me smile?”

You grinned. “Yeah.”

He pauses. Eyes narrow. “…Ya makin’ fun of me?”

You snort. “Only a little.”

He does a backflip and lands with the grace of a cat. He’s immediately grinning. Full, fanged, and wicked. It’s the grin of someone who has either just committed arson or is about to ask you to join. His smile is huge—too big for his face, all sharp teeth and crinkled nose and wild eyes. It looks like it belongs on a feral dog and a five-year-old at the same time.

“Does this count?” he asks, baring every fang with chaotic pride.

You pretend to recoil. “You look like a vampire and a raccoon made a baby.”

He cackles—loud, weird, delighted. It’s not a normal laugh—it’s a banshee wail through a car engine. “Thanks, baby. You sure know how to make a corpse feel wanted.”

He drapes an arm around your shoulders like he belongs there—like you’re his favorite person to bother in the whole wide world (which you are).

“Tell me more,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “Tell me I’m a sewer rat. Tell me I look like I chew drywall for fun.”

“You do.”

“I have!”

You snort, which only encourages him. He might follow you around for the next three hours just hoping you’ll insult him again.

Cornbread

“Hey, Cornbread?”

He looks up and you give him twenty dollars.

He looks at the money. He looks up at you. He looks down at the money again. Then, he gives you the biggest and most genuine smile he can muster.

“That’s what am talkin’ about! Free money! Ya just know how to brighten up my day, dontcha pumpkin’?”

Yeah. Pretty easy.

How do they make you smile?

You come home after a long day. The manor is unusually quiet. No crashing, no shouting, no Remmick singing and no Bert or Stack trying to light something on fire.

Your eyes narrow like Joan.

Suspicious.

You round the corner and stop dead in your tracks.

There it is—leaned carefully against the wall in the drawing room, covered with a deep red velvet cloth. A note stuck to the top, in Remmick’s handwriting:

“This one’s for you, lass/lassie.”

You pull the cloth back…And your breath catches.

It’s a painting. A portrait. And not just any portrait—it’s a carefully arranged painting of every vampire in the house…posed around you. In the center. Sitting calmly, softly smiling, like you’re the heart of it all. Their faces are painted in. But something feels off. You then realise. Each face is painted in a different style. All of them. Hand-done. And then it hits you. Each vampire painted themselves.

Joan’s section is flawless, regal, and exacting. Her posture is perfect, her hand resting lightly on your chair like she owns the room (and maybe she does). Her expression? Subtle, proud. As if daring the canvas to defy her.

Remmick’s is dynamic, mid-turn, captured in motion like he’s walking in from the shadows. His smirk is barely visible, as if he’s sharing a secret with you no one else gets to know.

Bert’s part is completely out of proportion. His grin is too wide. He gave himself two shotguns and seems almost child-like at the same time. Clearly…Joan is the artist between them.

Mary’s section is quiet, tucked slightly behind you, painted in the softest colors. She painted herself looking at you, not the viewer, like she couldn’t fake interest in anything else.

Annie’s section is strangely haunting—she painted herself reaching towards your shoulder, like a protective presence, her eyes gentle but watchful. There are wildflowers around her feet. They weren’t in anyone else’s.

Bo painted himself looking straight at the viewer—with a soft, almost amused smirk. He seems to be whispering something to the portrait you. A secret. Or something else? Hard to say…

Stack’s section is the darkest one—a shadowy corner of the painting, where the colors fade into deep charcoal and steel blues. You almost miss him at first. And here’s the thing: while most of the vampires painted themselves looking outward or at you…Stack painted you resting your hand on his shoulder. A subtle connection. One you didn’t even notice until you traced the lines with your fingertips.

That’s when you realize: The others might guard you. Fight for you. Dazzle you.

But Stack? He carries you.

Cornbread painted himself as a stick man at the bottom of the portrait. Sleeping.

You stare for a long time.

In the center, they’d painted you—soft, real, glowing. A living being among the un-living. Your chair the throne. Your expression the glue holding the frame together.

And on the back of the canvas, someone (probably Annie) had scrawled:

“Thank you for being the reason for our smiles, child.”

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #sinners 2025 #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #remmick x reader #mary x reader #mary sinners #stack x reader #stack x you #bert and joan #Bert X reader #Joan x reader #bo chow x reader #annie sinners #annie x reader #cornbread x reader

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carlislefiles · 1 month ago

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holding hands in the dark | fushiguro megumi ╰►some nights he talks in his sleep. you stay quiet, holding his hand in the dark…some nights you do just that; other nights you wake him, tell him that it’s going to be okay, that he’s going to be okay. some nights he rolls over, and pretends he isn’t wiping away tears. other nights, he believes you. but most nights, when he realizes that your hand is squeezing his, whether you’re awake or not, he squeezes back. 4.2k words

a/n: I would say that this piece reads as very self-indlugent, but honestly, writing in general is self-indulgent for me, so rarely will a finished piece not feel a bit self-indulgent to me. this feels like a quintessential megumi nightmare fic, so hopefully it's as good as some others you may have read; of course, I always appreciate interaction, but I love my ghost readers, too :)

rare is the night when you don’t find yourself tangled in megumi’s dark blue, fresh smelling sheets. you’d both lived on the campus long enough to know that the whole curfew idea was not enforced. your lives were hard enough; gojo, nor yaga would take away the precious, minute bits of comfort you could find, not when there was already so little of it. they didn’t seem to care that you found that comfort in each other, though gojo’s teasing did seem endless. it didn’t bother you, at least not like it bothered megumi. rosy cheeks, half-hearted scoffs, eyes rolling…it seemed to drive him crazy, but then in his haze of irritation, he’d catch your eyes, and instead of a grimace, you’d find a soft small. he could almost read your mind—tease us all you want, it won’t change anything. your thoughts, your mind, your still, simple presence was an anchor to him, tethering him to all that was good in his sorry, sorry world. not just when gojo decided to tease, but when things seemed, or even were, really, really bad.

most nights, you lie awake for a long time. the intense, almost comforting silence preferable to the unpredictability sleep brings. when conscious, you choose what you remember. once you submit yourself to numbing, mindless sleep, you’re no longer in control of what your mind conjures up; memories too painful to share, too painful to even remember. megumi’s noticed this, but he’s yet to say anything. maybe he thinks it’s not his place. maybe he thinks it would piss you off. either way, he doesn’t have to say anything, his presence, his heavy, warm breath against your back, his tousled hair tickling your neck, his arm draped carelessly (not carelessly at all) over your stomach—that is more than enough. and he feels the same. tonight is quiet. no wind, no rain, no crickets, no creaking porch swing, just megumi’s lazy breathing, and maybe that’s why you fall asleep so quickly. or maybe your body is finally used to enjoying the sleep you’ve so agonizingly deprived it of now that you can actually relax.

you wouldn’t consider yourself the sentimental type—maybe that’s why megumi likes you so much. no need to dwell on the past, not when it’s so fraught with pain, not when it hurts that much. but you find yourself thinking of one of the first nights you spent in his room often.

you’d been in there hundreds of times: to study, to hangout with him and yuuji and nobara, to hide from yaga after screwing up a mission, to makeout on his desk chair until you were out of breath. but you’d never been in his bed. for some reason, it seemed like he didn’t want you there, but you knew better than to let this hurt your feelings. megumi was a creature of habit, and a creature of thought. if he felt a certain way about something, didn’t want you to do something, there was a good reason for it, and when he wanted you to know that reason, he’d tell you. until then, you’d let him to conclusions on his own. he was so sure you were crafted specifically and perfectly for him. no one had ever understood him quite that well, and he was confident no one else ever would.

he didn’t attach particularly good memories to his dorm room. nightmares, lying awake at night, cold-sweat wicking into his t-shirt, being afraid, being alone. after one especially grueling day, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. couldn’t take the silence, the painstaking loneliness, and why should he have to? you always tell him that “if you ever need anything, just ask me. please. I want you to want me,” and with pleading, sincere eyes, he believed you. he did want you; more than he’d ever wanted anything, and normally that scared him. but his fear of being alone, of waking up gasping, being just too late to save someone, trumped any nervousness he had in asking you to stay in his room.

at 9:30 he practically dragged you from the kitchen, forcing you to rush your goodnights to the other students, and trudged to his dorm, hand-in-hand. he’d texted you earlier, asking you to sleep in his dorm. you’d assumed something had happened on this mission, but patient and kind as you were, understanding of the situation, you wouldn’t force it out of him.

he didn’t offer much when you got there, just a quiet “thanks,” and a change of clothes he tossed your way like the fabric might speak for him. the shirt smelled like him—clean detergent, something like pine—and you didn’t comment on how warm it felt, like it had just come out of the dryer. the both of you crawled into bed without the usual banter. no sleepy teasing, no shared scrolling through stupid videos, no jokingly whispered “did you lock your door?” that megumi always answered with a deadpan yes and a kiss to your temple. he was silent. curled inward. you didn’t press. you just shifted behind him, let him mold himself to your back like armor, latched onto his arm wrapped around your middle, and let the silence settle around the both of you.

maybe that’s why you heard it. sometime in the middle of the night, when the moonlight through the blinds painted silver slats across the blanket, you woke up to the sound of his voice. not fully—your brain was swimming in that hazy, half-dream place—but enough to understand. “no—don’t go—I said stay back—” his voice was raw, like he was begging. you didn’t move at first. you weren’t sure if he was awake, if this was something he wanted you to witness. your hand was still resting on his stomach, but you stilled it. waited. you’d still been half awake, willing your eyes to fully close, forcing yourself to breathe in fours, clenching the mild headache out of your skull, so you felt a little guilty, witnessing this. "I can’t—I can’t lose—” and then he jolted slightly, not fully waking, but like his body was trying to escape whatever dream had him trapped. your hand, so slowly, so carefully, slid from his stomach to his chest. you pressed it there, gentle, warm, and you whispered, just once, “I'm here, gumi.” he didn’t open his eyes. but his breathing slowed. you stayed like that until dawn.

he was silent the next morning. got ready quickly, and rushed you over to your dorm so you could get ready too. the almost domestic quality of it pulled on his heart more than he liked.

the worst part of his dreams is that they followed him around during the day, too. they were too vivid, too devastating, too real to be forgotten the next morning. he always remembered them. this one had been bad, though they usually were. too late to save someone, too late to save himself. picture-by-picture playbacks of deaths he’d witnessed, civilians he thought himself too weak to save. he’d voiced these anxieties to you before and sometimes you’d grab his wrists, plead with him using just your eyes, tell him that it wasn’t his fault, there was nothing more he could’ve done, that no one was mad at him—but most of the time, you’d slowly wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his chest, close your eyes and breathe deeply. "I know. I understand. I feel the same way.” your lips didn’t say those things, but your actions did. anchored. that’s how you made him feel.

he doesn’t say anything about his nightmare, and you don’t feel the need to bring it up. and maybe you’re a little scared, worried that if you say something, he’ll clam up, stop inviting you over, stop letting you help him. as infuriating as it was, that was megumi. when you first started dating, you didn’t allow it, still didn't sometimes.

“just let it go, it’s nothing,” he choked out and you could see he was saying it through gritted teeth. blood was slowly seeping onto the carpet beneath him, long since soaked through his uniform.

"I said sit down, fushiguro. shoko may not force you to let her heal you, but I will.” you spoke with a low, final quality that rumbled in your chest. he hated going to see shoko, having to rely on someone so constantly, having to admit to pain, to defeat, even if the mission was successful. after helping him out of his jacket, slowly cleaning his wound, meticulously taping gauze on it, and forcing him to change it every couple of hours, he decided he would go see shoko. it was too intimate, too raw, too bare. he’d rather admit weakness to shoko than to you.

but as time went on, megumi got better at being honest with you, and you got better at letting him. if he said he was fine, you didn’t argue, even if you knew it wasn’t true. if it made him feel better to lie, then so be it. there was a line drawn, of course, you only allowed each other to become a certain amount of not fine before caving, taking turns like a seesaw. but most importantly, you trusted each other.

it’s been a few days since that night, but something lingers. megumi hasn’t mentioned the dream. not once. not in passing, not with a joke, not even in the awkward, half-mumbled way he sometimes says things like “you helped” when what he really means is "I needed you.” you don’t ask. not because you don’t want to—god, you do—but because that night, when your hand had found his chest and your voice had cracked through whatever hell he was stuck in, something in him had…settled. and sometimes that’s enough.

still, the weight of it clings to the corners of the room. tonight, you’re back in his bed. your legs are tangled together like always, his arm casually slung around your waist like always, the room dim and hushed and safe. like always. but megumi’s not asleep. he’s tracing lazy circles over your wrist with his thumb, absent and rhythmic. the kind of touch that means I'm thinking about something I might actually say out loud. eventually. you give him time. you always give him time. you’re so fucking patient, it drives him insane. finally, he shifts behind you, voice low and gravelly from disuse. “did I…say anything weird?” his breath warms the nape of your neck.

you don’t roll over. just blink at the shadows cast by his blinds and answer evenly, “weird? no.” a pause. then: “but you said something.” you let out a soft sigh. “you were dreaming.”

"I figured.” his fingers pause. “you said…'I'm here.'”

you nod against the pillow. “yeah.” yeah, I am here, and I'm not going anywhere, and I shouldn’t have to say that because I know you know it, but I'm gonna say it anyway. another long beat of silence.

then he says, softer this time, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him, "I thought you were gone. in the dream. you wouldn’t listen to me.” you close your eyes. his voice has that raw edge again, like he’s apologizing for something he couldn’t control. like he’s ashamed of needing you, even in sleep. you don’t say I'm sorry. you don’t say it was just a dream. you just reach back and take his hand in yours, your fingers weaving together like it’s muscle memory. “I'm not going anywhere,” you murmur.

another beat. then he squeezes your hand. "I know.” good.

you wake up the next morning before him. that never happens. megumi’s always the one with an internal clock so rigid it could qualify as a cursed technique. you, usually awake far into the night, could sleep well past any alarm. but today he’s out cold, face half-buried in the crook of your shoulder, his arm still wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. you lie there for a while, letting the steady sound of his breathing lull you into something like peace.

it’s strange, this softness. you’d never imagined you’d crave it, not like this., not when it’s so wildly, horrifyingly foreign. but with him, it feels earned. you glance over at his nightstand. his phone is face down. his alarm hasn’t gone off yet (like he even needs one). you could wake him. you don’t. instead, you shift just enough to turn toward him. his hair is a mess—like usual—and there’s the faintest crease in his cheek from the pillow. he looks younger when he sleeps, like someone who hasn’t watched too many people die. you don’t touch him, don’t dare disturb this rare moment of peace. you just watch. and maybe—just maybe—you let yourself imagine a world where this is normal. where you both get to wake up like this every morning, in a world that doesn’t punish you for finding solace in each other.

but megumi stirs before you can get too far into the fantasy. his eyes blink open slowly, bleary and half-aware. “you’re awake?”

you smile faintly. “don’t sound so surprised.”

he hums. “it’s early.”

you shrug. “didn’t want to wake you.”

he shifts, stretches slightly but doesn’t move away from you. “that’s new.”

“you needed it,” you say simply.

he’s quiet for a while. then: “thanks.” thanks for being here, thanks for staying, thanks for everything I’ve never thanked you for. you reach up, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “you don’t have to thank me for that. ever.” his eyes flicker down to your hand, then back up to meet yours. for once, he doesn’t look away.

……

he’s gotten comfortable—too comfortable, he tells himself. he sleeps, almost the whole night through, without waking up, and when he finally does wake up, he can’t remember whether or not he’s had a nightmare. but, again, too comfortable.

it wasn’t uncommon for missions to take a long time, to keep you apart for even more than a whole day. as tenacious as you both were, you soldiered on in silence. rare, if ever, was the “miss you,” text after a two-day mission. in fact, rare was it that megumi texted you ever. either he was busy with a mission or babysitting gojo, or he was with you, no need to text. but it had been four whole fucking days, and you’d texted him once, only after he had texted you first. there was a pit growing in his stomach, coiling and widening with each night he spent in your dorm—god, it smelled like you, where the fuck else was he supposed to be able to sleep?

after the first 32 hours, he’d caved. “mission going ok?” it was perfect. not too needy, but not too detached, right? making sure you were safe, without coming right out and admitting he missed you. he was weirdly proud of how good his text was at accurately conveying what he wanted it to. but anything even remotely positive vanished with your reply.

“kind of.”

kind of? kind of?! what the hell does that mean. he’s gonna scold your ass when you get back. don’t ever text me something like that again, when I ask about your mission tell me it’s ok. that you’re ok. if you’re not, you should’ve already called me. kind of.

he’s standing outside the door of yaga’s office approximately 60 seconds later.

“fushiguro? you can come in…” he says tentatively, like he’s confused. his door is open to student concerns, even if he doesn’t actually give a shit about them.

but fushiguro can’t come in. he can hardly breath, can hardly think. kind of. “mission. gojo’s on a mission with-with…it’s been four days. what’s going on?” if yaga knew him better, he’d pick up on the tremble that coats his voice, on the shaky quality of his hands, which are wringing each other to the point of bruises.

“oh, well as you know, it’s a retrieval mission. you of all people should know that these things take time and —”

“when will they be back?” he’s reigned himself back in, anchor, anchor, anchor. his voice is restrained now, his fingernails are tearing into the skin of his palm. yaga looks at him curiously. never, in all the time he’s been at the school, had fushiguro come to check in on one of gojo’s missions.

“I'm not entirely sure. my best guess? late tonight. according to gojo-san, they’ve retrieved the cursed object. now it’s just a matter of getting it back here safely.”

“any known injuries?”

“nothing severe enough to mention.” megumi is gone before yaga finishes his sentence. tonight. tonight. you’d be back tonight, and hopefully not too injured that you couldn’t sleep in his bed. but, it’s like he thought. he’s gotten far too comfortable.

……

he hears the footsteps before he sees anything. too many of them. too heavy. not yours. megumi's halfway down the hall when he spots the group—gojo leading, shoko behind, and between them…you.

no. not you. not like this.

your body is limp in gojo’s arms, head lolled against his shoulder, blood still wet in your hair and smeared across your cheek like war paint. you're wrapped in a school-issued jacket that isn’t yours. your fingers twitch once, then go still. megumi stops in his tracks. his stomach drops. actually drops—like his body has gone cold, like gravity just gave up on holding him together. for a second, he thinks he’s going to throw up. his ears ring. everything narrows to a single, white-hot point: you’re not supposed to look like that.

you’re supposed to be walking in on your own. you’re supposed to roll your eyes when you see him, say something like, “miss me?” like you didn’t almost die. like the world hasn't shattered in your absence. but instead—you look broken. like something someone tried to put back together but gave up halfway. megumi doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s there, beside the stretcher as shoko rolls you down the hall. his hand reaches out, trembling, stopping just short of touching your shoulder. he can’t bring himself to do it.

shoko’s voice is calm, brisk, she's not talking to megumi. maybe to gojo, he doesn't know. “she’s stable. internal damage is healed. I'll need an hour, maybe two, to get her pain levels down. her vitals are holding.” holding. like you’re a system being kept online. not a person. megumi feels bile rise in his throat. gojo starts to speak—something low, serious, rare—and megumi doesn’t even hear him. the words flow around him, soft and useless. explanations, apologies, something about how things got out of hand, how “she handled herself better than anyone else could’ve.” that he didn’t mean for this. that no one expected—

megumi tunes out. he’s just so fucking tired. he doesn’t care about the mission. doesn’t care about strategy or odds or what went wrong or why shoko’s voice is tighter than usual, why gojo won’t meet his eyes. all he knows is this:

you’re here. you’re home. but it’s not right.

instead, your lips are cracked and stained with blood, and there’s a gash just beneath your collarbone that gojo keeps not looking at. the air smells like antiseptic and copper, like death that hasn’t quite arrived yet. megumi clenches his fists. and he counts—one, two, three—each second dragging its feet as he waits for shoko to finish what she has to do. for everyone else to leave. for them to stop talking like it means anything. like any of it will matter if you never wake up. his fingers twitch. you’re here. you’re home. but you’re not you. and until you are, he won’t breathe right again. and he’s sure he won’t sleep, right?

the fluorescent lights hum above him—steady, sterile, unfeeling—but megumi only hears the shallow, rhythmic sounds of your breathing. at least that hasn't stopped. he keeps a careful hand on your pulse anyway, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw like he's trying to hold time still with the pads of his fingers.

you don't move.

you're warm now, though. shoko made sure of that. bandaged, stitched, healed just enough. but it's not enough. not for megumi. not when he walked into the infirmary expecting you to smile at him—tease him about how he got taller while you were gone, make some offhanded joke about gojo probably crying when he saw your injuries—and instead you’re laid out on a cot like a ghost. limp. blood crusted at your temple.

he stood for a long time, just watching, waiting, praying. then he moves.

it's clumsy, almost pitiful, how quickly he sheds the stiffness from his body and crawls onto the cot beside you. it’s too small for the both of you, barely wide enough to hold one person, let alone two. he doesn't care. his arms go around you like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate. and then—finally—his eyes fall shut.

it isn’t that the nightmares don’t come. they try. they always try. but your body shifts, instinctively, into his. you sigh, weakly, in your sleep, and your fingers twitch against his shirt like they’re trying to curl into something familiar. megumi exhales. his whole body softens. not a sigh, not a breath—just melts. he sleeps harder than he ever has. the kind of sleep that makes hours fold into seconds. the kind that turns pain into numbness and then into nothing at all.

and when he opens his eyes again, there’s light bleeding through. and your eyes are open, too. bleary, unfocused. but on him. your fingers are entwined with his. his heart leaps so hard it hurts. "...hey," you rasp, voice scratchy and paper-thin. "I drooled on your shirt."

he lets out a sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and tucks his face into your shoulder, tightening his hold like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. "I thought you were dead," he whispers.

"still might be," you mumble, eyes closing again. "...but at least I'm warm.”

he squeezes your hand. “you idiot.” and this time, when he cries, it’s quiet. it’s careful. it’s grateful.

……

things don’t necessarily change after that. at least, not in a spoken manner. but megumi…megumi changes. there’s little stoicism left in him. he tells you he loves you, everyday, when previously that was a scarce gift given only on the rarest of occasions. but the weight of it, despite it’s increased frequency, is just as heavy.

shoko lets you leave later that day on strict orders of rest, no missions, and gallons of water. you don’t listen. megumi does.

later that night, he’s worried again. or rather, he never stopped worrying. but now it’s worse. and he knows that you know, but he can’t bring himself to speak. to burden you with his anxieties, not when you’re already so burdened.

however, he knows what you’d say if you could read his thoughts. “tell me anyway.”

"I had a dream the night before you came home. you were…we were…it wasn’t enough,” and god, why does voice sound like he’s crying?

you don’t say anything right away. you’re afraid if you do, it’ll break the moment like brittle glass. that if you turn around, you’ll see him pulling back into himself, tying those heavy emotional threads into too-tight knots again. so instead, you shift just a little—enough that your back presses more firmly to his chest, that your hand finds his and gently, deliberately, intertwines your fingers.

his thumb stills against your wrist, and then it squeezes, once. like a thank you.

“you don’t have to tell me about it,” you murmur, barely audible, eyes fluttering shut. “you don’t owe me anything.”

“yes, I do. I owe you everything,” he whispers. ”and even if I didn’t, I want to tell you.”

that’s how megumi says I love you. not in words, not directly. but in truths he fights to share. in silences he breaks for you and you alone. in the way he lets you stay—stay close, stay in, stay his.

and so, with the quiet hum of safety wrapping around both of you, he begins to talk. just softly, slowly. a few words at first—names, places, what he saw, what he felt. the way your voice cut through the nightmare like a tether to the real world. the way he woke up half-choking on a sob and found himself holding you instead of air. the relief, the shame, the aching tenderness of knowing you were real and warm and right there.

and you listen. you always do. you say little, not because you have nothing to say, but because he needs this. needs your silence. needs your hand. needs you here, breathing and alive and not a ghost. by the time his words run dry, you’ve turned to face him. he looks tired—hollow-eyed and frayed—but there’s something softer about him now. he’s unfurled, just a bit. just enough.

you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes like it physically relieves him. “megumi?”

“hm?”

“if I die, I'll haunt you.”

his eyes open again, and you see it—his reluctant smile, small and crooked. “you already do.”

you both fall asleep that night without meaning to. wrapped up in each other, wrapped in words spoken and unspoken. you fall asleep first, this time, not before searching through the blankets for his hand. and for once, so does megumi. no dreams. no terror. just you. just peace.

header images found on pinterest from an unnamed account, message for removal or credit

#filed under: jjk fics <3 #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk comfort #jjk fluff #jjk hurt/comfort #megumi fushiguro #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fushiguro fluff #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi fluff #megumi comfort #megumi hurt/comfort #megumi fic #megumi headcanons #megumi jjk

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soo0hee · 2 months ago

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Splish, Splash Pt. 1/2

Pairing — Lifeguard!Hong Jisoo/Joshua x afab!Lifeguard!Reader

Summary — When you get stuck with the new guy at your shifts, you weren't sure what to make of him. His bright smile and the everlasting sunshine he seemed to carry around, paired with the good natured sass and way to juicy ass left you reeling. Will you be able to survive the summer without losing your mind?

Genre — fluff, angst, Lifeguard!Au, enemies to lovers au

Warnings — suggestive, cursing, alcohol, sexual harrassment, dare i say men(?)

Word Count — 4.0k

Rating — PG-13 — [may change for part 2]

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©soo0hee on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

This work is part of the Carat Bay Collab by @camandemstudios ! Please check them out!

When one was working at a waterpark, they usually expected to get wet or hit by water at certain points of their job. Someone splashing around, a waterball that came rolling or straight up just jumping in to get someone out of it.

And yet, somehow when small drops hit you, you still flinched in surprise at the sudden contact.

It wasn’t on purpose, more like an instinct when the cold of it hit your skin that had you shuddering and flinch away from the offending liquid. Somethibg you should be, in theory, used to after 2 years of working at CaratBay. Or at least one would think so.

But somehow you still reacted the exact same way then when you had first started.

You still remembered your first day and how hard your new coworker and future best friend had laughed when he saw the mortification on your face , drops of water sliding down and dripping from your chin after having been drenched unexpectedly by a kid jumping in close by.

What you would give to have him laugh at you again if that meant to have him back as your shift partner instead of the new guy you had been presented with by the higher ups just 3 weeks ago.

Wooyoung, even if the biggest menace you had ever gotten to meet in your entire life, was who had gotten you out of your personal bubbleand build up the confidence you needed not to let guests talk over you and stand up for yourself and the decicisons that needed to be made to keep them and yourself safe.

And now he was gone. Not gone gone but moved far enough away to have him search for a job that wasn’t on the other side of seoul.

You wanted him back and the new guy gone. Hong Jisoo or Joshua as he introduced himself to you.

He seemed nice enough at first glance. His friendly smile and the way the rest of the staff kind of flogged to him instantly. And you had to admit he did look good.

Joshua was a good guy, that much you could tell but somehow you didn’t find yourself inclined to make an effort and get to know him on a personal level.

He was a coworker and that was it. No friendship – no getting close. A coworker.

It was easy to stick to that principle at first. Only talking to each other when it was about guests or the Bay in total, not giving to many details about your privat life instead keeping a polite distance that left you room to breath and that was it. Joshua accepted it.

Until he didn’t.

You had the feeling that it wasn’t because he didn’t accept the boundary you put in place but more because he genuinely tried to be on good terms with you. Simple things really like sitting at the same table at the parks restaurant during break time while you ate your fries, bringing you some water when he got himself one to stay hydrated or when offered to take your pool bar shift in the evening because he noticed you being uncomfortable when some idiots got a bit to tipsy and started flirting outrageously cause he was just sweet like that. And so you couldn’t be mad even if you wanted to be.

Snacking on your food you quietly watched Yuna, one of the other Lifeguards console a crying girl after she had fallen while running after an older boy. It was rare that you actually worked together with her as she was assigned a different are of the park, but every now and then there moments when you saw each other in passing. Like now where she took over while you were on break.

Joshua sat opposite you, scrolling on his phone while neither disturbed the hanging silence between you both. Not uncomfortable but definitely noticeable.

Mindlessly you reached for the next fry.

“Soo‐” your eyes flickered to the man as he suddenly spoke up, leaned back and gaze fixed on you while you pushed the fry into your mouth only to promptly—

“-why don’t you like me?”

— choke on it.

Coughing you stared at him in surprise before taking the offered water to flush down the part of the fry that left you gasping.

“I mean… I never said I didn’t like you…” you choked out and cleared your throat to get your voice back to normal.

“You also never acted like you don’t. Don’t get me wrong, you’re never rude just– distant?” not once did his friendly smile drop from his face. He seemed almost curious.

“Distant?” you asked.

“Distant.” He answered. “In 3 weeks, this is our first conversation that’s not about the park. At least not directly. So yeah, distant.”

Now that he said it, distant wasn’t wrong.

“I’m not- I mean I wasn’t—”

“But you are. And it’s okay, I don’t judge. You don’t know me and from what I gathered from the others, you were pretty close with the lifeguard before me.”

A little disarmed by his friendliness you needed a moment to gather yourself. You leaned forward to catch his eyes and gave him a much to sweet looking smile.

“You’re right, I don’t know you.”

“But you also don’t want to know me.” A statement more then it was a question the man accepted your answer with a nod.

“I don’t know you.” You repeated yourself.

“We’ve established that.” With one last look on his phone he put it back into the pocket of his shorts and got up. “But if you want to, you know where to find me”

Gone before you could answer you leaned back, baffled and nut hungry anymore you huffed.

The rest of the shift had been no different then before you went on break, the only difference being that Joshua was a lot more smiley then before.

You ignored it for the time being and when you fell in bed that night his words came to catch up, never leaving your mind and not letting you rest before you admitted to yourself that you had been a bit of an asshole to the man. You had told yourself that it wasn’t that you disliked him and that you had only been distant, yet somehow you found yourself not even willing to give him a chance.

“You also don’t want to know me.”

Joshua was right. So far you hadn’t even entertained the idea of it and that had been an A class asshole move.

The blanket shifted beside you, the added weight and the almost inaudible purring announcing the arrival of one of your kittens.

Nelli the blue ragdoll baby you had adopted from a shelter after your friend had take you to join her to walk a 2 of the dogs she regularly went out with was the by far cuddlier one of the two while, Sua, a white British shorthair, would rather liked to stay close but never wanted any pats unless she asked for them first.

The little kitten nudged your face with her nose and curled together next to your head, sounding like an engine running without it’s energy draining and soothing you to sleep.

--------

The coffee cup on Joshua’s locker in the changing room the next morning was a surprising but not unwelcome development the man certainly didn’t reject. He hadn’t slept a lot, not yet used to the silence his new apartment brought and how lonely he would be after moving halfway across the country.

Honestly it should have been something to expect after knowing only few people. The guys working at Carat Bay were amazing, taking to him like he had been with them for years and inviting him wherever they could. However the silence once the apartment door fell shut behind him was deafening.

So yes, the coffee was like a godsend gift this morning. The note attached to it however had him not just reeling but send his mind down an actual rollercoaster of emotions.

*Noticed you didn’t catch much sleep*

Simple and without a name he read the note obviously meant to stay anonymous.

And if he wasn’t able to recognize the handwriting, unique with its own little quirks, it might have even worked.

The t’s looking a little like d’s made it more then obvious who the author if it had been.

For a moment Joshua thought he’d gone entirely crazy from lack of sleep.

And then he found the this time slightly bigger portion of fries you ate in your break pushed slightly more to the middle of the table, a second plastic fork placed right next to it.

He tried catching your eyes to confirm that he wasn’t overstepping in anyway but you just stared at the giant palm tree behind him, seemingly lost in thought. Or simply avoiding his eyes like you usually did. He wasn’t sure which was the case.

Only for a small moment did Joshua think he had seen your eye twitch before it was gone again, yet you stayed silent and kept munching.

Well okay then, he thought and took a second fry to dip it into the ketchup.

A bit later after he had pulled a struggling and quite out of breath 7 year old out of the water who was trying to prove that he indeed was able to keep up with his older brother and his friend, the male was almost hit in the face with one of the waterparks provided towels meant for its staff and again a bit after that he thought he saw the beginning of a hesitant smile thrown in his direction.

He was ashamed to admit that his very first instinct had been to turn around and check if there was someone standing behind him only to promptly want to smack his head against the pool tiles when realizing that you had actually meant to look at him.

Thinking that day would be a one time occurrence had apparently also been a mistake as the days to come were much the same. Small moments in which it seemed like you were actively trying to bridge the gap between them without being to obvious in your attempts.

Joshua couldn’t help but think it was adorable how you worked yourself up to walk over to him and do the simplest of things like he was going to eat you if you so much as looked at him now. He knew you would do that with him should he ever dare voice those thoughts out loud.

“I’m getting a new crate pineapple juice.” He muttered in passing just as you handed a young woman her Piña Colada and scanned her wrist banned to add the drink to her tab.

“Can you bring a cherry one too? I’m almost out.”

The question was simple in itself and with everyone else he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

With a wink and teasing, “You got it!” he disappeared behind a palm tree, leaving you to tend the pool bar alone for the time being.

It was a week day, so things were slow as most people were either working or at school at this time. Most were couples or small groups of friends seeking to get away from the daily stress of life.

The group of boys splashing each other not to far from where you were serving and had up until now annoyed more then half of the visitors you had currently spending their time in your area was laughing loudly while flicking water at eachother.

You rounded the bar walked to the edge of the pool, sharply blowing the whistle hanging from around your neck. The noise echoed from the walls and had multiple people look at you as you crouched down fixing them with a look that meant business.

“Keep it down, you’re not the only ones here and others would appreciate it if they got the same chance to unwind here like you do.”

One of the 3 mock saluted and dove right under water. His friend following right behind while the third ran his hand through his wet hair; eyes never leaving you even when you got up and checked with a quick look if the bar needed attention again. The look he had sent chills down your back even in the tropical heat inside the dome in which the regular pool was placed.

“Come one baby, we were just having fun! No need to be a buzzkill.”

His tone was obviously meant to be flirty but the way he said it gave you the heebie jibbies.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t alone in this pool. Please keep it down.”

You stepped back and left him with one last look.

Joshua came back carrying the crates and went back behind the bar. Having already seen that you were busy at the pool he didn’t worry that you weren’t where he had left you and when you joined him again he simply asked if everything was okay.

“Just some rowdy boys who can’t keep it down.”

“So nothing new?”

“No not really.” You chuckled and opened the industrial dishwasher below the counter. Steam surrounded you , causing you to wave your hands through the warm cloud to make it go away.

He looked past you to eye them like you had done before leaving your post earlier.

“Think they’re gonna cause trouble?”

“Not sure. Maybe just a bit excited but I didn’t get the vibe that they’d actually out for it.”

You grabbed the warm plastic cups and dried them over before stacking them back up. Joshua pushed the cherry and pineapple juice crates into their stack system.

Nodding you looked at the couple swimming up to you.

“What can I get for you?”

“Just a Fanta and some beer, please.”

You got the order started, scanning the chip the man held out to you and handed them over.

“Here you go.” You said with your customer service smile.

The two sat down at the build into the water seats to enjoy their drinks.

Not long after you recognized the 3 boys from before approach the bar. They had actually kept it down a bit much to the other visitors delight but somehow you felt the air shift.

“What can I get for you 3?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral with Joshua watching carefully.

“2 beers for these idiots and you for me baby.” His words had you halt, eyebrows jumping almost all the way up into your hair line.

The line was uncalled for and you’d rather he’d swim away again but went over to the cooler for said beers. Joshua having heard what had been said too, kept quiet and caught your eyes, waiting for you to signal to have him take over. You shook your head, telling him you were good.

“Here, your chips please?”

“Or instead I could have your number instead of a tab?”

You stared unimpressed with the scanner in your hand.

“Just the chips are fine.”

The two beside him let out a dramatic “Ohhhhhhh!” and “Damn girl, why so mean!” and you really had to hold yourself together to not roll your eyes right into your skull at their behavior.

“Pay your drinks or we’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.” Joshua called over, hovering behind you and waiting for them to react.

The held their hands up in surrender and gave you the chip. Quickly you scanned it down and watched them leave. The displeased frown on mr-number-instead did not go unnoticed.

And that was it.

The vanished a bit later, plastic cups carelessly left behind and not a trace of them in sight. You were glad, guessing that the 3 must have gone to a different part of the park just as Yuna came to take over.

"You good?" you heard Joshua ask as you made your way around the pool.

"Sure. Just an idiot thinking he's god's gift to mankind. Nothing new and nothing that hasn't happened before at some point. Youngie hated when I told him off for taking over without me asking for help, so thank you for letting me handle it. A least somewhat."

Joshua nodded. He understood why this Youngie wanted to help, the disgust he felt for the guy was still causing his stomach to churn when he thought back.

"It's all good. He was out of line and he should have backed off when you told him to."

Time went by without a hitch. Nothing happened beside the normal occurrences. A scraped knee from falling on the wet tiles and a busted lip and bleeding nose after collision underwater by 2 girls and the clock already struck 7pm. A loud gong went of telling everyone that it was time to make their way home soon.

The regular pool was one of the last parts of Carat Bay to close. The kids area and Waterslide already closed along with the Merchstand and Restaurants so it was only a matter of time until people were showered and on the way to the parking lot.

You stretched your arms and back and suppressed a yawn, feeling tired and more then ready to go home soon.

“Where is Joshua?”

Seungkwan, usually stationed at the Flow Rider stood by the swing door separating the main area and the visitor changing rooms, waiting for Vernon who came from the wave pool and looked up from his phone.

“Shua-hyung? Wanted to check the pool one last time before changing. Isn’t he back yet?”

You shock your head.

“Well he’s probably done soon. Anyways I’m heading out now. You coming?” the last part directed at Vernon he saluted quickly and was gone. The slightly younger right behind him.

You tried to oversee the pool, hoping to see your coworker coming back already but with a defeated sigh you gave up. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Joshua to do his job, you knew he was more then capable to do so, but it didn’t stop you from checking again yourself.

You found him further in the back behind a shut of waterfall and you froze.

Oh boy.

Joshua stood shoulder deep in the water, hair wet, water running down his face and falling into the pool. His black shirt clinging tightly onto his way to defined chest and arms, mocking in a way.

Of course you knew that he was attractive. You had tried to avoid him but you weren’t blind. You had seen that he hid well defined muscles underneath the fabric of his shirt but right now, it wasn’t just obvious. It was like a punch to the face, begging to be stared at.

What was even worse was that in the clear water you could see very well the shorts of his showcasing his thighs even if it was a little shaky.

“Uhmm…” you said a little dumb sounding even to your own ears. Joshua having noticed you standing at the edge lit up further then he should have in your opinion and triumphantly held up a pair of pink glasses.

“Found it!”

“F-found what?”

He held the glasses up higher.

“These! A woman called a said that their daughter probably left their glasses at the island, so I went and checked and voila! I got em.”

“I can see that.” Among other things. ”That doesn’t explain why you are in the water?”

With raised eyebrows and a picked up jaw you clearly didn’t care to hide the amusement you felt as you stared him down with crossed arms. Eyes quickly flicking up from his broad shoulders to his face.

Joshua looked like you had grown a second head. “To get the glasses? Didn’t you hear me?”

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah, no I got that part. What I don’t get is why you didn’t use the bridge to get there…”

It was almost comical how his face changed from Duh! to Huh? to Ohhh. As he looked back at the island and saw the bridge leading over to the little island where he came from.

Snorting you tried to hide your laugh and failed epically.

The man in the pool splashed you with water in retaliation.

“Don’t laugh, woman!” he fake whined, pout clearly there on hips.

Staggering back a bit to avoid the water you laughed again and Joshua couldn’t help but relish in the sound.

“I’m sorry!”

“No you aren’t.”

“No I’m not.”

“At least help me out of here!”

You sat down, smile not even attempted to be hidden from him as you stared at his hand reaching out for you to take.

“Just take the stairs over there.” You hummed.

“Y/nn!”

“Okay, jesus fine you big baby!”

The playful banter did not get lost on either of you and you hated to admit that you enjoyed the moment a lot more then you thought. It felt as easy as breathing.

Maybe you should have been a bit more hesitant and maybe you should have seen it coming when you took his hand ready to pull him out but instead of him actually coming up and out of the water, you suddenly found yourself in it with him.

“HONG JOSHUA?!” You shrieked loudly as soon as you came back up for air, blindly splashing water into the direction you heard him cackle loudly before rubbing the water out of your eyes.

You had still been wearing your red bathing suit and the standard black shorts so at least you didn’t get drenched in your normal clothes but you hadn’t expected to have to dry yourself completely before going home either.

Again you splashed him when he could stop laughing at your predicament, now purposefully going after him. Joshua immediately reacted, the glasses he had saved quickly placed on the edge to not damage them before retaliating with just as much enthusiasm and coming closer.

You felt his arms suddenly wrapping around your midsection, barely having time to hold your breath as you suddenly found yourself dunked under. Your fingers held tightly onto him, hoping to avoid your impending doom.

“No, please! I’m sorry I shouldn’t have laughed!” you spluttered quickly.

“But are you really?”

You froze.

His voice was suddenly much closer then you had anticipated and when you looked up you found yourself almost nose to nose with his own. The tone he had used indicating something much darker hidden behind all those soft eyes that seemed to hold something wild and ready to attack given the chance.

“Well, are you…” he hummed into to space between you, making your ears ring as you fidgeted nervously. You could feel the heat of his skin in contrast to the cool of the water. It left you feeling breathless in a way you hadn’t been since your last boyfriend had first asked you out.

You choked out something that sounded a lot like “I– , you—”

when suddenly…

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

Seungkwan.

172 notes · View notes

readerstories · 10 months ago

Text

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 1/?

God I'm a sucker for a soulmate au. (AO3) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, eventual smut, slow burn

Wordcount: 2383

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

Other info: About this au - Soulmates find each other through touch, which establishes a mental link that lets feelings through, and if solid and built up enough over time, simple thoughts/words can also come through. Some bonds are purely platonic, about ⅓ in total. Multiple soulmates are not unheard of, but rare, more common with platonic soulmates.

Quickly about the reader - mercenary/gunman/thug for hire. Great shot with pretty much any gun, has two knives as backup weapons, has fought with swords before. Looks wise he has hair and is shorter than Wade and Logan, but I try to keep no specific height in mind while writing. Has a few scars scattered over his body, but nothing specific as of yet. Wears gloves almost everyday. Does not want a soulmate, thinks it just leaves people vulnerable. Lives on his own in an apartment he owns and is content with his life.

All you were, really, was hired help.

All you were supposed to do was stand around and look scary, dressed in all black down to your gloves (an item you forgot even though you wore them almost everyday), with a few other tugs in a warehouse with high shelves stacked with crates, while your employer (a generous word for the drug dealer that hired you) met with another drug dealer.

It had gone tits up the second a man wearing a red and black spandex suit and katanas on his back of all things came crashing through a window.

You had dived for cover, because there are gunshots ringing out in the milliseconds after the glass shatters. You curse, reaching for your gun, with just one single 10 bullet magazine, because your stupid employer had insisted you only needed one when you asked for more. So to have something more you had your adamantium knives strapped to each thigh, hidden enough under your black joggers.

You curse under your breath, cause this is fucking awful. You hear gunshots over and over again, people are dying, wood from shipping crates are splintering, metal is hitting the floor.

And there’s talking.

Fucking talking.

“Come one guys, your aim is all off! Did none of you ever train on the neighborhood cats?”

Well, more like yelling. Because even though the warehouse wasn’t empty, it still had an echo. You are used to the loud sounds, it fuels your adrenaline as you peek out from behind the crate you are using as a shield.

The man, you are just going to call him Red for now, is flipping and bouncing between crates, avoiding any big hits. A few bullets graze an arm, but he doesn’t seem to take notice as his own bullets find their marks, bodies dropping around him. He’s nimble and quick about it, taking down guys from both sides with equal gusto, and you find yourself just watching him carefully. He’s almost elegant, light on his feet, and a jab or taunt spewing out of his mouth every few bullets.

Careful not to alert Red or anyone else about your position, you shift, gun in hand watching him saunter over to your employer, the last man standing. Well, not really, since he’s down on his knees, begging for something incoherent while fat tears and snot roll down his face.

“Newsflash asshole, I don’t care for your tragic backstory that the writer won’t let you talk about.” Red raises his gun, one last loud bang filling the warehouse before it’s quiet once again.

“Last fucking one, my amazing math skills once again making me winnerrrrr.” Red claps his hands together, before moving his hands to his hips, looking around the warehouse. “What a fucking mess.” He shakes his head, and you see your opportunity now that he thinks it’s all over.

You move up, pulling the trigger as soon as your gun is aimed right. Red doesn’t even get to turn before six bullets go through his chest, two through his throat, and the last two finding their mark in his skull. You shouldn’t use all your bullets on one target like that, but still, you do, too full of adrenaline to be fully rational. Red drops like a sack of potatoes, and you draw a sigh of relief, lowering your gun as you too look around the warehouse. You’re glad it’s far away from anything else, because it should take at least a few hours before the cops are alerted, and by that time you would be far away from this warehouse that is by now covered in blood, bullet casings, and dead men.

Your earlier relief turns into utter confusion as you hear shuffling, and when you turn back towards where Red’s body is, you see him shake his head where he lays crumpled on the floor, and seconds later he’s on his feet with a groan.

“Okay, good shot whoever that was.” You gape, words slipping out of your mouth without meaning to.

“What the fuck.” Red’s head snaps towards you.

“Oh, there you are.” His voice is light, almost like he’s halfway into song. “I would return the favor, but I’m fresh out of bullets so this will have to do.” He pulls out the katanas strapped to his back. You grab your knives, managing, somehow by the grace of whatever runs this universe, to bring it out just in time to block both katanas that were coming at you in tight formation.

“Oh so you weren’t just happy to see me.” Red jokes, and though you can’t see his face under the mask, you are pretty sure he is grinning. You grunt, because there is no way for your brain to form words as you parry another attack from him, retreating.

You are in no position to attack, , so all you do is stop his attacks and try to escape, backing off. Or rather, you try to, but Red is not letting up, so all you end up doing is walking backwards through the warehouse in a vague path between boxes and shelves as he attacks.

He manages to get a few slashes here and there to connect, but they are shallow, just enough to draw blood and sting. One on your left arm, two on your right arm, three on your left leg. You wonder if amounts are on purpose. He seems to take it all as encouragement, laughing, keeping up his quick attacks.

You don’t know you hold out, breathing heavy, arms and hands hurting with how you are clutching and shielding with your knives like your life depends on it.

Because it 1000% fucking does, that’s why you manage.

Red finally lets up, just enough that you can create some space between the two of you. You don’t dare to actually turn and run, certain he has no moral code of cutting down someone from behind. So you just try to slowly create even more room between the two of you as you watch for his next attack.

“Oh I am having fun!” Red tries to clap, but he just knocks the hilts of his katanas together. “Though we are just a little unevenly matched here.” He sounds like he’s breathing just a little bit harder at least, even though there are no cuts next to the bullet holes riddling his suit. He tilts his head for a moment, then bends down, and then there’s a katana sliding over the floor, bumping into your boot. You look down at it, before looking back up at him.

“Come on, pick it up.” Shifting your knives into one hand, you keep your eyes on the white eyes of his mask as you bend down and pick up the sword.

“Oh yeah, look at me during.” You ignore his comment, feeling the weight of the katana in your hand. It’s heavy, but perfectly balanced, feeling perfect as you spin it in your hand a few times, the hilt still warm from Red’s earlier hold.

“Hot.” Red says as he twirls his second katana, mimicking you. Once more ignoring him, you put your knives back in their sheats. “Do you have them there to distract your enemies by making them think you are going to jerk off mid-battle?” You snort.

“No, they are there so they are more hidden, and more difficult to grab.”

“If you wanted my hands in your pants all you had to do was ask, baby.” You think Red is winking at you through the mask. You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Shut the fuck up.” With both of your hands on the hilt of the katana, you are ready to defend yourself from his first attack.

“Ohhh, you remind me of someone. I think the two of you would get along, he’s also a man of few words. Maybe I’ll let you live so you can meet him and fight him too, more material for my spank bank.” He definitely winks this time, then you are defending yourself from another attack from him. It pushes you backwards, again, but this time, you are able to attack back.

Though you can’t help but wonder if he’s letting you, just indulging you. Because you can feel how strong he is when you parry his strikes, you felt how strong he was when all you had was your knives.

It’s a dance, a dance he lets you participate in as you block, attack, block, attack, block. Redirecting his sword coming for your throat so it splinters wood instead of flesh.

“How did you learn to fight like this?” Wade asks, almost spinning as his energy is redirected away from your body. He is at least breathing a little heavier, and for some reason, you find yourself having a little fun, even though you think you know how this is going to end.

“I was a loser in high school. What about you?” You speak through gritted teeth, the sound of metal on metal filling the warehouse as you block another attack. You don’t even know why you ask him back, but it feels right.

“Something similar.” It’s still kinda hard to tell, but you think he grins under his mask as you attack back.

You do get a few cuts in, deep enough that it slices through his suit and the skin underneath, but it leaves you with little satisfaction as you see the cuts heal in seconds. Though at least his suit can’t fix itself, growing more tattered by the minute as new slashes and old bullet holes make a mess of it.

“So you are not just a pretty face, there’s some skills there.” You frown, anger flaring, and you are about to say something, but with a quick move that you have no opportunity to block, and that truly demonstrates the difference between the two of you, he nicks you with just the tip of the katana, just on the left corner of your mouth. You startle, but on instinct your tongue goes out to lick at the blood now sliding down to your skin. It just gives you more motivation to strike back, a big one that leaves behind what could almost be called a titty window on his chest, showing textured skin underneath.

“Ohhhh, freaky.” Red taunts, slicing your chest too, though your skin doesn’t heal when metal connects after slicing through your shirt like it was made of nothing. You curse, adrenaline causing your ears to roar, and the world to go a little fuzzy at the edges. You touch your chest, fingers coming back bloody, watching Red. Your own katana pointing towards the floor, ready, but down as you breathe heavily.

“Leaving yourself all open for me? You shouldn’t have.” Red coos, and that is what you are counting on. Letting him attack you straight on, thinking you have given up, so you can shove the katana through his skull, killing him again, and leaving you at least a few moments to high tail it out of there.

It’s what the plan is.

It does not work out like you intend it to.

It goes in a whole new direction.

Because when he comes close enough, you manage to get a hold on his shoulder, which gets you a hopefully not deadly slice over your abdomen for your efforts. You are moving quickly, seconds away from stabbing the katana through the bottom of his jaw. But then your for once gloveless fingers touch a bare spot on his shoulder where his suit had gotten torn, and there’s a sparkler going off in your brain, a sizzling sensation that settles in the back of your head as feelings of excitement, adrenaline, and happiness that are not your own speeds through your mind.

You gasp out loud.

You can’t help yourself.

Because you know what that was.

And there is no fucking way.

WHAT. THE. ABSOLUTE.

FUCK.

Fucking no.

A soulmate.

You have a fucking soulmate??????

And this is how you fucking meet him????

In all of your turmoil, you have dropped the katana that was destined to go through Red’s skull. He is a few paces behind you, not immediately attacking, just watching you as you turn around in your now mostly frozen state.

“Wh-”

“Touch me.” Red blinks, owlishly even with the white eyes of his mask.

“Wow, so forward. You know, con-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You march over to him, and in what seems to be confusion he lets you tug the glove of his hand that is not holding his katana. You interlace your fingers, the motion absurdly tender for the moment that is currently playing out. You see his eyes widen behind the mask, and you are sure his mouth opens and closes several times even hidden as it is.

“What the fuck.” The words are so soft out his mouth that you are not even sure he said them. Not that it matters, because a second later he is wrenching his hand back like you burned him. He runs past you, and you watch as he picks up his katana where you dropped it, and then keeps running after that brief slowdown, heading towards a door you hadn’t noticed while you were fighting. You startle yourself into action finally, following him, but he’s out the door before you can reach him.

On the other side there’s a hallway, and his back is quickly retreating, and all you feel is panic. You are not sure which of you it is coming from.

You try to keep up with him through multiple hallways, but he’s fast, getting out of the building before you do. It’s enough of a headstart that you only see backlights and hear the roar of a motorcycle speeding away.

You run over to where the cars you all arrived in earlier are parked, but of fucking course all tires are slashed. Not like you had any of the keys anyway, but they would have been easy enough to find in some dead man's pockets.

“Fucking MOTHERFUCKER!” You know he can’t hear you, but you hope Red feels your frustration through your bond as you punch the hood of a car, denting the metal.

(Part 2)

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