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darkmatilda · 3 days ago

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𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 3!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, decomposing body, violence, kidnapping, drowning, physical injuries 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.7

𝐚/𝐧: part 3 FINALLY!! thank u to everyone who has been here since the first part of this story. thank u andy @reidingandallthat for agreeing to appear here in the role you play. erika, darling, i apologize in advance 🫶🏼

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

Driving in a car next to your ex, after practically throwing yourself at him and pressing a sudden, still somewhat incomprehensible kiss to his lips, was a little, let's say, awkward

You were heading to the apartment pinpointed by one of Spencer's team members, which allegedly belonged to Clinton Richardson, the man you suspected to be the previously elusive accomplice of The Waterside Butcher. Given how easily Garcia had tracked him down, you hadn’t expected to actually find him there. However, you had to search the place, find out anything more about him than the scant information Rosas had provided. Get inside his mind. Figure out where he might be hiding, where they were holding Rebekah.

In the silence that settled between the two of you, you tried to maintain a straight, dignified posture. To play it completely cool about what had happened. One simple thought helped you with that—maybe it had been your impulsive initiative, but it was fully picked up by Spencer.

The way he cupped your face as soon as he realized what was happening. The pressure of his lips on yours, hungry, insatiable, and unrelenting with time. A sigh when he pulled away, the confusion creeping into his soft eyes.

A gentle shake of his head, as if he was already starting to regret it.

You regretted it too. It only thickened the atmosphere, which was already sharp enough to cut with a knife. In your apartment, you had made a bet—the first person to find Richardson would get one of what you considered the most beautiful and genuine photos from your time together. After what had happened, however, you couldn’t imagine just handing it to him without a word, so you simply kept it in your jacket pocket.

There was still some way to go ahead of you, the heavy midday traffic causing terrible jams, and you could no longer bear the silence nor the unreadable, fixed expression on his face as he stared at the road.

"Well," you started, clearing your throat. It felt like he flinched at the sound of your voice. God, when did you both turn into such idiots? "Just to be clear, it wasn’t...personal. You know what I mean. Kind of like checking if your favorite dessert from an old favorite restaurant still tastes the same."

If it weren’t for the fact that he glanced at you for a moment, you would’ve slammed your forehead into the dashboard. It was one of the worst things you could have said, but well, you couldn’t take your words back now.

“Favorite dessert. Checking,” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. His eyebrows shot up high, and he looked back at the road. Only then did they fall, and he shook his head from side to side. There was a trace of amusement in that gesture. Well, at least he wasn’t angry about the choice of words. “Okay.”

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you pretended to examine your nails.

“And does it still taste good?” Spencer asked after a long pause.

“What?” You shifted, distracted in your seat.

“I’m asking if it still tastes good.”

You hesitated for a moment before answering, and then a laugh gathered in your chest, a burst of it you didn’t let out loud. Instead, you held back, offering only a brief smile, a flash of teeth. Spencer glanced at you from the corner of his eye, seeming less tense than before. Some things were probably easier for you to talk about in metaphors, even if they were simple ones.

“Well, it was favorite for a reason," you said after a moment, gently, though you tried to sound casual.

The photo in your pocket.

Spencer smiled in that subtle way, where only the corners of his lips moved, his eyes remaining unchanged, thoughtful. And with that, the stage of pretending it never happened began.

The apartment that was supposedly owned by your suspect was located in a fairly decent neighborhood—at least nicer than the one Rebekah lived in—which filled you with a bitter sense of injustice. After you dealt with the lock, you both stepped inside cautiously, scanning for any potential occupant, but the place was empty.

"Not exactly how I pictured the place of someone they call The Butcher in the media," you muttered, stepping lightly on the birchwood floor beneath the bright walls.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, that familiar analytical look crossing his face. You stopped a few steps from him, hands stiff on your hips, unable to stop watching him instead of the surroundings. The slight crease between his brows as he crossed the kitchen, probably already knowing what your unsub had for breakfast every Thursday, just from one greasy, barely noticeable stain on the wall. His lips pressed together, and you realized you couldn’t ignore that part of his face anymore. You sighed, annoyed with yourself. Seriously, now?

“Did you expect a torture chamber instead of a bedroom?” he asked as you both crossed the threshold into the room. It was less tidy than the rest of the place, a sign that he spent more time here. Some things were out of place, and there was a pile of loose papers building up on the desk.

While Spencer was analyzing the papers, you walked over to the window, squinting as the midday light hit your eyes. You gently traced your finger along the leaf of the plant on the windowsill before dipping your finger into the soil.

“It’s dry,” you noted briefly, suddenly focused. He must not have been here for a few days. “Damn, maybe my imagination is just really poor, but I can’t picture a guy who does that kind of thing to women calmly watering his plants every morning. It’s just...grotesque.”

He shrugged in response, Reid’s eyes never leaving the things on the desk.

“Lots of violent, serial offenders lead lives that we’d consider normal,” he began. A lecturer's expression, you thought to yourself immediately. You’d always liked it when he explained things to you—he was the only one who could do it in a way that didn’t make you feel dumb for not understanding a concept. And, well, you liked listening to him. “Well, we once had a case with a cannibal who had a bunch of teddy bears in his house,” he added.

You couldn’t help but snort.

“Stuffed with human guts instead of fluff?”

Spencer finally looked up at you, slowly.

“No,” he replied shortly, raising an eyebrow. “They were perfectly normal teddy bears. And, you know, I’m starting to be glad that your criminal activities haven’t gone beyond robberies and theft.”

“And stolen goods trafficking.”

“Oh, right. Sorry for leaving out one of your...key specializations.”

“It’s fine. Got anything?”

You joined him in searching through the desk, standing so close that your shoulders brushed briefly. You told yourself it was only because you didn’t want to miss any clues.

“There are a few sketches here,” Spencer informed you, his chest rising slightly, which you noticed because he turned to face you sideways. There was barely a step between you. “They look a little...chaotic.”

You flipped open a random notebook, spotting the mentioned sketches—simple drawings and doodles. You kept flipping, not giving them much attention.

“Probably drew them when he didn’t know what to do with his hands during phone calls,” you said. You shrugged at his look. “I know, because I do the same.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing you do that,” he remarked.

When we lived together...the unfinished sentence hung in the air, settling lightly on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath.

“Well, back then, I was more into sending messages than having actual conversations,” you admitted, and it was true. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him slightly parting his lips, about to say something, when suddenly your gaze landed on something on the last page of the notebook you were flipping through. “Look, a phone number,”

Spencer leaned in to take a closer look, tilting his head a bit, which brought his slightly too-long hair into your reach again. The familiar scent slowly drifted to your nose. Spencer probably didn’t even realize how close he’d gotten, too absorbed in his thoughts. Still, you couldn’t help but find it amusing. After all, just a few days ago, he had pointed a gun at you and kept the greatest distance possible.

He straightened up, and you noticed the change in his expression. You stayed perfectly still, not moving, not backing away. It might sound strange, but you wanted to see how you affected him. Would he have done what you did on the staircase if it hadn’t been for you? Did he genuinely want to do it too, or was it simply the conversation over the pictures that had lured you both into the trap of sentimentality, the nostalgic need to revisit an old dessert?

“You know this number?” you asked, surprised.

You hadn’t expected such a thing to happen, yet here it was. Spencer nodded.

“I remember it,” he admitted. At the same time, his voice carried a note of readiness, excitement about moving the investigation forward with this newly found clue... and an unexpected hint of awkwardness, as he briefly scratched his forehead before placing the notebook back on the desk. “It’s a brothel’s number.”

Your eyebrows shot up mockingly.

“You remember the number of a…”

“You have no idea how often the FBI uses their services,” he blurted defensively.

A beat of silence followed, then his eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant, for God’s sake. I mean, prostitutes often have a lot of information about different people and can be useful…”

“Tsss…” you silenced him with a playful swirl of your finger near his lips, amused by his rushed, nervous reaction.

Spencer glanced down at your finger, his lower lip jutting out slightly as if he wanted to add something, but his brilliant mind failed to produce anything coherent. Even if it had, you wouldn’t have cared.

You couldn’t let go of the topic anyway—you always enjoyed teasing him too much, loved seeing that faint blush color his stubbled cheeks.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, seriously.”

You had the strange feeling his gaze lingered a little too intently as you slowly swallowed, forcing you to cross your arms over your chest, creating a small barrier to keep your focus. You blinked slowly, mischievously.

“I’m not interested in where you sought comfort after our breakup.”

He literally gasped.

“This is…” he began with a deep sigh, taking half a step back from you. “This is…I swear, this is the most narcissistic thing that has ever come out of your mouth. And there have been plenty.”

You gave a mock salute.

“See, I like breaking my own records,” you muttered.

Spencer’s gaze suddenly shifted from you back to the desk. He sighed, like he was grounding himself after drifting somewhere else.

“We should…we should call that number. Maybe set up a meeting. See if we can learn something more about him than the fact he doodles in the margins when he’s on the phone.”

You nodded in agreement, sliding your hands into the pockets of your jacket.

“Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but you’re right. Let’s meet your hooker.”

Spencer rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Want me to dictate the number, or do you remember it?”

“I get the feeling you’re not letting this go anytime soon.”

“And you’re absolutely right, Spencer,” you agreed. “Absolutely right.”

“He made you do… what?!”

Your raised voice filled the car.

Quick recap—you’d managed to set up a meeting with a prostitute, whose services, after a few hours of digging, you’d confirmed Clinton Richardson had used. By now, it had gotten dark, and you were seriously starting to wonder if this wasn’t just a complete waste of time. You knew the rest of the BAU was busy searching for Rebekah using other methods, but the nagging feeling that you could be doing more refused to let go.

On top of that, the fact that Robert Miller had completely vanished since his escape from prison weighed heavily on you. No one had seen him filling up the stolen car at a gas station, wearing a baseball cap. No one had heard him break into a nearby house seeking shelter through the cold night. They must have had a plan—one that played out well beyond your reach.

Though you tried to push it away, a rising sense of dread filled you.

The escort slid into the backseat of the car, introducing herself briefly as Andy. Distracted by your own worries, you couldn't stop the words that escaped your mouth.

“Andy’s not exactly a very hooker-ish name”

The woman shrugged indifferently. She seemed only slightly tense about speaking with the cops (or, well, with one cop). She wore a light white fur coat draped over her shoulders, and, to put it plainly, she was stunningly beautiful.

"Well, I didn't pick it," she shrugged.

"How old are you?" Spencer suddenly asked, turning slightly in his seat.

You exchanged a look. She did seem alarmingly young despite the heavy makeup on her face.

"Are you doing some kind of interview or what?" she scoffed. "Last I checked, you were supposed to ask me questions about one of my clients. So, I'm waiting. And for the record, I'm twenty-three."

You’d asked her the first few questions to confirm if the man she’d met was indeed Clinton Richardson. Garcia had even sent over his photo, and after a quick glance, Andy nodded, confirming it was him.

And now, back to where we left off.

“He made you do what?!”

Andy grimaced. You would’ve done the same if you weren’t absolutely stunned. You glanced sideways at Spencer, who had straightened up in his seat, his brows furrowed deeply as if he thought he’d misheard. Honestly, you’d thought the same at first.

You drew in a deeper breath, trying to steady yourself. Spencer shot you a glance, his expression tense. There was no doubt anymore—this was the man you were looking for.

“Chop off chicken heads,” the woman repeated reluctantly, pulling her fur coat tighter around herself. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face—one that hadn’t been there the first time she’d mentioned it. Apparently, saying it again brought the memory into sharper focus, and you felt a pang of guilt for making her relive it. She sighed. “While he was mastrubating”

Andy had nothing more to offer, no leads to help you track down his current location, and that realization sent a wave of frustration crashing over you. Not at her, of course, but at the fact that this case was moving forward at a painfully slow pace. Sure, you knew it was Richardson now. But what next? How were you supposed to find him before he and Robert hurt Rebekah?

You scrubbed a hand over your face, then clenched it into a fist to stop the trembling. Spencer's gaze dropped to your hand, and he tried to catch your eye, but you didn’t want that—not right now.

“Andy,” you called out just as she pushed the car door open, stopping her in her tracks. Your voice came out rough, an edge of desperation bleeding through. An impulsive decision bloomed in your mind, taking root before you could second-guess it. “We...took up some of your time. Would you have had a client during it?”

The woman looked at you with a skeptical hesitation, unsure of what you meant.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Instead of saying anything else, you reached into your pocket for the cash you’d taken from your apartment and shoved it into her hand, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light. At first, her face remained neutral, but when she saw how many bills were stacked together, her eyes widened.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. It’s for you. Payment for your help.”

“But this…” she started, meeting your gaze. You nodded seriously, confirming she could keep the money. Andy blinked, hesitated for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket before clearing her throat. “I…thank you. Seriously. It’s way more than I’d have made in that time. So... good luck finding that freak.”

“It’ll come in handy,” you muttered under your breath.

Andy closed the door behind her, and you followed her figure, wrapped in white fur, as it stood out against the night’s dark expanse. The interior of the car was filled with silence, the orange light from the overhead lamp casting shadows on both your faces. When you saw the grimace on the woman's face as she talked about Richardson, you immediately thought of Rebekah. About how her fate rested in the hands of the same man who had made Andy do things like that. You were also filled with sympathy for her, knowing she must have gone through it. She most likely didn’t have the option to refuse.

“It was a lot of money,” Spencer said after a long pause.

There was this heavy feeling of helplessness hanging in the air. What now? Where the hell were you supposed to go? Who else did you need to talk to? It hurt in your chest, and you sighed.

“Well, who knows,” you said, bitterly, not looking at him, your eyes on the windshield. “Who knows what’s gonna happen. That girl could really use the money. If something happens to me...it’d go to waste...”

You stopped, freezing when you felt a touch on your knee. A gentle pressure, filled with some kind of concern. You lowered your gaze, almost in a trance, watching his fingers spread out over the fabric of your pants, holding onto it.

“Don’t think like that,” he said, swallowing hard, his voice pleading.

You forced yourself to pull your gaze away from his hand and look straight into his eyes. He held your gaze, and there was something warm in it, something you almost wanted to sink into. You could have just nodded, let him take care of everything, let him protect you. But from the very beginning, you knew that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You didn’t want to be just a passive part of the story, waiting meekly for the tragedy that was about to unfold. You wanted to stop it.

“Spencer, we’ve practically got nothing,” you said quietly, but there was a frustrated silence in your voice.

“That’s not true. We have...we have a profile.”

“We have Miller’s profile from two years ago, practically nothing new, and fragmentary info about Richardson. You can’t build a profile just from the fact that he had a prostitute decapitate chickens…”

“I can,” he interrupted with sudden confidence. His hand on your knee tightened, and he probably didn’t even realize it. You didn’t ask him to move it, even though the whole scene—the car, the night, his hand placed like that—was taking you back two years, to when all of this felt natural, a part of your everyday life together. You started to stop thinking about it with simple sentimentality. Since your kiss, there had been this indescribable longing you wanted to get rid of, but every interaction seemed to just intensify it.

Spencer took a breath before speaking slowly.

“Well, maybe not just based on the chickens... but we know so much about his childhood. He grew up across from the Millers, him, the poor kid. Dysfunctional parents, Joseph Miller was like a father figure to him. He had to respect him, idealize him, which is why he visited him recently when his condition worsened. His relationship with the rest of the Miller family… it had to be complicated with Robert. He was probably jealous of him, but because he was able to easily manipulate him, he never saw him as a threat. Robert, on the other hand, treated him like an older brother he never had, trusted him completely. So Richardson had his perfect picture after his parents died. A father, a younger brother, their shared sailing trips, the time spent together. The only thing that bothered him, the only thing he saw as a problem was...

“Robert Miller’s mother,” you finished, already seeing exactly what he was picturing in his mind. The pieces were falling into place, like the image on a puzzle box showing what it should look like when it’s put together. “Unlike her husband, she didn’t treat him like her son. She was part of all their trips, their cruises…during one of them, he pushed her off the boat. But why…”

“Robert took the fall for it,” Spencer answered the question you hadn’t asked, but one he could see had formed in your mind. “He did it to protect someone he saw as an older brother. They...they’re a classic example of a duo working together. One is clearly dominant, here, Richardson, and the other follows his lead, lets himself be manipulated. That’s Miller. And I think... I think...okay, these are just my assumptions...Richardson is responsible for all thirteen murders.”

For a moment, you went silent, furrowing your brow deeply.

“But...but you said you interrogated Miller. And you were sure he committed the murders.”

“Or he believed he committed them,” he added.

You shook your head in confusion, waiting for him to explain.

“I don’t think this was a typical murder duo. They didn’t kill together. Richardson kept the women in Miller’s vacation house. When Miller was arrested, he wouldn’t turn over someone he thought of as a brother, so he took the blame. And over time, through manipulation, he started believing he’d actually committed the murders himself. Just like he believed he killed his own mother. That’s why the polygraph always showed he was telling the truth, why we thought he was the killer. All this time, he truly believed he was The Waterside Butcher—he was stuck in a deep delusion. Meanwhile, our real unsub was still out there.”

You sighed in admiration at how he connected all the dots. You knew he was a brilliant profiler, you knew it well, but you were still shocked at how one person could dive so deeply into the psychology of crime.

“I wanna kiss your brain,” you blurted out.

Spencer’s breathing came out in irregular bursts as he rattled off sentence after sentence without pause. After your words, he paused for a moment—a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.

“You're welcome,” he replied, then slowly easing his grip on your knee before pulling his hand back. He looked at you uncertainly, as if wondering what you made of his gesture. “Although, that would require a surgeon.”

The dry joke broke the tension, adding a strangely sweet awkwardness to the moment. You snorted.

“I’d manage,” you said, mentally giving yourself a little nudge on the forehead. “But you need to update your team about all this. You have to pass on the profile.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. You could feel the air between you cool slightly—as if a splash of cold water had just run under your shirts on an unbearably hot day. With the same hand that had been on your knee, he reached for his phone, though he didn’t dial a number immediately.

“It’s pretty late,” he began, nodding toward the cars outside the window—as if you hadn’t noticed it was night. Well, you had, for a moment, forgotten. “No offense, but you look exhausted. You should probably get some sleep. I’m just wondering…do you have somewhere to stay? You shouldn’t be sleeping there alone.”

He put an emphasis on the word sleeping. It’s one thing to stay there fully awake, weapon in hand, but quite another to let yourself fall into that vulnerable state of unconsciousness.

You slowly shrugged your shoulders.

“I’d probably rather go back there,” you admitted, even though the idea didn’t really appeal to you. You sighed, and his face twisted in confusion. “You know, I have a lot of neighbors. And a lot of women, too. I’m afraid one of them might run into him…if he came for me.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to talk you out of it—he even opened his mouth, only to close it almost immediately. It was hard to argue with that.

“Alright,” he said slowly, turning his phone in his hand. “But in that case, let me stay with you.”

A surprised sound escaped your mouth.

"Seriously? You want that?"

"I just don't want anything to happen to you."

You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink in your own apartment, yet you still felt a hint of hesitation. Things had already taken a wild turn that day—everything was changing. The verbal barbs between you weren’t laced with resentment anymore; they’d turned into a playful game that often ended in genuine bursts of laughter and smiles. You’d literally kissed. He’d touched your leg, shown care. And now, on top of it all, you were going to spend the night in the same apartment. Quite an odd situation for two exes.

The direction all this was heading remained somewhat unclear. You were so preoccupied with the case—the murderer hot on your heels—that you barely considered what would happen when it all came to an end. How would you say goodbye once more before both of you returned to your separate, opposing lives?

Spencer noticed your hesitation. His jaw clenched ever so slightly as his mind worked on a way to convince you—but he didn't really need to. As a criminal, you often thought about the consequences of your actions. You saw them clearly, analyzed every detail. Yet even the clearest vision of those consequences rarely stopped you from carrying out your plans. After all, if it did, you wouldn’t last long in this line of work.

You nodded in agreement, allowing him to stay with you.

You knew how it would play out.

First, you'd both slowly cross the threshold of your apartment, arguing about who should sleep in the bedroom and who on the couch, but in the end, you'd both end up side by side on the couch, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, along with your body language, and a second later, you'd start kissing, letting go of everything that had been hanging between you all day.

It was really predictable. Which didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it.

“You know…” Spencer started when your lips gave him a chance to open his own. “I think there’s a certain question…” he was silenced. “...that we should both ask ourselves.”

“If it’s what are we? I’m leaving.”

"It's your apartment. Just saying."

"We’d be having a lot more fun if you shut up. Just saying."

With a soft sigh, you pulled away from him, moving your face just enough to be able to talk freely. But not enough to make him stop feeling threatened by the prospect of you shutting him up at any moment. Just saying.

"You wanted to ask about that, right?" you asked quietly.

He shrugged slightly, and because you were leaning against his chest, you felt that little shiver.

"Maybe in different words. But with the same general meaning."

With a thoughtful look, you ran your hand over the buttons of his burgundy shirt. Spencer followed the smooth motion of your hand with his eyes, gently tightening his grip around your waist. The position, the way your bodies were arranged, the closeness—it felt so natural. It was how it should be.

"Did you miss me?" you asked suddenly. "All those nearly two years."

"And you?" he shot the question back at you. You tilted your head, staring at him. You weren’t going to answer, not until he did first, though your answer wasn’t really dependent on his. You were honest with your feelings, even with yourself. Even if he said he hadn’t thought about you once or never missed you on the other side of the bed, it wouldn’t change the fact that you missed him. You’d had no trouble admitting before that, in some way, you'd always love him. "I missed you. How could I not?"

The soft question thrown into the space between you made you pout your bottom lip slightly. His gaze drifted to it briefly, but didn’t stay there—it landed somewhere else. A tiny spot just below your collarbone, a mark in the shape of the number pi. He leaned in to brush it with his lips, first briefly, then more deliberately, and you placed your hand in his slightly too long hair.

“I want to know what’s gonna happen with us when all this finally ends,” he muttered, his breath tickling your skin. You lifted your eyelids, which had fluttered shut in drowsiness and pleasure. “I missed you, that’s true, you missed me…I’d dare to bet that you did too. Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t know…I just don’t know if that’s enough. For us…for it to work, something would have to change…”

Of course, he meant the different life paths you had chosen, your involvement in crime, your long-standing ties to the criminal underworld.

"Spencer," you said his name slowly, cupping his face in your hands so you could look into it. Okay, bad move. His brown eyes made it harder to focus. "It’s...it’s not that simple, you know that. It’s practically my whole life." You paused, swallowing. "I can’t think about it right now. Not with everything going on. My mind...I just can’t tell you anything right now. Except that I want you."

For a moment, he hesitated to answer, a sigh escaping from his chest. It sounded disappointed.

“I want you too,” he admitted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a statement that applies to every possible case with no exceptions. “Exactly like I did back then. And you know it wasn’t enough.”

You pressed your lips together.

“I know.”

For a moment, you both just stared at each other, neither of you moving in any way. The silence was overwhelming, making your breaths perfectly audible. You felt tired of everything that had been happening—not just around you in the last few days, but also inside your head. You needed... you probably just needed to rest your head on his chest, inhale his scent, think seriously about the two of you, then step outside for fresh air and reconsider it, sober. Then compare both conclusions. The corners of your mouth trembled. You wanted to suggest you both just lie down and sleep when his phone rang.

“They need me,” he explained when the call ended, rising from the couch, detaching himself from your body. You nodded in understanding. But he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he paused, staring at you. “You shouldn’t stay here…”

“I’ll find a hotel,” you cut him off. He raised his eyebrows, clearly not convinced by the idea.

“I won’t get a wink of sleep here, and I’m exhausted. I’ll make sure no one’s following me. Trust me, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s that,” you snorted softly.

Of course, you were a little worried about your neighbors' safety, but you couldn’t figure out a way to protect both them and yourself. Part of you wanted to stay inside, fueled by caffeine with a loaded gun in hand, waiting for the moment someone tried to mess with the lock. But you didn’t even mention that to Spencer—you knew exactly how he’d react. Not a chance.

He pulled you into one last, lingering embrace before leaving. It seemed like an unspoken agreement to temporarily abandon the topic of what would happen between you two later.

Reluctantly, you made your way to the bedroom. The last time you’d been there, you’d taken almost all the cash hidden in the photo album, which you later gave to Andy. A few bills still remained between the pages—just enough for a night in some hotel and a cup of coffee. You snapped the album shut, but one of the photos slipped out, drifting down like a leaf on the wind, sliding under the dresser.

You sighed. You felt too exhausted to even bend down for it, but after an internal struggle, you finally gave in. First, you dropped to your knees, then sprawled flat on your stomach to reach under the furniture and retrieve it. But as soon as your face got close to the floor…you noticed a strange smell.

Faint, yet distinct. You thought it might be a figment of your imagination, but after inhaling a few more times, you were certain. Sickly sweet in a way, unfamiliar, but it reminded you of an odd mix of rotting meat, damp earth…maybe even mold?

Ignoring the photo, you got to your feet. The smell was coming from your elderly neighbor Erika’s apartment. You realized you hadn’t seen her in a while—not even heard her poodle barking, which was usually relentless with its evening performances. Dark thoughts raced through your mind. She had a bad hip—maybe she’d fallen…

Before you even realized it, you were pulling on your jacket.

The door wasn’t even locked, which only heightened your sense of foreboding.

“Mrs. Hemingway?” you called out, stepping cautiously into the apartment. The hallway was dark, but a yellow light glowed from an old-fashioned chandelier in the living room. You quickly corrected yourself. “I mean, Erika? Are you here?”

The smell had become unbearable. A wave of nausea hit you, doubling you over, but your head remained upright—you couldn’t tear your eyes away from what you saw.

Right next to a long beige leather couch lay a rolled-up light-colored rug. There were dark, bloodstained patches scattered across it, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the head, not wrapped in the rug. Your neighbor’s eyes were wide open and empty. Black earrings still dangled from her ears—you didn’t know why you fixated on them. Maybe your brain was starting to short-circuit, latching onto odd details instead of focusing on what it should.

Like the sound of footsteps right behind you.

You heard them too late.

There was no time to turn around before something struck the back of your head with brutal force.

It wasn’t like in the movies—it didn’t knock you out. The blow was too weak, too unskilled. It only sent you crashing to your knees, from which you desperately tried to push yourself back up, feeling your heart pounding furiously in your chest. But you were too dazed, your skull filled with a deafening roar, just before it absorbed another hit—this time stronger, harder.

As you collapsed unconscious to the ground, a shadow of a male figure hung above you.

The buzz.

A slowly forming image before you. Its small fragments connecting in incorrect combinations, as if someone were trying to piece together two mismatched puzzles.

The pain in your head.

Oh, it was terrible.

It intensified when you tried to open your eyes, so you spent a long moment in darkness, even though your body was slowly beginning to wake. You tried to press your hand to your temple, to massage it, perhaps to ease that furious pounding...when you realized you couldn't.

You opened your eyes despite the head-splitting pain, as if someone had driven a spike into it.

You were in a dimly lit room that reeked of wood and blood. It made you nauseous, and it wasn’t just because of the injury you’d sustained. At least, not entirely.

Fighting the bitter taste of vomit gathering in your throat, you began to look around the interior. Made of light-colored boards, small, with only one window covered. It resembled more of a cabin than a house, the furniture inside arranged in a way that could give an interior designer a heart attack. A rust-covered fridge stood right in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with a blue tarp that rustled with every movement of your body. The place looked as if someone had built it by hand.

Eventually, your gaze landed on your hands, chained tightly to the wall, causing pain in your wrists. You were half sitting, half lying on the floor, unable to move much. At first, you were too confused to feel fear.

Terror only hit you when you glanced to the side.

"Rebekah," you barely managed to say.

She was sitting next to you, tied to the wall in the same way you had found her in Miller's basement two years ago. Her head was lowered, eyes closed, and you prayed she'd look at you. That would mean she was alive…

She did, but very slowly, and you felt no relief at all. Her hair hung in greasy tangles on her face, her lip looked swollen, and her cheek was covered with blood trickling from a wound on her temple.

Rebekah opened her parched lips, but said nothing. She simply let her head drop again.

"Rebekah, listen to me," you begged in a hoarse tone, instinctively trying to get closer to her, but of course, you couldn't. You started to frantically look around once more. You were searching for your captors, searching for a way out. There had to be one. "Listen to me... you have to focus, I'm here, together we can figure something out..."

"You're here," a weak grunt came from the woman. "Finally. At least now it will end."

You didn't quite understand the meaning of her words, but you sensed some hidden depth to them that you decided to ignore. Instead, you nodded affirmatively. Bad idea. The pain intensified.

“Yes. That's right. Now it will end, we'll escape. You have to tell me everything you know. Where are they? When will they return..."

She grunted again.

"No," she simply said. You could barely hear her rough, quiet voice. "It will end because you're here. He was waiting for you, and now, finally, he will kill us." There was a strange, suffering longing in her voice. The prospect of impending relief lightened her face. Suddenly, though, a brief sob overtook her frail body. "Just like those other women..."

"You're wrong," a male voice cut in suddenly, making you flinch. Rebekah didn't even move. Focused on the conversation, you didn't notice the tall man dressed in a black hoodie and cap approaching.

Instinctively, you pressed yourself back into the wall. You hated your own body for showing fear, even though it was completely understandable in that situation. Before you stood Clinton Richardson. You recognized his face with the unevenly trimmed beard. Before you stood real The Waterside Butcher.

“This way, I'll only kill you,” he said in a neutral tone, staring at Rebekah with an odd look, as though she were the least interesting thing in the world to him. He didn’t blink. Not once. Slowly, his gaze shifted to you, and only then did his expression change ever so slightly, seeming more present in his own body. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve got something else prepared for you.”

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Sometimes you’d talk to Spencer about his work, sometimes you simply listened to his long monologues with your chin resting on your hand. Did he ever tell you what to do in a situation like this? How to talk to a full-fledged psychopath?

His voice began to echo in your head, gently calming you. You took a deep breath.

“Clinton...” you began, in as soft a tone as you could manage, though your body screamed to rip those chains off the wall, lunge at him, and wrap them around his neck. That desire only grew when you remembered poor, innocent, murdered Erika. You had to close your eyes to get rid of that image.

“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting you off.

A man entered the cabin through the narrow door. You had already met him personally, though the two years he’d spent in prison had significantly changed his face. His features had become sharper, his head shaved clean. When the door opened for a brief moment, you noticed… water. Since it must have been the middle of the night, the moonlight gently shimmered on its surface. The cabin had been placed right on the edge of some kind of water source.

“Take her to the boat,” Clinton ordered, not specifying exactly who he meant.

Your body knew, though. It tensed uneasily, then frantically, as Robert Miller moved toward you. At first, you tried to fight back, kicking, but he immobilized your legs. He reached into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulled out cable ties. After freeing you from the chains, he used them to try to restrain your hands again. Surprisingly…ineptly.

“Stop playing with her,” the second man growled, crouching next to Rebekah, lifting her chin to examine her battered face. “Hit her, she’ll stop struggling.”

Robert followed the order.

Holding your restrained hands tightly, he dragged you like a slaughtered animal. Your jacket and the clothes beneath it pulled up, and your bare skin unpleasantly scraped against the tarp material, causing abrasions. You hissed as your cheek brushed against the wooden platform outside. Before the cabin door closed, you threw one last terrified glance toward Rebekah, huddled against the wall.

Robert decided it would be easier to do it this way. He threw your body over his shoulder, despite your protests and last desperate jerks, and in just a few steps, he tossed you into the small motorboat by the lake’s edge. You collapsed onto it heavily, wincing from the pain and the ringing in your head. You exhaled through clenched teeth. You didn't know what force kept you from simply going numb, waiting for whatever was coming. What force made you keep fighting.

“Robert, you don’t have to do this,” you tried weakly, trying to make it sound like anything but a sob. You felt powerless, but you knew that this was the weak point of the duo. This was where you had to strike. “Robert...I know it wasn’t you who committed those murders.”

“It was me.”

“No, it wasn’t you. It was Clinton, you just took the blame. You believed you did it. You still believe it. He manipulated you, you have to see that...”

You stopped when he aimed the gun at you.

“Robert,” you said again, though you knew how risky that had become. You could barely force your mouth to open, but you knew it was your only chance. “I know you didn’t kill your mother.”

The hand holding the gun trembled. So, his mother was the weak spot.

“You’re lying. I...I pushed her out of the boat…”

“Why the hell are you even talking to her?” Clinton joined you in the boat, rolling his eyes. He looked at your hunched form with some contempt, and you tried to straighten up, holding onto whatever dignity you had left in these final moments.

As the engine of the boat roared to life and it began drifting farther out, toward the center of the lake, you started to doubt you would ever get out of this.

You sat still, staring at the two men. Clinton had his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to relax, his eyes taking in the surface of the lake. He even closed his eyelids, as if meditating. You noticed he wasn't carrying a gun.

You caught Robert's gaze, tilting your head to the side.

Please.

He blinked, as if trying to focus. To keep his thoughts from drifting away. He looked into your eyes once more, for a long moment. Suddenly, it seemed like he was looking through you. His eyes registered your battered body, but his mind saw another woman, one who had also drowned in the lake. The woman he had loved. The woman who had been his mother.

“Here,” Clinton muttered under his breath.

Robert quickly stopped looking at you.

“Do it,” Richardson said to him. “Come on. Get rid of her, get rid of the problem.”

But Robert didn’t move. Your breath caught in your chest, a flicker of hope.

“She’s the reason you ended up in prison,” Clinton reminded him, emphasizing she. “Get rid of the problem, brother.”

When he still didn't move, Clinton grabbed you by your clothes and lifted you to a standing position, holding you so tightly by the shoulders that he must have left marks. In that moment, you could no longer feel fear.

"Fine, I'll do it myself," Clinton sighed, pushing you closer to the edge of the boat.

You twisted your neck to glance at Robert one last time. In the hand that hung at his side, he still held the gun, his grip uncertain and nervous.

“If he were your brother, he wouldn't have killed your mother,” you said loudly, no longer caring about the consequences. “Was she a problem to you too?”

The body of the man holding you tensed even more, this time in... unease.

“Robert…” he began, dragging out the syllables of his name. Hearing the fear in his voice gave you a sense of fulfillment. You felt like you needed to experience it before you died. You lifted your gaze to the night sky above, to the stars and the moon. These were the things you wanted to see before your body sank into the abyss. “Robert, no—”

Several gunshots rang out, all aimed at the boat’s deck. He wanted to drown them all. Clinton released you and lunged at his partner. A struggle over the weapon broke out between the men, everything rocking dangerously, sparking as water began filling the boat.

You looked at them one last time. Clinton yanked the gun from Robert's hand and shoved him aside. He didn’t manage to aim it at you, though he tried. You saw his eyes searching for your face. Though you were in the middle of the lake, your hands were bound, and you couldn’t swim... you leaned over the side of the boat.

The bullet pierced the water’s surface just next to where your body fell.

When it hit the water, for a moment, you felt free. No one could reach you there; the cold of the lake protected you, surrounding you like a shield. A rush of adrenaline urged you to move your arms, to push yourself to the surface, to swim toward the shore. It wasn’t far, you could swim. But you couldn’t do it. Your hands were tied.

You began to sink.

Water burst from your lungs.

The first thing you felt was that your hands were free. Then the piercing cold, sending your whole body into a tremor. Then the stabbing pain in your chest, but you slowly stopped caring about what you felt. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what you saw.

Around you, blue and red lights of police cars flickered, reflecting off the surface of the lake where you lay. A man with dark skin, performing CPR, pulled away when you finally took a breath, his sharp gaze scanning your condition. He had just quickly checked your pulse when someone almost shoved between you.

“Derek, I need a thermal blanket,” Spencer said, kneeling in front of you. His gaze was frantic, only locking on yours when you made eye contact. You wanted to say something, but all you could do was cough. “Quick. She's shaking.”

You pressed your hands to your chest, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. You didn’t help yourself, still trying to say something, not tearing your gaze away from Spencer. You couldn’t. It was all too unreal. A harsh sound escaped your lips.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, as gently as he could. His voice was soft and weak, and you heard him swallow with relief as he carefully placed his hands on your shoulders, just resting them there. Trying to understand that you were even there. Alive. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“You found me,” you finally managed to say.

Spencer nodded eagerly.

“I did,” he admitted. Suddenly, he furrowed his brow, as if in disbelief. Without caring about your soaked clothes, you pressed yourself against him, burying your injured cheek in his chest. You felt his heavy sigh. “I-I did,” he mumbled.

You probably shouldn’t have heard those words, but he pulled you so close that they grazed the shell of your ear.

Around you, people were moving, busy with the aftermath. The investigation didn't end with your rescue; the night wouldn't quiet down. They had to follow procedures, secure the scene, get inside the cabin where you'd been held...

Like being jolted by electricity, you pulled away from Spencer. The fear on your face mirrored in his eyes.

"Rebekah..."

"She's alive," he reassured you immediately. Your shoulders dropped, and an unidentified sound of relief escaped your lips. "They didn’t have time to do anything to her. They planned to after they…" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "She's alive. They drowned."

For the first time, your gaze shifted towards the dark waters, hiding its secrets.

"Both of them?" you asked, needing to be sure.

Your breath began to quicken again, unease taking hold. Spencer gently reached for your cheek, guiding your attention back to him, away from the lake.

"Both," he confirmed. He stood still for a moment, watching you with those dark eyes, his concern echoing with every shiver that ran through your freezing body. Once again, he didn’t care about your soaked clothes, pulling you tightly into his arms.

You closed your eyes as his chin rested on top of your head.

"You’re safe now."

In the ambulance, they attended to your injuries.

Everything that was happening reached you through a haze. They told you to lie down, but you didn’t want to. It was only someone’s soft, familiar voice that convinced you. You felt a bit pitiful, lying on your back. You wanted to get back up, to return to normalcy after everything that had happened. But when you tried to move, Spencer turned his head slightly, silently instructing you to lie back down. There was an undeniable firmness in his gesture.

Both of his hands held one of yours, enclosing it tightly, like a shell around a pearl.

They told you it was okay to sleep, but you were a bit afraid. You feared that when you closed your eyes, all the warmth would fade, and you'd find yourself back in the icy depths of the lake. Every time you felt yourself drifting away, you squeezed Spencer’s hand tighter. You turned your head slightly to look at him, and he gave you a small smile.

“Spencer,” you murmured suddenly, a hint of worry in your voice.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, something came to your mind. You reached into the pocket of your jacket, where you had the photo you promised to give him. The water had ruined it completely; all you had now was a white, torn piece of paper instead of the image of his hand gently holding your cheek as he placed a kiss on it.

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted it…”

Spencer took the remains of the photo from you, glanced at it without much interest, then crumpled it up. Surprised, you furrowed your brows.

“We’ll take more,” he assured you lightly.

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence. Did that mean…?

“Really?”

“We’ll take hundreds of them.”

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony @heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @awordsmith @witchfromsalem666 @i-padfootblack-things @honestlyloving @fromsaltandsea @kwonhoeshi @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sleepysongbirdsings

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x y/n

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leighsartworks216 · 2 days ago

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Darlin' I'm Right Here

Sylus x gn!Reader

I wrote this at like 3am last night and because I wrote this at 3am last night and then went down a rabbit hole of rereading fanfics, I did not get enough sleep to do any work

Anyway I just think it would be neat if Sylus could carry me around please and thank you

Title from "Butterfly's Repose" by Zabawa

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic fluff, caretaking, kissing, cuddling, undressing (and redressing), casual intimacy, established relationship, crying

Word Count: 1,659

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third Love and Deepspace Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus looks over as the door opens and quietly shuts again. He watches you, a silent observer, as you drop your stuff to the floor and push it aside with your foot. Your movements are sluggish as you pull off your winter coat and the sweatshirt underneath. A low sigh passes your lips as you work at undoing the knots in your boot laces - and that's when he comes over.

You see his shadow, feel his presence, and stand up straight once more. He tilts his head, brow furrowed slightly; you look so tired, so worn out, and moisture is collecting on your lower eyelids. Your pitiful sniff only confirms his suspicions.

He doesn't say anything as he kneels down by your feet. He unties the knots you struggled with moments ago, undoes the laces enough for your feet to slip out easily. You use his shoulder as support when he lifts one foot and slips your boot off, then the other. Both are set aside in a tray where they can continue drying off without dripping melted snow on the wood floors.

You watch him as though in a daze. He stands and your eyes follow, lacking their usual vibrancy and life. They only shine now because of the tears you hold back.

He bends down, gently guiding your arms around his neck. "Hold on, kitten," he orders softly. Your hands lock together behind his head. Your face finds its place tucked in his shoulder, tightly so as to block out the rest of the world around you. His hands hold the back of your thighs as he lifts you, wrapping your legs around his hips.

He feels your breaths just as you feel his. Hears each shuddering inhale and shaky exhale beside his ear. He tilts his head to the side to rest upon yours, rubbing his cheek against your head affectionately. He hopes it really was just a bad day that is upsetting you so much. If he hears even a hint of a whisper that someone said or did something to his darling lover, he won't hesitate to deal with it, permanently.

Each step is a gentle sway, a soothing rocking. You feel like a child clinging to their parent, pretending to be asleep as they carry you to bed. You feel small, but not in a bad way. Small, yet protected. Secure. You cling a little tighter to him and he adjusts your hips higher against him to keep you there.

The villa you've practically claimed as a home is smaller than his usual estates, though still quite large considering only two people live here at any one time. It's much larger than your old apartment. At least here he can actually move around the kitchen comfortably and shower without needing to duck under the spray of the shower head.

He carries you through the familiar floor plan to your bedroom, and then further into the ensuite bathroom. He's immensely careful when he sets you down at last on the countertop beside the sink. Though, he doesn't pull away. Doesn't force you to, either. Instead, he holds your hip and massages at your lower back, giving you the time you need. There's no rush. There's never a rush with him.

With a small inhale to give you strength, you finally pull away. Tears make tracks down your cheeks. A wet spot stains his shirt. He brushes away the tears on one cheek, and kisses them away on the other.

"Do you want to take a shower, sweetie?" he asks. You shake your head. He kisses your cheek again warmly.

Instead of a shower, he reaches into a cabinet and pulls down a washcloth. One handed, he turns on the warm water and holds his fingers under the tap as he waits for it to get to the perfect temperature. The cloth's fabric turns dark once he holds it under the water, soaked through. He squeezes out the excess and turns off the tap, before brushing it gently over your cheeks.

You close your eyes and give in to his tender care. With no sound aside from a sniffle here and there, Sylus wipes away the sticky tear tracks. He soothes the cloth under your eyes, easing out the tension and tiredness with its warmth. You shiver involuntarily when the cloth touches your neck, lightly wetting your throat with enough pressure to avoid tickling you.

Once he's satisfied with his work, he sets the cloth on the side of the sink. His hands, warm and lightly damp, find your hips, then your thighs, wordlessly warning you just before he lifts you up once more.

He doesn't carry you far, just into the bedroom. He rests you at the end of the bed, your legs hanging off to the floor while the rest of your body is laid back against the plush bedding. He kisses your forehead as he gently coaxes your arms from around his neck. "Wait here."

You crack your eyes open to watch as he goes to your dresser. With familiarity, he pulls out a few things, chief among them two types of pants and two types of shirts. He carries them over and sets them on either side of you on the bed. He holds up the pants first.

"Which one?" In one hand is a pair of long pajama pants. In the other, a pair of shorts. You point lazily at one, and he sets them down.

Kneeling down by your feet once more, he removes your socks and your pants. Normally, on any other day, there would be a heat in his gaze. A dripping, dark lust in his eyes as they roam your legs up to your underwear. Now, there's not even a hint of such a thing. He looks at your legs in the same way he looks at his guns as he maintains them, with an undeniable presence of care and dedication, and the warmth of wanting to take care of you in the best ways he knows how. He always claims to be bad at comforting people, yet he finds the perfect ways to tend to you every time.

He slips the pants you chose on you, pulling them up along your legs. You don't even have to lift your hips up - he does so for you with a large hand under your lower back.

"Do you want your fuzzy socks?" He smiles when you nod. You're always so endearing to him. You've perfectly curled within his heart, laying claim to it as your own. Its beats change with your emotions and actions. Right now, it beats softly, but steadily, as your eyes follow him back to the dresser to retrieve a pair of your fuzzy socks and then watch as he slips them onto your feet. It will beat louder tomorrow, he’ll make sure of it.

He stands and lifts up the shirts. One is a baggy t-shirt you "stole" from him a while ago. ("Stole" because Sylus is not a man who often wears t-shirts. This particular shirt is one you bought for him and commanded him to wear for a couple of days leading up to your visit, whereupon you claimed it for yourself.) The other is a tank top. You choose which one you'd rather wear tonight and he sets them aside.

He playfully pulls you into a sit, tangling his fingers with yours and tugging you up to him. He leans down to kiss your head. Warm fingers brush your skin as he removes your shirt from today. It winds up in a pile with your pants and socks.

The shirt you chose is soon pulled over your head. Your arms are guided through just the same. He leans down to make sure it settles comfortably around your body, and you use the opportunity to draw your fingers lightly under his chin. All his focus is on you immediately.

He is completely pliant under your touch. You could do anything - have him do anything. He is at your whim.

With the barest pressure, you draw him in, meeting his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. His lips are always so soft and plush. They don't seek for more than you give, only taking what you decide to offer, without a hint of a complaint. When your fingers fall from his skin, he lightly pulls away, heavy-lidded eyes peeking open to search your face for answers, to know what you want. One more kiss, and one more, before you're satisfied. He pulls away.

Your dirty clothes are dropped into the hamper. The clothes you didn't choose are left on top of your dresser to be put away later. He goes to place you in bed properly, but is stopped by your slight frown and the flicker of your eyes over his clothes. He grins. He can feel your eyes on him as he changes his own clothes, trading them in for some sweatpants that rest low on his hips and a tank top that shows off his arms. You're smiling contentedly when he approaches this time.

He lifts you up, but does not set you down again. Instead, he slips into bed with you in his arms, holding you close as he ensures you're comfortable. Not that you complain; you keep him trapped there with the way your legs hug him and with your head tucked under his chin. He rubs up and down your back with one hand. The other holds your hand over his heart.

The day that upset you feels lightyears away as your body relaxes against Sylus's. The cold and snow outside don't exist as he kisses your head and stops rubbing your back in favor of massaging the back of your neck. No concerns for tomorrow. No worries about what will come next. Just the gentle coaxing of his breaths, luring you into a much needed nap.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one

#fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #hurt/comfort

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somerandomcockroach · 2 days ago

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*sets the sofa, sits down* AND WE RIGHT AWAY START FROM THE PROWL IS AND WILL BE A MURDERED STATEMENT. GOOD AHAHAH Love how much Prowl improved in reading emotions. Orion. You ask Prowl something that he probably memorized from the book and he of course will tell you a book definition. Don't cut it with your merely "It's a massacre" Still wonder at the fact of how much functionists had to f*** up the whole situation for the beasts, who are more than capable of intelligent thinking and just different by their mode or different things that can not even appear in them in the first place, for this whole situation to appear that even the "compromise" seems like a hardly reachable option. I understand if other monsters who are, more bests than mechas. But most of them seem to be, decent, normal, minding their business, just trying to find a fuel/food, yeah, this last is easily solvable.

Yeah, Orion, exactly, let me sit with you

Oh, here we are, Orion snaps at Prowl. Do it, he went in a different direction, the one leading to murder and blood, you know. The problems that are solved hard way are never logical ahah, good luck, Prowl *looks at Orion trying to see a glimpse of emotion from Prowl for at least his own death to crack his logic* I need a minute Orion for god's sake could you like, fake laws and give him your own written full of ponies and funsies?? You were giving him official books with laws, I'm sure a lot of written by Functionalists and you expect to break the logic that was based on it??? OH RATCHET. PROWL CAN DO NOTHING. OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAYOKA YAOKAYAOKAY. OKAY. NO ONE SAID RATCHET??? RATCHET, COULD, JUST, ARRRGHHHHHH BASTARDS ORION AND SHOCKWAVE MAXED THE "LOOK AWAY IN TIME" ABILITY BUT NO ONE TOLD RATCHET? OH YES. GETTING RID OF YOUR OWN SIGHT AND LEAVE. I BET THIS IS NOT A LOGICAL THING TO CONSIDER FOR PROWL EHEHHEHEE OH MY GOD sorry I need to sit because. Yes clean floor is an easy goal. But Prowl. You are. About to get such a big and complicated to reach goal that it is so mindblowing to now look at you and consider other golems. (Eh, sudden thought of someone getting off his artefact) Prowl. on which side you play I don't understand anymore. Are you trying to make a god out of Orion to scare functionalists by actually making good for them or what.

PROWL YOU COULD. YOU COULD COME UP WITH SUCH GREAT PLANS OF MASS MIGRATION OR AT LEAST BETTER HIDINGS FOR THEM. TRICKING ALL THE TROOPS. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIGHT EVIL, NOT JOIN IT. oh, CONGRATS, your education went to the point where it became wrong! Congrats, Prowl, we are on a changing point ahah! YES IT IS HIS ARMY. HIS ARMY OF POWERFUL, MAGICAL, SAVED AND THANKFUL BEASTS WHO CAN FIGHT FOR SHOCKWAVE, AND I ACTUALLY WISH THAT THEY DID. I WISH THEY DID BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE. PROWL CAUGHT HIS BEFORE HE EVEN STUMBLED. PROWL MAKES WRONG THINGS BUT. BUT THE FACT THAT HE ACTUALLY COVERS HIM THIS WAY NO MATTER HOW BAD IT IS. I'M SURE ORION IS NOT HAPPY. SHOCKWAVE HAS NO ONE TO COVER HIM WHERE IT COULD KILL HIM. BUT EVERYTHING AROUND HIM IS BUILT WITH GREEN WALLS THAT ARE MUCH STRONGER THAN DENSE WALLS OF BLOOD.

I have several levels of uncomfortable feelings from this part

YOU DID NOT JUST GO TO SHOCKWAVE'S ACADEMY. THEY ARE NOT THE BEASTS YOU CAN TOUCH. EVER. OH MY FRICKING GOD OKAY HERE I CRY FOR REAL. THE SCENE OF HIM. SWORD AND BOOK. PROTECTING WITH EVERYTHING HE HAS. STANDING LIKE A MOUNTAIN AND THE PRIMUS ITSELF

THE COUNCIL WOULDN'T LET HIM DO THIS.... ..... what...... The burns are from?..

............ I just understand that. That I'm sure the way Shockwave "changed" is so many times harder and more powerful because of who he is and what he is capable of... Get Prowl, Orion nd Ratchet at one table and ask them if what they do will find a punishment from Primus.

............

....................... When Orion is in troubled feelings Prowl searches for Shockwave. All goals are tangled, lost and complicated. His goal became something he cannot reach no more since it evolved too hard. Oh my god I wanna see how... how that goal, something he cannot reach no more, just becomes a part of him, like a self forged motor heart of his, just to keep living. Are they... Shockwave's students?... F** THEY ARE I AM CRYING AGAIN SHIT F** YOU KEF I CANNOT NO MORE DON'T JSHDEDC AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA OKAY BREATH, COMEONE. LAST WILL. *INTENSIFIES CRYING* F*** YOUUUUUUUUUU THEY. EVERYTHING. HE LEFT EVERYTHING TO ORION. SKIDS???? THUNDERCRACKER?? OH DID ORION NEVER HOLD SHOCKWAVE'S SWORD??? or just became too weak from all the events... OH MY GOD THE SCENE OF KNEELING, THE SCENE OF THE STUDENT OF THEIR PASSED MASTER ON THE VERGE OF CRYING AND ALL THE STUDENTS OF HIS DEAR FRIEND KNEELING BEFORE HIM. I AM DEAD NO ONE TALK TO ME. PROWL LOOK. LOOK WHAT AN ILLOGICAL LONG TERM EFFORT MAKES. IT MAKES LITERALLY INEFFICIENT MIRACLE. THE MIRACLE THAT IS WORTH ALL THE PERCENTAGES. YOU DO NOT KILL AND WORK FOR IT TO BE MORE THAN ONE DAY MERCY I mean Ratchet got a boyfriend this way come on

WEHGEHGEWFHWFEWE HELP. I imagined that Shockwave had a score system or something for Skids to actually say "Best student" as something not of a brag level SHOCKWAVE YOU SMART SWEET ROLL I LOVE YOU. HE KNEW HOW TO DO IT RIGHT. SUCK IT COUNCIL AND COUNCIL DARE YOU TO TRY TO USE IT IN YOUR ADVANTAGE.

PROWL I SWEAR TO ALL THE GODS

(side note can I kiss you for just... rotating every possible side of Prowl? Like, I am just, suddenly understood that just a thing of Prowl assuming that Shockwave could betray Orion is something so fittable for him since he considers everything but just... when you look at it from the side of coming up with it. I wouldn't??)

SHOCKWAVE WHAT DID YOU DO.

They are still not executed. So I am sure it isn't about the saving monsters thing. I think Prowl leads the idea in the right direction. I am confused though at why Shockwave turned into demon at this exact time. What was the trigger. I am leaning closer to the dark magic than betrayal anyway

THE GOD MUST BE WRONG

RIGHT DIRECTION, PROWL.

ARE YOU... did you just... led him straight to mimics plotline....

Part 2 of Golem!Prowl AU!

_____________________

“I hate it,” Orion sighs.

“It's understandable. But you can't change the system from the inside without becoming part of it first.”

“I was hoping I could become part of it without becoming a murderer.”

“It's okay” says Prowl ”You don't have to. That's what you have me for.”

Orion twitches.

Part 1. Next->

The fic under the cut⤵️

Orion looks...sick. Worried. Scared.

“Prowl, do you know what the Great Hunt is?”

Prowl tilts his head keeping up with the lists he received from the Council.

“Traditional raids on monsters made to consolidate control over the land holdings of regular Mechs.”

Orion rubs the bridge of his nose

“It's a massacre.”

Prowl twitches his wing.

“It is a measure of intimidation against creatures that cannot be negotiated with. Brutal, I don't deny that, but experience shows it works. The destructive activity of monsters lessens considerably if they know their actions can be followed by punishment.”

Orion stares at him. For a long time. Silently.

Tensely studying him, as if seeing him for the first time.

“You think killing them instead of finding a compromise is...right?”

Prowl thinks he must be treading on unstable ground.

“I think it works. That is all. Monsters do a lot of damage with their existence. They kill, destroy and pillage. If periodically reducing their numbers reduces their damage, it confirms the effectiveness of the strategy.”

“They just want to live. Primus' sake, they want to eat.”

Prowl sighs. More for appearances than for any real effect.

“I suppose I can't judge them for wanting to survive. It makes sense.”

Orion nods.

He looks oddly pensive.

“Ratchet keeps picking up wounded...” he stammers, apparently trying to find a suitable alternative to the word monster “...wounded beastformers. I've been to his house. It's generous, but I'm afraid of what will happen if he gets caught doing it.”

Prowl frowns

“He should have stopped.”

“You wouldn't understand.” sighs Orion ”Him. Shockwave. We want to help. To make things better. I don't need you to chide me for disobeying the rules, I need you to figure out how to change them. Ghosts and insecticons deserve freedom as much as we do.”

“But...”

Orion looks at him angrily.

“No. Whatever you're going to say in response to that. No. I know you're driven primarily by logic, but I need you to remember it well. All sentient beings deserve to live free. Do you understand? All of them. Period.”

Prowl rolls up the lists and interlocks his fingers in front of him. There are small scuffs on his thumbs and index fingers from constant writing. He occupies himself with running his fingers over them, feeling the difference in texture.

“Mech's freedom in such a case ends where someone else's hungry jaws begin. You can't expect monsters and Mechs to just coexist in peace if you give them freedom.”

“No” sighed Orion ”That's why I support Shockwave's idea with creating an academy for magically gifted Mechs. He's helping to show the world that so-called 'dark creatures' can be as civilized citizens as any Mech. He teaches them to find that compromise. We can't just expect centuries of hate and fear to be forgotten once the laws change. We must direct this process. To help the Mechs understand and accept each other. Guide them, you might say.”

Prowl feels a headache coming on, as it always does when Orion requires him to logically solve a problem the answer to which lies in the feelings rather than the intellect. He's not built for this. It irritates him.

Orion stops right in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Tell me what you think of this. If...let's pretend for a second that my morality fiddles don't matter anymore. That the problem of Mechs and monsters coexisting is something you alone need to solve. And solve it in such a way that the outcome is optimal for us as a society. To maximize the number of happy citizens. What would you do?”

Prowl is silent for a moment.

Orion squeezes his shoulder lightly before continuing.

“'Free from my judgmental conclusions, Prowl. From the standpoint of pure logic. What should we do?”

What to do...Prowl's thought process finally finds a direct and understandable train of thought. Monsters make up a paltry few percent of the population of all living Mechs. The numbers fluctuate depending on which region is being considered of course.

In some cities, some types of monsters are considered just fancy Mechs. Some monsters have risen from the status of savages to being respectable Mechs over the course of history. Even Orion's best friend, Shockwave, could be regarded as a mystical creature in some regions due to his gift of flight.

Nevertheless. The percentage is still minuscule.

But even that tiny percentage takes a significant toll on the economy and quality of life, because just one uncontrollable creature can terrorize an entire city.

He notes the weight of Orion's hand on his shoulder. Not judgmental. Orion promised he wouldn't judge.

“I'd get rid of the monsters.”

“Oh” Orion blinks ”Locked them in cages? Chased them away? Killed them?”

Prowl twitches his wings

“Banishment will only move the problem in terms of space, and imprisonment isn't secure enough. It would make sense to get rid of the monsters. Once and for all. It wouldn't be pretty or merciful, but it would greatly improve life for everyone, at the cost of a tiny percentage of living beings who were already of no use.”

“And you believe that would be a good outcome?”

“I believe it would.”

“But you're not a Mech yourself.” Orion reminds “Would you be willing to be exterminated along with the rest of the creatures if your plan were put into action?”

Prowl tilts his head slightly. Just to make it easier to look at Orion.

“You created me to, as you put it, help you make the world a better place. Sometimes in order to improve something you have to cut out the factors that get in the way. It's simple logic.”

“You didn't answer my question” Orion points out ”How would you feel if I decided to take your advice and destroy all mystical creatures, including you?”

“I am not made to feel” straightens Prowl ”My job is to find solutions to problems. I gave you a solution.”

“You don't include yourself in the reckoning.” snorts Orion “Again. You talk as if you will never be affected by anything.”

As it should be, Prowl thinks. He's a conscientious worker and a ..seemingly law-abiding citizen. He does what he can to make Mech's lives better. Even though he may not be a Mech, he's doing the right thing. Why would something happen to him?

Orion removes his hand from his shoulder and shakes his head.

“'Alright. I've heard you. But I want to make it as clear as possible - what you suggested is immoral, cruel, and should never be implemented. Do you understand me? Never. If you want to build a better world, you cannot and will not build it on other people's deaths. Have I made myself clear enough?”

“Perfectly clear.”

“Good.”

-----------------

Ratchet looks...many words could be used to describe him.

He's standing in the center of the trial room with a lot of emotions written all over his face. But if Prowl had to describe - he'd say Ratchet practically radiates rage. Not violent. More of a powerless one.

The rage of a Mech who knows he's cornered, but refuses to even consider giving up and admitting defeat.

Prowl sits in a far dark corner, silently documenting the whole process.

The council is furious. They apparently discovered that Ratchet has been dragging wounded monsters to his house and healing them all this time.

Which is ... very much as expected from Ratchet.

Prowl wants Orion here, but both Orion and Shockwave are now on a diplomatic mission a few days away, so the only support Ratchet has is...Prowl. Who can't help in any way, so he just sits there and meticulously documents the whole process so that Orion can then be informed of every single detail.

The council doesn't look happy. They say that Ratchet is sabotaging the hunters' efforts to contain the monsters by his actions.They are angered by Ratchet's absolute determination to insist that he was doing the right thing.

Prowl would be impressed, if only Ratchet's stubbornness made sense.

It's simple math. Ratchet saves lives. Monsters take them.

Thus Ratchet's life has much, much more weight and is more valuable.

If Ratchet would just accept the Council's decision now and promise to stop curing monsters, the whole problem would be solved as efficiently as possible.

But Ratchet, of course, persists. Probably just because that's his nature.

Ratchet can also afford to be so stubborn because his skill level makes him incredibly valuable to the Council. Prowl knows for a fact that if any other medic were in Ratchet's shoes right now - they would have been sentenced to banishment or execution by now.

When Ratchet realizes exactly how the Council caught him, his rage is instantly replaced by shock.

This revelation is enough to startle him and make him back down. To nod and numbly swear that he will end his "blasphemous hobby."

Prowl carefully folds the scribbled scrolls into the case as the Council doors close behind both his and Ratchet's backs.

“Orion will be happy to know that you were prudent enough to avoid death.”

Ratchet shifts his gaze to him

“You knew? Knew they could see through our optics? Did you know they could find out anything about any Mech at any time?”

Prowl tucks his hands behind his back and nods politely

“Knowing things is my job.”

Ratchet sighs. Heavy. Exhausted. Doomed maybe.

“How does Orion deal with it...”

“Orion has a reputation with the Council. They consider him a decent, law-abiding Mech, so they see no point in keeping tabs on him.”

“Are you kidding?” Raetchet raises his eyebrows “Orion can't do everything he does and remain ‘decent’ in their eyes. He and Shockwave practically cuddle with every possible creature every day and all they get is a little reprimand????”

Prowl tilts his head

“Orion learned to look away in time. And he has me for everything else.”

Ratchet doesn't answer him. He rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly and starts to walk away.

His shoulders look oddly tense. He looks defeated, but not in the way a Mech would describe a slain turbofox. No. There is a deep-seated, angry determination.

A willingness to act dictated by desperation.

The news of the surveillance has thrown Ratchet off balance but not knocked him off his feet as the Council had hoped.

Prowl looks at his back and walks off in the opposite direction. The problems of living, feeling Mechs have always been and will always be mysterious to him.

Ratchet does what no one expects him to do.

He doesn't stage protests. He doesn't accept the verdict.

He leaves silently, taking with him only medical supplies and an old lantern.

The council is furious, turning over every stone in an attempt to find him, but all in vain.

Prowl's daily duties now include “keeping track of any possible news related to Ratchet.“

And then, no matter what he finds, report to Orion that he's found nothing.

Put on a little regular show for all concerned. Show the Mechs in the Council that Orion remains loyal and does his best to find and bring to justice any blasphemer whether it's a friend of his or not.

He is his purpose. But the more time passes, the harder it becomes for him to trace the path to the fulfillment of that purpose. He envies the golems whose only function is to scrub floors. Their lives are understandable. A clean floor is a temporary but easily attainable goal. They are happy to fulfill the goal for which they were created. And then they're happy knowing their job is done well, until the floor gets dirty again.

Prowl is walking towards his goal, but it's not getting any closer. He knows what he needs to do to get there, but the variables are constantly changing and he has to adjust his course of action each time according to new information, conditions, and Orion's opinion on them.

Politics is infinitely more complicated than mopping floors after all.

————————————

Orion doesn't turn around on him as they walk down the hall. But Prowl can physically feel the attention focused on him.

“Prowl. Did you know I was awarded today for my ''outstanding service'' by the entire Council?”

“I did not.

“They've gone through all the reports and discovered that according to the logs me and my mechs are performing excellently when it comes to eliminating mystical threats.”

“Congratulations.”

“It's funny that you feel the need to congratulate me too” Orion continues ”Because I certainly didn't give orders to eliminate anyone.”

Their pacing doesn't falter. They continue to walk calmly down the hallway as if nothing is happening. But Prowl can practically taste the increased tension.

“Prowl” says Orion “Why is the Council rewarding me for murder? And where are the Mechs they think I killed now?”

Prowl checks the scrolls. Not because he doesn't remember. Just to buy some time to formulate an answer.

“They were the inevitable casualties. I took charge of their destruction. On your behalf.”

“You know how I feel about killing.”

“I know.” nods Prowl for some reason. Why? Not that Orion can see it “I also know how the Council feels about Mechs showing suspicious activity. They would have started watching you as soon as they noticed you were letting monsters slip away from you suspiciously often.”

Orion...sounds... conflicted. He sounds struggling.

“You killed them.”

“I gave the order. As any other hunter would have done in my place.”

Orion stops so abruptly that Prowl doesn't catch the moment and bumps into his back.

“We're supposed to be better than other hunters Prowl! How can you still not grasp that concept!!!”

Orion looks furious. Prowl discreetly looks around.

Around them is a relatively empty hall. Windows covered by heavy curtains. The cleaning golems scurrying back and forth.

“I understand” he says “But let me remind you that you cannot test their trust infinitely. Your 'being better' rests on your reputation. And it's my job to make sure your reputation lives up to it.”

Orion looks at him...Prowl isn't even sure how to describe it. Usually he has to argue with Orion's logic, proving his point but this time...Orion is the one arguing with him.

It feels strange. Uncomfortable.

He's doing everything Orion wanted him to do, but for the sake of it he has to do something Orion can't stand.

Orion clenches and unclenches his fists helplessly. Rubbing the fabric of his cloak.

“Shockwave can save lives without killing anyone.”

“Shockwave is one unfortunate act away from serious consequences” shakes his head Prowl “His academy is looking more and more like his own small army every day. His students are not loyal to the Council, they are loyal to Shockwave. And the Council knows that. And will use it. And it won't be pretty when it happens.”

“No...” shakes his head Orion, not addressing anyone in particular ”No no no no no...”

Prowl can understand why Orion is upset. But he also knows he's right this time. Shockwave may look like a fine example of mercy, but he walks on the very edge of the law and any wrong move will instantly turn him from “out of the box thinker” to renegade.

The Council will come for his head and the Council will get his head because Shockwave will have nothing to prove his loyalty with.

Orion will. Prowl made sure of that.

Orion can bend the rules, can borrow the Council's trust, can do all sorts of reprehensible things. He can stumble and fall and then fall a couple more times and find that it doesn't hurt him because Prowl caught him even before he stumbled.

He did it at the cost of lives. Yes.

But Orion's life is far more valuable than the lives of monsters.

Society doesn't need monsters to become better, but society needs Orion. Monsters need Orion. Because if Orion is gone, no one else will care about his idealistic goal.

“Sometimes I forget how creepy you can be...” mutters Orion ”You're going to betray me sooner or later.”

“I could never betray you.” Prowl twitches his wing.

“You've successfully betrayed what I believe in.”

“It's fine with me if you hate me for it. As long as you are alive, safe, and can continue your quest.”

Orion falls silent.

He turns away to stare at a strip of light from a nearby window. There are beautiful, wrought iron grates that cast an intricate, curved shadow on the floor and walls.

A golem janitor hurries past them.

“I hate it,” Orion sighs.

“It's understandable. But you can't change the system from the inside without becoming part of it first.”

“I was hoping I could become part of it without becoming a murderer.”

“It's okay” says Prowl ”You don't have to. That's what you have me for.”

Orion twitches.

Shockwave falls.

Prowl isn't there to see for himself, but a lot of rumors reach him. Lots. Lots of rumors.

The Mechs say the time of the Great Hunt has come.

They say that when the hunters arrived on the Academy's doorstep, Shockwave didn't let them in.

They say. He stood in front of the gates.

With sword in one hand and the Primus Covenant in the other, and declared that his school was a sanctuary for all living beings in need of protection.

Claimed that anyone who dared set foot inside with a weapon would have to go through him.

“And they retreated!” gestures Orion frantically ”They didn't dare test him! They backed away from the walls of the Academy. I don't know how many monsters were left alive in the forests that night, but none of Shockwave's students were harmed...”

Prowl listens with a healthy dose of wariness

“The Council wouldn't just let him do that.”

Orion begins nervously winding circles around the room.

“You're right, you're right. You're right now and you were right back then. They're going to bring him before the Court by tomorrow, and...”

“There's no chance of that ending well,...is there?" Prowl finishes his thought.

Orion looks pained

“They'll be going through everything he's been up to. Every forged document, every enrolled Mech who by all criteria should be considered a monster. Every time he sheltered them from the Council instead of destroying them. They'll realize what he's been doing and they won't like it at all.”

Prowl...trying to sound reassuring.

“Shockwave has tremendous support from his Academy. There's a chance the Council will be afraid of invoking their wrath and won't judge Shockwave too harshly.”

Orion continues to walk in circles

“You think so?”

“There is a good chance.”

Prowl finds Orion in Sickbay. Which is very disturbing and wrong, because Orion was supposed to be at the Trial. Supporting Shockwave and begging the Council to relent.

But Orion is in Sick Bay. When he shouldn't be.

And he's covered in ugly dark burns. From something Prowl can't recognize.

This is all wrong. It's all--

“What happened at the trial?”

Orion sounds. Startled.

“There was no Trial.”

“What?”

Orion sounds as if something inside him has cracked. In every sense of the phrase.

“The Trial hasn't even had time to begin. He...” Orion clutches his trembling fingers, hoping to still them, but it has no tangible effect. His shoulders are trembling.

He looks like his whole body could be torn apart with one careless touch. “They asked him if he would plead guilty to aiding and abetting dark creatures. All they had time to ask was if he realized he was wrong.”

An uncomfortable, prickly feeling settles in Prowl's mind.

"And?”

Orion squeezes his fingers so hard the creaking of hinges becomes audible.

“It...I...Prowl, his very spark began to ooze dark magic. It was horrible, it was like.. it was eating him from the inside. The entire courtroom became darker than night, many Mechs got burned. I've never seen anything like this before! He..It.. started attacking Mechs and destroying everything...it was like it went crazy...it attacked me and I had to...Prowl I had to fight it! I didn't...I'd heard about it happening but I believed until the last minute that I wouldn't have to face it...”

Gears of chaotic detail fall into place in Prowl's mind.

“Shockwave...turned into a demon...?”

Orion nods shakily

“The Council didn't even have a chance to sentence him or spare him or even sort out what happened.....

He stated that he did not consider himself guilty for what he had done and...Primus was the one who made the judgment before anyone else could...”

That's... terrifying really. For a number of reasons. Losing a close friend is awful, being subjected to such merciless punishment is awful, but also...

What sends a chill down Prowl's back is the moral implication that such punishment carries.

Orion, as if reading his thoughts, raises his gaze to him

“Is what we are doing...wrong? I don't...does Primus think helping monsters is worthy of punishment?”

Now that's a really reasonable question.

Shockwave would say that Primus is merciful and would never condemn a Mech for an act of kindness. But Shockwave ended up being condemned.

Ratchet would say that he doesn't care about Primus' opinion because Primus isn't real. But Ratchet isn't here.

Prowl wants to say that it doesn't matter whether or not Primus thinks they're wrong, what matters is that he can at any moment force his justice on any living spark, so his concept of right has to become Orion's too, or else he's doomed. But Orion is definitely in no state to have a philosophical argument. He looks shattered and Prowl almost instinctively is about to go and find Shockwave, but remembers that option is no longer available.

He's not made for this. Shockwave has always been the one to cheer Orion up on a bad day. Not Prowl, no. Prowl isn't sure what to do so he just sits down next to him and gently places a hand on Orion's shoulder. The one where he can't see the burns, so it shouldn't hurt.

“I don't. I'm used to always relying on your point of view as a reference for what's right and what's wrong.”

“I know” runs a shaky hand over his face Orion “But it's not like I'm perfect. I try, god, I try but just like with the logical part - my vision isn't flawless. Have I been...wrong all this time? Trying to disrupt Primus' intended vision? Maybe what I've been trying to fix never needed fixing. Maybe it's just me being so stupid and not understanding things maybe...???”

Orion cuts himself off mid sentence, realizing that he's started raising his voice and waving his arms around again. He sits back down on the medical bed and curls back up into a miserable ball.

“What should I do....”

“I don't know,” Prowl repeats awkwardly.

He is his goal. But his goal ..doesn't exist anymore?

He doesn't know where to put himself.

Golems are made to fulfill requests. But Orion's request system has been evolving and complicating for so long that Prowl can't tell where its boundaries are anymore.

He feels lost.

——————————

Orion stops cold.

“What...”

Prowl, standing at his right hand looks equally puzzled.

They are in a spacious courtyard bordering directly on the Council building. It's a very beautiful, open and spacious place because it was originally built with large crowds of Mechs in mind. There's wide walkways, a massive circular plaza with fountains and statues.

And right now, it's filled to the brim with Mechs, most of whom Prowl is seeing for the first time. They're all wearing knight armor and carrying weapons, however still kept in their scabbards.

They look like a small army. A very, very diverse army, Prowl realizes. Because there are almost no regular Mechs among them.

Orion looks... distraught.

Mechs? Monsters? A few knights separate and come closer, bowing their heads respectfully.

“Orion Pax.”

There is so much grief and disbelief in Orion's eyes that it physically hurts to look at him.

When he begins to speak his voice sounds hoarse, like someone has poured sand down his throat.

“What...what are you doing here...?”

The knight standing in front of everyone ceremoniously places his palm on his spark.

“We are here to fulfill the last will of our mentor and your friend. Shockwave has decreed in his last will that in the event of his death his legacy must pass to you and those of us who wish to carry on his work must publicly pledge our allegiance to your will.”

Orion clutches his hands together to keep them from starting to shake again.

“But...I was there. I...your mentor was slain by my hands...how can you..."

"It doesn't matter. Everything that was his is now yours." smiles the knight sadly "We will make sure his legacy lives on. And even if the Academy falls - you can always count on us."

At the same time as he finishes speaking, the knight in blue armor drops to one knee, pulling Shockwave's sword from its sheath and holding it out respectfully to Orion... who looks like he's about to start crying.

He dazedly accepts the sword, twitching in surprise when it turns out to be heavier than expected and probably tries to say something, but all that comes out is a short sorrowful sigh.

He just.

Clutches the sword to his chest, watching in disbelief as all the arriving mechs get down on one knee following the blue knight. There aren't that many mechs, but at this point - they seem to rival the sea.

Prowl knows some of them. Many of them made their way to Shockwave after Orion found them. There's the harpy over there who nearly ripped Orion's head off the first time they met. A few ghosts he can remember the faces of but doesn't know the names. He'd had a long argument with Orion that day, trying to convince him that he shouldn't take their word for it when they promised to make it up to him.

And now they're all here. In beautiful new armor. Executing their mentor's last will and testament.

Just like regular Mechs, only a little eccentric looking.

The crowd of hunters that has come to find out what's going on looks as speechless and dumbfounded as Orion.

" What" Orion also gets down on one knee to be on the same level as the knight "what's your name?"

Prowl squints warily from behind Orion's shoulder. The blue mech looks normal, but to be honest, there's no way someone coming out of the Shockwave Academy is going to be an normal plain mech. There has to be a catch somewhere.

"My name is Skids," smiles the knight shyly. "I am...was...Shockwave's best student."

"You are very brave Skids" smiles Orion sorrowfully "I promise to do my best to take care of Shockwave's legacy. And you."

Orion drops his head on the table tiredly.

"This is crazy..."

Prowl pulls an important document from under Orion's head

"It's also quite devious. Shockwave told them specifically to swear to you where all comers can see it. So there's no way for the Council to accuse you of purposely swaying an army of monsters to your side. Everyone saw that this gift was given by force. Now you have many allies with unique skills who are loyal to you and the Council won't try to take them away because they are firmly convinced that you are loyal to the Council."

Prowl examines the document for damage before setting it aside.

"It is..."

"Shockwave gave you an opportunity."

"And I don't know what to do with it!" raises his head Orion "Shockwave was smarter than me and made a lot of plans in case of...I don't know...anything?? I didn't...Prowl. We've been down this path for so long and I was always sure there would be something good at the end of it. Or at least better than it is now..."

Orion rubs his chin and shakes his head awkwardly

"...But if there's only the wrath of Primus and endless darkness at the end...I can't ask anyone to follow me there. I'm not sure if I can keep going myself..."

He sighs helplessly

"I'm not even sure if that even matters."

"The chance that Shockwave would try to use you in some way was about twenty-eight percent."

Orion twitches

"What?"

"I understand that you're hurt by his...fate." Says Prowl "But have you considered the possibility that Shockwave was being punished for betraying you rather than the Council?"

Orion doesn't even answer at first. Just looks at him dazed and bitter.

"Prowl...no. He couldn't have."

"I'm just speculating" shrugs Prowl "Shockwave was punished but as far as I know God didn't bother to name the exact charge. We don't know one hundred percent what exactly caused his...sentence. He may have betrayed the Council's ideas, or he may have betrayed yours."

They both just exist in silence for a while. Processing the information.

"If...and I mean if!!! If Shockwave was convicted of harboring monsters, then everything we've been doing all this time can be considered useless blasphemy..." says Orion slowly "...but if he was punished for something else..."

"...then that would mean there's nothing wrong with your idea." finishes Prowl.

Orion frowns

"It would also mean that Shockwave lied to me..."

Prowl nods. The situation is ugly no matter which way you look at it.

Shockwave, as Prowl knows him, would hardly have framed Orion, but Mechs tend to go to great lengths to avoid execution.

If Shockwave had shifted some of the blame to Orion then, it would have partially saved him. Was that what he was going to do? Was this what Primus had stopped him from doing?

Orion's finials twitch slowly

"I don't know Prowl. I don't know what to do. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of my fantasies."

Orion is hard to read, but right now he's an open book.

Prowl tilts his head

"You're scared."

Orion looks. Defeated. Crumpled.

Discolored.

" I am."

Prowl can't work with that. He's used to solving logical problems and making lists and strategies.

He doesn't know how to get someone to stop being scared.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know." mutters Orion "I don't know, I have no idea. It's too much...All these new knights, this whole council situation and now you're also saying that the mech I treasured the most could actually be a liar and...just leave me alone."

"But..."

"Just go away!" shakes his head Orion "Go find something else to do, find a hobby, I don't know! Get out of my head and out of my personal life!"

Prowl nods silently.

Places a couple papers in their places and silently walks out the door.

Gestures a greeting to some mech passing by.

And is completely unsure of what to do with himself.

Orion's too stunned by everything that's happened to give him a clear purpose. And without a purpose, he...he's gone.

He continues to stand by the closed door.

A thought runs obsessively through his mind.

If Shockwave was sentenced for something no one knew about, then punishing him the moment of that trial was a truly terrible decision and even worse timing.

But if Shockwave was sentenced for helping monsters...Prowl isn't sure why his mind resists the idea.

Maybe he's not being objective because he shares Orion's views and aspirations.

Maybe because he has looked at the entire square filled with dangerous monsters and has seen nothing but sorrow and respect in them.

The idea comes naturally.

Then God must be wrong.

He looks at the cleaning golems again. He envies them.

They are peace and contentment.

They are a clear and simple goal.

Probably the biggest stress that happens to them is random mechs passing by and interfering with their cleaning.

And then there's Prowl, standing by with no meaning or purpose and wishing he could throw something heavy because the one who gets in his way is an indefinable force of nature and a complex system of values and beliefs created by millions of years of cultural development....

But Primus can't stop him, can he?

Prowl is not alive. He has no emotion so that his intentions can be categorized as evil, but more importantly he has no spark so that its magic can turn him into a demon.

He is his purpose. His purpose is his god. And Primus stands in his way.

He turns around and walks away.

#I might be not as goo at it but I am jumping on my sit in every book comic or story #where the religious topic is risen in the way that can screw your head #and how f**ked up it is #I am having a mountain of good food right here beside Prowl's mind #oh my god #okay I'm dead #I love it #inspiration #Just....#so many things....#I am out of words....

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beloveds-embrace · 2 days ago

Text

(a series in which you are a witch living in the woods, and a group of knights have decided to keep you safe and sound in exchange for kisses and charms.)

Johnny’s arrival was always a joyous affair, heralded by the lilting whistle that preceded him through the trees, hung up bells tinkling through the breeze. You recognized the tune before you even saw him, a signal of his approach as familiar as the rustling leaves and the delighted the hum of your wards.

“Hello, bonnie lass!” he called, stepping into view with his usual bright grin. He strode up to your door with an armful of wildflowers, their petals slightly crushed but still vibrant. “Brought these for you. Dinnae ask what they are- I just grabbed the prettiest ones I could find.”

You laughed, reaching out to accept the bouquet. The mix of blooms, some medicinal, some purely ornamental, spoke of his eager hands plucking whatever caught his eye. But you didn’t mind- the thought was appreciated regardless. “They’re beautiful, Johnny. Thank you.”

“Ah, well. Pretty flowers for a pretty lass.”

You shook your head fondly and stepped aside to let him in. Johnny’s presence was like a burst of sunlight through the dense canopy, and the magic in your cottage reacted to him like ivy reaching for warmth. The air inside seemed lighter when he was near, the flickering candle flames burning just a little steadier, the herbs hanging from the rafters swaying as if drawn to his energy. Even the floorboards, which creaked under every step but yours, barely made a sound when he moved- perhaps the house itself leaned into his presence, unwilling to startle the warmth he carried

As you arranged the flowers in a ceramic vase, he leaned against your wooden table, arms crossed, grin never fading. “You’ll never believe what happened today!” He began, and without any prompting began retellinh you of his day.

You listened with rapt attention as he spoke of training exercises gone awry, not unusual, of weapons misfiring, and- his personal favorite- Gaz slipping face-first into the mud.

“And then wham! Right into the muck, poor bastard! I swear, he was swimming in it!” Johnny cackled, slapping a hand against the table. He kept in mind not too slap too hard, and away from your little bottles.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Poor Gaz. You’re terrible for finding it so funny.”

“He’ll live,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. His face softened as he watched you place the flowers in the vase, the firelight catching in your hair. “Got anything for me today, lass?”

You reached for a small leather cord, from which dangled a small, hand-carved wooden charm, smoothed by your touch and etched with runes only you could read.

“For speed and sure footing,” you tied it around his wrist, your touch sure and gentle. “You’re quick enough already, but this should help in a chase- or when dodging.”

Johnny turned his hand, studying the charm with quiet admiration. His fingers brushed against the carvings, tempered by something more serious and came. “Aye, that’ll come in handy.”

He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the charm- or perhaps the weight of the thought behind it. When he looked back at you, his smile was different. Softer.

“Cheers, lass. You are a delight.” He murmured, and it was almost reverent.

As he turned to leave after stealing some cookies, you tugged him down for a quick, fleeting kiss on the cheek.

He winked at you, and his grin returned. “Careful, hen. I might get used to this.”

“As if you already aren’t… but anyways. Thank you for dropping by!”

You loved his visits, truly. They were always so… carefree. But little did you know, his visits weren’t always as untroubled as they seemed.

Earlier that day, before his cheerful whistle cut through the trees, Johnny had dealt with a different kind of visitor- one he would never tell you about.

No need to worry your pretty head, after all.

A small group of the crown’s men had wandered too close to your woods, their voices carrying through the underbrush. Johnny had been returning from a patrol, then on hisbway to you, when he spotted them, their armor glinting brightly in the midday light. They spoke in hushed tones, movements cautious as they studied the ancient trees around them for any traces that could lead them to you.

“Reckon she’s real?” one of them muttered.

“Don’t be daft. ‘Course she is. Locals swear by it.” Another replied. “A witch, hidden out here, practicing magic. If the king knew- ”

“Shut it,” the third man snapped. “We get caught sniffing around lile this with no evidence, we’ll have bigger problems than a witch’s curse.”

Johnny had heard enough.

With the ease of a man who moved like he belonged in the wild, he circled behind them, steps silent. By the time they realized they weren’t alone, he was already there.

The first man barely had time to turn before Soap grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, slamming him against a tree. The others froze, their hands inching toward their weapons. In the face of a knight like him, they couldn’t even pretend to hold a little respect. Nothing more than fear.

“Now, now,” Johnny crooned, deceptively light. “What are you fine gentlemen doin’ in these woods?”

The man in his grasp stammered. “We- we were just-“

“Just stickin’ your noses where they don’t belong?” Johnny interrupted, his grip tightening. “Bad idea, lads. Very bad idea.”

One of the soldiers shifted on his feet. “We- we meant no harm. Just heard stories-“

“Aye, you heard stories,” Soap repeated darkly. “And I suggest you keep ’em as stories. ‘Cause if you so much as breathe a word about these woods to the wrong folk, I’ll make sure you don’t leave ’em.”

The threat hung heavy in the air. None of them doubted he meant it.

“You understand me?” Soap asked, bright blue eyes- you often likened them to the ocean- now cold and sharp.

They nodded, their confidence crumbling under the weight of his presence.

“Good lads.” Johnny laughed, finally releasing the man in his grasp. He clapped a hand against the soldier’s shoulder, grin returning- but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, off you go. And remember: some places aren’t meant to be found.”

The men didn’t need to be told twice. They turned and fled, disappearing into the underbrush without a second glance.

Soap waited until their footsteps faded before letting out a slow breath. He rolled his shoulders, casting a glance toward the distant outline of your cottage, hidden safely within the forest’s embrace.

You’d never know.

He wouldn’t let you.

By the time he reached you, his usual mirth had returned, and the only thing he carried with him was a bouquet of wildflowers and the promise of laughter.

The flower field did so nicely to mask and wash away the scent of blood clinging to him, after all.

Witch of the Wood Masterlist || Simon “Ghost” Riley

#noona.posts #noona.writes #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #cod imagines #johnny soap mactavish x you #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x you #soap s reader #johnny soap mctavish x you #soap imagine #johnny soap mctavish x reader

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rollingeevee · 20 hours ago

Note

I gotta ask: do you know when exactly the beasts would bite their respective darlings? Like do they just capture them and then *chomp*? Also do the bites have an immediate effect or do the darlings not figure out what's up with the bite until they first try to run away?

Silly little but:

Darling, after getting bit: Freak!!

Darling, after the bite takes effect: Oh shit, that's why you were being freaky...

Hmm… that’s a good question! I feel it would vary for each Beast.

Shadow Milk and Burning Spice I can see doing it ASAP. They see it, they like it, they want it. That bite is happening as soon as they have their darling in their grasp, first chance they get. They don’t care what their darling thinks.

Eternal Sugar I can see somewhat similar, but I feel she would try to kinda play it off? When she takes her darling, she’ll likely try to ease them into a false sense of security. She’s offering you sweets and wants to nap with you? She can’t be that bad, can she? However, she might grow a bit impatient. When you’re napping together, that’s when she bites.

For Mystic Flour and Silent Salt, I can see them using their bites as a last resort. The two of them aren’t as eager to place down their bites unless another Beast is showing interest in what is theirs. However, as soon as they find you after you escape the first time? That’s when they bite. You got close to getting away. They didn’t like that. They gave you a chance, and you squandered it. Now they’re going to ensure you know exactly where you belong. With them.

Also, side note, I got this ask right before I fell asleep so the notif on my phone showed only the first few words and my tired brain read it as “where” instead of “when” and it got my mind going a lil before I passed out so- you’re getting that too! LMAO

Shadow Milk would place his bite on the neck, right below the ear. Sort of symbolic in a way. While his magic can reach your mind from wherever the bite might be, he likes the thought that it’s there, as if he’s always whispering into your ear.

Mystic Flour would place her bite on your inner wrist. She cares the least about where her bite goes, so long as it is on you. Holding your hand to her lips, placing a gentle kiss, before suddenly jerking your hand, exposing your inner wrist, and sinking her teeth in.

Burning Spice’s bite is right on the neck in full view of everyone. He’s not a subtle guy, probs the most straightforward of the five. He’s loud and proud, and his bite would be the same. Right over your jugular where everyone can see it. There’s no hiding it. In a way, it’s also a powerplay. He could easily tear your throat out if he so desired. But he didn’t. Be grateful, little rabbit~

Eternal Sugar would place her bite on her darling’s chest, right above where your heart is. As stated above, she places it when you’re napping together. She’s draped on top of you, using your chest as her pillow. The moment her patience runs out, she’ll pull your shirt down just enough to expose the area she seeks and bite down.

Silent Salt’s bite is right above the area between your two collarbones below your throat. Centered between your lungs and your vocal cords. While, again, a bite’s placement doesn’t change its effects, they like the symbolism. The thought of stealing your voice, plunging you into silence.

Thank you for sending in an ask! Hope you liked the answer I gave!

#Eevee Answers #Beast Bites #cookie run kingdom x reader #crk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #cookie run kingdom #yandere #yandere x reader #silent salt cookie x reader #silent salt x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #burning spice x reader #eternal sugar x reader #eternal sugar cookie x reader #mystic flour x reader #mystic flour cookie x reader

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hischierjustscored · 1 day ago

Text

accidentally yours.・゜・quinn hughes

summary: you barely remembered putting quinn as your emergency contact until he showed up like the universe's idea of a bad joke

a/n: this is my contribution for the winter fic exchange 2k25 by @wyattjohnston for @hanaaishi 🧡 i still owe you forever for being patient and bearing with me on this!! seriously i mean it!! thank you both for making me a part of another amazing exchange which was my first one ever but i'm so happy that i was!! it was such an experience for me diving into all this and hope i was able to do some justice on my part 🧡 i got too carried away smoothing the final edges, hence the delay again 🥺 i also changed the idea we talked about a little but i hope it's all good in the end 🧡

warnings: mentions of injuries (light concussion, ankle sprain), hospital, parents pressure, overthinking, scratchin on the surface???, and i trusted myself to do a reader insert so bear with me once more

word count: 5.5k

You remember when you were 8 and took your brother’s bike to try out his self-made wood ramps in the garden, only to fall 6ft from the side and drop straight onto your left hip. That day you found out that grass wasn’t nearly as cushy as it looked but it was your mother’s “told you so” you never forget, lingering in your ears from where you sat in the backseat on the way to the hospital.

You also remember your best friend Lia leaving you in charge of booking an Airbnb for your first trip to Austria together, and you were proud of that cozy little place you found nestled in a mountain valley. But the "cozy" and "European" charms you both imagined left you searching desperately for a hotel in the middle of the holiday season instead, and Lia didn't have to say the words. You could hear the "I told you so" for really trusting someone with the username wanderlustgirl98.

And you remember moving to Vancouver a year ago after your studies, taking up your former professor's advice to follow one of its renowned urban development programs and put your "big-picture" skills to work. He didn’t have to try hard to convince you. You’d already been thinking about it for a long time until it felt like your chance to finally prove yourself. Perhaps even more to your parents. A naive part in you hoped you'd fit into their expectations for once. But if you really did, you'd reach out more than just on birthdays and festivities, maybe even give in to that other more vulnerable part in you and tell them how over your head you've been lately or that, deep down, they were probably right about all of this being a huge leap you still weren't ready for.

And you can only imagine…

Told you so.

It long replaced the loud ringing and the whole new level of woozines you felt an hour ago on the bus, as you watched the nurse adjust the brace on your right ankle, all black and chunky.

You sighed heavily for the 5th time in under 2 minutes, because what did you do to deserve all this?

Oh right, maybe being a chronic people pleaser, staying late at work to set other people's shit right. Fixing last-minute deadlines, cleaning up mistakes that weren’t yours, saying yes when you wanted to say no.

But you couldn't help it.

"It shouldn't take more than 3-6 weeks to heal completly, your lucky it's just a moderate strain. Nothing that can't be fixed."

She looked up at you over the rim of her glasses, still perched hideously, before she slowly swiveled back to her desk.

"Can I still work in that thing?", you tried testing out the waters, bending your feet just a little, then more until you sucked in a sharp breath when the pain hit.

"Honey, what do you think this is?", she drawled follwed by a low chuckle as if she couldn't quiet believe this being your first question.

“It’s meant for the healing, you have to keep it still completely and not put any weight on it. And that includes not working."

The last straw keeping you grounded right now is that this could have been much worse.

From the moment the bus driver hit the brakes like in that one Harry Potter scene, your new plateau sneakers giving out on you and your head bracing the inevitable fall on some window. Your initial hope bubble of no one noticing quickly busted as people came to your side, but you brushed them off mumbling that you were fine through the worst cringe of unwanted attention. Until you tried to balance yourself, only to realize you couldn't, and straightening up nearly made you sick.

You shifted, bracing your palms against the mattress to find a more comfortable position, minus flaring your ankle up again. You’d been in this bed for too long, it was driving you crazy.

"But how am I supposed to do that? Other than floating maybe..."

The mocking arch of her brows made the wrinkles on her forehood stand out more, but you couldn't care less, it was the pure frustration blurting out of you at this point you weren't even kidding about the last part. The last thing you needed on your mind was your boss' face to your sick call tomorrow morning. Not with the mayor visiting your office in 2 days, waiting to hear your thoughts on improving Vancouver's climate neutrality through sustainable architecture. And what you’ve worked tirelessly on, perfecting every detail from start to finish.

And you thought if all of this is some sort of reverse karma. Only for being hardworking. Is that a thing?

You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice the shuffling in the room until she came back with something that, if any shred of humor was left inside you, you would've laughed at. But instead, you just slumped back against the headrest, the wave of déjà vu taking you back to when you were 8 looking between the crutches in her hand.

Hardworking karma, reverse karma, just trying as hard as you can karma...

"I think you will be good with these", she offered, leaning them against your bed within reach, "maybe if you try hard enough you will actually float."

Her chumy tone you still couldn't quite feel yet, had your eyes roll back in an instant before closing them, grumbling to yourself, "Just great, really, really, great", but it was a mistake once you did as you fought off the urge to drift off completly.

A piece of mind for the first time in hours. Maybe for the first time in forever even.

The last months have been...immense to say the least, throwing yourself into anything that kept you running on autopilot, saying yes when you wanted to say no, but you needed it.

After the biggest "told you so" that was bound to happen eventually. 2 months from now or more, or perhaps between his work, your work, balancing on a life that went past deadlines and demands, between 2 people who have their own reasons to prove themselves to everything around them, you slipped out of each other’s reach.

But it’s not like there was ever an official you two.

It was just the version of the story you always liked best.

“Here you go, I was able to find one in the random stash we keep in our break room, but it should work though," a voice light and sweet snapped your attention back faster or not fast enough, you didn't know, blinking against the lights now.

For a second, you felt like you were back on the bus with the dizziness and nausea creeping in again.

But no. Just him. It was just the thought of Quinn.

Your weighted gaze shifted to the bubbly blonde next to you, then down to your forearm where she lightly nudged a charger against it, and you suddenly remembered how determined she was to get it for you when you realized your phone powered down.

You couldn’t even text Lia back in time, knowing you were already too late for the rare occassions of missing your daily Facetime calls, with her still being back home in Seattle. Not in a trillion years you expected to feel this way about her, but right now you're glad she is.

Because if she she'd see you like this, she'd already know the answers without you giving it to her, that you take on more than your chronic people pleasing heart could handle sometimes.

And he'd always know too. When to snap you out of it, when to just exist beside you with no words. He'd never have to ask.

"Oh yeah, thank you", you forced out in the most put-together tone you could pull off right now, hoping our smile was convincing enough to distract her from the way your clammy palms were rubbing against the mattress, or the rapid thumping of your heart that you’d see too on your chest if you dared to look down again.

"Just enough to call a Uber and you can take it back."

She gave you a simple half-shrug, taking your phone from your outstretched hand, "It's stuff patients leave behind soo..", and plugged it in for you. But before you could brush her answer off again, the low calling of your last name made you snap to a tall man in the doorway, and his two long strides toward you could either mean more bad or good news.

You held your breath as you listened to him in silence going over your completly normal labs and scans which only told you everyone was making a bigger deal out of this anyway. You were fine, biting the inside of your cheeks reluctantly when he added they'd be filling out a sick report too.

"-though we would like to monitor you here for a night just in case you develop more symptoms that can’t be ruled out from the hit, and given that you already experienced dizziness and nausea-"

No person or force on this earth could make you stay here for one minute longer.

You released your cheeks with a click of your tongue, cutting him off quickly, "Uhhh that's not necessary, I mean I feel way better now and you just said it too didn't you?", which finally made him look up from whatever, clearly taken aback, his suprise mirrowing your own for a different reason.

Plus, you knew your rights. They couldn't keep you hostage here, you were ready to remind him of their own policy.

"I'm glad you do, we just want to make sure that-"

But you barely registered his next words, lost beneath the familiar sound of your phone finally wrapping up in your hands, and you were as happy as a little kid seconds away from unwrapping the biggest gift under the Christmas as tree, just, it didn't ask you to press your thumb down to unlock it as it normally would but...

"Damn it."

The one time your phone decides to ask for your SIM card code, and you’re completely blank.

Hardworking karma, reverse karma, just trying as hard as you can karma...

Yes, you really believed now, you did everything wrong tonight and this was the real karma of it all.

Your thumbs brushed the screen, trying to remember 4 digits like your life depended on it with the only 3 attempts you had.

The day you bought it you scribbled it down, along with the backup code (of course), and put it on your fridge because your memory rivaled that of a goldfish sometimes.

Was it 5678 or 5679?, and you heart dropped as deep as the Marianna Trench when it said only 1 attempt left.

"...and with how things are right now, we wouldn't encourage you to leave on your own. Do you have someone you can call right now to pick you up? Someone safe?"

Was he still talking to you?

"Huh? What?", the phone nearly slid from your grip, your palms starting to clam up again, and he lowered his clipboard studying you with an expression you weren't sure you had the energy to fully read, but it felt too damn close to pity.

"Or anyone we could call...?"

Quinn knew now that he could only trust Jack when it comes to discussing goodreads.com reader's favorites, ideas for lake house interior, and shooting pucks.

Not with anything close to dating. Or helping him out with that.

He was doing just fine. Thank you very much, but he knew Jack. Too much for his own good sometimes.

"Why do you act like you don't want it when you actually do. You need this. Get out of your head.

Sitting in this Italian restaurant that was a little too crowded for it being a secret "gem" as Jack said suggesting it to him, and he didn't even live here, listening to his date "soul-searching" trip to Bali was far from want and need.

He checked her Instagram highlights before, clicking on her profile Jack DM'd him. A friend of a friend. If overpriced veggie bowls and infinity pool thirst traps were anything soul-searching she's deluding both of them, and so was his thinking that maybe he should give this a shot. Getting out his head like Jack said with the season already hitting him with flashbacks he wanted to forget fot the sake of his sanity, and keeping away from anything that kept him running on autopilot.

"It just put everything into perspective", she said, her voice pulling him back just enough to realize he had no idea what she was talking about.

And he knew the moment he looked up from stirring the ice in his water with his straw for the past 5 minutes, there wouldn't be damn thing he'd remember about her either. She was beautiful, that much was obvious. The kind she knew and had probably been told her whole life, she didn't have to try too hard.

He preffered not trying at all. It was his favorite.

Probably ever since you took his drink at the coffee shop one day, the place too crowded for names to be called, just cups sliding across the counter and you didn't even look down at his name scribbled on the side in Sharpie when you slipped past him on the way out, not bothered to notice him eiter. The moment he should've said something, tap your shoulder, say anything when he just kept watching you move outside, tilting your head at street signs like they weren’t second nature yet, checking your phone every few seconds like you had somewhere important to be. Grabbing the wrong coffee without a second glance wasn’t his only hunch that you weren’t from here. Then, the sip. Too strong. Wholebean. Definitely not yours.

You turned back, ready to go back inside, but he already had yours in his hands on his way out to you when they started calling out names again, and no one responded to except for him.

A moment, A pause, your cold fingers brushing against his warm ones, or when you laughed at your mistake all crinkly around your eyes, perharps for the first time in a while that day, that should have been it, but wasn't, because between all of it you just became a part of his routine.

“…And then, on the third day, we did this sunrise meditation hike just me and a few people from the retreat, barefoot, totally disconnected, away from everything."

She kept going, oblivious to the way his focus had disconnected, his mind already elsewhere, lost in the memory of the last time he wanted to get away from everything, and the cushion underneath him slid akwardly when he shifted in his seat.

I wasn't about overpriced veggie bowls or infinity pools. But his favorite place in Michigan. Always.

And he wanted to take you there.

It had been a vague idea, one that had come up in the quiet moments in betweeen road trips and late-night talks at his place that were too deep and glances that lingered too long to mean anything less than what he had already convinced himself was true about you. The same feeling hit him when you gave him that slight curve of your lips, the one that always told him you had him figured out when when he told you about the days being slow and the nights nothing but still stars at the lake house.

"Hmm, that's not true stars are moving constantly, we just don't see it."

He laughed, quiet but warm,"Can you at least pretend to fall for it?" just to get stuck in his throat.

"It never is with you."

"What?"

"Pretending."

It never was with you either.

But it never became anything more than vague. Because there was always something else. Texts left on read for too long, you and your own world to keep up with just as much as he did with travel schedules that blurred weeks into months, not leaving room for things he didn't know how to hold onto. Or someone who didn't know either.

A low buzz from behind, easy to miss if it hadn’t lingered just long enough to jolt him back before he knows. He shifted again, and even though this was only ever one-sided, a genuine "Really sorry, I will turn it off" left his lips as he gawkly reached for his jacket over the backrest.

He hadn’t meant to look, a habit more than anything. But then his thumb hesitated mid-air, double-taking the number.

Unknown. Vancouver area code. Probably nothing. Probably something.

But always a red flag, especially for someone in his industry.

"Thought you were turning it off?", she mused, tipping her wine glasss to her lips, watching him over the rim and he forced a quick exhale, "Yeah, I-", but he didn't have a real answer with the buzzing still alive in his hand.

And he should've turned it off, ignore it, and sit through the night rest of the night pretending like he hadn't already made up his mind about this whole thing.

You need this.

But Jack was wrong.

He wasn't even sure what "this" was even supposed to be. Whatever, it never felt right since the start.

His phone buzzed again with the same caller, but now he thought about it being a perfect timing.

"I gotta take this...", he mumbled, barely shooting her a glance, and he swiped right before his mind could really caught up with it.

"Hello?"

A breath, a pause, nothing good he thinks already but he used it to press his index finger to his ear to drown out the noise, shifing again.

"Uhm, yeah, hello it's Vancouver General Hospital am I speaking to Quinn H?"

Well this was new.

"Depends, who is this?", ignoring the "H" making it sound like a witness protection program name. Not that he planned on correcting them. Or rather, a nurse as she introduced herself, surprisingly professional, enough to raise his interest and, slowly, his concerns too.

"Sir, we have your sister here, she was brought in with a mild concussion and a sprained ankle some hours ago. But don't worry, she is totally fine, she just needs someone to pick her up which is why we're calling."

His brows snapped together, head jerking back to the slightest bit like his brain needed an extra second to process.

"My what? Excuse me?"

Last time he checked it was Jack and Luke. Their parents would never screw them over like that, no way the would forget an entire human being for twenty-something years. Right? Not even back when they first sat him down to tell him he’d be a big brother, and his two-year-old self, without hesitation, decided he wanted a sister. But by the time Luke came, he was bound to live with brothers. He wouldn't change that for the world now.

So when the nurse repeated the words that his sister listed him as her emergency contact Quinn could only stare blankly ahead, "Yeah, I still think you've got the wrong number..."

She is wasting her time on a call when this girl was really waiting to be picked up, and he was just about to put it in terms she’d finally grasp, until-

You.

The noise around him, muffled laughter and the hum of conversation, the restless tapping of manicured nails against the table cloth across him, faded into nothing. And if with his thoughts already going from 0 to 100, this is his breaking point.

Your name.

He cleared his throat, but his voice came out strained, throat too dry, "Come again?"

Of all the names, hitting his ears after all these months but thought more of than he'd ever admit. The name he'd seen on his screen too many times, resisting the urge to check, to ask, to do something.

Everything dropped, turned over, a slow ache pressing against his ribs, too overwhelming and far too familiar.

But his body moved before his mind could catch up, momentum taking over. Someone said his name. Maybe, he couldn't care less. Something about a drink next, about sitting back down, but he ignored it again.

Because you were still ringing in his head, louder than it had in months.

And he wasn’t about to ignore it now.

"He said he's already on his way, shouldn't take longer than 10 minutes"

It made your brows furrow in confusion, "He's in the area?", but you said it more to yourself than to her, not that she heard it either in the crowded waiting room you were sitting in now, your ankle on a cushioned chair they'd given you.

Turns out you had listed an emergency contact the last time you were here, one you didn’t even remember leaving behind. Apparently, hospital policy included holding onto records long enough to make you wait nearly an hour, because the name they had on file was your brother. And, of course, he was on a business trip in Abbotsford, 1 hour away. The only reasonable choice to put down when they’d asked back then. Then again, you barely remembered.

Except for the fact that it was your first public unveiling of a project you led. You had invited your parents, that small, hopeful part of you giving in, calling them, telling them you’d be happy if they came. You were almost surprised by their promising tone, as if, finally, they’d understand this wasn’t just about concepts and sketches but about your dream.

But they didn’t come, texting out of everything, with an excuse that felt too made up. And hours ago, when your stomach had already sunk from scanning the crowd for them every time a new group arrived, it sank further. This time with the mix of one bad shrimp and something stronger you’d used to numb the disappointment.

How could you forget when you really really wanted to.

"Is you brother like...famous or something, because your records were pretty mysterious."

You looked up to the same bubbly blonde nurse, still standing in front of you with her lips pressed together,

"I think we're close enough he'd care to tell me or I would've found out sooner or later, but no, sorry to dissapoint you or anything", you corrected, hoping that was enough while you were already done processing the absurdity of it all. You slumped against the rigid backrest, sighinh as the exhaustion crept in again, but rest was the last thing anyone was willing to grant you right now.

“Your record,” she rambled on, not getting the memo, "it was… kinda mysterious.”

One eye popped open, then another when you saw her crossing her arms now. This conversation slowly glided out of your hands, you just leaned forward, jerking your head to the side, silently urging her to make sense of whatever this was.

"Your record just said Quinn H. and nothing more. I had to call him Mr. H. the whole time, but I figured he prefers this kind of privacy and that's what you want for him too. He didn't tell me his last name though, so like I said, all mysterious."

Your fingers now hoved near the cushioned stool, reaching for your calf to lift it off with more force than you should've and the sting was instant. But it was nothing compared to the irritation climbing its way up your throat where your heart already pounded in it.

Because not your brother was about to walk through that door. The person who should've been here.

No.

It will be Quinn Hughes.

And suddenly you were mid-fall again, right there on the bus, every last bit of control slipping past your grip. Nothing you could do.

Because drunk you put him down as your emergency contact that time. The one you barely remember.

"Wait, no", a breath left you, unsteady, "Call him again and tell him it's a big fucking mistake", your hands twitched in flight mode as you darted between her and the sliding doors open-mouthed, cause you remembered her saying he was only 10 minutes away. 5 even, if you're unlucky.

The same Quinn you stopped talking too, who if you looked into his eyes again, the same on that always made you wonder, if they could get any darker, any greener, would he notice?

That you mever meant for things to be this way? That it wasn't him, not really but your own mind, the way this new life kept pulling at you, and how you wanted to reach out when things calmed down. When you had space. When you could be the version of yourself that he deserved.

Maybe he was waiting for you. Maybe he thought you didn't care. It was only fair, but it didn't loosen the knot in your chest, nor how you blinked away the sting in your eyes that you told yourself was from the stuffy air with too many people breathing in here.

Because you did. You always did.

"Hey sis."

And in that instant, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, how else could you explain the way your lungs refused to function, as if they’d forgotten how, when you snapped your head to where he stood now inches away. How long?

His navy blue shirt was barely visible under his coat, his hair grown out just enough for the ends to curl, for it to peek out from the beanie he held in his hand, looking too good even with his hair tousled still like he'd always did asking you if he looks okay, what you could see him doing in whatever thing you interruped him in before he got here,

It pressed in too heavy, you had to cut through it.

"Why are you here?"

"What happ-"

You barely felt the ache in your ankle over the blood rushing in your ears when you shifted your weight standing now, his gaze dropping to the crutches you stood up without, your brace, the subtle wince you thought you hid. And it was fucking with your heart that he wasn't just looking at you, but like he was piecing something back together.

He parted his lips, but his eyes flicked past yours first, toward the nurse behind you, when his fingers around his beanie, "You were brought in here", he hesistated, "Needed someone to pick you up."

That was the objective, something everyone would've done perhaps if they received such call, being a good or person, or the simple fact that he was your emergency contact.

You needed the subjective.

You huffed, shaking your head, "This is not what I meant. You could have said no."

"I didn't."

"You should have."

The words sounded sharper on your tongue than you wanted them to be, and you didn't know what hurt more, the way his expression barely shifted like he'd expected to be shut down again, because you were getting so good at it, or how your insides churned 360 degrees of how much you already regretted them.

"What do you want me to say? You're the one who put my name down I didn't even knew until now or let you bolt out of here with an concussion like they told me?"

Bolted. Floated. Whatever to get out of here finally.

"Well, neither was I, and I'm fine", you muttered fixing you gaze on the sterile floor instead, on anything but the way how he was fixing you, "but let's just drop it to the part where you go back to whatever you had going on before coming here I guess and me saying sorry for it."

The bittersweet taste in your mouth.

Only when the dull ache flared up in your good ankle did you realize you’d been standing without your crutches all this time. and before you even thought to reach for your crutches, he was already moving. Anticipating. The moment your balance gave out on you, he was already there, steady hands at your elbow and bicep, grounding you before gravity could do worse, and your pulse skipped how easy it was to sink into it.

His breath hitched, and so did yours, the warmth of his touch pooling through your fabric like you swallowed an ember, and his eyes, god his eyes, the darkest green, you don't even have to look up to be convinced about it again, all on you, as he murmured, barely a whisper.

"Don't be sorry, because it didn't mean anything."

Sitting in his car with the seat warmer already on like he remembered how easily cold you can get, watching as he pulled up your adress from his "saved", it fucked with your heart all over again.

You should have protested, insisting you were fine enough to make it out on your own, scoffing when the nurse told Quinn, not you, that you needed monitoring, just in case.

But exhaustion had already settled too deep in your bones, that you were almost thankful for the silence settling between you since he helped walking you out and insisted to drive you home at least.

Almost.

You would’ve been the biggest fool alive if you let this slip again, like you always did, like you always regretted.

"I am sorry though."

"And I told you not to be."

The darkness in his eyes gave way to the streetlights flickering through them as you turned to face him, "You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be sorry for, Hughes", you jested and Quinn huffed out something close to a laugh, shaking his head lightly. The soft glow from outside looked too good on him when you stopped at a right light, you swallowed hard, "What kind of brother would I be too?"

You groaned, rolling your eyes. "Oh my god, stop. I didn’t even mean to put you down as my contact."

"Keep it, I don't mind."

"You say that like you wouldn’t have blocked my number by now if you had the chance."

Quinn smirked, tilting his head against the headrest, his eyes flickering toward you. "Would’ve done it already if I wanted to."

Then, before either of you could think too much about it, his hand reached out, his pinky brushing against yours on the center console, like testing the waters, like answering more questions without words. It was enough.

He squeezed your hand once.

You squeezed back. An answer.

#quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you #nhl fic #quinn hughes #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine

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maskedbyghost · 3 days ago

Note

Idk if u have ever heard it , but angst simon is so "tolerate it" by Taylor Swift coded , like if you ever come to hear the song can you pls try to write a version of a one shot inspired by the song 🥹 , just a genuine request

He sits at the table, staring past the plate in front of him, as if it isn’t even there.

You placed the dish down gently, careful not to make a sound, as if the clatter might push him further away. He doesn’t look up. Just a small nod, a brief flick of his fingers as he looks back at his book and turns to another page he isn’t really reading.

You watch him for a moment, waiting—waiting for something. A word, a glance, anything to tell you that he sees you. That you’re not just part of the furniture in his life, something convenient, something tolerated.

It wasn’t always like this. Once, his eyes held warmth when they met yours, his hands reached for you even when they didn’t need to. Now, he’s just here. Breathing the same air. Existing in the same space. But so far away.

“I made your favorite,” you say with your soft voice.

Another nod. He still doesn’t look up.

Your chest tightens, fingers curling at your sides. You wish you could shake him, force him to see you. To remember. But you don’t. Because you love him.

Because love, to you, has always meant patience.

So you sit across from him, hands folded in your lap, waiting for a moment that never comes. Watching him turn another page. Watching the candlelight flicker in his distant eyes. Watching as he tolerates you.

The meal grows cold. You trace the rim of your glass with a fingertip, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. You wonder if he notices the way your hands tremble slightly, if he even registers the tightness in your voice when you finally speak again.

“Do you still love me?” The words slip out before you can stop them, fragile and small.

For the first time that evening, he hesitates. His fingers still against the page, his shoulders tense just slightly. But then, just as quickly, he exhales and turns another page.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and it’s worse than silence. Worse than the distance.

You swallow hard, nodding even though your heart cracks in your chest. You force yourself to stand, pushing your chair back carefully. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t reach for you.

Love had always meant patience to you.

But maybe patience had finally run out.

PART 2

---------------------------------------------

i hate angst so much. gonna go cry in the corner rn. also, thank you for your request anon, i hope you like it.

@daydreamerwoah

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon ghost riley #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley angst #cod angst

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deerlysacred · 3 days ago

Text

🍲 yellow fever & pinkie pie { dean winchester x witch fem!reader }

𐂂 𝄢 { you're taking care of dean, he's been scared of tiniest things because of a ghost sickness, while sam and bobby works to kill that ghost, they have to kill it as soon as possible since this sickness is known to lead to a heart attack that would kill dean.}

𖣂 𝄢 established relationship & fluff {s4 e6}

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own supernatural or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

You arrived back at the motel, leaving Sam and Bobby to deal with this ghost Luther problem, because let's face it, someone needed to babysit Dean before he jumped out of a window over a dust bunny because of this ghost sickness.

The second you stepped inside, you heard a high-pitched yelp and saw Dean standing on the bed, brandishing a motel lamp like it was excalibur. His wide, panic-stricken emerald eyes found you, and he exhaled like he just saw an angel descend from the heavens.

Not Castiel, though. Castiel makes him uncomfortable for… reasons.

"Y/N!" he sighed, dropping the lamp. "Thank God. You're back. I was just—uh—checking for… uh, ghosts and stuff…"

You glanced at the floor. A sock. He screamed at a sock.

In his defense, it was a very threatening sock. Looked like it hadn't been washed since '98. But still.

You raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go. "Okay, Dean. Sure." You walked past him towards the tiny motel kitchen to put the grocery bags on the counter.

You looked at Dean again, who was back to surfing through the channels. He was gripping the blankets up to his chest, eyes darting around like the walls were gonna close in on him.

Poor thing.

"You hanging in there?" you asked, soft but teasing.

Dean scoffed. "Oh yeah, just peachy, Y/N. Love having my whole nervous system on fire." He scratched his arm for the hundredth time. "You sure Sam and Bobby got this?"

"Positive." You placed a bag from the diner on the table. "Got you something, by the way."

Dean's head snapped to attention like a dog hearing the word 'treat'. "Is that—?"

"Pie."

His eyes misted over like he was a kid and you just told him he was finally getting a game console for Christmas.

"Not yet, though. You can eat it after you eat your soup. No sweets before feeding you properly. I thought soup would be the safest choice since Sam said the healthier you eat, the better in this process. Just bear with me until you get free from this sickness — even if it means eating veggies. Which— I know! is a torture for you."

You smiled to yourself when you heard him complain but still accept it, and turned back to focus on making the soup, fingers grazing the crinkling plastic before pulling out the ingredients one by one. A can of chicken broth, a bundle of fresh parsley, carrots, onion and garlic. You rolled up your sleeves, pushing your hair behind your ears as you reached for the knife.

The first cut into the onion sent an immediate sting through your eyes, the smell crisp and sharp. As you worked, slicing through the layers with careful precision, Dean groaned dramatically from the bed.

"You know," he said, voice hoarse from too much panicked yelling earlier, "this whole nurturing thing you do? It's unnatural."

You didn't look up, chopping the onion into uniform little squares. "Feeding my sick boyfriend is unnatural?"

The knife in your hand hesitated over the onion, its papery skin crackling under your grip. You weren't stalling —well, maybe a little— but something about cooking for Dean in this moment felt oddly… adult. Which was ridiculous, because you were an adult. Technically. Legally. And yet, standing here in this dingy motel kitchen, dicing vegetables like someone who had their life together, felt… weirdly comforting, yet different.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of you." His voice was muffled, probably because he had pulled the blanket halfway over his face in some half-hearted attempt to hide from reality, embarrassed. "Instead, I'm over here in full damsel mode, while you make me soup like a… like a wholesome 1950s housewife."

You scoffed, swiping the onions and garlic pieces into the pan, to the melted butter. "I'd be a pretty awful housewife. Witches don't exactly thrive in suburbia."

Dean grumbled something under his breath, then turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. A beat passed. Then—

"…So, you don't think you'd be good at it?"

"Good at what?" You tossed in the carrots, their color bright against the golden broth.

"You know. The whole—" He made a vague circling gesture. "Domestic thing. Housewife-y stuff."

Oh.

Your hands hesitated, fingers tightening around the wooden spoon. The question felt heavier than it should have, like an old doubt creeping back.

"I don't know… I don't think I could handle it."

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and suddenly, the air felt a little heavier. You focused on the simmering broth, stirring absently. Dean propped himself up on one elbow, giving you a skeptical look. "Why not?"

You hesitated. "Because… I don't know." You stirred the soup, watching the vegetables bob in the broth. "I love taking care of people. And I like doing this. But I dont think I'd be the perfect wife type. I'd get distracted with my own things and forget to clean. I'd forget which bills are due… Like… I don't even feel like an adult at most days. I just feel like an overgrown child in adult clothes, trying to mimic other people who seem to have it all together. I struggle with the easiest and most ridiculous things on a regular basis. I forget what day it is all the time. I still have to remind myself to drink water some days. I can't even commit to a consistent sleep schedule." You sighed, setting the knife down for a moment. "I can make soup, sure, but can I handle, like… taxes? Mortgage payments? Children? That's a whole other level of responsibility, and I still feel like I'm barely holding my own life together. The idea of people depending on me all the time kinda freaks me out."

Dean tilted his head. "I depend on you all the time."

You froze for half a second before keep stirring the soup, trying not to let that sink in too deep. You poured a splash of heavy cream into the pot, watching it swirl into the broth like a tiny storm. "Yeah, but that's different. That's us."

"Uh-huh." He shifted, wincing. "And what exactly do you think a housewife does?"

"Be perfect?" you guessed. "Know all the right things? Handle everything without panicking?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, so like Bobby."

"Shut up! You'll make me burn the soup. Just… don't distract me with these topics." You laughed, shaking your head as you decreased the heat. You reached for the celery, chopping it into small pieces before tossing it into the pot with a satisfying plop, finally with a flick of your wrist, you sprinkled in a generous pinch of salt and pepper, giving the pot a quick stir. Then you wiped your hands on a paper towel, surveying your handiwork. The soup was coming along, a slow-simmering concoction of broth, vegetables, and herbs. A warm, homey scent curled through the air. You put the pan lid on, accidentally dropping the lid on the pan loudly before you fixed it.

Dean flinched against the unexpected loud noise that was heard.

You turned to him. "Did you just—?"

"I didn't flinch." he said quickly, hugging the pillow.

You raised an eyebrow. "Dean, it's just a sound."

"Yeah, well, it was loud."

You hid your grin and started to tidy the dishes, letting him keep his dignity, or what was left of it at least. It was quiet for a moment, just the sound of bubbling broth and whatever dumb reality show Dean had landed on. You figured he'd be fine for at least thirty seconds.

And then—

"GAH!"

You whirled around to find Dean half-off the bed, eyes huge, you nearly dropped the spoon you were about to wash. "Dean?!"

"What? What is it?" you asked, heart pounding.

Dean lifted a shaking hand and pointed at the TV. "Oh my God. Y/N. That was—" He swallowed thickly, visibly trembling. "That was so messed up."

You squinted at the screen.

It was My Little Pony.

…You've gotta be kidding me.

"…Dean."

"They stared at me, Y/N," he whispered. "With those big, dead eyes."

You blinked. "The… ponies?"

"Yes, the ponies!" His voice was an octave higher than normal. "That pink one was too happy, like… Like, she seemed… nuts—happy. That was scary…"

You pressed your lips together, exhaling through your nose. "Dean. It's a children's cartoon."

"I don't care if it is a cartoon at the first glance, that is a psychological horror show!" He rubbed his arms like he was cold. "No way kids watch that and come out normal."

Ouch. Rude much? Patience, Y/N. Not a great time to argue about one of your favorite childhood cartoons.

You sighed and turned back to your tidying. "Just… pick something else."

A few moments of silence.

Then:

"OH, HELL NO!"

Your head snapped up just in time to see Dean fling the remote across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed with a thud on the carpet.

You gaped at him. "Dean! What now?"

He was breathing hard, practically pressed against the headboard. "A COMMERCIAL CAME ON."

You waited… He didn't elaborate?

"…A commercial for what, exactly?"

Dean shook his head, traumatized. "Headache pills.”

You stared. "You're scared of pills now?"

"They were listing side effects, Y/N." His voice was hushed like he was revealing a terrible secret. "Side effects."

You bit your bottom lip to not laugh and leaned against the counter. "Dean, side effects are on, like, every medication—"

"ONE OF THEM WAS DEATH, Y/N! AND I TOOK ONE EARLIER!"

You sighed, rubbing your temple. "Dean, I promise you are not going to die from headache pills."

"YOU CAN'T PROVE THAT."

And that was it. You couldn't hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the motel room like it had no business being that loud. Dean just stared at you, wide-eyed and offended.

"You think this is funny?" he hissed, like you just personally betrayed him. "This is life or death, Y/N!"

You snorted, trying to reign it in, but the sheer absurdity of the situation had a chokehold on you. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry,it's just… Dean, you're literally the guy who laughs in the face of actual death. Ghosts, demons, werewolves— you name it. But today, a sock, a cartoon pony, and a bottle of pills are your mortal enemies."

Dean glared, but it was hard to take seriously when his hair was sticking up like he just wrestled with the blanket and lost. "Hey, those ponies were unnatural. And don't even get me started on side effects. Internal bleeding, Y/N. Internal. Bleeding."

You chuckled, grabbing a bowl from the counter and ladling some of the soup into it. "Here. Eat this before you spiral into thinking the spoon's out to get you too."

He eyed the bowl like it might explode but took it anyway. You plopped down on the edge of the bed, watching him blow on the soup carefully.

"See? Not so bad, right?" you teased, nudging his leg with your foot.

Dean took a cautious sip, then sighed like you just handed him the elixir of life. "Okay, I'll admit… This is freakin' good." He shot you a sideways glance. "Suspiciously good. You sure you didn't put anything weird in it?"

You placed a hand over your heart and spoke with a fake offended voice. "Wow. Accusing your loving girlfriend of poisoning you. That's rich."

Dean pointed his spoon at you. "Hey, I've seen Hansel and Gretel, okay? Witches making suspiciously good food? Classic setup."

You rolled your eyes, scooting back against the headboard. "Right, because if I wanted to fatten you up and eat you, I totally would've waited two years into our relationship to do it."

Dean took another sip, visibly relaxing with every bite. "Could be a long con."

You smirked. "If I wanted to kill you, Dean, trust me, I wouldn't use soup."

Dean paused, spoon hovering in mid-air, before he slowly turned his head to squint at you. "…That was an unsettling thing to say."

You batted your eyelashes innocently. "Was it?"

Dean huffed, and scooped up another spoonful, chewing.

He talked after seemingly getting lost in thoughts for a while. "Y'know… If you really don't think you'd be good at the whole domestic thing, you should know— being perfect at it ain't the point."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone and topic. "What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged, keeping his eyes on the soup. "I mean, you don't have to be some apron-wearing, 'dinner's ready when you walk through the door, honey' type for that whole 'apple pie life' to work. You already take care of people, Y/N. Not just with food, but… with the way you are." He gestured vaguely, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You make things feel… safe."

Your chest tightened at that.

Dean cleared his throat. "And, I mean, hell, if we're talking responsibilities? You think I keep track of bills? Babe, that's Sam. If it were up to me, we'd be in jail for tax fraud or something."

That earned a laugh from you. "Yeah, I believe that. And thanks for saying those, but still…"

"But nothing," he cut in. "You care, Y/N. You give a damn. And you fight for it. That's what matters. The rest? That's just details."

You gulped and looked at him as your heart did a ridiculous little flip. "You make it sound so simple."

Dean shrugged. "'Cause it is. You and me? We've handled worse than taxes."

You snorted, finally looking up at him. "That is… an accurate point."

"Damn right it is." His smirk softened, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip. "So stop freaking out. You're doin' just fine." He pulled you to his side and kissed your forehead. Your brain short-circuited for a second at the casual intimacy of it all. But as you stared at him—his usual confidence, the way he looked at you like he knew you better than you knew yourself— you felt some of the weight on your shoulders lift, you hummed and nodded. Wanting to believe him.

Dean finished the last of his soup with a satisfied hum, setting the empty bowl on the nightstand. He still looked like hell —fidgety, tired eyes darting toward every shadow like they held inevitable traps— but hey, at least he wasn't actively jumping stupid things. That was something.

You reached over and tugged the blankets up around him. "See? A full stomach makes everything better."

Dean exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah, well… I'm still dying, so."

You gave him a flat look. "You're not dying."

"You don't know that." he muttered, shifting under the covers, eyes flicking towards the TV away from you.

You sighed, setting the remote out of his reach. "Sam and Bobby are handling it. They're gonna find the ghost, and you'll be fine."

Dean didn’t respond right away. His fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket, his jaw tight. You knew this kind of quiet. It wasn't just the sickness messing with him— it was the vulnerability. The kind he hated. The kind that made him feel small. And maybe even the memories that haunted him from back in Hell. Yeah. Dean was stubborn, insisting that he doesn't remember anything from Hell but you had your doubts rightfully — because of the regular nightmares he woke up from in the middle of the night and the unexplainable, gloomy look of him in general. But you didn't push him to admit it, not yet. And you weren't going to do it now, absolutely. Not when he was a heart attack away from the tiniest death.

Without thinking much, you scooted closer, wrapping an arm around him. His body tensed for half a second before he melted against you, burying his face into your chest with a heavy sigh.

"Everything's gonna be okay…" you murmured, resting your chin on top of his head.

Dean huffed a quiet breath, his eyes slipping shut. "Hope so. Kinda tired of being a little bitch."

You smirked, curling into him. "Kinda? Babe, I love you, but today was tragic."

Dean let out a low groan, burying his face in your chest. "Ugh. Never living this down, am I?"

"Not a chance." You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Sam's gonna be the easy part. Beware of your girl. I'm never gonna let go of your Pinkie-Pie-Phobia."

Dean stiffened in your arms, pulling back just enough to squint at you. "The hell is a Pinkie Pie?"

You grinned. "The pink pony you were terrified of."

Dean blinked, then recoiled like you just slapped him with the word. "You're tellin' me that thing— that creepy, serial-killer-smiling thing— has a name?"

"Oh, they all have names."

"Jesus Christ." He rubbed a hand down his face, looking like he aged ten more years. "Of course, they do."

You bit back another laugh, deciding to push your luck. "Pinkie Pie's actually really sweet. She's good to her friends, throws a lot of parties—"

"I don't care! What if she's got hobbies? That doesn't make her less terrifying." he said, voice hoarse but full of indignation, "also that little demon horse does not deserve the 'Pie' title."

You blinked at him, then let out a wheezy laugh. "Wait— what?"

"You heard me! Pie is warm. Pie is good. That thing? That thing is a menace. She ain't worthy of the name."

You clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from wheezing. "Dean, oh my God."

"I’m serious, Y/N!" He huffed and clung to you tighter. "That thing looks like it was made in a lab specifically to drive people insane. Don't trust her. Nobody's that happy all the time without something sinister going on."

You were crying now. Actually crying. "Dean Winchester, you absolute menace. You're literally beefing with a cartoon pony."

Dean scoffed. "Damn right I am. And I'm winning."

Before you could inform him that no, he was absolutely not winning against a fictional pink horse, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You unlocked the screen and, and behold, Sam's name lit up in a new text.

Sammy : Ghost's toast. You're good, stop being a wuss now 👍🏻

Sammy : Bobby says you owe him beer

Sammy : Y/N, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid while readjusting to normal life

You smirked, nudging Dean. "You're free. No more ghost sickness. Your dignity, however, is long gone."

Dean perked up immediately. "Wait— seriously?!" He snatched the phone, scanning the message like he expected you to be lying. His whole body sagged in relief. "Oh, thank God."

"See? Told you everything would be okay." You leaned back against the pillows, stretching with a satisfied sigh.

Dean pushed himself up and —before you could react— hooked his arms under your legs and back, effortlessly scooping you up into his arms bridal style.

"DEAN!" you squeaked, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. "What are you—"

"Getting you off your feet," he said simply, carrying you towards the kitchen with steady strides. "You've been fussin' over me all day, and it's my turn to take care of you now."

You blinked up at him, momentarily surprised by the sheer effortlessness of it all. "But I—"

"Nope," he interrupted, giving you a playful squeeze. "You became the mother-hen enough. Now it's time to sit your pretty ass down and enjoy some pie."

Before you could argue, he set you down onto the kitchen counter gently, his hands lingering on your waist. His fingers drummed playfully against your sides. "There. Now, stay."

You squinted at him. "Did you just command me like a dog?"

"Yup." He turned toward the pie, grabbing two forks.

He handed you a fork and plucked a generous bite of pie for himself, moaning dramatically the second it hit his tongue.

"Oh, baby, that's the good stuff." he groaned, swaying slightly like he'd just been spiritually enlightened. "You're an angel, y'know that?"

…

Your fingers stilled on his arm.

"Did you just… Did you just call me an angel?"

Dean squinted. "Yeah? And?"

Your smirk grew. "You hate angels."

Dean groaned, throwing his head back. "Aw, c'mon, Y/N, don't start—"

"You literally go on rants about how much you can't stand them," you continued, grinning now. "You've called them dicks in trench coats, winged bastards, self-righteous flying monkeys— need I go on?"

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, his fingers dragging down to his jaw like he could physically pull the embarrassment off his skin. "Okay," he grumbled, "that was a figure of speech."

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand, all faux innocence. "So what you're saying is… I'm a figure of speech angel?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. "You know what, smartass?" He reached over to the nightstand and snatched the half-eaten slice of pie, wielding it like a weapon. "You're gonna eat this and shut it."

Your eyes widened. "Dean—"

But it was too late. He was already shoving a forkful of pie, and before you could dodge, it was in your mouth, sweet and warm and way too good to argue against.

You glared at him, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, and he laughed heartly.

"Mmph!" you tried to protest, but your mouth was too full of pie.

Dean grinned all dimples. "What's that, sweetheart? Can't hear you over the sound of deliciousness."

You chewed quickly, swallowing the absurdly large bite with a dramatic gulp. "You're the worst."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes gleamed mischievously, and before you could blink, he leaned in, lips crashing against yours in a very messy, very pie-flavored kiss. His lips were warm and soft, but the kiss was anything but gentle— sticky and sweet from the pie. You could taste the sugary filling on his tongue, the buttery crust lingering between you as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to slot his mouth perfectly against yours. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to breathe, not that you needed air when he was kissing you like that. You tangled your fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp enough to make him groan, the sound making your heart stutter. When he finally pulled back, both of you breathless and grinning like idiots, his thumb brushed a stray smear of saliva and filling from the corner of your mouth, and without breaking eye contact, he licked it off his thumb with a wink that made your knees weak.

Damn him.

#𐂂 𝄢 syl's fics #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural

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organic-bloodbath · 1 day ago

Note

Can you write about kang Dae-ho x American reader, that Dae-ho has developed a big crush on the reader but he doesn't know how to respond to it because he's never been ina relationship before and everyone else in the group (except the reader) notices it and tease him about it?

Just admit you like me

Dae-ho x American!Reader

This applies to two different requests i got, the second one being:

"Can write about Dae-ho x American reader that Dae-ho having a crush on reader saves her in the mingle game and once it came down to two players, Dae-ho was able to have an opportunity to admit his feelings to the reader and share their first kiss?"

— Anon

Summary: As above. Dae-ho just being a nervous wreck around you.

A/N: i love this man sm. He's just a bit lost with his feelings here.

☆☆☆

You felt out of place. You were the only non-Asian player here and felt like everyone's eyes were on you whenever you weren't paying attention, though you might have been only imagining things.

You had arrived to Korea to spend your holidays here, you got two weeks off from college and needed to travel somewhere by yourself. Somewhere you couldn't possibly run into anyone you personally knew. Joining a game of life and death for money - a lot of money too - hadn't been on the list of things and places to experience during your stay in this country.

When the first person was shot to death, all you wanted to do was run away like so many other players, but you knew there was nowhere to escape. You felt your body shaking and it was a miracle your movements weren't noticed.

Suddenly, as you started running again, you tripped and lost your balance, falling backwards after some idiot pushed you - intentionally or not. For a second you were sure you were going to die, that was it, your part on the game ended before it had even properly started. Your family would report you as a missing person and would never get you back home or even know what happened to you.

Until you felt someone grab your body behind you. Arms wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you against their chest. The massive doll had turned to face you right at that same second, so you weren't able to stand up and take a better position. This person was fully in charge of holding you up and saving your life in process. The position you were in was extremely uncomfortable.

When you were allowed to move again, this person helped you to stand up again on your own, and you turned around to face him. Now in front of you stood a young man, looking down at you.

"Oh, thank you," you said quietly. "You saved me."

The doll turned around again, freezing you on your place, your head still turned towards the man's face. You had been too slow to react and continue the game.

"You're welcome," the man subtly said between his teeth, trying not to move his lips too much.

Before you started running again, he gave you a sweet smile. In only a few seconds he catched up with you and stayed right in front of you.

"Stay behind me," he said quietly, and you did as you were told.

You ran the rest of the game the same pace as him, not moving anywhere behind him. You were going to be screwed if he was going to be shot and you'd have to jump over his dead body.

But luckily, both of you made it to the end. After reaching the finish line, you walked to the guy who had catched you.

"Hi, um, thank you again," you said nervously. "Without you i'd be dead, i suppose."

"No big deal, glad to help," he smiled.

"I'm Y/N," you said and offered your arm for him to shake.

"Dae-ho," he said with a slight smile, taking your hand in his, which was much bigger than yours.

When he didn't figure out what more to say, you left him to stand there alone and went back inside.

That evening, Dae-ho wanted to approach and talk to you, but he was constantly overthinking what he would say to you. How did you start a conversation with a stranger? With a woman as gorgeous as you?

"Hi, how are you?"

"Good, thanks for asking."

"Okay, great. Bye."

Talking to men, he didn't care what he said to them and if it would mess up the conversation. To you, he would have wanted to make a good impression.

He didn't know what it was about you but when had saved your life during the game and you had turned to look at him and thank him, he was so taken aback by the sight of you for a second he had almost forgotten how to move.

☆☆☆

The next day arrived and you were given 10 minutes to prepare groups of five for the second game. You looked around the room, until your gaze landed on the group which Dae-ho was included.

"Hi, um, could i join your group?" you asked shyly, not knowing who you could rely on. The only person that had spoke to you by far, and helped too, was Dae-ho, and he felt like the safest option to choose. You looked at all three men at the same time, meaning the question to all of them.

"Of course, welcome," Gi-hun said smiling and motioned you to sit down next to him as you waited for the game to start.

You looked towards Dae-ho who only gave you a nod and an awkward smile. One more girl joined the group. She was apparently pregnant, but you all welcomed her with open arms.

When it was your group's turn to play, your feet were linked to each other, your left foot against Dae-ho's.

You rested your hand on Dae-ho's waist, your other hand on Gi-hun's back as well to keep your balance as the five of you started walking forward in total sync between the mini games.

You couldn't see it because you only kept your gaze forward, but every time you pressed your hand on Dae-ho's back, his cheeks turned a little red and his heart started beating faster. And when you let go, he instantly missed your touch.

When you had finished the entire game and could walk on your own again, all of you cheered in excitement for surviving another game. You hugged Gi-hun next to you and then wrapped your arms around Dae-ho, completely startling him.

"We made it," you smiled against his chest and let go.

You didn't think too much of it, you were a people hugger. The hug didn't last longer than couple of seconds, but Dae-ho would think about your touch on his skin until he fell asleep that night.

☆☆☆

"So," Gi-hun started as your group was eating the dinner together after the second game, "what's it like to live in America? Which state are you from?"

"I've been living in California for the past five years, though i was born in Michigan. I moved there for college and really like it there," you explained.

Gi-hun and Young-il asked bunch of questions about your studies, the differences you've noticed between the U.S. and Korea and so on. They told you about places which you must visit before you return to California and you had heard of none of them before, excited to go and see them. Gi-hun especially mentioned one diner you'd have to try.

Dae-ho sat next to you, barely saying anything during the conversation, just looking at you, smile on his face. Your voice was like music to his ears and he could have listened to you talking all day long until you were out of breath.

"Right, Dae-ho?" you asked, turning your face towards him, startling him out of his trance. He hadn't realised he had zoned out and not listened to you for the past couple of minutes.

"Huh?" he breathed out and straightened his back. "Yes, right, exactly."

He had no idea what you had said to him, but in panic he knew he should just agree whatever you were saying.

"See, the Marine guy agrees with me too," you said to Gi-hun and put your hand on Dae-ho's shoulder.

Dae-ho noticed Jun-hee holding her laugh but tried to ignore it. You paid it no attention. When you had turned your face away from Dae-ho, he gave Jun-hee an annoyed look to shut it.

"So, Y/N," Jun-hee started, taking care of the next route in the conversation, giving Dae-ho a subtle, but suggesting grin. "Are you in California by yourself or with someone?"

"Oh, i'm not alone," you said, making Dae-ho's heart drop for a second. "I live with my roommate, Sarah."

"That's nice," Jun-hee said slowly. "There's nobody else, hm, special in your life?"

"Not right now, if you don't count my dog," you chuckled.

Jun-hee winked at Dae-ho when you weren't watching.

Gi-hun and Young-il were talking together about something that didn't interest Dae-ho, and Jun-hee got up to go to the bathroom. That left you and Dae-ho alone, just the two of you for a moment.

"What do you plan to do with the money when we get out?" you asked. "Like, after you've payed off whatever debts you owe, of course."

Dae-ho tried to gather his words together and explained some of his plans to you.

"And you?" he asked.

"Well, i'm not sure yet," you said. "I know i want to travel a lot, maybe spend a year just exploring the world."

"That sounds fun," Dae-ho agreed. "I've always wanted to travel more."

"Maybe you could join me one day," you suggested, smiling.

"Oh, yea, maybe," Dae-ho said and turned his face away from you. He felt his cheeks becoming warmer.

☆☆☆

Next morning, you truly started to feel like Dae-ho was intentionally ignoring you. You had had that feeling ever since the day one. Almost every time you looked at him and your eyes connected for barely a second, he immediately turned his face away and avoided your gaze.

Jun-hee was walking towards the bathroom, but you managed to stop her and pull her to the side.

"Hey, can i ask you something?" you asked quietly, looking around you to see if anyone else would hear you, until turning back to her. "I don't know if i'm just imagining things but is Dae-ho mad at me or something?"

Jun-hee furrowed her eyebrows. "Why do you think that?"

"I don't know, he's seemed to avoid me and i feel like i've made him maybe upset."

"Oh don't worry, he's not mad at you," she chuckled.

You furrowed your brows, confused what might be the problem then. "What is it then? Do you know something?"

Jun-hee was about to say something but shut her mouth before any words were able to leave her lips. "You know, maybe you should just talk to him."

Then, she just hurried away, leaving you by yourself. That was odd.

☆☆☆

"So, Y/L's pretty, isn't she?" a man asked, suddenly appearing next to Dae-ho, startling him. It was player 124 smirking at him, elbows leaning on his knees as he sat down. He had never talked to Dae-ho before, so he was confused for a fair reason.

"What?" Dae-ho mumbled. "I mean, um, sure."

He looked towards you, feeling butterflies in his stomach when he heard your laugh all the way to the spot he was sitting at.

"Do you think i'd have chance with her?" the player 124 asked. "You two are friends, right? Could you ask her what her type is?"

"Her type?" Dae-ho's eyes widened and there was a pitch in his voice. He couldn't watch another man to flirt with you, there was no way.

"Yeah. Like what kind of guy she is into?"

"Well, i don't know. She hasn't talked to me about it," Dae-ho nervously shrugged.

"Okay, so," he started and put his arm around Dae-ho, "you go and ask her and come to speak to me again after the next game, yes?"

"Um, i don't think that's a good idea."

"Come on, brother. Man to man. I'll owe you one," the player 124 winked and smacked Dae-ho's shoulder, then standing up.

When the guy, whose name Dae-ho wasn't sure of, had left, Dae-ho felt his heart burst. He couldn't watch another man make a move on you, it would absolutely kill him. Thankfully, the guy didn't rush immediately towards you, but to his own group which included Thanos, a few other guys and a girl. Dae-ho didn't know the girl's name, but why couldn't he try to hit on her instead, and not his Y/N?

His Y/N. You weren't exactly his either, but he didn't want to see you with anyone else except him. But of course that wouldn't happen if he didn't actually talk to you about it. He had started to feel possessive over you for no reason and he somehow managed to make himself mad without anyone else's effort.

Jun-hee was next to come and keep him company.

"So, she thinks you're mad at her," she said seriously.

"Mad? I'm not mad at her," Dae-ho insisted, confused, and straightened his back.

"Come on, you have to say something and stop avoiding her like that." Jun-hee took in a deep, frustrated breath when Dae-ho didn't know what to answer. "Why is it so hard to just be yourself around her?" Jun-hee asked, clearly frustrated with his attitude and behavior.

"I just," Dae-ho started but didn't find the words. "I don't know."

"Anyone with eyes can see that she's gorgeous and if you don't act soon, she's gonna be off the market."

With that said, Jun-hee got up and left him alone. Dae-ho knew she was right and he hated it. He could already see you running into player 124's arms if he didn't start doing something about this. And that image itself in his mind made him feel ill.

☆☆☆

The Mingle challenge started and Dae-ho knew he had to make sure that you weren't left alone at any point and be lost among the crowd, all freaking out and almost ripping each others' clothes off. When the carousel was slowly spinning and everyone stood still, Dae-ho stood right next to you, gently putting his hand on your wrist.

"Stick close to me, okay?" he said quietly and swallowed.

"I will," you answered with a smile that made Dae-ho automatically smile as well.

"Can i hold your hand?" Dae-ho asked, nervous for your reaction. "Just in case, you know."

You looked at him in the eyes with a warm gaze.

"Sure," you said and took his hand in yours, taking a tight grip with your fingers so he couldn't easily let go of you.

As the rounds went by, Dae-ho didn't let go of you even for a second until you had safely arrived inside one of the rooms and the door had been locked.

When it was time to find a room for two, Dae-ho immediately sprinted towards the rooms as fast as possible, trying to be one of the firsts to reach a free room.

After the door locked, he almost forgot to let go of your hand, finally relieved that the game must now be over.

"Dae-ho?" you said next to him.

"Oh, sorry," he stuttered and let go of you.

"You've been acting oddly, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, everything's fine," he assured you but by the tone of his voice he knew you weren't buying it either. This was it, he had to be direct with you right now or otherwise the player 124 would reach to you first. "Okay, fine. It's just, i get so nervous around you."

"Nervous?" you repeated. "What makes you nervous?"

"You," he whispered with a mere breath. "You, because i... i like you, Y/N."

"I like you too, Dae-ho," she said, confused. "I really struggle to see the problem."

"No, i mean i really like you," Dae-ho corrected himself. "Like more than anyone else here. A lot more. Like just, differently."

You narrowed your eyes, until let out a quick laugh, hiding it with your hand. Dae-ho was scared that he had just completely embarrassed himself.

"Dae-ho," you smirked and looked back into his eyes, speaking slowly. "Are you saying that you have a crush on me?"

His cheeks turned red. "Um, i suppose i am, yes."

"How long, hm?"

"Since the time you crashed on me on the first day probably," he admitted and looked away for a moment, but you put your hand on his cheek and made him look at you.

"Have you never liked a girl before, Dae-ho? What are you so afraid about?"

"Well, um-"

"That i wouldn't like you back?" you questioned.

"Probably, yeah," he stuttered.

"Well, i think you're really sweet," you started and took his hands in yours, now both of them. "And brave. Funny. Strong..."

"But?" Dae-ho asked, sure there was gonna be a turn in her words which made him feel hopeful.

"There's no 'but', silly," you said and playfully hit his shoulder. "I haven't known you long enough to get to the 'but' part."

Dae-ho looked at your hands tangled together, but you lifted his face up, finger on his chin.

"I like you too, Dae-ho," you said. "And i would like to get to know you better if you'd stop avoiding eye contact with me."

Dae-ho let out a relieved laugh.

"That's, well, good to hear," he said and swallowed, eyes moving between yours and your lips. Even though it was only a second, you noticed it and took his face in your hands.

You planted a soft kiss on his lips, not longer than couple of seconds. Almost right after that, the door unlocked itself.

"Nothing more romantic than bunch of people being slaughtered behind the door while we share our first kiss," you pointed out, both of you laughing.

"I hope there will be many more," Dae-ho whispered.

"There might, if you take me on a date."

"If we get out of here alive," he said.

"We will get out, have some hope," you insisted. "I'll take you to America too some day, if you want to."

"Really?"

"Of course."

You pressed another kiss on his cheek, until took his hand in yours and led him back to the rest of your group, relieved that all of them had survived.

Dae-ho couldn't stop smiling and could still feel the ghost of your lips on his cheek.

☆☆☆

A/N: If you've sent me a request, know that i'm working on them when i'm in the mood to write about that specific character, i'll try to update the existing fics too which have more parts coming up but it'll take a while 🫶🏻💙

#squid game imagine #squid game x reader #dae ho imagine #dae ho x reader #dae ho squid game #dae ho x you

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