#the ending of this puts a new twist on the ending

[reiding-writing]

YOU OPENED YOUR REQUESTS?? omg a wonderful start to the new year!! ignore if this doesn’t speak to your soul— but would you be able to write a good old fashioned best friends to lovers, mutual pining fic for reid? i’m a sucker for the “he fell first, she fell harder” trope, like he’s been in love with her since day one and their friendship has always toed the line of something more, but she’s an oblivious genius and doesn’t realize how deep their affections for each other run……. and like when she realizes her feelings (like a brick to the head) she starts DISTANCING HERSELF OOH A LITTLE ANGST THERE and reid is like :(( what did i do :(( but it’s ok bc they smooch and make up in the end

263 DAYS — SPENCER REID!

a lot can change in 263 days.

spencer reid x fem!reader | 7.3k | flangst | masterlist.

a/n — writing longer fics like this is so fun but also so long, but it’s been nice to get back into it 🙂‍↕️

WARNINGS | friends to lovers, emotional distancing, brief (almost) argument, reader gets injured and goes to the hospital (but recovers fine), happy ending

DAY ONE

You step into the conference room of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, a mixture of nerves and anticipation twisting in your stomach.

The space feels both larger and smaller than you'd imagined—a sprawling table, chairs scattered in quiet disarray, and a dozen tiny details you'd only seen in crime documentaries and shadowed profiles on paper.

The faint scent of coffee and something metallic—maybe old ink—hangs in the air, grounding you. You take a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself.

You’re here. You made it.

“First day?”

The voice is soft, inquisitive, and it pulls your attention immediately. You glance to your right and meet the eyes of someone who seems equally curious and cautious, like a bird assessing whether you’re safe to approach.

He’s lanky, taller than you expected, with an untamed mop of brown hair and a pair of shoes that look like they’ve seen a decade’s worth of pavement. Spencer Reid, you realise.

“Yes,” you manage, your voice steadier than you feel. “And you must be Dr. Reid.”

He smiles at the title, though it seems more reflexive than genuine. He shuffles forward a step, hands awkwardly held together behind his back. “Just Reid. Or Spencer. Whichever you prefer.”

You offer your hand to him, nervous, but inviting. “Nice to meet you, Reid.”

He nods quickly, eyes flickering over your hand like he wants to take it, but he doesn’t. “Sorry, I don’t uh— germs—”

“Oh,” You pull your hand back a little too quickly, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket. “Sorry, uh—”

“No, no, it’s not you, I’m just— conscious about it,” He presses his lips together in what almost a smile, a silent apology.

You mirror it. “It’s nice to meet you anyway,”

“You too,”

His gaze flicks over you, not in the usual appraising way you’ve grown used to from strangers, but more like he’s cataloging details he can’t quite put into words. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just pure, unabashed interest.

“You’re nervous,” He says, then winces. “Sorry. That sounded... obvious. I just meant—it’s normal. Most people are their first day. Especially here,” His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “It can be... intense.”

A laugh escapes you, light and involuntary, breaking the tension in your chest. “Not exactly comforting, but thanks for the honesty,”

This time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I’m not great at comfort, but I excel at honesty.”

You find yourself smiling back, even as a small voice in the back of your mind whispers that you shouldn’t let your guard down so easily. Not here, not yet.

But something about Reid—his sincerity, the way he tilts his head like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only you can provide—makes it hard to resist.

“So, what brought you to the BAU?” he asks.

The question is simple enough, but the weight behind it is clear. He isn’t just asking out of politeness; he genuinely wants to know. You consider your answer carefully, aware of the dozen eyes that will likely follow your every move today.

“Truthfully? It’s… been a dream for years,” you admit. “I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of it. How people work, why they do what they do. And... I guess I wanted to make a difference,”

His expression shifts, softens, like you’ve just handed him a piece of yourself and he knows better than to drop it. “That makes sense,” he says quietly. “You’ll be good at this,”

The confidence in his words surprises you. “You don’t even know me,”

“Not yet,” he says, and there’s something almost playful in his tone. “But I’m usually good at reading people. Comes with the job,”

“Any initial impressions?”

He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might deflect. But then his gaze meets yours again, steady and unwavering. “You’re smart. Observant. But you second-guess yourself more than you need to. And... you’re kind. I think you’ll see things others might miss because of that,”

The honesty in his voice leaves you momentarily speechless. Kind isn’t a word you’d ever considered an asset in this field, but the way he says it makes you wonder if it could be.

“Thanks,” You say, and mean it.

Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the room. “Reid! Stop monopolising the newbie and get over here.”

You glance over to see another man—broad-shouldered, with a gruff boyishness to him. If you had to guess, you’d say that Derek Morgan.

Reid offers a small, apologetic shrug and gives you a quick, almost shy smile before moving to join the others.

As the team gathers around the table, you feel his presence more acutely than you should, like an invisible thread connecting you even when you’re not speaking. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to figure out a particularly tricky equation. And maybe he is.

Over the course of the day, you learn what makes Reid so extraordinary.

The encyclopaedic knowledge, the way his mind works at lightning speed, piecing together patterns and details that no one else sees.

But you also notice the little things—the way he fidgets with a pen when he’s nervous, the way his voice speeds up when he gets excited, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating mystery he’s ever encountered.

By the time the day ends, you’re exhausted but exhilarated, your head spinning with new information and possibilities. As you gather your things, Reid approaches you again, his movements hesitant but deliberate.

“You did well today,” he says, and there’s no trace of condescension in his tone—just genuine praise.

“Thanks,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the compliment itself and everything to do with who it’s coming from.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, as if unable to stop himself, Reid blurts out, “You’re going to fit in here. I can tell,”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And you’re sure about that? Already?”

He nods, his gaze earnest. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just... I feel like you belong.”

The words linger between you, heavy with a meaning you can’t quite name. You smile, soft and unsure, and he mirrors it, his expression a little brighter than before.

As you walk out of the building together, the weight of the day finally settling on your shoulders, you can’t help but think that maybe Reid is right.

Maybe you do belong here.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE

The BAU has a way of warping time. Six months can feel like six years, and yet, it can pass in the blink of an eye.

By now, you’ve settled into the team, carving out a place that feels solid, even comfortable. The initial nerves have faded, replaced by a quiet confidence that surprises even you. But the biggest surprise is Reid.

Somewhere along the way, he’s become your constant. Late nights poring over case files often turn into coffee runs, his impossibly detailed book recommendations have all but taken over your nightstand, and your shared chess games have become an unspoken ritual, the board tucked into the corner of the break room practically reserved for the two of you.

It’s not that you don’t notice the way he seems to gravitate toward you—it’s just that you don’t think much of it.

Reid is Reid: attentive, brilliant, and endlessly curious. If he listens a little more intently when you speak, if his smiles linger longer than necessary, if he remembers details you barely recall sharing, well, that’s just how he is. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The morning starts like any other.

A case has just wrapped, leaving you with a rare, precious day in the office to catch up on paperwork and recover. The bullpen hums with low chatter and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, but your attention is elsewhere—specifically on the chessboard in front of you.

“Check,” Reid announces, his tone smug but his face a careful mask of neutrality. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, his expression daring you to find an out.

You narrow your eyes at the board, studying the positions like your life depends on it. “I don’t like you very much right now,” you mutter, earning a soft laugh from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice warm.

“Don’t I?” you quip, your fingers hovering over your knight. You’re stalling, and he knows it.

“Take your time,” he says, though there’s a playful glint in his eye. “It’s not like you have anything else to do today.”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re enjoying this too much,”

“Maybe a little,”

The banter is easy, familiar. It’s become second nature by now, a rhythm you fall into without thinking. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, you move your knight, narrowly avoiding defeat.

Reid’s brow furrows as he examines the board. “Not bad,” he concedes.

“I’ll take it,” you reply, leaning back in your chair and stretching.

“Lunch?” he asks, already rising to his feet.

“Let me guess,” you say, smirking. “Thai food again?”

“It’s efficient,” he says, as though that explains everything.

“Efficient isn’t the same as exciting,” you tease, but you grab your jacket anyway.

The walk to the nearby restaurant is brisk, the February air biting against your skin. Reid falls into step beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Did you finish that book I lent you?” he asks, glancing at you.

“Not yet,” you admit. “But I’m close. You were right—it’s better than I expected,”

He grins, and you feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sight. “Told you. It’s all about the narrative structure. Did you notice how the author—”

“Reid,” you interrupt, laughing. “Save the lecture for later. I’m still processing and I have a feeling you’re going to spoil the ending,”

He huffs but lets it go, his grin lingering.

—

Back at the office, you dive into the endless pile of paperwork waiting on your desk. Hours pass in a blur of forms and reports, the steady hum of activity around you lulling you into a comfortable rhythm.

It’s only when a steaming cup of coffee appears in your peripheral vision that you realize how long you’ve been sitting there.

“Thought you could use this,” Reid says, setting the cup down beside you.

You blink up at him, surprised but grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile.

He doesn’t leave, instead pulling a chair up beside you and settling in. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet companionship as natural as breathing.

“You know,” you say, glancing at him, “you don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not,” he says simply. “I like being here.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you pause, a softness that feels almost... vulnerable. But before you can dwell on it, he shifts the conversation, asking about your latest case report.

The moment passes, but it stays with you, an echo at the back of your mind.

—

The day winds down with another chess game, this one more competitive than the last. The bullpen has emptied out, the rest of the team long gone, leaving just the two of you and the faint hum of the building’s heating system.

“Checkmate,” Reid announces, his tone triumphant.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table. “I give up. You’re officially unbeatable,”

He laughs, the sound soft and unguarded. “You’re getting better,” he says, and you know he means it.

“Flattery won’t save you next time,” you say, sitting up and meeting his gaze.

His smile falters, just for a moment, and there’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place—something intense and unspoken. You tilt your head, about to ask if everything’s okay, but he looks away, busying himself with packing up the chess pieces.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Of course,” you say, watching him.

As you part ways for the night, that look lingers in your mind, and for the first time, you wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOUR

It starts with the little things.

You notice Reid’s uncanny ability to anticipate your needs long before you voice them. A cup of your favorite tea waiting for you on your desk after a long day.

A book you mentioned in passing, slipped into your bag with a handwritten note on why you’d love it. The way he finishes your sentences, not out of impatience, but because he’s somehow always attuned to what you’re thinking.

It’s Reid being Reid, you tell yourself. He’s observant, that’s his job. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

But then there are the things he shouldn’t know. Like how your nose crinkles when you laugh too hard, a detail even you hadn’t thought about until you catch him smiling faintly at the sight. Or the way he hums along, almost unconsciously, to the songs you sing under your breath while focused on paperwork.

You’d dismiss it as coincidence, but Reid doesn’t believe in coincidences.

It’s a cold, gray morning when the call comes in—a double homicide in a rural town that has the local police out of their depth. By mid-afternoon, you’re knee-deep in the case, the clues coming together like pieces of a grim puzzle.

You and Reid are tasked with canvassing a suspect’s property, a sprawling, dilapidated farmhouse that creaks ominously with every step. It’s quiet—too quiet—and the sense of unease prickles at the back of your neck.

“I don’t like this,” you mutter, glancing at Reid.

He nods, his hand hovering near his weapon. “Neither do I. Let’s stick together,”

The words are barely out of his mouth when it happens. A figure bursts from the shadows, wielding a machete with reckless desperation.

You react instinctively, your weapon raised, but the suspect moves faster than you expect, slamming into you with full force.

Pain explodes in your side as you hit the ground, the breath knocked from your lungs. Reid’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The suspect hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Reid to act. His shot is precise, disarming but not lethal, and the suspect crumples to the ground, writhing in pain.

Reid is at your side in an instant, his hands trembling as he presses them against the slash on your side, stumbling through the order for a medic on his radio.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice tight with panic. “You’re going to be okay.”

You manage a weak laugh, wincing at the pain it causes. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Reid,”

His eyes dart to yours, wide and filled with something that looks an awful lot like fear. “Don’t joke,” he murmurs. “Please don’t joke.”

His hands are gentle but firm as he applies pressure to the wound, his lips moving in a quiet stream of reassurances you barely register. “Just breathe. Help’s on the way. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

The world blurs at the edges, but through it all, you feel him—his presence steady and unyielding, anchoring you to the moment.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIX

You wake in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose. It takes a moment for the haze to clear, and when it does, the first thing you see is Reid.

He’s sitting in a chair beside you, his posture stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and his hair messier than usual, but when he notices you stirring, his expression softens with relief.

“You’re awake,” he says, and there’s a faint tremor in his voice.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, your voice hoarse.

His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. “You have a talent for understatement,”

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and for a moment, he just looks at you. There’s something in his gaze—something raw and unguarded—that makes your chest tighten.

“I thought—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I don’t know,”

“I’m alright, Reid” You offer gently.

He nods, but his jaw tightens as if he’s holding back a thousand words. “You scared me,” he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “I’m okay,” you say, and though the words feel inadequate, they seem to bring him some comfort.

For the rest of the night, he stays by your side, his quiet devotion more reassuring than any words could be. And for the first time, you start to wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN

The BAU rarely has time for unwinding, but tonight is one of those rare evenings. A case has wrapped early, the unsub is in custody, and Hotch decided to reward the team with a dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant not far from Quantico. The room is filled with laughter, the clink of glasses, and the scent of fresh bread and marinara.

You sit sandwiched between Morgan and Reid, your wine glass half-full and your plate of pasta nearly untouched. The conversation flows easily—Morgan cracking jokes, Garcia spinning outrageous anecdotes, Rossi offering sage commentary.

You chime in when prompted, but your mind is elsewhere, your attention flicking between your teammates and the warm, intimate glow of the restaurant.

It’s when the laughter swells again, this time at something Garcia said, that you notice it.

Reid’s gaze.

He’s looking at you, not laughing, not even smiling, just... looking.

It’s not the way someone glances at a friend or colleague. His eyes hold something deeper, something unspoken but achingly clear. Admiration. Longing. Affection so palpable it steals the breath from your lungs.

The realisation hits you like a freight train, or perhaps a brick to the head, straight into your brain like it’s punishing you.

Every late-night chess game. Every quiet conversation over coffee. The way he remembers the smallest details about you, the warmth in his voice when he says your name, the way his presence feels like a comfort you didn’t know you needed—all of it comes crashing into focus.

How had you missed it?

But the thought doesn’t end there. Because as much as his gaze stirs something in you, it also forces you to confront the ache you’ve felt for months.

The way your chest tightens when he smiles at someone else. The way your pulse quickens when he’s near. The way your stomach flips at the simplest touch—a brush of his hand against yours, his knee grazing yours under the table.

Oh no.

Panic bubbles in your chest, threatening to spill over. You tear your gaze away, your hands fumbling for your wine glass as you take a too-large sip. It does little to steady you.

“Hey,” Morgan says, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You good? You’ve been quiet,”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, the words too sharp, too rehearsed.

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but thankfully, Garcia swoops in to demand his attention, sparing you further interrogation.

Beside you, Reid shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours again. The touch is electric, sending a jolt straight to your heart. You chance a glance at him, and for a moment, you think he might say something, but instead, he simply offers you a soft, almost hesitant smile.

It’s that smile—sweet and unguarded—that undoes you.

You force yourself to focus on the chatter around the table, the way Garcia’s voice rises animatedly, the way Rossi’s laughter rumbles like distant thunder.

Anything to keep from drowning in the realisation that Spencer Reid, your closest friend and the person who knows you better than anyone, has somehow become the centre of your world.

And worse—much worse—is the fear that you’ve been blind to his feelings for so long, that your obliviousness might have hurt him in ways you don’t yet understand.

By the time dinner ends, your head is spinning, your chest tight with emotions you don’t know how to name, let alone confront.

As the team begins to gather their things and head for the door, Reid lingers beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You force a smile, though it feels brittle. “Just tired. Long day,”

He nods, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “If you need to talk—”

“I’m fine, Reid,” you say, a little too quickly. A little too sharply.

His expression falters, and guilt twists in your stomach. You want to explain, to tell him that your panic has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’ve just realised you’re in love with him. But the words stick in your throat, too raw, too terrifying to voice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you manage, grabbing your coat and heading for the door before he can respond.

As you step into the chilly night air, the weight of your realization settles over you, heavy and inescapable.

You’re in love with Spencer Reid. And you have no idea what to do about it.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-TWO

The days that follow are a blur of avoidance and self-doubt. You bury yourself in work, volunteering for extra tasks, lingering at your desk long after everyone else has gone home. When Reid suggests coffee or a quick game of chess, you make excuses—paperwork, errands, a headache.

“It’s not you,” you insist each time, forcing a smile that you hope looks convincing. “Just busy.”

But it is him. Or rather, it’s you. The truth feels too messy, too raw to share. You can’t bear the thought of risking your friendship, of letting your feelings slip and watching the warmth in his eyes dim with awkward discomfort. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Cleaner.

It doesn’t feel cleaner. It feels awful.

—

Reid is nothing if not perceptive. You know this, and yet it still catches you off guard when he notices your distance almost immediately.

At first, he’s subtle about it. A furrowed brow when you brush past him in the bullpen without stopping to chat. A quiet “Are you okay?” when you excuse yourself from a team lunch, claiming a nonexistent phone call.

But as the days stretch into weeks, his concern deepens.

One evening, after a particularly grueling case debrief, he approaches your desk with a tentative smile, holding out a steaming cup of your favorite tea.

“Peace offering?” he says lightly.

You glance up, surprised, and for a moment, the warmth in his expression makes your resolve waver. But then the weight of your feelings crashes over you again, and you force a polite but distant smile.

“Thanks, Reid,” you say, taking the cup without meeting his eyes. “But I really need to finish this.”

He hesitates, the smile slipping. “Did I... do something?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut. You look up, startled, and find him watching you with a mixture of confusion and hurt that makes your chest ache.

“What? No, of course not,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“Then why—” He stops, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “What’s wrong?”

Your heart sinks. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you lie, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know he doesn’t believe them.

“Right,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably, heavy with everything you’re not saying. Finally, he nods, stepping back.

“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll… let you get back to work, then,”

As he walks away, a knot of guilt tightens in your chest. You want to call him back, to explain, to apologise, but the words won’t come. Instead, you sit frozen at your desk, watching him retreat with his shoulders slightly slumped, and wonder if you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

—

That night, Reid lies awake, staring at the ceiling of his apartment as your words echo in his mind.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

The lie is so transparent it hurts. He replays every recent interaction, searching for the moment he might have crossed a line, the moment he lost you.

Did he hover too much? Was he too pushy with his invitations? Did he say something wrong?

The thought that he might have ruined your friendship gnaws at him, an ache that refuses to fade. He tries to focus on the logical, the facts: you said he hadn’t done anything.

But facts don’t explain why the laughter in your eyes has dimmed, why the easy rhythm of your friendship has crumbled into awkward silences and forced smiles.

He doesn’t sleep that night, and by morning, he’s no closer to an answer.

But one thing is clear: he can’t lose you. Not like this.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-NINE

It’s late when the team finally returns to Quantico, the exhaustion of a long case settling over everyone like a heavy fog. You’re the first to escape the bullpen, eager to retreat to the quiet sanctuary of your apartment. But just as you grab your coat, a voice stops you.

“Can we talk?”

You turn to find Reid standing behind you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression a mix of worry and determination.

“Reid, I’m really tired—”

“Please.” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes searching yours. “Just a few minutes.”

You hesitate, your instinct to avoid clashing with the ache in his voice. Finally, you nod, letting your coat drop back onto the rack.

He leads you to one of the empty conference rooms, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Did I do something to upset you?” he asks finally, his voice trembling slightly. “Because if I did, I—I don’t know what it was. And I need to know, because you’ve been distant, and I—” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

The raw honesty in his words nearly undoes you. “Reid...” You take a step back, panic rising in your chest. “You didn’t do anything. I’ve just… been busy.”

“Busy?” he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief. He looks up, and the hurt in his eyes is like a punch to the gut. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

You stammer, searching for an excuse, but the words feel hollow even as you speak them. “It’s just... work has been overwhelming, and I haven’t had time, and—”

“Stop,” he says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know you,” he says, his voice steady now, though there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. “I know when something’s wrong, and something is wrong. You don’t avoid people because you’re ‘busy.’ You don’t avoid me unless there’s a reason.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “I’m not avoiding you—”

“Yes, you are,” he says firmly. He takes a step closer, his expression earnest, pleading. “I just... I need to understand. Did I do something to push you away? Did I say something, or—”

“No!” The word bursts out of you, louder than you intended. You see him flinch slightly, and your resolve crumbles. “No, Reid, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then why?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Why are you pulling away from me?”

His hurt expression cuts you to the core, and for a moment, you consider telling him the truth—laying it all out, messy and terrifying as it is. But fear holds you back, the fear of ruining everything, of crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.

“I can’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I just... I can’t.”

His brow furrows, confusion clouding his features. “Can’t what?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unanswerable. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, and what you see there—hurt, confusion, and something deeper, something vulnerable—almost breaks you.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

And before he can say another word, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the empty room.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE

You don’t even remember the drive to Reid’s apartment. The streets blur past in a haze of headlights and cold January air, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

The weight of your own cowardice has become unbearable. His hurt expression haunts you, replaying over and over, the echo of his words a constant refrain: “Why are you pulling away from me?”

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t keep pretending you’re fine when every moment away from him feels like a slow unraveling.

By the time you reach his door, your nerves are frayed to the breaking point. You hesitate for a moment, your hand poised to knock, before finally forcing yourself to take the leap.

Three short raps echo in the quiet hallway.

The door opens after a moment, and there he is—Spencer Reid, standing in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, his expression wary but softening the instant he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice uncertain.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and unfiltered. You take a shaky breath, clutching the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the moment. “Can I come in please?”

He steps aside immediately, his concern deepening as he watches you.

Once inside, you pace the small living room, your hands trembling, your mind racing. Reid stands by the door, watching you with a mix of confusion and apprehension, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Okay, you’re scaring me a little,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You stop pacing, your back to him, and close your eyes for a moment, gathering every ounce of courage you have. When you turn to face him, the words tumble out in a rush.

“I have been avoiding you,”

He knew that. But hearing you say it tears him up just a little.

“because I’m an idiot,” you continue, your voice trembling. “Because I thought it would be easier to push you away than to deal with the fact that I—” You falter, your throat tightening, but you force yourself to continue.

“I’m in love with you, Reid.”

His eyes widen, his lips parting in surprise, but you keep going, afraid that if you stop now, you’ll lose the nerve to finish.

“And I was scared. Scared of ruining our friendship, scared you’d look at me differently, scared of losing you. So I distanced myself, and it was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks, and you take a shaky step toward him. “I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

For a moment, the silence is deafening. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares at you with an unreadable expression.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please?”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he takes a step toward you. Then another. And another, until he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met,” he says softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he continues, his eyes searching yours. “You’re brilliant and kind and funny, and you make me feel like I’m not... like I’m not so different. I didn’t want to risk losing you, so I kept it to myself, even though it killed me to see you pull away.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, a rush of relief and disbelief and something achingly tender.

“Spencer...”

He steps closer, his hand lifting to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear. You bury your face in his shoulder, the familiar scent of him—coffee and faint traces of his shampoo—wrapping around you like a balm.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his chest, your voice muffled.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your arms. “Don’t be,” he says, his gaze soft and unwavering. “We’ve both been scared. But we don’t have to be anymore.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he brushes it away with his thumb, his touch lingering.

“Does this mean I can invite you to coffee again without you running away?” he asks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “Yeah, yeah that’d be nice—”

His smile widens, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and press your lips to his.

The kiss starts tentative, a soft brush of lips, as if both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what to expect after so long of keeping everything bottled up.

But as the seconds pass, as your heart beats faster and your pulse races with the rush of finally having everything laid bare between you, the kiss deepens.

It’s overwhelming, more than you ever imagined. The gentle pressure of his lips on yours sends waves of warmth through you, and it’s as if everything else—everything you’ve been afraid of, everything that’s kept you distant—melts away in that single, perfect moment.

The tension, the months of pining and longing, spill into the kiss, filling the space between you with everything you’ve been holding back.

You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he responds instantly, his hands moving to your waist, holding you tightly as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. His lips are soft but eager, the kind of kiss that says everything words couldn’t express.

The world outside this room fades into nothingness—the hum of the city, the quiet night air, the noise of your past self-doubt—all of it is gone. It’s just you and him now, tangled up in each other in a way that feels so natural, so right.

You pull back slightly, breathless, and when you look at him, the expression in his eyes is one of pure awe. He’s looking at you like you’re something he’s dreamed of for so long but never thought he’d get to touch.

“You,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,”

You laugh softly, still reeling from the intensity of the kiss, the electric feeling of his arms around you. “I think I have some idea,” you say, smiling through the haziness of your emotions. “I’m not that oblivious,”

He smiles, a little sheepishly, and presses his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well… I guess we’re both just really good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” you say, your voice filled with newfound certainty. “No more pretending. No more running. From now on, it’s just... us.”

Reid’s smile widens, and he nods. His hands move to cup your face, the touch tender, reverent. “I promise,” he says softly. “I promise, I won’t let fear get in the way again,”

You nod, your chest swelling with relief. You feel the same. Fear won’t keep you apart any longer.

The transition from being friends to lovers feels seamless, like something that was always meant to happen but only needed the right moment to click into place.

There’s no awkwardness, no second-guessing. It feels like this was the way things were always supposed to be, as if every conversation, every shared laugh, every moment you’d spent together was building toward this.

“You know,” he says quietly, a hint of playfulness returning to his voice, “I think I’m starting to like this ‘not pretending’ thing.”

You chuckle, your heart full, and pull him into another kiss, this one more relaxed, more comfortable. There’s no rush now—just the simple, perfect feeling of being in his arms, of knowing you don’t have to hide anymore.

When you pull away again, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I love you,” you murmur.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice a little thick with emotion. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything you’ve both been through.

And as you stand there in his arms, the world outside his apartment feels like a distant memory, something far away that no longer matters. All that matters is the feeling of being together, of stepping into the future with him, side by side. No more fear. No more distance. Just you and him.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX

Returning to work after that night feels surreal, like stepping into a world that’s familiar but somehow brighter, sharper. Everything feels new, but also so wonderfully right.

The team notices almost immediately. They’re profilers, after all.

It starts with the little things—your hand brushing against Spencer’s as you both reach for the same file, the soft, shared smiles exchanged across the bullpen, the way you instinctively gravitate toward him during team meetings.

Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up the first time he catches Spencer stealing a glance at you, his expression so openly fond it borders on dreamy.

“Something you want to tell us, Pretty Boy?” Morgan teases one morning as Spencer sits at his desk, clearly distracted.

Spencer startles, his ears turning red as he fumbles with his pen. “I—uh, no, nothing.”

From her desk, Garcia narrows her eyes suspiciously, then looks at you, her gaze bouncing between the two of you like she’s connecting the dots. “Wait a second. Are you two—?”

“We’re not talking about this,” you say quickly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays your attempt at sternness.

“Oh, we will talk about this,” Garcia says, grinning triumphantly. “Just as soon as I gather my emotional support snacks.”

Hotch and Rossi, ever the professionals, don’t comment, but the knowing looks they exchange speak volumes.

So does the HR form that magically appears on your desk the same afternoon.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE

A quiet afternoon, as the team prepares for a lull between cases, Spencer walks into the bullpen holding a carefully wrapped package. The sight of him—nervously shifting from foot to foot, his hair slightly mussed, his tie askew—makes your heart ache in the best way.

“Hey,” he says softly, approaching your desk.

“Hey,” you reply, setting aside the file you’ve been working on. “What’s that?”

He holds out the package, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. “It’s for you,” he says, a little shyly. “I’ve had it for a while, but… I was waiting for the right moment,”

Curiosity piqued, you carefully unwrap the package, your breath catching when you see what’s inside: a first-edition copy of a book you’d mentioned offhandedly months ago, a rare find you never thought you’d own.

“Spencer,” you breathe, running your fingers reverently over the worn leather cover. “This is—this is incredible.”

He shrugs, his cheeks flushing pink. “I remembered how much you loved it, and, well… I wanted you to have it,”

You stare at him for a moment, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the gesture, by the quiet devotion it represents. Setting the book aside, you rise from your chair and step closer to him.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice soft but filled with emotion.

Before he can respond, you lean in and kiss him, your hands resting gently on his shoulders. It’s not your first kiss, but it feels just as electric, just as full of promise.

When you pull back, his eyes are bright, his smile soft and radiant. “I think I like this ‘new chapter’ we’re in,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with affection.

“Me too,” you reply, your heart swelling as you brush a stray curl from his forehead.

As you return to your desk, the book resting on the corner like a talisman of everything you’ve built together, you steal another glance at him.

He’s already immersed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration, but when he catches you looking, he smiles—one of those rare, unguarded smiles that makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

This is where I’m supposed to be, you think. And Spencer would agree.

[cjlouwho]

Dear CJ,

I saw your post about needing Tommy bent over a table and I have to say that I too need this and I was wondering if you felt it in your heart to provide your thirsty fans, like me, with some more Bottom!Tommy? I feel you wanting him bent over a table would add to the hotness.

Thank you if you do write it,

Love,

Me!

A new addition to my Spite series! Read below or on ao3

Tommy's not exactly sure how he ended ass up with his face pressed against the dining room table, but it was hard to think of anything with three of Buck's fingers working their way inside of him.

"Uh, uh, uh," he panted, gripping onto the sides of the table as Buck twisted his hand on each thrust. "Ev- Evan, ohyesplease, Evan."

"That feel good, Baby?" Buck asked, his free hand pressing down at the small of Tommy's back.

"Uhhhh, uh-huh." There was a little puddle of drool just below Tommy's mouth. His whole body felt tingly. Cool where it laid against the table, but the rest of him burned like fire in the best way.

"You wanna come on my fingers or my cock?"

"Fuck," Tommy whined, voice just above a whisper. "Fuck. Shit, yeah."

Buck laughed, patting his hand against Tommy's thigh. "Babe, you hear me?"

"Mmm," Tommy pushed himself back on Buck's fingers as he stilled inside of him. "I'll do it. I'll work for it, Evan, yeahyeahyeah."

Once it was clear that Tommy wasn't paying attention to a word Buck was saying, Buck pulled his fingers out of Tommy entirely.

The sound that escaped Tommy's mouth was something akin to a puppy being crate trained. Hands still firmly gripped to the table, he lifted his head enough to look back at Buck.

"What... Why?"

Buck ran his hands up and down Tommy's back, kneading into the muscle. "You weren't listening to me," Buck informed him, leaning down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Wanted to make sure you were still here."

"I'm here, I'm here," Tommy sighed, wiggling his ass against Buck. "What did you want?"

Buck snorted. "I asked if you wanna come on my fingers or my cock."

"Cock, I- I want your cock, please," Tommy pled. "Put it in me, come in me, make it drip down my legs."

"Fuck, Tommy." Buck grabbed the lube off the table and slicked up his cock before holding onto Tommy's hips and lining himself up.

He was gonna go slow, but Tommy had other plans. The second he felt the head of Buck's cock inside him, he pushed back until Buck was all the way in.

"Fuck!" Buck exclaimed, nearly coming right then and there. "Shit, Tommy, you're really desperate for it, aren't you?"

Tommy managed to hold onto the table tight enough to pull up and give himself some leverage. He used that leverage to begin working himself up and down Buck's cock. "For you," he replied, his own cock dripping with precum, "Always."

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceres Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Trigger Warnings: Verbal abuse, grief, and loss, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Redemption Arc, Mild Violence, Emotional Hurt, Disassociation, Suicidal Ideation, Depression.

A/N: Welcome back to this emotional rollercoaster, besties. We’ve got everything: cursed pregnancies, emotionally constipated men, and Sukuna trying to out-sass Megumi (spoiler: he succeeds), slow-burn tension finally snapping, emotionally broken men flirting with self-destruction, and a moment that might make you scream into your pillow (I’m not responsible for broken furniture). Warnings for angst, trauma, and me absolutely wrecking your heart while you laugh. If you’re here for a lobotomy, grab your scalpels—it’s about to get messy. Proceed with caution, tissues, and maybe a therapist on speed dial. Also, Megumi in this fic is maybe around mid-20s, and the reader is a few years older than him. He has mastered all his Shikigami's (yes, the 'with this treasure' one too) & is physically a Toji Hybrid. I have added links to show what he looks like. You are welcome. One Reader - Do you accept Cunt-structive Criticism? Me - No, I only accept Cash.

Previous Chapter 7 (alt ending 1.3) - Sapphire Echoes (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 8 (alt ending 1.4) - Fractured Tides

Japan

The news reached Gojo and Nanami through an anonymous tip—a voice crackling over the phone, sterile and detached.

“The fetuses didn’t survive,” the doctor confirmed. “The pregnancy... it was unlike anything ever thought possible. The details are in the report.”

Gojo’s hand trembled as he gripped the receiver, his knuckles blanching as the plastic creaked under the pressure. When the receiver finally snapped, shards scattering across the floor, he didn’t flinch. His vibrant arrogance—the trait that had once made him invincible—was gone, stripped away in an instant. His eyes, previously so full of light and mischief, stared blankly, reflecting nothing but the hollow void inside him.

Nanami stood nearby, his posture rigid, his knuckles white as he clenched the report. The paper crinkled audibly, but his grip didn’t loosen. His jaw was so tightly locked it seemed his teeth might shatter.

“How’s this possible?” He rasped, finally putting it down, his voice horse under the weight of his self-loathing.

Gojo didn’t respond. His silver tongue, always ready with a quip or a plan, was silent. The crushing tide of guilt drowned every thought before it could form.

The hospital report was worse than they could have imagined. The chimeric fetuses were described in clinical detail, every word a knife to the chest.

“Genetic abnormalities beyond comprehension,” it read. “The combination of heteropaternal superfecundation and double fertilization created anomalies incompatible with life.”

The accompanying images were worse than they had imagined.

The boy’s elongated limbs twisted unnaturally, his spine arching grotesquely, like a question mark formed from pain. The girl’s fused fingers curled inward, her malformed face locked in an expression that seemed almost accusing.

Their shared split-colored hair was a mockery—a cruel reminder of the selfish desires that had created them.

Nanami turned away, bile rising in his throat. “They never had a chance,” he whispered, his voice hollow and brittle.

Gojo slammed the folder shut, his chest heaving as if the act of breathing had become insurmountable. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t find a way to fix things.

They tried to reach you. Desperation bled into every call, every text, and every voicemail. Every call went unanswered. Every message was read and ignored.

“Please,” Gojo had whispered into the receiver one night, his voice breaking. “Just... just let us explain.”

Nanami heard him through the door but didn’t offer comfort. The weight of his guilt pressing him further into despair. His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, as if it held the answers he sought.

The quiet became their enemy. In the stillness, the thoughts crept in, unbidden and relentless.

Nanami found himself walking along the Rainbow Bridge , which connected to Odaiba, late one night. The icy wind bit at his skin as he gazed out at the dark waters of Tokyo Bay. It was calm, inviting, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

He imagined what it would feel like to let go—to sink into the cold embrace of the water. The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief.

Gojo had begun lingering at the Shinjuku-gyoemmae station, his sunglasses hiding the exhaustion etched into his face. He stood near the edge of the platform, the sound of approaching trains vibrating through his bones.

It would be quick, he thought. Easy.

At home, the pills in Nanami’s medicine cabinet whispered promises of peace. One bottle, one night, and it could all be over.

But neither of them acted.

Every time they came close, the thought of you stopped them. They couldn’t leave without seeing you again, without explaining, apologizing, begging for forgiveness.

But the shame at what they’d done to you, to the babies, kept them from coming to you in person. So they stuck to calling and texting, each unanswered attempt another nail in the coffin of their hope.

They lived in limbo, caught between the unbearable weight of their guilt and the faint, flickering hope that one day you might pick up the phone.

---

The moon cast a faint silver glow over the balcony, its edges softened by a thin mist that clung to the chilled air. You sat on the couch inside, barely illuminated by the warm, dim light of the apartment. A blanket draped over your shoulders, shielding you from the cold but not from the hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing as your fingers absently traced the edge of the blanket. The faint hum of the city below was a distant whisper, meaningless and detached from the void swallowing you whole.

The faint scuff of shoes against stone pulled at the edges of your awareness. A shadow moved across the street in front of your house. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Your mind was elsewhere in a memory.

His hair was jet black and damp, clinging to his forehead in unruly spikes, his jawline streaked with dirt and exhaustion. He wore a plain black shirt, torn and damp in places, and dark jeans that looked as though they’d seen weeks of wear. His piercing blue eyes were scanning the building before they landed on you.

He didn’t hesitate.

In one smooth motion, he climbed the window ledges on the floor below, then stepped up to the balcony railing and swung himself up, his movements eerily reminiscent of someone—fluid, predatory. He landed soundlessly on the edge, stepping inside with a casualness that belied the weight of his presence.

But this wasn’t the boy you’d known. This was a man carved from desperation and resolve, his presence filling the room with an intensity that felt both familiar and foreign. He looked older than you remembered—taller, broader. His hair was wild, falling in dark, uneven spikes over eyes that glinted like steel. He was dressed in plain clothes.

He frowned, stepping closer, his shadow falling over you. When you still didn’t react, he crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of you, his features softening with something close to pain. His hands hovered over your shoulder before finally nudging it.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of months spent in pursuit.

You didn’t respond.

His brows furrowed as he stepped closer. “Hey,” he tried again, softer this time.

Still, you didn’t move.

His roughened fingers reached for your cheeks, his touch hesitant, a mere brush against the skin. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

His throat tightened, frustration flickering across his face He tilted his head to catch your gaze. “I’m not going anywhere until you say something,” he muttered, his voice edged with exasperation.

When you still didn’t react, he reached out again, this time giving your shoulder a firmer nudge.

Your eyes flicked to him at last, but they didn’t really see him. You stared through him, your expression glassy, as if replaying a memory too distant to touch.

The silence stretched taut and heavy.

His hands curled into fists as he rose to his full height, frustration and worry flickering across his face. He glanced toward the balcony, then back at you. The thought of leaving you like this wasn’t an option.

Then, from behind you, a presence surged forward—dark, commanding, and lethal.

Sukuna.

He appeared as though conjured from the shadows themselves, his crimson eyes burning with a dangerous gleam. His shirt hung open at the collar, his tattoos stark against his pale skin, and his lips curled into a predatory smirk. His crimson eyes burned like embers, and his lips curled in a snarl as his gaze stayed locked onto the man, narrowing with instant suspicion.

“Who the hell are you?” Sukuna’s voice was low, his tone dripping with menace as he stepped forward, placing himself between you and the intruder.

The man’s expression hardened as his stance shifted, one foot sliding back as though preparing for an attack, his eyes meeting Sukuna’s with the unyielding force of a man who’d long since stopped flinching at power. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Careful, brat,” Sukuna growled, his head tilting, his grin widening in warning. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

The tension between them snapped taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Sukuna took a step forward, his fingers twitching as though itching for a fight. The room seemed to darken as his cursed energy spiked, the air thick with its oppressive weight. But the man didn’t flinch. His hand flicked upward, and with a snap, shadows began to writhe at his feet.

“Neither do you,” the man said, his voice sharp. His hands twitched, and the faint shimmer of cursed energy began to gather around him.

“Hey…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking under the strain of its first use in days.

Neither man noticed.

Sukuna’s smirk widened as he cracked his knuckles, his cursed energy flaring brighter. “I don’t care who you are, but you’re about to regret—”

The floor beneath you trembled as the man’s hands moved in a familiar pattern, his fingers forming seals too quickly to follow.

The air shifted, a deep, guttural hum vibrating through the room. The shadow behind the man darkened, twisting and expanding.

“No!”

Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, startling after months of silence. Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

You stood, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as you moved to place yourself in front of the man, shielding him from Sukuna. “Please don’t. You both are not threats to me,” you spoke, your voice trembling with frustration.

You turned to the man, your voice rising. “I told you to stop doing that!”

“I thought he kidnapped you. I think that justifies it’s use.” The man muttered, pretending to be annoyed, but immediately moved to hold you.

Sukuna barked out a laugh. “Taken her? Kid, I’m the one keeping her safe from idiots like you.”

You awkwardly reciprocated.

Sukuna raised a brow, his gaze darting between you and the man. For a brief moment, his smirk softened, a flicker of something tender crossing his features as he watched you—you, alive and animated for the first time in months. That’s the most you’ve said in months —he thought to himself. He continued eyeing the spiky-haired man, wondering who he was and if he was a threat, but the way you were comfortable around him, Sukuna deduced he wasn’t connected to your idiotic husbands.

The man, however, frowned, his jaw tightening. “He—”

“Not a threat,” you said lowly. “Mahoraga isn’t for solving your problems with people who talk back.”

Sukuna folded his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe but watching Megumi like a hawk. “Kid’s got issues,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back without thinking, letting go of Megumi and turning on Sukuna with a glare.

He blinked, then grinned, a warmth in his crimson eyes that made his smirk almost fond. “Fair point, princess.”

“You don’t look normal.”

“I’m fine,” you and Megumi both ignored Sukuna, though your voice cracked on the lie. But Sukuna didn’t correct you right now.

Megumi’s gaze kept searching your face for something—anything.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, though no one in the room believed it.

"Princess, I need to leave.” Sukuna had said, glaring at his phone. “Will you be okay for a few days? I have arranged for Choso and Yuji to be here within a few hours.”

“I’ll be fine. Megumi is my best friend; he will keep me safe.” You reassured him, while Megumi looked at him smugly with his arms now folded, muscles flexing.

“Call me if you need anything or if there’s an issue.” Sukuna told you, contemplating how mad you would be if he broke Megumi’s jaw.

You nodded as he turned to leave, answering a call. “I’m on my way, woman. Stop irritating me!”

Your heart sank.

He was going to meet a woman?!

Were you in love with him?

But how long would he wait for you?

// Playlist

After telling Megumi everything, the house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the windchimes. He sat across from you on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if they were the only thing grounding him. His features were softened by the dim light, but the weight in his eyes made him look older than his years.

You sat opposite him, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. The blanket draped over your shoulders felt like a shield, though it did little to protect you from the storm inside.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

“You were right,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

“I was wrong,” you said, your gaze fixed on a crack in the marble on the floor. “About everything. About them. About leaving you behind.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, the guilt in his expression enough to cut. “You don’t have to say that.”

“But it’s true,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You warned me. You told me what they were like, what would happen, and I didn’t listen. I was so convinced I could handle it on my own that I pushed you away.”

Megumi let out a shaky breath, his hands flexing as if trying to grasp the weight of his emotions. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did. At the airport, I—” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking under the strain. “I was angry. Hurt. But that doesn’t excuse it. I said awful things to you, and I’ve hated myself for it every single day since. I was a coward, too afraid to reach out to you when you needed me most.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he continued, the pain evident in every word. “Then what happened at your HQ... They were live streaming it on the news, and I was terrified, praying you’d make it out alive. But when they said you weren’t there, my heart dropped. No one knew where you had gone. I felt so helpless, so lost. I’ve been searching for you ever since, haunted by the fear that I might never find you again.”

The words hung between you, raw and heavy.

“I think...” you started, your voice trembling. “I think we both thought we were doing the right thing. You wanted to protect me, and I wanted to prove I didn’t need it, too blinded by what I thought was love.”

Megumi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glinting. “I should’ve been there. When it all fell apart, when they—” His voice cracked, and he looked away. “I should’ve come sooner.”

“And I should’ve called you,” you said, your chest tightening. “But I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to see how far I’d fallen.”

His gaze snapped back to yours. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever. You never did. Sure, I’d yell at you or even tell you I was right, but I’d never not help you.”

The words broke something inside you, and for the first time in months, the tears came. They fell silently at first, then harder, your shoulders shaking as the dam burst.

Megumi moved without hesitation, closing the distance between you and pulling you into his arms. His grip was strong, grounding, and you clung to him like a lifeline. “I should have stayed in touch with you even if I didn’t agree with the decision in case you ever needed me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, Megumi,” you whispered against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for not listening, for abandoning you, for never trying again, for not honoring your dad.”

“I’m so sorry for the... the babies.” He spoke low as if he were blaming himself.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you cried harder, clutching his shirt.

---

// Playlist

Japan

Gojo sat on the edge of the couch, his white shirt wrinkled and stained, hanging loose on his frame. His eyes rimmed red, their usual brilliance dulled. His hand clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he tipped it back.

Across the room, Nanami stood by the kitchen sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He stared at his hands under the running water, scrubbing them long past clean, as if the act could erase the guilt embedded in his skin.

The silence between them was broken only by Gojo’s muttered curses as he took another swig.

“You should eat,” Nanami said finally, his voice hoarse.

Gojo snorted, the sound bitter. “Coming from the guy who hasn’t touched his plate in days.”

Nanami didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he shut off the water.

Gojo leaned back, his head resting against the couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Do you ever wonder,” he said, his voice slurring slightly, “if it would’ve been better if we’d never...” He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Nanami turned slowly, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Gojo shot back, his voice rising. “Say what we’re both thinking? That we—”

“I said don’t,” Nanami snapped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white.

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think not saying it changes anything? They’re gone, Kento. And it’s our fault.”

Nanami flinched, the words hitting him like a blow. He turned away, his shoulders stiff as he gripped the edge of the counter. “I know that,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I know that every second of every day.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared guilt pressing down on them.

//

Later that night, Gojo sat alone on the balcony, the cold biting at his skin. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air like a ghost. He hadn’t smoked in years, but tonight it felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.

Nanami appeared in the doorway, a glass of scotch in hand. He didn’t say anything as he stepped outside, sitting on the opposite end of the balcony.

They didn’t look at each other, their gazes fixed on the city below.

Gojo’s sudden laugh was hollow, a broken sound that made Nanami’s chest tighten.

“I keep seeing them,” Gojo murmured, his hand tightening around the cigarette. “Every time I close my eyes. I see their faces. Their hair. Their... their little hands.” His voice cracked, and he fell silent, his shoulders trembling.

Nanami’s grip on his glass tightened, the faint clink of ice against glass the only sound he made.

“They didn’t even get a chance,” Gojo continued, his voice thick with emotion. “We robbed them of that.”

Nanami’s expression unreadable. “Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. And her. The way she looked at us... or didn’t. Like we weren’t even worth hating.”

Gojo turned to him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why are we still here, Kento? Why are we still—”

“Because we don’t deserve peace,” Nanami interrupted, his voice harsh. “Not yet. Not until we’ve done everything we can to make it right. Even if she never forgives us.”

Gojo stared at him, his chest heaving as he tried to process the words.

They sat in silence after that, the weight of their guilt hanging heavy between them. The city lights blurred into a haze, and the distant sounds of life carried on, oblivious to the two broken men on the balcony.

Neither of them moved, each lost in their own spiral, but for the first time in weeks, the silence between them felt less like a void and more like a shared burden. A small, flickering reminder that they weren’t entirely alone.

---

// Playlist

The days passed in a haze. Choso and Yuji were sunshines around Megumi’s age, who moved to the lower floor, but you didn’t have much energy to interact with new people. Sukuna called you every few hours.

Megumi stayed with you. He didn’t leave, didn’t push, just existed in your space like a quiet force of nature.

He cooked meals, both your favorites growing up, and sat with you while you ate, even if it was just a few bites. And when the nightmares came, he was there, his hand steady on your shoulder, until the panic subsided.

A few days later, Sukuna returned and obsered it all with narrowed eyes, his irritation barely concealed.

One evening, Megumi was trying to coax you into taking a walk. “Fresh air,” he said, standing by the door with his arms crossed. “It’ll do you good.”

“I’m fine here,” you muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“She doesn’t need to go anywhere,” Sukuna cut in from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “She’s safe here.”

Megumi turned, his eyes narrowing. “Safe doesn’t mean healthy. What would you know, old man? You probably can’t walk at your age with your arthritis.”

“I’m not old, brat. I will fight you!” Sukuna shot back, his tone mocking.

“With what? Your walking stick?!,” Megumi snapped, his voice rising.

You couldn’t help it—the sheer absurdity of their bickering—it pulled a laugh from your chest. It was small, tentative, but real.

Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

“Did she just—” Sukuna started, his eyes wide.

“She laughed,” Megumi confirmed, his tone somewhere between disbelief and triumph.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, the sound foreign even to you. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice muffled.

“Don’t be,” Sukuna said, his smirk returning as he leaned against the wall. “If I’d known it was this easy, I would’ve let him insult me sooner.”

“I’d do it for free,” Megumi said, looking at you, fingers twitching to pat himself on the back.

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Of course, it’s not like anyone would pay to watch you.” He fired back at Megumi, still looking at you.

You laughed again, the sound freer this time, and the tension in the room shifted.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your chest lightened.

After a beat, you calmed down and said, “I’d like to go back to work.”

Both nodded.

//

After that day, it became their unspoken mission to make you laugh as often as possible.

One afternoon, Sukuna conjured a miniature version of himself—barely six inches tall—who stomped across the coffee table, shouting, “Fear me, mortals!” in a voice far too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

Megumi, who was seated at the kitchen island, raised an eyebrow. “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna shot back, gesturing dramatically toward Mini-Sukuna. “At least I’m creative.”

Without missing a beat, Megumi summoned a tiny shikigami—a shadowy cat with glowing eyes—that pounced on Mini-Sukuna and promptly sat on him.

Meanwhile, you sat at the dining table, trying (and failing) to hide your laughter behind a mug of tea.

//

Another day the apartment was quiet except for the sizzling sound coming from the kitchen. Sukuna stood near the couch, holding a plate of food that looked… edible, but only in the way emergency rations were. His expression screamed confidence, as if he’d just solved world hunger.

In reality he was just jealous that Megumi had overtaken cooking since arriving, and he wasn’t able to feed you.

On the other side of the kitchen island, Megumi was frying something in a pan with the kind of intensity usually reserved for life-or-death surgeries. His sleeves were rolled up.

“You’re going to eat this,” Sukuna declared, stabbing the air with his fork.

“Like hell she is,” Megumi shot back without looking up, flipping whatever he was cooking with the ease of someone who’d spent years perfecting it. “She deserves something decent. Not whatever cursed sludge you’re trying to pass off as food. I’m making her comfort food.”

“She hasn’t touched your so-called food in days. She’s barely eaten anything. Mine’s nutritional,” Sukuna growled, stepping closer to the island.

“It’s an insult to taste buds,” Megumi countered, grabbing a plate and dishing out his creation—a simple, golden-brown omelet.

From your spot on the couch, you sighed, leaning your head against your hand. You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that they were arguing over who got to feed you or that they seemed genuinely ready to fight about it.

“Hey,” you said, your voice flat, “I’m right here. I can feed myself.”

Both men ignored you.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in days,” Sukuna said, his crimson eyes narrowing. “I’ve been keeping her alive.”

“Barely,” Megumi muttered, sliding the plate across the counter. “She used to like this when we were younger.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, brat,” Sukuna sneered, taking a bite of his own creation as if to prove its worth. “She needs real food.”

“And you think that is real food?” Megumi shot back, nodding toward Sukuna’s plate. “It looks like you scraped it off the floor of an incomplete domain.”

“It’s better than whatever bland crap you’re making,” Sukuna retorted, leaning closer.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Seriously, you two—”

“Stay out of this,” they both said in unison, their voices sharp enough to make you blink.

You were trying to hide a chuckle at how serious they both were about their cooking.

Megumi crossed his arms, smirking. “Look, she’s laughing at you.”

“Watch it, brat,” Sukuna growled, his energy crackling faintly.

“Oh, please,” Megumi said, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad she liked my cooking better.”

“She hasn’t even tried your cooking,” Sukuna snapped, his grip tightening on the fork. “And she won’t, because it looks like a toddler made it.”

“Better than your attempt at weaponized nutrition,” Megumi shot back.

The bickering continued, insults flying back and forth with increasing absurdity. By the time Sukuna accused Megumi of “summoning Mahoraga to chop onions,” you were doubled over, tears streaming down your face as you laughed harder than you had in months.

//

Your employees had welcomed you back with open arms while you still chose to work remotely. But the lack of light in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

But instead of bombarding you with questions, they took matters into their own hands.

During a virtual meeting, your CTO appeared on camera dressed as a game character, complete with poorly made props and a monologue.

“Fear not, boss,” he declared, brandishing a foam sword. “I shall vanquish the deadlines!”

The entire team erupted into cheers, clapping as he pretended to fight off invisible enemies.

Another time, your marketing manager created a meme slideshow of your company’s latest release, complete with captions like, “When the servers crash but the players still think it’s part of the game.”

Even Sukuna got in on it, lurking just off-camera during a meeting to mutter sarcastic commentary loud enough for you to hear.

“Do they always sound this unhinged?” he asked during a particularly chaotic brainstorming session.

“Yes,” you replied, your lips twitching into a small smile.

During a virtual meeting, one of your lead designers appeared on camera wearing a cardboard replica of a game console, complete with buttons that actually lit up. “Presenting the latest in gaming technology!” he announced, spinning in his chair.

“Is that a fire hazard?” you asked, unable to stop the corner of your mouth from twitching.

“Probably,” he replied, grinning.

Your PR team wasn’t any better. They sent you a PowerPoint presentation titled, Why Our Boss Deserves to Laugh More , which included memes of your favorite characters, clips of game glitches they’d purposely caused, and an oddly heartfelt slide featuring a stick figure version of you labeled, The Coolest CEO Ever .

---

Megumi stayed for as long as he could and then had to return to take care of his mom and his company once you started to feel better.

The air buzzed with the familiar hum of distant conversations and the faint echo of footsteps on polished floors. Megumi stood by the entrance, his duffel bag at his feet, his shoulders tense despite the calm mask he wore.

“I’ll come back in a few days with Mom, okay?” he said, his voice softer than usual as he pulled you into a hug. His arms were strong, grounding, but there was a hesitance in the way he held you, like he wasn’t ready to let go. “She’s been worried sick since you stopped talking after leaving Japan. She asks about you every day.”

You nodded against his chest, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Tell her to video call me. I miss her.”

“I will,” he murmured, ruffling your hair in that infuriatingly fond way he knew you hated. “The moment I land.”

You stepped back, your eyes darting anywhere but his. “Take care of yourself, Megumi. And her. She doesn’t listen to anyone but you.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, his dark eyes flicking over you like he was cataloging every detail. “You should talk, hypocrite.”

Your snort was half-hearted, but it was enough for him.

This goodbye was nothing like the one all those years ago. Back then, his anger had burned through the distance between you, his words cutting deep enough to leave scars you both carried. Now, there was only understanding—an unspoken truce built on shared pain and quiet forgiveness.

Megumi’s gaze shifted to Sukuna, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed and clearly bored. With a tilt of his head, Megumi motioned him over.

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “What now, brat?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets as he approached.

You watched them from a distance, your old DSLR— Megumi had brought back with him—in hand. The click of the shutter was oddly comforting, a rhythm that let you focus on something other than the ache in your chest. Yuji and Choso hovered nearby, pestering you with questions about aperture and lighting. You answered absently, your eyes never leaving the two figures standing just out of earshot—the most important men in your life. So important, your very essence was tangled with them, unlike the way it used to be with someone else.

//

“What do you want?” Sukuna muttered, his tone dripping with disinterest.

Megumi’s voice was steady; he was smiling, all friendly and unsuspecting. The way he smiled while threatening people—oddly reminiscent of Toji on an adult Megumi. “Keep her safe. Or I’ll gut you alive.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “Bold, brat. But I’m not an idiot like them.” His grin widened, his crimson eyes gleaming. “I don’t take my eyes away from the destination for snowflakes.”

Megumi’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting slightly, like he was ready for a fight. “She’s not a prize, Sukuna.”

“No,” Sukuna agreed, crossing his arms. “She’s everything. That’s why I won’t screw it up.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “But don’t tell me you’re in love with her, brat. You’re already pathetic enough.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened, his face a mask of calm, but the faintest flicker flashed in his eyes. Before he could respond, Yuji’s voice rang out from behind you.

“Stay in touch, Megumi!”

Megumi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sukuna chuckled.

Yuji had stuck to Megumi like pollen ever since they’d met. Whenever he walked out of your floor to get anything, or even went to the balcony for air, Yuji would immediately pounce on him like an overbearing puppy, talking like they had always known each other.

“Your fan club’s waiting,” Sukuna teased, stepping back with a mocking wave.

Megumi shot him a cold look before turning on his heel, his suitcase rolling behind him. He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at you, still clicking away with your camera.

“I’m getting late,” he said, his voice louder now, directed at no one in particular. “See you around.”

And just like that, he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the steady flow of travelers.

You lowered the camera, watching the space he’d left behind. Sukuna sauntered over, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Miss him already?” He drawled.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Shut up, Ryo.”

He chuckled, his gaze flicking to the camera in your hands. “Better get my good side next time. Wouldn’t want the brat to outshine me in your collection.”

You let yourself mock him. “He’s my best friend; of course he’ll shine.”

“Here I thought we were at least friends by now,” Sukuna shot back, his grin widening as he dragged you back to the car while also wrangling Choso and Yuji.

But nothing could have prepared you for the spectacle unfolding in front of you. Yuji stood precariously on a luggage cart, holding what looked like a security baton he must’ve stolen from somewhere.

“Onward, noble steed!” Yuji bellowed, jabbing the baton forward.

Choso, pushing the cart, sighed heavily. “Yuji, this is dumb. You’re going to fall, and I’m not paying for the damages.”

“You don’t pay for anything anyway!” Yuji shot back, wobbling as the cart veered dangerously close to a potted plant.

“Not my fault you’re the one with no sense of balance,” Choso deadpanned, shoving the cart harder.

“Balance is for losers!” Yuji yelled triumphantly—right before the cart hit a bump and sent him tumbling onto the floor with a loud thud.

You burst out laughing, clutching your camera as you tried to steady yourself. Sukuna groaned.

“Do these idiots have a death wish?” He muttered, glancing at you. “Why do I let them out in public?”

“They’re grown adults,” you replied between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from your eye. “Well... Technically. Have been for a few years.”

Yuji scrambled to his feet, rubbing his ass with an exaggerated pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Choso!”

“I was until you called me a steed,” Choso replied, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you into that plant.”

“You’re just mad because I’m faster,” Yuji shot back, grabbing the cart again.

“Faster at what? Hitting the ground?” Choso said, raising an eyebrow.

Sukuna snorted, his crimson eyes narrowing as he gestured toward the two. “You know what? Let him break something. Maybe he’ll finally learn.”

“Doubt it,” you said, grinning.

Yuji, undeterred by his earlier failure, climbed back onto the cart. “Round two! Let’s go!”

Choso sighed again, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he grabbed the handle. “Fine. But if security catches us, I’m blaming you.”

“You always blame me!” Yuji whined, holding on tighter this time.

“Because it’s always your fault,” Choso replied, shoving the cart with a bit more force than necessary.

As the cart barreled down the terminal, narrowly missing several unsuspecting travelers, you and Sukuna watched in bemused silence.

“You should film this,” Sukuna said, his lips curling into a smirk. “Might go viral. ‘Local lesbian and his Itadorki.’”

You doubled over laughing while Yuji and Choso glared at Sukuna.

//

Later that evening, the chaos of the airport was a distant memory as you and Sukuna sat together on the couch. The quiet was comforting, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy for once.

“Thank you,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Sukuna turned to you, his expression unreadable. “For what?”

“For… everything,” you said, your cheeks heating under his gaze.

He smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. The weight on your chest lifted just a little, replaced by something warm and unfamiliar.

//

But the mornings still clawed at you like ghosts, dragging you into the suffocating reality of what you’d lost. The ache in your chest wasn’t a dull pain but a jagged wound, raw and unrelenting. But Sukuna was there, always.

Without fail, he brought you breakfast in bed, the tray heavy with whatever he decided you needed to eat that day. You’d protest, pushing the plate aside, focusing on pending work, and he’d glare, the kind of glare that made it clear he wouldn’t leave until you took at least a few bites.

When he walked with you in the park, his hand brushed your lower back, a gesture so casual yet grounding it left you disarmed. He didn’t say much, but his presence filled the empty spaces in ways words never could. Slowly, painfully, the walls you’d built began to crack, the light seeping through despite your efforts to hold it all together.

// Playlist

A couple of weeks later, one evening, the two of you sat on the balcony of your new home, the air heavy with the scent of cigarettes and rain-soaked concrete. You rested your chin on your knees, watching the city lights blur into a smear of orange and white.

“You’re not as awful as you pretend to be,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

Sukuna chuckled, the sound deep and rough. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the glow illuminating his features. “Don’t ruin my reputation, princess,” he drawled, exhaling smoke like a dragon.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. It felt foreign, but it didn’t hurt. Not this time.

You reached for the cigarette, plucking it from his fingers. Taking a slow drag, you coughed, the burn familiar but unwelcome after years away. “You know,” you started, voice quieter now, “I never wanted kids. I even got a hysterectomy, but... I think their RCT might’ve worked on me.”

Sukuna leaned back, smirking as if the universe amused him. “Good thing I hate brats too,” he said, his tone laced with mockery but softened by something genuine. “But I’d be fine either way you lean. I care more about you than any kid.”

You tilted your head, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “So confident I’d end up with you, huh?”

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate.

The words spilled from you before you could stop them. “But I’m sure. I don’t want any more kids. I’m done.”

His grin widened, sharp and wolfish. “Great. Then I’ll have you all to myself,” he said, plucking the cigarette from your hand and taking a drag as if the conversation hadn’t just carved open a vulnerable piece of you.

You watched him for a moment, the question heavy on your tongue before you gave in to it. “Why are you still here? I mean... you’re attractive, Sukuna. You could have anyone. Why’d you help me?”

He exhaled smoke slowly, his gaze cutting to yours. “You really want to know?”

You nodded, feeling the tension coil in the air between you.

“The first time I saw you was at that dingy grocery store near our building in Norway. You were glaring at a Norwegian label like you could burn it into understanding if you stared hard enough.” He smirked, the memory vivid in his mind. “Then some store employee came over, and you covered your belly like you’d fight him if he even looked at you wrong. You were scared—hell, I’ve seen fear before, plenty of it—but yours was different. The kind I’d seen in survivors—the kind that said you’ve been through hell and still haven’t given up. There was this stubbornness in your eyes, like you’d fight to your last breath even knowing you’d lose.”

His voice dipped lower, his eyes locking onto yours. “That’s when I knew I wanted to know you more. Then you walked past me like I didn’t exist. You didn’t even glance my way. I knew right then you weren’t a sorcerer. You were oblivious, but your fear begged me to protect you. Practically dared me.”

A laugh escaped you, soft but real. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle a woman not noticing you,” you teased, though your gaze lingered on him, soft and awed, like he’d hung the stars just for you.

His grin sharpened, dangerous yet intoxicating. Without warning, he flicked the cigarette over the railing, his hand shooting out to grab your waist. You gasped as he pulled you flush against him, his heat burning through your defenses.

His lips crashed into yours, the kiss anything but gentle. It was raw, demanding, and devastatingly sensual, as if he was trying to claim every fractured piece of you. Your hands instinctively found his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that left you breathless. Your head tilted back as his hand tangled in your hair, the other anchoring you to him. The world blurred around you, the city’s hum fading into nothingness.

When you finally broke apart, your chest heaved, your lips tingling from the intensity. His crimson eyes bore into yours, a smirk playing on his lips. “Still think I’m not worth noticing, princess?” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you smiled, leaning into him, the ache in your chest momentarily quieted by the storm he’d stirred in you.

---

Japan

// Playlist

The apartment was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the refrigerator. It had been months since Gojo and Nanami had received the news, but the weight of it hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier, pressing them into themselves, into the shadows of their shared space.

Gojo sat in the darkness of their penthouse, the glow of the city outside mocking him with its indifference. The blinds were drawn just enough for the neon lights to cast fractured shadows across the floor. His sunglasses sat abandoned on the table, forgotten. His eyes—once impossibly bright, reflecting the limitless sky—were bloodshot and hollow, the kind of emptiness that no amount of sleep could fix.

His phone buzzed on the table, a cruel reminder of the hundred unanswered messages he’d already sent. He stared at it for a moment, his hand twitching toward it before falling back to his lap.

He chuckled, the sound sharp and bitter. “Why bother?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The white strands fell limply, no longer carrying their usual defiance.

Across the penthouse in your old office, Nanami sat with the glass in his hand, the amber liquid inside untouched. He stared at it, his reflection distorted by the curve of the glass.

He thought of the twins. Their faces haunted him—not as they were in the sterile images of the report, but as they could have been. A boy with Gojo’s wild grin and his own steady gaze. A girl with your sharp wit and quiet strength.

He raised the glass to his lips but hesitated, the smell of alcohol turning his stomach. With a quiet curse, he set it down, the sound of glass on wood too loud in the silence.

//

The train station was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Gojo stood near the edge of the platform, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. The sound of the approaching train grew louder, the vibration humming through his feet.

He stepped closer, the yellow line glaring up at him like a warning.

Just one step.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration jolting him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with another name that wasn’t yours.

Yuta.

He hesitated before answering, his voice cracking as he said, “What?”

“Sensei?” Yuta’s voice was hesitant, like he was trying to gauge how far Gojo had fallen. “I just... wanted to check on you. You’ve been... quiet. We heard you were suspended.”

Gojo let out a dry laugh, stepping back from the edge. “Quiet’s good, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Gojo replied, ending the call before Yuta could say anything else.

The Rainbow Bridge stretched out before him, its lights reflected in the dark waters below. Nanami gripped the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at his jacket like it was trying to pull him over the edge.

He leaned forward, staring down at the waves.

He thought of you. Of your smile before everything went wrong. Of the way you used to laugh at his dry humor, your head tilted just slightly.

The phone in his pocket felt like a lead weight. He pulled it out, his thumb hovering over your name.

What could he even say?

The words felt heavy, impossible. Instead, he stared at the screen until it dimmed, the reflection of his hollow face staring back at him.

//

At home, Gojo stared at the bottle of pills on his nightstand, his hand hovering over the cap. His reflection in the nearby mirror caught his eye—he barely recognized the man staring back.

“You’re pathetic,” he muttered, the words slicing through the silence.

Nanami sat on the floor of his bathroom, his back against the wall. The report sat beside him, its pages wrinkled and stained with spilled whiskey.

“They never had a chance,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Both men lived in the silence, haunted by memories of what could have been. The world moved on around them, but they were stuck, trapped in a purgatory of their own making.

The only thing keeping them tethered to this existence was the faint hope that, one day, you might pick up the phone. One day, you might let them explain. One day, you might forgive them.

But for now, they waited, drowning in the unbearable weight of their own guilt.

A/N: And that’s how we turn pain into comedy and back again. I know you’re emotionally damaged (same). Who do you think was the woman Sukuna went to meet? (Hint: It's not Urame, so use your critical thinking skills). Meanwhile, Gojo and Nanami are one bad day away from booking permanent balcony seats in purgatory. Next chapter, we might actually let Nanami catch a break—or not. What do you think? Should Gojo finally punch Sukuna for calling him a ‘failed Barbie’? But seriously, next chapter—more tension, more heartbreak; maybe someone actually admits how they feel and SUMT (don't expect too much; I'm not very good at it).

Next Chapter will be out in 2-3 Days.

Also I have a seprate fluff series going on which can be read as part of this AU - Bubble Butt Problems - Nanami X Reader X Gojo - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx

Taglist Open - If I missed to tag anyone, please remind me.

[yumeka-sxf]

Relatively short new chapter today, but still a lot to unpack! While we didn't get a ton of Melinda lore yet, as the majority of the chapter was Loid saying things to try and win her over, I found it interesting to see insight into one of his "fake" therapy sessions.

As usual with all the conversations he has with people in his "Loid Forger" persona, if the topic gets heavy, he'll end up saying things that are, what I believe, what he truly feels. This is usually preceded by him dropping the forced smile and showing a glimpse of a more thoughtful expression, for example, in the below panel when Melinda comments on how strong and "lively" she thinks Loid and Yor are. He then goes on to tell her that there's no crime or shame in not being strong enough.

While it is debatable whether he's being genuine here or not, I can't help but be reminded of similar conversations he's had with Yor in the past...way back in chapter 14 where he told her how tiring it can be to put up a facade all the time. And then much later in chapter 86 where she tells him, in her own way, that he doesn't have to be strong and "perfect" all the time.

I'm probably reading too much into it, but it's just something that came to mind 😅 But on the topic of Melinda saying they're "lively," the word she uses in the Japanese version in 健全な ("kanzenna") which is more like "healthy, sound, stable, etc" (the first kanji is "healthy/strong," and the second is "whole/all.") So yeah, a slightly different nuance than "lively."

I also smiled when I saw that Loid still calls Yor "Yor-san" in his thoughts ❤️

It wouldn't be a SxF chapter with at least a subtle hint at something "darker" going on or has gone on...in this case, we hear a bit of Melinda's thoughts about the post-war time.

But the big shocker was obviously the final page where she claims that Donovan is an alien. I checked the Japanese version to make sure, and she does indeed use the term 宇宙人 ("uchuujin"), which is "alien" in the traditional sense.

Upcoming plot twist...this previous Endo art for short mission 10 will turn out to be canon 🤣

Joking aside, I don't think that Donovan is literally an alien, as mixing a truly sci-fi element like that into the world of SxF would be too jarring. So probably something that Donovan has done made Melinda come to that conclusion. As for what it is about him that that would make her think this is debatable - his involvement in science experiments/Project Apple? If he actually has the ability to read minds, is this the explanation she's come up? Or maybe he wants her to think this for some reason? There's also a theory that she doesn't actually believe he's an alien and is only saying it to test Loid in some way. Whatever the reason is, we'll have to wait until next time for more answers!

[absurdthirst]

New Year, New Murder {Dave York x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: Arguing, lusting after a married man, murder daddy, assassinations, undercover role-play, crossing a line, infidelity (?), oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, different positions, disgust, self loathing, abandonment, drugging, shooting, Dave being a charming bastard, lovemaking

Comments: Wanting to go into the field as an operative, you keep getting held back by your boss, Dave York. Handsome, married, he's everything you want and you hate yourself for it. Until you convince him to let you work a target with him on New Year's Eve and everything changes.

🎉🎉Happy New Year! I know it's late, but we were recovering 😂

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Dave York MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“I have the schematics for the building, and it looks like the best exit point is at the north end corner, through the kitchens.” You know that you can count on Dave York to ask a million other questions and try to poke holes in the information that you are giving him, but this is rock solid. You don’t even turn back towards the four men that are sitting around the conference room. You know that they are watching closely. Every piece of intel that you can give can mean the difference between life and death. They know that you want them to come out on the other side of the op, hell, you want to be in the op. “The best possible plan you could have would involve five.” You point out. “Your four man team and a fifth.” Now you turn around. “A woman.” You add. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I would be the perfect cover for Dave.” Your eyes slide over to meet his dark eyes. You shouldn’t be attracted to him, he’s married and worse, he’s turned down every request for you to move to the field.You should hate him, but you find your stomach twisting with that familiar pull that can only be described as pure lust. 

Dave hums at your idea, his stomach twisting at the idea of you out there in the field. He doesn’t want to put his best techie at risk. You are the one in his ear on ops, the reassuring presence that lets him go home every time. You’re smart…and beautiful. Too beautiful. He watches you stand there, the screen behind you displaying the floor plan of the hotel. “I don’t think I need a woman. I will be just fine on my own.” He insists, tapping his fingers on the conference table.

“Of course.” You want to say something sarcastic but you just shoot him a tight smile and turn back towards the presentation. You had known he would turn you down, but you had a try.

You go over the details of the op, showing him the best exits in the building and how to blend in, discussing some of the attendees. Dave nods and takes mental notes, his eyes drifting along your form when you turn your back to him. When you're done, he dismisses the team and stands up, watching you as you shut down the screen. "You have a problem, sweetheart?" He asks, noticing how tense you are.

“Yeah, I do.” You spit out, before you shut your mouth again. It doesn’t make a difference, the team leader is stubborn. “Well?” He chuckles when you don’t say anything else as you pack up your computer with obviously irritated, jerky movements. “What is it?” The mere question pisses you off and you whirl around, eyes flashing angrily. “You know as well as I do that this plan would be better with a woman going in with you.” You hiss. “But for some damn reason, you think I couldn’t handle a little field work.”

Dave scoffs, watching you act like a teenager. “It would work better but then I’d have to focus on not only getting in and out without being noticed, killing the target, and not worrying about you. It’s impossible. You’d bring attention to us and I’d be worrying the whole night about your safety. I feel responsible for you.” He explains coolly even though his stomach twists at the idea of anything happening to you.

You snort and shake your head. “I’ve completed all the training.” You remind Dave. “I would be fine. And I’m not some overly sexy supermodel that would turn heads. But four men by themselves at this party would be unusual, having a woman in the mix would help.” You shake your head and turn back to packing up your equipment. “Nevermind. Be safe, have a good mission and see you next year.”

Dave frowns, not wanting you to be angry at him before the op. “You can come.” He announces before you leave the room. He knows this is what leads to you doing stuff behind his back. Talking to other agencies or teams to be out in the field and he’d rather have you with him so he can protect you.

You freeze, astonished that he had agreed to let you go. Turning and staring at him for a second. “What?” You demand and he rolls his eyes. “You can come on the op.” He repeats. “Dress nice.” He sighs. “It is New Year’s Eve after all.”

You nod, excited to prove yourself, and Dave sees your eyes light up. Fuck, that makes his stomach twist with desire. You’re too fucking beautiful. “I’ll pick you up at nine.” He says and you nod, eager to head home and start getting ready. Dave sighs when you practically skip out of the room. “Fuck.” He murmurs and rubs his cheek, unsure of how he’s going to keep you safe tonight. 

****

Dave knows he can’t just honk the horn for you to get in his car so he parks on your driveway and walks to the front door, ringing the doorbell before he adjusts his cufflinks while he waits for you.

Checking the mirror one last time to make sure that the knife you had strapped to your upper thigh isn’t visible, you try to ignore how much effort you had put into your appearance. Dave is a married man, you shouldn’t want him. He has a wife and two beautiful little girls, so the primping and the lipstick and push up bra you are wearing that match the lace panties under your dress are purely for yourself. That's the lie you tell yourself, anyway. Satisfied, you open the door to find Dave looking positively wicked in a black tuxedo that makes your cunt clench and your body tighten in need. “Hi.” You murmur breathlessly. “Let me get my bag.” You tell him, trying not to imagine this as a real New Year’s Eve date. 

Dave’s eyes drift down to your ass, a soft groan escaping his lips as he admires the dress you’re wearing. You look fucking gorgeous and he knows he can’t touch you. Not because he’s married. He’s divorced. Carol is the one who wanted it. Said she couldn’t handle him going off for days without contact with no explanation and he couldn’t explain it so she said they’re over. He was sad, mainly to lose the girls full time, but he sees them every weekend. He didn’t tell anyone at work, wanting the cover of marriage to get out of BS after work drinks and boring shit he doesn’t want to be involved in. You come back with your purse and he steps aside, letting you lock up your place before he escorts you to his car.

You try not to shiver when he puts his hand on your lower back. Bare skin because of the strategic cutout that you think looks amazing. His hand is warm and you can feel the calluses. It will be something you think about tonight when you are in bed alone with your vibrator between your thighs. “Carol isn’t too disappointed you have to work, is she?” You ask, mainly to remind yourself this man is taken so you don’t spin around and throw yourself at him.

Dave shakes his head before he opens the door, “she’s busy tonight and the girls have a babysitter.” He knows Carol has been seeing some guy at her gym. He’s already vetted him and doesn’t give a fuck that she’s already fucking someone else. He just doesn’t want the asshole around his kids if he’s dangerous. Either agency or civilian. Dave opens the door and you frown at his answer as you slide into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and rounds the car, getting into the driver's side.

“The guys are already there?” It seems now like they are going with your original plan that you had lined out. The team is already in place and you and Dave will arrive separate.

Dave pulls up at the hotel, reluctant to use the valet but he has no choice. There's no self parking and that would make him stick out even more. The valet takes his key and Dave tucks the card into his pocket before he rounds the car to help you out, offering you his hand.

“They are already in place.” Dave taps the comm he has in his ear that he turned off when he picked you up. 

You slide your hand into his, looking up at him with an adoring gaze since the extra valets are watching. It’s not an act, but you can finally not hide how you feel about him, even if he will just think you are one hell of an actress.

Dave hates how you look at him. Like he’s hung the moon and the stars. He’s not an idiot. He knows you have a crush on him and that’s what makes this so difficult. He doesn’t want to hurt you and he doesn’t want to see you get hurt. Yet he knows he’d destroy you. He escorts you into the hotel, following the signs to the ballroom where the event is being held and he squeezes your hand when you enter, “you want a drink, sweetheart?” He asks, knowing he will have a Coke but you can have a glass of champagne.

“I’ll stick with seltzer water.” You murmur softly. “It isn’t professional to get drunk on an op.” You know that sometimes you have to drink but a club soda will look like a drink in your hand. That will do.

Dave nods, impressed by your dedication. Most would’ve failed by now and already been grabbing a glass of champagne. He guides you over to the bar, his hand shifting to your back, and he gestures for the bartender to come over. “Coke and a Club soda.” He orders and the bartender walks off. “So…you see our person?” He asks, leaning in closer.

Instead of scanning the room like a novice would, you glance in the large mirror that is above the bar and gives an excellent view of the large ballroom. “Two o’clock.” You murmur softly, leaning in and looking like you are whispering something loving in his ear. “Grey suit with a maroon shirt and black tie.”

Dave glances in the mirror to the target, his hand rubbing your back as he leans closer and murmurs, "good eye, sweetheart. It's early. We need to wait until he has had a few more drinks before we strike. We need people to be drunk to believe that he fell off a balcony." He whispers, his lips brushing your ear.

You can’t help the soft sound you make, but you don’t think he hears it. It’s loud in the ballroom. The bartender slides your drinks in front of you and you take your club soda with a flirtatious smile. “Thank you.” You hum before you press closer to Dave. “Shall we mingle?” You coo.

Dave nods, his hand caressing your bare skin on your back as he throws some cash down for the drinks and he escorts you into the crowd. You are a natural and he hates how easy it is for you to excel at being in the field. He desperately wants to keep you safe but he’s being selfish wanting that.

Making sure to keep your expression almost bored, you glance around the ballroom. Taking note of the exits and the security that is placed around the room. “Oh darling, look.” You seem excited as you point towards the dance floor. “Cameras are pointed away from the balcony.” You murmur softly. “Dancing.” You say louder. “We should dance.”

Dave knows he should keep you at arms distance…literally…but he’s finding it hard to keep away from you. He takes your hand, escorting you to the dance floor where several other couples are and he pulls you close as the band plays a slow song.

You hum softly to the music as Dave pulls you close. The scent of his spicy cologne filling your senses and making you swoon slightly at the way he holds you. It’s possessive, even though it’s just for show. “A new year, new beginnings.” You murmur softly.

Dave allows himself a moment to pull you close. Your perfume hits his senses and he hisses under his teeth at the flowery scent. "Everything okay?" You ask and he nods, offering you a soft smile, "yeah. All good." He promises, rubbing your back and he squeezes your hand, spinning you around.

You laugh softly, not expecting the move but loving how he guides you around the dance floor. For a moment, he smiles and you can pretend he wants to dance with you and it’s not just a cover. A fairytale moment that has your heart pounding and you smile as you come back into his arms. “Mr. Stephens.” You use the fake name he had gotten the invitation under. “You are too smooth, sir.” You flirt. “Keep that up and you will find a girl breathless over here.”

He wishes his real name had fallen from your lips but you are doing a good job of keeping cover. He feels like he could fail at any moment when he has you looking into his eyes like that. “That’s my plan.” He flirts back, “keep you breathless all night long until you let me keep you.” He says, his words true but his tone is playful and flirty…an act that he is finding too comfortable.

You swallow slightly, hoping he doesn’t notice but you’re sure he will. Dave doesn’t miss anything. “Keeping me would never be the problem.” You try to keep your own tone light and flirty, but it comes out seductive.

Fuck, he wants to keep you. He really does. He murmurs your name, pulling you closer to conceal it, and your sigh puffs against his neck. It’s clear that he could take you as his own but he’s not selfish enough to do that. “Can you see him?” He asks, voice rough with some unknown emotion.

“Yes.” Your own voice sounds wrecked, like you are barely holding onto your sanity but your eyes swing over to the target. “He’s alone.” You murmur. “Drunk.”

“Good.” Dave murmurs, “we will leave him for another ten minutes and then the plan can go into action.” He taps his ear, acting like he’s scratching. “Ten minutes.” He says to the team before he mutes himself again and the song comes to an end. “Let’s make some small talk, make our way over to him.”

“Of course.” You let him lead you off the dance floor, his arm around your waist as you head towards a group of people. At these functions, no one knows everyone, not even the host, so it’s not unusual to introduce yourself.

Dave guides you over to a group, wanting people to see him and know him by a different name. “Great party, right?” One of the guys asks and Dave hums, a smile on his face, “perfect way to see in the new year. Doesn’t hurt that I get to see my girl all dressed up.” He winks at you and squeezes your waist.

You fluster prettily and slap his chest with one hand. “He flatters me.” You hum. “It’s nice, even though he knows he’s guaranteed to ring in the New Year with sex.”

Dave chuckles and leans in to softly kiss your hair, “I gotta treat her good. Kiss her real good when the clock strikes midnight.” He winks and the group chuckle, “you’re a lucky bastard.” One man chuckles. “So…how do you know Peter?” A woman asks, naturally nosey if Dave’s instincts are correct, inquiring about how you know the host of the party.

You have done extensive background checks on Peter Malwick, the person responsible for the party. You smile and turn towards Dave, curling into his side. “Our daughter, Mila, attends St. John’s with Stacy.” You play with the lapel of Dave’s jacket. “Sometimes the men go golfing together while we do the monthly charity bake sales.”

Dave caresses your back, a smirk on his face, “I got a birdie last time we went out and then I got to come home and sample one of my wife’s cupcakes. She’s a dream baker.” He leans in to nuzzle his nose against your cheek and the women in the group coo while the men appraise you. Dave has played this game many times but never with a partner and he finds it’s easier to play the crowd with someone else.

You hum, eyes slipping closed like this is a game you and Dave constantly play. It’s easy to act like you are in love with him. “That was a good day.” You giggle, like you are talking about more than golf or cupcakes. The woman who had asked about the two of you seems positively convinced and you turn your head to drop a kiss right at the edge of Dave’s mouth. “How about you?” You ask. “How do you know Pete?”

The woman goes to speak but her husband cuts her off with a look and he says “oh we are in the same business. He’s a close associate of mine.” He says vaguely and Dave hums, “he’s a very successful man.” The husband nods and pulls his wife close, squeezing her arm in warning.

You notice the move but you don’t say anything, smiling at the couple like nothing is amiss. “Sweetheart, I think I need another drink.” You shake your empty glass for effect. “Shall we go get another?” You look over at the woman with a shrug. “Vodka sodas are the drinks that have the least calories here.” You tell her.

She giggles and winks, “perfect.” Dave escorts you back to the bar and he orders you another club soda. “The stage is set. Just gotta wait for the right moment.” He murmurs, rubbing your back as he watches in the mirror.

“Yes, we do.” You murmur softly, looking over at him in complete adoration and lean into his touch. “It will come soon enough.” Your eyes watch as your target stumbles, spilling his drink. “Very soon.”

Dave hums, leaning closer to nudge his nose against your ear. “We will be here until midnight until we are able to take him out. We need to get him outside on the balcony when everyone is distracted.”

“Ringing in the new year.” You hum, smirking slightly. “Sounds like something I’m going to think about later.” You will go back to your house and spend the rest of the evening thinking about Dave inside you. How you wish you had spent New Year’s.

Dave hums, taking a sip of his drink after it’s set down on the bar. He leans closer to you, his free hand on your lower back as he watches your expression in the mirror. You look a little flustered and he wonders if it’s the op or his proximity. Deciding to test you, he leans closer to run his nose along your neck, breathing in the scent of your perfume.

Your cover slips, or perhaps you just lean into it. After all, you are supposed to be posing as his wife. Your breath hitches slightly and you want to turn your head to kiss him. You want to so badly your lips tingle, but you remind yourself that this is just an act. A farce to sell the fact that you are supposed to be here. “Dave.” You murmur breathlessly. 

He knows what you want right now and he can’t give it to you. If he kisses you, he won’t want to stop and he can’t put you in danger. He leans closer, his lips almost brushing your jaw and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “It’s almost midnight.” He murmurs, breath washing over your cheek, “and then we will get our target.”

You snap back to your senses and rock back an inch away from him. “Roger.” You murmur, swallowing harshly and turning your head back towards the mirror to keep an eye on the target while your stomach twists in disappointment. Ashamed of yourself for being upset that Dave kissed your cheek instead of your lips. You have to get away from him. The interview you had last week replays in your mind and you rethink your plan. Right now you just need to accomplish this mission.

Dave hums as he takes another sip of his drink, the clock ticking down and soon the band is announcing the countdown is coming up. “We will countdown, make sure everyone sees us and then we will follow him outside. The guys have already made sure he’s outside, smoking a cigar, so we can do this quickly.” He murmurs again.

“You’re the boss.” You remind him and yourself as you straighten up and reach for the drink that has been refreshed. You wish it did have vodka in it right now as you take a sip, but you know that drinking could jeopardize the mission as well as your sanity. The last thing you need is to beg Dave to fuck you in the bathroom or something. There is a room that has been rented under your alias names to complete the cover as a couple enjoying the New Year’s party, but you have no intention of actually using it. 

Dave can feel how tense you are but right now, he has your safety in mind, and that means he’s solely focused on the op. When the countdown is about to start, he takes your hand and guides you towards the balcony, stopping on the edge of the dance floor as the countdown starts. To anyone watching, you’re a couple cheering in the new year, and so that’s what Dave plays. “Three…two…one!” The cheers are loud but Dave surges forward to press his lips to yours, his hand cupping your cheek.

He’s kissing you. You melt into the kiss for a moment. Giving in to the need swirling in your stomach and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close. Letting him in when his tongue slides against your lips to demand entrance. Giving him every part of you while the confetti and streamers fall all around you and everyone starts to sing ’Auld Lang Syne’. 

He knows he shouldn’t kiss you like this but he indulges himself this one time. He pulls you close, pecking your lips as he tears himself away from you, knowing that he needs to complete this op. He takes your hand while everyone is cheering, escorting you to the balcony. Anyone watching would think he wants more than a kiss right now with the way his eyes darken but he’s shifting his focus as he opens the balcony door for you.

You try to control your breathing, snapping back into your operational mindset. The mission is the most important thing and you see the target leaning against the railing, a ring of smoke blowing up into the air from the cigar in his hand. There’s only a few moments to be had before revelers will spill out on the balcony and you need to take advantage of it. You feel Dave’s hand squeeze yours and you give him a small squeeze back. You’re ready. 

The target has already been drugged by Resnik who slipped by the target when he got his drink. He should be disoriented and that’s exactly what you find when you and Dave step out into the balcony. No one else is out there so Dave grabs you, dragging you closer to press his lips to yours as he walks backwards towards the target.

You know what Dave is doing, your eyes open and you’re surprised that he is letting you guide him towards the target. “Shit!” The target drops his cigar over the edge and bends down far over the edge for some reason even though it is falling down to the ground five stories below you. “Now.” You murmur against his lips, the perfect opportunity being created for you. 

He wastes no time spinning around and he slams into the target making him cry out as he goes head first over the balcony railing and a few moments later you hear the bang of his body hitting the concrete. Dave pulls away from you, shifting to look over the edge and he sees the twisted body of the target, blood starting to pour from his body.

“We should move.” You murmur, knowing that the team needs to disperse. None of you need to be around when the body is discovered. Resnik lifts his brows at you, surprised by the kiss the two of you shared but you don’t say anything else and he disappears into the shadows of the balcony.

Dave knows Resnik will handle the rest of the op so Dave takes your hand, “let’s go to the room. We need to have more witnesses that see us go to the room. To sell the story.” He murmurs, unsure if he really thinks it’s needed. If he was alone, he’d be gone already but right now, the kisses have muddled his mind and he needs a moment to reconvene…the room will give him that.

You don’t question him, but you giggle as soon as you enter the ballroom, starting to put on a show for anyone who might be looking. “Take me to bed, baby.” You coo, curling around him and sliding your hand up his chest. “I want to spend the rest of the night with you inside me.” 

Dave wants to indulge in those words, take you to bed and show you how good it can be, but he knows he can’t do that. He’d be risking you, making you his in a way that he’d never be able to forget, and he can’t cross the line but right now, he has to act like he is. “Come on baby. Wanna get you naked to celebrate the new year,”

Anyone who watches you would just see a couple eager to get back to their hotel room. Your steps swiftly carry you away from the ballroom and you are on the elevator before the first screams are heard when someone spots the broken body of the man  you had been contracted to kill. On the elevator, you know the cameras inside will be recording you, so you pull Dave close and wrap your arm around his neck to drag his lips down to yours for a kiss. Continuing your cover as the eager partygoers. 

Dave groans, pushing you up against the wall of the car without care. He knows this is for show and when you are in the room, he will ensure you are okay and he will wait until the appropriate time to sneak out with you. Resnik has orders to cut cameras on his order so you can sneak out. For now though, he slides his tongue into your mouth and grips your waist.

You let yourself get lost in the kiss, knowing that this will be the last time, the only time you get to have him like that. You grind against his hard body and feel him respond. Thrilled that even if he can’t have you, he wants you. Even if it is just physically. You tell yourself it’s for the camera but it’s a lie as you slide your hand down between you and squeeze his cock through his tuxedo trousers.

Dave hisses at your touch, knowing he shouldn’t allow you to do this but it feeds the dirty thoughts he has had about you all night. He’s imagined taking you somewhere, making you moan his name. His hand slides down to squeeze your ass, giving you a taste of your own medicine, and he chuckles when you whimper against his mouth as the doors open. “Come on.” He demands, voice raspy with desire as he takes your hand to drag you down the hall.

You feel like you are on fire, but you know that you can’t take it farther. When you get to the room, you will both revert back to your normal professional relationship, the acting will be over. Dave holds onto your hand even as he pulls out the key card and opens the door. He pushes you inside and you hear the door click behind you as you try to catch your breath.

Dave hears your panting and he snaps. He can't help himself. He spins around and grabs you, pushing you up against the door of the hotel room. His nose presses against yours, his eyes open as he stares at you, "tell me to stop." He demands, needing you to order him to stop when all he wants is to strip you down and do what he's imagined more times than he cares to admit.

Your gasp is breathless and eyes wide when he presses you against the door. His own eyes are dark and you can see the lust swimming in their depth, making your core burn and you can’t deny him. “Don’t stop.” You whisper, wanting him despite knowing that it’s wrong. You just want one night with him, then you will somehow figure out how to live with the shame. 

The permission makes him groan, his lips pressing urgently against yours again. His hands desperate as they grab you, already working on finding the zipper of your dress. It’s wrong. He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t touch you. Yet he can’t stop. His heart pounds, all composure thrown aside and he pulls the zipper down.

As soon as his hands start to strip you, your own become frantic. Pushing the tailored jacket of his tux over his broad shoulders and starting tugging on his bowtie. Impressed and frustrated by the fact that it’s real and not just a clip on. You want him naked, you need to feel his skin under your hands. Nearly ripping the buttons of his dress shirt. Your comms is pulled out of your ear and tossed aside, you don’t want the team to hear you. “Dave.” You moan when he finally pulls away to peel his shirt and jacket off while your dress falls to the floor. Leaving you standing in your heels, bra and panties with the knife strapped to your thigh. 

Dave trails his eyes along your form, loving how gorgeous you look in the matching set and he knows you well enough to know that you picked that out with him in mind. He smirks, licking his lips and taking in your figure. You fluster and he chuckles, toeing off his shoes to leave them by the door. “Go lay down on the bed, sweetheart.” He orders, “keep the heels on.” He says as he works on his pants.

You shiver slightly, obeying him and forgetting everything but how much you want this man. You watch as you lay back on the bed, propped up on your elbows as he strips out of his pants and leaves himself in his boxer briefs. You lick your lips and shake your head. “All of it.” You demand, wanting to see him. 

He nods, watching you as he pushes his boxers down. His cock is hard, leaking pre-cum as it bounces when he kicks his pants away. You moan and he smirks, reaching down to squeeze his cock. “You want this.” He states, knowing he doesn’t have a doubt of that. “Tell me what you’ve thought about with your fingers inside that pretty pussy.” He orders, pumping himself.

Your eyes are greedy as they roam over his body, drinking in the sight of him. He’s so sexy, even more so with his cock in his hand as he strokes himself. You can feel your pussy dripping with need and you clench around nothing. “You.” You admit shamelessly. “Fuck me. Over the desk in your office. In the gym showers. Sucking your cock when you come in from an op.” 

Dave chuckles, knowing that your thoughts have been filthy and hearing them spoken into the air has him twitching in his hand. “Take your panties off. And the bra. Wanna see all of you. Keep the heels on.” He demands again, his dark eyes trailing along your form.

You sit up to reach behind you so that you unclip your bra. Tossing it aside after sliding the straps down your arms. You lay back down and lift your hips, shoving the lace down and using the heel of your left shoe to hook the panties on and fling them off. You aren’t shy, spreading your legs for him to get a perfect view of your wet cunt. 

Dave groans, eying your bare cunt. It's obvious you wax and he fucking loves that. He steps closer, looming over you, and he moves so fast your gasp echoes when he surges forward to bury his face in your cunt.

You are completely surprised by the face that Dave is eating you out, you hadn’t expected it. You had expected him to want you to suck his cock. His tongue burns a path through your folds as you tangle your fingers through his short hair and you grind your hips down against his face. “Dave.” You moan, eyes closed as you shudder. 

Your moan has him squeezing his cock in his fist as he tastes the tang of your arousal. Fuck, you taste sweet and sour. He loves it. He groans into your flesh, lapping at it as you moan his name again.

He’s not trying to rush you towards an orgasm, or just get you wet enough to fuck. He’s tearing you apart with his tongue. Each stroke is designed to make your stomach clench and your toes curl as he licks into your aching core. You are already so turned on that every flick of his tongue makes your body jolt, so close to coming apart. “Fuck - I- I’m so close.” You pant out. 

Dave can’t believe how worked up you are and he loves it. He groans into your flesh, sucking your clit between his lips, and he desperately wants to hear you fall apart. He wants to taste you. He doubles down, sucking harder on your clit to push you over the edge.

Your thighs shake and with one more suck on your clit, you are screaming out his name for everyone on your floor to hear. Core twisting and flooding in pleasure, cunt gushing as you buck up against his mouth. 

Dave groans, lapping at your cum to work you through it. Your thighs squeezing his head and he loves it. He laps at you until you push his head away. He smirks, his chin shiny with your slick, and he squeezes his cock as he shifts to kneel on the foot of the bed.

“Fuck me.” You beg softly, needing to feel him inside you. You spread your legs enticingly and all of the reasons that you should push him away are forgotten with the dark look in his eyes. He wants you just as badly as you want him. “Dave, fuck me.” 

He can’t deny you when you beg so sweetly. He hisses and shifts to kneel between your thighs, gripping his cock. He pushes into you, walls fluttering to adjust to him and he loves the way your jaw drops. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch and every fucking drop I give you.” He demands, jaw clenched as he looms over you.

You mewl in pleasure as he notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance and starts to push into you. Mouth dropping open as he stretches you out, your hands slide up to his arms, nails digging into his biceps from how good it feels. It’s perfect, he’s perfect inside you, filling up all the emptiness and giving you so much pleasure from the slow and steady roll of his hips. 

He hisses at how your cunt grips him like a vice. It makes his eyes squeeze shut until he opens them, remembering that he wants to watch you take him. He groans your name as he starts to move faster, your tits bouncing with each rock of his hips. “Take it.” He demands, his hands gripping your hips.

You do take it, all you can do is take it. Moaning, you hold onto his shoulders and start to lift your hips up when he thrusts down into you. Wanting this to be more than just a passive experience. You want to move with him. To give back to him. Your walls clench around him when he twitches inside you and you smirk when he groans your name. 

He knows he should’ve stayed away from you but right now, all he can do is fuck you hard and fast. The sounds in the room are your moans and the slap of skin as he fucks into your tight cunt.

It’s everything you expected, everything you wanted from fucking Dave. It’s harsh and passionate, wonderfully rough. You kiss along his jaw and drag your nails down his back, down to grip his ass to feel as he pumps into you. “More.” you beg, “I want more.” 

He leans down to press his lips to yours, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth. His fingers bruising until they slide up to squeeze your breast. “Feel so good, baby. Always knew you would.”

You moan, thrilled that he had thought about this. That he had imagined fucking you. It’s wrong on so many levels, but you can’t care when he’s hammering into you like he’s going to fuck you to death.

Dave loves how you take everything he gives. Your moans vibrate against his lips and he adjusts his hips, wanting to make you fall apart for him. He needs to feel your walls clamp down on him.

His hips snap forward again and again, the coarse hair surrounding his cock rubbing your clit and the next thrust pushes you over the edge. Your legs tighten and your back bows up, head pushing back into the plush pillow as you cry out. “Dave!”

His eyes roll into the back of his head when you clamp down onto his cock, soaking him, and your cry of his name echoes in the room. “Fuck.” He growls, working you through it. When you stop shaking beneath him, he pulls out of you and you whine. He wastes no time flipping you over, smacking your ass, “hands and knees, baby.”

Your face is pressed to the sheets but you don’t care. Gathering your knees under you to present your pussy and ass to Dave behind you. You want to feel him again and you whine. “Fuck me.” You beg breathlessly, hating how empty you feel.

Dave chuckles, caressing your ass, and he smacks it as you arch your back. He wastes no time squeezing his wet cock, positioning himself at your entrance, and he pushes into you. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He growls when he sinks into you again.

You moan in pleasure, unable to articulate how good he feels. He feels incredible inside you. His cock scrubs against your walls and pushes against something incredible inside you from this angle.

Dave caresses your spine until he smacks your ass with his palm. He starts to move inside you, “fuck baby. You feel so good. Is this what you thought about? Imagined when you rubbed that little clit?”

“Yes.” You gasp out, the sound almost garbled as you moan right afterwards. He’s thick and heavy inside you, pushing just right to make your thighs shake up under you.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he fucks you harder, desperate to hear your cries of pleasure, and he chuckles when you whine, tits swaying with each thrust. “Fuck. Need you to cum again for me.” Dave demands, knowing you’ll be torn apart by him and that’s what he wants.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to cum when you’ve already had one orgasm. Usually you don’t have more than one, but he is determined. Grunting and panting behind you as he rocks into you. Making you whimper and whine as your body starts to tense up again.

Dave grunts, pushing into you harder and faster when he feels your walls fluttering. You’re close. He can feel it. “That’s it baby. That’s it.” He growls when you clamp down on his cock like he wanted. “Such a good fucking girl.” He hisses and pushes into you. He’s so fucking close. His eyes roll into the back of his head when he thrusts a half dozen more times and falls apart with a growl of your name, painting your walls with his cum.

The heat floods your core and you moan. Loving every throbbing pulse as he fills you up. It’s perfect and you close your eyes, panting softly. Boneless and limp from the pleasure

You collapse forward into the crumbled sheets and Dave smirks at how wrecked you look. You look like you need the night to recover and he chuckles, playfully smacking your ass before he leans down to kiss your shoulder as he slowly pulls out of you. “Fucking perfect.” He grunts as he shifts to flop down beside you.

Your head is pleasantly buzzing and you feel drunk even though you didn’t consume one drop of alcohol. “Happy New Year.” You murmur softly. “I could sleep for a week now.” You hum, giggling slightly. “Think they would let me keep the room?”

Dave chuckles, shifting to fold his arms behind his head, “maybe.” He is pleased that you are satisfied. He certainly is. “We will clean up and then we will get out of here.”

“Go home.” It’s like a bucket of cold water has been splashed on you. Dave is married. You had purposefully ignored that, or tried to, while he was buried deep since you, but now you can’t hide from it. “You better stop and pick your girls and wife up something nice since you’re away tonight.” You sit up and start to climb off the bed, standing on shaky legs.

Dave watches you stand up and he frowns. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell you the truth but he can’t. He sits up, his stomach swirling with guilt and he shifts off the bed, reaching for his pants. He cannot put you in danger by keeping you and you wouldn’t want him. This was a one time thing. “Yeah.” He murmurs, “something nice.”

You make your way to the bathroom, needing to wash away your sin, but you can’t, it’s buried under your skin. Guilt nearly makes you retch, unable to look at yourself in the mirror as you start the shower.

Dave redresses, keeping his bow tie untied around his neck, and he shrugs on his jacket. He sits on the edge of the crumbled bed, wringing his hands together. He wants you to be his but his life…it’s too dangerous. He can’t allow you to come into this life.

You shower, scrubbing yourself from head to toe and the water is scalding hot. You won’t cry, you can’t - not right now. Not when he has given you exactly what you wanted. You just have to live with the guilt if it now. Getting out, you wrap a towel around your body, your face washed clean of all makeup.

Dave knows he should stay. He just fucked you. He wants to stay but he can’t. He leaves a note, hand steady as he tells you to spend the night. He will act like you’ve had an argument. After setting the note on the pillow, he grabs his comm and leaves the room with a soft click of the door that you won’t hear. He hopes you will quit and go find a safer job. A husband. A family. Live a normal life. He can never have that.

It takes you a few minutes to compose yourself, knowing that Dave has sharp eyes and an even sharper instinct. He will know if you have any kind of hesitation that something is wrong. When you open the door, you find that the entire point is moot, the room is empty. Your heart twists when you see the note on the bed and you don’t even reach for it. You know what it says. It says that this was a mistake. You swallow harshly and move over to your clutch, your encrypted phone inside. You pull it out and dial a number. Ringing once, it clicks - answered but not one greets you. “I accept.” You say calmly, sure now that you are making the right decision.

**** 

*One year later* 

“So any new year plans?” Dave is asked by the new techie and he sighs, “only a job. Good night to take out a target.” He smirks and the tech chuckles, “damn right. Too many distractions.” He says and Dave nods, his mind taken back to last year when he went on an op with you. His chest tightens and he sighs, “I’ll be ready. Just give me the details.” He says and stands up, leaving the conference room as his mind wanders. He has to focus. 

**** 

The party is in full swing when he arrives, dressed in a jacket and tie, this party isn’t as formal as last year and he knows his target will be trying to win over the donors. He’s a politician. One that fucked off the wrong people and now he needs to be involved in an accident on New Year’s Eve. Dave glances around the room, people laughing and dancing, and it’s eerily reminiscent of the night he spent with you. He hadn’t heard from you after he received your resignation in his email and he wanted to track you down but it was like you’d disappeared. He was worried but he figured you didn’t want to be found. You know how to do it and he respected that, knowing he was in no position to convince you to come back to the team. Right now, he wonders where you are. Do you have a boyfriend? A partner? Are you safe? happy? He hopes you are.

Watching the room, you sip your soda water, eyes roaming over the crowd. Your target is laughing in the middle of a group of people, the congressman fawning over the wealth and power of those grimacing slightly as he continues to run his mouth. You smirk slightly, rolling your eyes at the pretentious ass until you catch the sight of a ghost from your past. Freezing as he moves through the crowd, not spotting you, but he’s also not looking for you either. Dave. He must have been contacted for the politician too but you’ll be damned if you’ll let him take him down.

Dave snakes his way through the crowd, making his way toward the congressman and he remembers how much easier this was last year with you by his side. He has to make small talk when he’s alone. His drink is nearly empty and he smiles at people as he walks past them towards the group fawning over the congressman. He turns his head towards the bar, wondering if he should get another drink and wait for the crowd around the politician to disperse. That’s when he sees you standing there. He murmurs your name, his brow furrowing and he quickly makes his way to the bar.

You see Dave start heading towards the bar, towards you. Sighing softly, you know that he will probably approach you. Wanting to know what you are doing here. “Standby.” You murmur into your comms and click it off so your team can’t hear you, although you know they all have eyes on you. You are the lead after all.

Dave approaches you, gesturing for the bartender, and he doesn’t let the shock show on his face. He’s trained for this. For personal entanglements. “Never imagined I’d see you here. You got a boyfriend who works for Congress or something?” He asks softly, raising his eyebrows.

“Or something.” You arch a brow at him, picking up your soda and shake the ice in it. “What are you having, Dave?” You ask. “I should say I’m surprised to see you here, but I know the guest list and I’m not.”

He turns to the bartender who appears and he clears his throat, “Coke.” He orders and he glances down at your glass when the bartender walks off. “You- what the hell are you doing here?” He asks, confused and frankly pissed that you seem to be putting yourself in a dangerous situation. The congressman is involved with the fucking mafia.

Your eyes flicker over to him before you glance back at the mirror above the bar. It always plays into your favor when venues copy each other on design. “Same thing I assume you are doing here, Dave.” You hum, glancing back at him for a brief moment. “So don’t get in my or my team’s way.”

His frown deepens and he shakes his head, “you’re here in a fucking - you aren’t here for tech?” He asks and you smirk, turning to look at him. “I outgrew tech and another company saw my potential.” Your smirk pisses him off when combined with the fact that you are putting yourself at risk doing this job. “No. No. You aren’t - this is my target.” He growls into your ear.

You sense more than see your team start to move in. Reaching up and tapping your comms. “Stand down.” You murmur quietly. “He’s not going to hurt me.” Dave glances in the mirror, seeing three different men in suits stop from various positions around the room. You tap off the comms again and twist to look at your former boss and one time lover. “Seems like they wanted to make sure the poor congressman got exactly what he deserves.”

Dave clenches his jaw, pulling back from you and he watches the men retreat. “I can’t fucking believe this. I tried to protect you and you’ve gone into the lion’s den.” He hisses and shakes his head, “you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’ve been running ops for nearly a year, Dave.” You snort. “I think I’m well aware of the dangers of this life.” You see the bartender bringing his Coke over. “Well, this was fun, but let’s not do it again.” You hum as you push off the bar to turn and sashay towards the group of people the congressman was talking to. If you put an extra sway in your step, it was purely coincidental.

Dave watches you go, his dark eyes flicking down to your ass and the memory of slapping it when he was inside you hits him. He swallows a large gulp of Coke and his comm hisses. “holy shit. Was that - goddamn she’s an operator.” Resnik’s voice crackles in his ear and he growls, reaching up to turn off the comm. Leaning against the bar, he watches you flirt with the target and he grinds his teeth, watching in annoyance.

You are aware of the other team now that you know Dave is here. Their formation is typical of their team and you watch them as you laugh at the wildly unfunny joke the congressman makes, offering him a toothy smile and no one notices that the compartment of your ring opens to dump the poison in his drink when you grab his forearm and lean into him to give him a great view of your tits.

Dave notices the move. Shaking his head when he realizes the target has been taken out by you in a move that only a woman could accomplish. Dave huffs and strides over, making his move as he walks past the congressman and bumps his shoulder. “Shit!” The politician yelps as his drink falls to the floor, spilling on his shoes, and Dave smirks over his shoulder as he walks away.

“Asshole!” You call out, furious that Dave has ruined your chance. You have to back away from the target or it will be too suspicious. “Damn.” You hiss, wiping away an imaginary stain. “I better go try to get this out.” You don’t say anything else before you are turning and rushing off towards the bathroom.

Dave feels smug as you rush towards the bathroom and he follows you, stepping into the ladies room when it’s empty for everyone except you. He locks the door behind him and steps closer as you reapply your lipstick. “Poison. I thought you’d be more dramatic.”

“No need when he has an underlying heart condition.” You glance back at him for a moment before looking back at your reflection to meticulously coat your lips. “Less risk when they believe he has a heart attack. The poison doesn’t show up on a toxicology report.”

Dave hums, “true but it’s a little safe. I figured you’d be the kind of assassin that wants a little flair. You are sensible but this is your time to show off. Poison…it’s a little boring.” He shrugs one shoulder, his eyes dipping down to your lips. “I’ve missed you.” He confesses softly.

“You missed me so much you left after fucking me?” You ask, pressing your lips together and turning towards him. You had tried not to let his goading get to you, knowing his vanity and reputation was important to him, but you prefer to fly under the radar and have a solid record of kills.

Dave clicks his tongue, tilting his head, “I had to. I couldn’t - well, it’s a moot fucking point now, but I tried to stay away from you to keep you out of danger. I didn’t want you involved in this way. You could get hurt…or killed. I didn’t want to be the reason you got killed.” He confesses, “so I left before I got in too deep.”

You snort softly. “Whatever, it was for the best, considering that you are married.” You arch a brow. “Carol isn’t going to be pissed that you are ignoring her two New Year’s in a row?”

Dave chuckles, realizing why you are so angry at him. He leans closer and gently brushes his fingers over your shoulder. “I’m divorced. Have been for 2 years.” He reveals with a smirk when he looks at you in the mirror.

Your eyes widen slightly before you school your expression. “Liar.” You hiss, turning away from him. Brushing past him to open the door and Dave grabs your arm, making you yank away from him. Pissed off that he would mock you about this. 

He holds his hands up, “shoot me right here if you think I’m lying but you know me. I didn’t fuck you as a married man. I wouldn’t do that. I might kill for a living but I have some morals.” He says and you scoff, shaking your head. “I still think about that night.” He confesses softly, “a lot.”

Frowning, you watch him closely. He is a liar but you know that he’s not lying about this. His eyes are warm and honest, revealing. “I do too.” You admit. “I felt so fucking guilty because I wanted to do it again. That’s why I resigned.”

“I left you in that room because I was trying to protect you. I’m not a good man. I’ve done bad things and I- I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m divorced. I see my girls every week but Carol has already moved on. I haven’t moved on…from you. I don’t think I ever will.” He admits, “but I’ll walk away right now. You can have the target. I’ll leave and you won’t see me again…if you tell me that you don’t feel the same. That you don’t love me like I love you.”

“You should have trusted me to make my own decision.” You huff. “I know what you do, what I do.” You shake your head. “That shit didn’t matter to me. Just like being showy with my kills doesn’t matter.” You pause and bite your lip. “I’m blown with the target. And I can’t say I don’t love you.”

Dave swallows, his expression neutral but you know by his eyes that he’s surprised. He steps closer, his hands coming up to touch your upper arms. “I love you. I want you. I don’t want to spend every damn day wondering where you are. I want you to come back to the team. Be my partner.”

“You don’t mean that.” You murmur softly and he huffs. “You know I do.” He argues. “Come back to me.” He asks again, stroking your skin. “I want you beside me.” You sway slightly, inhaling his cologne and you hate how he still affects you, even if you love it. “We still have to accomplish the mission.” You point out.

“We can take care of the congressman. You flirt with him, make him sneak off away from security and take him to a private space. We will handle him when he’s alone. Can you do that?” He asks, eyebrows raised as he looks at you.

You scoff. “Dressed Iike this?” You reply, gesturing to your slinky dress. “I could get the man to follow me anywhere.”

Dave chuckles, trailing down your form, “you aren’t wrong there.” He winks and leans in to kiss your cheek, “it’s good to see you again, sweetheart.” He murmurs and pulls back, walking back towards the door to unlock it. “I’ll watch for your signal.” He says and slips out of the bathroom.

You take another moment, unsure of what to do but you trust Dave. He would never put your life in jeopardy. You adjust your tits in your dress and walk out of the bathroom with an air of confidence as you walk towards the congressman.

Dave makes his way through the crowd, his eyes watching you as you approach the congressman. You’re sexy, a small smirk on your lips as your hips sway and Dave swipes his thumb over his lower lip while he leans against the bar he approached.

Walking up the congressman, you practically purr as you wind your arm around his neck. “Miss me?” You pout playfully. “I had to go and make sure I was still pretty enough to get your attention.”

The congressman chuckles, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you close. “I’m sure you could wear a trash bag and I’d like to see you.” The congressman flirts and you giggle, caressing his shoulder. Jealousy hits Dave but he pauses and reminds himself that you are on an op

“Yeah?” You continue to flirt and some of the group takes the opportunity to escape. Leaving just a few around the two of you. “What do you say that we find someplace quiet?” You hum, reaching up and tracing his lips. “Ring in the New Year in style.”

The congressman smirks, gesturing to his guards to leave you and him alone. The guards hesitate but nod and the congressman takes your hand, guiding you towards the private room in the back. Dave sees this and taps his fingers on the bar, slowly making his way through the crowd.

​​You pretend to be curious about the room. “Did you know this was here?” You ask, pulling away and admiring the sconces on the wall. Giving the teams time to draw in closer. “This is….private.” Turning towards him, you smirk suggestively and crook your finger. “Come here.”

The congressman smirks as he pulls you closer just as Dave opens the door. “Hey man, this is a private room.” The congressman argues and Dave reaches into his jacket. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know-” He cuts himself off as he pulls the gun from his hidden holster and aims it at the congressman in the head, his silencer on.

“What the fu-“ he doesn’t get a chance to finish the comment as you quickly pull away, making him startle and Dave pulls the trigger. The congressman’s head jerks back and his body holds itself up for a split second before he is crumpling back to the floor, dead. “Goddamnit.” You mutter, knowing you have to burn the dress now, just in case there is blood splatter. “I liked this fucking dress.”

Dave chuckles, shrugging one shoulder as he works on holstering his gun. “You look better out of it. There’s a door back here that leads to the outside.” He says and takes your hand, stepping over the dead congressman to take your hand and he guides you to the secret door he saw on the plans.

You tap your comms and give the command for your team to disappear from the party and to head to the safe house. You will give them instructions later on, after you talk with Dave. “Where are we going?”

Dave guides you to the outside and smirks when you ask him, “gonna take you back to mine. It’s not the new year yet.” He reminds you, “we can have a drink and have our own countdown.”

“You gonna disappear this time?” You ask. Still annoyed that he hasn’t told you he had been divorced. You had felt horrible, disgusting, for a long time after that night.

Dave shakes his head, “no. Absolutely not. You’re staying in my bed.” He promises and you smirk, squeezing his hand. He knows he owes you more explanation and he definitely owes you an orgasm.

There is a car that is parked on a little alley next to the building and you know it’s Dave’s. He guides you to the passenger side and opens the door for you. Waiting until you are seated to close the door and round the front of the car to climb in beside you.

He pulls his comm out, tossing it into the tray holder after he opens the door and helps you into the car before he gets into the driver's side. He looks at you as he starts the engine, “should’ve taken you home before.”

“Like you haven’t taken anyone else home since you slept with me.” You wouldn’t blame him if he did. He was single and free to do whatever he wanted, with whomever.

Dave shakes his head, “I haven’t. I - I have been busy trying to prepare to leave the DIA and I - I had to track you down before I left. I have people after me. I’ve made enemies and I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Yes you have.” You won’t deny it, anyone that is in this business makes enemies. “But it’s better to have someone watching your back too, isn’t it?” You ask. “Dave- I’m a great operative.”

Dave nods, “you are. I shouldn’t have held you back.” He confesses, “I should’ve helped you and let you grow but I was selfish.” He confesses as he drives to his home.

Your brow lifts in surprise at how he is owning up to his mistakes. “New Year, new Dave.” You hum, watching the streets pass by and you wonder where he lives now. Unless he kept the house in the divorce, but you doubt that.

He chuckles, adjusting his fingers on the steering wheel as he makes his way to his apartment. There’s cameras all over the complex but he knows how to manipulate them and how to avoid them. “Just telling the truth. Something new I’m trying.” He confesses with a chuckle.

You hum and look up at the stylish, neat building. “Are you sure you want to bring me here, York?” You ask, aware that he is placing a lot of trust in you.

Dave nods, pulling into his parking space, “I want you here.” He promises and you offer him a soft smile. He winks and cuts the engine, getting out of the driver side to come round to open your door. “You want a drink now that you’re off duty?” He asks, tilting his head as he holds out his hand.

“Sure.” You take his hand and climb out of the car. “I think we’ve earned one. Although, I’m going to need to get rid of this dress.”

“If you want, you can shower and borrow one of my shirts and some boxers….sweats too. Whatever you’re most comfortable in.” He promises and you smile, “thanks.” He makes sure to avoid the cameras as he guides you to his place on the top floor, key pulled from his pocket and soon enough, you’re standing in his living room.

It’s masculine, dark tones and leathers, but it’s clean. Dave is practical and you love that there is the hint of his cologne filling the apartment. “Very nice.” He said his girls visit on the weekends, so of course he wants a place for them. “Very you.”

Dave chuckles and walks over to the door down the hall, “shower is through there. What do you want to drink? Gin and tonic? Vodka soda? Whiskey?” He tilts his head, realizing he doesn’t know what you like to drink.

“Whatever you are going to drink.” You aren’t particular and you look over your shoulder as you start down the hall. “Bring it to me.” You order with a smirk and reach back to unzip your dress.

Dave smirks as you sway your hips when you walk down the hall. Your dress falling down to your ankles and you expertly step out of it, making Dave chuckle. You are a minx. Different from the mousy secretary that he met years ago. He prepares two drums of whiskey and he carries them down the hall to the bathroom where the shower is running.

It had been an invitation and you are glad that he decided to take you up on it. The water is hot and the bathroom surprisingly spacious for an apartment. You watch through the glass as he comes into the room and open the door to take the glass he offers before you tap the edge of your rim to his. “Cheers.” You hum before you pull your hand back to take a sip. You hum at the smooth burn as it slides down your throat and you meet Dave’s eyes through the glass of the shower stall. “Strip.” You order, wanting him to join you, but you want to see him first. 

Dave doesn’t argue. He sets his whiskey down and slowly unbuttons his shirt, stripping off while you stand under the water. “You want me?” He asks, wanting to be sure.

Your eyes run over the revealed skin and you feel your nipples tighten. “I do.” You admit shamelessly. He’s not married, he loves you, you are free to want him as much as you do. “I want you to fuck me right here in this shower.”

Dave eyes you as the water runs over your body. You’re just as fucking gorgeous and his cock is already half hard as he pushes his pants down along with his briefs, kicking them across the bathroom floor and he picks up his glass of whiskey. He has a sip and sets it back down, stepping towards you to slip into the shower.

Your own whiskey is set down in the empty soap dish, turning towards him when he steps into the stall so you can drag him towards you for a kiss. Wanting to feel that intoxicating, consuming sensation you have been craving since the last time he touched you like this.

Dave doesn’t deny you as he leans forward to press his lips to yours, his hands immediately finding your waist. His tongue pushes into your mouth, sampling the whiskey from your tongue, and he groans, cock pressing into your stomach while his hands slide lower to squeeze your ass.

Even though it has been a year, even though you’ve been upset at him and yourself, all of that melts away when he kisses you. Moaning into his mouth as he turns and presses you against the wall, you are already dripping wet and needing him inside you. Reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock to pump him.

He thrusts into your grip, unable to help himself and he devours your mouth. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He groans against your lips, his hands coming up to squeeze your tits. “Gonna fuck you, make you mine again.” He promises and you squeeze his cock, making him groan your name.

You smirk against his lips and groan when he pinches your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. “Dave.” You pant breathlessly. “Fuck me. Now. I - I need you inside me.” He’s hot and throbbing in your hand, making you drip with need.

He can’t deny you anything when you beg him so sweetly. He releases your tits and grabs your thigh, lifting it and he shuffles closer. “Put me in. If you want it, take it.” He orders, leaning in to nip your jaw.

You don’t hesitate. Notching his cock at your entrance and wrapping your leg around his waist. Dave groans when he feels how wet you are and turns to press his lips to yours as he starts to push inside you.

He slides his tongue against yours as he pushes deeper, loving how you whimper and your fingers tangle in his hair. The water hits his back and you are pressed into the tiles as he stretches you out until he is fully inside you.

He feels so good inside you, so thick. Filling you up, and overwhelming your system with the way his cock scrubs up inside you. “Dave.” Your breathless cry of his name is muffled by the water, but he hears it. His lips twisting up into a smirk as he grinds deeper, twitching inside you as you clench around him. “Fuck.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders to hold on as he sets his feet to start moving inside you.

Dave growls, thrusting into you as you are pushed against the tiles. He loves it. He loves you. “Fuck, imagined this pussy so many goddamn times.” He confesses into your jaw, “thought about you so many times.”

You whine in agreement, knowing that despite your conflicted feelings, you had imagined that one night together so many times. You had thought about seeing Dave several times over this year, but you knew that if you did, you would sleep with him, and you hadn’t wanted to risk it. Now you are with him and there is no shame in it. “I love you.” You moan breathlessly, letting him press you against the cold tile wall.

He grunts, “love you too.” His words are washed away by the water, meant for only you and never the outside world. That’s too dangerous. He kisses you softly, rocking into you a little slower as he allows his emotions to show, allowing you to see his vulnerability.

It changes, it turns sensual. Emotional. His tongue slowly slides against yours and he groans into your mouth. Making you answer him in kind, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. Giving everything you have to him and he reaches down to pull your other leg up on his hips, lifting you up against the wall as he kisses you.

He doesn’t fuck you hard. He’s slow and he kisses you deeply, passionately, wanting to show you how he feels. He murmurs your name when he pulls back to kiss your jaw, loving the way you clench around him. “That’s it, baby. Take all of me. Fuck. Your cunt is so perfect.” He murmurs, wanting to shower you with praise.

Your eyes slip closed and it’s like you are in a dream. The slow, sedate pace and the steam makes for a romantic air. Something different from the last time you had sex. “You’re perfect.” You counter, turning his head up and kissing along his throat as he rocks into you. “You fit me so well. Fill me up so good.”

“Not perfect. Far from it. But you are perfect to me. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Thought it from the first time you entered the office.” He promises, “and I- shit-” He hisses when your walls clench around his cock. “I wanted you from that moment.”

You know that he knew about your crush. “Me too.” You whisper in his ear. “Handsome, smart, rugged, I wanted you. I used to dream about working as a team with you, being lovers.”

“Dream came true baby. I am not letting you go. Gonna be mine. In every way.” He promises, “we plan, we kill, we fuck. We will be unstoppable.” He promises, starting to move a little faster. He wants to hear you fall apart for him, feel it, memorize it in case this is some crazy fever dream. “Fuck, I’m not letting you go now.”

You clench around him, making him growl out your name. Body strong and tightening underneath you as he ramps up the intensity of the thrusts. “No, you aren’t.” You agree, you won’t let him walk away this time. You kiss his lips again and grind down on his length. “Make me cum.” You order.

He doesn’t deny you. His fingers dig into your flesh as he fucks into you, pushing deep, and he grunts against your chin as he watches you. Your eyelashes flutter and he grinds into you, trying to find the spot that makes you fall apart around him.

It only takes him half a dozen thrusts to find it. Squealing in pleasure as your body lights up, his cock pressed deep against a spongy little spot deep in your pussy. “Right there?” He grunts, hissing the words through his teeth since you are so tight around him. “Right fucking there?” As if to prove it to himself, he rocks into that spot again and makes you moan. “Dave, fuck baby, more.”

He rocks into you, teeth gritted as he thrusts deep into the same spot over and over. “Fuck. I need you to cum for me.” He demands and your squeal makes his ears burn when you clamp down onto his cock, soaking him. “Fuck. You are - shit.” He curses, almost struggling to thrust into you with how tight you’re squeezing him. “Fuck, I love you.” He growls, thrusting to fuck you through it until he finds his own pleasure. He thrusts deep, burying himself as he starts to paint your walls with his cum.

“Oh god.” You whine at the feeling of his seed splashing against your womb, loving how full you feel. You hear the fireworks start to explode over the apartment complex and you smile, pressing your lips to his. “Happy New Year.”

Dave smiles against your lips, “happy new year. What a way to start the new year.” He chuckles and you grin, “with a bang.” Dave nudges his nose against yours and he knows he’s never going to let you go now. You are his. His partner in work and in life. “This is going to be the best year yet.” He promises and you hum, caressing his back as the water flows over you. A new year, a new start.

[benispunk]

Who's That Girl?

Chapter 14: Taking Care Of You

Y/N is really sick and her knight in leather jacket comes and saves her.

logan howlett x reader

TW: language, D&W, this part is a sickfic!!.

A/N: oh hi! wait? is that a chapter where nobody cries or thinks bad things of themselves? I think it is...also, happy new year!!!! we're more than halfway through this series with around six chapters left...I swear there's a light at the end of the tunnel!! anyway, hope you enjoy this one!! (you should, the next one isn't as nice and cute...oops...)

→ this fic is inspired by the TV Show New Girl, Wade and Logan aren't Deadpool and Wolverine (no powers/mutant gene etc) but I did take most of their character traits and storyline!!

Masterlist /Previous Part

Y/N was curled up on the couch, her body trembling despite the heavy blanket draped over her. Every muscle ached, her head throbbed relentlessly, and the fever made her skin feel like it was on fire. She had tried to get up earlier to grab some medicine but gave up after nearly collapsing. Wade wasn’t home—off at one of his gigs again—and Logan had disappeared hours ago. She didn’t know where he was or when he’d return. The thought of being alone in this state left her feeling even weaker.

The sound of the front door unlocking barely registered in her mind. Logan stepped in, his boots thudding softly against the floor as he put down his keys and phone. He was about to shrug off his jacket when he spotted Y/N curled up on the couch. Something was wrong. Her face was pale and damp with sweat. Her eyes, half-open, looked distant and glassy.

“Y/N?” Logan called softly, crossing the room in a few long strides. She didn’t respond. Kneeling in front of her, Logan reached out, his large hand brushing against her forehead. Her skin burned under his touch.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the worry in his voice unmistakable.

Her eyelids fluttered weakly, and she leaned into his hand instinctively, her body seeking the coolness of his touch. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Logan said, lowering his voice. “Can you hear me?”

A faint sound escaped her lips, but it wasn’t coherent. Logan’s stomach twisted. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek for a moment, then against her neck, confirming what he already knew. She was burning up.

“Stay here,” he murmured, though she clearly wasn’t in any state to move. “I’ll be right back.”

Y/N barely understood what was happening as he left. Her head lolled to the side as she struggled to focus, but the pounding pain behind her eyes made it impossible. It felt like only a few seconds before Logan was back, though it must have been longer. He carried a glass of water, some fever medicine, and a damp cloth in his hands. Setting the items down on the coffee table, he knelt beside her again.

“Y/N, you need to sit up for a minute,” Logan said, his voice gentle as his hand lightly caressed her arm, his thumb brushing over the blanket she clung to.

She groaned weakly, her body unwilling to cooperate. Logan hesitated for only a second before sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, carefully lifting her into a sitting position. She whimpered at the movement, her head rolling against his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he murmured, adjusting his grip. “Just for a second, okay?”

He pressed the glass to her lips, tilting it gently. “Drink,” he urged.

She managed a few small sips before turning her head away, the effort seeming to exhaust her. Logan didn’t push. Instead, he handed her the pills.

“You need to take these,” he said.

With shaking fingers, she tried to take them from him but fumbled. Logan caught her hand and steadied it, guiding the pills to her lips.

“Attagirl,” he said as she swallowed them down with another sip of water.

He set the glass aside and grabbed the damp cloth, folding it neatly before pressing it to her forehead. Y/N’s eyes closed as she exhaled softly, the coolness offering a small reprieve from the relentless heat coursing through her body. Logan stayed like that for a moment, silently observing her as she seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.

“Logan,” she murmured suddenly, her voice so faint he almost missed it. Her eyes cracked open, searching for him.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She gave a small nod, her head barely moving. Logan sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from her clammy face. He knew he couldn’t leave her on the couch like this. Standing, he bent down and slipped his arms beneath her. She let out a startled gasp as he lifted her effortlessly.

“Flying…” she murmured deliriously, her head resting against his chest.

Logan chuckled softly. “Not quite.”

As he carried her toward her room, she blinked up at him, her eyes catching on his jacket. Even in her disoriented state, she recognized it. Her gift.

“Looks… good on you,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Logan’s heart stumbled in his chest, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?” he said, ignoring the warmth spreading through him at her words.

He nudged her bedroom door open with his foot and carefully laid her down on the bed. The motion was so gentle it didn’t even jostle her. He pulled the blanket up over her, tucking it around her shoulders. Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut almost immediately, her body finally giving in to exhaustion. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, watching her for a moment. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Reaching out, he brushed his hand over her forehead again, frowning at the heat still radiating from her skin.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than to her. He stayed there, his hand resting lightly on her forehead, until her breathing deepened and her body relaxed into sleep.

Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

———

She stirred about thirty minutes later, her mind slowly dragging itself from the fog of fever-induced sleep. The pounding in her head had lessened slightly, but her body still felt like lead. As she blinked against the dim light of her room, she became aware of the faint scrape of a chair against the floor. Turning her head, her eyes landed on Logan, seated at her desk. His jacket was slung over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held his phone in one hand, occasionally swiping at the screen, but when he noticed her move, he was immediately at her side.

“You’re awake,” he said, moving to her side in one swift motion, his face shadowed with concern.

Before she could reply, his hand was on her forehead again, his touch cool and grounding. His brow furrowed as he assessed her. “Still too hot,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“How long was I out?” she rasped, her voice scratchy and weak.

“Not long,” he assured her, pulling his hand back reluctantly. “Maybe thirty minutes. How’re you feeling?”

“Hot,” she said with a faint attempt at humor, though her words lacked energy. As if on cue, a shiver suddenly ran down her spine, and she involuntarily drew the blanket tighter around herself. Her body was at war with itself, burning and freezing all at once.

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident— not at her, but at his inability to fix this for her. “I’ll get more water and medicine,” he said before disappearing from the room.

The room felt quieter and colder when he left. She closed her eyes, her head throbbing again, but before she could fall back to sleep, he returned.

“Here,” he murmured, placing a fresh glass of water and another dose of medicine on her bedside table. His movements were methodical, careful, like he was afraid to startle her. He sat down on the edge of her bed, his presence reassuring.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice dipping into a softness she rarely heard from him.

She shook her head slowly. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, her throat tight with a strange mix of gratitude and guilt.

Logan tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with something close to exasperation. “Why not?”

“Because…” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “There’s probably a thousand things you’d rather be doing than looking after me. And you’ll get sick.”

Her words hung in the air. Logan’s expression softened, his gaze steady. For a long moment, their eyes met—hers filled with uncertainty, his with quiet intensity.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said finally, his voice steady but soft, like he was afraid she might not believe him. His gaze didn’t waver from hers, the weight of his words sinking deep into her chest. “And I don’t care if I catch whatever this is.”

Her heart skipped, warmth spreading across her cheeks that had nothing to do with her fever. She bit her lip, trying to suppress a small, stupid smile. “Damn fever,” she muttered, burying her face slightly into the blanket to hide her expression.

His lips twitched, but he didn’t let the moment linger too long. “Do you want to eat something?” he asked again. 

He rested his hand on the bed beside her, his fingers brushing hers as he shifted slightly. The warmth of his hand against hers sent a flutter through her chest, but neither of them moved until she gave him a small nod, though the thought of food seemed distant.

“Alright,” he said, standing with a quiet determination. “I’ll be right back.”

———

Logan returned with a simple bowl of leftover soup, steam curling softly into the air. He placed it on the bedside table and helped her sit up, his hand steadying her back as she shifted against the pillows. She leaned into his touch instinctively, her body still weak and achy.

“Eat,” he said gently, handing her the bowl and a spoon. “There was still some soup from yesterday.”

She managed a faint smile as she took the spoon with trembling hands. The soup was warm and comforting, and as bland as it was, it didn’t upset her stomach. He stayed by her side, his gaze steady and unyielding, watching her like she might crumble if he looked away.

“You’re hovering,” she said with a tiny smirk, though her voice was still hoarse.

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you to not pass out mid-bite,” he replied.

When she finished, he took the bowl from her hands and stood. “Stay put,” he said, heading to the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes drifted faintly into the room, but it wasn’t long before he returned, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“You should sleep,” he told her, his voice low but firm as he stood at her bedside. His presence filled the small room, grounding her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

She looked up at him, her eyes heavy but still shining with a hint of vulnerability. “Logan,” she murmured, her voice soft and unsure.

He stopped, his hand resting on the back of the desk chair. “Yeah?”

Her fingers reached out, trembling slightly, and brushed against his wrist. She looked at him like she was searching for something she wasn’t sure she’d find. “Can you… stay? Just for a little while?”

Logan’s breath hitched, his chest tightening at the simple, fragile request. He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

She shifted on the bed, making room for him, and he lay down beside her with careful, deliberate movements. He kept a respectful distance, his body stiff with the effort of not leaning too close.

She turned toward him, her head sinking into the pillow as her eyes fluttered half-closed. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice so faint it almost disappeared into the quiet of the room.

Logan swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Don’t mention it,” he muttered, his voice gruffer than he intended.

Her breathing began to even out, the exhaustion and fever pulling her back toward sleep. He watched her, his gaze softening as he allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. Her face, even flushed and weary, held a certain peacefulness that tugged at something deep inside him.

As the minutes ticked by, her hand unconsciously brushed against his arm, the small contact grounding them both. He shifted slightly, his body relaxing by degrees, until he found himself lying closer than he intended.

When she stirred again, barely thirty minutes later, he was still there, his hand resting near hers on the mattress. Her feverish eyes opened slowly, and she found him watching her with a quiet intensity.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, her voice tinged with surprise.

“Yeah,” he said simply, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Figured you might need me.”

Her chest warmed at his words, her heart skipping a beat.

“Logan,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re all I need.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected comment, but before he could reply, her eyes closed again, and she drifted back to sleep.

This time, when he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, he didn’t stop himself.

———

Her breathing deepened again, signaling that she’d drifted back into sleep. Logan stayed there, watching her for a moment longer. The rise and fall of her chest, the soft sound of her breath—it was strangely calming.

He told himself he’d leave in just a minute, that he’d give her space to rest properly. But his body betrayed him; the weight of the day, the emotional toll of seeing her so vulnerable, and the quiet warmth of the room all worked against him.

Before he realized it, his head dipped forward, his body sagging into the mattress. His eyes fluttered shut, and he fell asleep right there beside her.

When morning came, the soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Logan stirred first, his senses slowly sharpening as he registered the warmth pressed against his arm.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized where he was—and who he was with.

The faint light of morning crept across the floor as Logan blinked awake. He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Y/N. Her breathing was steady, her face peaceful in sleep, and he felt an odd pang of reluctance to leave.

But he knew better than to linger.

With a careful hand, he pulled the blanket up to her shoulder, tucking her in. Then he rose from the bed, his joints stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. He glanced back at her one last time before quietly slipping out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The apartment was still, the early morning air cool and quiet. Logan made his way to the kitchen, running a hand through his tousled hair. He’d barely stepped inside when he froze.

Wade was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in one hand and a smirk that could only mean trouble. His eyebrows shot up in exaggerated surprise, and Logan instantly knew he was doomed.

“Well, well, well,” Wade drawled, setting his mug down with a flourish. “If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty, emerging from the princess’s tower.”

Logan groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t start.”

“Start? Me? Never!” Wade raised his hands in mock innocence, though his grin betrayed him. “I’m just wondering, how was it? Cozy? Romantic? Did you guys hold hands and share your deepest secrets before you dozed off?”

“Wade.” Logan’s tone carried a warning, but it only made Wade grin wider.

“Oh, come on,” Wade teased, circling the kitchen island to stand closer. “I’ve got questions, man. Did you sweep her off her feet? Or, wait, no—don’t tell me—you spooned all night like a couple of lovesick penguins, didn’t you?”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s sick, Wade. I was just—”

“—being the knight in shining armor,” Wade cut in, clasping his hands together and batting his eyelashes. “Gallant Logan, tending to his fair maiden in her time of need. Truly heartwarming.”

Logan shot him a deadly look. “Are you done?”

Wade tilted his head, pretending to think. “Not even close.”

Logan shook his head, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring himself some coffee. He could feel Wade’s eyes on him, the silence practically crackling with anticipation.

Then Wade leaned against the counter again, his smirk softening into something more knowing. “You’re a good guy, you know that?”

Logan paused mid-sip, frowning. “What are you talking about now?”

Wade shrugged, his usual theatrics dialed down just a notch. “I know it’s not just a tiny little crush. You care about her. Hell, I’m pretty sure you’d go back to war for her. So, stop all your brooding and self-deprecation and fucking admit it.”

Logan set the mug down, his jaw tightening. “She’s our roommate.”

“Uh-huh,” Wade said, dragging the syllables out like he’d heard this a thousand times before. “And I’m your roommate. And we’re like brothers. Come on, man. I’ve been watching this slow-burn romance play out for months now, and let me tell you, it’s both entertaining and painful. Mostly painful. For me. And the readers.”

Logan huffed, trying to focus on his coffee. But the truth Wade was poking at made his chest tighten.

“Look,” Wade continued, his tone softening again, “I’m just saying, you’ve been through a lot, man. And maybe it’s about time you let yourself be happy. You deserve that.”

Logan rolled his eyes before finally meeting his gaze, and for all of Wade’s teasing, there was genuine care in his expression. It caught Logan off guard, leaving him unsure of what to say.

“Anyway,” Wade said, breaking the moment with a grin that was back to full mischief. “Just remember—when you two eventually get married, I’m calling dibs on being the best man. Or officiant. Or both. I’m flexible.”

Logan groaned, setting his mug down with more force than necessary. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Too late,” Wade quipped, grinning like he’d just won a prize. And well, maybe he did.

Logan shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned to leave the kitchen. Wade’s laughter followed him down the hall, a constant reminder that no matter what he said, Wade wouldn’t be letting this go anytime soon. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t shake the quiet thought that maybe Wade was right.

As Logan had just started rinsing out his coffee mug, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, and he frowned.

Wade, still leaning against the counter with a sly grin, raised an eyebrow. “What’s that? The love doctor calling to check up on their patient?”

Logan didn’t respond. His jaw tightened as he stared at the screen, the name flashing there like a warning. Without a word, he grabbed the phone and walked a few steps away, his back to Wade as he answered.

“Yeah,” Logan said, his tone clipped.

Wade sipped his coffee, watching with mild curiosity that quickly turned into concern. Logan’s posture stiffened, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. The voice on the other end of the call was too faint to hear, but whatever was being said had Logan’s entire demeanor shifting. His shoulders tensed, his face darkened and his frown deepened.

“Fine,” Logan said after a long pause, his voice low and guttural. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

He ended the call abruptly, the phone still clutched tightly in his hand. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing, his breathing slow but heavy.

Wade set his mug down, his smirk gone. “Uh… that wasn’t Doc Love, was it?”

Logan turned, his expression unreadable but with a shadow of something darker lingering in his eyes. He slid the phone into his pocket and exhaled through his nose. “It’s Victor.”

The name hit the room like a dropped stone. Wade’s face immediately fell.

“He’s coming here. Next week.”

For once, Wade didn’t have a quip or a joke. His brow furrowed, and he let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just turned back to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles went white. Wade watched him carefully, the silence between them heavier than it had been in years.

And as the quiet stretched on, one thought circled Wade’s mind like a warning bell: Chaos was coming.

[bloodlustiing]

"You're getting weak, pet. Still, it always does impress me just how much you're capable of fighting through. You've come an awfully long way, you know. Every time I handle you I swear you're able to survive through more and more... Oh just imagine the things I could make you live through in a year's time or more. Isn't that a fun thought? You could reach new heights of agony no living thing could ever compare to." He purrs the words, as if the thought alone brings him some twisted sense of pleasure.

"Agh--" Ares manages to control his volume for the most part, fingers yanking back as teeth snap for him. It's no real matter though, Artair had already proven all he'd wanted to know by hacking up more of that thick black muck. "So pesky sometimes. Don't misunderstand I do enjoy your fiery spirit but really, doesn't it seem as though it's a bit pointless now of all times?" The fingers that were going to go into Artair's mouth instead press and rub up his face, collecting as much of the coagulation as he can before pulling it away.

"We're nearing the end of our little play date, after all. Which means it's almost time to put you down." A chuckles rumbles it's way up from deep within his chest. "Any suggestions for how to make it the most fun?"

Artair coughs and sputters. It causes so much pain that even without his damaged throat he'd be muted by the wave of it wracking him. Ares is crushing him into the mud and he drives the hand away quick. Artair growls until it hurts too much to, and until something cold and solid is jammed against his bleeding throat.

He is shoved under again, and like last time, Artair jerks, bucks, squirms and wrenches, trying to dislodge himself for breath. His hand slaps at Ares and then grabs the one in his hair, trying to yank it free as bubbles run over his skin and back to the surface. He doesn't know what it is, but he can guess from the solidity and cold, and that it feels like a ring of some sort, with an open center. Short of some magical item Ares could use against him by putting inside his throat, the only other thing he can think is that vial hanging from a chain on his waist.

Artair chokes on air as he is pulled up again, water spilling down his mouth and noise and soaking his hair at the edges. He spits another gob of coagulation, body unable to heal with all this thrashing and violence despite its best efforts.

Oh, but when those fingers press against his mouth, Artair snaps at Ares again, teeth flashing for those fingers trying to delve into his mouth with another growl.

[hislittleraincloud]

This was so beautifully done 😭👔JAIRO🎀💖✨

[heynhay]

scene from where the apple falls by @jupiters-junipers :-) wholeheartedly recommend any and all of her work

[vynnyal]

Actually you know what, I'm gonna post this. Check it out, I'm fiddling with this PMV. Spoils the whole game ofc. And the name of the song is pure imagination by Fiona Apple!

Also I'm apparently a big fan of drawing moon laying down 😂 total count including scrapped drawings is 5 (technically 6)

[roan-wayland]

The demon and the witch had first crossed paths in the last century. In many ways things had been different back then, yet in many ways they were still the same. Their fascination with magical artefacts was one of those things. This bracelet wasn't the first one they'd played with either. It felt like a practiced dance, one where Roan kept seeking to improve his moves and reach perfection.

"Oh come on, you're not impressed by that. I know you." Despite his own words Roan's lips twisted into a satisfied smirk at Matt's praise. It grew even more self-satisfied when he saw the distaste on the demon's face at the amount of white magic. At least the age-old demon wasn't completely unbothered by the power Roan could muster. That was an improvement. "There should be enough white magic to put up a fight against yours, but we'll see how it goes."

Roan's eyes were pinned to the bracelet in Matt's hand as the demon worked his corruption into the beads. The battle between black and white vibrated through wood, making the air shiver with power. In the end, his spells couldn't withstand the attack. "Hmpf," he muttered disappointedly as Matt broke the silence and Roan realized he had been holding his breath. "Aye, that might be good." He held out his hands and collected the broken pieces of the bracelet. Closing his hands around them he made the material re-form its broken connections, mending the beads, but not restoring the magic they had held before. It would take a lot of time and energy to restore the spells and put new ones on top of that. "Given the thirty seconds it lasted against your magic, I figure it could hold an attack from two or three witches. Or am I being too optimistic?"

"A protective charm, hm?" Matthew repeated, eyes still inspecting the bracelet as he reached out with his own magic to feel the magic Roan placed within. The witch scarcely gave him enough warning before pieces of rubble started to rise up and come towards him, and the fallen deity had to force himself not to react instinctively. This was not his first rodeo with Roan, not since they first met all those decades ago in France, and it would most certainly not be their last.

The barrier in the bracelet did it's job to stop the projectiles from hurting him and Matthew turned turned his gaze to Roan as the rubble fell down around him. He was here to help Roan test the strength of his inventions and this one was... "Impressive. You're getting better at this," Matthew chuckled as he slipped the bracelet off his wrist and held it up in front of his face.

"I'm just getting started." Roan had an affinity for Barrier magic which explained the bracelet's power, and Matthew also knew that he was currently developing his skills in Blessing magic, something that was antithesis to what Matthew's own powers. "I can feel the white magic in this piece... Nasty stuff," Matthew tutted and began to imbue the bracelet with his own dark energy as licks of shadows began to swirl around the object sitting in his palm.

The bracelet started to vibrate as the magic Roan placed within tried fighting against Matthew's own darker ones, the opposing forces clashing and vying for dominion within the small wooden beads. He increased his magic output with the intent to destroy, allowing his darker emotions to colour the increasingly oppressive curse magic that weighed down on the object until a crack sounded out! The runes on each bead were marred when the shadows melted away, with some of the beads falling apart in Matthew's palm. "Hmm... I believe a more specific blessing against destructive magic might be something you'd want to look into."

[thegreatyin]

HELL YEAH POWER ENDING SEEKERS ARE MY FAVORITE MR CARDS GENRE i mean they're all my favorite because i legitimately love seeing different people's interpretations of the power ending and the weird fucked up (the fucked up part is important, one must always make their bat fucked up) OCs they make as a result of it. but also i think there's a lot of really fun stuff one can do with a human who deliberately chooses to discard said humanity in order to ascend as a potential replacement for the very figure they're desperately Seeking to learn about and potentially avenge. i'm always kinda surprised it's not more common tbh?? nemesis and BaL just (very very understandably) lend themselves more obviously to seekers i suppose

also that alt strategy is totally valid. it's basically what i pulled with caeru's account all the way back before finishing heart's desire + a not insignificant chunk of evolution. have fun with the dream collecting :)

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: A Gathering of Dust (2.3, LWT, 1972)

"Judging from the wound, the gun was fired from very close range; almost point-blank, I should think. Indicates the possibility of suicide."

"That's right, governor: he blows his brains out, crawls in here, walls himself up, throws the gun away, and dies laughing. That's cos he's got a sense of humour, he knows that a quarter of a bloody century later two stupid coppers are gonna go out of their mind wondering how the hell he did it!"

[lotus-pear]

hear me out for genshin x bsd-

atsushi would be a cryo claymore that scales off atk (since the tiger is shown as extremely powerful and can even cut through space) and optimizes physical dmg

dazai would be a geo sword support that increases elemental res, acting as a debuffer (as no longer human works in the bsd universe) he would also scale off em

kunikida would also be geo but catalyst that deals physical aoe dmg.. he'd be an in-slot dps but not an optimal one imao his talents are much better suited to make him a battery unit

akutagawa would be pyro polearm?? or sword?? and he's obviously a heavy dps that scales off crit rate/dmg and tenma tengai could be similar to cyno's burst when, once activated, increases def while simultaneously raising rashomon's atk

chuuya would be an anemo catalyst dps similar to wanderer bc of his gravity manipulation and he would have a melee stance where he atks from the ground and an elevated state where he uses gravity manipulation to be able to atk off-ground. his ult would be corruption obviously and would parallel xiao's where his atk and crit rate/dmg are sharply increased but he undergoes continuous dmg until the duration of his burst ends (in this state he is vulnerable as his def is lowered and he isn't able to accumulate energy meaning he needs a team built around him, preferably with a healer and a shielder)

how does it feel to be the sexiest person on this site w absolutely the most correct and banger takes anon??.. why are u correct on literally everything

[loderlied]

mmm essay about sally and kid gort in the tags (cw for child abuse, mentions of suicide, animal cruelty and a murder attempt. i always hope i don’t have to say this but just in case: i don’t excuse or condone any of her or gort’s behaviour at all.) this is literally not even touching upon everything i have to say because i hit the fucking tag limit lmao. NOBODY READ IT’S BAD BRAINSTORMING I JUST NEEDED TO GET IT OUT SOMEHOW

[smartzelda]

Sorry guys I gotta speak my truth on this one

I'm not kidding when I say that I think that blaming shit media literacy from fans on shipping/shippers avoids the actual root of the problem to throw people you can easily throw under the bus (simply because it's not unpopular to consider people who post about ships or ship characters in media as having lesser or derivative tastes by default)

And here's why.

I think when you blame people who are "shippers" or "consume media through shipping lenses", the true root of it all is a mindset problem.

In actually, putting on shipping lenses can be helpful when trying to analyze a piece of media. When analyzing media you're supposed to approach it through a number of mindsets and put on different lenses (both to deepen your personal understanding of the media, and to pick it apart and see what you can find there (whether intentional or not on the author's part)), and different ships can be some of those lenses

When it comes to ships between main characters (for those who are genuinely willing to see what the narrative is showing with their relationship and what it's doing), there are times when analyzing it from a shipping lens may be helpful. As someone from KH fandom, I have seen people come to deeper understandings and pick canon apart in the process of analyzing a relationship that is genuinely integral to the story (platonic or not). I've also seen people get into rarepairs of characters who barely interact or who just suffer little screen time, and I've seen them come to better understandings of those side characters and how they potentially fit into the world of the media simply because people are now focusing on these characters and how they fit into the narrative.

Frankly, I resent the idea that the only way to truly objectively analyze a piece of media is by turning off the part of your brain that gets excited over relationships and individual characters. Don't get me wrong, that is a way to approach a piece of media and a valid one at that, but the truth is that we cannot be free of bias.

For instance, I was watching House MD with my parents circa last year. At some point I started heavily tuning into what was going on with House and Wilson's relationship. My parents, on the other hand, were largely watching casually. They're not thinking of character relationships or getting heavily invested in most characters, they're watching because they like watching. One of them in particular did try to analyze things that were happening in the show as they happened. However, when it came to the scene late in the series where House threw out Dominika's letter approving her American citizenship, my parents could understand that he was doing that because he didn't want her to leave, but not much beyond that. I ended up explaining to them that House's fake marriage for Dominika was an explicit parallel to when Wilson was living with House in the early seasons. Both situations started with House being none too happy about it but ultimately letting them stay, spending a considerable amount of effort getting them to leave/getting this situation to be finally over so he didn't have to deal with it anymore, and then by the time a piece of news comes through that would mean the person in question actually leaves, House hides this news as long as he can. Because he doesn't actually want them to leave and has grown attached. And by doing this he became a self fulfilling prophecy. By reacting to the truth of Wilson and Dominika leaving him the way he does, he seals his fate and they ultimately leave anyways. Maybe I ship Hilson, but becoming open to how their relationship was handled allowed me to transition to doing character studies and recognizing patterns/parallels that I wouldn't have noticed if I didn't particularly care about the characters or their relationship.

Likewise, I've seen mutuals complain about how people who don't like or don't care about certain characters often overlook these characters (what they're actually like and their place in the narrative), while the mutuals in question (by default) are able to come to deeper understanding of what the writers/story is trying to do because they care about this funky guy

You can't eradicate bias when you're engaging in media analysis, but you can consciously put on a range of lenses and observe the media through different povs with the goal of understanding the media better or bolstering your reading of it. And those lenses/povs can include focusing on specific relationships or the perpective of certain characters

And this is why I say it's actually a mindset problem. Shippers and people who have this one blorbo they like a lot aren't inherently terrible "fandom brained individuals" who are the root of media analysis problems. The problem only arises when people's readings/analysis of a piece of media are inherently restrictive/narrow and self centered. Your problem is with people who view a piece of media through a ship they like but don't keep an open mind about it, and whose "media analysis"/views on canon cannot be split from fanon and their comfortability levels. These are the people whose "media analysis" starts and ends with justifying their fanon as canon, whose views on media revolve around sorting characters and relationships into categories they personally enjoy rather than trying to understand what's going on.

Here's another example.

Here we have a fictional ship we'll call uhhhh...Blanebin. this fictional ship I made up on the spot for characters that don't exist named Blane and Corbin

Person A is super into Blanebin. They're part of the main cast of characters and canonically childhood best friends, so person A (as much as they enjoy fanart and fic) is also enjoying analyzing how narratively important to each other they are. Recently, Corbin started dating another character in canon, but Person A is enjoying watching how Blane is reacting to this. "Is this potentially a tell that Blane is jealous or is having complicated feelings about this? What if he was, how would that contextualize his behavior this season? Here's what I think based on how Blane dealt with explicit jealousy last season in a different situation". It's not impossible that person A is still missing further understanding due to their obsession with Blanebin, but at the end of the day this obsession has allowed them to start picking through the characters both in and outside this relationship. It has allowed them to see potential subtext and theorize on what might happen next with these characters' relationship. Not to mention that with addition of Corbin dating someone else, instead of trying to erase this fact or state that Corbin canonically isn't into that person, Person A is trying to factor in how Corbin's current dating life affects his relationship with Blane (irregardless on personal views on the nature of Corbin's relationship with the person he's dating).

Person B is also super into Blanebin. They really enjoy fanart and fic of the characters, love obsessing over their moments together, and just feel like there's really something between the characters. To person B, every moment between them is just further proof that the writers are ship teasing them. But Corbin getting together with someone else this season? Oh that pissed person B off. They cannot believe that even though Corbin and Blane are CLEARLY gay for each other the writers had Corbin get with someone else this season. Perhaps, they think, it was even a decision specifically made to spite fans. How evil of the writers to tease a perfectly good ship and then have them not get together first? They must have been just doing those teases to get views from Blanebin shippers those scoundrels. To Person B, since Corbin started dating someone when he obviously has some chemistry with Blane (even though the series is far from over) means that Blanebin can never get together now and Corbin x person he's dating is ruining Blanebin by existing. In fact, they think, this is terrible writing for Corbin to be dating someone else because they don't like that relationship and don't see the point. Obviously if the writers were good then Corbin would have started dating Blane instead because this was supposed to be the Blanebin show.

Person C despises Blanebin. Don't get them wrong, they've always enjoyed the character's childhood friendship, but they actually have always thought Blane would have been better off with Victoria. They have a lot of moments too! But they're tired of seeing people ship Blanebin. Corbin just got together with someone else, so obviously that's not gonna work out. Plus Corbin and Blane totally has always given person C bro vibes. In fact, person C thinks, sure Corbin and Blane have a close friendship, but people shouldn't be shipping them. Person C likes Blanetoria and Blanetoria can't be canon if Corbin is in the way of it. So Person C likes to read Blanebin as siblings anyways. Sure they're canonically friends, but obviously their friendship turned into brotherhood. This means that nothing can be in the way of Blanetoria and Corbin can keep dating the person he's already canonically dating. Actually, now Blanebin just straight up makes Person C uncomfortable. Don't the pesky shippers understand that Blanebin are sibling coded because they're childhood best friends and that they're important to each other because they're brothers? It's obvious to anyone with eyes.

Sure, ships are involved here, but is the root of this problem shipping? Character A isn't as knowledgeable of other characters in the plot due to this lens they're using, but at the end of the day they're dedicated to analysis. Their love of the characters is pushing them beyond what they like or dislike to try to understand what might be happening through their lens. Not perfect, but they are slowly broadening their horizons. But Person B and C's problems here are their restrictiveness. What is or should be canon to them is tantamount to what they personally like or find comfortable. Is person C actually analyzing the this fake show when they decide to "read" Blanebin as basically canonically siblings (and this all of their moments are totally a bro thing) just because they don't like Blanebin and the idea of them getting together over Blanetoria makes them uncomfortable? Is person B actually analyzing this fake show when their "analysis" of Blanebin goes only as far as asserting it's being ship teased and deciding anything short of canonizing Blanebin is a targeted attack or "bad writing" because it's not what they wanted personally to happen?

This is what I'm talking about. This is the mindset. Shipping isn't the problem. The problem is when people marry fanon and canon to the point where they have a vested interest in superimposing their fanon over canon as "a reading" and trying to make "collective decisions" on what is canon (or what canon is trying to say) based on what does or doesn't make them uncomfortable. The problem is people being restrictive and centering their own likes and dislikes in the conversation, so they can only interact with canon "analysis" wise by deciding what is canon or should be canon "as obviously agreed on by everyone". You can't simply claim you like media analysis. To be able to analyze media and bolster your views on any given canon, you must be open to looking at it through multiple povs, to studying characters without trying to pretend things you don't like don't exist or do like do exist. There is a balance that must be kept between trying to keep objectivity and putting on specific focus/bias based upon the lenses you're putting on. You have to be willing to try to figure out what a media is doing or saying, not saying you're trying to figure out what it's saying while in actuality trying to define the narrative around what people believe it's saying in ways that suit you.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.