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thelostmagicians · 3 days ago

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Sunshine and the Shadowed Heart | Spencer Reid Part : I

Shadows of the Past

Series Masterlist

Summary: Spencer hasn't been the same since prison, and you're just the rookie

Fluff, comfort, angsty, mean spencer, post-prison spencer [6.3k]

♡

He looked like the same Spencer you’d seen in a guest lecture seven years ago—the legend you’d heard about—sharp, legendary, and unmistakably handsome—but something was different. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His sharp wit had been replaced with silence. Emily had warned you it would be tough—being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit was bound to leave a mark. But you hadn’t expected him to be so… cold.

At first, you didn’t know what it was. The Spencer you’d heard about had been animated, full of life and quirky jokes. Now, he was quiet, distant, almost like a ghost. Everyone couldn’t help but feel the weight of his absence. It wasn’t that he wasn’t physically present—he was right there, in the bullpen, behind his desk, his eyes glued to the screen. But mentally? Emotionally? He was miles away.

You weren’t around for the events that led to his imprisonment, but you were here when he came back. You were hired just a month into Spencer’s absence, after a twist of fate turned your world upside down. Fresh out of college, you had no idea that a random visit to a crime scene would lead you to the BAU. You’d stumbled across a clue—a small, seemingly insignificant detail—that no one had seen. A clue that broke the case wide open and connected the dots in a way no one had even considered.

It was Emily who saw something in you that no one else did. You’d never expected to hear from her, but one evening, as you were packing up to leave, her card had arrived in the mail. You never expected it to lead to an interview—especially not one that would end with you joining the BAU.

You were still trying to find your place in the chaos of the BAU. The team feels like a new family, but it’s hard to truly fit in when you’re still the "new kid." Every day felt like a new challenge. You’d expected the job to be like the textbook cases you’d studied in college—neat, clean, solvable. But the BAU was messy. Real lives were at stake, and sometimes, there were no perfect solutions. The pressure was constant. Every case felt like it could be the one that would break you, the one that would make you realize you didn’t belong. Every day felt like a mountain to climb, and you, fresh out of college, were still learning how to scale it. There was so much to absorb—procedures, protocols, personalities—and sometimes, it felt like you were drowning in it all. The days blurred into nights, the cases piling up, each one more complicated than the last.

The dynamic between the team was established, years in the making. They had a rhythm, an understanding that came with time and trust. You hadn’t earned that yet. You were still trying to find your place, to carve out your spot in the chaos. But there were the moments of levity—Luke’s jokes that never failed to make you laugh, Penelope’s infectious energy that seemed to brighten even the darkest days. It was their way of reminding you that, despite the darkness that came with the job, there was still room for humanity. Still room for laughter, for connection.

Still room for you to grow.

But then there was Spencer.

Spencer Reid, someone you thought you had an idea of who he was when you first saw him—the genius with the messy hair. But now, five weeks in, he’s become something different: a shadow. Brilliant, tortured, and untouchable. He barely spoke, kept to himself in a way that made him seem even more unreachable than the walls he’d built around himself. He hardly acknowledged you unless it was for work, and even then, it was a quiet exchange, all business. It wasn’t that he was rude—it was that he wasn’t… there. It was like talking to a shadow of the person everyone had described to you. The legend of Spencer Reid remained just that now, a folktale that once was.

—

You kept trying though—maybe not all at once, but little by little. You'd try to make small talk while working on the latest case, commenting on a theory, or discussing a strategy. You'd caught a glimpse of Spencer looking at something on his computer once and, with a smile, asked if he wanted to grab coffee after finishing the report. He had nodded curtly, but his response wasn’t an invitation. It was a polite rejection that you couldn’t quite place at first, until you realized it wasn’t just the work. He just didn’t want to engage.

On another occasion, when the team had gathered around the conference table for a case briefing, you shared a funny memory from a training session at the academy. It was a small anecdote, one that usually drew a laugh from Luke or JJ, but Spencer only offered a barely noticeable grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes still fixed on the file in front of him. The briefest of glances, and then he was back to his usual space, mentally miles away from the conversation. It stung more than you’d expected.

Even simple gestures didn’t seem to reach him. One day, after a long stretch of overtime, you left a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, knowing he’d be up all night. When you came by later to check in, the coffee was still there, untouched, as if he hadn’t even seen it.

It wasn’t that he was cruel—he was never outwardly dismissive or rude. But his silence spoke volumes. Every attempt to connect felt like it fell short. You’d find yourself lingering by his desk, hoping for a spark of warmth, but he remained like a stone statue, absorbed in his world of facts and logic, leaving no room for small talk, no room for you.

You knew it was because of what he’d been through—the years on the job, seeing the darkest corners of humanity, and the months he’d spent in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. You didn’t expect him to open up immediately, but you couldn’t help feeling like you were being shut out, as if you didn’t even exist in his world.

One afternoon, after another grueling case, Emily pulled Spencer aside. You watched from a distance as they spoke quietly in the hallway outside the bullpen. It wasn’t unusual for them to have private conversations, but this time, you could tell it was different. The tension in Emily’s posture spoke volumes, her usual calm demeanor strained as she spoke to him in a low, controlled voice.

"Spencer," Emily said, her tone gentle but firm. "Go easy on her. She’s still learning the ropes."

Spencer didn’t respond immediately, but you could see the furrow in his brow. He crossed his arms, a familiar sign of resistance. "I don’t know why she’s here in the first place," he muttered, his voice tight. "You brought her in like she’s going to replace me."

Emily sighed, her patience palpable. "Spencer, that’s not what’s happening. She’s here because she’s talented. She solved that case when none of us could get close. There’s something in her that we don’t have. This job has toughened us all, but she’s in tune with emotions in a way that lets her read people better. She thinks outside the box and picks up on things we miss. That’s a skill we need."

"She’s just a rookie," Spencer shot back, almost as if to dismiss her entirely.

"Rookies can make a difference," Emily replied, her voice softening. "You were a rookie once, give her a chance. She’s not here to replace you. No one ever could." She patted his shoulder before walking away, Spencer’s frown now morphing into a glare as he caught your eyes through the halfway open blinds.

—

The case was already making waves back at Quantico—a chilling pattern that left even the most seasoned agents unsettled. Young women, all in their early twenties, had been disappearing without a trace, only to be found days later in isolated, hauntingly serene locations. Each scene felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, with the victims bound and posed in ways that suggested some twisted form of reverence or ritual.

The killer’s signature was unmistakable: he wasn’t just abducting and murdering these women—he was creating a spectacle. At each scene, small tokens were left behind, items that seemed personal to the victims but whose significance the team had yet to decipher. There was no discernible link between the women—no shared acquaintances, no overlapping routines—but the precision and consistency of the unsub’s methods made it clear he was following a meticulously thought-out plan.

What pushed the case into even darker territory were the videos. Hours before each body was found, the unsub would send footage to the victim's family—a harrowing glimpse of their loved one in her final moments. The videos were devoid of color, the black and white feed only amplifying the horror. The unsub would taunt the families by delivering the footage in person, leaving USB drives on doorsteps or mailing them with cryptic, handwritten notes. It was a psychological attack as much as a physical one, designed to shatter the survivors and leave them with a burden of unanswered questions.

—

After the team wrapped up the debriefing on the jet, Emily turned to you and Spencer. “I want the two of you to work together on interviewing people associated with this case,” she said, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

Your eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. This was your first real assignment—no shadowing, no taking notes in the background—actual fieldwork where you’d be directly contributing to the case.

Spencer Reid—the prodigy, the one with a photographic memory and an endless well of knowledge—was someone you admired since before you joined the BAU. You smiled faintly, eager but trying to hide just how much this opportunity meant to you.

Spencer, however, didn’t share your enthusiasm. He glanced at Emily, then at you, and though he didn’t say anything, the faint tightening of his jaw and his unreadable gaze told you everything. He wasn’t thrilled about the pairing.

Still, you told yourself it didn’t matter. This was your chance—to learn from him, to prove to him and the rest of the team that you had what it took to contribute. Spencer’s reluctance might have stung, but you weren’t going to let it deter you.

—

The first stop was to interview the family of a missing woman, a college student who’d been found dead three days after her disappearance. The parents were devastated—shocked, grieving, and desperately trying to piece together anything that could help them understand who had taken their daughter. You listened intently, jotting down notes, but there was something off about one of the alibis given by a neighbor—the last person to see the girl alive. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something felt wrong.

You brought it up to Spencer, speaking carefully but with conviction. “I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. Something about his story doesn’t add up.”

Spencer barely glanced at you, his tone sharp. “His alibi checks out. There’s no reason to think he’s lying.”

You shook your head, the feeling in your gut growing stronger. “But something is off, I can’t really explain it but I just feel it.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You feel it? We’re not here for feelings. This isn’t some sort of instinct game. You have to trust the evidence.”

“But something’s not adding up,” you pressed, feeling the frustration rise in your chest.

Spencer’s tone grew colder. “This isn’t a job where everything works out because you think you have some sort of spidey sense. You can’t go around guessing. You need to understand what it really takes to solve a case.”

You let the conversation drop, trying to focus on other details, but his dismissiveness was starting to sting. Spencer wasn’t just disagreeing with your instincts—he was questioning your competence, as though your opinion didn’t matter at all.

The day dragged on, with Spencer continuously shutting down your ideas. Every time you tried to offer a new perspective or suggest a potential lead, he dismissed you with a harsh, dismissive comment.

“This isn’t the job you think it is. It’s not about theories, it’s about hard work and experience,” he snapped at one point.

The more you tried, the more it felt like Spencer was deliberately undermining you. Every suggestion, no matter how thoughtful, was met with a cold refusal.

When you finally presented another lead from a witness, Spencer’s frustration exploded. “You’re inexperienced. Everyone here earned their place through hard work. You? You got in because you were in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. Maybe you wanted to experience the darkness, to see what it’s like, but you don’t really understand what it costs to live in it every day. One day, your luck is going to run out, and when it does, no instinct or gut feeling is going to save you. You don’t think like a profiler, you just react. You walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to you. But in the real world, there’s no safety net. No one’s going to follow some gut feeling into the dark and magically find their way out."

The words hit you like a slap to the face. You stood there, trying to hold yourself together, but his words tore into you. Spencer wasn’t just dismissing your ideas; he was attacking you personally, questioning your entire existence.

You kept your composure, nodding absently as though agreeing, though inside, you were cracking under the weight of his accusations.

—

When the day finally ended, you excused yourself, telling Spencer you needed to clear your head. As you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the weight of the day pressed on your shoulders. You needed a moment to breathe, to process everything Spencer had said.

That’s when you saw him—the neighbor you’d interviewed earlier, the one you were convinced was lying. He was standing by his car, watching you. Something about his posture, the way he loomed in the shadows, sent a chill down your spine.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t completely honest earlier. Can we talk privately?”

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to leave. “Actually, I need to get back—”

Before you could finish, he lunged. You fought back, kicking and clawing, screaming as loudly as you could, but he was stronger. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries.

He wrestled you into a car, duct-taping your mouth and wrists as he muttered to himself. You could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes, the satisfaction he got from the struggle.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, shutting out the pounding of your heart. Stay calm, you told yourself. Panic wasn’t an option. You had been trained for situations like this, and you knew fear was his weapon.

As the car sped away, you focused on observing everything around you. The unsub kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching into a twisted grin. You realized then—Fear gave him power. That was his fuel. He didn’t just want to hurt his victims; he wanted to break them emotionally, to revel in their terror.

Don’t give him that power, you thought, straightening your posture and meeting his gaze with an icy calmness. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, but you saw the flicker of frustration.

You started piecing together his personality. He wasn’t impulsive; this was calculated. He had planned every detail, which meant he was confident, methodical, and most likely familiar with his hunting ground. His muttering gave you a glimpse into his psyche—fragments of sentences about being “misunderstood” and “showing them” painted the picture of someone who felt wronged by the world and used his crimes as a way to reclaim control.

The car took a sharp left turn, and you counted silently. One left turn. You pressed your bound hands against the door for stability, straining to catch the noises outside. Gravel crunched under the tires as they left the pavement. Two right turns. The road sounds uneven now—it’s gravel, maybe leading to a more isolated area.

You kept your eyes sharp, scanning for anything that could give away your location. A small victory came when you caught a glimpse of a weathered sign as they passed under a flickering streetlight. The sign was faded, but you managed to make out “Thornhill Dr.”

Thornhill Dr, two right turns off the main street, and we’re heading north, you calculated.

The sound of an approaching train caught your attention, and you noted the rhythm of the horn. You mentally mapped where train tracks were in proximity to Thornhill Dr—another clue you could use later.

Your mind sharpened as adrenaline coursed through you, heightening every detail. A slight creak in the car’s suspension suggested the vehicle was older, poorly maintained. The air grew colder, hinting that you were moving into a less urban area, away from the warmth of the city’s dense buildings.

Every observation mattered. Every detail was a potential key to your survival. You couldn’t scream for help, but you could think, analyze, and stay one step ahead.

The unsub’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You’re too calm. You think you’re brave, huh? Acting like you’re not scared.”

You met his eyes through the mirror again, your face expressionless. He leaned back in his seat slightly, as though unnerved by your lack of reaction.

The car began to slow, and you braced yourself. We’ve arrived, you thought. You made a mental note of the landmarks—a rusty mailbox near a dirt driveway, the faint outline of a barn in the distance. The weathered boards of the barn seemed to match the descriptions from the case files.

I know where I am, you realized, a small surge of hope igniting within you. Now I just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.

Your heart pounded, but your mind stayed sharp. You had everything you needed to leave a trail for your team—now it was just a matter of time

You sat stoically bound to the chair, your eyes cold and unwavering as the unsub stood before you. His anticipation was palpable, as if he expected you to break, to cry, to beg. But you didn’t. You simply met his eyes with calm indifference.

“So your dad left and your mother doesn’t love you,” you said, your voice steady. “That doesn’t give you a right to do this.”

His grin faltered for a moment, the words hitting him harder than he anticipated. There was a brief flash of anger in his eyes, but you could see the confusion behind it. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not with the emotional weight of his own troubled past.

“Where’s your family?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “Don’t you have anyone who cares about you? Anyone who’s going to watch this and cry for you?” You held his gaze, emotionless. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t fear—it was control. “I have no one,” you said quietly, your words landing with deliberate weight. “The only ones who would care about seeing this... are my team.”

He seemed to hesitate, his fingers hovering over the phone as if unsure how to respond to your calm. But soon, his frustration took over, and he hit the ‘record’ button, turning the camera on you. The feed blinked to life, broadcasting your image across the screens of the BAU.

—

Back at the base, chaos reigned. Penelope, usually confident in her skills, was visibly breaking down. Her fingers trembled as they flew over the keyboard, trying to track the signal. Her mind raced as the seconds dragged on, but the pressure was beginning to get to her. “He’s jumping between different servers. This isn’t random. It’s deliberate,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaky. She wiped a tear away, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The desperation was palpable in her voice as she typed furiously, willing herself to focus.

Emily, standing beside Penelope, shot her a supportive glance, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. She was all business, trying to calm the team down and make sense of the situation. “We’re going to find her,” she said, voice steady but tight with the weight of leadership. Her mind was already formulating the next steps, calculating the possibilities with quick efficiency.

JJ, still pacing back and forth, shot a glance at the screen. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze flicking from the monitor to the team. “We’re not losing her. We’re not,” she repeated, more to herself than to anyone else. The anxiety was evident, but so was her determination to stay focused.

Rossi stood nearby, scanning the screen. His brows furrowed as he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the livestream. His calm, composed demeanor was cracking, and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Luke’s chest tightened as he watched the screen, unable to look away. The helplessness gnawed at him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Matt grabbed at his hair, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the fear that gripped him, the uncertainty of the situation weighing on him.

Spencer, who usually remained calm in the face of danger, was visibly shaken. His mind kept returning to his own experience, the terror he’d felt when Tobias Hankel had taken him. The helplessness, the fear—he remembered it all too vividly. Now, seeing you in the same position, his heart raced with a familiar dread.

But what gnawed at him even more was the guilt. The last conversation you had kept replaying in his mind. He had dismissed your concerns about the neighbor. If he had listened, if he had trusted your instincts like others had done for him when he first joined the BAU, you wouldn’t be in this position. The guilt ate at him. He silently begged for another chance, wishing he could take back his words and make things right.

—

As the live stream continued, the unsub’s taunting voice cut through the tension in the room. He kept his camera trained on you, trying to get a rise out of you, his twisted satisfaction evident in his every movement. But you didn’t break. You stayed calm, your mind working at full speed, calculating, analyzing. You had to focus, remain steady, and find a way to give the team the clues they needed—subtle enough for the unsub not to catch on.

“Do you think they’ll come for me?” you asked softly, eyes fixed on the camera, keeping your tone even. “Do you think they'll find me before the next train comes?”

The unsub scoffed, amused by your apparent defiance. “They won’t find you,” he spat, looking away, clearly oblivious to the significance of your words. But Spencer wasn’t. His eyes snapped to the screen, and his mind began to piece together the details. The mention of the train, the faint rhythm of the horn in the background. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were giving them a hint, telling them you were near the tracks.

The unsub didn’t respond, busy with his phone, and you knew he had his attention fully on the camera now. It was the perfect moment for you to speak in code—something only Spencer would understand.

You paused and added, almost casually, “The sky’s still gray, like it’s waiting to rain. Makes you want to drive a little farther into the hills, doesn’t it? Somewhere the roads are too narrow for anyone to follow.”

Then, as if you couldn’t keep it inside any longer, you looked straight into the camera and addressed Spencer directly. “Spencer, I don’t know why you’re so mean to me sometimes. You told me my luck was going to run out. That I walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to me. But you need to start trusting me, I promise I won’t lead you astray. I may be a thorn in your side, but thorns are there for a reason."

The moment you spoke those words, Spencer’s eyes widened at the base. He had caught it—the final clue. Thorn. It wasn’t just the pain of those words—it was the road. Thorn Hill Drive. It all clicked for him.

Without hesitation, he turned to Penelope. “Thorn Hill Drive. Check the train routes, the roads, everything. We need to know exactly where she is.”

Penelope worked furiously at her computer, cross-referencing the details Spencer had given her. Within moments, she found the location.

—

The team rushed into action, each agent moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Emily was the first to stand, her voice clear and commanding. “Penelope, pull up the map of Thorn Hill Drive. Luke, Matt, Reid you’re on the ground—get ready to go. Rossi, JJ, stay here to monitor the live stream. We need to move fast, people.”

Luke and Matt didn’t hesitate. They grabbed their gear, ready to head out the door, their determination etched across their faces. The urgency in Emily’s tone pushed them forward with a sense of purpose that only years of experience could cultivate.

As the team dispersed into their assigned tasks, Penelope’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “I’ve got it! Thorn Hill Drive is in the outskirts of the city, about twenty miles north. There’s a set of train tracks that run parallel to the road.”

Spencer’s mind raced as he watched the details unfold on the screen. He was no stranger to the chaos that followed a kidnapping, but this time, it felt personal. He couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him. He should’ve listened to you. Your instincts had been right, and now you were paying the price.

“She’ll be okay, Reid,” Emily’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We’re going to bring her home.”

He snapped his attention back to the task at hand, shaking off the guilt and focusing on the case. “I know, the unsub underestimated her. I underestimated her.”

Penelope’s voice was strained but full of determination. “I’ve got eyes on the location. There’s a barn near a dirt road—looks like the area she described. There’s only one way in and out.

“Perfect,” Emily said, her voice all business. “Everyone, gear up. Luke, Matt—take the lead. The rest of us will follow. Let’s move.”

The team was in motion within seconds. They moved with urgency, knowing that every second counted. Spencer was out the door before anyone else, his legs pushing him faster than he thought possible, the guilt and fear weighing heavily on his chest. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there, alone, in the hands of a killer who was savoring your terror.

—

You had been tied to a chair for what felt like hours, though time seemed to stretch and warp in the silence. The unsub had retreated into the shadows, likely hoping you’d break under the pressure, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. Your mind kept racing, cataloging every detail you could—every sound, every movement. You weren’t about to give up. Not when you were so close.

The sound of a car engine revving in the distance made you stiffen, but you forced yourself to remain calm. It could be him preparing to leave, or it could be the team. You’d left them all the clues you could; now, you had to trust that they were on their way.

The unsub returned, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “You think they’re coming for you?” His voice was dark, twisted with amusement. “I’m not stupid. I know they’re out there looking for you. But you know what? They’ll be too late. They always are.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your face expressionless, focusing on your breathing.

He seemed to enjoy your silence more than anything, pacing around you. “Do you want to know why I picked you?” he asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Because you’re just like me. Alone. Abandoned.”

You blinked, your pulse quickening. “You’re not alone,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “You have your family. You have your victims.”

His eyes flashed with anger at your words. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore. I’m the one who’s been forgotten. I’m the one who’s been ignored. But this? This is my revenge. I’ll make them remember me. I’ll make them know what it’s like to feel powerless.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling the tension between you grow. But something in his words clicked in your mind—a piece of the puzzle fitting into place. His desperation, his need to show the world his pain—it wasn’t just about power. It was about feeling seen. He wasn’t just hunting women. He was hunting validation.

As if reading your thoughts, the unsub smirked. “You’ll be the one to show them. You’ll be the one to remind them that they can’t forget.”

You didn’t have time to entertain his twisted philosophy. You needed to focus on the one thing that mattered—surviving.

The car engine noise grew louder, a flicker of hope rising in your chest. You were running out of time. You needed to find a way to break free, to survive.

Matt and Luke leapt out of the vehicle, their weapons drawn, ready for action. “We’ve got to move fast,” Luke said, his voice low and urgent. “He’ll be expecting us. Let’s breach the barn from both sides.”

They flanked the barn, eyes scanning every inch for movement.

Spencer’s heart was pounding in his chest as he finally caught up with the others. Emily’s words replayed in his mind: “You were a rookie once, give her a chance.”

The team moved with precision, no longer just a group of agents but a family, united by the mission to save you. Spencer’s chest tightened, a storm of emotions warring within him. He had to make things right. He had to.

Inside the barn, you could hear the footsteps approaching. Your heartbeat quickened.

This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Spencer.”

And then everything went black.

—

the first thing you noticed was the sterile scent of the hospital room and the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor beside you. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you sore, but there was a deeper ache—a lingering exhaustion that settled in your bones. You groaned, and it was the sound of discomfort that made Spencer stir beside you.

His head jerked up from the uncomfortable chair he was slouched in, eyes wide and clouded with sleep. The exhaustion on his face hit you all at once. He'd been there for a while. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his posture was stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, your voice raw.

Spencer blinked at you, clearly startled by your groaning. His gaze softened as he pushed himself up from the chair, stretching his stiff neck. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress.

You nodded slowly, trying to push yourself up in bed but wincing at the ache in your muscles. Spencer immediately moved to help you, his hand gently pressing against your shoulder to keep you steady.

“Don’t try to move too fast,” he warned softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You sank back into the pillows, feeling the weight of everything that had happened crashing down on you. “How long…?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead running a hand through his hair and exhaling sharply. “A while,” he said quietly. “I’ve been here all night. I didn’t want to leave.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion and worry etched deep into his features. It was clear he hadn't left for hours—maybe longer. You felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away.

“Spencer,” you whispered, your throat tight. “You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to,” he said firmly, his gaze intense. He took a breath, eyes flickering with hesitation. “You did good back there. How did you stay so calm? The whole time… with everything he was doing, the livestream, the situation… you never cracked.”

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting too close to home, but you knew it was time to be honest.

“It’s not about being calm, Spencer,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “It’s about survival.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. “What do you mean?”

You inhaled shakily, struggling to find the right words. “The reason the unsub livestreamed my abduction… the reason he didn’t send the footage to my family... it’s because I don’t have anyone, Spencer. Not really.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you continued, voice trembling, “but he knew. He knew there was no one waiting for me, no one to watch the screen and beg for my return.” You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “My parents were negligent. They were never there. My whole life… it was like I didn’t exist to them. And when they did pay attention, it wasn’t in the way a parent should. I wasn’t loved, Spencer. I wasn’t protected.”

The words felt heavy, a weight that had been buried deep inside you for so long. Spencer was silent, his expression unreadable as he watched you.

“And that’s why I’m good at this,” you said, the words coming out almost automatically. “Why I’m so focused, so good at picking up on things that others miss.” You swallowed, struggling against the lump in your throat. “I had to survive. I had to learn how to read people, to hone my instincts. It was the only way to stay safe in my own home. I lived like that for so long, always waiting for something to happen. Always trying to figure out the next move before it happened.”

Spencer’s face softened as he listened to you, his eyes filled with empathy and a sorrow that you hadn’t expected. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “It’s not about deserving it, Spencer. It’s just what happened. And I had to learn to live with it. But that’s why… that’s why I reacted the way I did. I couldn’t just let him control me. Not like that. I had to stay calm. I had to keep fighting.”

Spencer reached out, his hand gently brushing yours, a gesture of reassurance. “You’re strong,” he whispered. You’ve earned my respect.”

You looked at him, not sure how to respond at first. You were still feeling the sting of his earlier words, the harshness that he’d used to shut you down. “I don’t need your respect, Spencer,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with frustration. “But I do need you to stop taking advantage of my kindness. You’ve been so cold, so dismissive. And all I’ve tried to do is help—especially with this case. Every time I tried to contribute, you brushed me off. It’s like you think I don’t belong here.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, the guilt flooding back. He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

“You can’t keep doing that,” you continued, your voice steadier now, though the anger still burned in your chest. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m just the ‘rookie.’ You’re better than that.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his throat tight. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I… I don’t know why I’ve been so hard on you. Maybe it’s because I’ve been shutting everyone out, and it felt easier to push you away too. But that’s not your fault, and you don’t deserve it. I’m sorry for not listening to you when I should’ve.”

You stared at him for a long moment, considering his words. The apology didn’t undo the hurt, but you saw the sincerity in his eyes.

“Just… try to trust me next time,” you said quietly, your voice softening. “I know I’m new, but I’m not stupid. I’m not here by accident, Spencer. I’ve earned my place just like everyone else.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady but still guarded. “I’ll try to do better,” he said, his voice quieter this time, less defensive. “I’ll listen more, take you seriously. I won’t shut you out like I did before.”

There was a pause, and you could sense the effort it took for him to even say that much. It wasn’t a perfect apology, but it was a start—one that made you wonder if there could be more to this than just the professional walls he’d built around himself.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both seemed to understand, without saying it, that this wasn’t the end of the conversation. It was only the beginning. And though Spencer’s walls were still up, there was something different in the air—a shift, a subtle change in how he was letting you in, even if just a little. Maybe, just maybe, you were both ready for whatever came next.

For now, though, you let the quiet settle between you. The weight of the case, the uncertainty of the future—it all still hung in the air. But somehow, you felt like you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And that was enough—for now.

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rositaslabyrinth · 2 days ago

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How did it end? - Dean W

Dean Winchester x female!reader

Content warnings : grief, loss, blame, sadness, mentions of death

Dealing with the loss of Dean after his death post-season 15

Word count ; 1,867

The little house sits on the edge of nowhere.

It’s the kind of place Dean would’ve hated—too still, too quiet, too far from the open road. You picked it for that exact reason. No motels with flickering neon signs, no highways lined with the hum of an Impala that will never come. Just silence, broken only by the occasional whistle of wind through the trees.

But silence is a cruel thing when you have ghosts that won’t leave you alone.

You sit at the worn wooden table, a cup of coffee in your hands, though it’s long gone cold. The radio crackles low in the background, playing a song you don’t recognize. It doesn’t matter. Every song reminds you of him anyway.

Your fingers trace the rim of the mug as your mind drifts, slipping into the past like it always does.

“C’mon, sweetheart, that all you got?” Dean grins at you from across the pool table, green eyes lit up with mischief. He’s got that cocky tilt to his stance, a beer bottle in one hand, the pool cue in the other. The bar is dimly lit, smelling of old wood and whiskey, the kind of place that feels like home just because he’s in it.

You narrow your eyes at him, lining up your shot. “You know, for someone who sucks at taking bets, you sure talk a lot of shit.”

He chuckles, leaning in close just as you take the shot. It’s enough to throw you off, the ball rolling just past its mark. “That was just mean,” you huff, but you’re already smiling.

Dean sets his bottle down, stepping behind you. His hands find your waist, warm and steady, like they belong there. “Here, let me help.” His breath ghosts against your ear as he guides your grip, his chest pressed against your back. You forget about the game entirely.

You flinch back to the present, the cold seeped into your bones. Your hand is clenched around the mug, knuckles white. The memory is too real. Too sharp.

You push back from the table and stand, pacing the length of the kitchen. The floor creaks under your feet, the same way the boards used to groan under Dean’s weight when he’d sneak into the kitchen for a midnight snack.

It never goes away, this grief.

It doesn’t hit you all at once like it used to—like a knife to the gut, a hurricane of pain. No, now it comes in slow waves, creeping in when you least expect it. The echoes of a laugh, the phantom touch of calloused hands, the scent of leather and gunpowder that lingers in the depths of your mind.

You grip the edge of the counter, breathing through it.

“Where would you go?” Dean props himself up on one elbow, watching you from where he’s sprawled on the motel bed. His bare chest is dappled with the glow of the neon sign outside, the sheets tangled between your legs. You blink up at the ceiling. “If I wasn’t hunting?”

“Yeah.” He nudges you lightly. “Say it all ended tomorrow. Where would you go?” You turn your head to look at him. “I don’t know.” Dean smiles, but there’s something sad in it. “You’d find something else, I think. Something normal.”

“You don’t believe in normal.” He shrugs. “Not for me. But you? I think you could.” You don’t answer, because the truth is, you don’t want normal. Not without him.

You should’ve told him. Should’ve told him that hunting or not, life without him wasn’t something you wanted. But you didn’t get a choice in the end. You exhale shakily, blinking away the sting in your eyes.

It’s been a year. A whole damn year since he died. Since you put him to rest. Since you stood in the bunker, staring at his empty room, his jacket still slung over the chair like he was going to walk back in and grab it.

The worst part isn’t the loneliness. It’s the guilt. The guilt of waking up every day. The guilt of breathing when he’s not. You step onto the porch, the night air biting against your skin. The stars are bright—brighter than they ever were on the road.

You close your eyes and imagine the rumble of the Impala pulling up the driveway. The sound of boots on gravel. The way Dean would call your name, voice warm, familiar.

But when you open your eyes, there’s nothing. Just silence. And you, trying to remember how it ended.

The wind picks up, rustling the trees that line the yard. You wrap your arms around yourself, staring out at the darkness stretching beyond the porch. It’s quiet here—too quiet.

Dean hated the quiet.

“It’s creepy,” he’d say whenever you drove through an empty town in the dead of night. “I like a little noise. Makes the world feel alive.”

You had laughed at him then, called him dramatic. But now, standing here in the suffocating stillness, you understand what he meant. The world feels dead without him.

You exhale, stepping back inside before the cold sinks too deep into your bones. The door creaks as you shut it behind you, locking it out of habit—a habit you can’t seem to shake, even though there’s nothing left to fight. No monsters, no demons, no hunts. Just you. Just the memories.

“You ever think about quitting?”

The question had caught you off guard. You had just finished patching up a cut on Dean’s shoulder, your bedroom in three bunker dimly lit by a single lamp. He had been sitting on the edge of the bed, his head tilted toward you, an unreadable expression on his face.

You frowned. “Quitting?” “Yeah.” He winced as you tightened the bandage. “Like, just… walking away. No more hunts, no more demons. Just… life.” You stared at him, searching for the punchline. But there wasn’t one. “Where is this coming from?” you asked softly.

Dean looked away, jaw tightening. “Nowhere.”You didn’t believe him, but you didn’t push. Instead, you placed a hand over his. “If you wanted to walk away, I’d go with you.” He had looked at you then, something unreadable in his eyes. But he never answered.

You never talked about it again. And now, it doesn’t matter. Because Dean is gone, and you’re here, trying to figure out what walking away even means when the only person you would’ve walked away with isn’t beside you. You move through the house like a ghost, your feet carrying you to the bedroom. The bed is too big. Too empty. You still sleep on one side.

Your fingers twitch toward the nightstand, the top drawer slightly ajar. You hesitate. Then, with a quiet sigh, you pull it open. Dean’s wallet sits inside. His watch, too. Little things you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of. And beneath them, a folded scrap of paper. Your chest tightens as you pull it out, unfolding it with careful fingers. Dean’s handwriting is scrawled across the page. “If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it.” You suck in a breath.

You don’t remember when he wrote this. Maybe after one of the times he almost didn’t come back. Maybe long before that. “I know you. I know you’re blaming yourself. Don’t. Please. I need you to do something for me.” Your hands shake.

“Live. Not the kind of half-life we had on the road. A real one. Find something that makes you happy. Find someone who makes you happy. Don’t waste your time missing me. I don’t deserve that.”

Your vision blurs. “But if you do miss me… you know where to find me.” A broken laugh escapes you. It’s a strangled, ugly sound. Because you don’t. Dean is nowhere. Dean is gone. And you have no idea how to live without him.

The letter stays in your hands longer than it should. You read it again, even though you already know the words by heart. Even though you’ve read it a hundred times before, traced every curve of his handwriting like it might bring him back. It never does. A knock at the door startles you.

Your heart stutters in your chest, ridiculous hope flaring for half a second before reality sinks its claws in. Dean is gone. Dean isn’t knocking.

You take a breath, tucking the letter back into the drawer before you move toward the front door. When you open it, Sam is standing on the other side, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His hair is longer now, his face lined with grief that matches your own.

“Hey,” he says softly. You swallow, stepping aside to let him in. “Hey.”

Sam hasn’t been here before. You made sure of that. You didn’t want him to see how you’d been living, how you’d carved out a life in the middle of nowhere just to avoid everything that reminded you of the past.

But Sam is persistent.

He looks around, taking in the quiet house, the carefully controlled emptiness. “Nice place,” he says, though there’s something sad in his voice. You don’t answer, just gesture toward the kitchen. “Coffee?” “Yeah. Thanks.”

You move through the motions on autopilot, pouring him a cup before setting it on the table. Sam watches you, eyes scanning for things you can’t hide.

Finally, he says, “I went by the bunker.” Your hands tighten around your own mug “Felt weird,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Being there alone.”

You don’t respond, because you know that feeling all too well. Sam exhales, glancing toward you. “I miss him.” The words punch the air from your lungs. You grip the edge of the table, grounding yourself. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too. Silence stretches between you. Not awkward, not uncomfortable—just heavy.

And then, Sam reaches into his jacket, pulling out something small. He slides it across the table toward you.

Dean’s ring. Your breath catches. “I found it in his room,” Sam says gently. “Thought you should have it.”

Your fingers hesitate before picking it up. The silver is warm from Sam’s palm, but when you hold it, it’s like touching the past—like brushing against something that shouldn’t be gone.

You curl your fingers around it, pressing it into your palm until it hurts. “Sam,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this.” Sam’s throat bobs. “Me neither.”

You look at him then, really look at him. The weight in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes. Grief has hollowed him out the same way it has you.

Maybe you thought you were the only one carrying this, but you weren’t. You never were. Dean left both of you behind. And yet, here you are. Alive. Breathing. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear Dean’s voice—rough, warm, teasing “You know where to find me.”

You close your eyes. Maybe he’s in the memories.Maybe he’s in the spaces between the silence.Maybe he’s in the warmth of Sam sitting across from you, a tether to the past and a promise of something still ahead.

You don’t know what comes next. But maybe—just maybe—you’ll figure it out. Together.

This is very loosely based off the song by my fav T Swift. Ily taylor and thanks for inspiring me with that song <33

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beomiracles · 2 days ago

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 TAPE 05

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ Moving rapidly through your career as one of the leading female investigators, you never once encountered a case you couldn't crack. Though you never expected for your past mistakes to come back and haunt you in the form of an ex lover, accused of murder. ⸝⸝

𝓹airings criminal!beomgyu x detective!reader 𝔀arnings references to sexual encounters, blood, mentions of injuries, drinking, red-flag reader (?), no warnings just vibes idk man leave me alone im going to cry.

📼 THE TAPE RECORDINGS

𝓣𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝓢𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 contains dark themes portraying unhealthy and toxic relationships and substance abuse. reader discretion is advised ! — this story is partly told in flashbacks, beware of timestamps as past/present are mixed throughout the story.

#serene adds ✎.. the last scene was so god awful hard for me to write for some unknown reason... oh well! I got it out, I'm alive, all is well :3

[ ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။| TAPE 05 ] — Bloody Bodies recording legnth; 6.4k + PLAYLIST

⸝⸝

📼 — April 29th 2022

“So… What happens now?” Your hushed question feels loud when it passes your swollen lips. Gingerly pulling your panties back on, you cringe at the sticky feeling of the damp fabric against your skin. Beomgyu remains silent next to you as he leans back against the brick wall. For a moment, you wonder if your question had been a stupid one to ask.

It’s not until you move closer to him, your arm brushing against his that he tilts his head your way, one of his brows tugging upward. “Is something supposed to happen?” He echoes in an almost monotone voice. — Confused, you glance between him and the door only a few steps away. “Are you not going back inside?”

For the past ten minutes you had been trying to come up with an excuse, rather an explanation to deliver in front of Kayla once you walked back inside the club with Beomgyu. She would be mad, undoubtedly so and your mind raked with different scenarios and outcomes. What would you tell her? Would you even get the chance to introduce him, would he even want you to? Maybe he would just take off as soon as you stepped inside.

“No.”

His sigh is like a stone brick thrown right at you, hitting you across the face and leaving an ugly bruise. You blink, in complete disbelief as your gaze darts back toward him. But you had just spent ten whole minutes worrying about what to say. And he wasn’t even going back in? — “You’re not?” It was impossible to hide the disappointment in your voice and you’re almost certain he picked up on it.

Beomgyu shakes his head before letting it tilt back against the wall behind him. You knew that he was waiting for you to leave, and perhaps you should. Any other day you probably would have, but today it wasn’t enough. The sex only gave you a temporary fix, you needed more.

“Where are you going?” You straighten out your back, hands falling to your sides as they clenched into fists. You were determined to draw at least a half-assed answer out of him. Beomgyu doesn’t look at you when he replies, “Work.”

Ah right, work. It was an easy excuse, given that you knew little to nothing about what he did for a living, or anything else regarding him for that matter. That was bound to change.

“You work nights?”

He hadn’t expected that question, you could tell by the way his jaw subtly clenched, his hands digging deeper into his pockets. He nods, but his eyes are fixated on something far away, something you couldn’t see. “I do sometimes”, he hums.

Sometimes? He must work quite odd hours, for night shifts were usually on a tight and regular schedule. “Is it okay for you to drink before work?” You ask with a small frown, silently questioning his move to come here if he knew he had somewhere important to be shortly after. — But Beomgyu merely shrugs as he pushes himself off the cold wall. “I am my own boss, dollface.” His lips curl into the ghost of a smirk when he leans over to kiss your forehead.

And just like that, he was gone again, and you were left with what seemed even more questions than you’d started with.

⸝⸝

📼 — PRESENT TIME ; February 22th 2024

“He was a freelancer… Of sorts..” You quietly state and Yeonjun glances up from the files in front of him. “Freelance?” He repeats and you nod as your gaze returns to the photos of the crime scene before you. Your finger drags across the image of the bloodstained cough, cringing as you imagine Beomgyu, covered from head to toe in blood as he lunges at the poor victim.

“Do you know what kind of freelance?” Your senior then wonders as he flips a page. You did. Though Beomgyu rarely, if ever, discussed work matters with you, you had still caught on to enough where you knew what kind of connections he held, what kind of person he was. — For some reason your lips betray you, “I don’t.”

You then hastily continue, “He was gone a lot, worked odd hours, came and went.” You shrug, trying your best to divert from the topic you had brought up yourself. You don’t know why you defended him, why you felt the need to take his side. You want to be honest with Yeonjun, hell you want to be honest with yourself. Why did he have to make it so hard?

Your last conversation a mere two days ago was still fresh in your mind. You wondered if his words actually held any weight. Was it true? Were you still loyal to him, after everything that had happened… Maybe you always will be. The thought was a scary one and you quickly pushed it away.

Choi Beomgyu was going to prison. He had no alibi, no witnesses, and all evidence pointed at him. All you lacked now was his confession, but that proved to be more than difficult.

“Why did you do it?”

Your question is left hanging in the open air, and your fingers curl around the pencil in your hand as you grip it tightly. The all too familiar metal table in front of you gleams under the bright lamp hanging above, the sterile lights reflecting off of its surface. — Beomgyu sighs, sounding tired as his gaze shifts from the wall behind you and over to meet your own. But when his eyes fall on you, they seem to regain their almost mischievous glint. “You’ve got to be a little more specific than that, dollface.”

Feeling your jaw clench as you fight to stay composed, your gaze flickers to the window on your left. As much as you wanted answers, you couldn’t risk anything with Yeonjun on the other side, listening intently to the conversation taking place. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest as you watch your reflection through the dark glass, you looked as scared as you felt.

Following your hesitant glance, Beomgyu smirks. It was like he fed on your uncertainty. Every step you faltered allowed him to take at least three forward. You swallow, and then your attention returns to him. “Why did you kill him?” — “Hm?” He attempts to run a hand through his hair, cringing slightly when he realizes that they’re both tied together by the metal cuffs around his wrists. With the small roll of his eyes he continues, “Thought I already told you, I was cleaning up a mes-”

“No.”

He pauses, cocking an eyebrow as he watches you with an impassive expression. You draw in a sharp breath. Never had you interrupted him before, never had you dared to. His brows pull together, his vision narrowing if only slightly. “No?” He huffs, the disbelief in his tone evident. — You shake your head softly, the movement small, so minimal that only he could pick up on it.

“Why did you kill him?”

Within the four confined walls the already thick air suddenly shifted. You recognized the smirk that tugged across his lips, the way his eyes glimmered with recognition. Beomgyu leans back, his hands clasped neatly together as his thumbs roll over one another. And even though it felt as if the two of you spoke completely different languages, where words were all but an endless game of cat and mouse.. — Sometimes… It was like he could understand you perfectly, as long as you gave him reason to.

His tongue prods against the inside of his cheek, his lip twitching and for a second it looked like he was holding back laughter. “Dollface”, he drawls, metal cuffs rattling against the metal table when he leans forward. “Why?” He echoes, “Is that what you’re dying to know?”

Yes. But you never say it out loud. You swallow, your grip on the pencil so tight that it might just snap in half. Beomgyu picks up on it, his eyes flitting down for a second before snapping back up to yours. — You knew that Beomgyu had killed people, you knew that he had blood on his hands. You have seen it yourself.

⸝⸝

📼 — May 11th 2022

The hotel room is dark. The expensive silk beneath you is cool to the touch and the large bed is cold, for it misses the warmth of another body next to your own. You try to swallow down the lump in your throat, but it won’t budge. It’s quiet, eerily so, and your stomach doesn’t tingle with butterflies as it usually would on a night like this. Instead it twists with dread.

You reach for your discarded phone, its bright light stings your eyes when you re-read his message. The address was correct, the room number too. But the time… 11:45 pm. Your heart drops when your gaze flickers toward the time indicator on your screen.

2:31 am.

He was nearly three hours late. But Beomgyu was never late, in fact, he was always there before you. Often you had wondered how he managed to get from one location to the next, how he never seemed out of place, no matter when and where you met. But tonight things are different. — Had he changed his mind? Did he not want to see you after all? Maybe something had come up…

Your attention fixates on the shut door. You imagine him walking through it, his dark hair falling across his even darker eyes, the everlasting smirk plastered on his lips. You imagine his voice, the nickname he had for you rolling off his tongue when his arms wrap around your waist. You imagine him kissing you, with a longing that perfectly matched your own.

But Beomgyu never comes.

You bite your lip, the idea of going home crossing your mind. It would be rather pathetic to wait here all alone, no? But then he would have spent money on a room left unused. Perhaps you should stay the night.. You could order room service in the morning before leaving.

The bed frame rattles under your weight when your back reaches the mattress with a thud. Exhausted and anxious, you let your eyes fall shut as you beg for sleep to take you. Even if you worried that he would continue to haunt your nightmares. — Beomgyu always left you clueless, he kept you in the dark. But naive as you were, you thought you would one day get answers to all of your questions. If only you stayed long enough..

You don’t know how many hours had passed, perhaps it had been mere minutes. But it was still dark outside when the small click of the door lock startled you awake. Quickly shooting up from the bed, your back presses against the headboard as you grab onto a pillow, not that it would aid in any defense.

The thick darkness prevents you from making out who the person lingering within the shadows was. Your heart thumps against your ribcage and your free hand blindly searches for your phone, only to freeze in your tracks when his voice cuts through the silence. — “Fuck, are you still here?” Beomgyu’s short breath instantly makes you relax and you slump back against the bed.

Lowering the pillow from your chest, you swallow. “Sorry, should I have gone home?” You quietly wonder as you shift awkwardly on the mattress. In the everlasting darkness it was impossible to make out his expression, but you hear him heave a sigh. “No it’s fine, I… Fuck I’m sorry, dollface.”

He takes a couple of steps forward, finally emerging from the shadows and becoming engulfed in the pale light of the moon. You find your gaze lingering by his dark figure, regarding him like it was your last chance, you never knew if it was. — The cold metal of his rings send sparks down your spine when his fingers wrap around your chin. He tilts your face back, his other hand finding a place atop your head as he studies you with a small frown.

“I got held up at work”, he explains and your eyes widen. It was unusual of him to share as much as a word about his life outside of your encounters, even if it was just a simple apology for his tardiness.

You find yourself leaning into his touch. “It's alright”, you murmur, your eyes half lidded when you peer up at him, “You can always make it up to me.”

Beomgyu chuckles, his hands sliding down your sides as he guides you back onto the mattress. The kisses he places to the side of your neck and down your collarbone are warm and familiar. That very warmth seeps into the cold vines that have tightened around your chest, gradually loosening them up.

You don’t question where he had been or what had made him take so long, you knew that you would never receive an answer. Instead you clung onto this fragile moment of intimacy, for you never knew if it were to be your last.

Letting your hands trail along his still clothed chest, your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, tugging on it as you pull him closer. Just as you’re about to push the garment up above his torso, do you freeze. There was an undeniable wet patch on the soft cotton. But when your lips part in an unspoken question, Beomgyu’s sudden kiss to your open mouth makes you lose your sense of direction.

Allowing him to kiss you for a moment, your hands halt as your fingers nervously fiddle with his shirt. But when you find that the damp spot only grows, you can’t ignore it anymore. — “What’s that?” You half-hearted whisper against his lips, torn between satiating your burning curiosity and saving this sacred moment.

“Hm?” Beomgyu hums against you, his kisses becoming all the more persistent in an attempt to sway your curious mind elsewhere. He ignores it when your hands brace themselves on his chest, and it’s not until you speak that he finally pulls back an inch. “Beomgyu, there’s something on your shirt..”

With an outstretched arm you flick on the small light on the bedside table. Given a second to adjust to the warm glow, your eyes widen as soon as they fall on the dark crimson stain covering his grey shirt. — Was that… blood?

Immediately you jerk back, your gaze flitting down to your now stained fingers. It was fresh. “Oh my god”, is all you can muster and before he has the chance to object your hands are insistently bunching his shirt up above his chest. — “Dollface”, Beomgyu tries, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrists but you merely shrug him off, all too focused on the blood smeared across his skin.

“What happened- Are you hurt? Why didn’t you say something?” The words all come bubbling to the surface, passing your lips without crossing your mind twice. It’s not until your trembling fingers swipe across his very much untainted chest that a brief silence falls over the two of you. He doesn’t wince or draw back at your finger’s probing, because he wasn’t hurt in the first place.

Beomgyu sighs, his hands brushing along your forearms. “It’s not mine”, he says, his voice is low, calm, as if trying to reassure you that everything was fine when it quite clearly wasn’t. How could he say something like that so casually? And what did he mean by not his? Who else if not him…

You swallow, the sound near deafening in the otherwise quiet room. All previous desire and longing has now washed off, the heat of his kisses and his touch no longer linger. You felt cold, left with an uncanny feeling in the deepest pits of your stomach. — You refuse to look him in the eyes, “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Was he thinking of an excuse? Was he conjuring yet another lie? Maybe he was debating on telling the truth for once. His thumbs rub soothing circles across your wrists, the small action however, had an opposite effect. You couldn’t tear your gaze from the blood, there was so much of it.

“Told you I got held up at work didn’t I?” He finally says, pulling you close in order to press a kiss to your forehead. His words didn’t matter, they couldn’t erase the uneasiness that had begun to build inside of you. Instead you draw in a deep breath, shifting on the bed as you lean back to peer up at him. “What exactly do you do for work?”

Beomgyu lets go of your wrists as he bites the inside of his cheek. He runs a hand through his dark hair and you intently follow the action. Whilst studying him under the faint glow of the bedside lamp, you notice just how rough he was looking, and that didn’t have to do with the blood tainting his chest. His hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken in, his skin was pale and there was a small cut on his upper lip.

He looked exhausted.

“It’s a business”, he begins in a low tone, drawing his words out as he talks slowly. His gaze flickers over the deep frown etched across your face and he presses the palm of his hand to your cheek. “I merely make sure that deals go through”, he says as his thumb slides between your furrowed brows, as if trying to ease your expression.

You shake your head, unconvinced by his vague response. “What kind of business ends in you looking like that?” There’s an underlying sense of accusation to your question and despite the subtle clench of his jaw, Beomgyu continues his soft caress to your face. “Our client hurt himself, pure accident. — Had to get him help, it took longer than I expected.”

He sends you a small smile, and you want to believe him, you really do. You want to believe that Beomgyu was just your average person, living an average life. But you knew that he wasn’t And you knew that he was lying to you right now. Beomgyu lied a lot. What you didn’t know was if his lies were good or bad intentions.

It scared you.

⸝⸝

📼 — May 11th 2022

You didn’t think Beomgyu was a murderer. No, that would be extreme. Yet you found yourself ignoring his messages. He’d sent two. Just like usual they had contained two separate addresses, two separate times. You’d officially stood him up twice. He told you that he was okay with it, that he didn’t mind, so you took his word for it. — On the fourth day you think he might stop, that he might grow tired of your persistent no-shows and move over to the next woman waiting on his call. But as you sit in class that very afternoon, your phone vibrates with the indication of yet another text. You felt your stomach twist.

Of course, you were right. The second your eyes fall on the short message you completely lose track of your surroundings. He was insistent, you’d give him that. But surely this would be the last time he’d ask for you. You had spent weeks, almost two months chasing after him. Suppose a small part of you thought of this as payback.

Perhaps that was what caused you to act without reasoning as you turned in your seat. A light tap to Taehyun’s shoulder makes his eyes divert from the board ahead and over to you. “Hm?” He asks as he taps his pencil against the pages of his notebook. You feel your lips tug into a smirk that’s familiar yet most uncharacteristic on you.

“Do you want to go clubbing tonight?”

Taehyun sputters at your words, his jaw slacking as he glances around like you’d just asked him to go down on you. “T-Tonight? Me and you? Clubbing?” He seems almost baffled at the proposal, even more so when you quickly nod. — “Sure why not?” You drawl as the smirk on your lips only grows. You trusted your classmate enough to share a drink or two with him. Besides, Taehyun was a good guy, there was no harm in getting to know him better was there?

He hesitates for a moment, gaze flitting between your professor by the front of the classroom and back to you. “But what about class tomorrow?” He wonders and you shake your head. “Class is canceled, didn’t you hear? Mrs Yang is ill.” — His mouth forms into a small ‘o’ shape as he hums.

“Sure I guess… Do you have a place in mind?”

“Are you sure you know where we are?” Taehyun sounds wary as he trails behind you, he’s like a skittish animal, ready to jump at the tiniest of sounds. He briefly stops to inspect an old street sign, only to jog after you like somewhat of a lost puppy. You, on the other hand, walk with long and determined strides, your feet carrying you through the narrow alleyway with a confidence you couldn’t quite recognize. — “Don’t worry, I’ve been here before.”

Sure enough, the familiar entrance soon floats into vision. The same cold purple hues dance across the dark brick walls, casting the street in an eerie glow. You don’t know why you had picked this place, why it had seemed like a good idea, but now there was no going back. — You swallow the lump in your throat as images of you, walking down this very path not long ago, flashes before your eyes.

You recognize the bouncer, the one who’d refused your entry last time. Part of your worries that he might do so again, this time you had no Beomgyu to rely on. The concept was both terrifying and freeing. This was the very first address he’d ever sent you, perhaps that was why the memory was still so vivid in your mind. Something about this place was different, special.

The sharp light of your phone screen illuminates your face as you check the message one final time. ‘Address, room number, 11:00 pm.’ You glance toward the clock on top of your screen, indicating a menacing 2:37 am. He would’ve left by now, surely pissed off with being stood up a third time, which means… Your gaze drifts toward the entrance mere feet away, the thumping rhythm of bass already drumming through your chest.

You wanted to see Beomgyu, that was the truth. You just didn’t want to see him. The chances of catching a glimpse of him were slim, but if there was anywhere you’d be able to find him, it would be here. Why? — Well because your gut told you so.

Taehyun grabs ahold of your arm when you make a move to approach the bouncer. “Why don’t we just go back?” He murmurs, the words coming out hushed. You shrug him off, shaking your head as you march toward the large man. This was it, you would give it your best shot. — Straightening your back, you push out your shoulders as far as they would go, your gaze narrowed when you glance up at him.

The bouncer peers down at you through his dark sunglasses, then he frowns, lifting a finger as he pushes them down on his nose. His eyes meet yours and there’s a flash of recognition. “Miss”, he drawls, a small grin splayed across his otherwise stern face. “How delightful of you to join us tonight.” — He steps aside, allowing you both inside, though not without sending Taehyun a harsh glare.

“Do you know him?” Your classmate asks as he stays close to you. — The smirk on your lips grows and you shrug, “Sort of.”

The interior of the place was just like you had remembered it. The large dancefloor, the purple lights, the booths shoved against the walls, not to mention the lack of a bar as drinks were being passed around by the many waiters. — Somewhere behind you Taehyun lets out a short breath, gawking as he takes in his surroundings. But your eyes were only in search of one thing, of one person. And when you don't find him, you pull your friend along as you scour the outskirts of the crowded floor.

Upon passing a waiter on bystand, you snag two glasses off of his plate, handing one of them to Taehyun. He seems skeptical as he peers down at his drink, “Do you even know what’s in these?” — You shake your head, “Nope.” That was the least of your concerns.

Your eyes fall on the grand staircase when you bring the cool glass to your lips. The steps looked much different tonight than they had back then. Tonight they felt untouchable. There was no way you would be getting up there… At least now without a little help.

“Where are you going?” Taehyun calls for you, and you hear him rushing after you as he pushes past the people in his way. You know that you should stop and give him at least a half-assed explanation, maybe even ask him to wait somewhere else. But your mind is entirely preoccupied with the sight before you. — “I’m serious, what are you-” He cuts himself off when he crashes into your shoulder, stumbling backward as he grips his drink tightly.

You’ve stopped in front of one of the many booths lining the walls, and Taehyun peers over your shoulder as he tries to make sense of the situation. The unfamiliar faces to him are ones you recognize with fright.

“No way”, a deep voice drawls, “Dollface, is that you?”

Duri leans forward, his hand, previously on the thigh of the girl next to him, withdrawing as he runs it through his short hair. You feel your stomach draw into knots at the persistent use of that nickname, the one that sounded so sickeningly wrong coming from his lips. — Duri chuckles as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“We seem to bump into one another quite a lot”, he muses, even though he knew that tonight had been no coincidence. You had come with clear intentions in mind, you were certain he could tell. — “Yes.” You send him a tight lipped smile, “So it seems.”

You could practically feel the confusion radiate off of Taehyun as he shifts awkwardly behind you, his eyes darting between Duri and the men surrounding him. You try not to pay his presence any mind as you focus your attention on the target before you.

“Say”, Duri leans forward as he grabs one of the drinks set aside on the table between you, “What can I do for you tonight?”

Your lips part, the grip on your glass tightening significantly as you throw a glance over your shoulder, your eyes automatically landing on the staircase. The steps seemed to shimmer under the purple lights. Duri hums behind you, snapping your attention right back to where it should have remained all along.

He brings his drink to his lips, taking a long sip as he peers at you over the rim of his glass. “Pray tell, what business do you have there?” He wonders as he busies himself with another sip. You shake your head, your gaze unwavering as you say, “That’s none of your concern.”

Duri chuckles, the sound rough and raspy as it builds in his chest. His friends all join in, their laughter echoing off of the booth’s walls. You ignore them, patiently waiting them out as you twist the foot of your glass between your fingers. — After a long minute Duri finally nods, “He’s rubbing off on you.”

The comment makes your face burn and you resist the urge to avert your gaze. Painfully, you watch as he leans over to share a kiss with the woman next to him, parting for a moment to whisper something in her ear. Then he sits back, slamming his drink down on the table with a little too much force. “Fair”, he agrees as he rises to his feet.

Bewildered, you watch as he makes his way around the table, giving your shoulder a harsh pat before making his way toward the staircase. — “Come on”, you urge Taehyun as you hurriedly follow Duri’s tall frame through the ocean of people. Your classmate’s complaints are audible as he whines behind you. “Have you really thought this through?” He questions, his breath warm against the back of your neck, “I mean, look at the guy! We should not be following someone like him to-”

He’s cut short when Duri suddenly stops by the first step. “Ah”, he exhales as he turns on his heel, his piercing gaze falling on Taehyun. “Seems I have yet to introduce myself, pardon me.” — He extends a rough hand and you watch as Taehyun gingerly takes it in his. “Duri”, he says, the menacing smirk on his lips making your friend cower as he mumbles out a quiet, “Taehyun..”

It looked as though Duri was holding back laughter when he turned back to you. “Shall we?” He glances in the direction of the grand doors atop the stairs and you nod.

When you had first climbed these steps, with Beomgyu’s hand on your lower back, the world had been spinning. Each step had felt like one closer to the edge of a misty cliff, where the fog was so thick that it had been impossible to deem the trauma of the fall you might take. — Tonight it felt different. The cliff was no longer enveloped in mist, you saw things clearly now. You saw him clearly. That’s what you had told yourself.

Each step you take feels both empowering and deafening. The moment lasts forever yet it’s somehow over in a second. And before you know it, you’re faced with the grand doors leading into the VIP section. — Duri stops, his hand on the door handle as he sends the guards a small look of acknowledgement.

“I think you’ll be fine from here”, he states, the finalization in his tone evident. Wordlessly he pushes the large doors open, motioning for you to step inside. You do so without hesitation, not sparing Duri as much as a second glance when you pass him.

It’s quiet here, the air is lighter, cleaner. Just like you’d remembered it. Taehyun’s presence is hard to ignore as he clings to your side, the heat radiating off of him as his skittish eyes dart around the room. Almost all booths are occupied already, but you manage to find an empty one by the very edge.

“Did you know him?” Taehyun whispers when you sit back against the soft cushions. You nod, your gaze still roaming the open space as you absentmindedly bring your drink to your lips, “Sort of.” — Your classmate frowns, and you knew all too well from the look on his face that he was far from satisfied with your answer.

Your eyes jump from booth to booth, quickly skimming the people populating them as you fervently search for your target. But it’s not even been a full minute when Taehyun interrupts you again. — “Why are we here?” His voice is even quieter now, as if hesitant to even ask the question out loud. “Are you looking for someone?” He then adds when he notices your distant gaze.

You hum, shaking your head as you lean back against the velvety cushion. “No.” But that was a lie, your first of many. And just as the simple word leaves your lips do you finally find him. All the way across the room, shielded by the man standing before him, yet you could clearly make out his dark hair amongst the rest.

Suddenly your throat feels dry, and you gulp down another mouthful of your beverage. He’d come here after all. A small, naive part of you had hoped and wished that he would stay, that he would linger within the empty hotel room as he waited for your arrival. But it seems he’d moved quickly.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice the unfamiliar woman draped on his arm. The sight shouldn’t surprise you anymore, but your heart still skips a beat. She was your replacement. And though she was far from anything you represented, he’d still turned to her when you were a no-show rather than wallowing his sorrows alone at night. — You shouldn’t have expected anything less of him. He was Choi Beomgyu after all.

He hasn’t noticed you and appears preoccupied with whatever conversation he was currently indulged in. You wish he would notice you. You crave his eyes on you. You long for the way a simple glance from him could make you feel.

You’d stood him up a third time tonight, and it had made you feel in control. For once you were deciding, and not him. So why was it that you felt so utterly powerless at this very moment? Why was it that your eyes searched his when he couldn’t be bothered to even gaze your way?

You turn to Taehyun, he was watching you with a small frown. “You don’t like it here?” You ask, the tension falling from your face as you regard his awkward frame. Taehyun shrugs, his warm eyes flitting to the drink in his hand. “It’s alright”, he says, but you catch the hesitation in his voice.

He chokes on the liquor when your hand brushes along his thigh. “Don’t worry”, you hum as you settle against the booth wall, “We can leave again if you’d like.” Taehyun swallows as he glances between the smile on your lips and to your fingers splayed across his leg. An unfamiliar tint spreads across his cheek when he clears his throat and you find yourself enjoying the sight.

“It’s fine, really.” He assures you as he takes another small sip of his drink. Though he makes no attempt at shrugging you off. You could still sense his confusion, and you didn’t blame him. You were acting far too uncharacteristically even for your own liking. You had barely recognized yourself when you’d approached Duri. The sudden surge of confidence was unlike anything you’d ever felt before, and the rush it had left behind still tingled in the depths of your stomach.

It was the length you were willing to go in order to see him, to see Beomgyu.

Your gaze drifts toward him on its own, and it’s not until his dark eyes fall on yours that you realize just how long and intently you’d been staring at him. He pauses mid sentence, his expression being struck with something you couldn’t quite decipher from this far away. Any other instance you would’ve probably looked away, hid behind nervous laughter or pretended like you hadn’t noticed him in the first place.

But tonight you don’t feel like yourself. — So you hold his gaze. You want him to see you, all of you. You want him to know that you were here, that you had come without him and that you weren’t planning on changing said fact.

Beomgyu shifts where he stands on the other side of the room. His fingers, that had previously been drawing small circles on the waist of the woman next to him, stopped. She’s talking to him, her lips move but you can’t make out what she’s saying, and you’re certain that he’s not listening either.

You can’t tell if he’s angry, you hope he is. Was it selfish? You wanted to pull any other emotion besides lust out of him. You wanted him to feel what you felt every single moment spent in his absence, was that so wrong? — You think you might have succeeded when his hand falls from her waist.

“I want to go home.”

The words escape before you can stop them and you lean forward to place your now empty glass on the table before you. Taehyun’s frown returns, and you feel him shift under your hand. “But we just got here? I thought you wanted to-” — “I changed my mind.” You firmly state, not tearing your gaze from Beomgyu as you watch his jaw clench.

You had gotten what you came here for. A small, but noticeable reaction, one that you’d created. Now all that remained was to safely evacuate before he had the chance to approach you. — With that you rise to your feet, blinking as blood rushes to your head. Taehyun is quick to follow as he gulps down the last of his drink.

“Hey, wait are you-” His protests are lost on you as you head for the door. Through the corner of your eye you catch Beomgyu’s dark figure moving, coming closer. You quicken your pace, desperate to get away from a situation you had caused yourself. And you were so close, the door handle almost within reach when suddenly, a hand wrapped around your wrist.

You freeze. Their grip is firm, unwavering and demanding as they tug you backward. This was it, this had been a mistake. One temporary rush of confidence had led you to believe that you were actually in control. And now you were about to pay the price for your foolish actions. With your heart in your throat, you turn.

It’s Taehyun.

His expression is tense and guarded. It seemed he finally reached his peak. The warmth in his eyes feels distant as he regards you with a narrowed gaze. “What’s going on with you?” He spits the words out, and though you can tell that he’s trying his hardest to appear stoic, you can see the concern swirling in his irises.

“You want one thing then the next, you’re making no sense and I…” You stop listening, his rambling becomes background noise when you catch Beomgyu not far behind him. Dark strands falling across his face, the rings on his fingers glimmering under the lights as he runs them through his hair. He’s stopped, and you wonder why.

Your gaze shifts between Taehyun’s worried expression and his motionless one. In that moment, you realize just how much power Beomgyu holds over you, the extreme lengths he makes you go to just to end up hurt in the end. — You didn’t want to feel like that anymore.

“Taehyun.” His endless rambling is cut short when his name leaves your lips. His eyes, despite the conflict buried within them, are nothing like Beomgyu’s. No, his eyes are gentle, even like this, even when they shouldn’t be. Even when you didn’t deserve it. Your gaze flickers over to Beomgyu one last time before they return to him.

“Can you kiss me?”

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fidesvirtusobsession · 3 days ago

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Echoes of a Thousand Nights

Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader

Prologue || Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The sleek black car moved through the city streets like a shadow, silent and unyielding. The world outside was alive with its usual sins—dimly lit alleyways where deals were made in whispers, neon lights flickering over clubs that never closed, the distant wail of sirens swallowed by the hum of the city. Yet, within the confines of the vehicle, there was only silence.

Alaric sat in the backseat, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. The dim glow of passing streetlights cut across his sharp features, briefly illuminating the golden glint in his eyes before it was swallowed by darkness once more. Across from him, one of his most trusted servants, Elias, sat stiffly, his breath still uneven from the hurried message he had delivered.

"You’re certain?" Alaric's voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it—a warning.

Elias swallowed before nodding. "I am, my Lord. I caught her scent the moment I stepped inside. It’s faint, but unmistakable."

Alaric turned his gaze to the window, watching as the city blurred past. His fingers, long and elegant, drummed once against his knee. Her scent. A phantom sensation crawled through his chest, something raw, something restless. It had been so long.

The driver maneuvered through the streets with precision, taking them deeper into the underbelly of the city where no human dared venture willingly. The auction house was hidden beneath layers of secrecy, its existence only whispered about in dark corners.

Alaric had known about these places. He had never cared. They were beneath him—crude and barbaric, a playground for lesser creatures who had no control over their hunger. He had no interest in slaves or playthings. He had no need for them.

So why was he here now?

Because she was here.

A cruel twist of fate had led her to this place, and the thought of it—of her being displayed, sold, touched—made something dark coil in his chest. His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm.

“Do we know who’s running the auction tonight?” he asked, his voice even.

Elias nodded. “The usual filth. Vampires who don’t know their place, desperate enough to make a business of selling humans. But there are others attending. Some names even you might recognize.”

Alaric exhaled sharply, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Then I suppose I’ll have to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

The car slowed as they approached a nondescript building, its exterior blending seamlessly with the rest of the city’s forgotten ruins. To a human, it was nothing but a derelict warehouse. To those who knew better, it was a market of flesh and blood.

The driver came to a stop, stepping out to open the door.

Alaric didn’t move immediately. He sat there for a second longer, staring at the building as if he could already see the ghosts waiting inside. Would she recognize him? Would she remember?

He didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

With a fluid motion, he stepped out of the car, his polished boots hitting the pavement with purpose. The night air was thick with the scent of humans—fear, sweat, desperation. But beneath it all, like a whisper meant only for him, was her.

Alaric inhaled deeply.

And then he walked inside.

The dim candle light flickered against the stone walls of his study as Alaric leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. The blood within it had long gone cold, untouched. His mind was elsewhere—far from the luxury of his manor, far from the present.

It had been centuries, yet he still remembered the first time he had laid eyes on her.

England, 16700s. The air was damp with the scent of earth and herbs, the sharp tang of remedies brewing in clay pots over low fires. The townspeople feared the plague, feared illness, but they feared her just as much.

The witch.

The scent of earth after rain filled the air as Alaric stepped onto the narrow, winding path leading to a small cottage on the outskirts of the village. The place was unremarkable—simple, humble, tucked against the edge of the forest where the trees whispered secrets to those willing to listen.

Yet, the aura of magic was undeniable.

He had heard rumors, spoken in hushed voices—of a woman who lived beyond the reach of the town, a healer shrouded in mystery. The villagers feared her, yet when desperation struck, they sought her out under the cover of darkness.

Alaric had heard whispers of her long before he ever sought her out. A woman who healed when others would not. A woman whose hands could coax the fever from a dying child, whose presence turned away the reaper itself. They called her many things—blessed, cursed, dangerous.

He had called her his last hope.

His footsteps were silent against the uneven path leading to her cottage, hidden deep within the woods where only the desperate dared to tread. The night was thick with mist, curling around the trees like spirits watching, waiting. And then—there she was.

The door swung open before he even touched it.

And there she stood.

Dressed in a modest, earth-stained dress, her sleeves rolled up as if she had been working mere moments ago, she looked nothing like the fearful, whispered tales. There was no hunched posture, no wary glance—only an inquisitive gaze that locked onto his.

She had been tending to a child, her hands gentle as she placed a damp cloth over his fevered forehead. Her hair fell around her face in loose waves, strands catching in the dim firelight. He had expected someone older, someone bent with the weight of unnatural knowledge. Instead, she was young. Young, but with eyes that carried centuries of wisdom, as if she had seen too much, known too much.

“You’re not from this village,” she had said, her voice calm, knowing.

Alaric had stepped forward, hesitant in a way he had not been for years. “No.”

She didn’t look at him then, only continued her work, grinding herbs with precision. “Yet you came here for something.”

He had never known how to beg. He had been a nobleman in life, a monster in death. Yet, in her presence, he had felt small.

“I need your help,” he had admitted.

Finally, she looked at him. Her gaze flickered over him—not with fear, but with understanding. As if she could see what he was.

The air in the small cottage was thick with the scent of burning herbs, damp earth, and something faintly metallic—blood. Alaric stood just inside the doorway, the low flames from the hearth casting flickering shadows across his face. He had been invited in, yet he felt like an intruder.

She had been tending to a wounded traveler when he arrived, hands steady, voice calm as she whispered reassurances to the half-conscious man. It wasn’t until she finished—until the man was resting peacefully in the corner—that she turned her full attention to him.

And oh, how it startled him.

She stepped closer, eyes bright with something that made his stomach twist. Excitement.

“You’re a vampire.” Her voice held no fear—only fascination.

Alaric stiffened. “You say that as if I am some curiosity.”

Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Because you are.”

Before he could respond, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

Suddenly, she was circling him, inspecting him like a scholar studying a rare specimen.

“You’re paler than I imagined,” she murmured, her fingers hovering just shy of his forearm. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

His muscles tensed. “Most vampires are.”

She hummed, completely unfazed. “And your eyes—they shift colors, don’t they? Depending on hunger.”

Alaric said nothing. He didn’t need to.

She took another step, tilting her head. “I always thought vampires had a sickly look to them, but you…” She trailed off, frowning slightly. “You don’t look like a corpse at all.”

Alaric let out a sharp exhale, his patience fraying. “Is there a point to this examination?”

"You’re the first vampire I’ve ever met," she admitted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "I have so many questions.”

“And you are surprisingly comfortable in my presence,” he muttered, gazing darkly.

She shrugged. “I’ve spent my life tending to those the world fears. The sick, the dying, the cursed.” She finally stopped pacing, standing just before him, arms crossed. “You’re no different.”

Alaric’s lips parted—no different? Did she not understand what he was?

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, her voice softer now. “Is it true that your kind feel no warmth?”

He hesitated. “We do not.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Then, before he could react, her hand touched his.

Alaric stiffened, every muscle in his body locking in place. Her fingers were warm—too warm.

She let out a small gasp. “You’re like stone.”

Alaric forced himself to pull away, his voice lower now. “And you are far too bold for your own good.”

She only smiled at him, as if she had won some sort of unspoken challenge.

“There is no cure for what you are,” she had whispered.

A cold truth. One he had refused to accept then.

“I don’t believe that,” he had said. “There must be something—anything.”

She sighed, wiping her hands clean. “You vampires. You fear eternity just as much as mortals fear death.”

Alaric clenched his jaw. “Wouldn’t you?”

She had met his gaze then, something unreadable in her expression. And for a brief moment, he thought he saw sadness.

“I don’t fear death,” she had said softly. “But I fear being forgotten.”

That had been the first night of many. He had returned, over and over, desperate for a cure that did not exist, and yet—he had found her. Found something he hadn’t known he was searching for.

"You have an interesting reputation," he murmured instead.

A flicker of amusement danced across her lips. "Do I? And what have they told you?"

"That you’re a witch."

She laughed. A genuine, light sound, as if the idea was amusing rather than insulting. "And do you believe them?"

Alaric studied her. Most would have shrunk under his gaze. She didn’t.

"I believe people fear what they do not understand."

The warmth of her hands as she tended to wounds, the fire in her eyes when she argued with him, the softness in her voice when she spoke to the sick. She had been kind when the world was cruel.

And then—she had been taken.

That life had been stolen from her. Burned at the stake as a witch, her screams swallowed by roaring flames. He had found the men responsible, but vengeance had never been enough.

And now—now, she is here again.

Another life. Another chance.

But at what cost?

Alaric exhaled slowly, the weight of centuries pressing down on him. He pushed himself up from his chair, shaking the blood from his fingers. There was no time to dwell.

Tonight, he would bring her back.

This time, he would not be too late.

The stench of blood was the first thing to hit him.

Thick. Metallic. Rotting.

Alaric barely concealed his disgust as he stepped inside the auction house, his expression impassive. The underground was always like this—filthy, indulgent, monstrous. He had seen it before, many times over, and yet it never failed to remind him of how low creatures of the night could sink.

The dimly lit hall was filled with murmuring voices, hushed yet buzzing with anticipation. Vampires, draped in wealth and arrogance, lounged in private booths or leaned lazily against the iron railings above, waiting for their chance to bid.

Below, the stage was slick with old stains.

Alaric’s gloved hand curled into a fist at his side. The humans on display—pale, hollow-eyed, trembling—were nothing but cattle to the beasts surrounding him. Chained. Branded. Some are barely able to stand.

Savages.

He had seen vampires reduced to little more than predators, but the reality of it still sickened him.

A human was dragged onto the stage, her muffled sobs barely carrying over the laughter in the crowd. The auctioneer grinned, dragging a hand beneath the girl’s chin, forcing her to look up.

“Fresh stock,” he purred. “Still untouched. Who’ll start the bidding?”

A ripple of excitement spread through the room.

Alaric barely heard it.

Because that’s when he smelled it.

Faint. Hidden beneath the overwhelming stench of suffering—but undeniable.

Her.

It slammed into him so suddenly his vision blurred.

The scent was the same, yet different. Time had changed her, reshaped her, but it was hers—he was sure of it.

He inhaled sharply, and the sound of the crowd dulled into a distant, meaningless hum.

She was here.

His servant, standing at his side, noticed the shift in his demeanor. “My Lord?”

Alaric didn’t answer.

His mind was already racing.

Was she hurt? Was she among them?

Or was he too late?

Alaric moved before he could think.

His stride was swift, purposeful—dangerous. The scent grew stronger with each step, guiding him through the dim corridors of the auction house like a predator honing in on its prey. But she was not prey.

She was his.

His shoulder slammed into the heavy iron door, sending it flying open with a deafening crash. The vampires inside startled, their hushed conversation cut off mid-sentence. They turned sharply, eyes glowing in the low light, irritated by the sudden intrusion.

But Alaric didn’t care.

His gaze swept the room, searching— and then he saw her.

Slumped on the cold stone floor. Shackled.

The sight burned.

She sat hunched against the wall, her wrists bound in iron, the heavy chains pooling around her like some cruel mockery of a throne. Her clothes—**thin, tattered—**did nothing to shield her from the chill that seeped from the damp walls.

And yet… her eyes were still bright.

Wide with shock, staring up at him—**him—**as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

He exhaled slowly, forcing down the violent rage curling in his chest. He needed to get to her. Now.

A vampire stepped forward, clearly unamused. “This room is reserved—”

Alaric’s glare silenced him instantly.

Cold. Unforgiving.

The air shifted.

A slow, creeping dread slithered into the room, pressing down with the weight of something ancient, something unstoppable.

They felt it.

One took an instinctive step back. Another’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

They knew.

They were standing in the presence of something far more dangerous than they had anticipated.

Alaric took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice deathly quiet.

“Unchain her. Now.”

Taglist: @yune1337 @mybones537

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witheredwritings · 2 days ago

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Soft in the Right Hands - Chapter One

Summary: Bucky is haunted by the memories of his past. It turns out Quinn isn't so different as him. Word Count: 3.4K Warnings: Nightmares, PTSD, Angst, Violence, Stalking, Death of minor characters, kidnapping, gambling, addiction A/N: this series doesn't really follow the mcu storyline. So if it doesn't make sense, then that's just because my brain doesn't function that well or i've decided to change certain aspects.

Bucky was running.

The air was thick with smoke, the scent of blood sharp in his nose. His body moved with precision, brutal and efficient. A knife in one hand, a gun in the other. Someone screamed. He fired. The body hit the ground with a wet thud, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

His metal arm locked around a man’s throat, crushing his windpipe. The struggle lasted seconds before the body went limp. Footsteps pounded behind him. He turned, raised his weapon, and—

A child.

Wide, terrified eyes. A sob caught in their throat. They weren’t supposed to be here.

His finger hovered over the trigger.

“Soldat,” a voice commanded, cold and unwavering. Finish it.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to turn away. But his body was not his own. The metal fingers tightened around the gun. The child gasped—

Bucky woke with a start, his breath ragged, sweat clinging to his skin. The sheets were tangled around his legs, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. Not real. It wasn’t real.

But it had felt real.

The gunfire. The screams. The weight of his metal arm pinning someone down. The cold, unrelenting control Hydra had over him. His body still carried the echoes of the past, wounds that had never quite healed.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, trying to ground himself. It was just another nightmare. Another reminder that no matter how many years passed, the ghosts never truly left.

Pushing himself upright, Bucky swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his feet to the floor. Brooklyn hummed quietly outside his window, the city never fully silent. The distant sound of a siren, the occasional honk of a car—these were the things that kept him tethered to the present.

He needed air. Needed to move.

The gym at the Stark Tower was empty when he arrived, save for Steve, who was already working over a punching bag. The rhythmic thud thud thud of fists against leather filled the room, steady and controlled. Steve didn’t need to turn around to know Bucky was there.

“Rough night?” the Captain asked, landing one last solid hit before stilling the bag with his hands.

Bucky just grunted, stepping onto the mat and rolling his shoulders. His body still felt stiff from the nightmare, his muscles wound too tight. He needed to move. Needed to hit something. Anything to shake the lingering haze of blood and violence in his head.

Steve tossed him a pair of gloves, but Bucky waved them off. “Bare hands,” he muttered.

Steve didn’t argue. He knew better than to try.

The first few punches were slow, testing. Bucky threw a sharp jab, then another, letting Steve block each one with ease. But Steve wasn’t fighting back yet. He was watching, reading Bucky’s stance, his breathing.

“Again,” Steve said.

Bucky exhaled sharply and swung again. This time, Steve dodged, moving too fast for the hit to land. The shift ignited something in Bucky, frustration burning under his skin.

Not good enough.

The thought hit like a whip crack in his mind, Hydra’s training surging up from the depths of his past. Faster. Stronger. Finish the job.

Bucky dropped low, swept out a leg—Steve jumped back, barely avoiding the hit. But now there was a glint in his eye. He was taking this seriously now.

Good.

Steve lunged, throwing a punch that Bucky barely dodged. They moved faster now, their strikes blurring into counterattacks, dodges, and feints. Bucky could feel the weight of his metal arm as he struck, the vibrations ringing through his bones when Steve blocked with his forearm.

A sharp elbow caught Bucky in the ribs. He staggered back a step, breath coming hard. But Steve didn’t press the advantage. He just stood there, waiting.

“You’re pulling your punches,” Bucky growled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Steve sighed. “Because this isn’t a real fight.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. His fists curled at his sides, his breathing still ragged, but not from exertion. From anger. From something deep in his chest that he didn’t know how to name.

“I don’t need you to hold back,” Bucky muttered.

Steve crossed his arms. “You think hitting something’s gonna fix what’s in your head?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Look, Buck. You wanna train? Fine. We’ll train. But this?” He gestured between them. “This isn’t about getting better. It’s about you trying to outrun something you can’t fight with your fists.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging his metal fingers through his hair. Steve was right, and that made it worse.

He shook his head, stepping back. “I’m done.”

Steve didn’t stop him as he grabbed his bag and stormed out of the gym.

The clinking of silverware on plates filled the space around him as he walked into the Bean Voyage. It was quieter than usual, the lunchtime rush having already come and gone, leaving only a few scattered patrons hunched over their laptops or chatting in hushed tones.

Quinn was behind the counter, tying her apron as she glanced up. She smirked, already knowing what he was going to order.

“Let me guess,” she drawled, resting her elbows on the counter. “Black coffee. Extra brooding.”

Bucky huffed a short laugh. “Not today.”

That caught her off guard. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? The world must be ending. What’ll it be then?”

He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then exhaled sharply. “Surprise me.”

Quinn grinned, eyes lighting up like she had just won some unspoken battle. “Dangerous words, Barnes. You sure you can handle it?”

“Just make the damn drink.”

She laughed as she got to work, reaching for a canister on the shelf. “Alright, big guy, you’re getting a matcha latte.”

Bucky frowned. “Sounds fancy.”

“It’s not. It’s green tea with milk, but better. Helps with stress, boosts energy. Figured you could use some.” Her voice was casual, but there was something in the way she said it—an observation, not a joke. Like she actually saw him.

He watched her as she prepared the drink, the way she moved with ease despite the old machine sputtering in protest. There was something different about her today, something more subdued. Less teasing, more focused.

As she handed him the drink, Quinn finally asked, “So, what’s up with you today? You look… I don’t know. More restless than usual.”

Bucky studied her for a moment, then took a slow sip. The warmth was nice, the taste earthy and a little sweet. Different, but not bad.

“Didn’t sleep much,” he admitted. “Training helped, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Quinn didn’t press. She just nodded, leaning on the counter. “Nightmares?”

He glanced at her sharply, but she wasn’t mocking. She was just… asking. Like she knew something about it.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Bad ones.”

She hummed, tapping her fingers against the counter. “I get those too.”

That surprised him. Quinn was always so sharp, always the one with the smart remarks. He never thought of her as someone who carried ghosts of her own. But now that he looked closer, there was something tired in her eyes, something distant.

“What about?” he asked.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “A lot of things. But mostly? Being trapped. Watching something terrible happen and knowing you can’t stop it. Knowing it’s already too late.”

Bucky’s grip tightened around his cup. He knew that feeling all too well. “You’re not just talking about dreams, are you?”

Quinn let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “No.”

He didn’t push. But for the first time, he felt like maybe he wasn’t the only one carrying shadows.

Quinn shifted, suddenly restless. “So, you like the drink or what?”

Bucky took another sip, this time slower, like he was actually considering it. “It’s not bad.”

Quinn scoffed. “High praise coming from you.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him with curiosity. “So, Barnes, you never talk about yourself. You always let your friends do the talking. What’s your deal?”

Bucky exhaled, his fingers tapping idly against his cup. “Not much to tell.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “You were in the war with Steve. You got captured. Disappeared. Then, what? You just showed up decades later, no big deal?”

He met her gaze, and for a moment, he thought about giving her the real answer—the metal arm, the mind control, the assassinations. But he settled for something simpler. “I was lost for a while. Took some time to get back.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You ever feel like you’re still lost?”

Bucky hesitated. No one had ever asked him that before. Not Steve, not Sam. Not even himself. “Maybe.”

Quinn nodded as if she understood. “Yeah. Me too.”

He studied her, curiosity finally breaking through his usual walls. “What about you? You run this place, but… doesn’t seem like you always have.”

She snorted. “You got me there. I’ve had a weird life. Parents were… complicated. Messy. They made some bad choices, and I paid for them.”

Bucky frowned. “How so?”

Quinn’s expression didn’t change, but he noticed the way her fingers tightened around a napkin, crumpling it. “They had a gambling problem. One day, they lost too much, owed too many people. Got themselves killed because of it. I got taken for ransom.”

His stomach tightened. He knew what it was like to be taken. To be powerless. “What happened?”

She exhaled sharply, looking away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “They got their money. Let me go. I ended up staying with an old neighbor after that.”

Something about the way she said it made his mind hum with something familiar, something just out of reach. “Your neighbor…?”

“Yeah. Good guy. Ex-military. Taught me a lot. Kept me safe. He owned this café before I took it over.”

A strange feeling settled in Bucky’s gut. He didn’t know why, but something about her story was unsettlingly close to something he should remember. Something buried deep. She gave him a small, knowing smile. “Strange world, huh?”

Bucky met her gaze, unsure why he suddenly felt like it was. “Yeah.”

She wiped her hands on her apron, breaking the moment. “Well, drink up. It won’t fix your nightmares, but it won’t make them worse either.”

He took another sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the sense that this wouldn’t be the last time he and Quinn had a conversation like this.

Bucky stepped back into the Stark Tower with the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical. The sparring session with Steve had left his body sore, but it was his mind that carried the real weight. Quinn’s words still echoed in his head, nagging at something he couldn’t quite place. Something about the girl. Something about the way she looked at him—like she was searching for something in him, too.

But for now, he needed a distraction. Something else to fill the spaces in his mind before they became too loud.

As he walked further in, the scent of something warm and rich drifted toward him from the common area. The lights were dimmed just enough to feel cozy, and the sound of familiar voices made the tension in his shoulders ease just a little.

“Bucky, my man!” Sam’s voice rang out as he stepped into the living room. “Figured you were off brooding somewhere.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Not all of us have the luxury of being this charming all the time.”

Sam smirked. “Yeah, well, I try to set the bar high.” He gestured toward the couch. “We got a game going. You in?”

Bucky hesitated for only a second before he noticed the others spread out around the room. Nat was perched on the arm of the couch, nursing a glass of something dark while Clint shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease. Wanda sat cross-legged on the rug, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watched Peter practically buzz with excitement over something Tony was explaining. The boy had settled into their mismatched little family with ease, his enthusiasm bordering on contagious as he embraced his place among the Avengers. Like any kid his age, he reveled in the thrill of it all. He fit seamlessly with the others, lingering around the tower as if savoring these fleeting moments of peace—like the calm before an inevitable storm. It wasn’t quite normal, but it was the closest thing to it.

“Sure,” Bucky finally said, dropping onto the couch beside Sam. “What’s the game?”

“Poker,” Clint answered, arching a brow. “You any good?”

Bucky snorted. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Clint chuckled, passing out cards while Natasha sipped her drink. “He’s probably got some century-old tricks up his sleeve.”

“Literally,” Tony added, gesturing at Bucky’s metal arm.

Bucky just shook his head and studied his cards. The game moved quickly, banter flying between them like it was second nature. Peter was terrible at bluffing, Sam was too confident for his own good, and Natasha—unsurprisingly—was impossible to read. Even Wanda, who didn’t always involve herself in these moments, seemed at ease, nudging Peter whenever he made an obvious mistake.

It was easy to forget, for just a little while, the weight of everything else. To let himself sink into the rhythm of the group, the familiar push and pull of conversation. They didn’t ask him about his day. They didn’t press when his mind wandered for a second too long. They just let him be.

And for that, he was grateful.

For a moment, his mind strayed to Quinn. Would she have a new family to hang out with after what happened to her parents? Was she as close with her neighbor as they all were? The group would like her, he thought. Natasha and Wanda would greet with open arms, stringing her in as the next girl in their testosterone-filled group. A smile crept up his face as he tried to imagine it.

A few rounds in, Tony leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m calling it—Barnes is a hustler. There’s no way he just ‘picked this up’ after seventy years in the ice.”

Bucky smirked. “I never said I was rusty.”

Natasha gave him a knowing look. “You used to do this during the war, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Maybe.”

Clint groaned, throwing his cards down. “Unbelievable.”

“You know what, I’m done,” Sam announced, pushing back from the table. “I refuse to lose to a guy who doesn’t even own a phone.”

Bucky snorted. “Your loss, Wilson.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep laughing, old man.”

Despite the teasing, there was something in the way Sam said it—something light, easy. Not mocking, just familiar. The kind of thing that made Bucky realize, as much as he still felt out of place sometimes, maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

As the group started to break apart, Peter stretched his arms over his head. “Anyone else hungry?”

“Kid, you’re always hungry,” Tony said, but he was already standing. “Alright, let’s raid the kitchen. Who’s in?”

A chorus of agreement followed, and before he knew it, Bucky was being dragged along too. The kitchen was a chaotic mess of half-attempted meals and stolen snacks, Peter and Sam arguing over the last piece of leftover pizza while Wanda casually floated a bag of chips toward herself with a flick of her fingers.

And Bucky? He just leaned against the counter, taking it all in.

For the first time in a long time, the silence in his mind wasn’t unbearable.

He let himself exist in this moment—brief as it was—before he had to step back out into the world again. Before he had to go back to the café. Back to Quinn.

Back to whatever it was that was waiting for him there.

An hour later, he was out the door, his jacket pulled tight around him as he walked the familiar path to his favorite place. The cold air did little to chase away the restlessness in his chest, but the motion helped. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. That’s all he could do. To get to her.

The storm rolled in fast that evening, thick clouds swallowing the Brooklyn skyline as rain lashed against the windows of Bean Voyage. The usual warmth of the café was dampened by the flickering power, the old lightbulbs buzzing like they, too, were anxious about the storm outside.

Bucky didn’t mind storms. Not anymore. They were sharp, brutal things—loud and fleeting. It was the quiet that got to him. The empty spaces between sounds. The way the night pressed in like a memory, thick and suffocating.

But tonight, it wasn’t the storm or the silence that unsettled him. It was Quinn.

She wasn’t behind the counter where she was supposed to be. Instead, she was standing at the front window, arms crossed, staring into the street like she expected something—or someone—to appear. The light caught the sharp edge of her profile, casting shadows under her eyes. Her usual fire, that quick-tongued defiance, was missing.

Bucky set his coffee down, barely making a sound as he stepped toward her. “Something wrong?”

She flinched, just slightly, before shaking her head. “No.”

Liar.

Her fingers gripped the sleeves of her sweater, knuckles pale. She wasn’t good at hiding things—emotions flickered across her face like a badly tuned TV. Bucky had seen that look before. People only stared at the dark that long if they were waiting for something to crawl out of it.

He shifted, looking past her shoulder to the street. The rain had turned the pavement into a glossy, distorted reflection of the neon signs. The sidewalks were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers hurrying home.

But then he saw it.

A man across the street. Standing under the dim glow of a busted-out streetlamp. Not moving. Just watching.

Bucky’s instincts prickled instantly, the back of his neck tightening. He had spent enough time in the shadows to recognize when he was being watched. The man wasn’t dressed for the weather—no umbrella, no hood, just a dark jacket with the collar flipped up. The rain poured over him like he didn’t even notice.

A second passed. Then another.

Quinn exhaled sharply, forcing a laugh that sounded wrong. “God, I hate the rain.”

Bucky didn’t look away. “Who is he?”

She froze. It was a tiny thing, just a hitch in her breath, but Bucky caught it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another lie.

Bucky clenched his jaw. “He’s been standing there for five minutes.”

Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, she finally turned away from the window, grabbing a rag and busying herself behind the counter, wiping down a perfectly clean surface. “You’re being paranoid,” she said, but there was a crack in her voice now, something fragile beneath the usual sarcasm.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. Something was off. The way Quinn was avoiding his gaze. The way her shoulders hunched, tense like a rabbit waiting to bolt. He’d seen that posture before, in himself, in others who carried ghosts too heavy to shake.

The bell above the door jingled suddenly, sharp and metallic, slicing through the tension like a blade.

Bucky turned before he even thought about it, body coiled, ready for a fight.

And then an greay-haired gentleman stepped inside, dressed top to bottom in dark clothes and a large coat.

The old man was soaked through, his usual neatly pressed button-down clinging to his frame, his gray hair dripping. He was breathing hard, eyes darting between Bucky and Quinn like he had walked into something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Arthur?” Quinn frowned. “What are you doing out in this mess?”

The man didn’t answer right away. He flicked a glance toward the window, then back to Quinn. “We need to close up early tonight.”

Quinn blinked. “Why?”

Arthur wiped a hand over his face, but it didn’t shake the tension from his expression. “Because some ghosts don’t know when to stay buried.”

The words sent a chill down Bucky’s spine.

Quinn stiffened. Her eyes flicked back to the street—back to where the man had been standing.

But when Bucky looked again, the sidewalk was empty.

The storm raged on.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. Don't hesitate to leave a comment behind <3

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stujet9rainshine-blog · 23 hours ago

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@hugsandchaos Another!!!

"Language lessons together. Manny teaching Danny spanish." Here's the first part of this prompt! I have this big idea that after Danny and Manny get serious, Danny actually moves to Miracle City. I can scream about that HC later if y'all so desire. Here's some cute language shenanigans!

Danny had spent months preparing to move to Mexico.

Paperwork, packing, planning, and spending an unreasonable amount of time on Duolingo—he’d done all of it. He’d taken Spanish in high school, sure, but let’s be honest—when had he ever studied or paid attention? He’d been too busy skipping class, fighting ghosts, and dealing with a lot of life-threatening nonsense.

As usual, his past self had absolutely screwed over his present self.

Manny, on the other hand, had been shockingly patient. For once in his incredibly chaotic life, he had become a beacon of calm, helping Danny actually learn Spanish, even when his accent made half the words sound questionable at best.

They’d been dating for almost five years by this point, so Danny had picked up a lot of Spanish just from being around Manny and his family. But living in Miracle City? That was a whole different beast.

Which was why they were currently curled up together on their tiny couch, Danny sprawled against Manny’s side, trying to hold a conversation in Spanish without sounding like a total idiot.

Manny had his arm lazily slung over Danny’s shoulders, idly twirling a lock of his messy black-and-white hair between his fingers. "Okay, mi amor," he murmured, voice teasing. "Tell me about your day. In Spanish."

Danny huffed, shifting to get more comfortable. "Ugh. Okay. Um…" He focused, carefully stringing together his words before speaking.

"Hoy, uh, fui al… mercado." He paused, then grinned. "¿Ves? Eso fue fácil."

Manny smirked. "Uh-huh. Y después?"

Danny frowned in concentration, mentally translating as best as he could. "Compré frutas. Um… mangos, plátanos, naranjas. Todo bien. Pero…"

Manny raised an eyebrow. "¿Pero qué?"

Danny hesitated for a split second before deciding to just go for it. "Pero… peleé con un bandido esqueleto."

Manny blinked. "…¿Perdón?"

Danny grinned sheepishly. "En el mercado."

Manny pulled back slightly, staring at him. "¡¿Peleaste con un bandido esqueleto en el mercado?!"

Danny nodded. "Sí."

Manny ran a hand down his face, groaning. "Y yo soy el caótico."

Danny snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, you are."

Manny opened his mouth to argue, but Danny shot him a look—one of those fond, amused, I know exactly who you are and I love you anyway looks. The kind that always made Manny’s heart stumble in his chest.

Danny shifted slightly, tapping his fingers against Manny’s knee as he thought for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke again—his voice softer, a little hesitant, but completely earnest.

"Cada día contigo es una aventura y disfruto cada segundo de ella."

Manny froze.

Danny had clearly practiced the sentence, but there was still a struggle in his pronunciation—like he was carefully pulling each word out from memory and trying his absolute best to say it right.

Manny’s heart skipped in his chest.

Danny grinned, clearly proud of himself, even though Manny could hear the mistakes in the sentence. His very American accent had definitely butchered some vowels, but—oh, Dios mío, the effort. The way he tried. The way he meant it.

Manny felt like he had just been swept off his feet.

"You—" Manny had to pause, blinking rapidly before managing, "You practiced that."

Danny nodded, still looking pleased. "Yep."

Manny let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his own messy curls. "Damn."

Danny smirked, watching the effect it was having on him. "Did I get it right?"

Manny exhaled sharply. "Mostly," he admitted. Then, voice softer, he murmured, "It was perfect."

Danny beamed, and Manny, still feeling like he might just combust, reached out to gently cup his face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.

Then, without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed him—slow, warm, full of affection.

Danny melted into it, purring softly, and Manny smiled against his lips.

When they finally pulled back, Manny sighed dramatically. "Ugh, fine. You win. You’re the romantic one today."

Danny chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of Manny’s nose. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

Manny rolled his eyes, but he was grinning.

They curled back into the couch together, Danny tucking himself against Manny’s side, feeling lighter than he had all day.

Maybe moving to Miracle City had been stressful. Maybe his Spanish was a mess. Maybe he still had a long way to go.

But right now? Wrapped up in Manny’s warmth, hearing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, knowing he had someone in his corner—

Yeah. It was all worth it.

A few days had passed since Danny’s grand romantic Spanish victory, and now he found himself following Manny through one of the many bodegas scattered across Miracle City.

The atmosphere here was chaotic but welcoming—a stark contrast to the big-box stores back in Amity Park. People actually knew each other here. There was warmth in every greeting, familiarity in every exchanged word. It was different, but Danny was growing fond of it.

Manny was a fiery man—loud, animated, impossible to ignore—but he was also well-loved. He fit in perfectly in Miracle City, weaving through the narrow aisles with the confidence of someone who belonged. So, it wasn’t a surprise when an older woman, a warm smile on her face, suddenly placed a hand on Manny’s arm.

"¡Aye, Manito!" she greeted, her voice affectionate. "¡Ha pasado un tiempo! ¿Cómo estás?"

Manny grinned. "¡Hola, señora! ¡Me va bien! He estado muy ocupado con mi galería y con este chico."

Danny, trailing behind, mostly followed the conversation. He was getting better. The words weren’t just a blur anymore. He caught time passing, how are you?, gallery, and—

Oh. Oh, he was this chico.

The woman’s attention turned to him, eyes warm and curious. Danny braced himself, took a breath, and did his best.

"¡Hola, soy Danny! Soy el novio de Manny. Me acabo de… mudar aquí."

The woman lit up. "¡El novio!" she gasped, delighted. Without warning, she reached up and pinched Manny’s cheek. "¡Es guapo! ¡Buen trabajo!"

Manny immediately flushed, swatting playfully at her hand. "¡Ay, señora!"

Danny, who absolutely knew that word, flushed as well. But he recovered fast, flashing a grin and responding with, "¡Muchas gracias, señora!"

The woman beamed, clearly pleased with him. "¡Ay, qué educado! ¡Bienvenido a Miracle City, corazón! Vas a encajar aquí muy bien."

Danny caught most of that—welcome to Miracle City, something about fitting in—and it made something warm settle in his chest.

"Gracias," he said again, a little softer this time.

She gave them both a final knowing look before patting Manny’s arm one last time and returning to her shopping.

Manny, still looking slightly flustered, turned to Danny with a huge grin. "Okay, that was impressive."

Danny blinked. "What?"

Manny nudged his shoulder. "Esa fue una conversación completa, mi amor." He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly so proud. "You didn’t just talk—you listened! And you understood!"

Danny’s ears burned, but he couldn’t stop the small, satisfied smile that tugged at his lips. "Well… yeah," he admitted. "I mean, I live here now. Gotta get good eventually."

Manny beamed. "You are getting good. I’m so proud of you."

Danny, completely overwhelmed by the sincerity in Manny’s voice, immediately tried to deflect. "I mean, you did most of the talking—"

"Nah." Manny slung an arm around Danny’s shoulders, tugging him close before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "You killed it, guapo."

Danny groaned, shoving at Manny’s chest—but his blush completely betrayed him.

Manny just laughed, dragging him down the next aisle.

Danny let himself be pulled along, heart lighter than it had been all day.

#nicktoons unite #nicktoons #el tigre #el tigre the adventures of manny rivera #manny rivera #tigerghost #danny phantom #danny fenton #rambles #requests #my fic #aged up characters #established relationship #language #fluff

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paracosmic-murdock · 2 days ago

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vigilante like me

chapter five: you asked me to dance, but i said dancing is a dangerous game

pairing: matt murdock x black widow!vigilante!reader

summary: nights and nights of playing the hero as if that could redeem you that easily ended up taking you to new york, where you accidentally met the man who would turn your world upside down. a vigilante like you.

warnings/tags: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, injuries, phd in applied flirting and ma in yearning studies, some smut (minors dni), takes place sometime during the blip, when born again comes out we might find out if my decisions of who were gone were right, spoilers/references of stuff and themes from daredevil (2015); avengers: infinity war (2018); avengers: endgame (2019) black widow (2021); and hawkeye (2021), but y'all must've watched all of those already so idc, yelena belova and the themes and events from the black widow (2021) movie are very relevant in this plot, song: cowboy like me (taylor swift)

word count: 2.8K

✰ chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four

✰ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

Regret is something you are used to living with; you regret everything you did during your Widow years, and surely there is not enough you can ever do to make up for your past actions.

The lives you took, some of them innocent or just collateral damage, were ghosts that haunted you night and day, but you were trying your hardest to let go of them. Not like anything you have done helped you get rid of their voices, sometimes they were pleas while other times they were encouraging you to do your job or threatening you with regretting it. You for sure regretted everything.

You're trying to reinvent yourself and leave behind all that you did, everything you regret.

Another thing you just noticed you regret is accepting Fyodor's invitation to dinner.

Now, in a phone call with him, you found yourself making up excuses in your head to cancel.

“I could pick you up at work,” he proposed.

You pursed your lips. “Uh, actually, I was gonna talk to you about that.”

“What now?”

“There was a miscalculation, sorry. I have plans already.”

“What plans?”

“None of your business,” You scoffed and hung up the call before he dared to ask again or present any alternatives you clearly weren't interested in.

The first Black Widow you and Yelena rescued together was Svetlana Zhuravlev. She was eighteen when you found her, and all she ever wanted from the moment she was free was to find her real family, and start the life she should have lived from the beginning as soon as possible. However, the family she found wasn't anywhere near ideal: her father was dead, her mother was terminally ill, and her brother was involved with bad people. Very bad people.

Either way, she wanted to be by her mother's side for as much time as she had left and to be close to her brother.

That's how you met Fyodor.

One time, when you contacted Svetlana to ask if she could help you and Yelena track another Widow, she invited you to talk over dinner she had made herself, and Fyodor was there, too. He was picking fights with his sister as if he didn't know that she could kill him in a blink and get away with it.

Somehow, he managed to help you with everything you needed, and, from then on, you helped each other occasionally.

The last thing you knew about him was that he and Svetlana had a huge fight and that their relationship never recovered. Not that any of them seemed like they genuinely wanted to fight for the family after their mother passed away, or at least that's what it seemed.

You can't say you never wondered why they stopped talking, but you didn't dare to ask him or Svetlana, despite the latter having moved to New York soon after you learned about their thing.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Matt said with a charming smile as soon as he was right in front of you.

You looked up. “Hey.”

“Can I take a seat?” he asked.

“Uhm,” you doubted, wondering if it was a good idea. In the end, you couldn't see yourself as someone who would do such a thing to him specifically. “Sure. It would be an affront if I said no, right?”

He chuckled softly while taking a seat in the chair in front of yours. “It would've broken my heart, I must be honest.”

“In my defense, you promised you'd stop stalking me,” you questioned, tilting your head as if accusing him of a grave crime.

“This isn't me stalking you,” he stated. “This is me hanging out with a friend to celebrate our firm just won a case.”

“Yeah? And where's your friend?” you questioned him, taking a sip of your beer.

“She had to pick up something before coming,”

You gave him an incredulous glance and stretched along the table to reach him and put your hand on his chest. “Say that again, Devil.”

He laughed. “My friend is coming.”

Matt's heart kept its steady rhythm.

“You're lying,” you lied.

“I am not!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, you are.” You insisted, sitting again.

“You know very well I am not, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment seemed to bring you back to your reality: you have to keep Matt away from now on.

“What a risk to call to a woman you aren't involved with in any manner whatsoever sweetheart, sweetheart,” you noted, severity in your words.

“Alright, my bad,” he admitted. “Sorry.”

“It's cute that you're sorry, Matthew. What for?”

“For calling you sweetheart,” he replied. “For invading your privacy, and for not respecting your boundaries.”

You wrinkled your nose. “You talk like someone who's been going to therapy.”

“I've been reflecting,” He smiled.

“I guess I forgive you,” You shrugged. “But we have to stop whatever this is. We can't be friends or anything, Matt. Trust me, it's for the better.”

“How is it for the better?”

You sighed. “I know you think we have things in common and all that, but that's not true. What's behind me right now is worse than everything that's been behind you altogether. You can't be involved with me because it's all way bigger than you can ever aspire to solve. Matt, you're not another regret I am willing to carry.”

“You underestimate me,” he commented. “Either way, it seems like it is the Black Widow who wants nothing to do with Daredevil. What about you and Matt?”

“What about them?” you inquired.

“Maybe Matt Murdock just wants to be your friend,” he answered. “I have half as many friends as I used to, so why not?”

You chuckled slightly. “Let me guess: you went from two to one.”

“Pretty much.”

“I went from one to zero, so I won.”

He smiled. “See? It's a win-win situation going on here.”

“Dear God…” you groaned.

“Come on, let's have drinks tomorrow night.”

“I don't think you can replace my friend,” you said. “And I told you it's the best for us both if you just stopped talking to me for once. There's just some things you can't make it out alive from.”

“Look-”

“No, you look,” You finished the last sip of your beer before continuing. “We're two completely different people, and we can't be buddies as if it means nothing. We have a completely different view of things like what we do at night: I don't waste my time and don't take risks. You're all about half measurements and I don't want you appearing wherever I am and interfering with what I do or trying to give me a TedTalk as if you were above me just because you stop at breaking bones. I don't care that we had a good talk once, Matt. I am done, and so should you.”

He chuckled dryly, sarcastically. “And you think you're better than me because you get rid of whoever gets in your way like you have the right to? For someone who wants to leave her past behind, you sure don't do enough to redeem yourself.”

“What do you even know about redeeming yourself? According to you, you belong to another list just because you don't kill, Matt,” you scoffed. “You sure think your purpose is to fix everyone and won't admit that some things are beyond you. Oh, and maybe if you pray a little and ask your God to help you stay out of battles that one day will be far too big for you, you will be at peace. Until that day, it's best that you have a little sense of self-preservation and stay away from someone like me who isn't good enough for Saint Matthew.”

Before he could say a word, you stood up and left Josie's.

Maybe you should move to the woods where nobody can see you and annoy you like Matt does.

Isn't he absolutely insufferable?

“I see your plan was a date.”

Alright, could you ever catch a fucking breath?

“Sure, call it what you want,” you answered, giving him an annoyed look. “Honestly, I just wanna go home right now, so, if you'll excuse me-”

“I can walk you home.”

“For what? Protection?” you scoffed. “I didn't know you were a comedian now.”

“No need to be mean,” He winked. “I just wanted to take you somewhere nice for dinner. You should be grateful or something.”

“How am I supposed to be grateful for something that hasn't happened, Fyodor?”

“It was supposed to happen today but you had a date with some idiot.” he noted, half joking, half genuinely offended you chose some idiot over him.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Fyodor. Tomorrow night.”

He smiled. “Okay, can I walk you home now?”

“No, and if somebody tries to rob me, fret not: I have a gun.”

“Fine, fine,” he agreed. “We've been great together, haven't we?”

You gave him an annoyed look. “What? Are you French now or what's up with all that we, oui?”

He rolled his eyes, amused, still taking it with humor as if you weren't trying your best to drive him away. “Seriously, you're being the absolute worst.”

Despite knowing Fyodor didn't have bad intentions and that it was highly unlikely that someone was still following you, you did the same as every night: going to any other place first and then back home wearing someone else's face.

“I could pick you up at work.”

Those were the same words as yesterday and your intentions are also the same as yesterday's: canceling. This time, however, you have a real excuse.

“About that…”

You could almost hear him rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Do you have another date with that guy?” Fyodor questioned.

“No,” you replied. “It's just that someone rented the gym for a few hours after closing. Usually, my boss is the one that handles that, but it's his anniversary with his wife and he asked me to do it instead.”

“What if I just join you to keep you company and then we go to dinner?”

Unfortunately, that was a logical and effective solution and no excuse that could come out of your mouth would be valid enough.

So, you sighed in resignation. “Okay, sure.”

“See you.” And he hung up.

If there's a God up there, you thought, He sure abandoned me this week.

You said goodbye to Mary, the last student of the day, and went to the dressing room to get changed into your somewhat decent clothes.

In all honesty, you didn't pack anything nice enough for a date because you had planned to cancel on Fyodor again, but that was not what is written in the book of life.

As you got ready, you wondered why the hell you were so reluctant to go out with him. You didn't know what had happened between him and Svetlana, but you were convinced that if it was something truly bad, he would be dead by now; that or he wouldn't even dare to set foot in America. Fyodor was never a bad guy with you, so why are you acting like this?

You just have a feeling.

“Hello there.”

You faked a smile. “Hey. Welcome to Fogwell's.”

“Thank you,” He took a seat beside you. “I thought this moment would never come.”

“What moment?” you questioned.

“Us in the same room together before I returned to Rostov on Don.” he answered.

“I thought you lived in Moscow,” you commented.

“I left when Svetlana moved here. I had nothing important left in Moscow, and the bosses needed someone to manage things at Rostov Oblast,” he explained. “The stars just aligned.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

“Yeah, it's nice in Rostov, and the business is thriving.”

“I'm happy for you,” You gave him half a smile. “You know? I was always curious about your fight with Sveta.”

“Oh, I might need some encouragement to tell you that,” He chuckled, taking a hip-flask from his leather jacket. “Why not discuss it over vodka?”

You doubted for a minute, knowing that the guy that rented Fogwell's would be there any minute and it could be an issue if he found you drinking.

“I'll drink first if that makes you feel better,” Fyodor announced and, in a blink, took a sip. Then, you received the liquor he was offering. “Alright, so… it's a long story. First, I have to say that I regret what happened between us, but I know that our bond is now broken forever. I'll always love her, but I failed her and she knows it. There's no going back now, no matter how much I want to.”

You took a long sip and wrinkled your nose at the burning taste. You gave him the hip-flask back. “What did you do to her?”

“The problem is what I didn't do.”

“What didn't you do?” you inquired.

“I was sixteen when she was born and eighteen when she disappeared,” he began, but soon, his voice started to sound somehow gibberish. You couldn't make sense of the words leaving his mouth and, before you knew it, everything went jet black.

“Rise and shine, sunshine.”

You couldn't open your eyes, and the only thing you felt was the pain in your whole body.

“You sure made me work for it, didn't you?”

“Who-”

“Wanna know who I am?” he asked. “I told you I just wanted to talk, but you made it all harder than it needed to be.”

Your brain worked for it, but there was a fog in your mind and you couldn't get an answer despite how much you needed one and how close you felt like you were.

“You'll spend the rest of your miserable life knowing you were a helpless little thing while I beat you like you beat him.”

Then, it all started to make sense.

You ended up recognizing Crosby's voice, the one who had come to you not wanting any trouble while he clearly wanted some.

When he showed you that picture of you and Yelena at Jelgava, nothing in particular had come to your mind. At least not until now that he mentioned you beating someone, and that took you back to the moment you found Vera, the widow you had rescued in Latvia that one time.

Vera was in a hotel room with a man you recognized from the Red Room, the same one who would force you to fight the other girls until there was only one standing and alive.

Of course you resented him, and you hated him, and wanted him to pay for what he did.

So you killed him.

And now Crosby was seeking revenge.

“Ivan Tarakanov,” you taunted, chuckling bitterly, using the very last drops of strength in your body for this comeback. “You better kill me, Crosby. Better safe than sorry.”

“You know what? I think that you're not gonna survive tonight, and, even if you do, the hospital will call the police and they're going to deport you. And trust me, once you set foot in Russia again, it's over for you.”

You spit on his face, your blood staining his cheek. “And you know what? I enjoyed every second of it. He begged me for mercy…”

Crosby fell to the floor loudly, interrupting your conversation. Soon, someone was beating the shit out of him while you failed to stand up and escape.

The pain in your body was too much and you didn't even know where you were; the only thing you could sense was the cold in the air and the screams and groans of the two men fighting next to you until that stopped. Then, silence reigned as someone dragged the other's body through the back door, and you were scared that the unconscious one might not be Crosby.

“Are you alright?” You felt him approach you minutes later. It was Matt and, even though you were supposed to hate his guts now, you have never been happier to see someone than you were right now.

“I can't move.” you muttered, breathing heavily.

Matt touched your body so he could sense where you were injured and spotted quite a few. “It's fine, you're going to be just fine.”

“Okay,” You believed him, soon closing your eyes again.

He sighed, trying to suppress the little guy inside him that was panicking.

Once you were in his apartment, he made you lie on his sofa and examined you more carefully. His hands stumbled upon several cuts in your torso and arms, and tried not to hurt you on his path.

“I'm gonna find my kit, okay? I'll be right back.”

“Matt?” you called him. He turned around. “Please don't leave me.”

Matt shook his head and his expression softened. “I won't. Cross my heart.”

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