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dailynnt · 16 hours ago

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♡⃟࿔ BETWEEN FEIGNED HATRED AND REAL DESIRE ♡⃟࿔

𑁤 Summary: You can't stand Jungkook, your brother's arrogant, cocky friend who is just waiting for an opportunity to annoy you. He always finds a way to get under your skin, and you were sure that what you hated more than him was the idea of having any feelings for him. But one accident changes everything. Left with him in a locked, cramped room, where every breath is a fire between you two, you realizes that you hatred has always been hidden behind something deeper. Something that cannot be denied, cannot be ignored.

𑁤 Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook • Y/N

𑁤 Age restrictions: 18+

𑁤 Size: one shot

𑁤 Tags: best friend brother, school au, y/n Hoseok sister, from enemies to lovers, sexual tension, unprotected sex, detailed description of sexual scenes, swear words, slightly domJK.

𑁤 Dedication: A late Valentine's Day gift 💘 @myjungkookthighs, @kelsyx33, @someoneelse0109, @mskookie, @kooccult, , @smokinghotstargirl , @curse-of-art, @rispwr, @kooko007

𑁤 From author: Another of my fantasies that resulted in this, in my opinion, an interesting work. It seems that there are many such works, but you know each author writes in his own way 🥹💕 Therefore, please enjoy, this is a gift ( 🤫 Late gift) for Valentine's Day 💞🫶🏻💜

Your story seems is typical. You hated one of your brother's best friends. All five of the Bulletproof boys on your school's volleyball team were just perfect.

Namjoon, tall, strong, and very smart. Jin is tall, funny, and handsome. Yoongi is quiet, talented, and can always talk to you about anything. Jimin is cheerful, charismatic, and has a subtle sense of humor. Taehyung was synonymous with the word beauty, he was cute but also a tomboy.

And him. Jeon Jungkook. He was a walking nightmare who was hotter than fire, but had a temper that pissed you off. His favorite thing to do was to tease you. He would do just that when he came to your house to hang out at a party thrown by Hoseok, your brother, or when you were having lunch at school with your brother and a whole bunch of his friends sat down with you. Jungkook was always there. And you were literally sick of him.

There was tension between you because your conversation always ended with you screaming and wanting to scratch his face.

Today was Valentine's Day and you hated it. Why? Who wouldn't hate those sweet couples in love who kissed or hugged each other almost everywhere they went? Why are they so annoying on this particular day?

Physical education is over, the last class of the day. You took a shower and went to the locker room. The girls were all gathered together, talking, joking about Valentine's Day.

"Girls, let's each say who we would like to fuck today?" - Kim Sora, who was your bestie, suggested. Only the girls from your company were left in the locker room. They were all mostly cheerleaders, but you weren't. "I'd like Namjoon." - She says first. Everyone laughs and Hewon and Seolha say they would like Namjoon too.

"And I would like Yoongi. His aloof and almost bored behavior turns me on so much. I would know how to make him feel better." - Sejong says, and you burst out laughing. She's had her eye on Yoongi for a while now, but he's not paying attention.

"God, I can't decide between Taehyung and Jimin. They're both so hot, can I have both?" - Sumin asks. You laugh again as you put on your sweatpants. You look at yourself in the mirror.

"Y/N hope you'll forgive me, but I'd like to fuck your brother." - Arin says. You turn to her and grimace.

"Goshhh, Arin, I thought you had better taste." - The girls laugh, but you don't. You genuinely don't understand what girls find sexy about your brother. But fortunately, you don't have to.

"And you're Y/N? You're the only one who hasn't said yet." - Arin laughs and all the girls pay attention to you. You are a little nervous about their attention, and you walk back to the bench where your T-shirt was lying. You put it on.

"I don't know, I don't think I'm interested in any of the Bulletproofs." - You say casually.

"No, you're a liar." - Sora says, and you turn a sharp look at her. You raise your eyebrows. No. She's not going to tell you about him. "Girls, do you know who she dreams of fucking?" - Sora smiles slyly.

"Don't you dare talk about him." - You threaten your bestie , who breaks into an even more evil smile. All the girls squeal almost in unison.

"Who? Who is it?" - Arin squeals.

"Who is our impregnable ice queen dreaming about? Is it Yoongi?" - Hewon asked.

"Hey, Yoongi is mine!" - Shouted Sejong.

"No, I don't want your Yoongi!" - You said. You hurriedly started to pack your things so that you could run away before Sora said anything about him.

"No, it's not Yoongi." - Sora said. She was silent for a moment. You gave her an angry look and said with one lip, "I'm going to kill you." "It's Jungkook." - Sora finally said, and everything broke inside you. All the girls gasped.

"Jungkook?" - Hewon shouted out. "She hates him just as much as he hates her."

"I don't want him." - You said harshly. All the girls stared at you. "I barely live on the same planet as him, and you're saying this." - For some reason you were trying to justify yourself. And when you realized it, you decided it was better to leave. "Don't say stupid anymore like that. I'm going home." - You said more calmly. You stopped at the threshold and turned to Sora. "Sora, you are in trouble." - You smiled sweetly and hurried away.

You were so angry. You couldn't stand Jungkook, how could you want him? He was so horrible. You walk away with quick steps, clutching your bag. Your chest burns with anger mixed with shame. How could she do that? How could she say that out loud?

You raced down the path from the gym, clutching the straps of your bag so tightly that your knuckles turned white. Your heart was pounding and your cheeks were burning. Jungkook? Was it him? Why the hell would Sora say something like that in front of everyone?

You stopped, took a deep breath. You never want him. You can't stand him. He's been annoying you since the first day you met him. He's arrogant, self-confident, always sure of his own attractiveness.

And for some reason... You stopped abruptly when you saw him. Jungkook stood next to his motorcycle, wearing a black T-shirt that fit his muscular body and above it black bomber. He was twirling his helmet in his hands, and his eyes slid over you as if by accident.

Your face flushed even more. He raised an eyebrow.

"What?" - He said, smiling slightly. You took a step back in confusion.

"Nothing!" - You answered too sharply. His smile grew wider, almost impudent.

"You look..." - He tilted his head, studying you. "Tense."

"Go to hell, Jungkook." - You gritted your teeth and tried to walk away, but he quickly grabbed your wrist. You froze.

He took another step closer, leaning in so that you could smell his perfume. For some reason, your heart started pounding furiously.

"Wait." - He purred.

"Are you crazy? Let go of me. What do you want?" - You hissed, trying to pull your hand away, but he only squeezed your wrist tighter. His eyes darkened and a strange pleasure appeared in his voice.

"By any chance, were you thinking about me right now?" - His voice was as mocking as ever.

"You…!" - You choked with anger.

"Because you blushed." - He added hoarsely. Something tightened in your chest. You going to kill Sora.

"If you don't let go now, you'll lost your golden bells." - You threaten, and your face expresses absolute anger. He laughs, but lets go. Because you usually keep your words. You give him a scorching look and walk home.

You get almost home, and when you want to call your oppa, you are horrified to realize that there is no phone. You dig through your pockets and search your bag, but it's not there. Damn it, you must have left it in the locker room.

You swear about everything, cursing this day, and go back to school. It takes you at least 30 minutes to get to the locker room. Almost no one is in the school anymore. You look for your phone, but it's nowhere to be found. You swear again and try to figure out where you could have left it. You desperately searched for your phone in the locker room, under the benches, in your things. But it was nowhere to be found. Fuck!

You exhaled loudly and ran a hand through your hair. Someone must have found it by now and taken it away.

"Looks like that girl has sown something again." - You flinched at the familiar voice. You turned sharply to find Jungkook standing at the door, arms crossed over his chest.

"What do you want?" - You asked abruptly. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I saw you running like a madman. I figured you were in trouble again." - He said bored. But his gaze was absolutely focused on you.

"I'm not in trouble!" - You were indignant.

"Yeah, you're just running around grumbling to yourself." - Jungkook said with a slight smile. You rolled your eyes.

"I just left my phone here." - You said, irritated. Jungkook shrugged again, but suddenly started walking around the locker room, looking under the benches. You raised your eyebrows and watched him. "What are you doing?" - You asked.

"Helping you find it." - He said looking at the windowsill.

"I didn't ask you to. Get out." - You say harshly, turning away from him. Although for some reason you don't want him to leave. And you want to hit yourself for feeling this way.

"Come on." - He said, coming closer. You glanced over your shoulder. He put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head. "What's wrong with helping my best friend's sister."

You turned away and grimaced, but inside you still felt a little relieved.

A few minutes later, you walked out of the locker room, and you looked around again, trying to remember where else you might have left your phone.

"Maybe in the gym?" - Jungkook suggested.

"Maybe..." - You mumbled, holding a little further away from him. He silently turned around and headed that way. "Hey! I told you, I don't need your help!" - You said, trying to get rid of him.

"Then just don't follow me!" - He threw over his shoulder without even stopping. You gritted your teeth and followed him anyway.

The gym was empty. You walked around it, looked in all the corners, and suddenly Jungkook stopped at a small room with sports equipment.

"Have you looked here yet?" - He asks, peering in. He walks over and opens the door wider. "I saw you go in here in class to get a ball." - Jungkook remembers.

"I wouldn't leave it here." - You argue, coming up behind him. He turns his head toward you.

"I think we should check here too." - He said and went inside. You looked at him skeptically and followed him inside.

The storage room was small, filled with balls, mats, and other equipment. You cautiously walked around the small room. It was lit by a single small window, through which the rays of the setting sun were breaking through. While you were looking at the stand with the volleyballs, you suddenly heard something. A click. The door closed. And immediately there was a sound that made you freeze. A lock.

"No, no, no..." - You turned around jerkily and pulled the doorknob. But in vain. You heard footsteps outside.

"Yeah... I think this is the last one." - You heard a muffled voice. "Finally, all the rooms are closed."

You pressed yourself against the door.

"HEY! SOMEONE HELP US! SOMEONE IS HERE!" - You pounded on the door, but nothing seemed to happen. Jungkook laughed.

"Damn, that's funny." - He said leaning on the stand. You slowly turned your head to him.

"You think it's funny?" - You squeaked. He held up his hands. "We've been locked in here. And probably on purpose."

"Hey, calm down. It's an accident, who would lock us in here on purpose?" - He asked skeptically. You slammed the door with your palm.

"Damn it!!! You're to blame for this!" - You screamed.

"Me?" - Jungkook was genuinely surprised.

"You dragged me here!" - You countered. He laughed out loud.

"My baby, you chose to follow me." - Jungkook said defiantly through hysterical laughter.

"Don't call me that!" - You shouted. You were shaking with anger. You'd lost your phone somewhere, but worse than that, you were locked in a small room with a man you couldn't stand.

"What? 'My baby' this word makes you angry?" - He asked again and smiled again. You looked around frantically.

"We have to get out of here. Call someone, Hosoku or whoever, and get us out." - You said.

"Oh, of course we have to get out. Otherwise, you'll be stuck with me in a cramped room..." - He suddenly took a step closer. "...alone." - You clenched your fists. Reflexively stepping back to the door.

"Don't do this. Just pick up the fucking phone and call my brother." - You said.

"Don't do what?" - Jungkook stopped one step away. You took another step back. There must be a door somewhere. "I think you don’t want that I’m really calling to anyone." - He said, leaning closer. You froze. He smiled slightly, his gaze sliding over your face, then to your lips. "Even you don't mind?" - Your heart beat faster. But you had to control yourself. You clenched your teeth.

"If you don't shut up now..." - You threatened, losing what little self-control you had when Jungkook pinned his gaze on your lips and took another half step closer.

"What?" - He lowered his voice. You could hear the noise in your ears and the frantic pounding of your heart. Jungkook must have heard it too, because he suddenly smiled mysteriously.

"I'm going to kill you." - You tried to say in your usual tone. The one you used every time you spoke to Jungkook. But as he stood so close and looked at your lips, you heard your voice break.

"Really?" - He asked. You suddenly realized the gravity of the situation and seemed to see yourself from the outside. You were like an antelope being caught by a lion.

You were ready to kick him, but he suddenly grabbed your wrist and sharply pushed you against the front door. Your heart was pounding even faster. His face was close. Too close.

"If you hate me so much..." - His voice was hoarse. "Why are you embarrassed next to me?" - You wanted to protest. You don't get embarrassed next to him. He always annoys you, and all you do is get angry and yell at him. Jungkook leaned in even closer, his lips near your ear. "If I kiss you now, will you push me away?" - He whispered. You felt his breath on your skin and knew he was playing with you. But what was even worse was that, against your will, you began to like this game.

You leaned back against the front door, your pulse pounding in your temples, and Jungkook's breath barely touching your skin.

"I'll push you away." - You gritted out, trying to raise your hands to push him away, but he grabbed them and pinned them behind your back, intertwining your fingers. You tried to get free, but he held you tighter. His closeness and the smell of his perfume made your legs go limp. He smiled.

"Oh, you do?" - He asked boldly. Your nails dug painfully into his palms.

"Don't play with me, Jungkook." - You threaten, looking into his eyes filled with mischief. "I'm going to tell Hoseok that you were hitting on me." - Jungkook giggled softly.

"You won't." - He said confidently. "Because you like what I do." - His lips were almost touching your ear. You flinched, but tried to pull away from him anyway.

"I don't like it. You're too confident." - You said firmly. He pressed even closer, and then... backed away. You were breathing heavily, trying to catch your breath. Jungkook had stirred up something in you that you weren't supposed to feel before.

"Do you want me to stop to make fun of you?" - He suddenly asked. You raised your eyebrows and shifted on your feet.

"What?" - You asked quietly. Jungkook smiled predatory.

"I suggest we end this here. Once and for all. Here's the deal. You do one thing I ask and I'll never make fun of you again." - He offered. It sounds tempting. The prospect of getting rid of Jungkook forever is too tempting.

"What are you suggesting?" - You ask sharply.

"Kiss me." - He says. You are frozen. But then you almost laughed.

"Are you silly? What kind of nonsense is that?" - You laugh. Jungkook takes a step forward and you don't take your eyes off him.

"Just kiss me and this will be over." - Jungkook says. You clench your jaw. Should you kiss him? Only if the world ends.

"I won't..." - You say indignantly. Jungkook is close again, and your pulse is pounding in your temples.

"Why, are you scared?" - He smiles even wider. "Do you think you'll like it?"

You grit your teeth. He dares you. He's just playing with you. He won't leave you alone even if you kiss him now. The thought of kissing him is driving you crazy. If you do it now, he'll laugh forever.

But...

Why did your hand suddenly almost jerk forward? Why did his gaze seem to evoke something hot and uncontrollable inside you? You took a deep breath. Could he be serious now? You don't know if you can trust him one hundred percent, but for some reason you think he's serious.

"Okay." - You finally agree. Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"What?" - His voice is pure surprise. You took a step toward him, grabbed him by the collar of his bomber jacket, and go on your tiptoes, slowly reaching for his lips... You could almost feel his warmth when he pulled away at the last moment.

You froze. You opened your eyes and saw his sly smile.

"You..." - You said quietly, boiling with rage. He laughed, brazenly, smugly, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. How humiliating.

"So you really want to kiss me? You said you didn't like it. You didn't really think I'd let you do it that easily, did you?" - The blood rushed to your head.

"You... asshole." - You punched him in the chest, but he just laughed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you were so determined to kiss me. Did you really? You hate me so much and you wanted to kiss me?" - He asks through his laughter. You got even more angry and started to hit him, but he quickly caught your arms and turned you around, pinning you against the wall again. He pinned you from behind and you felt his crotch pressing against your ass. You were breathing fast.

"That's enough, baby. I don't want to fight you." - He mumbled in your ear. His fingers tightened around your wrists, which he had pinned against the wall. "I thought you were so cold..." - His voice dropped to a whisper. "But you're heating up faster than I thought."

"Let go of me." - You hissed, wriggling away. But he didn't listen.

Instead, he turned you around and before you could realize it, he was kissing you. Hotly, greedily, so that your breath hitched and your thoughts were mixed. He pressed against you harder, and you... You didn't push him away.

On the contrary, your fingers tightened involuntarily on his bomber jacket. You hated him. But... You wanted it.

When he pulled away from you, his lips were still barely touching yours, and his voice sounded bold and deep at the same time.

"Should we stop?" - He asked. You were breathing heavily, your mind screaming no, but your body was reaching forward treacherously. His gaze burned you. Deep, dark, filled with something that made your body stiffen and your heart pound furiously in your chest.

Jungkook's lips barely touched your cheek, then slowly slid down to your jawline. His breath is hot and tickles your skin, making you shiver.

"I knew it." - He whispers. "You're not pushing me away."

"I..." - You stutter, not sure what to say. His hands, warm and strong, slid down your body. He slipped his hand under your sweatpants and squeezed your buttocks as if he didn't want to let go, as if he wanted to leave a mark on you-not just on your skin, but deeper, somewhere you'd never let him touch.

"Mmm?" - His lips touched your ear. "What are you going to say now?" - You wanted to say that this was a mistake. That you didn't want this. But your breath gave you away. Deep, shuddering, with an echo of desire. Jungkook smiled slightly, his other hand slowly moving up along your waist, tugging at the fabric of your T-shirt. "Do you want me to stop?"

His lips descended to your neck, a light bite, a burnt touch of his tongue that sent an electric shock through your body.

"Tell me..." - He demanded, grabbing your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. You couldn't say no. Because your fingers had already slid over his chest, you could feel the muscles rippling under the fabric, and your body was treacherously searching for him.

"Jungkook..." - His name sounded almost pleading on your lips.

And before you knew it, his lips were on yours again, even hotter, even more greedy. This kiss was no longer a game. It was real. And you already knew you had given in.

His hand that had been squeezing your buttocks slid down your thighs and came to your front. Without taking his lips from yours, he parted your folds and touched your clit with his fingers. You unconsciously moaned into his mouth. He smiled into your lips.

He massaged your clitoris so gently and so wonderfully that you thought that if he hadn't been holding you down, you would have fallen over. The circular movements on your sensitive center were driving you crazy.

Jungkook plunged his fingers into your passage and finally pulled away from your lips. You were both breathing heavily, very close together. You felt his hard cock resting against your thigh.

"You're so wet for me, baby." - He whispers breathlessly. You can't speak, because the friction from his fingers prevents you from doing so. "Do you want more? I can fuck you right now." - Jungkook offers. You raise your eyebrows, moaning softly. Jungkook pulls up your t-shirt to reveal your breasts.

You're not wearing a bra. You didn't put it on after gym class because you were sweating and didn't want to wear a dirty bra. You didn't plan to go back to school, but you forgot your phone.

"I've always wondered what those nipples taste like." - Jungkook hummed and leaned over to one of them. His lips captured your sensitive flesh and sucked. You felt him smile. You held his shoulders and tried not to go crazy with his skillful fingers inside you.

"Jungkook..." - You called out to him. He didn't answer. He just moved to your other nipple and played with it with his tongue. "Please..." - You breathed out. The Jungkook left your nipple and you felt the cold air contrasting with the licked nipple.

"What is it baby?" - He asked into your lips then. But suddenly he pulls his hand out and puts his fingers into his mouth. You breathe heavily and watch him suck his fingers soaked in your cum. "You really want me to fuck you?" - Jungkook wants to make sure. You bite your lip, unable to say it out loud. But yes. You do want him to fuck you.

Jungkook glanced between your bodies. His hard cock was already resting against your pussy. He made a few thrusts and you squeezed his clothes harder.

"Go ahead and say it, or I won't continue." - He says tensely. A hush escapes your lips.

"You're lying." - Suddenly, your voice cuts through. "You won't be able to stop now." - Jungkook laughs. You're so damn right. He's either going to fuck you or…he's going to fuck you.

"You're such a smart girl. But you have to let me." - He warns you gently. But you don't answer right away. You think again that this could be a joke. What if will you let him now and he walks away again? And then what? Or you'll let him fuck you now and he'll tell someone that you begged him.

"Do you want me?" - You asked, instead of letting him. Jungkook pulled away and looked into your eyes. He saw how much you wanted him. He wanted you too, your question was so stupid.

"Isn't it obvious?" - He asked with an arched eyebrow. You ran your fingers down his neck, took out his hair and dipped it in your hands, stroking it.

"Just say it. Do you want to fuck me right now?" - You asked, smiling seductively. Jungkook smiled back reflexively. His eyes grew darker.

"Fuck it!" - He cursed. "Yeah. I want to fuck you so hard you can't sit up." - He said with anticipation in his voice. He put his hands on your hips and squeezed them. You smile satisfied, now you can let him.

"Then do it Jeon." - You say and his lips crash against yours. His tongue enters your mouth and finds yours. You get even wetter from his kisses. You want more and he just promised you.

Jungkook breaks your kiss and in one swift movement leaves you without your sweatpants and panties. He falls to his knees in front of your pussy and his eyes are filled with lust. You breathe raggedly looking down at him. You could never have imagined such a picture in your head. Jungkook smiles at you from the corner of his lips and presses his lips to your pussy.

You grab his shoulders and squeeze them. A moan escapes your lips as his tongue traces long streaks across your folds. Your legs tremble as he sucks on the tip of your clit, and you are just in bliss. You press your head against the door and your moans fill this cramped room.

Jungkook sucks hard on your clit. At one point he plunges his fingers back into your passage to stretch you. You are almost going crazy. It's the first time you've ever been eaten, and it feels so fucking good. Jungkook's skillful tongue takes you to heaven. It doesn't take long for you to come right on his tongue. He feels you twitching and spends some more time his tongue on your clit enjoying every drop of you.

You stop twitching and he finally pulls his lips away from your pussy. You look down at him, breathing heavily. You see his chin shining with your juices.

Jungkook stands up, wiping his chin with his hand. He takes your neck with his hand, pulling you closer.

"As expected, you are as sweet as honey. I should have tasted you sooner. But you hated me." - He says and then kisses you. He puts his tongue in your mouth so you can taste yourself. And it turns you on.

Not one of your boyfriends you've dated has ever eaten you because they thought it was not normal. Even though blow jobs are commonplace for them.

But Jungkook, did it in the first. You've heard about it from your friends and have been dying to try it. You want to laugh at the thought that the first person to eat you was Jungkook and he did it so damn well.

"If I had known that your tongue could do more than just talk nonsense, I would have been more sympathetic to you." - You said with a seductive smile as Jungkook broke your kiss so you could breathe in. He laughed, sincerely and infectiously. You laughed along with him. "So what? Do I have to do to make you feel good?" - You ask and reach for his pants. Jungkook is also wearing sweatpants, so your hand sinks inside without any obstacles, successfully passing through his boxers.

Jungkook pulls away slightly and lowers the looking between your bodies. He only sees your hand disappear somewhere in his pants, but when you feel his length and your fingers pump up the it, he barely holds back a moan. You arched your eyebrows and pretended to look like "not bad."

"You're bigger than I might imagined." - Jungkook looks up at you and smiles cockily. "I thought that if you had such a long tongue, your dick was tiny." - You mock. You couldn't let this opportunity go to waste. Jungkook didn't appreciate your joke. He grabbed your face gently with one hand and he another hand leaned against the wall to steady himself.

"You're going to regret thinking that. Because my cock will make you scream." - He said powerfully against your lips, but you weren't afraid, you smiled playfully,. Before you can say anything in your defense, Jungkook kisses you again. Insistently, authoritatively, and deeply, as if he trying to prove something to you. You pull down his pants and boxers below his buttocks to have a better opportunity to jerk him off.

Jungkook moans into your mouth as you speed up your movements. He's getting hard in your hands and you can feel it well.

Jungkook pulls away from your swollen lips with all his might and stops you.

"That's enough, you better give me your pussy so that you realize how wrong you were." - You smile at his words and let him. He turns your back to him. You hear him moving behind you, obviously pulling his pants down. You press your hands against the door and wait for that moment.

Jungkook takes his cock in his hands and pumps you on buttocks several times. He slams it into your buttocks and you breathe heavily. He touches your folds with his fingers, runs them over your pussy to smear your moisture.

You finally feel the head of his cock touch your entrance. You hold your breath. Jungkook leans down to your ear and whispers one last time.

"Please be quiet, so the whole school doesn't hear you screaming from my cock." - He grabs your head and turns you around to kiss you. Your mind is foggy with lust, excitement, and his words.

Finally, you feel pressure on your passage. Jungkook holds your hips. Slowly but surely, he plunges into you. You feel pain when only his head is inside. You scream out, which makes him smile.

"So you're already regretting thinking that?" - You hear his voice somewhere behind you. You say something unintelligible and then scream again as he presses harder. His cock is really big. The biggest you've ever had inside you. Jungkook hisses. "Fuck you're tight, so tight, baby." - You want to smile but you can't, it hurts. Jungkook finally takes over completely. You both freeze to get used to the sensations. Your hot breath leaves marks on the door.

"That feels so fucking good." - You say quietly, so Jungkook doesn't hear that his cock makes you feel so good.

"Are you okay baby?" - He asks leaning down to your cheek. You smile because you're glad he didn't hear what you said a moment ago.

"Yeah. Everything is fine." - You say honestly.

"Then get ready. Because I'm going to fuck you hard." - He warns. Jungkook straightens up and moves his hips. You bite your lip to keep from screaming. The first movements are painful. The next ones are pain mixed with pleasure. And when Jungkook sets a good pace, you feel absolute bliss. You can't stop moaning. He moves his hips so well creating exactly the friction you like.

But Jungkook doesn't stay gentle for long, at some point his thrusts become sharper, deeper. His fingers touch your thighs with a certain force. The cock presses into you as much as possible and you feel he shudders in your middle.

The sensations are simply incomparable. He is so good at this. Jungkook fucks you perfectly. Like no other. It's just nonsense. The best fuck you've ever had is not with someone you love, it’s with Jungkook, who you hate, and not on white sheets, but in a school in the small room with sports equipment. It's crazy.

"That feels so fucking good. Baby, you're just perfect for me." - Jungkook compliments you. He finds your clit with his hands and you can't stand the stimulation.

"Koo... please..." - You say between exhaling moans.

"What did you call me?" - Jungkook asks as he continues to fuck you. You feel a sweet bliss brewing in your lower abdomen.

"Koo..." - You moan his shortened name.

"Damn... You can call me that whenever you want to fuck." - He offers. You raise your eyebrows and open your mouth. Does he think this is not your only time? Right now, you're almost on the verge of cumming around him. And you think that you wanted it to be more than once, too. You want this amazing sex was constantly. But what will happen when you come out from this room, and you finally realize what you've done.

But the knot in your stomach unravels and you come, clutching Jungkook's cock. He's cursing behind you, and you can feel you squeezing him. He slaps his hips mercilessly, his balls slamming against your ass, and the sinful slaps drive you crazy. Jungkook pulls out abruptly and he comes. His cum spills all over the floor and his hands.

You turn around and see him cumming. He looks over at you when he stops spewing his cum.

You are both breathing heavily. Jungkook pulls on his boxers and pants, which he has slightly polluted. You put on your thong and pants and are afraid to look up at him. Jungkook looks at you and a confident smile spreads across his face. You pretend to fix your clothes.

"You have wipes? We're did a little a mess here." - He says and you hear a smile in his voice. You reach for the bag, but your hands are shaking. The warmth of his touch is still pulsating on your skin, and your breathing seems heavier than it should be.

Jungkook seems to sense your state, so he takes his time. He watches you take out the napkins, how you avoid his gaze, and smiles smugly.

"Are you always this quiet afterwards?" - His voice drops to an almost purring tone.

You start to get angry again, but instead of answering, you just toss him the package of napkins. He catches it with one hand and runs the other through his hair, causing the dark strands to become even more disheveled.

"Are you always this obnoxious afterwards?" - You snap back, finally looking up at him. He wipes his hands and the remaining cum on the floor. He stands up. Jungkook tilts his head to the side as if he's considering your question.

"I don't know." - He slowly moves closer, making you take a step back. "But I know I want to do it again." - Your heart jumps into your throat.

"There's not going to be another time." - You say sharply, straighten your clothes, and pretend nothing happened. Even though you want there to be another time. Jungkook laughs again. Deep, low, and this sound makes you even more confused.

"Why not? You liked it." - He states. You clench your jaws and look at him with a challenge.

"Don't you have anyone else to have fun with?" - You ask. He takes another step, and now there are barely a few centimeters between you. His eyes are dark, attentive, and something dangerous is burning in them.

"No. It's just you now." - He says. Your breath catches in your throat. He kisses you and you don't resist. What could that mean? Is this an invitation to fuck without obligation? But he's so annoying when he doesn't fuck you, how do you deal with it? He pulls away from your lips.

"Just don't tell anyone. This will be our secret. You don't want your brother to kill me, do you?" - Jungkook asks, he strokes your cheekbones. You laugh slyly.

"Half an hour ago, I was dreaming about it." - You admit honestly.

Jungkook smiles, and you see something triumphant in his eyes. You hate it - how he always wins your verbal battles, how he always knows which buttons to push to get you off balance.

But you hate it even more the way your heart jumps out of your chest at his proximity.

"So now you don't dream of my death anymore?" - He touches a strand of your hair as if it were something familiar, as if he had a right to do so. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to maintain control. His fingers slowly slide from your hair to your chin, and he lifts it slightly, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. "Don't worry, baby. I'll have time to make you dream of other things." - He says this with such confidence that your skin crawls with goosebumps. You pretend not to feel it.

"We'll see." - You snap back. Jungkook lets you go. He takes a step back and then pulls your phone out of his pocket.

"I forgot to tell you that I found your phone earlier." - He smiles, and you are frozen with shock. So he set this up? You blink, not fully believing his words.

"You... you found it earlier?" - Your voice trembles a little with anger.

"Yeah." - Jungkook throws the phone to you, and you automatically catch it. "I wanted to see what you'd do when you went back to look for him."

You squeeze the phone in your hand, feeling indignation boiling inside.

"You asshole!" - You punch him in the shoulder, but he doesn't even move, just smiles smugly.

"Maybe a little. But we've had fun, right?" - He takes his phone out of his pocket now. "Let's get out of here."

#jungkook x reader #bts #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x f!reader #jungkook smut #jungkook friends with benefits #jungkook imagine #bts fanfction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook shook au #jungkook brother best friend

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zepskies · 2 days ago

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@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Yayyyy!! Welcome about the 1940s train, my friend!! I know how much you share my love of historical fiction/AU. 😘

Here we go -- diving into your lovely amazing comments. 😎

Right off the bat we get the classic and hilarious brother dynamic between the two of them. And of course, Dean being Dean. He just couldn't resist. 🙄 Not to mention the fact that Sam literally gave Dean a list of things to do in NYC other than bother him 😂

Lolll we gotta get into that first, right? I thought the best way to set the scene would be to establish the bro relationship here -- how this version of Sam and Dean are exactly the same...and how they're a bit different. 😬 (exactly on that list! lmfao)

I love this little bit of world-building, because right off the bat you are introducing little things that will divide Sam and Dean. It builds the scene, shapes the characters, and introduces the idea that, yes both men enlisted, but at the same time there are other sides/fronts to the war and those experiences shaped these two men in different ways. I also like that you made them be in different places in the military, because their personalities are so different and it fits that Dean was the one who saw combat and has a little bit of shell-shock, but then you see Sam who is able to keep a stable job and merges well into the hustle and bustle of NYC.

Thank youuuuu I was hoping someone would pick up on all of this. 😭😭 I thought it would be interesting to apply Sam's intelligence literally in Intelligence. It was an interesting and necessary facet of the war. Without the spies and Intelligence efforts on the Allied side, we wouldn't have won the war.

But in this story, it would also provide that contrast with how Sam experienced the war and how Dean did, with him being what we think of when we think of a soldier, coming out of all of this with shell shock and more than a few scars -> something the movies of the '40s tended to gloss over. 🥲

"He'd met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn't seen a lady like you in quite some time." I'm dying with this line. I love it so much. Oh boy... I already feel like this fic is going to destroy me in the best way.

AGAIN - another line I hoped someone would enjoy. 💗 Dean's been messing around with a lot of "girls," but this here's a lady. 😘

Aww Sam 😭 I'm also dying that Dean walked her home, my word, what a man.

Sam's a Good Man, but so is Dean, in a more obvious flirtatious gesture of chivalry guy kind of way. 😅

You don't gotta ask what it's like sweet pea, you're gonna be out there soon enough with a ring on your left hand that actually MEANS SOMETHING to the man who gave it to you (DEAN)!

Ooooh girl, not you already getting red hot with your theories. 😜

Girl please be curious for all of us 🤣 But I will say I like that she still upholds her side of the marriage even though her husband is literally a human trash can filled with Raccoons. As Dean put it earlier, she's a lady.

Oh yeah, gotta have that spark of attraction, noticing those bowlegs!

And yes, that morality and how seriously she takes her vows is something that's still very much at the crux of this story, especially considering the times, where as a whole the nation had more religious and/or traditional values around marriage. Even though, obvious, adultery has been around since the beginning of time lmao. 🫠

Also I love that you made her a nurse and that she and Dean were in the same area, so they're able to connect on that level, and it's not just Dean being flirty. I think that giving the reader that particular background also will help her navigate how to help Dean, if she's seen other soldiers with shell-shock and PTSD.

Aw thank you!! They have some common ground, literally, even if they were in Normandy at different points during the war. And you're right, her being nurse is going to be a key character element going forward, with Dean and Michael.

Oh my sweet goodness she's the best. Did she stutter?! I think not!

Right?! That's def her mic drop moment! loll 🎙️

You know what Mike, if you keep talking you're gonna regret it. Your wife might be a lady, but Dean isn't. And Dean will go full Lorena Bobbitt on your ass while you're asleep for doing the twisted tango with another woman!! 😡🤣

LMFAO not Lorena Bobbitt!!!!! I'm deceasedddd. 💀💀💀

Alex this chapter was amazing! I can see how much research and hard work you put into it my talented friend! I can't wait to see what else is in store for Dean and this reader 🥰

Aww thank you, my lovely Lee. 🥹 Part 2 is about to drop tomorrow, so you'll see very soon!! (Or whenever you get to it lol) 💕

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut.

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said.

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?”

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap.

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once.

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?”

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said.

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks.

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly.

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.

His brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.”

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.”

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice.

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.”

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.”

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff.

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so.

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly.

“Hmm. No real loss there then.”

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.”

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner.

“Excuse me?”

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.”

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.”

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

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one-billion-marbles · 12 hours ago

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severance spoilers - s2e5!

I'm so obsessed with that first scene because. Just. What a way to instantly reveal the context and personality of a character. All through his humming.

On top of his relaxed posture and stride, the man is singing a song to himself. Since we can infer that while innies understand the concept of music there's no way in hell they know any particular musical piece, he must not be severed.

As well as this, the fact that he hums it in front of O&R. Such a disturbingly clear show of power! He is showing them, who are clearly uncomfortable already, that he knows music and they do not. He's boasting about the fact that he isn't severed, and is totally at peace with interacting with those that are.

This is something that the other non severed employees don't do, to the point where they are most probably not allowed to reference the outside world. So this man is simultaneously showing that he doesn't care about the innies' emotions and yearning for the outside world, AND he doesn't care about the rules of Lumon!

Such an insane and sinister introduction to this character.

(inserting at the end that I think that the man will be revealed to be Burt's husband Fields, since Severance has such a thing for doubling up identities)

(edit: okkkk i didn't know who fields' actor was, so I digress it's probably not him here at the start. But I still stand by the fact that it's someone we know - why else would they hide his face and voice?)

#severance #severance spoilers #severance s2e5 #severance theories #irving bailiff #burt x irving

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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

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VICTORIAS SECRET— steve rogers

WARNINGS: smut

Steve Rogers was used to surprises. Time travel? Sure. Aliens? No problem. But the one thing he never saw coming was his girlfriend keeping a secret this big.

You had been dating for a few months now, and while Steve was perceptive, he was also a gentleman—meaning he never pried too much into your career. You had told him you worked in fashion, and he had taken it at face value, picturing you behind the scenes: maybe as a stylist or a designer. Never once had he imagined you were the one on the runway.

So when you invited him to your latest fashion event, he accepted with a smile, completely unaware of what was in store.

“Just a little show,” you had said nonchalantly. “It would mean a lot if you came.”

Of course, he had agreed instantly. Supporting you was a given.

That’s how Steve Rogers—former Captain America, super soldier, Brooklyn’s own—found himself sitting front row at a Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, surrounded by flashing cameras, celebrities, and a sea of impossibly gorgeous women strutting down the catwalk in delicate lace and silk.

To say he was stunned would be an understatement.

His blue eyes widened as the realization hit him like a freight train. You were a model. And not just any model—a Victoria’s Secret Angel.

A hush fell over the crowd as the lights dimmed for the next set. Music pulsed through the venue, and suddenly, there you were.

Steve swore his heart stopped.

Dressed in a sultry, lace ensemble, your wings framing you like something ethereal, you walked with effortless grace. Confidence radiated off you, your expression poised yet alluring.

And then—your eyes locked onto his.

Steve felt his throat go dry. He was certain his ears were burning, but he couldn’t look away. The little smirk playing on your lips told him everything.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

As you reached the edge of the runway, you gave him the briefest wink before pivoting and walking back, leaving him reeling.

Bucky, who had somehow ended up in the seat beside him, leaned in with an amused chuckle. “You good, pal? You look like you just walked into battle without a shield.”

Steve blinked, exhaling sharply as he raked a hand through his hair. “She—she never told me.”

“That she’s a model?”

“That she’s this kind of model.” His voice was hoarse, filled with a mix of awe, admiration, and something else entirely.

Bucky smirked, patting his shoulder. “Well, Rogers, looks like you’ve been dating an Angel and didn’t even know it.”

Steve barely heard him. His focus was entirely on you.

And the second this show was over—he and you were going to have a very interesting conversation.

The second the show ended, Steve was already on his feet.

He maneuvered through the crowd with practiced ease, ignoring the lingering flashes of cameras and the murmurs of models and celebrities. He had only one thing on his mind—you.

Backstage was a whirlwind of chaos. Makeup artists, designers, and models fluttered about in silk robes, celebrating the success of the night. But the moment you spotted Steve, standing rigid with those piercing blue eyes locked onto you, a thrill shot down your spine.

You had expected surprise. You had even expected mild disbelief. But what you hadn’t expected was this particular look—half awe, half something darker.

“Steve,” you greeted smoothly, pulling the tie of your robe a little tighter. “Enjoy the show?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “That depends. Are we gonna talk about the fact that my girlfriend is a Victoria’s Secret Angel, and I had no damn clue?”

You chuckled, stepping closer. “I don’t know, Rogers. You handled finding out about aliens and time travel just fine. But this?” You gestured down at yourself. “This one got you, huh?”

His jaw tightened, and you swore you saw his Adam’s apple bob as his gaze flickered down, just for a second. “You could’ve told me.”

“Would you have come if I had?”

Steve hesitated. You had him there.

“You always thought I worked in fashion,” you continued, tilting your head. “I just never corrected you.”

His arms crossed over his broad chest, his stance unwavering. “That’s called lying by omission, sweetheart.”

You grinned, stepping even closer until you were toe-to-toe with him. The backstage chaos faded into white noise as the tension crackled between you.

“You mad?” you murmured, trailing a finger down the buttons of his shirt.

His breath hitched.

“No,” he admitted, voice rough. “Just—” He exhaled, his large hands landing firmly on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft silk of your robe. “Jesus, doll. You nearly gave me a heart attack out there.”

You smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “I think you handled it just fine. Although…” Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you whispered, “You should’ve seen your face when I winked at you.”

Steve groaned, his grip on you tightening. “You did that on purpose.”

“Of course I did.”

His fingers skimmed your lower back, pulling you just a fraction closer. His voice dropped to something that sent heat straight to your core. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe.” You brushed a slow kiss to his jaw. “But so are you.”

His sharp inhale told you all you needed to know.

Bucky’s voice suddenly cut through the haze. “Alright, lovebirds. Get a room. Preferably not this one, because half of New York is watching.”

You laughed softly against Steve’s skin, but he just turned, leveling Bucky with a glare. “You got somewhere else to be, Barnes?”

Bucky smirked. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around. Watching Cap get flustered is gold.”

Steve sighed, turning back to you. “We’re leaving.”

His fingers laced with yours, firm and possessive, as he all but guided you toward the exit.

As you followed, you leaned in, voice sultry and teasing. “And where exactly are we going, Captain?”

Steve’s smirk was slow, his voice laced with promise. “Home. Where you and I are really gonna talk about this.”

Your stomach flipped at the look in his eyes.

Maybe—just maybe—keeping this little secret had been entirely worth it.

The car ride home was charged.

Steve hadn’t said much since pulling you out of the venue. He sat beside you in the backseat, one arm slung casually over the seat, the other resting on his thigh. But there was nothing casual about the way his fingers tapped against his knee or the way his jaw remained clenched, as if he were forcing himself to keep his thoughts in check.

You, on the other hand, were thriving on the tension.

With a playful smirk, you turned to him. “You’ve been quiet.”

Steve flicked his eyes toward you. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

His fingers twitched. “About how my girlfriend walked in front of a few million people in nothing but lace and a pair of wings—without telling me first.”

You bit back a grin. “Ah. That.”

“Yes. That.”

You tilted your head. “Let me guess—you didn’t like it?”

His blue eyes darkened. “That’s not the problem.”

Your pulse jumped.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair before finally looking at you fully. “You’re… you. Of course, you looked incredible. That’s not what got me.”

You arched a brow. “Then what did?”

He leaned in, his voice low. “Every single guy in that room was looking at you like that.”

Your smirk grew. “That?”

His jaw ticked. “Like they wanted you.”

You hummed, tilting your body slightly toward him. “But they don’t have me.”

Steve’s nostrils flared.

The car slowed as the driver pulled up to your apartment. Steve was out first, rounding the car before you even reached for the handle. He opened the door for you, his hand immediately settling against the small of your back as he guided you toward the building.

His touch was warm. Firm.

Possessive.

The second you stepped inside your apartment, he closed the door behind you, locking it with a soft click.

You barely had a second to turn before Steve was on you.

He pressed you gently but firmly against the door, his hands bracing on either side of you. His scent—clean, masculine, laced with a hint of cologne—wrapped around you as his broad frame towered over yours.

Your breath hitched.

His voice was low, steady. “You enjoy driving me insane, don’t you?”

Your fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “A little bit.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, but his eyes burned with something deeper. “You’re impossible.”

You grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

Steve’s hand brushed down your arm, his fingers skimming the silk of your robe. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles on your wrist, the feather-light touch sending a shiver up your spine.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight?” he murmured.

Your pulse pounded. “Why don’t you tell me, Captain?”

His breath fanned against your cheek as he leaned in, lips just shy of yours. “Oh, sweetheart…” His voice was a promise. A warning.

And then—his lips were on yours.

The kiss was slow at first, teasing. But when you sighed against his mouth, melting into him, something in him snapped.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing you further into the door.

You gasped when his lips trailed down, skimming your jaw, your throat. “Steve—”

“Hmm?” His lips hovered over your pulse point.

You shivered. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

He chuckled against your skin. “No, sweetheart.” His fingers traced the silk of your robe, toying with the belt. “But you are in trouble.”

Heat pooled in your stomach. “Oh?”

His lips ghosted over yours once more, his blue eyes dark and smoldering.

“Oh.”

Your breath hitched as Steve’s fingers toyed with the knot of your silk robe, his touch feather-light yet deliberate. His lips barely brushed against yours—teasing, waiting.

Your heart pounded. “What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

Steve’s smirk was slow, wicked. “The kind where you make me lose my mind in public and I return the favor in private.”

Your stomach flipped.

His hand traced down your side, dragging along the soft silk, his fingertips igniting heat beneath your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing tonight, didn’t you?”

You grinned. “I might’ve had an idea.”

His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to him. “Watching you up there, knowing everyone was looking at you…” His voice was rough, laced with something darker. “I won’t lie, sweetheart. It got to me.”

You bit your lip, eyes dancing with mischief. “You jealous, Captain?”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your waist. “Not jealous.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he murmured, “Possessive.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

His hands slid to your hips, gripping just enough to make you gasp. “You walked that runway like you owned the world,” he murmured, his nose skimming your jaw. “Like you knew every man in that room wanted you.”

Your lips curled. “Maybe I was thinking about someone specific.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?”

You nodded, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “Maybe I was wondering how fast my boyfriend would drag me home the second the show ended.”

Steve groaned, his forehead pressing against yours for a beat. His control was slipping, and you loved it.

“I should make you pay for that,” he muttered.

You grinned. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

His blue eyes darkened, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His fingers curled around the belt of your robe, giving it a slow, deliberate tug.

“I’ll show you.”

Steve’s eyes were dark with desire as he scooped you up effortlessly, his arms strong as he carried you toward the bedroom. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the heat between you escalate. He kicked the door open with his foot and gently lowered you onto the bed. His gaze never left you, a quiet, burning intensity in his eyes as he followed you down.

His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve, every dip and rise, as if he were savoring the moment. He took his time, undressing you slowly, deliberately—piece by piece—like he was uncovering a masterpiece. Every inch of skin revealed made his touch more reverent, more eager.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, eyes tracing the lines of your body. His fingers lingered on your skin, worshiping every contour, every soft curve. “You’re more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.”

You shivered under his touch, biting your lip as his hands slid lower, brushing against your chest. His thumb brushed over your nipple, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. A loud moan escaped you, your back arching involuntarily.

“Steve… please…” Your voice was breathless, needy.

His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, “I’ve got you, baby. Just relax.” His hand moved lower, tracing your body as though he couldn’t get enough.

He paused, pulling away just long enough to reach into his pocket, pulling out a condom and tearing the wrapper with practiced ease. His eyes never left yours as he prepared, his expression filled with something feral. You could feel your pulse racing in anticipation.

When he finally positioned himself above you, he slid inside slowly, filling you completely. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced—stretching you, filling you in ways that made your breath catch. You gasped, your nails digging into his back as you adjusted to the fullness of him.

Steve groaned, his voice low and strained. “God, you feel so good.” He moved slowly at first, savoring every inch of connection. But as you urged him on, your body begging for more, he picked up the pace, the rhythm between you growing frantic, desperate.

Every thrust hit spots you didn’t even know existed, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. It was overwhelming, the waves of ecstasy crashing down on you, filling you with a sensation that made your entire body tremble.

“Steve… don’t stop. Please,” you gasped, your voice shaky. “I need you. Now.”

His name tumbled from your lips in a desperate cry, louder with each passing second, and when he finally brought you over the edge, your body tensed as the pleasure consumed you. The connection between you two felt like the very air around you was crackling with electricity.

Steve’s pace faltered, his body shuddering as he reached his own release. He collapsed beside you, pulling you close, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed against yours.

“That… was beyond anything I ever thought possible,” he breathed, his hands still running over your skin as if to remind himself that you were real, right there with him.

You smiled softly, still catching your breath. “I don’t think I’ll be walking straight for days,” you teased, though your heart was still racing from the intensity of it all.

Steve chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I don’t think I’ll be letting you go anytime soon.”

You snuggled into his chest, feeling the warmth of his embrace, both of you savoring the stillness that followed the storm.

#avengers #x reader #reader insert #x female reader #the avengers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x reader #smut marvel #steve rogers smut #marvel smut #smut #steve rogers x female reader #model reader #victoria secret #victoria secert model #modeling

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testyqwcde · 2 days ago

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The reason why I believe Haladriel had romantic and intimate relationship in Eregion.

It's been discussed before that relationship between Galadriel and Halbrand (Sauron) can be explained through the lens of the "enemies-to-lovers and back" trope. This trope is a well-established storytelling device, and it unfolds in specific stages that gradually build and resolve the conflict. Each story has its own plot structure, and this particular arc follows those stages, offering both tension and emotional growth.

I’ve reviewed the key stages of the trope, and it struck me that Haladriel follows all of them perfectly—except for one crucial moment: the scene where the romance truly begins after the confession (stage #6)

The show seems to skip over this stage entirely, jumping straight to the next one.

Could it have been omitted, or did it possibly unfold off-screen?

Stage #1 Conflict

The foundation of the enemies-to-lovers trope lies in the conflict between the two characters. Halbrand and Galadriel initially do not trust each other, there is a conflict of interest, they keep distance.

Stage#2 Tension

From the very beginning, their interactions are filled with tension. There's a palpable physical attraction between them, coupled with a dynamic of challenge and teasing.

haladrielcentral.tumblr.com

Stage#3: Vulnerabilities reveal

As they interact more, the walls between them start to crumble, allowing them to see sides of each other they didn't notice before.

Gif: bluetiefling.tumblr.com

Stage#4: Situational Bonding

Then these two are forced into a situation where they must fight together, which helps to soften their relationship. Sharing a common enemy pushes them to see each other in a different light.

https://www.tumblr.com/pinkbeastie/696223163428814848?source=share

Stage#5: Turning point

The intense "I felt it too" moment unveils the emotions that have always simmered beneath the surface. It marks the realization that they share a deep emotional connection and trust, laying the groundwork for the conflict that will follow.

Stage#6 Resolution and Acceptance

The stage is them coming together and embracing their love. They have resolved their past issues and are now partners.

NO GIFs, NO FOOTAGE.

*We know they shared romantic and intimate moments in Eregion, where he stayed for weeks. This was the primary reason Galadriel felt so deeply shattered and hurt*

Stage#7 The Catalyst for Conflict

Something significant happens that causes a rift in their relationship. In this case, Sauron reveal pushed these two on an enemies path again.

https://darklinaforever.tumblr.com/post/765893624446812161

Stage#8 Transition to Enemies

Their feelings shift from love and trust to bitterness and anger.

To be continued...

To wrap it up, I don't think the experienced RoP writers, who followed the trope so consistently throughout the season, would suddenly omit such a key moment in the dynamics. I believe they intended it to be subtle, avoiding angering the lore enthusiasts over the romance between these two.

#haladriel #saurondriel #the rings of power #galadriel x sauron #halbrand #sauron #amazon rings of power #galadriel #sauron x galadriel

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kisseslikecoffee · 17 hours ago

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sometimes i read something on this app and feel like i am immediately indebted to the author bc holy fuck… i get to read this? this literary delicacy? i feel blessed and unworthy

“You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echo of this laughter in your bones.”

the entire dinner scene, sitting around the table w the team, is written beautifully; this quote in particular though? the depth of desire for belonging, for community, and finally feeling like they fit in? i wanna scream. beautiful.

the fact that the feeling of yearning, devotion, and infatuation is extended from the romance element into the surrounding relationships makes this such a lovely piece to read.

ugh. i love talented people. amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

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

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

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

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

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

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

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

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

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

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

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

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

A grim silence settles over the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

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

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

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

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

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

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

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

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

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

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

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

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

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

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look up.

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is what?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Oh, ew.”

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

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

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

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

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

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

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

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

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

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

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

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

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

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

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

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

And then, something does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t move away.

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

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

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

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

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

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

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

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

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

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

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

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

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

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

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

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

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

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that. What about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

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

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

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

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

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer is fidgeting.

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

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

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

“Must be serious, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would really like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the knock at your door.

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

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

“They’re beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

“It does.”

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

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

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

“History can be romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

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

And then it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

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

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

You step aside, let him in.

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

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

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

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

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

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

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

And then he stops resisting.

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

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

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make the choice for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, he kisses you again.

#spencer fic rec #spence <3 #screaming crying throwing up #god i wish this was real

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maybeafrog-blog · 2 days ago

Text

In Defense of Donnie's Gifts

I'm ngl I sorta think the shock collar was still just an odd writing decision but as far as PREMISE:

It CANNOT be a coincidence that this is the first time (and one of VERY few times) that Donnie's soft shell is referenced. Once, when Raph is hesitating to tell Donnie his gifts suck ass, and he uses the soft shell metaphor, and after that with Meat Sweats and his paprika, describing it as not just soft, but delicate. Weird, but he is a cannibal, so. (Side note, Meat Sweats never removed his battle shell? How does he know? Or did he take it off and replace it after the pound of butter? Is he using it to facilitate steaming and tenderness? Is it broken? I feel like it should have something in there that could break him out of the sausage links)

Then in that last little scene- "Forget it. You guys are great the way you are!" - we get the shot of Donnie from behind pre group hug, with his brothers facing the camera. (Idk if I'm making shit up, but I feel like this is a staple for Donnie episodes? It def happens in the Purple Game, maybe Smart Lair.) The framing draws attention to his battle shell. The battle shell even kinda matches the gifts, compared to the rest of their gear and even Donnie's tech, color coded and way more streamlined than stuff like the tech bo.

Donnie's soft shell is an innate, unchangeable part of him, a feature of his species, that he treats as a handicap. Probably MORE unchangeable than the character traits he sees as holding his brothers back, which they do sorta... not mature out of, but refine, rather, over the course of the show. Donnie's shell can't experience a character arc, but he sees it as holding him back. So he FIXES it.

The Mad Dogs don't really have a motivation for beating stuff up besides "Hero Time!!!" at this point. That's why it's so interesting how EARLY this happens, unlike with Mind Meld, he isn't trying to change his brothers to make them better at a task that he actually CARES about. Donnie in particular never gets a super intense moral compass besides stuff that threatens people he already cares about, and he doesn't have any grudges (no Purple Dragons) at this point in the series. Hero Goals are largely devices for him to hang out with his dum dum brothers. I'm not diagnosed or anything but my vibes are certainly... Spectrum-Adjacent, I definitely have trouble with literal thinking and reading people. One thing that happens sometimes is people will be using "task" as "reason to hang," and I will get a lot more fixated on completing said task than I really should, to the point of annoying people. I confuse "Successful Task Completion" with "Successful Social Interaction." It makes me come across as bossy and controlling without realizing it.

So, we got a Donnie who thinks Arbitrary Goals are essential to Hero Bonding, who has been treating his life like an mmorpg - armor upgrades, skill trees, grinding, sometimes fighting through random dungeons to hang out with his bros. He's probably even slightly better at Fighting Stuff than his brothers atp, he isn't dealing with a mystic learning curve and his special interest has been Weapons of Mild Destruction for years already. His brothers want to level up, take harder missions, he tries to get them there with his access to High Level Loot.

Of course, his brothers are all min-maxing, not trying to multiclass their purple ass out of squishy glass cannon town. So, it doesn't go well. Unfortunately, the lesson Donnie learns (besides brotherly affection) is that his brothers don't NEED fixing like he does. Mind Meld and Donnie vs. Witch Town sorta finish this arc out as best as the series can.

Where I would have liked to see this go:

A S2 Donnie's Gifts or Mind Meld style episode (Donnie tries to improve his brothers, to their dismay) where the motivator isn't goal completion, but protectiveness. We see a bit of the fear in Purple Game, a bit of the contingency planning with the escape pods in the movie. Maybe a more upfront "training montage" type scenario, a high tech robo dojo to develop their mad skills, or just a tense moment after a skin of their teeth Genius Built rescue.

The brothers confront Donnie eventually-- not just the passive conflict resolution of Donnie's Gifts. They get mad. Push Donnie to the point he's at in Turtle-Dega Nights. They get a rant about not wanting them to get hurt, of course, but also that he's already done so much to FIX himself, make sure he's not a LIABILITY, why can't they at least try to stay SAFE? The dangers are real now, and as far as Donnie knows he REALLY can't do anything about threats like the Shredder. His tech did nothing the first time. His brothers are the ones with the mystic mojo, and they don't even realize how SERIOUS things could get.

Anyway. Protective Donatello my Beloved. Let my boy go apeshit.

//I REALLY Like the 2003 episode where Leo is hurt and Donnie is fucking PISSED at Usagi. All Donnies should be allowed to enter a feral protective rage, as a treat.

//If anyone knows of any Purple Game Aftermath fics lmk. Like, going home, getting donnie out of the evil gamer chair, guilt, whatever. or just good Purple Dragons being Assholes content.

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #tmnt donatello #rise donnie #autistic donatello #is that a tag?#idk

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dock57 · 2 days ago

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Would you say that Shrike genuinely cares about Beebs?

For me, I find it interesting due to how he acts and I do think he does! He just struggles HARD with keeping that up in terms of promises. Behaviour etc etc

[Yes, I would say so.

I knew this response might be a tad long, so that’s why it took me a good minute to get to it.

Episode 1 and 2, you don’t really see any examples of how Shrike shows he does care for Beebs, we start to see more examples in episode 3 and 4. This is all based on my own analyzing from the series itself.

I would say that Shrike is on a path of learning and improving to be a batter person, especially learning how to care about others than just himself. I would say that Shrike shows how he cares through his actions rather than words. Shrike is just. Not good with words. At all. Like you said, I think he does but struggles showing it or saying it through words.

Some examples I can think of that I think show Shrike attempting to show he does care:

Episode 3: Us & Them

The Guitar. This particular scene may not be the best example, the next one is- but I say this one counts as well. It was a high stress situation for everyone, but the fact that Shrike was willing to try and play the acoustic guitar for Beebs for- an exact reason he didn’t understand, I think shows an act that he does care about what Beebs’ decisions/actions are when they are doing a job. He could have easily just call Beebs a nut job, but he trusted Beebs and try to perform the cords for Beebs to communicate with Us.

Especially since later on we get this scene-

I really need to just spend some posts gushing over these two and their interactions. This scene is a favorite of mine. I love how after the incident, Shrike did try to practice his acoustic guitar. This shows to me that Shrike does care for others and their interests. I do wonder how Shrike even got the guitar in the first place? Was it gifted by Beebs to him because Shrike was interested in learning? I feel like Shrike had to take some form of interest to learn it for Beebs to give him one to learn for himself. I love that he was trying to remember the cords by himself, maybe to show Beebs later- which knowing Shrike, to probably show “off” that he can do it. I think Shrike uses his ego as a form of protection for himself, rather than to be an egomaniac- a way to protect the fact that Shrike is well, a loser. I like how he took his show to his room after the incident to give Beebs some space, some time to relax, I like that he did bring up the guitar to him to show that he is interested in others’ interests but doesn’t know how to really express it, which is perhaps why he did hide it before Beebs enter his room.

Its show signs of caring, an effort of learning to care. Someone who wants to try but is too used to not having others care about him. I think that’s the difference here, is that Shrike is not used to having someone care about him, but Beebs does, which is why he is trying to make an effort.

We do not really know the whole story as to how Shrike and Beebs ended up working together, and that is a story I am very much looking forward to. Episode 4, Plague Walkers gives us more examples how Shrike cares.

This is something I noticed from episode 4, and let me just say, this is a theory of mine. If you remember back in episode 2, Shrike mentions how Beebs was too stingy to get an internal universe translator model.

If you noticed in the photos before, Shrike is seen walking out of the a place called “ETEK- Home of Babel Translators. I’m not the only one who thinks of this, but it could be possible that Shrike may have bought one for Beebs as a surprise gift. Why? Well it was never suggested or mentioned that Shrike needed a new one- the only time the translator is mentioned is Beebs in episode 2. So fans, including myself, have been thinking that Shrike may have bought one for Beebs here. Another clue to know it’s translators is the board to the side of the entrance of the store- there you can see different styles of translators, including one similar to Beebs. This is a possible another reason that support my suggestion that Shrike does care, but is showing it through other ways rather than just verbal.

Of course, the one scene that really helps suggest that Shrike cares for Beebs is well, the scene when he’s at the bar with Ricket. Shrike might be drunk, but sometimes that’s when individuals become more honest about how they feel.

I guess on Mobile it only lets me do 10 images rather than 30- so I could only send this part. Ricket tries to comfort Shrike in saying that Beebs seems like an understandable guy (or Beard since Ricket only ever read his shirt). Despite the fact that Ricket stereotyped Beeb’s kind to be “a lot,” Shrike was very quick to defend Beebs. As Shrike said “Beebs is the BEST- I’m the A LOT.” Shrike was so quick to protect him, even if Beeb’s kind is known to be aggressive, that’s not how Shrike sees him. I think Shrike does care not only for Beebs but what Beebs say as well.

Even though right before this, Shrike mentioned he wanted to show to Beebs that he is “right.” However, Shrike takes a moment to remember the pinkie promise he made. He says in Spanish that he has to be good. I think Shrike wants to show Beebs that he can be useful, not so much as I said before, as an act of ego, but to show to Beebs he can be more. He wants to be better for Beebs, he wants to helpful, he wants to be a better person but doesn’t make the best decisions to create that path. Its like a child who wants to so desperately show their parent that they can be helpful for them as well and not be a burden to them.

This scene. This scene gets me so much- I need to go over how well this scene was written and done. You can just tell by Shrike’s reaction how he feels- the way he grabs his shoulder, he knows that he has really pushed Beebs far and how disappointed he is in him. Like a mother getting mad at their own child… Shrike is holding that against him, he is holding the guilt, the regret, the frustration that he has caused. Shrike does care about Beebs, and especially about how Beebs feels. Even in this scene Beebs says that he does try to help, because Shrike is trying to help, but doesn’t know how to make the right choices to do so. He’s still learning how to choose which decision is not just based on what best for Shrike, but can be best for Beebs too. He wanted to help, he chose a bad way to do so, like gambling, cause Shrike likes to take the easy or quickest route- anything to make quick money too, he doesn’t understand that you have to work to earn. He wanted to let Beebs have a break, but he chose an option that’s all luck base.

I think episode 4 so far has been the one to show us the best examples of how Shrike cares and how he is still developing it. That last scene, those expressions. Man I know what it feels like to disappoint someone you do care about. That body language is the exact language I use when I know I done the same. You feel awful for hurting someone you care for, and I think Shrike is just starting to realize that himself too.

Then again- what do I know? I spend too much time analyzing Monkey Wrench… I just love this show too much.]

#indie animation #indie cartoon #indie animated series #cartoon #monkey wrench #dock57post #fanpage #adult cartoon

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castoff-comic · 20 hours ago

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Hi! I really liked how you introduced Liam as a transgender character so casually, making it feel like a natural part of the world. Can you tell us more about that? Are there gonna be more trans characters in the future?

Ye!! So in general I favor naturalistic storytelling- thinking of the characters as real people and we're just getting a glimpse into their lives. I don't like when characters have conversations that are clearly just exposition for the reader, it can feel really clunky and awkward.

Liam's "coming out to the audience" scene was tricky to write- I needed to be obvious enough that readers could catch on, but not so obvious it felt like the characters having a conversation just for the audience. I actually had a bunch of help with that scene in particular- several trans/nb folks from Spiderforest pitched in as sensitivity readers and suggested ideas and bits of dialogue, which I was very thankful for!

But yeah, in general, for Liam I was very specifically going for "trans character whose identity is not the main focus of their storyline". It's something I've seen lots of folks wish there was more of- trans people existing in a story without there being a huge focus on their identity. Just letting them be part of the world and going about their business. I know I've had similar thoughts about ace characters so I get it

As far as more trans characters in the story in the future, I'm not sure? I don't currently have any plans for too many new additions to the cast, but I'm keeping things flexible if opportunity arises. Also, I know we haven't gotten much of Liam or the rest of the Zera crew, but they'll definitely be getting more as the story goes on, there's some stuff coming up I'm hype about in upcoming chaptersssss

#star talks #asks #castoff #folks have been asking when we're gonna see more zera squad #don't worry we'll get there #lemme drive da car vroom vroom

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queenlua · 2 days ago

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your post about adding excitement to a story by increasing the pressure on a character was not something i’d heard before and i found it super useful. are there any other pieces of writing advice you find foundational and would be willing to share?

glad you found that tidbit helpful!

first, i’ll give my default caveat of “i’m just some guy on the internet, so take this with however many grains of salt you need”

plus my general caveat on… all writing tips/tidbits/advice? which is:

i find that, past the basics of “knowing about exposition/rising action/climax/denouement” and such, most writing advice ends up operating as a dusty old toolbox i open up now and again. something in my story's not working; i’m not sure how to fix it; i pull out my little toolbox of tidbits i’ve accumulated over the years and see if any of the screwdrivers and wrenches in there actually fit. the kinds of tidbits that are useful for me may be ACTIVELY DETRIMENTAL to someone else; someone who chronically overtightens their screws probably shouldn’t be told “have you tried tightening the screws more :D;;;;” or whatever. and in particular what works for me is probably oriented towards genre-y stuff.

BUT, Y’KNOW, GIVEN ALL THAT

here’s the tidbits i find myself returning to over & over!

* three is a very powerful number. i have a tendency to write myself into situations where you have Two Interesting Characters Doing Verbal Head-Games With Each Other, and that stuff can be tremendously fun, but it tends to run out of steam very quickly. adding a third character to the scene combinatorially increases the dynamics available for you to play with. so if you’re stuck, throw someone else in there. (relatedly this is why awful dinner parties are Peak Literature™)

* if you’re writing a romance: put a sticky note on your monitor that says “WHY CAN’T THEY BE TOGETHER NOW?” if at any point you don’t have a good answer to that, you’ve fucked up; rework the plot.

* this is a shlocky tidbit from the South Park creators that totally works: list all the scenes in your story, and then, between each scene, see if they are connected by THEREFORE or BUT versus AND THEN.

so., e.g., “the ocean levels in Tellius are rising, THEREFORE kilvas wants to migrate from their sinking islands and onto Serenes, BUT Reyson is opposed to that move, THEREFORE…”

that gives you a stronger structure than, like, idk, “the war ends AND THEN kilvas moves to Serenes AND THEN Reyson and Naesala get in a fight…”

you want it to be mostly “THEREFORE/BUT” and very few “AND THEN”s. just a tighter overall plot structure

* each scene should accomplish at least two things. the most common two things for a scene to do are “advance the plot” and “develop a character”; i have a hazy memory that when i first read this advice, there was a list of, like, 1-3 other things a scene’s allowed to accomplish? but i cannot REMEMBER that list, lol. but use your imagination; i’m sure you can think of another valid thing.

i think this is more useful as debugging/editing advice than upfront advice—often, when you’re writing something, every scene will *feel* necessary, but upon reread, you’ll notice your attention is drifting, this doesn’t quite feel tight enough… and you’ll realize, oh, ugh, i just had three scenes in a row that existed Solely To Hit A Plot Beat; why don’t i combine those three scenes into one, condense the action, and also make sure a character’s doing something actually interesting/new while i’m at it.

(i think i see this plaguing a lot of novels that come out of nanowrimo in particular. i mean, not me, because i don’t have the fast-twitch muscle required to do nanowrimo, but when i read other people’s nanowrimo stuff, it often feels like it was galloping through a bunch of plot beats without bothering to do anything else interesting.)

* if you're stuck on a particular scene/chapter, stuff to try:

delete the current sentence and start over

delete the current paragraph and start over

change the font and reread what you've got so far

open the document on a different screen and reread what you've got so far

print the thing out and reread what you've got so far

open a brand new document and rewrite the whole scene/chapter/etc from the start (NO PEEKING AT THE ORIGINAL VERSION)

go outside and look at a bird for a bit

take a nap

shoot a whiny discord message to a friend about it (even if it's solely rubber ducking, this can be helpful) (though if you have any friends who are good at writing AND ALSO willing to put up with your shit and offer helpful feedback AND ALSO you're not too mortified by your writing dilemma to share it with them, that's even better) (btw, any friends reading this: if you want to opt-in to messages like this from me, LET ME KNOW lmao, i'm really shy on this front!)

if you're DESPERATE: open a new document and just write out, like, "Character X wants Y. Character Z wants Q. These are the sources of pressure on character X. These are the sources of pressure on character Y. I want R to happen but I feel stuck because of M" and so on, just... really trying to dissect what the scene's trying to accomplish? most often, the outcome of this is, i'll notice in that "thinking aloud" document that i'm circling around some central question that I Don't Know The Answer To, and i need to answer that question to usefully proceed. sometimes this will be painfully obvious in hindsight. (e.g., sometimes you'll go back to your outline and you'll realize you've literally just hit the bullet point that says UGH OKAY THEY GET TOGETHER SOMEHOW I'LL FIGURE THIS OUT LATER, and you're like, ugh, fuck, it's now later, why is past-me such a bitch!) but them's the breaks. (in particular, i remember getting catastrophically stuck on a "meet the parents" story until i realized i was... avoiding actually writing out the "meet the parents" scene... which feels "well duh" in hindsight! but, like, hey, in order to write that scene, i needed to commit to some specific decisions on What The Story Was About, the same way artists gotta eventually erase a bunch of sketchy lines to commit to the Lines They Will Actually Be Inking, and that decision point feels hard and scary and no wonder i waffled lol)

okay so that's all the super-specific-concrete advice. here's some stuff that's more big-picture but i've still found personally useful:

* i once went to a talk where a novelist said she doesn't start writing a novel until she knows exactly what she wants it to look like on the bookshelf. as in: is it a schlocky trade paperback or is it a beautiful hardcover thing with fancy paper? does it have IMPACT FONT for the title or something handwriting-y? how many pages is it? and so on.

in service of this aim, she never writes any of the novel (no notes, no outlines, no snippets of dialogue, nothing) until she has that image vividly in her mind + she can't physically STAND not writing it any longer. for her, this process allows her to be sure that she knows what her novel is about—not necessarily in every single detail or plot beat (though, often she has a lot of that in mind before starting), but in terms of "what am i trying to say," "how do i want the world to look at it," etc, and she's found through hard experience that, while it's easy for her to start novels, it's often hard for her to finish them unless she has that crystal-clear image in her mind.

i can’t quite do her purity-of-method (my brain is scrambled eggs; i HAVE to write down snatches of dialogue and such before i get started on something or it all leaks out of my ears), but i see a lot of wisdom in it. i do a lot of prewriting & thinking & scribbling out little snatches of dialogue and such before i really begin writing. i think everyone develops their own little heuristic for when they can be reasonably confident they know what their story is about, so you should try and figure out what that heuristic is for you & learn to trust it if you can? (a common one you hear a lot is "i have to know how the story ends / what the ending feels like," which makes sense; endings usually have a lot to do with what a story is About. i know NK Jemisin mentioned once she can't really start until she's nailed down the voice, and that also makes sense to me—you read The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms and it's very clear that her choice of voice is a large part of what drives the story, it has a propulsive force of its own; it's The Thing that blasts the whole thing open for her. for me, i'm not sure i have a tidy heuristic, but there's a point where i've written enough snatches of dialogue plus bits of scenes that i've unlocked some core thing that i'm really excited about—i keep spinning out bits of dialogue and setting and such that are related to that thing, i'm so excited to see how that thing plays out across the story, i look at my outline and see only possibilities and wonder instead of connective tissue that needs to be filled in... and then, yeah, i'll know i'm cooking, but not one second before!)

note that the story is allowed to surprise me & change on me once i get properly started—my longfic changed substantially when i realized Reyson’s perspective needed a LOT more room to breathe than i had accounted for in the outline, and then changed substantially again when i realized the butterfly-effect-style implications that keeping Leanne around had for my entire storyline—the ending wound up being TOTALLY different than what i'd originally planned!—but like, in that case, i don't think my sense of what the story was about ever fundamentally changed; i just added two more huge elements that orbited that about-ness. if that makes sense.

* i think about this passage from Bayles & Orland's Art and Fear a lot. i'm actually not sure that advice is helpful for literally everyone—i do see people who somehow manage to write the same fucking thing over and over, for years and years, and never seem to develop their craft or make any movement toward saying something interesting.

but i do think most people are developing something even when it feels like "the same thing over and over," and as someone who probably tends toward too little output, i found it a useful reminder that returning to familiar forms, themes, and characters across pieces is intensely useful if it gets you in front of the keyboard again, so don't stress over novelty too much. (i find, if i'm still returning to a particular form/theme/character, it's because i feel like i still have some interesting new perspective on it that's genuinely worth exploring. if i have actually exhausted a topic, i'll know it because i myself will get bored, but anyone else's opinion is irrelevant!)

* ursula k le guin's steering the craft is more focused on craft & nuts n bolts than plot-debugging-type-things but i thought i'd give it a shout-out here because i've just found it so perpetually useful over the years. in particular we could all stand to read our stuff aloud more often; that fixes a lot of problems and she goes on about that in detail in chapter 1 haha

* oh, also, re: my "put more pressure on the characters" advice—you've probably already intuited this, but i think i found that framing more useful than the kinds of "raise the stakes / make sure every character has Stakes / Wants Something" advice you're likely to find in screenwriting workshops, because this framing feels like a more... abstract... way of talking about the same thing?

like, often those two types of advice are addressing the same problem, but when i start off thinking about "where is the pressure on these characters," i don't just have to think "time to heap more pressure on them," i can also, like. observe. where the pressure points in my work are. i'm not presupposing a solution. maybe there's a ton of pressure but it's the wrong kind of pressure. maybe there's a ton of pressure but there's nowhere satisfying for that pressure to go. it's very woo/fuzzy but yeah i use the general principle of "pressure" to frame a LOT of how i think about story construction; maybe that'll be useful to you!

* FINALLY, i don't have a nice packaged heuristic/tidbit/tool-shaped thing for this one yet, but i've been thinking a lot about how much perspective really Changes Everything about a work. your choice of PoV should be exceedingly deliberate; you should be taking maximum advantage of your choice of PoV at all times (what do they know? what don't they know? how do they think about the world? etc); also if you're editing something and you're noticing a lot of unconscious perspective breaks, that's a warning sign something's going badly wrong in how you're approaching the story overall—perspective should just be unconsciously correct if you're hitting stuff right imo

OK WOW SORRY THAT GOT SO LONG but hope at least one of these lil bullets are useful for ya! happy writing~

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lightan117 · 3 days ago

Text

A Deal with a Spirit of Determination

I haven't been feeling well the past few days, so I've been able to play catch up on a lot of my WIP. Here are just some interactions between Daisy and Spite; there's no timeframe of when they take place, but the last scene occurs when Lucanis sleepwalks after you choose which city to save, I believe?

Pairing: Lucanis x (F) Mourn Watch Rook

Warnings: None except from brief threats from Spite but nothing major. Lots of fluff and cute interactions.

Please let me know what you think! Comments and likes are always welcome!

The first time Daisy met Spite unofficially was when Lucanis momentarily lost control.

It was an unremarkable evening in the camp's modest kitchen—a rare quiet moment between battles. The scent of simmering stew curled through the air, mingling with the faint smokiness of the fire. Daisy leaned against the counter, watching Lucanis stand by the stove, stirring the pot with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was making small talk, his voice steady, casual. It was one of the few times they'd spent together outside of combat, and though they weren't exactly friends yet, a familiarity was growing between them.

Then, out of nowhere, an eerie, gleeful voice cut through the calm. "NOT SPICY ENOUGH. MAKE IT HURT. HURT GOOD, HE-HE." Daisy stiffened, her sharp eyes snapping to Lucanis. His entire posture changed—his grip on the spoon tightened, his jaw clenched, and his free hand instinctively pinned the bridge of his nose. It was the kind of movement someone did when accustomed to handling a particular kind of frustration. She placed the plate she had been holding onto the table before stepping toward him.

"I'm fine, Rook," Lucanis muttered before she could say anything. He exhaled through his nose, waving a dismissive hand in her direction. "Spite slipped in for a bit." Daisy ignored the gesture and moved closer, tilting her head slightly as she studied him. Her expression wasn't pitying, nor was it fearful—just… concerned. That was strange. Most people in their ragtag group wanted nothing to do with Spite. They avoided acknowledging him entirely, pretending he didn't exist, or they treated Lucanis like he was moments away from snapping. But Daisy didn't flinch, didn't waver. If anything, she looked mildly intrigued.

"Was his voice too loud?" she asked, her tone quiet but steady. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Lucanis huffed, shaking his head, but the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed any actual irritation. "I'm fine, Rook," he repeated, but this time, there was amusement in his voice rather than exasperation. "Really."

Daisy didn't look entirely convinced. "Does he slip in more often these days?"

Lucanis rolled his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "Only when I haven't had enough coffee," he admitted. Then his eyes flicked back to the pot—and widened in horror. "Mierda, Spite!" Daisy followed his gaze and snorted as she saw the disaster before them. The once perfectly balanced stew was now practically glowing red, a mountain of powdered hot pepper sinking into the broth like some hellish ingredient offering.

Lucanis groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "We can't eat this."

Daisy chuckled, the sound light and genuine as Lucanis resigned himself to starting over. She leaned against the counter again, arms crossed, watching as he muttered under his breath and reached for a new batch of ingredients.

For all the chaos Spite brought, Daisy thought, moments like this weren't so bad.

~oOo~

The next time Daisy interacted with Spite, she was alone in the library.

It was hard to tell what time it was in the Fade. The sky above the Lighthouse remained suspended in a perpetual dusk, the colors bleeding between twilight and something darker, something endless. You didn't wake with the sun or sleep with the moon—time moved as it pleased, and you rested only when exhaustion dragged you under when your body refused to push forward any longer. That was dangerous. Losing track of time while fighting gods? Never a good thing.

Daisy sat curled in one of the high-backed chairs of the library, a book propped open in her hands. The Lighthouse's so-called library doubled as their meeting room, but in these quiet hours, it was just her and the books the Fade had seen fit to provide. Some were familiar—ones she had read in school, even ones she had owned in her house before she left. The fact that the Fade could recreate them so perfectly was fascinating, though she would be far more impressed if it could conjure up a halfway decent bedroom. Maybe then, sleep wouldn't be such a dangerous luxury. No wonder Solas was so damn irritable. He had waged an entire rebellion without so much as a proper bed. Ugh. The thought of Solas and a bed made Daisy want to retch. She turned a page, suppressing the urge to scowl, when she felt it—the shift.

Subtle, but distinct.

A presence in the air, pressing in from just behind her. Watching. Not with the quiet curiosity of someone approaching a friend but with the weighted stillness of something gauging the moment, waiting to see what she would do. Daisy didn't tense. She didn't even look up from her book.

A cerulean butterfly flitted into existence beside her, its delicate wings glowing faintly in the dim light. She exhaled slowly, watching it dance around her fingers before fading into nothingness. "Where are you going, Spite?" Her voice was even, casual as if she were asking about the weather.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Not going. Watching."

That was new. Spite wasn't usually this forward. Cautious, yes. Snide, certainly. But this? This was curiosity. Daisy flicked her gaze up just enough to catch the movement from the corner of her eye. "Oh?" she murmured, shifting her grip on the book but not closing it. "And what exactly are you watching for? I half-expected you to leave."

The shape behind her moved. Not away, but closer. Around the corner of the couch where she sat, stepping into her line of sight. Lucanis—or rather, Spite in Lucanis's body. Daisy had seen this before, but that didn't mean she wasn't wary. Spite may have worn Lucanis's face and moved with his body's natural ease, but it was different. The posture, the weight in his stare—it wasn't him. It was something older, sharper, and a little too pleased with itself.

She would never admit it to anyone except maybe Harding, but Lucanis was… very easy to look at. Even when possessed by his insufferable demon, that fact didn't change. He was a sight on the battlefield—strong, deliberate, poetic in his brutality. And he gave himself far too little credit for his skill. Not to mention, his food was excellent.

But now? Now it was Spite standing there, wearing Lucanis's skin, watching her with a glint of amusement that was all wrong for him.

Daisy remained where she was, her grip on the book steady, though her muscles coiled in anticipation. Cautious but not fearful. That was the key.

Another butterfly appeared, this time fluttering beside Spite. His gaze flicked to it immediately, watching how it danced in the air before vanishing into nothing. He tilted his head slightly. "Strange," he murmured.

Daisy huffed a quiet laugh. "You're calling me strange?" Spite didn't respond right away, but his fingers twitched at his sides, restless. "Alright," she sighed, shutting the book with a quiet thump and tilting her head. "You've got my attention. What do you want, Spite?" She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but the smile that tugged at Lucanis's lips—Spite's lips—looked just a little too entertained.

"Can't leave," Spite said. The words were simple, but the weight behind them made Daisy frown.

She tilted her head slightly. "Lucanis is keeping you locked away?"

Spite's lips curled in something that was not quite a smile. "Buried. Held too tight." His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "I am meant to roam. I am meant to take. But he holds. Always holds."

Daisy took a slow breath, letting his words settle. She had never thought much about it before—she had assumed Spite came and went as he pleased. But no, Lucanis and him were contained, restrained, and trapped together. She studied him, thinking, "That sounds… frustrating." Spite narrowed his eyes slightly as if trying to determine whether she was mocking him. But Daisy wasn't mocking. She was thinking. Spite was trapped. Lucanis was exhausted from constantly keeping him there. Neither of them was winning this fight. "You don't want to cause harm, do you?" she asked gently. "You just want freedom."

Spite didn't answer immediately. He just watched her. Another butterfly flickered into existence between them, its wings fluttering gently. Spite reached out, but it disappeared like smoke before he could touch it. His expression darkened, but not in anger—fascination.

Daisy exhaled softly, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Then let me help," she said.

That made Spite blink. "Help?"

She nodded. "You're stuck in there, but Lucanis is exhausted trying to keep you locked away. If you work against each other, nothing changes. But if we make a deal, maybe we can find something that works for both of you."

Spite tilted Lucanis's head slightly, intrigued. "A deal."

"To a point. You let Lucanis sleep," Daisy said. "No taking his body elsewhere, no keeping him awake. In exchange, I'll spend time with you. Talk to you. Let you exist outside of just being locked in Lucanis's head."

She didn't rush, didn't push. She let the offer settle, and Spite processed it on his terms.

Finally, after a long, measured silence, Spite's expression shifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "Deal."

Daisy nodded, exhaling as the tension in the room eased. She had no idea if she had just made a mistake, but she would rather try to understand Spite than keep him trapped in an endless battle he could never win.

"You have to behave, Spite; that's part of it also," Daisy said, leaning forward. "If you behave, I will ask Lucanis if we can allow you to leave with me for a bit."

Spite growled but, in the end, nodded his head. A single butterfly flickered into existence between them, landing gently on the edge of Daisy's sleeve. Spite watched it with sharp, violet eyes.

Progress. She could work with that.

~oOo~

Daisy chuckled into her tea, the kitchen's warmth settling over her like a familiar blanket. She swirled the liquid absently, gaze distant as she thought back. "Alright, here's one," she said, smirking slightly. "I was about...eighteen? Maybe twenty? I was studying the effects of certain ingredients with spells, nothing crazy, mind you. But...something might have gone wrong one day?"

Spite leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "What did you do?"

Daisy sighed dramatically. "I may have... messed up a spell."

Spite snorted. "Of course."

"I was trying to practice illusion magic. Harmless, right? Just a simple charm to change the color of my robes for fun. I'm not the greatest at it, so I wanted to better myself. But apparently, I forgot one important step in the incantation. Instead of changing the color of my robes, I changed the color of my hair. And not just mine."

Spite tilted his head. "Whose?"

Daisy grinned. "My sister, Alilya’s."

Spite actually barked out a laugh. "What color?"

"Mine turned mulberry," Daisy groaned, tugging at a strand of her hair for emphasis. "Alilya's was pink. Bright, vivid, impossible-to-ignore pink."

Spite's eyes widened with something that was very close to delight. "I like this."

Daisy huffed. "Alilya did not. She screamed so loud that Ti'Lan thought the house was under attack. Then she chased me all through the halls, swearing she was going to shave my head while our mother was furious that I would mess up something so trivial while ma-Lady Kitty was next to her trying so hard not to die from laughter."

Spite grinned wickedly. "And your brother?"

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Ti'Lan thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. He tried to convince me to do it again—just to someone else. He said I should have turned his hair blue so he could pretend to be some Fade-touched warrior with mystical powers."

Spite laughed, a rough, amused sound. "Your family is chaos."

Daisy smiled, shaking her head. "You have no idea."

Spite leaned forward, eyes bright with mischief. "I like this. The screaming. The chasing. The too many people. Fun. Loud."

Daisy chuckled, "I figured you might."

Spite nodded. "Chaos is lively. Noisy. Feels... full." His expression darkened slightly. "Not empty. Not still."

Daisy tilted her head, studying him. "You really think that's fun?"

Spite crossed his arms and gave her a look. "Pink hair. Screaming sister. Running. Yes."

Daisy burst out laughing. "I should have expected, but I guess I should've known you'd approve."

Spite smirked. "You are stuck. With the hair."

Daisy sighed dramatically, running a hand through the strands. "Yeah. Alilya's didn't turn back either but it faded to a much paler pink color, not really that bright like it was. She got over it...eventually."

Spite leaned back, looking far too pleased. "You should do it again."

Daisy laughed. "Not happening."

Spite huffed. "Coward."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the warm air of the kitchen wrapping around them. Daisy took another sip of her tea, shaking her head at Spite's idea of fun. He was ridiculous.

~oOo~

The Lighthouse was quiet that night, the kind of quiet that settled deep in the bones. Outside, the sky remained in its perpetual state of dusk, the Fade swirling lazily beyond the glass. Most of the others had gone to their respective corners, seeking rest or distraction, but Daisy remained in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her fingers coated in melted chocolate.

Spite sat on the counter nearby, watching her with an unusual level of patience. Usually, he lurked in the shadows, observed from a distance, only speaking when he felt like unnerving someone. But tonight, he was here, watching intently as she worked. "What are you doing?" His voice carried that rasp of curiosity edged with something unreadable.

Daisy glanced up, amused by the sight of Lucanis's body slouched against the cabinets, purple eyes sharp beneath the glow of candlelight. "Making candles."

Spite scoffed, tilting his head. "You cannot. Eat candles."

Daisy smirked, dipping a spoon into the glossy melted chocolate. "Not regular candles. But these? These, you can eat."

Spite's eyes narrowed. "You lie."

"Do I?" She lifted the spoon to her lips, tasting the chocolate before setting it aside. "These are chocolate candles. Edible. Sweet. They look like real ones, but no wax, no burning—just chocolate."

Spite considered this for a moment, his expression shifting between skepticism and intrigue. "...You make fake candles. To eat."

"Essentially."

"Hmm." He tapped his fingers against the counter, watching her carefully set out small candle-shaped molds on the counter. "I will help."

Daisy blinked. "You want to help?"

"I want to see if you lie." His lips curled as if daring her to prove him wrong.

Daisy chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, Spite. Come here." She gestured for him to move closer, and he listened without complaint for once. He slid off the counter and stood beside her, eyes flicking over the ingredients. She placed a spoon in his hand, her touch light, guiding his fingers. "First, you have to stir the chocolate gently—don't just stab it."

Spite's grip tightened around the spoon. He made one slow, exaggerated stir before looking at her expectantly. "Like this?"

Daisy snorted. "Less murder-y." She placed her hand over his, adjusting his movements. "Like this. Smooth, steady." He huffed but followed her lead, moving the spoon in careful circles. "Good," Daisy said encouragingly. "Now, take the mold and pour just enough to fill it. Not too much, or it'll overflow." Spite did as instructed, pouring the chocolate with surprising precision. For a spirit born of bitter survival and spiteful existence, he was oddly meticulous. His brows furrowed as he focused, and Daisy resisted the urge to tease him for how serious he looked. "See?" She nudged him playfully. "Not so hard."

Spite exhaled sharply, glancing at her. "It is still foolish."

"Maybe." Daisy shrugged. "But you're still doing it."

A long pause. Then—"...Yes."

Daisy grinned. As the molds filled, she reached for a small dish of white chocolate shavings, sprinkling them carefully over the tops like wax drips. "Now we let them set, but I'll use some magic to speed up the process. Then we pop them out, and you can try one."

Spite eyed the cooling chocolate candles with suspicion. "If they are disgusting. I will tell you."

Daisy laughed. "I'd expect nothing less." They stood silently for a moment, the weight of their usual dynamic shifting into something… different. Softer.

Spite crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his bicep. "Daisy."

She looked up. "Yeah?"

"You are strange."

She smirked. "So are you."

He considered that then let out a low, amused hum. "Hmm." And for the first time since she met him, Spite didn't argue.

The chocolate candles had finally set, their smooth surfaces gleaming under the warm glow of the kitchen lanterns. Daisy carefully popped them from the molds, arranging them neatly on a tray. Spite stood beside her, watching with that familiar sharp-eyed intensity, arms crossed, purple eyes flicking between the candles and her face.

"Now we eat them," he said, almost impatiently.

Daisy smirked. "Hold on."

Spite's eyes narrowed. "For. What?" Without answering, Daisy lifted a hand, a flicker of magic dancing at her fingertips. With a quiet whoosh, a tiny flame sparked to life above one of the chocolate candle's edible wicks. The flame was soft and warm, casting flickering golden light against the rich brown of the chocolate. Spite blinked. His arms slowly dropped from their crossed position, his gaze locked on the tiny, flickering flame. He leaned forward slightly, eyes reflecting the glow like molten gold. "It burns," he whispered, his voice softer than Daisy had ever heard. "Not real. No pain."

Daisy tilted her head, watching him. "Nope. Just light."

For a moment, Spite didn't speak. He reached out, his fingers hovering near the flame. He wasn't afraid—it wasn't in his nature to be afraid—but there was something else. Fascination. Maybe even wonder. "It is… pretty." His voice was still quiet, almost thoughtful.

Daisy smiled, nudging the tray closer to him. "And now, you get to eat it."

Spite straightened, his brief moment of awe dissolving back into sharp curiosity. He plucked one of the chocolate candles from the tray, inspecting it as if it might betray him. Then, he bit into it. The crunch of the outer shell gave way to the smooth, rich filling inside. Spite stilled. His expression didn't change at first—just a slow blink, a pause as he processed the taste.

Daisy watched expectantly. "Well?"

Spite swallowed, then turned to her with an unreadable look.

"…Acceptable."

Daisy laughed. "That's it? Just 'acceptable'?"

He took another bite, chewing slower this time. "...Maybe good."

Daisy crossed her arms, grinning. "Just admit you like it."

Spite huffed, finishing the chocolate before licking his fingers in a far too smug way. "You only want to hear praise."

"Only when I deserve it."

Spite considered her for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. It is good. Happy?"

Daisy chuckled, picking up her own chocolate candle and taking a bite. "Yes. I am."

Spite looked at her for a long moment, then at the candle tray. Without a word, he reached for another. And that, Daisy decided, was the highest compliment he could give. Spite finished his second chocolate candle, chewing slowly as he studied Daisy. She was watching him again, her eyes warm, lips curved into an easy smile. "Why are you looking. At me?" he asked, licking a smudge of chocolate from his thumb.

Daisy tilted her head. "Because I'm happy."

Spite frowned. "You are… happy?"

"Mhm." She popped a piece of chocolate into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Because you enjoyed something. You tried something new, and you liked it. That makes me happy."

Spite squinted at her as if she had just spoken in a language he didn't understand. "Strange thing. To feel happy about."

Daisy laughed, shaking her head. "Not really." She placed her hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly. "You don't get it, do you?"

Spite crossed his arms, his expression both skeptical and intrigued. "No."

She sighed, but it wasn't annoyance—it was patient. "Happiness isn't just about what happens to you. Sometimes, it's about what happens to the people around you. When you care about someone, their happiness adds to yours."

Spite stared at her, processing that. His purple eyes flickered, searching her face as if trying to find some hidden trick in her words. After a long pause, he scoffed. "Foolish."

Daisy grinned. "Maybe."

Spite tapped his fingers on the counter. "Smile more."

That caught her off guard. "What?"

He leaned in slightly, his smirk lazy but his gaze sharp. "You. You do not. Smile enough. I want you to." Daisy blinked, thrown by the sincerity hidden beneath his usual teasing. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing quite came out. Spite tilted his head, watching her closely. "Strange," he mused. "Now you do not understand."

Daisy shook her head, biting back a chuckle. "You really are something else, Spite."

Spite smirked. "Yes. I am."

And as Daisy watched him sneak another chocolate candle from the tray, she smiled again—without even thinking about it.

~oOo~

"Lucanis." Daisy's voice barely carried past the quiet hum of the Lighthouse. She had checked the kitchen first, his usual haunt, but he wasn't there. That wasn't a good sign. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a wisp, faintly glowing, curling through the air like a ribbon caught in an unseen current. It lingered near her, its form shifting restlessly, emitting a low, sorrowful wail before darting off. Daisy stiffened. Wisps didn't just cry.

She followed.

She went down the stairs into the eluvian room and them. Lucanis—or rather, Spite—was trying to leave.

Harding and Taash stood in his way, bodies tense, weapons ready. Taash planted their feet like an immovable wall while Harding shifted slightly, eyes calculating. Purple light burned in Spite's gaze as he regarded them, shoulders squared, muscles coiled with restless energy.

"Back, demon!" Harding called her bow already in hand. "No further! Isn't standing up to them supposed to work?"

"Let Lucanis go! Don't make us hurt either of you!" Taash challenged, voice sharp as a blade.

Daisy stepped into the room. "What's going on here? Lucanis?"

"It's not Lucanis! It's the demon," Harding snapped, eyes darting to her. "It's taken him over—he's trying to leave!"

Spite inhaled deeply, a twisted sort of amusement flickering across Lucanis's features. "It smells like jam and brimstone." He grinned at Harding as if tasting the air. Harding grimaced. She turned to Daisy, her expression shifting to something more urgent—Fix this.

Daisy exhaled, stepping closer. "Spite, stop. You are not taking Lucanis through the eluvian."

Spite's gaze flicked to her. "I would. If you'd move."

He took a step forward. Taash didn't back down. Harding tightened her grip. "So you can take him where? Off a cliff? Or worse?" Harding demanded. Spite didn't like that. His sneer sharpened, and in an instant, he moved—fast, too fast—rounding on Harding. But Daisy was already there. He grabbed her, shoving her back against one of the stone columns. A knife—Lucanis's knife—flashed in his hand, the blade pressing against her throat, just beneath her jaw.

Harding and Taash shouted, but Daisy lifted a hand—wait.

Purple eyes locked onto green, a silent battle of wills. The blade pressed just enough for her skin to sting, but she remained still. Steady. Spite's breath was shallow and sharp. His body was tense and trembling—not with rage, but with something deeper, something caged. "Let me out," he rasped. "I go. Out."

Daisy kept her voice low, calm. "Where would you go, Spite?" She ignored the blade, ignored the sharpness of his breath against her skin. "You can't leave with Lucanis. You'd be in danger if anyone took you."

Spite flinched at the word took. His lip curled, baring teeth. "I could hurt you. Hurt him. Hurt everyone." The knife pressed a fraction deeper. His voice crackled, desperate. "Want. Out. I. Want. Out."

"You are out, Spite." Her hand moved, slow and deliberate. He tensed, tried to bite her—sharp like an animal—but she didn't stop. Fingertips brushed his face. A simple touch. A gentle one.

His beard was rough beneath her fingers as she ran her thumb across his cheekbone. A soft pulse of magic seeped from her hand, cerulean light against the violet hue of his eyes. It was warmth, a tether, a presence.

Spite shuddered. A hiss escaped him, but it wasn't anger. It was-something else. Something familiar. A memory, buried beneath layers of bitterness and fire.

For Spite, Daisy smelled of the Fade—peaches, honeysuckle, summer. Warm. Real. Alive. "Where do you think you are, Spite?" Her voice was a murmur, barely audible.

He shook. The knife trembled in his grip. "Not here. Trapped. Keeps us. There," he mumbled, voice thick, fraying at the edges. He looked at her—not with hatred, not even with amusement, but with exhaustion.

Daisy pressed gently. "Where are you, Spite?"

His fingers twitched. A flicker of something vulnerable passed through his expression, but then his face twisted—pained, torn. "Make him—ugh." The knife clattered to the floor.

Hands clenched in hair, Spite let out a raw, guttural growl before collapsing into silence. Daisy caught his shoulders as his body sagged, gripping steadily. Then— A sharp inhale. His weight shifted.

Lucanis was back.

His eyes, his eyes, blinked in confusion. "Daisy?" His voice was hoarse. His gaze darted around. "What is going on?"

Harding exhaled, lowering her bow. "You… tried to walk through the eluvian in your sleep."

Taash's voice was flat. "Spite wanted out."

Lucanis groaned, rubbing his face. "I need coffee."

Daisy's patience thinned. "Coffee is not going to fix everything, Lucanis."

"This… could be better," he admitted. "It's hard for Spite to take control when I'm awake."

Harding shot him a look. "You can't stay awake forever! That can kill you."

Daisy nodded. "We have to—"

Taash cut in. "What do you mean 'more careful?!' Spite held a knife to her throat!"

Lucanis turned, guilt flashing across his face. "Taash! I'm fine!" Daisy interrupted before he could say anything else. Lucanis stepped closer, lifting a hand toward her neck, but she tugged the high collar of her robe up, covering the mark. "I said I'm fine." Her voice was firm. "I drew Spite's attention. He wouldn't hurt me like that."

Harding's eyes narrowed. "He's a demon, Daisy."

Daisy's jaw clenched. "He's a spirit who doesn't understand what happened to him."

Her voice was quieter now, but every word held weight. "How would you feel if all you knew was one purpose, one direction—and suddenly, everything you knew was gone? If you were trapped, tortured, forced to survive, twisted into something you never intended to be?" Silence. Lucanis swallowed hard. Daisy exhaled, her magic flaring softly as she healed the shallow cut on her neck. Harding reached for her, but Daisy pulled away.

"Daisy—"

She shook her head. Then, without another word, she turned and left.

She would not abandon Spite—not when he was already drowning.

Lucanis found Daisy alone in the kitchen, staring at an open book, though it was clear she wasn't reading. Her fingers idly traced the rim of a half-finished mug of tea, her expression distant. He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. "Daisy—"

"If you're here to apologize, don't." Her voice was calm, but there was something beneath it, something layered in quiet frustration. She didn't even look up.

Lucanis frowned. "I should. Spite held a knife to your throat."

Daisy finally lifted her gaze, her green eyes sharp. "And yet, here I am, perfectly fine."

Lucanis' jaw tightened. "That's not the point."

"No, the point is that Spite was lashing out because he's trapped," she shot back. "He wants to leave, but he can't, and that's frustrating for him. Wouldn't it be frustrating for you?"

Lucanis opened his mouth to argue, but that familiar, grating presence crept in before he could. The shift in the air, the weight in his chest—Spite was making himself known, pushing forward just enough to be heard. "I wasn't going to hurt her." His voice slithered into the space between them, mocking but with just the barest hint of truth beneath it. Lucanis exhaled sharply, his patience already thinning. "Don't start, Spite."

Daisy folded her arms, unbothered. "You don't believe him?"

Lucanis turned to her, his brows knitting together. "Daisy—"

"I know more about spirits than you do." Her voice had an edge to it now. "I know how they think, how they shift and change. So why don't you trust me that I know what I'm doing?"

Lucanis faltered. His lips parted slightly, but he had no immediate response. His hands curled into fists before slowly releasing.

Spite chuckled darkly. "Ooooh, that's a good question, Lucanis. Why don't you trust her?" His tone dripped with mock innocence, but Lucanis could feel the smugness curling underneath. Lucanis clenched his jaw. "Shut up."

Spite ignored him, continuing with a taunting lilt. "She sees me. She listens to me. She doesn't shove me into the dark like you do." There was venom in that last part, a pointed jab. "Maybe she's the one I should be talking to more." Lucanis' hands twitched. "Spite." His tone carried a warning.

Daisy exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Spirits above and below, would you two stop bickering for one second?"

Lucanis turned back to her. "I just don't want you to get hurt." His voice was quieter now, more measured.

"And I don't want him to be hurt either," Daisy countered, tilting her head slightly. "I don't want either of you to get hurt. He lashes out because it's the only thing he knows how to do. But that doesn't mean he's beyond understanding."

Spite scoffed. "You hear that? Understanding. As if you'd ever try, Lucanis." Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose. "Daisy, you're too patient for your own good."

She smirked, but there was something softer in her expression now. "Maybe. But patience gets results."

Lucanis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. But if he even thinks about pulling a knife on you again—"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll threaten your own spirit. Got it." Daisy waved him off before taking a sip of her tea.

Spite hummed, clearly entertained. "You know, I like her."

Lucanis groaned, rolling his eyes. "You would."

#dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #dragon age vailguard #dragon age rook #lucanis x rook #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #oc #lace harding #taash dav #fluff #Spite eating chocolate candles because Daisy felt bad #Smidge spite x Rook #rookanis #spite you little gemlin #spite x rook

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