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sincerelybubbles · 3 days ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

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

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

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

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

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

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

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

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

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

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

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

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

A grim silence settles over the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

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

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

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

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

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

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

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

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

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

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

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

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

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

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look up.

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is what?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Oh, ew.”

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

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

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

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

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

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

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

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

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

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

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

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

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

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

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

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

And then, something does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t move away.

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

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

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

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

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

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

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

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

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

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

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

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

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

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

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

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

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

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that. What about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

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

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

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

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

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer is fidgeting.

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

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

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

“Must be serious, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would really like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the knock at your door.

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

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

“They’re beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

“It does.”

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

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

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

“History can be romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

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

And then it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

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

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

You step aside, let him in.

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

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

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

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

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

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

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

And then he stops resisting.

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

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

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make the choice for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, he kisses you again.

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leighsartworks216 · 2 days ago

Note

could I request it being the first time ur in a relationship for valentine's and youre not sure how to make it special for sylus because you've never celebrated before ? :)

My First Valentine

Sylus x gn!Reader

I wrote most of this today even tho the request came in a week ago 💀 sorry

Warnings: fluff, anxiety, nervousness, embarrassment, kissing, gift giving, flowers, Valentine's Day, insecurity, declarations of love, established relationship, pet names, reader is implied as being shorter/smaller than Sylus

Word Count: 1,922

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

'45 Fun And Romantic Valentine's Day Date Ideas!' '13 Fun Valentine's Day Activities!' '25+ Romantic Things To Do This Valentine's Day!'

You sigh, closing yet another tab of holiday ideas. You don't know how many websites you've looked at now, all of them promising fantastic gifts or experiences, sure to sweep your partner off their feet. But none of them felt good enough. Not for Sylus.

All your life, Valentine's Day was another lonely day. Your friends and their partners would be out and about or getting together at home, and you'd be stuck in pjs, eating ice cream and watching the same cheesy rom-coms as the year before. The most you'd ever gotten out of the day was in school, when you'd get those little themed cards with a heart-shaped lollipop poked through them.

Now that you have a partner, every single thing you come across feels too cheesy, or like something he wouldn't be into. Not to mention, anything you could possibly buy, he could get on his own with his gobs of money.

Go on a trip? He owns his own private jet; he could go anywhere anytime.

Buy him flowers? More likely than not, they'd wilt twice as fast in the darkness of the N109 Zone.

Dinner at a restaurant means you'd have to find some really fancy place to suit his tastes to make sure he has a nice time. Cooking something yourself could hardly compare to his professional private chef's cooking.

You could get him some vinyls, but you'd hate to get him a duplicate. Weapons? Well, he's got that covered; he deals them.

Asking Luke and Kieran is a non-starter when they're equally as likely to give you good advice as fake advice that would make you look foolish.

You can't fathom how your friends make it look so easy to make plans for the day and get gifts for their partners. Though, you suppose, none of them are dating a multi-billionaire (if not multi-trillionaire or more) crime boss.

You sigh and close your laptop with a snap. What does Sylus enjoy that you can treat him to as a special holiday treat? Something you can feasibly accomplish before the actual day rolls around? Something other than a cheap visit to the arcade or the cat cafe...

Wait... Actually...

Sylus knows you live in rather modest means. He always insists you pay with his black card so you're not stressing about going broke. Why would he suddenly expect you to dish out wads of cash now on a trip or gift? Anything you give him - even if it's a cheap toy from the dollar store - he'd cherish like a gem.

And that's when the idea forms.

With all the preparations written down, you text him, bubbling with energy.

Syyyy

You seem rather playful all of a sudden. What's got you excited, kitten?

You can tell all that from one word??

No, I can tell all that because I know you

Awe 🥺 stop being so cute

Anyway!! I actually wanted to tell you that I have Valentine's Day all worked out!

Oh?

But it's a secret!

Well now I'm interested. What do I need to do for these plans of yours?

Just show up at my place at nightfall on the day of :3

That's it? Why do I feel like I'm being lured into a trap?

Oh yeah the worst trap of all a doting partner who wants to pour all their love on you

Alright. I'll see you then, kitten

But don't think I'll be showing up empty handed

I'd be concerned if you did ngl

Ily <3333333 Goodnighttt

Goodnight, sweetie. I love you too

For how simple your plan is - or perhaps because of how simple your plan is - you've never been more nervous in your life. You've double and triple checked everything, made sure he'll be comfortable and not too disappointed with what you've come up with, and second-guessed yourself several times about whether this is actually a good idea.

Not that it matters. You'd be really down to the wire to come up with something new now.

You pace the living room, wringing your hands together, chewing your lip, fussing with your hair. You feel like a dog excited to see its owner when you hear a patterned knock on the door. So excited you nearly trip over the corner of a blanket in your haste to answer it.

Sylus is there to greet you, an easy grin on his face and softened eyes. A large bouquet that you'd drown in rests deceptively small in the crook of his arm. A bag hangs from his other hand, but he sets it down when you step into the hall to hug him.

He chuckles fondly, squeezing you tightly to him and kissing your head. "You look cozy," he teases playfully. His fingers tug at the back of your pajamas.

You laugh nervously as you step back. "Ah, yeah. It's part of the stuff I planned, actually."

He quirks an eyebrow. "I'm a bit overdressed."

"Don't worry! I got you some!" Your face grows hot. You feel like an idiot, flustered and inexperienced. "Come in, so I can explain better."

You take the bouquet from his arm. It's full of your favorite flowers, their delightful aroma tickling your nose as you carry them into the kitchen to look for a vase. You have to rely on your muscle memory to move around; they completely block your vision. Sylus follows in after you with his bag, peering around the little space of your apartment. He'd offered to get you a bigger one, once. Somewhere with a view, soundproof walls, and all the upgraded appliances you ogled in the stores. But you refused, and he respected that, even if it meant being inconvenienced by the lack of space for someone of his size.

His eyes land on the couch, covered in blankets of all sizes. Various DVDs cover the coffee table alongside a neatly folded pair of pajamas. It's cluttered, but purposefully so, as if the mess has been built into the experience.

You find a vase (bought after the first time he bought you flowers that you had to divvy up between various drinking cups) and settle the bouquet on the small dining table. There's no room left for two people to eat there. You come back out looking a mite more disheveled than before.

You smile awkwardly up at him, eyes flickering from his face to your setup as you rock back and forth on your feet. "So! Um, I've never actually had a partner to celebrate Valentine's Day with before, so I used to get a bunch of ice cream, maybe some takeout, and I'd just spend the night on the couch with a bunch of cheesy rom-coms. And now we're together and I didn't know what I could do because you can have anything you want at any given moment. But, um, I just thought, for my first Valentine's Day with someone, I could... share my 'tradition' with you." You exhale a shaky breath. "I know it's probably not what you were expecting..."

"Sweetie," he gently interrupts your rambling. He sets the bag on the couch, then closes the space between you, holding your face in both his hands, urging you to meet his eyes. They shine with something warm and sweet, like cherry wine. "It's not what I was expecting, but it's better than anything I could have imagined."

You scoff. "You're just saying that."

He shakes his head. "I can't buy a tradition, sweetie. This is something that means a lot to you. I'm fortunate enough to be the one person who gets to share it with you; no amount of money could do that."

Your heart feels light. It floats around your chest like a balloon filled with helium. Butterflies flutter in your stomach to join in on the fun. Is this how your friends felt with their partners? It's addicting. You try to blink away the incoming tears before they can form.

"What did you bring?" you ask suddenly, redirecting the conversation away so you can have a chance to gather yourself.

Fortunately, he lets you have it. With a knowing smirk, he kisses your forehead and steps away back to the couch. You miss the proximity immediately.

He pulls out each item one by one, holding it up to show you. "Wine. I can't say anything about how it'll taste, but the label was pretty, so I thought you'd like it." He sets it on the coffee table.

"You mentioned that you liked to go to the store the day after to buy the discounted candy. Well, it wasn't discounted, but I grabbed a variety." Those remain in the bag, but he has to shift it all around to reach something at the bottom.

He seems the most proud of - and the most nervous for - this one. He glances over at you before he pulls it out, as though double checking he has your attention. From the bag comes a hoodie, that he holds by the shoulders to let it unfold. It's nothing too special to look at, but the size is what strikes you. When he holds it up, it's clearly the perfect size for him. His ears tinge pink as he holds it out for you.

"You complained once that I don't have any hoodies for you to steal, like other couples do," he reminds you, voice soft and vulnerable.

He watches carefully as you step forward and reach out to feel the material. It's soft. So soft. You take it into your arms. The familiar scent of Sylus wafts up from the fabric; his body wash, his cologne, him. You hold it up to your nose to smell it better as you look up at him in awe.

"I wore it for a couple days," he admits. "If you don't like it, I can-"

"I love it." You really are going to cry now. You step forward, clinging the hoodie to your chest as he wraps his arms around you. "Sy, this means so much to me. I'm never gonna be able to take it off."

He chuckles. His arms squeeze you just a bit tighter, pull you a bit closer. "I'm glad. You're my first Valentine, too."

You pull back enough to look up at him. Your eyes are glassy, surprise to earnest on your face. "Wha- Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"Well, I mean, I just- You're so... you. That's a compliment, by the way."

"I was waiting for the right partner," he says with a huff of laughter. He dips his head down, soft lips capturing yours in a meaningful kiss. When he speaks again, it's in soft murmurs between kisses. "I'll go change... into the pajamas you got me... and then... we can watch... your movies."

The butterflies are back in full force. Each kiss has them flittering about, doing swoops and swirls in your stomach, wings tickling your insides. "Okay... Mm, but, stay here a bit longer..."

He smiles against your lips, hands sliding up your body to hold your face as he tilts his head, yearning to taste more of you, feel more of you. "Love you, sweetheart..."

You blindly set the hoodie on the arm of the couch to hold his fancy shirt in both hands, drawing him closer, knuckles brushing against the defined muscle beneath the fabric. "I love you, Sylus... Mm, so much... so much..."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman

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

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yourname-exee · 3 days ago

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Happy Valentine's Day!

Warning:Smut in some (Minors DNI)

Kento Nanami loves his wife oh so dearly and would do just about anything to make you smile. So once he notices the approaching date, he takes up a cooking class, wanting to perfect your favorite meals.

He has a whole plan set in mind and he feels a sparkle of something warm within him, catching himself smiling just slightly as he thought about the look on your face. This man is so eager to please his lovely wife.

When Valentine's Day does arrive, Nanami makes sure to be the first one awake, putting his skill to use as he cooked breakfast, setting up the table with a vase of flowers and a small gift bag near your plate. His footsteps are soft but have purpose as he heads for your shared bedroom, he placed his palm against your back gently rubbing up and down so he can try to stir you awake and this proves to work as you in fact start to wake up. He gently guided you to the kitchen, hands placed on your waist, and your eyes softening as you took in the table that was set up perfectly, your eyes landing on the plate of your favorite breakfast foods, you turn arms wrapping around his waist, hugging him.

'Ken what is all this?'

'I wanted to make you breakfast honey, so I took up a cooking class.'

He responded gently before settling you down in the dining chair, joining you, you took a bite, eyes widening slightly as you savor the explosion of delightful flavors. Kento couldn't help but feel pride at the expression on your face.

And that's how the rest of the day went, he made your favorite dishes for lunch and dinner. Annd then for dessert Nanami laid you out on the table, legs spread wide as his tongue lapped up your juicy nectar.

Satoru Gojo is a man who loves to spoil his wife any chance he can get but on Valentine's Day this man goes overboard.

Making sure to wake up before you, he went and picked up your favorite breakfast, rushing home so he can start setting up the table. Candles and single stemmed roses scattered the table. He went and retrieved your first round of gifts, placing two small bags near the top of your plate and one giant teddy bear in the chair you were going to sit in. Once he was satisfied with the set up he practically skipped to your shared bedroom, to wake you up. After a couple minutes he successfully woke you up and was guiding you to the kitchen buzzing with excitement, eliciting a mumble from you along the lines of, I just woke up, you faltered as you took in the kitchen, heart melting and eyes softening, you turn to face Gojo, smile spreading along your lips before you lean forward placing them against his. His eyes practically pop into the shape of hearts as he takes in your soft look.

'Okay sit sit.'

He breathes, gently placing you in your seat placing the bear in the chair next to you, he pushes you to open the gifts, one baggy consisting of a necklace, one that you said reminded you of one your grandmother used to own and the other had a matching bracelet. Your eyes look up to your husband tears well up causing him to reach forward to softly stroke your cheek with his thumb.

'Don't cry, you're supposed to be happy.'

'I am happy, these are happy tears.'

The rest of the day Saturo would smother you with gifts and kisses at random points of the day sometimes it was so random you had no idea where he pulled them from.

Suguru Geto would gift you with orgasm after orgasm, don't get him wrong he does this any chance he can get but on Valentine's Day he solely dedicates this day to you.

Morning time rolled around and the first thing he did was shimmy under the covers, positioning himself between your legs, his arms wrapping around your thighs gently as to not wake you up, just yet.

His fingers massage the skin of your soft thighs before they hook into the hem of your panties pulling them down your legs slowly, once completely off, he makes his way back up, lips ghosting over your skin, before he settles back into his position between your legs, his shoulders pressing into the doughy flesh on the back of your thighs. His thumbs come up to pull apart your sticky lips, strings of arousal keeping the parted flesh connected in some way, he licks his lips before that skillful tongue slid up through your folds swirling over your clit before sliding back down, doing exactly the same thing once more, this has you stirring awake, thighs closing only slightly but Getos arms kept them pushed apart as he leans in deeper, tongue diving in causing a soft gasp to puff past your lips his name laced within. You pull the covers up and over him looking down as your elbows keep you elevated, one of your hands coming to his head, fingers lacing with in his dark locks pulling his mouth off of you with a soft pop, biting your lip gently before you ask.

'What're you doing?'

Sleep tinged your tone. Causing Geto's eyes to soften into hearts, leaning his cheek on your inner thigh as his pupils dance from small to big.

'Starting off Valentine's Day right, I took the whole day off so I can focus on you.. alll day.'

He murmured gently kissing the spot where his cheek previously rested.

And indeed did this happen allll day, he only took small breaks in order to feed you and get you water before he was right back at it.

Toji Fushiguro was a complicated man, not one to do anything unless it was for himself, ooh and of course his beloved wife. He knew the date that was coming up, Valentine's Day , so what did he do? He picked up extra jobs, wanting to treat you, spoil you properly.

Although this seemed to create a distance between you two, only because he was gone for so long, he had only pure intentions behind this. Soo when the day actually arrives, it takes you by great surprise when you awoke and the living room was full of red balloons and rose petals. The couch is covered in stuffed animals that represent the holiday by holding hearts that say 'happy Valentine's Day' or 'i love you'. Your husband standing near the kitchen holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, his posture seems tense as he's realized the time he's spent away trying to make this all happen, waiting to see how you'd react.

His shoulders seemed to relax as he saw the soft look on your face, you approached him with gentle steps, before wrapping yourself around him murmuring.

'Thank you.'

In turn he wrapped his arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to your head. Responding with.

'I'm sorry I've been away, I just wanted to make today perfect, I didn't mean to be gone so long.'

You pull back to look up at him, you guys stay nuzzled in each other's arms. Your eyes sparkling gently up at him before he started to guide you to the kitchen where the table was full of all the breakfast foods you could imagine, ranging from donuts to bagels, eggs and bacon, pancakes and waffles, french toast and crepes anything and everything you could ask for. You blush gently as he sat you down at the table handing you a plate before joining you, light conversation flows between you two.

The day was filled with surprise gifts. During lunch he took you on a picnic and for dinner he took you to a fancy restaurant. Money well spent, Toji would say, especially after the thank you he received from you later that night.

Ryomen Sukuna didn't do holidays or any human traditions really, especially not one that contains emotions. But the look on your face when he said he didn't want to celebrate Valentine's Day in his usual defensive tone was a look he knew he didn't want to see again, especially if he was the reason for it.

Contrary to popular belief Sukuna did in fact love you, although he'd never confirm nor deny this , it was obvious you hold a special place with in him. Soo what did Sukuna do? He did his research.. with the help of Uraume obviously, to figure out exactly what needed to be done to get his beloved flower to smile so brightly.

He grumbles as Uraume puts the final touches to his suite the words 'the things I do for her' leaving his mouth, but there was no real heat behind it, more of a front, Uraume knows better though, she knows that Sukuna would do this every single time if it meant you were happy.

He had everything planned out and it seemed to be working the way he envisioned it to, with you waiting, beautifully might he add, in the garden wearing a new pink floral dress. He approached with confident steps but faltered only slightly when you turned and batted those pretty eyes at him. He swallowed down before his fingers wrapped around yours finally standing in front of you, a rare sight, to some it wasn't a sight to be seen at all but Sukuna smiled, gently might you add, as he looked at you saying.

'Are you ready to go?'

In turn you responded with a gentle nod and a soft smile.

And boy was this night one to remember.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jjk smut #jjk headcanons #jjk imagine #jjk imagines #jjk men

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losers-clvb · 3 days ago

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sucker for you // dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: dean helps his son fill out class valentines.

content: fluff, domesticity, pregnant reader, dean and reader have a son named max, dean criticizing the different spellings of names

word count: 918

note: happy valentine's day! i was putting together my sisters' valentines baskets and this came to mind. this is my first blurb, i hope you love it!

masterlist

“B-R-A-D-L-E-I-,”

“Wait, wait.” Dean shook his head, holding his hands up to stop his son’s spelling. He set his pen down, taking the list of Max’s classmates into his hand. He squinted at the paper. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He mumbled.

“Language!” You chimed out from where you stood at the stove at the same time as Max had. It was a cute little thing that the young boy had picked up on, you scolding Dean for his swearing around your son. Well, it was cute up until he had begun to say it to you, which he did frequently when you thought he was in a different room.

“Do these parents think they’re God or somethin’?” Dean grumbled, ignoring you two. You sent a scrunched-nose smile to your son, sending him into giggles. “You can’t just make up names.”

“Dean,” you sighed, waddling over to the man with your hand on your stomach. You were seven months pregnant, but you still felt like you were going to burst at any second. You leaned down to look at the paper in his hand. “Bradleigh is a name.” You told him, raising your eyebrows at him. He rolled his eyes playfully, pointing to the name.

“No. Bradley is a name, Bradleigh is not.” Dean argued, changing the infliction of his tone as he spoke to make his point known. This wasn’t the first time he had a problem with something in Max’s class. At the beginning of the school year he had a very heated email-argument with third grade teacher about the proper snacks to bring to school. Mrs. Bronahan didn’t seem to enjoy the cupcakes Dean would send when it was their turn for snack day.

“Well it is now.” You decided, placing a kiss on his cheek before penguining your way back to your soup.

“Ew.” Max groaned at the romantic gesture. This was a new thing he was doing, finding it gross when you showed any ounce of love toward your husband. You only narrowed your eyes at him, causing him to go into another bout of giggles.

“I’m just sayin’-,” Dean began again, but you cut him off.

“How about you finish those valentines that were supposed to be done last week instead of complaining about how the Millers chose to name their children?” You chided, throwing some seasoning into the pot in front of you. Dean frowned, still looking at the list.

“Yeah Dad.” Max chimed in. He was ever the Mama’s boy, always taking your side unless Dean had bribed him with ice cream for dinner. You smiled at your boy.

“Thank you my love.” You spoke while scrubbing at some of the dishes in the sink.

“Hey now, we tried to do them last week, but Mr. I-need-a-special-card-for-Valerie was distracted.” Dean defended himself, jabbing a thumb at Max. The boy flushed red and tried to hide his face. Valerie, a girl in his class, was his crush-of-the-month. You loved your little boy and his sweet intentions in trying to impress the girl.

“I was not!” Max exclaimed, grabbing a heart-shaped sucker from the pile in front of him. Dean swiped it out of his grasp.

“Were too. And those are for your classmates.” Dean chided while placing the candy back in the pile. Bullshit, Dean had been snacking on them himself just the night before. You remembered his red lips and sugary sweet kisses. You made your way back to the boys and handed Max the candy back before taking one for yourself.

“Thanks Mama.” Max squeaked out before shoving the sucker into his mouth. Your heart jumped at the name. Recently, he had been set on calling you “Mom” instead of his usual “Mama”, but there were still times he slipped up. You didn’t want him to grow up. You wanted him to be your baby forever and keep him right where you could make sure he was safe.

Dean gave you a stink eye, but there was no heat in it. He knew better than to argue with his pregnant wife. You popped your own sucker into your mouth, letting the artificial cherry melt onto your tongue while you rubbed Dean’s shoulders.

“Whatever. Let’s get back to it, man.” Dean relaxed into your touch, giving Max the class list again. They worked in tandem, Max spelling each of the names with minimal criticisms from Dean and his Sharpie.

Once they were finished -- it really hadn’t taken that much time, there were only twenty kids --, Dean twisted his head up to look at you. You smiled down to him and the twinkle in his eye told you he was about to say something cheesy.

“You know,” he began, his hand wrapping around yours, “I’m a sucker for you, honey.” He finished the saying that had been printed on each sucker wrapper and kissed your knuckles. You laughed softly at him.

“Gross!” Max exclaimed, looking away from the two of you. You ignored him and placed a kiss on your husband’s lips. Dean chuckled at his son, shaking his head.

“One day you’re gonna be kissin’ your wife, kid. Maybe even Valerie.” Dean teased, poking at the young boy’s side. Max covered his face with his hands, but you still caught the sheepish smile.

“I love you both.” You mumbled and leaned into Dean, his fingers lacing into yours. You were happy. This was your family, and even with all the small flaws, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#x reader #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #supernatural x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader fluff #domestic!dean winchester #dean winchester x pregnant!wife!reader #dean winchester x female!reader #valentines day

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nickfowlerrr · 21 hours ago

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something good and true - part 1

pairing: mob boss!bucky barnes x reader

warnings (for all parts in whole): 18+ only. domestic violence. retelling of abuse and battery. minor character death mentioned. angst. sweet and protective bucky. fluff. not sure if this qualifies as a slow burn or not 👀 smut. there’s a happy ending! (as per usual)

words: 4.5k

notes: this fic was supposed to be posted last year for suz’s blind date writing challenge but clearly that is not what happened. a year later and some thousands+ words over the maximum allowed (in total), i was finally able to wrap this thing up. i’m posting in parts bc it’s just so long and ahhh i’m sorry i didn’t follow your rules suz @targaryenvampireslayer 😭 and honest to god there is absolutely no expectation for you to read or even acknowledge this! i just want to give credit where credit is due and so this, my first mob boss!fic, is all thanks to the mob boss au prompt you had given to me! so thank you - and sorry again 🫢 dialogue used: “Does it make you nervous when I stare?”. thank you in advance for reading, i’d be happy to hear your thoughts! as always, comments and reblogs are welcome and so appreciated. 🩵

He’s staring again. You can feel it. The heat creeps up your spine as your heart begins to beat a little faster. The feeling has become quite familiar. It’s been two months of this. You had a feeling he’d be back, but really you hoped he’d have just let it go by now. It’s not like you thought any of this through, though… Of course there’d be consequences; and none worse, you’re sure, than the ones he could dish out.

It’s not your fault, you try to remind yourself. It’s not. You finish wiping off the table of the newly vacated booth, tucking the cash tip left for you in your pocket, before you turn around.

You steel yourself, taking a strong breath before you start to walk toward his private booth. You’re not stupid, you know the only reason he comes here is for you, he told you as much himself. And everyone else knows that too as the place has become nearly empty since his arrival. Even your coworkers aren’t bustling about. You don’t know if you prefer having the audience or not. You don’t blame anyone for their fleeing, though. After all the stories you’d heard about the man, you always made yourself scarce in his presence, too.

Until the faithful night he requested you at his table by name… You sigh, it seems you no longer have the luxury of avoidance.

You remember that night well. The first time you formally met the infamous mob boss, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.

You remember how it felt like your blood turned to ice in your very veins when Molly uttered your name with worried eyes, “Mr. Barnes is asking for you specifically,” she had whispered as she peaked into the kitchen where you’d fled when you heard he was being sat at his rarely used, always reserved table.

You felt sick. Like a lead weight was dropped in your stomach. You wrung your hands until it hurt before you finally nodded. You were sure she could see the fear in your eyes when you looked at her. “O-okay. I’ll be right there,” you’d nodded. You had to swallow down the bile threatening to creep up your throat. He knows, you’d thought. He has to know. That’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s looking for you. You were breathing hard and heavy and you could feel the tears welling in your still sensitive eyes. You were caked in makeup, had been all week, to hide the bruises that marred all over your face. It wasn’t anything unusual. But there was an eerie comfort you felt in knowing once they were finally gone this time, you wouldn’t have to see yourself like that again.

You were in a long sleeve so you knew he wouldn’t be able to see the marks along your arms, and unless he had X-ray vision he wouldn’t be able to see the contusions littered all over your body either. You had a brace on your wrist but it wasn’t too noticeable under the sleeve… Okay, you breathed. You can do this. Deny, deny, deny. You don’t even truly know what he’s here for. You shouldn’t freak yourself out before you’ve even seen him.

You exhaled a shaky breath before you reached for the kitchen door.

It was dead silent as you entered the dining hall and it only added to the compounding fear and anxiety growing inside you.

You approached his table cautiously, too nervous to make direct eye contact as you held your pen and pad in hand.

“Good evening, sir, - uhm, Mr. Barnes,” you corrected yourself, “can I get you started with something to-“

“I’m not here for drinks or the mediocre food, doll,” he stopped you easily, unnervingly calm.

You chanced a glance at him and his deep blue gaze had you swallowing hard.

You didn’t know how to respond, so you stayed quiet as he stared at you. Like he knew something. Like he knew you knew something.

“Hm,” he considered you for a moment longer before nodding, “ya know, I think you know why I’m here.”

“I-“, you shook your head almost imperceptibly, “I don’t,” was all you could muster as your eyes were now glued to him. You couldn’t will yourself to look away. You were too terrified.

He licked his lip seemingly out of habit before he spoke again.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He asked, sounding exasperated, bored of the interaction already as he tilted his head at you.

You stiffened at the question, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

“I don’t-“

“You do.” He stopped you again, the certainty in his voice leaving no room to deny his accusation. His eyes cutting into you as you stood before him, defenseless. You felt like you couldn’t breathe but you couldn’t just stand there looking terrified. You had to work up your voice and it came out quiet, but Bucky was listening, and watching you, intently.

“I don’t know where Freddy is,” you said, voice low, trying to keep the tremor from it as you finally felt your eyes sting, the fear and pain catching up to you as you blinked the would be tears away before a single one fell. “And he’s not my boyfriend,” you swallowed, “anymore.”

“No?”

“No. We broke up…about a month ago.”

“That’s interesting…” he hummed. “Why did someone see his car at your place the other week, then, huh?”

You winced at the images that ran through your mind as you thought back to that day, the one you knew he was referring to.

“He came over, to talk,” you forced out, no longer looking at the man before you. “But nothing came from it,” you added quickly, “and he left. I haven’t seen him since. Haven’t heard from him, I don’t know where he is.”

You didn’t look at him but by the weight of his gaze you knew he wasn’t buying what you were selling.

“What happened here?” he asked, reaching for your hand.

You were quite literally frozen to your spot as he grabbed your hand in his. His touch was the most gentle you’d experienced in a long while and it sent an unexpected hum through you. You watched your hand in his as he pulled you just the tiniest bit closer to him and the table. He inched up your sleeve to see more of the brace on your wrist and when he moved to raise your sleeve further up your arm, your body finally moved into action. You yanked your hand back, as if his touch had burned you, keeping him from seeing anything more than the brace.

“Fell,” you answered shortly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know where he is. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.”

You met his eye once more, feeling a little safer as the words came easily. It wasn’t a complete lie. You really didn’t know where he was. And you certainly didn’t care. Despite the scrutiny of the mob boss’ gaze, you didn’t feel nearly as scared as you had before he touched your hand. Something about the softness there… You wouldn’t dwell on it.

“If there’s nothing else,” you added, though it was definitely more of an unspoken question than anything. You weren’t as scared but you weren’t stupid either. You wouldn’t be going anywhere until he dismissed you.

He smirked, huffing a laugh as he watched you.

“You hear from him, I’d be grateful to know,” he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a business card, placing it on the table as he flicked his sharp eyes up to you once more, moving to pull out his wallet next. You watched as he slipped out two bills and blanched as he put them down on the table, moving the card so it sat on the money.

Your breath caught in your throat as he stood from his seat, standing right in front of you as you took in his build and stature. Everything about him screamed success, power, and authority and the two hundreds he left on the table were nothing more than chump change to him, you were sure.

“Just so you know, doll,” he spoke lowly, “I will find him, one way or another,” he took a step closer to you, “and if you think you’re protecting him by not telling me the truth, I promise you’re not.” He held your gaze and you were terrified he could see straight into your soul with how intent it was, “What’s even worse, is he knows we know all about you. He doesn’t care if he’s putting you in harm’s way or not… Forgive me for saying, but nice girl like you, you deserve a hell of a lot better than that. So, if you think of anything you might wanna tell me, my number’s right there,” he said looking back over to the card and money on the table. “That’s your tip. You enjoy your night, sweetheart. I’ll be seeing you.”

His words weren’t a threat, but a promise.

He would be seeing you. Didn’t always call you to his table, sometimes just observed you while you worked, but every week without fail from that day on, he would be at the restaurant.

You never called him, you didn’t have anything to say. You wouldn’t tell him the truth, no, you couldn’t tell him the truth. He was half right, you were protecting someone. But it wasn’t Freddy.

You breathe another strong sigh as you get closer to him and once you’re at the table, you don’t say a word, only meeting his brilliant and pointed gaze.

There’s something different about him tonight, something unnerving in his stare that you take notice of right away. You work to keep your calm but you’re not sure how convincing your faux headstrong demeanor is tonight.

He lets the silence between you grow for a moment longer before finally, he speaks.

“Does it make you nervous when I stare?”

His voice is like honey, smooth and rich with that familiar lilt as his lips quirk up just at the corner of his mouth. It warms you while he holds your eye. There’s unspoken tension between you two as you stand so close yet so far, it’s been brewing since your first meeting and has only grown with each interaction since. You’ve never named it, but you couldn’t deny it if you’d wanted to. You haven’t felt your tummy flutter like this since…you can’t remember when.

Surely he knows what his gaze does to anyone, you’re no exception. But the nerves you feel under the weight of his stare are twofold - not all due to fear, but to flustering.

You haven’t responded, but you’ve held his eye in the silence. He smirks at you before gesturing to the open space across from him.

“Why don’t you take a seat, sweetheart.”

It sounds like an invitation, but you know it’s more than that.

It’s an instruction.

You look around briefly, as if someone might stop you or get you in trouble - but that’s laughable when you’re standing next to, arguably, the most feared and respected man this city has ever seen. Standing. Why is he standing? You realize suddenly he’s still waiting for you to move.

You do as he said and gingerly sit down across from him. He retakes his own seat as you settle. How chivalrous.

“I’ll get right to it,” he starts, his deep blue eyes never leaving you, “Freddy-“

God, that name. You can’t hold your tongue. You know it’s why he’s here but you don’t want to talk about this. You just want this to be over!

“Like I told you the last time, and the time before, and the time before, and every other time you’ve asked, I haven’t seen him.” You cut him off without thinking. But you really can’t have the same conversation again. You can’t keep having to think about him. About that night. You're at your wits end - you don’t want to have to so much as hear his name again. You don’t catch yourself in the moment but it hits you when you’re done talking that you just spoke to Bucky in such a familiar way…someone walking past might wonder who exactly you are to him. Clearly you’ve forgotten your place, gotten a little too comfortable around him.

You look up from where you watch yourself wring your hand and shamefully meet his eye again. You inhale and start to apologize but he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand is on yours before you realize he’s even moving and you flinch a second late, his gentle touch already on you, stilling your nervous habit.

His eyes soften as he makes you meet his gaze, his thumb gently rubbing your fidgety hand.

You swallow hard and watch as he blinks away the previous softness in his gaze, his familiar confident twinkle back as he speaks,

“I know,” he nods, his hand still on yours. He’s closer as he leans across the table. “I found him.”

Your breath catches and your face falls. Fuck fuck fuck.

What does that mean? What does he know? You’re on the verge of having a complete freak out and god he can probably see it written all over your face. You feel a squeeze of your hand and are brought back into your body, into this very moment.

“Don’t look so sick, sweetheart,” he says, a half smile on his lips. “You don’t have anything to worry about, you or your old man.”

Your heart drops at the mention of your father and Bucky must see it because he leans closer still, now holding your hand in his. It’s strangely comforting, but more so is the look in his eyes. The sincerity there, and the hard edge of protection.

You want to believe him but you’ve been gullible before.

“I just wanna know the whole story. I know pretty much what went down, some things I think can safely be assumed, but I wanna hear your narrative, just to get the full picture and get this whole mess squared away, yeah?”

The way he’s looking deeply into your shining eyes, the intimate gaze and soft touch as it seems like he’s trying to keep you calm, you can’t speak much but you give him a quiet, “yeah.”

He nods and you feel a single tear slip down your cheek. He slowly raises his hand, and your eyes are glued to him as he makes sure you watch his movements. Like he’s trying to reach out to a scared little puppy, he reaches to gently touch your cheek. You don’t flinch but as his hand makes contact with your skin, your eyes shut as you try and suppress a shudder.

“No tears, sweetheart,” he tells you in a soothing timbre as he wipes it from your cheek. “You’re too pretty to cry over a loser like that,” he adds with a soft smile.

You shake your head, “He’s not why I’m-“

“I know,” he cuts you off. “Look at me,” he orders gently.

You do as he says and slowly meet his eye. “You don’t have anything to worry about, ya hear me? Not the police, not my men, and certainly not me. Got it?”

You know you’re staring at him like he’s crazy, but you do understand what he’s saying. It takes you a second but you force yourself to nod.

“Good.”

His touch is still on you as his eyes trail all over your face before he lets his hand slip away.

“Alright, you wanna do this tonight or tomorrow night?”

You’re momentarily stunned. You definitely don’t want to do this tonight. You just need to get through the last two hours here and then you’re headed home to unravel in your own space. But tomorrow…

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” you point out, sounding unsure.

“What,” he sniffs, looking at you once again, “you got plans?”

“I, I have work,” you answer dumbly after a second.

“Not anymore you don’t,” he says, moving to stand. “So tomorrow it is.” He walks closer to you and extends his hand for you to take, helping you out of the booth. “And you’ve got the rest of the night off.”

“Oh, I carpooled today so, I have to wait anyway,” you explain, though the idea of leaving early sounds like heaven.

“I’ll drive you. Get your things, I’ll have the car pulled around,” he supplies easily. He leaves to the front of the restaurant and you stand in your stupor for only a moment longer before you move to get your things from the back. You have a silly thought worrying about giving him your address, then remember he’s had it this entire time. And he told you you had nothing to worry about.

You’re not a typically trusting person, even more so after Fred, but there's something about Bucky. Something trustworthy, something that feels safe.

You grab your bag and let Molly know you’re leaving early and you got a ride before you head to the front to find Bucky.

He’s waiting patiently and his eyes seem to light up just a bit when he sees you coming.

Your manager is smiling tightly behind the stand as she watches you go. You feel slightly bad for just cutting out like this, but once Bucky came in, the place cleared out some, so it’s not like they’re in the midst of a rush.

You let your work worries slip away as the brisk night air hits you, Bucky holds the door for you as you exit and then opens the passenger of his sleek, blacked out Jaguar for you to get in.

You always assumed someone like him, in his position, would have a driver, but maybe that’s just not his style.

Bucky gets in and as you buckle, begins to drive off. You don’t need to supply him with your address as he heads in the right direction without a word.

It’s quiet but not unbearably so. It’s not until you’re just a couple minutes away from your place that he breaks the silence.

“I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow. I figure it’s a delicate conversation we’ll be having, so somewhere private would be better. Are you okay with going to my place? We can have dinner.”

It’s a genuine question, and the earnestness of it eases your nerves even further. He’s truly asking, genuinely concerned with your comfortability.

“Mhm,” you nod with a quiet hum. “Yeah.”

He pulls up in front of your house, the porch light on and shining because you knew you wouldn’t be off until late.

The car cuts off and you turn to face Bucky only to find him opening his door and getting out himself.

You grab your bag and follow him with your eyes as he rounds the car to get to your side. He gallantly pulls open the door for you and helps you out with care. You stand and he closes the car door before you start up the path to the front door. It’s a short walk and as you reach the door you turn to look at him as he stays beside you.

“Thank you, for the ride, and…” you trail off not knowing how to articulate what it is you want to say. Thankfully he doesn’t make you continue. He smiles softly at you.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”

You blink at him. You don’t know what else to say. You finally look away and turn to the door to unlock it.

“When you said I don’t have anything to worry about,”

“I meant you don’t have anything to worry about,” he answers you before you finish your question. “I’m gonna make this all go away, I just need to know if there’s any loose ends we need to tie up to be done with it, that’s all.”

Your eyes sting again. He makes it sound so easy, so simple.

“I-“ your voice threatens to break.

“Hey, we don’t needa talk about it right now, doll. You just go inside, relax, eat, get some rest. You don’t gotta stress a thing anymore, alright? I’ve got you, there’s nothin for you to worry about.”

“…Why are you being so nice to me?” you look at him with bleary eyes as you crack the front door open and ask the question you’ve been wondering for the past two months.

He takes a small step closer to you and gently turns your face to look at him. “Why do you expect cruelty?”

You stutter a breath as you look at him and feel the memories of the year you spent caught up with Freddy stab at you. You know why, and you’re sure he does, too. But there’s no sense of judgment coming from him, and you don’t feel embarrassed; not like the way you do in front of your mom. She’s the only other person who knows what happened, what your dad did. For you.

She never said it, you don’t expect she ever will, but you can sense the thoughts, the subtle judgement from her, especially when this all first happened. She doesn’t know the truth but you don’t have the care to tell her. Because even if what she assumed was true, it doesn’t change anything. No one deserves that.

But the truth is, you didn’t stay. The first time he put his hands on you, you were gone. He just wouldn’t leave you alone. You were together for six months at that point and they were nice, nothing overly romantic like you see in the movies, but nice. You weren’t expecting anything long lasting, marriage wasn’t even a thought. You knew he wasn’t the one, but dating was… fun. And then, one day, a switch flipped.

He wasn’t the kind, but nonchalant guy you thought he was. He was angry, like it was your fault the relationship wasn’t what he wanted, that it wasn’t more. He wanted it to work so badly, but he knew it never would. That only kept his ire burning. And so during the other six months you were ‘together’ you were really nothing close. You avoided him every chance you got and when he’d find his way in he’d always be sure to leave his mark. He kept up appearances of course, to everyone it seemed. You didn’t want to look crazy, so what were you going to say? ‘I broke up with him months ago and I don’t know why he won’t accept that. He uses me like a punching bag when he gets me alone - when he breaks into my car, my home, any way he can weasel into my life.’ He was in with the mob and everyone knew it, so even if they believed you, what the hell would anyone be able to do? At a certain point you just kind of accepted that this must be it. He’d always just be around somehow. Stories of your on and off again relationship floating around thanks to him - he wanted everyone to know that even if you weren’t together, you were together. Making it harder and harder for you in every way possible.

And then, one day, everything changed.

Now you’re here, and he isn’t.

Now you’re here, and so is James Barnes.

His warm hand is still holding your face and his thumb gently rubs your soft cheek, almost mindlessly, while he peers at you - intent as ever. That softness you saw before is back and you have to remind yourself to breathe when you notice his gaze flit to your lips. It’s brief, fleeting as his hand drops and he meets your eyes once more. He takes back his step and you watch him take a deep breath himself, the first time you’ve ever seen him be anything close to unsteady, if that’s what you can call it.

You break eye contact first, looking down to the small space between you while you push your door open a bit more, holding onto the handle with one hand.

“Have a good night,” he says, voice low and quiet as he watches you step closer yet to the door.

You look at him again then, “You too,” you bid softly, finally stepping inside.

He nods and waits for you to close the door behind yourself. As you push it shut, you catch a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then that fluttering in your belly returns again.

You turn the lock and then press yourself up against the wood, exhaling heavily.

You feel relieved and yet ten times more terrified in the very same breath.

The most pressing feeling in this very moment though is a weird kind of guilt.

You feel more for a man you’ve only known for two months than you ever did for Freddy in the entire time you’d known him. Bucky is intimidating, obviously, and you know what he does, what he’s known for; he’s a man anyone would tell you to avoid at all costs. But when he’s around, there’s this feeling you get that you just can’t shake. You feel safe around him.

He’s known for being a man of his word, and his words to you have never been anything but thoughtful and…caring. He may prod, but he’s never threatened you. Truth be told, you think maybe he’s known this entire time what really happened. Or at least that you were involved somehow. And still, he wasn’t harsh with you even once. He was doing his own investigation this entire time, of course, and if he’d wanted to get the truth from you, surely he could have- he could’ve saved a lot of time too. Could’ve even gone after your dad.

But he didn’t do any of those things. No, he’s been patient, waiting until he had enough proof without having to pry anything out of you. At the very least you were grateful for that.

Not to mention the fact that he had called you pretty. It seems silly given the circumstances, but it did warm you when the compliment hit. It’s crazy but it’s clear that you’re feeling feelings for one James Bucky Barnes. God help you.

Alongside the unexpected romantic stirrings you’re coming to terms with, the anxiety and stress of the truth you’ve been trying, and apparently failing, to keep about what happened to Freddy has been weighing heavily on you, but with Bucky’s veiled acknowledgment of it, you feel more free already.

It’d be a lie to say you aren’t nervous for tomorrow night, but it’d also be a lie to say a part of you isn’t looking forward to it, too. If for no reason other than what Bucky said; to finally just be done with this whole mess.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #mob boss!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #mob bucky barnes

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prettytoxicrevolver · 2 days ago

Text

Protector | Matt Rempe

wc. 2.1k

You decide to go on a first date on Valentine's Day but what happens when the date goes beyond horrible? You call your best friend to help save you from it.

warnings: really really mean date, mentions a concern for being drugged but nothing actually happens

So maybe going on a first date with a guy you’ve never met before on Valentine’s Day was not your best idea.

The fomo of Valentine's day has been weighing on you ever since you were a teenager. You were far from the most popular kid in school and had little luck in the love department as you worked through college. Now freshly out of college, living in Manhattan and kicking off your career, you figured now was the time to start getting out there and going on dates.

To say you have hated online dating ever since trying it would be an extreme understatement. It felt like you had been on hundreds of dates with zero success and tonight was no exception.

Your date Paul was a bit older than you, unemployed at the moment and looking for a new relationship after just leaving his ex. He met up with you at this fancy restaurant you have never been to and has so far criticized everything about you.

“Why would you order seafood?” Paul sneers, looking down at your dish. “It’s gonna make your breath smell and I don’t want to have to deal with that later.”

You’re shocked at how you’re able to keep your face neutral, at least long enough to cough out some excuse that you needed to use the restroom. You grab your purse and your phone, excusing yourself before speed walking over to the bathroom. Once safely inside, you open your phone but pause directly afterwards.

Who were you supposed to call?

You were still fairly new to the city, your best friend still lives back home, college friends were either out with their partners or out at a bar, there didn’t seem like anyone could come to your rescue. You started to think through excuses to make to Paul but fall flat.

Then, you do something you shouldn’t. You call him.

Matt was just settling into his short break from the NHL. Granted he hasn’t played a ton of games, he still reveled in a break from the grueling schedule of hockey life in general. He knew he was due back to the rangers in less than a week but for now he was content in catching up on some reading and relaxing.

Just as he’s settled into his couch, fantasy novel in hand, his phone goes off. He looks down, spotting your contact flashing on his screen and he sighs quietly. He remembers you mentioning a date for today but he can’t remember much past that.

You and Matt have been friends for about a year now and Matt has had a crush on you for even longer than that. Damn near since he got drafted to the Rangers back in 2020. You had done some on and off work for the Rangers for a while now, a side hustle job that Matt wished was your full time one so he could see you more often.

You were there the day he was drafted, stepping in for media/photos for the day and he had beat himself up for years following for not getting your number that day. When he saw you during his NHL debut it felt like fate was on his side and he made sure to introduce himself better this time.

You’ve been close friends ever since but that only made Matt’s crush on you grow stronger. He always tried to play it off but time and time again of saving you, protecting you, was hurting his heart more and more. He promised he’d always be there for you but at what cost? His heart?

Still, he picks up anyway.

“Hello?”

Your heart floods in relief at Matt’s familiar voice, a jump of butterflies adding to the mixture as well.

“Oh thank god,” you release in a breath. “I really need your help.”

Matt’s heart clenches at your words and he can’t help the way he’s already standing from his seat, walking over to where he keeps his keys.

“This guy I’m on a date with is a total creep and now that I think about it I left my drink uncovered just now and I’m scared and he keeps making weird comments and-”

“I’m on my way,” Matt interjects, anger flaring his words and you visibly relax at his response.

You hang up the phone, shooting Matt a text with the address you were at and he tells you he’ll only be five minutes. You make your way back to the table where Paul is clearly unamused.

“What? You have an emergency? You suddenly need to leave right this minute?” he asks sarcastically and you shake your head.

“No I just-” you start but he’s quick to cut you off.

“You know, a decent person would just tell someone that the date isn’t going well instead of making excuses. This is the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Excuse me?” you snap, anger rising in your chest. You had been nothing but kind and polite this entire time and all he’s done is rip into you and you were done playing the sweet and demure girl.

“Firstly, you pick this horrible restaurant. Then, you catfish me, lying about your weight and showing up looking like you just rolled out of bed. God and your personality! You-”

His rant sends you into a spiral that causes you to freeze, unable to react in any way. Your brain blocks out his next words, not sure what to do next when the decision is taken out of your hands. You watch as someone steps up, grabbing Paul by the shirt and hauling him up from his chair.

The minute Matt steps into the restaurant he spots you, your posture stiff and unwelcoming, something that sets him on edge instantly. He starts to walk over, his long strides making short work of the distance but when he hears your date's words it takes all of him not to start sprinting at him.

“You are such an obnoxious little-“ Paul continues but Matt has him by the collar of his shirt and is pulling him out of his seat before he can finish the words.

“Don’t you ever,” Matt’s voice snaps you out of your state and you stare as he pushes Paul backwards, effectively blocking him from you. “Speak to her or fuck even look at her again, or it will be the last thing you do.”

Matt is breathing heavily like he just completed a 3 minute shift on the ice and is still staring down his opponent. He’s trying to tamp down his anger but he never realized what people meant about seeing red until this moment. This rat faced looking dick was saying these things to you? Oh Matt was gonna kill him.

The restaurant is deafeningly silent after Matt’s words and you watch as Paul analyzes the situation before holding his hands up in surrender. Matt stares him down for another moment or two before turning towards you.

Matt wants nothing more than to turn and lunge at Paul and beat him senseless but he knows you and your safety are the priority. He grabs your purse and jacket before taking your hand in his other free one and pulling you out of the restaurant.

Matt drags you down the block before you finally pull him to a stop, the intensity of the moment still thrumming in your veins. Matt turns to face you, waiting for you to do or say something and you take a deep breath, running a hand through your hair. His heart leaps looking at you, wanting to pull you into his chest and hold you close so you know you’re safe but wanting to give you space to process what just happened.

“Fuck darling you’re shaking,” Matt says finally and when you look at him you realize the adrenaline mixed with the cold February weather has you shaking like a leaf. He steps forward, wrapping you up in your jacket and his proximity makes you finally take a breath of relief.

“Thank you for helping me,” you murmur quietly. Matt’s heart pounds at the words, a mix of anger, jealousy, and sadness rushing around inside of him.

Matt lets out a heavy sigh and steps back with a curt nod of his head. His warmth leaves and you’re shivering again causing you to frown.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, “Let’s get you home.”

It’s the only thing he can say at the moment, his heart and mind in turmoil. He would do anything to protect you, he knew that truth for the rest of his life. But he hates that that’s all he is to you. A protector. He needed it to stop before his heart gave out. He turns away from you and you can’t help but step back up next to him, wrapping your hands around his arm as he starts to walk.

Matt wants to shake you off but the feeling of you next to him settles his heart in an instant and he steps closer to you as you make your way back to your apartment. The journey is short and your heart seems to have settled almost to a normal rhythm now that you’re home safe with Matt next to you.

When you get to your door you unlock it and let Matt in without a word. He follows you slowly into the kitchen where you pour yourself a glass of water and just as you’re about to offer something to Matt as well, he starts to speak.

“I should go,” he mutters awkwardly and you frown at his words.

Matt knew that if he stayed here, comforted you, went as far as staying the night, the pattern would continue and his heart would stay stuck in this endless loop of hope and heartbreak. He had to get out now for the best. Even when everything else in him was screaming at him to stay.

“Please stay?”

“Why?” he cuts you off, stepping closer with an intensity that wasn’t there before.

“Why?” you repeat, confused by his question.

“I promised to keep you safe, and I kept my promise,” he snaps and your face twists to confusion. “I’m done here.”

Your heart splinters at each word, falling apart at the seams as he talks. Tears threaten to spill over, you watch as Matt takes in your expression, something unfamiliar flickering over his features before he turns away.

Matt can feel that each movement in his body is beyond forced. He has to tell himself to turn, to take a step, take another step, not look back at you and so on. He can’t handle it.

“Excuse me?” you snap and he pauses. “I’m not done with you.”

You march over to him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to face you. He towers over you, his six foot nine inch frame should be intimidating but right now it’s just frustrating. He stands in front of you, motionless, his eyes finding purchase on something behind you.

“Look at me,” you demand and his eyes flicker for a moment and you repeat yourself. Finally his chocolate brown eyes land on you and you instinctively take a breath.

“You may think you’re keeping me safe and that you’ve done your job as my protector or whatever so now you get to leave,” you start and Matt stares at you with a blank expression. “But I only ever feel safe when you’re around.”

“What?” he asks, shell shocked by your words.

“I need you Matt,” you tell him quietly. “I need you here. I need you to keep me safe. I need you to help me I just, I fucking need you.”

The look in your eyes is so vulnerable, so intense Matt can’t look away. He knows the underlying meaning to your words but he’s too scared to take the leap. He doesn’t want to be wrong. He can’t ruin this.

“Matt,” you say, breaking his train of thought. “My love, you’re all I want.”

That’s all Matt needs to hear before he’s finally stepping up to you, wrapping you up in his arms and hauling you to him so you’re face to face. His lips meet yours in a desperate kiss that has warmth spilling throughout you.

Matt felt like he was flying. He knew he was always going to protect you, take care of you, keep you safe, love you. He never realized you depended on that truth as much as he depended on living it out. He was nothing if you weren’t safe.

“I love you,” you whimper out quietly when you break apart.

“I love you,” he responds, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His promise is everything to the two of you and your heart settles gently in his hands, him handing over his as well.

#Matthew Rempe x reader #Matthew Rempe imagine #Matthew Rempe fanfiction #Matthew Rempe x you #matt rempe x reader #matt rempe imagine #matt rempe fanfic #Matthew Rempe fanfic #New York rangers x reader #New York rangers imagine #New York rangers fanfic #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #prettytoxicrevolver fic

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parker-artio · 2 days ago

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The Batfamilys ages don’t make sense.

Or me dissecting the timeline of when the bats first met and why their ages are fucked up!

This is a lot of math that I did mentally while washing the dishes, I apologize if some of it is inaccurate, but I did the best I could.

(And yes, well all know their ages are fucked up, but I realized they’re a lot more fucked up then anyone first notices)

-I am ONLY doing the main family btw-

SO-

The very first Batfamily members to meet were Bruce and Alfred, it was kinda straightforward, Bruce was a baby Alfred was around the same age as his parents at early to mid 20’s.

List of the ages so far:

(I will be doing this every time)

Alfred Pennyworth: 24 ish

Bruce Wayne: 8

The second was Bruce and Dick (obviously), but this is kinda a odd one, but it’s still straightforward, Bryce went to The Flying Grayson’s show, he saw his parents die, and Y’know he decided right then and there he was going to be a foster parent. Good for him. But Dick is mentioned to be about like from 8 to 9 here. It’s more implied that he’s 8, because it’s supposed to be a parallel thing, to Bruce, with both of his parents dying in front of him at 8- so that the age I’m going to use for the beginning of this.

Bruce was supposed to be Batman for about 2-3 years before he took in Dick, so that’s what I’m going by to assume his age. (DC admit this man is mid fourths to early fifty’s , stop saying he’s early 40’s- he’s clearly not.) So he dropped out of college pretty early on, so I’d say like 19? Then he went on his trip around the world for a year or so and ended up at the League of Assassins to where he stayed for like- 2 to 4 years before he came back to Gotham. So I’m going to use the median of 2 and 4 and get that it was 3 years. (Same with the years before he took dick in, rounding out to 2.5) therefore Bruce was about- 23.5 ish when he took in Dick. And if you do some subtraction he’s only 17 years older than Dick, which works in a basic timeline of there being a couple references to Bruce being a ‘teen dad’.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 39 ish

Bruce Wayne: 23.5 ish

Richard Grayson: 8

Say what you want, but Barbara is apart of the batfam- I know some people like to say she’s a bit like Huntress and isn’t- but to me she is. She is the original Batgirl, and is very much apart of the Batfamily to me.

So she’s older than Dick, I’m not sure how much older, but I’m her first appearance (when she wasn’t being shipped with Bruce) she was about 2 years older than him (?- I think I can’t find anything on google with any confirmation and I don’t have old comics on hand rn).

But her first appearance was when Robin (dick) was about 12-13, I’m just gonna put 12.5 for the sake of putting 12.5.

Meaning her first appearance was when she was about 14 ish. And was about- 6 years later.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 45 ish

Bruce Wayne: 29.5 ish

Richard Grayson: 12.5

Barbara Gordon: 14

The next is Bruce meeting Jason. To figure out the ages here we first need to figure out the amount of time between him meeting Dick and meeting Jason. So let’s talk about the age gap between Jason and Dick.

It’s believed that their age gap is from 5-8 years, so let’s just go to the middle and say it’s 6.5 years. Jason is supposed to be 12 when Bruce first meets him, when he trying to tirejack the Batmobile. So if we add 6.5 to 12, Dick is about 18, meaning it’s been around 10 or so years. Which actually lines up believe it or not. (The old writers could actually stick to a timeline unlike the newer ones.)

But I can’t find any older comics to figure out if Bruce took Jason in right then and there, or he saw him again about a year later and took him in then. So let’s just say Jason is 12.5 when Bruce takes him in.

Ages so Far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 49 ish

Bruce Wayne: 33 ish

Richard Grayson: 18

Barbara Gordon: 20 (This also would be post paralysis as she was 19 when it happened)

Jason Todd: 12.5

When Tim comes into the family is when it gets confusing. We’re not even starting with the first time he met the family, we’re starting back with Flying Grayson’s Show.

So, Dick as we’ve established is 8. Jason is about 6.5 years younger than him. Making Jason about 1.5 when the show happens, but a very often mentioned age gap in all of the batkids- is between Tim and Jason. As Tim was 13 when Jason died. Jason was 16. Tim was 16 when Jason came back. And Jason was 19.

It’s a three year gap, therefore, Tim couldn’t have attended that show. But I don’t think anyone did the math there, meaning that’s where the first timeline inconsistency starts to occur. But it’s okay, because in a few versions Dick was said to be about 11, meaning Jason would’ve been 4ish and Tim about a year old. Most babies don’t remember stuff that happens in this time, but it is possible, so I’ll just scratch it up to multiple different world and the writers forgetting.

But when Tim does finally meet the family he is 13, as it is right after Jason’s death when he is 16, he becomes Robin because Dick basically hands him the suit, when Tim tells him Batman needs a new Robin, and yeah.

So a three year gap. Timeline a bit messed up, but it can’t get that much worse, right? (Wrong.)

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 52 ish

Bruce Wayne: 36ish

Richard Grayson: 21

Barbara Gordon: 23

Jason Todd (assumed dead): 16

Tim Drake: 13

So the next person is always a bit confusing, some think it’s Steph, others think it’s Cass, but Cass was batgirl first, however Steph was Spoiler first- They kinda started at about the same time- so I’ll just smush em in together.

So Cass is said to be older than Jason by only months. And they both come in at about a year of Tim being Robin, putting Cass at 17, which also doesn’t line up with the timeline, as Bruce says she is 16 (I can’t find the panel but it’s in one of he 2000’s runs I believe I can’t confirm exactly) but it’s close in age, so I’ll let it go.

Steph is said to be both the same age as Tim, but other times older, so I’m going to place her at 15 here. A year older than Tim since it’s only been a year since Tim started as Robin.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 53 ish

Bruce Wayne: 37 ish

Richard Grayson: 22

Barbara Gordon: 24

Jason Todd (assumed dead at 16): 17

Tim Drake: 14

Cassandra Cain: 17

Stephanie Brown: 15

So the next is Damian- obviously.

So Damian is 10 when he comes, it’s mentioned multiple times. Yay an easy to confirm age, we love it!

Jason also comes back.

However Tim is mentioned to be 16 here, so we can easily just get everyone’s ages from doing the math from their ages previously. Most people when calculating their ages skip Steph and Cass and say it’s a six year gap between him and Tim, which does line up, but without Steph an Cass there it still fucks with the timeline a bit.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 56 ish

Bruce Wayne: 40 ish

Richard Grayson: 25

Barbara Gordon: 27

Jason Todd (now alive again): 19

Tim Drake: 16

Cassandra Cain: 19

Stephanie Brown: 17

Damian Wayne: 10

Now we’re on Duke. Which is where it gets all fucked up.

So Google says Duke is four years older than Damian, and his first appearance is when Damian is 11 or 12iah, making Duke about 15 or 16, in his first appearance. But also in this time, DC stopped aging Tim all together, they supposedly aged Cass down, and Steph closer to Jason’s age. Which fucks the whole timeline up, but let’s not get into that.

We can just go from Damian’s age to get the rest, meaning it was a two or so year gap from Damian arriving to when Duke first started in the ‘I Am Robin’ movement and soon after became Signal

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 58 ish

Bruce Wayne: 42 ish

Richard Grayson: 27

Barbara Gordon: 29

Jason Todd: 21

Tim Drake: 18

Cassandra Cain: 21

Stephanie Brown: 19

Damian Wayne: 12

Duke Thomas: 16

This is what their ages would’ve been if they didn’t continue to age Damian up and no one else, so here’s what ages they SHOULD be. (This is for you Tim.)

Since Damian is 14-15 in comics currently- everyone should be a bit older too- but DC refuses to age them up. (I’m going to use 15 just because, making it a THREE year difference.)

Ages they should be:

Alfred Pennyworth: 61 ish (I don’t care if he’s dead)

Bruce Wayne: 45 ish

Richard Grayson: 30

Barbara Gordon: 32

Jason Todd: 24

Tim Drake: 21

Cassandra Cain: 24

Stephanie Brown: 22

Damian Wayne: 15

Duke Thomas: 19

Someone needs to ask Duke how college is going, or ask Tim how it feels to drink. Maybe someone should ask Dick how a mid-life crisis feels, when you’re actually close to the mid-life age. (He’s had them before, but now he’s actually closer to the midlife age.) Have someone ask Bruce how it feels to be in his 40’s and still get called hot, to get called ‘beekeeper age’ by people- and still get voted hottest man of the year, yearly.

There’s so many untapped humor opportunities that come with their chronologically accurate ages. But DC is full of pussies.

#DCpleaseletTimage

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taelophone · 23 hours ago

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Red Rimac. Luigi Mangione x StreetRacer!Reader Vol. 1

trigger warnings ─ gambling . illegal street racing . reader is kind of mean . exclusion . "gang activty" but not really . 5k+ words . you shift POVs a lot .

StreetRacer!Reader. Moodboard. Other Parts.

Summer was a time to roam the streets from the early morning hours to the low and late strokes of night. Life was always better when it didn’t get dark until eight o’clock— at least if you didn’t have a job.

Spending hours upon hours hunched over a computer screen is not only bad for your tan, but also, the digital strain and binary brain rot tended to gnaw at the pink matter of most computer science majors' brains. Summer, in all her warm and floral glory, was a time for poor, sleepless, and programmed zombies to emerge from their cold and dark labs to enjoy some rare sunlight.

Luigi, in all his nerdy and left-brained glory, just so happened to align with the stereotype like the shimmering stars in their native sea of navy blue.

In the mornings, he lurched, his eyes hazy and unfocused as his pale knuckles clung to whatever life he had left in his soul. All-nighters soon turned to insomnia, the lack of rest stinging the whites of his eyes and attempting to force the windows to his soul shut every time he stood still for more than thirty seconds.

Life goes on, things grow and things change, and another day means another opportunity to improve himself and work towards bettering his arsenal of skills. Another day, another play.

He spent his morning getting ready for the day— going on an early morning run, sending around some emails, reading a couple of chapters of his newest addition to his near-crowded bookshelf, and listening to a couple of podcasts while he did the dishes. Just a slow morning to match the slow and steady hum of the urban neighborhood that rested just outside his front door.

Somewhere in the distant future, a slightly older Luigi is watching him right now from a memory that would feel vintage. Perhaps he's looking back and smiling proudly, admiring the dedication he had since the ripe age of twenty years old.

But when Luigi’s phone rang and Pico’s name projected itself on his screen in those thin white letters, future Luigi could only laugh and shake his head about the butterfly that fluttered into Luigi’s life, her white wings ready to create a life-altering butterfly effect.

“Yo, hey man, what's up?” He answered, pressing the speaker icon on the glassy screen.

“Yo, Pep, I found this underground racing thing slash car show. It’s supposed to have custom cars, cool bikes, helmets, slingshots, and a couple of Dylan’s classmates actually know one of the girls who’s racing today. We’re going at nine, do you want to come with us?” He asked, his staticky and slightly fuzzy voice blaring through Luigi’s phone speaker.

“Uhh, maybe? You said it’s like a car show? Isn’t street racing illegal?” Luigi asked, balancing his phone between his face and shoulder as he folded up the last components of his laundry.

“Please don't start asking questions,” Patrick sighed.

“Saying don’t ask questions when you’re asking me to go commit a crime with you is crazy,” he chuckled, his mouth coming up into a panicked smile as both of his brows furrowed with slight concern.

“It should be fine, I think…Dylan says they’re invite-only, so no snitches, plus they’re never held in the same area more than twice. It’s at a frat house an hour over, actually,” he explained.

“Pico, I don’t think this is very smart—“ Luigi began, the idea mulling over his mind again and again, juicing it dry of the sour taste it left on his tongue.

“Luigi, no offense – you don’t go outside. We need to have you outside this summer,” he snickered, and Luigi swore he could almost hear his brows rise and fall on the other line. “And let’s not pretend like you aren’t a jaywalking warrior.”

“Either they hit me and kill me, or I live. It’s a win-win situation,” Luigi chuckled, sucking in a deep breath of air as he thought about his decision carefully.

On one hand, he had a lot to lose in life. A scholarship, a good sense of moral ground, and a spot at a nice Ivy League university nestled right in the heart of the city he loved more than anything in the world.

Temptation is an evil temptress, and man has been known to fall for her tricks time and time again. Luigi was better than no man and found himself falling victim to her stirred cup of curiosity every once in a while.

He could be weak just once, he thought. After all, it seems like a fun one-time thing he likely won’t get to experience again, right?

“I think I’ll go actually…but I’m not driving, hell no,” he answered, punctuated by a small sarcastic chuckle at the end of his sentence.

“Type shit, type shit,” Patrick beamed, immediately texting Luigi his address again. “We’re gonna meet at my house, and then I’ll drive us.”

“Cool, thanks,” he nodded, listening to Patrick’s laggy and loud goodbye before they both hung up the phone.

Boop, boop, boop!

“Chris, can you get me a soda from the kitchen!?”

Your voice echoed through the hallway, bouncing off the empty walls and doing its best to maneuver through the loud vibration of Do What I Want by Lil Uzi Vert. When he didn’t respond, you huffed, adjusting your red and ivory varsity jacket before you waltzed down the hall a bit further from the bathroom.

“Chris!” You shouted, leaning over the black iron railing.

“Yeah?” He shouted back, immediately lifting his gaze from the living room couch.

“Can you get me a soda!?” You repeated.

“Absolutely not, get it yourself,” he beamed, adjusting the white rim of his red Chicago Bulls cap on his head.

“You’re evil, get out of my house…” You groaned, making your way back to the bathroom to continue finishing your makeup.

Tonight would mark your third race this summer, and your twenty-ninth in the past year. The month of June was always the slowest, but you were more than ready for things to kick off in early July.

You had been racing since just seventeen years old, ripping and tearing through streets at a pace no sane woman would ever see on their speedometer. At first, you were doing it for a rush, but it quickly became lucrative the more experience and speed you got.

Bets were made, donations flowed, crowds flocked, and cash was cashed the more you managed to claw your way through the asphalt. Your quiet and academic-driven life slowly began to sound like the inside of a crowded casino, slots clinking and money fluttering every time you stepped into the driver's seat.

You dabbed some highlighter on the tip of your nose, blending it out with the pad of your middle finger before looking over your outfit one more time. Red and ivory varsity jacket, low rise deep blue flares with large slits at the calves, a black tube top, and black Air Force Ones to tie everything together! Cute.

“When are Pink and Dhakiya coming?” You asked, making your way down the stairs to retrieve your black leather purse and a pair of glossy black browline glasses from the side table.

“Uhh…” Chris murmured, immediately flipping through his Snap to check his messages again. “Pink should be pulling up now, and ‘Kiya is gonna meet us there…she’s going with Dylan, and apparently he’s bringing some new bitches, so…” he chuckled, shaking his head in very obvious disapproval.

“You need to stop dropping addresses for him…he cannot keep his mouth closed, my fucking god…” you sighed, rolling your eyes as far as your sockets would allow before collapsing down onto the cotton fabric of your grey couch.

“Chill, Dylan’s fine. More people, more money…” he huffed, raising a brow at you before reading a text on his phone and snapping a pic of the corner of his bright green eye for a streak photo.

“Yeah, but he’s gonna get us fucking caught…” you huffed. “Who’s on lookout? Also, do we still have scanners?” You asked, flipping through your photo album titled ‘Firee’ and looking back on all the irresponsible memories you made in a car.

“Yeah. But we don’t need them anyway, we’re going to Bryce’s…playground, or whatever he calls it,” Chris nodded. “It’s good, you’ll like it. Big fucking villa, massive roads, and a big garage that can hold like thirty people.”

“That actually sounds nice,” you hummed, propping yourself up on your elbows to face Chris. “Who we driving? Pluto or Dashielle?”

“Dash, obviously,” Chris scoffed, half a chuckle lightening the end of his declaration.

He tossed the glossy, cherry-stained, and futuristic-looking key fob with your abundance of glimmery and glittery charms and keepsakes. Just as you pulled yourself off the couch, your bones cracking from slight exhaustion, the cherry oak front door came swinging open to reveal a tall and skinny young woman with a large curly black bun.

“Blitzen!! Baby!” She beamed, the golden grillz full of diamonds and spades on full display under the white fluorescent light of your living room.

You gasped, jumping up off the couch with a bright grin. “Pink!!”

You met her halfway, two steps away from the couch and two more away from the front door before you engulfed each other in a tight and wobbly hug. The woman wore a red tank top with little white bows on the spaghetti straps and the smallest low-rise jean shorts you could wear without being charged for public indecency.

Her slim stiletto heels clicked and clacked on the glossy dark hardwood floors, alerting the house to her presence as she frantically sipped the sweaty Coors Light in her hand.

“I’m so excited to be outside again!” She huffed, bending slightly at the knee as she pretended to lose her footing momentarily to signify how bored she had been this year. “Psychology was a mistake, Calnan has been killing me slowly, literally.”

“Girl…you don’t even wanna know what they’re putting me through,” you sighed, clipping your keys around your belt loop as Chris rose to his feet and stretched, his white wife beater riding up slightly.

“Alright, let’s go…the drive is like forty-five minutes, so we’ll get there at like six-twenty. You can do some donuts and show off the car,” he hummed, making his way out the front door.

You scrambled into your car as a group of three, kissing the hood of your red wheels before popping into the front seat and letting the icy breeze from the air conditioning fill the Cupid-red leather interior of your car. With Pink connected to the aux, the soles of the seats vibrated with the heavy bass and loud treble of some violent rap that prompted you into the afternoon distance.

Meanwhile, Luigi was cooped up in the passenger seat of a silver Chevrolet Camaro. The lyrics to Headlines by Drake filled the car, pressing against the glass as he scrolled on his phone to distract himself from the anxiety that rose the hairs on his arms and legs.

When they reached their destination, they saw a large Mediterranean-style home that was jam-packed with extremely extravagant cars— some were custom, built from the rims to the wings, some were customized beyond belief, and some were wrapped in various colors and textures of car wraps.

Emerging from the dim light in the back of Patrick’s car, he saw a sea of moving bodies that chatted and chirped as more seemed to nest in the bright garage. Everyone appeared to be nursing some sort of cold beverage, be it a Solo cup of mystery or a fresh can of carbonation with beads of condensation clinging to the tin.

“I’d rather not have my car get vandalized, so I’m gonna park across the street. Go in, Dylan should be somewhere in the house,” Patrick urged, a half-giddy smile on his face before he pulled his car off into the distance.

With Patrick gone, Luigi made his way up the stairs to the front porch, the sloped incline raising the greyscale home with black iron windows and ash-brown double front doors, slowly filling out more and more as he neared the front entrance.

His ears indulged in the music before his eyes took in the sight, the heavy vibration of Time Of Our Lives by Ne-Yo and Pitbull biting his ear with every word that Mr. Worldwide spent talking about his trials and tribulations. Now that he had a clear view of the front lawn and the side, his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as he saw the cars and women present.

A brunette with black roots in an all-American bikini top, the warm and humid sunset breeze kissing the freckles that ran up and down her arms as a man with a matte black helmet that had been scribbled on by many people across many timelines of his life. A McLaren 720S with bright pink glossy paint and heart-shaped rims that seemed to belong to a young lady not far from the cooler.

She, too, was dressed in all pink; from the cropped leather jacket with Hello Kitty patches all over the front, to the miniskirt that adorned her hips which undoubtedly made it impossible to bend more than fifty degrees. There were people everywhere, grillz in mouths that danced like flappers— flappers who complimented the heavy fur coats and exorbitant diamonds and gold.

If Luigi tried hard enough, he could almost match every person to a car. The flashier the vehicles, the brighter the bearer seemed to glimmer under the reddish summer sunlight.

He didn’t dare speak to any of them— not when he was dressed like an outcast with a bank balance in the negatives. By no means was Luigi poor, absolutely not— but he found himself a little timid as people walked by and looked him up and down.

He wasn’t intruding, but it was damn obvious nobody knew his face. In this new world, he had been forcibly thrown into by the eager whims of his best friend, real recognized real, and he was a very unwelcome face.

He felt like a fraud just being there. He decided it was best if he tore his eyes away from the beautiful machinery in favor of finding the actual person who permitted him to be here in the first place.

His feet carried him before his racing mind could, nearly tripping over the spilled beer cans that were hydrating the freshly mowed blades of grass. The front door was wide open— just enough to accommodate the big egos and even bigger wallets that flowed in and out of the archway.

His eyes scanned over the crowd, cherry-picking his favorite outfits of the evening as he wiggled through the hallway to the kitchen in pursuit of Dylan. There seemed to be a common theme amongst the young women in attendance— bikini tops that left very little to the imagination, or maybe the occasional tank top paired with some form of low-rise jeans.

Accessories clinked and twinkled, allowing him a moment to get familiar with what sound each person’s soul made when allowed a moment to express themselves. Dull, chunky sounds of maximalist resin bangles, sharp and starlike twinkles of gold and silver chains or necklaces, and heavy thunks of rubber soles on heels or sneakers against the hardwood floors.

He found Dylan in the west hall, a golden yellow smile on his teeth as he conversed with a brown-skinned woman wearing a red tube top with black leather split-hem pants.

“Yo, Luigi! You’re outside! For the first time in forever!” He cheered, greeting Luigi with a firm dap and an intimate side hug. “Glad to see you could make it! Where’s Pico?”

“Hey, man! Yeah, Pico said he’s gonna park across the street. So what’s going on, is this like, a party? What’s happening?” He asked, exchanging polite waves and upward nods with the woman next to Dylan.

“Hello…I’m Dhakiya,” she said, giving him a polite smile.

“Oh, yeah, this is Dhakiya, her friend is hosting today. Uhhh.., we’re waiting for Chris, Pink, and Red Rum to get here, then she’s gonna race against Half Moon…” Dylan said, the aliases rolling off his tongue and losing their way to Luigi’s brain as his brows furrowed.

“Who names their kid Pink…” he said, more of a statement than a question as he ignored the lingering stares from people who passed him by.

“Nah, her name’s not actually Pink, we just call her that…but they should—“ He began, the childish flower clips at the end of his two strand twists clinking together as he abruptly turned his head to face the sudden sound of a door slamming open.

“AYO! BLITZ IS OUTSIDE, ERR’BODY GET THE FUCK OUT!”

There was a flash of clamor, bodies all traveling in one direction as each person scrambled for a way out the door with large smiles and eager chatter.

He heard the sound of a loud engine revving, tires screeching and squealing in pain as they drifted and rubbed against the asphalt. A nasty, grim, and ghostly hood of smoke fizzled from underneath your tires.

A testament to your speed, darkened friction marks imprinted themselves on the road as you did donut after donut in the street. Patrick had found Luigi standing in shock at the top of the hill, watching as your red Rimac looped over and over in the wide road below.

Cheers and exclamations of excitement filled the air, limbs pushing and shoving as everyone clumped together to witness the speedy display. To Luigi’s surprise, a woman rolled down the passenger side window just to sit on the ledge and stick her tongue out in triumph.

She yelled, her nonsensical whoops of freedom piercing through the crowd and the now-hushed music before the glossy vehicle whipped into the large driveway.

Chris emerged from the back, and the woman in the window spun around to drop her feet on the floor with a bright, silver smile. Soon, a young woman with a red varsity jacket and low-rise jeans that hugged her up so good it restored his faith in flare jeans emerged from the driver's seat.

You emerged from your car, fanning your face free of the smoke that Chris had huffed and puffed in the back. A little bit of showing off never hurt anybody, and the crowd seemed to enjoy seeing the little figure eight of friction marks you left scorching on the road.

You smiled, watching as a familiar man with a golden grin approached you to give you daps and welcome you to Bryce’s old car workshop, or playground, as he referred to it.

“Welcome, welcome! Pep, Pico, c’mere!” He called, beckoning over two tall men in your direction.

One was much broader in the shoulders, his extremely casual monochrome Adidas hoodie adorning his trained and disciplined muscles. You definitely didn’t recognize the chocolate brown curls or the jet-black hair of the lean man with raccoon-like eyebags next to him.

“This is Patrick, and this is Luigi. They’re new…they’re my Phi-Psi brothers,” Dylan smiled, matching a name to a face as he wrapped an arm around either of their shoulders.

“I could tell, don’t worry…” you stated, raising your brows at their white cargo shorts and blue skinny jeans that didn’t scream usual crowd��or race etiquette. Stepping out of the house looking so casual was a choice— not a good one, but a choice nonetheless.

You gave them a half-nod, clutching at Pink’s hand as she joined you in looking the two men up and down.

“Hmm…well, have fun. You leave here, this didn’t happen,” you smiled, the ends of your lips forcing themselves upwards in a grin that lacked emotion in the eyes.

“Yeah, of course…I like your car,” Patrick said, eyeing up your wheels like a child spotting their first sugar fix of the day.

Candied apples, dripping with red syrup and glossed up by the sweet fading sunlight. You turned around, admiring the black wing and how low it sat on the asphalt before facing the men again.

“Thanks…” you murmured, nodding slowly before pushing your way past the three in pursuit of your opponent, Half Moon.

You found his car quite quickly, that gorgeous shade of blue-black, high wing, and as many illegal mods as he could cram into its internal organs without making a mechanic question his origins. Chevrolet Corvette Stingray— a beautiful hymn of words that purred like a well-fed kitten on the streets.

“Half Moon! What’s good, what’s good!” You squealed, eagerly jogging up to the man decorated with a matte black helmet complete with cat ears and a pitch-black visor.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only a stack of silver chains that clinked and clattered as he moved. A large moon spanned across his chest in its third quarter phase, along with one full sleeve of snakes and vines across his left arm.

His pants sagged so low you could see about twenty percent of his black Calvin Klein boxers, they poked out from underneath his black ripped jeans like a loud reminder of his careless demeanor.

“A’sup, Blitz,” he greeted, pulling you into a tight side hug and chuckling beneath the helmet. “Aye, no hard feelings, but we went like sixty to forty in the bets. I will gladly take the remaining forty people put on your car.”

”Hell nah, I’m taking all sixty home tonight. Bills to pay, tuition to fund…no hard feelings,” you snickered, furrowing your brows at his cocky and zealous statement.

“Sure…See I got respect for you, cuz you stayin’ in school, but don’t bet your future on no car…” he advised, tilting his obscured head at your ‘naïveté’.

“It’s not a bet if I know I’m gonna win, though…” you smiled, giving him a polite nod before retreating to your car with Pink.

Luigi, merely a bystander from the sidelines, watched as the man named Half Moon pulled his car around next to yours, aligning himself perfectly parallel with your candied automobile. His nerves seemed to climb by the second, despite not being involved in anything that was happening around him.

He watched as the crowd began to walk down to the road, letting you and Half Moon peel out of the driveway just as smoothly as the pair of you had pulled in. Some bystanders dragged with them some sort of chair to sit on, while some chose to stand and guzzle down whatever remained of their drink, and many clutched onto others as a man with two large trays walked around and collected fat stacks of money from each member who cared enough to bet.

With a roar of the ignition, each cold and clean-cut car seemed to spring to life on the spot. White and foggy smoke puffed from your exhaust, shots like bullets sputtering and sparking from each car’s rear as one brave woman stepped in front of both cars to set up the make-shift lighting system, something Chris had referred to in Luigi's ear as the “Christmas tree.”

His lungs had never felt fuller, and his eyes had never been so still in his life. He wasn’t exactly fond of your introduction to him, but he did have to admit your car was grabbing his attention more than he’d like to admit under these circumstances.

Each engine growled, your Rimac angry and hot like a dragon gearing up to bring fire to the front lawn. Loud, resentful, and eager to devour the purr of the quiet and kitten-like engine next to you.

If Luigi strained his ears enough, he could tell exactly what car was making what sound over the noise. Even the smoke that flowed from your vehicles was different, yours came out in a steady stream of cotton-like clouds that faded much quicker than Half Moon’s.

His heart pounded against his chest cavity, the blood rushing to his ears as his anxiety and anticipation forced his eyes forward on the cars in front of him. To say he was nervous was a criminal understatement— if at any moment the cops decided to show up, everyone was done for.

His thoughts only turned off when he saw a tall, almost hazardously skinny woman dressed in an all-white bikini and blue Moon Boots strut her way in front of the cars in a blue cropped fur hoodie that seemed to swallow her arms and head whole.

“Alright! Ladies and men, I wanna welcome you to Bryce’s playground! Three things before we get started: I need both drivers to check their seatbelts, and verify that their airbags are indeed in check! Make sure that your dash cam is on and that any potential passengers or guests are not recording at this very moment!” she announced, taking an old-fashioned pistol out of her fuzzy coat pocket.

“When you hear my pistol go off, that is your sign to make your way down from this very road down to that red barn we see in the distance!” She shouted, turning around to point at the run-down-looking barn that appeared to be no farther than about a mile. “And for my newcomers, if we have any with us tonight, we’d like to welcome you on behalf of my dear darling boyfriend, and point out that if this happens to get leaked and you decide to go tattling, we are very good at covering our tracks! That being said, BUCKLE THE FUCK UP!”

Blood rushed through your veins, adrenaline fogging your mind as your foot teased the gas oh so subtly. The car practically vibrated with the force of the engine, the turbos in your car’s guts forcing as much air in the combustion as physically possible.

She growled like a dragon, your little leather seats shaking in learned fear as you waved at Half Moon from the window on your right. You offered him a kind smile and a thumbs up before focusing on the long strip of road ahead of you, shooting up a silent prayer to any god that could protect your life as she had done many times before.

“On your mark!” Lucy said, her manicured finger teasing the trigger of her pistol with the most determined and nonchalant expression you’ve ever seen someone in her shoes don.

“Get set…”

Before you knew it, the Christmas tree flashed two green lights and the bullet had dispatched from its fiery chamber. The bang was loud enough to render the weakest of the pack deaf, weeding out the runts that found themselves hindered by their inability to recognize the call of two fanged predators ready to hunt.

Your foot slammed down on the gas, sending you flying forward as your car rapidly gained speed at an alarming rate. Two hundred and thirty miles per hour in just three point eighty-three seconds— your front wheels departed from the floor, the front of the car bearing the brunt of your speed as your opponent made a hearty attempt to close the distance that had built in such a short amount of time.

It was like watching the son of Satan chase after his father's red robes of fury; he was practically riding your ass with how close he was, but it wasn’t enough.

Pink screamed and giggled her head off, her heels kicked up on the dash as the air raided your windows and made quick work of sending your hair flying in every direction it was able. With this kind of speed and horsepower, the tightest of curls never even stood a chance.

The roar of the dragon was heard all the way back at the playground, her claws ripping up the asphalt as she flew forward in a manner that should defy the laws of physics. Her wings aided her escape as her tires came screeching at the barn, reaching her destination a mere two seconds earlier than the runt she left behind.

After the smoke cleared and the smell of scorched rubber dissipated from the air, you got out of your car to give Half Moon a firm handshake and a fist bump.

“Sorry. I’m too good at school to not be able to pay for it,” you smiled, watching as he flipped open his visor to reveal a slightly defeated but impressed smile.

“God damn, what are you feeding that thing? What mods you got?” He asked, walking around the front of your car to observe what rested under the hood.

“There’s a couple of E-turbos in there…she’s an electric engine, so I gotta treat her right,” you nodded. “You’re not gonna see ‘em under the hood though.”

“Smart girl…” he hummed, shutting the car hood with a nod. “How much was she? No way you get this while still in college…”

“Maybe two million…? But I bought it for much cheaper from a friend from school once I started getting my bread together. Chris, actually…he said he was making an investment, whatever that means,” you shrugged.

“Smart man,” he chuckled, climbing back into his car to make his way back to the playground. “I have no idea where you got the money, much less Chris’ dumbass, but I’m not gonna question it.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, returning to your front seat and giving celebratory hugs to Pink.

You clawed your way back up the hill, parking your car back in the driveway as you stepped out to the crowd thundering with cheers and celebrations. It seemed as though anyone who bet more than three dollars on Half Moon began to grow upset, groans and grunts of loss mingling in with the loud applause as you faced the orchestra of joy.

You stepped out with Pink, your tongue out in triumph as your hands motioned for more applause. If there was a time to boast and gloat, it was now or never.

You were young, rich, and played in the face of the almighty grim reaper on a day-to-day basis. Your earnings were served like cold ice cream after thrashing about in a heated jacuzzi.

The large and fat platter of cash was handed to you, featuring a couple of rings and necklaces that were offered up rather than cash that could be flipped for their value in gold. The celebration was short-lived in all its right, and you watched as the gaudily dressed individuals filed into their respective cars and hopped on bikes after retrieving photographic evidence of their whereabouts that they’d inevitably boast about on social media.

You had taken about fifty photos within the following ten minutes. Posing with girls in the tiniest bikinis, men in the darkest outfits that would be considered emo if they weren’t coupled with bright and flashy jewelry. Most people had left, and you were just left with Chris, Pink, Dylan, Dhakiya, and the riffraff Dylan had brought along.

“That was tough as shit, B! I see you! Dustin’ hoes in your lil’ candy car, okay!” Dylan praised, eagerly patting your shoulder as Dhakiya came over beside him with a fat joint between her fingers.

“Breaking Half’s streak is crazy,” she said, a bright smile on her face that contrasted her heavy lids that were pink from the Mary Jane.

“Thank you, thank you,” you smiled, giving high fives and hugs all around before Luigi and his friend came around.

“That was really cool…” Luigi murmured, child-like admiration woven in his tone while his brows shot up with shock.

“Thank you,” you smiled, nodding your head as Chris brought you over a cold pineapple Fanta.

He was new, and maybe you were being a little mean…his beady black doe eyes pulled at your heartstrings, plucking out of tune notes of empathy underneath your hardened demeanor. He was just looking for a good time, and it felt a little hypocritical to wave him off like a flea-bitten stray.

In a way, you could almost see your past self beyond the windows of his soul. Staring back at you with that same wonderstruck expression. It was hard to not offer small talk when he was just so cute…like a little dumb baby!

“I remember watching my first race,” you hummed, taking a deep swig from the aggressively carbonated drink that stung deep in your nostrils, but after being subjected to car hotboxes so sweltering that your eyes stung from the smoke, not much could affect your nasals.

“It was hell. The dude I bet on lost terribly. Then he crashed out and started yelling, but god damn those cars were sexy,” you chuckled.

You watched as Patrick began conversing with Chris and Dylan, exchanging numbers and information with Dhakiya before delving into a conversation about future car shows and any potential races coming up.

“Man, that’s rough…but you did really good! I thought your car was gonna flip backward at one point,” he chuckled. “How is your car even that fast…they said you got there in like sixteen seconds!”

“I can’t tell you,” you smiled. “It’s a secret…maybe if I see your face a couple more times I’ll tell you.”

“Oh, I see…” he beamed, his brows pinching together as he nodded down at you. “No respect for the new guy, I see.”

“Nope. You might be a fed,” you joked, pretending to pat him down for a wire.

“Absolutely not,” he laughed, shaking his head and watching as you counted your earnings from the large silver tray.

“That’s a lot of money…” he nearly whispered, watching as you counted blue-tinted hundred-dollar bills at the speed of light.

“What money?” You teased, raising a brow at him and pausing with your shuffling. “I didn’t earn any money. I got this from my safe at home…”

“Oh yeah, right, totally. I forgot, how ignorant of me,” He nodded.

“Yo! B, let’s go! Cops get wind, we’re all fucked. Don’t act brand new in front of your lil’ friend,” Dylan called.

You paused, giving the man a sly nod and a grin as you shoved all of the wads of money into your black purse.

“Maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t. If I do, don’t show up like this again,” you beamed, gesturing at Luigi’s sandals and relatively generic outfit. “And wear red…it’s my color.”

“Sure…I can do that,” he chuckled.

“Now get, before Bryce rolls up and calls the cops on you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You climbed back into your car, tossing your keys up front to Chris as you slumped in the back seat to take a hard-earned nap. Something in the atmosphere told you that you would see him again, whether it be at a new race or maybe at a local Trader Joe’s.

Wherever it was that you’d cross paths, you were sure you’d recognize those spiral curls of cocoa and his firm voice that trembled and fumbled when he spoke. And as you unzipped your purse to count your money, you let him fade into the back of your mind to become a distant memory until you’d have to put a name to his face once more.

#luigi mangione thoughts #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x you #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione x y/n #luigi mangione fluff #TAE-U’s #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione x yn #Luigi mangione x StreetRacer!Reader #StreetRacer! Reader Tae-U

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kitsune-pop · 23 hours ago

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getting back to my musky roots with this one. we got fauxcest, musk and mindbreak in this one, so pretty sure this is the pb&j of fucked up tgirl kinks

The gentle hiss of running water alongside the occasional clink of silverware make for cozy background noise as you finish rinsing the dishes, placing them in the dishwasher to finally be done with your chores for the day. Being a single mom can be tough at times, but you manage to take care of yourself and your daughter without too much trouble.

As you go to close the dishwasher you can't help but notice it seems emptier than normal, and after a quick glance through the kitchen turned up nothing you give an exasperated sigh. While you love your daughter with all of your heart, her habits can get frustrating. Namely, she always leaves dishes in her room that you then need to collect. You believe that children deserve space to grow for themselves, but you've noticed that her habits have started to shift more towards laziness than absentmindedness. She rarely leaves her room, leaves her dirty clothes all over the floor and yes, doesn't put up her dirty dishes. You suppose you should be happy her mess stays in her room.

Drying your hands on the dish towel you make your way down the hall to her room. Ever since school ended for summer your daughter tended to stay cooped up, despite your best efforts to get her to leave the house, or at least spend some time with you in the living room! Always logged on to her games, she'll spend hours upon hours in the dark, playing with her online friends. You suppose that's just what kids do nowadays as you reach her door. It's surprisingly quiet as you reach for the doorknob, but you barely pay any attention to it as you push the door open.

“Hey sweetheart, can you-” You stop short, mortified. Your daughter whips around, shrieking as she reaches for a pillow to cover her crotch, but not before you see her member standing straight up, backlit by a screen frozen on an older woman's face locked in the throes of passion.

“OMG MOM! GET OUT!” Your daughter scrambles to shut off her screen, dropping the pillow from her lap as she does and you can't help but notice how long and thick it is before you tear your eyes away.

“I'm so sorry sweetie! I didn't mean to-” As your eyes move away from your daughter's embarrassment you notice the state of her room. There are dishes stacked high on her desk, empty water bottles forming a moat around her chair. Her sheets are completely off the mattress and bunches up into a ball, and her dirty clothes are strewn about everywhere on the floor.

And then the smell hits you. A thick, cloying musk permeates the room, sticking to the back of your throat and making your eyes water. The curtains are closed, her computer is running hot, and she's clearly been at this for… a while by the smell of it. It's a powerful stink, heavy and wet in your lungs, a mix of sweat and hormones filling your senses until your head starts to spin. You barely notice your daughter has pulled a tank top over her chest and has pulled her panties up, although she seems to be struggling to keep the tip of her cock under the waistband.

“Ugh, young lady, look at the state of your room!” You take a step in the door and the smell only gets worse. “It's a complete mess in here!”

“MOM! Okay, I'll clean it, can you get OUT?!” Your daughter is red in the face and her heart is beating a mile a minute, a fact that you can't help but notice by the steady pulses from her panties. She looks panicked, and you can't help but want to soothe her when she's worked up like this.

You kick aside some old clothes as you move towards her, an older funk rising from the gym shorts making you go crosseyed. “Oh, I'm sorry dear, I should have knocked, but really! The state of your room…” Your head is spinning, the scent of musk and cum filling your senses as you get closer to her desk. She tries to block you from it, but you can see over her shoulder… a lot of tissues balled up, a half empty bottle of lube and several wet spots on the floor in front of her chair.

“Poor girl must be pent up, staying in her room all day…” You're finding it hard to think straight as you look at your daughter, who's trying to avoid eye contact with you. You gently grip her shoulders, rubbing them comfortingly and subtly moving her away from the desk. You both walk over to the bed to sit down, hoping the smell won't be so strong.

It's worse. The second you sit all you can smell, all you can taste is your daughter. You see old stains all over her bed and on the covers she's trying to to push off onto the floor, and the heady scent is like an assault on your senses. You do your best to focus, this must be difficult for your baby girl, and you need to let her know you're not disappointed in her.

Clearing your throat the best you can, you wrap and arm around her and begin to speak. “N-now, it's only natural you feel this way, sweetheart. Young women like you are of course going to be curious-” Your daughter groans, covering her face and interrupting you.

“Mom, I know what sex is, I just…” She trails off, noticing your eyes seem to be unfocused. She glances around, before waving her hand in front of your face. This has the unintended side effect of releasing quite a potent musk from her unshaved armpit, the stink assaulting your already abused nose. Rich, earthy undertones couple with a sharper, almost citrus sting make you want to gag, but the hormones mixed with the scent is starting to have an effect on you. You breathe deeply, and a quiet moan rises from your throat.

Your head starts to spin while your thoughts become muddled. You know your daughter was upset about something but… what could it be? You take another deep breath and your mind continues to slip away in the hot, heady air permeating the dim room. You start to feel warm, and let out an involuntary moan when you feel an unexpected touch on your shoulder, turning and looking at your daughter through hooded eyes.

To her credit, your daughter manages to look concerned for you even as you see her hard on continue to pulse in time with her heartbeat, a dark spot leaking from the tip of her hard cock. “Mom? Are… are you okay?” You lean forward, latching onto her words, barely understanding her. Another deep breath leaves your mind blank, mouth slightly open as you stare into her beautiful eyes. You see her flush, thinking hard before making a move. She slowly lifts up her arm, exposing her armpit, soft hairs revealed to your unfocused eyes.

You can smell it from here. You know exactly what the smell is, the sweaty musk of a girl who's been fucking herself for hours, locked in her room all afternoon while she tries to get herself off. You can't help but feel bad for her, it must have been so hard for her, this must be why she barely leaves her room, poor girl must be so pent up-

A soft hand cups your cheek, your eyes darting away from your daughter's armpit to lock with her eyes, dark with arousal. Slowly she guides your face closer to her raised arm, her plump lip caught between her teeth as she pulls you in. You follow her movements, mind empty as she pauses inches away from her fuzzy pit and watch as she takes a deep breath before moving her hand to the back of your head and forcing you into her sweaty pit.

The stench overwhelms you, smashing what few thoughts you had left into dust as she grinds your face into her pit. Your mouth opens and now you can taste it, thick and heavy on the back of your throat as you moan, pushing in even deeper, arms reaching out to grip her body so you can pull yourself ever deeper into her soft, smelly hairs. You quickly find yourself pushing her down, pinning her to her bed as you huff like your life depends on it. You faintly hear her moaning and cursing, writhing under you as you sniff as deeply as you can, needing more of your beautiful daughter's scent in your lungs. Your tongue slips out, the sweat, the stink and the hormones all coating your tongue, a salty, pungent flavor filling your mouth. Your mind is gone, and all you crave is more.

Your daughter squirms and moans under you, her hips thrusting up into your thigh as you get drunk off her scent. She pushes you off, a whine in your throat as you're removed from her wonderful, overwhelming scent. You barely process that she's pulled her panties off before they're forced into your face, one hand gripping your neck while the other suffocates you with her underwear. The stench of musk is mixed with a new smell; salty and pungent, her precum is smeared across your face as she buries you in the smell. You open your mouth, tongue lolling out as she begins to finger fuck her panties into your desperate mouth.

“Oh shit, holy fuck, this is really happening!” You can barely register the words she's saying as you moan and suck on her fingers, drool soaking into her underwear, reaching up and holding them to your face as she pulls her hand back. A heavy smack on your cheek breaks you out of your trance; your daughter's hard cock rests on your cheek, precum smearing all over you as it throbs and pulses. You go crosseyed as the smell hits you; hours or masturbation in a hot room mixed with the salty tang of cum. You drop her panties and begin to worship her magnificent cock, thick and heavy in your hands as you trail kisses from the tip to the base, stopping to bury your nose in her bush as you play with her balls.

You can hear your daughter whimper above you as you kiss back up to the tip. A spark of motherly love pierces the fog of musk in your mind; it's your duty to take care of your daughter, and she's clearly been suffering from a lack of release this whole time. Without pause you open your mouth and get to work, bobbing your head up and down, covering her hard cock with drool as you take her in deeper and deeper. The heavy weight in your mouth and the pungent flavor only intensify your need for more; you relax your throat so you can take the last few inches, reuniting with her glorious bush. Once you've grown accustomed to her girth you start to slowly slide back and forth, swirling your tongue over the bottom of her shaft as you suck off your own daughter.

You get into a frantic rhythm as your daughter starts to thrust her hips, trying to keep your throat relaxed as she places her hands on the back of your head, moaning and whimpering the whole time. She starts to pick up speed, fingers tangling in your hair as her balls slap against your chin. You start to cough, drool and precum dripping from your lips as your daughter pounds your face, the back of your throat being abused by her eager cock. Before long you feel her force your head all the way to the base, your nose buried in her sweaty pubes as she curses and whines as her cock starts to spasm and pulse. You reach up and hold her pert ass, keeping her as close as possible as she unloads her cum down your throat, the hot seed filling your stomach with warmth.

A few moments later you feel her start to go soft in your mouth and she pulls back; not a moment too soon as you gasp for air, tears streaming down your cheeks. You pant and gag, glancing up at your daughter as she looks down at you, red faced and panting. You smile up at her, pride for your daughter and joy for yourself for serving her so well overwhelming your mind as your eyes roll back in your head and you pass out.

#silly millie speaks #mtf nsft #musk k!nk #musk k1nk #fauxc3st #fauxcest #yuricest #mind break #trans nsft

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jazziejax · 1 day ago

Text

𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - David Cliff x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which David meets a woman so alluring in a place so vibrant and magnetic

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - seductiveness(???), drinking, idk really know….

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - this was supposed to be something small and one off, that why the songs I chose are basic but it turned into something more…she want even supposed to have a name but here we are. UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 7,542+

The chatter within the café was soft, the sound of ceramic dishes cloning together louder than the sound of actual voices within the small establishment. David sipped at the hot coffee from the beautifully colored mug he was given, the taste of three creamers and an unknown amount of sugars packets making the beverage just to his liking. The sun was shining through the windows of the place, surprisingly with gentle rays in the summer heat. The soft bell above the door would ring every now and then, people leaving with their order or a new person entering only minutes after the other. And although everything seemed to swell on this fine summer day, David couldn’t help but be a little down as he sat across from Margaret, sipping at his drink

“You’re talented, David.” The woman across from him said, her head tilting a little as she started in his eyes. And the man couldn’t help the way he thought she looked a little adorable any time she did that, fighting the urge to upturn the corner of his lip. “More than talented. But if we’re gonna make you the next big thing, we have to be a little more strategic.” She finished, tapping her manicured nails against the table.

David leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Strategic as in what? A gimmick? A viral moment?” He asked in a dull tone, fed up with the way the industry seemed to enjoy curated content rather than authenticity. He has all that, he had the life most artist wanted, the money at least. He just wanted to make music the people’s loved, music that spoke to others. Music that he felt was worthy. Not some pop record that he would have to preform at ‘I Heart Radio’.

Margaret sighed. “Strategic as in exposure.” She said, a small smirk on her lips as she placed her hands on top of the table. “The right rooms, the right performances, the right people.” She grinned. “And I’ve heard about this place once—Smoke and Satin. It’s supposedly the real deal. Classic jazz spot, live music, fancy dressed, invite-only type of scene.”

David raised a skeptical brow, his back still against the metal chair as he tapped his long finger on the side of the hot mug. “And you’ve been there?” He questioned.

This caused Margaret to hesitate, the pale girl opening her mouth for a response as she moved to play with her long brunette locks. “Well…” She began, her voice a little high her than before as David’s brow arched higher, his eyes squinting some. “Well, uh, not exactly. But I know people who have.” She said with an unsure laugh.

David blinked at her. “Do you?” He asked, his tone not changing from before, even at her obviously apparent lie. Margaret let out a sigh, shoulders deflecting some at her stupid attempt to hide anything from the observer man. “Yeah, no.” She said a little dejectedly. David pursed his lips with a nod, but Margaret was quick to reiterate. “But I did know a guy that lived in the apartment complex above the joint sometimes I cooks hear the music when I was in the lobby.” She tried to reassure. David just blinked at her, his eyes still slightly squinted as he brought the cup down from his lips.

“What, you used to date this guy or something?” He asked. He couldn’t help but change the subject at her words, because now he was more curious about that than the actual music spot. Plus, the tension and…situationshhip between David and Margaret was no secret, to them at least, they knew. But it was nothing serious, and the other wasn’t sure of their partner wanted it to be serious, so they were in this weird state of limbo and sexual desire.

Margaret sighed at his words, rolling her eyes at him as a don’t smirk graced her face. “That’s not important.”

“Well, I think it is important.” David slightly grinned. “I mean, I’m technically going to this man’s house. Imagine he comes downstairs to see us in his lobby.” He said, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the thought, of Margaret bringing her current “fling” to her old guys place of residence, even though they were technically waiting in this supposed renowned music spot.

“It’s gonna be fine, David.” Margaret grinned along with him. “If you stall on this anymore, I’ll start thinking you’re getting cold feet, mister.” She said, raising her brows at him before being her coffee to her lips. David jerked his head back at her, a playful smirk on his lips. “David does not get cold feet. There is nothing cold about David Cliff.” He smirked. Margaret just rolled her eyes at him, bring the cup down as David’s smile widened some more. “You should know.” He stated. And Margaret almost chocked on the hot beverage at his words, looking up into the seductive eyes of the man across from her who still held a grin.

David was doing anything to distract his mind from the stress that came with music most time, and he couldn’t help but be a little intrigued by the music spot, Smoke & Satin. He didn’t want to be just another industry puppet. He wanted his music to be felt, not mass-produced. He wanted it to be passionate and for it to have meaning. And if Smoke and Satin really had that authenticity, maybe it was worth checking out.

It wasn’t long before night came, and that’s when they had planned to visit the spot. That night, they arrived at a place called Lullaby’s Lounge, the building that housed Smoke and Satin. It looked like something out of another era—a blend of modern upkeep and vintage charm, resembling an old luxury hotel. The golden lighting from the entrance cast a warm glow on the polished black-and-white tiled floors. The place has sort of an art deco style to it, the chandler’s hanging making the place bright but calm. It was nothing like the grittier, hole-in-the-wall places David expected from a so-called authentic jazz spot. He was dressed in a normal suit, although he spiced his outfit up with a green dress shirt and sweater, giving the outfit a pop of color.

Margaret was dressed nicely as well, her long brown hair flowing down her back, dressed in a simple black dress that reached below her knees with a square neckline. They both analyzed the room as they walked in, but were intercepted by the polite voice of a man near the door. “How may I help you two this evening?” They looked over to see a ginger man, dressed in a simple tuxedo. Margaret smiled at him. “Uh, we’d like to go into Smoke and Satin, please.” She said. The man grinned, giving them a small and barley noticeable bow. “Right this way.” He said before walking before them, heading to the left.

Since the apartment and the bar were essentially different spots, he led them to an area directly parallel to the door, passing for the feminine windows until they made it to a hotels booth. Now David thought the club being there was pretty obvious for a place that’s supposed to be weird if mouth, could see the place with a simple turn of your head once your entered. But he figured it was that way to not disturb the actual residents of the complex above that were just trying to go about their day.

“Here we are.” The ginger man said, leading them to the small line outside the large, dark wooden doors behind the woman at the podium. “You two have a wonderful evening.” He flashed them a pearly grin before moving on his way, back to where he found them. David tried to ignore the look the man gave them, noticing the small eye sawing the glint in his eye. He tossed the interaction up to him assuming David and Margaret were a couple, and that was fine by him.

As they stood in line outside Smoke and Satin, the warm night air carried the distant hum of jazz from within. The line moved slowly, filled with people dressed in sleek suits, silk dresses, looking effortless out together. Margaret adjusted the long strap of her small bag, shifting onto one heeled foot. “You’re quiet.” She said softly, looking over at him.

David exhaled, eyes scanning the golden-lit entrance. “Just taking it in.”

Margaret smirked. “I doubt that, you’re never taking things in. You’re thinking something.”

David soared her a small glance, trying to hide to stop the smile that wanted to appear in his lips at just how much she knew him. His gaze then drifted back to the doors behind the hostess, trying to catch a glimpse into the place anytime another wakes in as the door was held by the tall man standing next to it. “I don’t like scenes like this.” He stated.

This caused her to raise a brow, ceasing her arms. “Scenes like what? Exclusive? High-end? Full of people who actually know good music?” She inquired playfully, causing him to cut his eyes at her. “Scenes where people think they know good music.” He reiterated firmly.

“You’re such a snob.” Margaret scoffed, though a grin was apparent in her lips.

David smirked. “I’m particular.”

She sighed, tilting her head toward the entrance. “Look, all I’m saying is—if this place is as good as I’ve heard, maybe you should enjoy it instead of tearing it apart before we even get in.”

David rolled his shoulders. “We’ll see.”

Margaret studied him for a second before nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You need to get out of your head. Have a drink. Maybe even—God forbid—have a good time.” She stated.

David shook his head, but there was amusement behind his eyes. “I’ll consider it.” He said with a coy shrug, causing the girl to let out a small laugh, both unbeknownst to the man they waited in line behind them, eyeing the two.

The line eventually led them to the front desk, where they were met with a knowing smile from the host. “Reservations?” The tan skinned Asian woman asked them, flashing them a polite smile. Margaret glanced towards David at that, a little taken aback at the new information, before looking back at her. “I didn’t know we needed them.” She said, letting out a small nervous laugh.

The host gave a polite but firm smile. “Most nights, no. But when she sings, we fill up quick.” She said, giving them a light nod.

“She?” Margaret and David asked at the same time.

“Stella Mougly.” The name was spoken with reverence from the hostess and a deep voice from behind them. Before either Margaret or David could turn around and respond to the woman in front of them, a man stepped in beside them—a tall, well-dressed figure with light brown skin, enticing eyes and an air of familiarity about the place. “Let them in, they’re with me.” He said smoothly. “You got it, P.” The woman at the desk said as she gave a playfully stern nod. The man, ‘P’, as she called him, gave her a small laugh, his voice deep as he passed the pair and moved over to the doors.

David and Margaret exchanged looks before trailing behind the man, who led them through the lobby and into Smoke and Satin. The interior was cozy—their lighting was romantic, the seats were covered in this sexy green velvet, the floors had the same polished checkered patterns as the thick stripes in the lobby. David didn’t see how such a place bled authenticity.

Their guide turned to them with a grin as they walked through the establishment. “Lucky night for you two.” He said. “I’m Pierre, the manger.” He said before turning back around and maneuvering his way though . They walked through what looked to be the common area, some people sat in booths and at well decorated tables that were wrapped in a thick table cloth. This area also seemed to be more crowded, booths lined the wall while the tables were close enough for a person to fit through.

They thought their seats were gonna be there but they continued to follow the man that invited them in, not questioning his friendly nature. Pierre passed the bar on the other side of the wall, the trio walking down the checkered path that was available in case you wanted another drink. Passing the bar, he spoke to the man behind the counter. “Wassup, Bernard.” He called out, causing the man to look up. The brown skinned man with a thick mustache smiled at him, giving him a small salute as he flashed his perfectly straight teeth with his silver grills. “Wassup, P!” He cheered before going back to mixing the drinks in front of him.

The pair behind the tall man were then led to further into the room, passing some men who opened a velvet rope for them and then going down some steps that separated this sitting area from another. This section was separated from the other, an styled a little different but still styled cohesively. The floors were a dark brown wood, matching the tall walls not covered in picture frames, records and instruments. The lighting was dim and candles sat at the center of the occupied tables, encasing them into this romantic atmosphere. There was plush red-velvet seating, chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling like golden constellations and hum of conversation mixed with the soft melodies of a live band warming up.

Margaret and David were in love with the place as is, but this section was something more. It was alive.

Pierre led them through the large room, passing people dressed to the nines and in chatting away. The man stopped a table in the center of the room, the chairs almost like small couches with how large and plus they were. They were also set up sort of like a booth, two small sofas on either side of table while the other ends held large cushioned chairs as well. “These are some of the best seats in the house.” Pierre smirked as he took a seat in one of the chairs at the end of the table, while gesturing for David and Margaret to have a seat on the plush sofa.

They sat down and almost immediately, a waiter was at their table. “Any drinks in mind?” They looked up to see the same ginger man from earlier, a polite smile on his face as she place the leather menus down on the table. Margaret and David glanced at each other since they didn’t know what the place had.

“I’ll take an a sidecar.” Pierre said, not even opening his menu for food as he looked down at the fancy silver watch on his left wrist.

“Uh, I’ll have a Negroni, I’d you serve that.” Margaret said. The ginger man smiled at her whilst nodding. “Yes, we do.” He said before turning to David, and the man couldn’t help but to see that same flint in his eye. “And you, sir?” He asked, not even bothering to write any of the drinks down. “I’ll take an old fashioned.” David stated. The bright haired man hummed. “Ah, excellent choice, monsieur. I’ll have those to you in no time, let me know when you want to dinner.” He said before drifting away from their table in the blink of an eye.

One he was gone, Pierre looked at the pair, a soft smile on his face. “May I ask the name of the two people I invited to enjoy dinner with me?” He asked as he picked up the match box from the center of the table and sparked a light, the small ember brightening his face as he leaned to light the wax sticks at the center of the table. Their attention snapped over from admiring at the place to the man’s at the other end of the table, watching as he set the atmosphere further.

“Oh! I’m Margaret.” She smiled at him.

“David.” The man said with a small smile and a simple nod of acknowledgement. Pierre nodded with a hum, sparing a quick glance down at his watch again before looking back up with a grin. “Well, welcome to Smoke & Satin, one of the best places on earth. Time spent here is more than just an event. It’s a feeling not many get to experience, so I hope you enjoy.” He said. And it seemed that checking the time on his wrist time everything perfectly, since the waiter from before being over their drinks on the silver platter. “Here are your drinks.” He said, sitting there glasses down on the crème colored cloth that draped the table.

“Thank you.” David said, making sure to give the man his gratitude. “You are welcome, monsieur.” The man said before sitting a drink down in front Pierre. “Thanks, Hughy.” The green eyed man thanked him ginger. “No problem, P.” He said before walking away. David couldn’t help but to squint his eyes as he sipped his drink, not only at the intersection between the two, but also just at the ginger man in general.

Is he…flirting with me? He questioned himself as he smacked his lips a little, savoring the smooth bourbon. The thought lingered in his mind as he sat the glass down, questioning the eyes and the doorman turned waiter was giving him, and the French word that simply meant ‘Sir’, but felt like it had a different meaning to him. They were only got a few sips into the beverage before the light around them dimmed further, causing the room hush. A spotlight flared to life, illuminating the red curtains on the stage about twenty steps away.

A smooth voice resonated through the speakers, deep and velvety as it spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have our most esteemed guest of the evening. Sit back and relax to the most wonderful, the most talented, and just down right gorgeous… Stella Mougly.”

The curtains parted.

And there she was.

She was dressed in a sheer, tiger-print babydoll dress, that thin material shimmering under the soft glow of the stage light as the music began to play. The delicate fabric draped over her body like liquid silk, giving teasing glimpses of her figure. There were specs of glitter dusted across her brown skin, making her glow like something celestial. Her hair was long and black with subtle waves in it, making her look even more exotic and intoxicated. Dainty gold jewelry adorned her wrists and neck, catching the light with every subtle movement. Her heels were like gold as well, a thin strap going across her ankle and across the ends of her polished toes.

“Ooh, la-la-la-la.” Was sung by the deep voices of the band as they eased into the song.

And then she sang.

“I did you wrong. My heart went out to play. But in the game I lost you."

"What a price to pay.” As she sung that last part, the lights became a little brighter to show the men that were singing as they played the instrument behind her. She smiled as she spared them a quick glance before going back to singing.

Her voice—soft, sultry, effortlessly controlled—wrapped around the melody of 'Ooh, Baby, Baby' by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles. The live band played in the shadows behind the spotlight, letting her be the centerpiece, the guiding force.

“I'm cryin'. Ooh, baby, baby. Ooh, baby, baby.”

She moved with ease, swaying with the music as she glided across the stage in a slow pace. The band’s harmonies rolled like smooth waves beneath her voice, their presence steady but never overwhelming. Stella’s sultry tone melted into the melody, drawing the audience into her grasp as effortlessly as a siren luring sailors to sea. She moved with intention—each step, each glance, each soft note weaving an intoxicating spell.

“Mis-takes, I know I’ve made a few,” She crooned, her voice dipping into a gentle rasp that sent shivers down spines. She reached out towards the crowd, her nude colored nails catching the dim glow of the chandeliers above. “But I’m only human, You’ve made mistakes too…oooohhh.”

The hush in the room was thick with longing. Conversations had faded into whispers, drinks were momentarily forgotten. Eyes followed her every move as she sauntered toward the grand piano at the far end of the stage, closer to the crowd. “I’m cryin’,” She sang again, this time softer, letting the words linger before rolling into the familiar, aching refrain. “Ooh, baby, baby…”

The pianist’s fingers ghosted over the keys, his touch delicate yet assured. Stella trailed a fingertip along the glossy black surface of the instrument as she circled it, her dress shimmering under the low lights.

“Ooh, baby, baby,” She repeated, her voice like warm honey, eyes lidded as she let the music carry her, eventually making her way atop the grand piano at the edge of the stage the the help of a hidden step stool.

“I'm just about at the end of my rope.” She sung into the microphone as she came into a resting position upon the sleek instrument effortlessly, leaning her weight on her right hand while her legs were thrown to the side in a seductive crossing. A small bouquet of roses sat at the center of the piano, wrapped in a satin gold bow. “But I can't stop tryin', I can't give up hope.” She continued, her eyes flickering over the crowd she could barely see due to the bright light beaming down in her.

David was entranced.

The world blurred. The chatter of the audience, the clinking of glasses, even Margaret beside him—it all faded. There was only her. He watched as he pulled a rose from the bundle before her, the dark red a nice contrast to her honey skin that glistened with her every movement.

“ 'Cause I feel that one day I'll hold you near.” She sung, her voice lifted highly match that of dear Smokey as her eyes drifted to the young man playing with focused intensity. He faced up at her, flashing her a large white smile that complimented his deep skin well. “Whisper, "I still love you. Until that day is here.” She sung softly as she leaned further towards the man the played the piano before her, letting the petals of the flower brush against his lips before trailing it down. She ran the flower along his chest that was covered by the black and white tuxedo.

“I'm cryin'.” The pianist stole a quick glance at her, his fingers never faltering but his ears burning red. Her heels dangled, catching the light, and the faintest hint of perfume drifted toward the pianist, who was doing his best to keep his focus on the music rather than the woman now practically lounging atop his instrument. A smirk tugged at her lips as she leaned closer, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he noticed her lingering presence.

She was practically laid out on top of the instrument now in order to tease the musician.

“Ooh, baby, baby,” She cooed one last time, drawing out the final note, her voice floating like smoke, lingering even as the music faded. With a teasing smile, she let the flower drift lower as she turned over onto her back, its stem tracing the air just above his knuckles. He flinched slightly, barely suppressing a flustered chuckle, his dimples making an appearance as he tried to shake it off. “Ooh-ooh, baby, baby. Oo-hoo-ooh, baby, baby. Ooh-ooh.” She continued to sing, laid out on her back as one of her legs bent at the knee, her full body shining under the spotlight.

A beat of silence followed before the applause erupted, a mix of whistles, cheers, and appreciative murmurs filling the room. David blinked at it ended, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was hiding as she small smile graced his lips before he began calling along with them. The lights the shift off again, encapsulating them in darkness as they waited for the next act.

"Ladies and gentleman, welcome, The Midnight Muses." The lights slowly brightened as the unmistakable drumbeat of Be My Baby by The Ronettes began, that iconic, heart-thudding rhythm filling the air. A hush fell over the crowd, anticipation thick as smoke in the dimly lit lounge. There, with a soft glow illuminating the stage, Stella stood—standing tall at the center, draped in a new black boa that had to be given to her in the darkness, her presence commanding yet effortlessly elegant as she danced along to the thumping beat before they began.

To her left, slightly behind, stood her backup singers, dressed in matching black baby doll dresses. Their silhouettes were sharp, their high ponytails swaying ever so slightly as they moved in perfect synchronicity.

“The night we met, I knew I needed you so. And if I had the chance, I’d never let you go.” Stella sang, her voice warm and inviting, wrapping around the melody like silk. The boa curled in the crook of her elbows, its feathery texture contrasting against her smooth skin. Her backup singers swayed, their harmonies tight, a perfect echo to her lead. “So won't you say you love me?” She continued, following the same choreography as the girls behind her, being her arms out in a pleasing motion. “I'll make you so proud of me. We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go.”

Her eyes flickered across the crowd, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she shifted her grip on the boa, her fingers brushing against the soft feathers as the chilies dropped. “So won't you, please.”

“Be my, be my baby.” The girls behind her sung, their voice harmonized perfectly, the sound soft but powerful.

“Be my little baby?” Stella continued, her voice capitulating the perfect raspiness of Ronnie Spector. “My one and only baby.”

“Say you'll be my darlin'.”

“Be my, be my baby.”

“Be my baby now (My one and only baby) Whoa-oh-oh-oh.”

Then, as the music swelled, she took her first step down the stage’s grand staircase. She moved slowly, purposefully, letting the song breathe as she descended into the audience.

“I’ll make you happy, baby, just wait and see, For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three.” She promised, each note carrying a teasing lilt as she eased onto the dining floor, the crowd clapping along, enchanted by her presence among them. She trialed her fingers along some propels shoulder as she passed them, singing powerfully within the audience.

David was watching, his eyes never leaving her, even as he took a large sip from his glass, gaze trained on her at her over the brim as she moved within the crowed. And he could’ve sworn her eyes caught his as she continued to sing. “Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you. You know I will adore you 'til eternity.”

From the moment she stepped off that stage, his eyes never left her. He leaned back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of his chair, but his body was taut, his focus razor-sharp.

And then before he could even think about it—she was there. At the same table as him, singing her beautiful song. She draped an arm around Pierre, offering him a soft smile through her singing before slowly dragged it away, her soft hands growing over his expansive suit.

She then sifted around the table, leading to the boa trailed along David’s shoulders, a feather-light touch against his skin. His breath caught, though he masked it well. The world around him dimmed, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing. Her voice—low, sultry, hypnotic—wrapped around him like the boa itself, pulling him deeper into her gravity.

“So won’t you, please…” She continued as she pulled the black scarf around the man, whose eye didn’t leave her once. The words curled between them, her eyes locked onto his. “Be my, be my baby?”

David’s lips parted, but he said nothing, just watching—captivated, mesmerized.

She was singing to him. She had to be. He knew it. He felt it.

“My one and only baby,” She crooned, the intensity of their eye contact sending a charge through the space between them as the Blake scarf slowly forged from his figure. “Be my baby now!”

Then—just as quickly as she had ensnared him—she was gone.

She turned on the “Whoa-oh-oh-oh!” spinning away, leaving nothing but the lingering warmth of her presence and the faint scent of of jasmine as she moved through the tables and back to the stage.

The crowd erupted, their cheers filling the lounge as she hit the final notes, her backup singers right in step, harmonizing flawlessly until the music came to a dazzling close.

A thunderous applause followed, whistles and calls of her name ringing out as she stood center stage once more, soaking it all in.

And David—David sat there, still feeling the ghost of her boa on his shoulders, still hearing her voice in his ears. For the first time in a long time, the infamous playboy was at a loss for words.

Stella smiled, radiant and full of life and she waved and bowed to the crowed with her singers next her. She then turned to blow kisses to the band behind her. The stage lights dimmed again, bringing everything back to its romantic atmosphere as she gave the crowd another playful wave before disappearing backstage.

Pierre turned to them with a deep chuckle, still elated from the small performance as he watched David and Margaret‘s expression. “She gets to you, huh?”

Margaret exhaled. “She’s incredible. That was… effortlessly amazing.”

David frantically blinked, still processing. “She’s a true performer. But more than that—her voice is clean. You hear how she bent those high notes? That’s a real soprano, but she’s got jazz in her chest. Her breath control is crazy.”

Pierre’s grin widened as he slightly arched a brow at the man adjacent to him. “Well, look who knows there stuff.” He said with a small smirk, gesturing to David as he glanced at Margaret, who shared a small smile with the man as well. “I told you. Smoke and Satin isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling. The history here is deep.” He said, sitting up more in is seat as he began to explain the lore of Smoke and Satin, not caring if they didn’t care to hear.

“As you can tell by walking in, Smoke and Satin is the restaurant/ jazz bar, connected to the apartment complex that we call The Lullaby’s Lounge. The complex was actually the first black owned business in Los Angeles, which sort of gave it an easy target for racism, especially being in closer to white neighborhoods of that time. All people tried their damndest to turn this into another example of a ghetto, white people to love a point that all blacks were alike while black people thought the others that lived there were saditty and sell outs. Not long after all their attention since opening, the establishment gained a lot of traction.” He stated.

“It soon became a place of refuge during the civil rights era. Rallies, meetings, after school programs, different practices, hell, church, were all held at this building at some point. Right in that room over there.” He said counting over to the lit section that the pair had to walk though to get to the section they were in. He then gestured to the room they were sitting in. “This little VIP-esque section was actually hidden. It was a secret jive joint that brought in black folks from all over. A place for grown folk to unwind from their hard days of trying to gain freedom. This room would hold everything from poetry to swing dances. It’s a place of comfort for the community, and it still is in way. The owners still live in the building to this day.” He explained.

David and Margaret blinked and gaped in astonishment at the life history they were sitting in, getting to experience.

“Time passed and this section became a restaurant, a cover up for the secret room in the back when cops started snooping around just because they wanted to. It then became really popular among famous jazz musicians and Black Hollywood elites of that time, and it never really lost its touch. The shtick of the exclusive word of mouth thing was something that rich people enjoyed.” He explained, his bright eyes drifting between the two as he told them the run down. “Traction didn’t start becoming what it was with reservations and stuff until Lady Stella showed up.” He said, not missing the way David’s eyes seemed to glint at the sound of the woman’s name.

“She was getting major attention for not only her voice. I, on the other hand, started out working here as a creek receptionist, but I’ve been a loyal customer from the beginning. My parents took me to Lullaby’s all the time growing up, that’s why when business stated getting more than serious around here with how money Stella was bringing in, I was allowed to take over to help the elderly owners run things smoothly. And that’s essentially how Smoke and Satin became what it was today, though I would owe majority of my thanks and graduations to Stella for that.”

Margaret and David listened as Pierre explained the history of Lullaby’s Lounge—how it was the first Black-owned housing complex in Los Angeles, how it became a refuge during the Civil Rights era, how jazz legends and Hollywood’s Black elite once filled these very booths. And how Stella, in many ways, revived the magic.

Pierre then smirked. “This place only comes to you when you need it, not when you just want it, die to his rich history. I like to call it magic sometimes.” He said.

Margaret leaned forward, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her glass as she took in Pierre’s words. Her expression was one of quiet awe, her usual sharp demeanor softened by the weight of the history he had just unraveled. “That’s… incredible.” She murmured, glancing around the lounge as if seeing it with new eyes. “I mean, I knew this place had a vibe, but I didn’t realize it was history.” She then smirked, shaking her head slightly. “And magic? That’s a hell of a way to put it.” She glanced around the lounge, her gaze landing on the framed photographs lining the walls. “I’ll admit, though… this place does feel different.”

David, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, absorbing it all in his own way. His gaze drifted across the room—from the framed black-and-white photographs on the walls to the way the candlelight flickered against the mahogany wood. He exhaled, a slow, measured breath, through his nose, drumming his fingers against the table. “So, what—you think certain people just end up here for a reason?” His tone was casual, but there was something thoughtful beneath it. He doubted he believed the useless tale for even a second, but why did he wait for a reasonable response from the man. Why did he sound curious?

Pierre leaned back in his chair, nodding once. “Something like that. People don’t just stumble into Lullaby’s Lounge. They find it when they need it, even if they don’t realize it.” He gestured around. “That history, that energy? It sticks. And somehow, it knows when to pull the right folks in.”

Margaret studied Pierre for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know if I buy all that, but I do know I don’t wanna leave anytime soon.” She took another sip of her drink, looking satisfied.

David chuckled, shaking his head as he pushed his chair back. “Well, I guess we’ll see if I start feeling enlightened after a bathroom break.”

Pierre smirked knowingly. “You might.”

David shot him a look but didn’t press. Instead, he stood, rolling his shoulders before heading toward the back of the lounge, weaving through the tables as the warm hum of conversation and music followed him.

David exited the lavatory shortly after entering and a good wash to his hands, but he wasn’t quite ready to return to the table yet. Do instead, he made his way to the long, mahogany bar that lined the far wall, lining up with the same bar in the upper lounge, the bars connecting with a small set of store and separated by a tiny wooden door that stopped at hip height. His trudge over to the bar with the lit counter top was slow, his hand in his pockets as he contemplated what drink to order next, and questing if he should get food.

And that’s when he saw her. The ethereal being from the stage.

Stella.

Up close, she was even more stunning. The slights sheen of sweat on her collarbones from dancing under that beaming light, the slight smudging of her mauve lipstick—signs of a woman who had just poured her soul into a performance. She leaned against the bar, stirring her drink absentmindedly.

David wasn’t one to freeze up, so before he could even think about he it, he was at the bar standing next to her as he ordered his own drink. He did a double take the at same ginger man, Hughy, behind the bar, mixing up drinks. Hughy glanced up at him with a small smile and an arched brow, waiting for his order. “A Black Orchid, please.” He stated—a rare, moody cocktail with an air of mystery, much like the man himself. The choice catching Stella’s attention just enough for her to glance over.

Hughy brows raised in surprise before he finished the drink he was making for a man at the other end of the bar and began to work on David’s. Hughy’s eyes then drifted to the singing woman who glanced over at David, a small smirk drifting upon his features.

The drink arrives in a sleek coupe glass, its deep, inky purple hue shimmering under the low bar lights. A single black orchid petal floats delicately on the surface, almost too perfect to disturb. The scent carries hints of dark berries, aged rum, and the faintest trace of smokiness, intriguing yet smooth. He was quite surprised they even had the drink, not many places did.

Stella, perched gracefully at the bar with her own drink in front of her, watches as he lifts the glass to his lips, ones she couldn’t help notice the plumpness of. Her curiosity is piqued not only by the drink, but as well as the handsome man’s next to her. .

“That’s not on the menu.” She remarks, voice low and velvety as she looked over at him, her head rested on her arms lazily, giving her this sultry look as she gazed at him.

David softly grinned, taking a slow sip as he looked over at her. “It didn’t have to be. I hear you can order anything at this bar.” He said with a simple shrug. Stella nodded at that with a subtle hum that he could barely hear over the music and chatter that filled the vibrant atmosphere, causing him to lean closer subconsciously. “So, this is your first time here?” She asked. David, who was now closer to her just nodded, looking her in the eye. Stella blinked as she looked into his eyes, his taller frame making her catch the candle lights flickering in his eyes.

She then tilts her head with a small and curious smile, amused. “So what’s in it?” She asked, softly jutting her head to the drink. David blinks from their small staring trance, looking down at the drink and sailing the skinny black stew lightly, the ice shifting against the glass. “Dark rum, blackcurrant liqueur, a little vanilla, and just enough mezcal to keep it interesting.” He leans slightly toward her, his voice dropping just enough. “Not too sweet. Not too bitter. Just…balanced.” He said, looking her back in the eye.

Stella watches him for a moment, her own smirk forming. “Profound taste, monsieur.” She said, giving the man a small clap. David’s brow twitched at the familiar word he’s been called all night, causing his eyes to glance up at the bartender, who was now gone and replaced by a woman. His eyes furrowed slightly at the disappearing act the ginger man kept pulling, but didn’t dwell on it due to the fact that he was speaking to someone. “You speak French?” He asked, looking back down at Stella, noticing her perfect accent when she said the word.

“No, not if you want to count the required class I took in college.” She said with a small smile, this one far more genuine and amused as she watched David laugh a little her her. “But fancy people like you usually love it when someone else pulls out another language. It’s good for business.” She said with a small shrug.

“Well, no business on my side, because I am far from fancy.” He said before bringing his glass up to take another sip. Stella arched a perfectly shaped brow at him, causing him to shrug a little. “I try.” He added, causing the woman to smile with a nod, now agreeing with him.

He waited a beat before speaking, watching as she never once sipped from her own drink, just slinking the beverage around as its ice melted in the ball round glass. “That was… unreal.” He said softly, causing her to look back up at him. She blinked with a glint of confusion. “Your performance.” He stated. “It was really good.”

Her smile turned soft as looked at him, but he could see something unreadable. “Thank you.” She said softly.

David leaned against the counter, tilting his glass slightly. “Most people hear a song. And even though those are basic classics, I felt those. It was like hearing it for the first time all over again.” He explained before taking another sip of the drink that was starting to make him buzz some.

His compliment made her smirk over at him. “Ah, are you a musician?” She asked.

“Something like that.” He shrugged as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “You’ve got crazy control. The way you flipped those transitions—seamless. And your band? Tight as hell. You got them playing behind you like it’s second nature.” He began again. And now, Stella looked at him. Really looked at him.

Most people gave her the same rehearsed compliments—“Your voice is amazing,” or “You’re so talented.” But him… he paid attention. He listened.

She finally took a sip of her drink, mainly out of pure nerves of being under his intense gaze and heavy compliments, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer. “Sounds like you know your stuff.”

David chuckled. “Gotta know what you’re talking about when you’re in the game.”

That piqued her interest. “So you are a musician.”

He smirked but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised his glass in a small toast. “To real music.”

Stella watched him for another second before clinking her glass against his. “To real music.”And just like that, the air between them shifted. It had already been thick, humming with something unspoken, but now? It was stronger. More certain.

Neither of them wanted the moment to end.

But it had to.

David glanced over his shoulder toward the table where Margaret was still waiting, Pierre now missing as well, which was understandable since he was the manager. With a slow exhale, he straightened up, setting his glass down on the bar.

“I should probably get going.” He said, though he didn’t move right away and his voice didn’t sound too convincing to either of them. Stella blinked out of the trance the handsome man had put her in, nodding at his words but there was something reluctant in the way she did it. “Yeah.” She said softly, just now realizing that his close proximity had her entrenched within his dark amber and smoked vanilla scent.

Neither of them moved.

For a moment, it felt like the whole lounge had quieted, as if the world had carved out a small space just for them, just for this moment as they started at one another, trying to end the night.

Finally, David forced himself to step back. “Guess I’ll see you around, Stella.”

She blinked, realizing then—she didn’t know his name. “Guess so.” She said softly. And before she could ask, he had already turned, disappearing into the dim light of the lounge.

And as he walked back toward his table, the strangest thing hit him. Margaret was still waiting. The woman he was in a situation-ship with, the woman he had come here with.

And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty of the time he waisted with another woman.

Not at all.

@gwenda-fav @neighbourscat @saturnville @nayaesworld @planetblaque @becauseimswagman1 @theclownmimi @vile-harlot @notapradagurl7 @saltburnsworld @imsohappyilovekpop @jazzycool30

@kaylaahisthebestest- @mccteez @officialthrad @irishmanwhore

#davidcliff #the high note #david cliff x reader #david cliff x blackreader #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr x black oc #kelvinharrisonjrfanfic #kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr x black reader #kelvin harrison jr. fic #kelvin harrison jr. x reader #kelvin harrison jr x black!reader #kelvin harrison jr x reader #David Cliff x Black!Reader

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forevamark · 3 days ago

Text

4. the unbearable truth | time lapse l.mk

Pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

Tags: pre idol debut to idol au, christmas and new years time line, slice of life moments, college student reader, substantial plot leading to smut, very dialogue heavy, angsty moments, slow burn, relationship struggle, lovers to exes to lovers

Intended for 18+ readers, minors do not interact.

masterlist for time lapse

previous ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next

Word Count : 5.5k+

Summary: Mark has always had the dream of becoming a big music star, meanwhile your aspirations lied with academics and coexisting with Mark. Mark struggles with telling reader that he will be leaving for Korea to pursue his music career very soon, in fear of losing what they have.

warnings are under the tab for chapters that apply.

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! I'm trying to graduate rn just like y/n :( but enjoy the angst train!!

December 14, 2023

The creak of the old wooden floors under Mark’s socks was a sound he hadn’t realized he missed until now. The familiar scent of his mom’s cooking wafted through the house, mingling with the faint lavender detergent she always used for the curtains. He leaned against the kitchen counter, watching his dad flip through a worn photo album at the dining table.

“This one’s from the camping trip back in 2015,” his dad said, tilting the album for Mark to see. The photo showed a group huddled around a campfire, their faces lit by the warm glow. Mark was in the middle, arms slung around someone who was laughing—someone who wasn’t supposed to still make his heart twist like this.

His mom glanced over his dad’s shoulder and immediately caught her slip-up. “Oh, Mark, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Y/N was in this one,” she said, her voice tinged with regret.

Mark forced a small smile, waving it off. “It’s fine, Mom. Really.”

But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

They moved on to the next page, yet the conversation seemed to circle back to you, no matter how much they tried not to.

“Oh! Remember that Thanksgiving when Y/N helped me bake those carrot cookies?” his mom said before catching herself. She winced. “I mean—uh, anyway, you used to love that carrot cookie recipe.”

Mark exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I remember.”

His dad chuckled, oblivious. “She was always such a great sport about all your mom’s baking experiments. You two used to make a good team in the kitchen.”

“Dad.”

His father finally looked up, realizing his mistake, and his face softened. “Sorry, son. I know it’s... a touchy subject.”

Mark shrugged, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It’s fine. Let’s just... talk about something else.”

The room fell into a brief, awkward silence, broken only by the clatter of dishes as his mom set the table. After a moment, she sat down across from Mark, her expression unusually serious.

“Mark,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “I know we keep slipping up, but... maybe it’s because we can’t help but associate so many happy memories with her. She was such a big part of your life. And I think—maybe—you miss her, too.”

Mark stiffened, his gaze dropping to the table. “Mom...”

“And not just her,” she pressed. “I think you miss a lot of things. Home, maybe. The simpler times. The you who didn’t have so much pressure on his shoulders.”

His jaw tightened, and he let out a slow breath. “I’m fine. I chose this path, remember? I wanted to go to Korea, to chase my dreams. And I’m doing okay.”

“You are,” she agreed, her eyes softening. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And it doesn’t mean you don’t feel lonely sometimes.”

He looked up at her, his defenses cracking under the warmth of her gaze. “I... yeah. I miss her. And I miss home sometimes. But leaving was something I had to do, Mom. I couldn’t stay here and wonder ‘what if’ my whole life.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But it’s okay to miss what you had, even while you’re building something new. It doesn’t make you any less brave or successful.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, the weight of her words settling over him. “I guess... I’ve just been trying not to think about it. About her. Or what I left behind.”

“You don’t have to bury it, honey,” she said. “Feel it. Remember it. And then let it be part of what drives you forward, not what holds you back.”

Mark nodded slowly, his chest feeling a little lighter, though the ache remained. Maybe it always would.

The table was quiet for a long moment, the hum of the old fridge filling the space. Mark sat there, his fingers gripping the edge of his chair as his mom’s words echoed in his mind.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but instead, a choked sound escaped. He quickly looked away, blinking rapidly as the pressure in his chest grew unbearable.

“Mark?” his mom asked softly, leaning forward.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. But his voice cracked, betraying him.

Before he could stop himself, his head fell into his hands, and the tears came.

“I miss her, Mom,” he said, his voice muffled but thick with emotion. “I miss her so much.”

His mom was at his side in an instant, her arms wrapping around him. She didn’t say anything, just held him as he let everything out.

“I miss everything,” he continued, his words spilling out like a dam had burst. “I miss sneaking into her house at night, trying not to wake her parents. I miss the way she’d laugh at my stupid jokes, even when they weren’t funny. I miss how she’d make me feel like I could do anything, like I was invincible. And I miss home—your cooking, Dad’s dumb stories, the way things used to be before I left.”

His shoulders shook as he let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists. “I thought I could just leave and be okay, but I’m not. I’m not okay, Mom.”

She rubbed his back soothingly, her heart breaking for him. “Oh, Mark... it’s okay to feel this way. You’ve been holding all of this in for so long, haven’t you?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I thought I could just keep moving forward, you know? Like if I focused on my career, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But every time I think about her, it feels like... like I can’t breathe.”

His dad, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “You know, son, sometimes the things we try to leave behind have a way of sticking with us. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It just means it mattered.”

Mark wiped his face with the back of his hand, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “I still love her, Dad. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

His dad nodded, a small, understanding smile on his face. “Love like that doesn’t just go away. But the question is—what are you going to do about it?”

Mark looked up, his eyes red and glassy. “I don’t even know if she’d want to hear from me. It’s been so long. What if she’s moved on?”

“Maybe she has,” his mom said gently. “But you’ll never know unless you try. And even if she has, at least you’ll have said what’s in your heart. You deserve that closure, Mark, whether it’s a new beginning or a final goodbye.”

He let those words sink in, the weight of them settling alongside the ache in his chest. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to think about the possibility of reaching out—not just to her, but to all the parts of himself he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mom squeezed his shoulder, her smile warm and reassuring. “That’s all I ask.”

“You’ll always be tethered together you two,” she starts with a warm smile, “you two spent so much of your lives together, it’s not good to keep them buried. It’s good that you still care about her. I know it may not look like it, but deep down she’s still tethered to you.”

And as Mark sat there, the smell of his mom’s cooking filling the room and his parents’ presence grounding him, he realized that maybe it was time to stop running—from his past, from his feelings, and most of all, from her.

“I need to get her back,” he said straightening out his posture and composing himself, “this isn’t right without her.”

“There we go Mark!” his dad said while getting up to hug him, “you don’t give up.”

Mark was going to your graduation, and you were going to fall back in love with him.

December 15, 2023

The morning light streamed through the curtains, illuminating your small apartment with a soft, golden glow. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, your graduation gown draped over your shoulders. Your fingers smoothed the fabric absently, your heart caught somewhere between excitement and an ache you couldn’t quite ignore.

Your gaze shifted to the black cap resting on your desk, its surface decorated with tiny, carefully arranged rhinestones and a bold quote in gold lettering: hello, future!

Mark had insisted on helping you with it, staying up late one night despite his own schedule being packed. He’d teased you for picking a simple quote but still carefully glued each gem, making sure it was perfect. You remembered the way his face lit up when you two finished, his arm slung around your shoulders as you admired your work.

You bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry.

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the cap over your styled hair. Your eyes caught the delicate heels on the floor, pristine and elegant, a stark contrast to how you felt inside. Mark had worked overtime to save up for them, presenting them with a goofy grin and a note that read, For my rockstar, who shines brighter than any stage light.

Your chest tightened as you slipped them on. You hadn’t worn them since your breakup.

Walking into the living room, you froze at the sight of the couch. It was still the same soft, slightly worn piece of furniture where you two had spent countless nights. The memories flooded in uninvited: Mark sprawled out with his guitar, humming softly while you reviewed her notes; the way he’d throw a blanket over you two as you drifted off during late-night study sessions; the quiet comfort of his presence as you dreamed of your futures.

Your throat closed up, and you sank onto the couch, your fingers tracing the armrest. A small brown stain reminding you of your favorite take out, and the small things that only Mark would know at the perfect time.

The weight of the moment hit you all at once.

You were about to graduate, something you had both worked so hard for, but he wasn’t here to celebrate with you.

As you rested your head against the cushions, your cap slipping slightly to the side. Tears welled in your eyes, and this time, you didn’t fight them.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this without you,” you whispered into the empty room.

Your voice wavered, breaking under the weight of emotions you’d kept buried for months.

You missed him—more than you wanted to admit. Mark had been there for everything: your late-night breakdowns, your victories, your dreams. And now, as you stood on the brink of achieving one of their shared milestones, the absence of him felt unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, you straightened up, brushing away your tears. You reached for your phone and opened the private photo gallery, scrolling through old pictures of you two. There you two were, smiling brightly, you in his hoodie and him grinning as he held your favorite drink in one hand and peace signs in the other.

Your thumb hovered over his contact, the familiar name staring back at you like a ghost of the past. You wondered if he was thinking about you today—or if he even remembered the cap, the shoes, the promises you made on this very couch.

Your phone buzzed suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. It was your photographer, letting you know they were ready to start.

As you stood, taking one last look around the apartment, the memories lingered, but so did your determination. You adjusted your cap, forcing a small smile in the mirror.

“Here’s to moving forward,” you murmured, even as your heart whispered,

But I still miss you.

With that, you grabbed your bag and stepped out the door, leaving behind the echoes of a love she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully let go of.

–

The sun was unforgiving as it bore down on the packed university auditorium, the air abuzz with excitement and the murmur of proud families gathered to celebrate their graduates. Seungcheol sat near the top of the auditorium, nervously adjusting the collar of his white button-up for the hundredth time. It was already perfectly straight, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting. He glanced down at the bouquet of flowers in his hand—roses, lilies, and baby’s breath, a group of flowers he bought from Winn Dixie.

“She’s going to love these,” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked conviction.

Nearby, your family huddled in a tight circle, their expressions a mix of anticipation and mild irritation as they avoided looking his way. He had made his presence more than known since arriving—offering to carry their things, insisting on getting the best seats, and loudly recounting stories of how Y/N had stayed up late preparing for her exams, as if they didn’t already know.

“Is he ever going to stop talking?” your older brother whispered to your mom, who responded with a barely concealed sigh.

“Doubt it,” your dad grumbled, crossing his arms. His sharp glare cut across the distance between them, and Seungcheol froze mid-step as if the weight of their collective disdain had finally hit him.

Still, he wasn’t the type to give up. He tightened his grip on the bouquet and plastered on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just want to make today special for her,” he murmured to himself, more determined than ever.

“Oh we know, Seungcheol,” your mom sighed while patting his shoulder and sitting next to him, “I think they’re about to walk out now.”

–

You straightened your cap one more time, as Pomp and Circumstance played in the background.

It’s time! All of this hard work, it’s time!

The crowd erupted into congratulatory cheers as your graduating class walked out. The journey to your seat felt like a blur. Your leg tapped incessantly waiting through all of the fluff and pleasantries from your esteemed professors. And soon enough, it was your time to walk.

Your row stood together heading towards the stage, and you wince as you hear Seungcheol calling out to you, clearly disregarding the current students’ names being called. You look over to him, your family trying yet failing to get him to pipe down.

His grin was infectious, but you were burning red in embarrassment. The large gaudy balloons behind him stared back at you. As you awaited your turn, your eyes scanned the crowd full of familiar faces from the library and just soaking in the moment.

And as the universe would have it, your eyes meet a single hooded and masked figure in a light blue button up. His phone was up clearly pointed at you.

Mark.

Wow, he really came! You couldn’t believe it and the confidence soared through you fleetingly as you felt yourself being pushed forward to hand your name card to the staff member reading out names.

“Y/n, Y/LN!”

You felt a rush of anxiety roll off you as you shakily walked across the stage to shake the dean’s hand.

“Breath, y/n, you’re finally done!”

You follow their advice and plaster a giant smile towards the camera.

Your friends and family’s cheers were loud but Seungcheol’s was embarrassingly aggressive.

Your ears pick up another voice from the other side of the auditorium.

Mark stood jumping up and down, holding his phone tightly and just about fell over through the row in front of him.

He chanted your name and for some reason, it all felt right.

This is the moment you always wanted.

You smile all the way back to your seat.

As Seungcheol didn’t relent on his own parade of accolades and cat calling, Mark sat down and watched you in awe.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N,” he whispered.

–

“Congratulations!” Seungcheol said as he held out the bouquet and obnoxious balloons, his grin impossibly wide. “You were amazing up there! You looked so good, and I mean wow this dress—”

“Thank you,” you cut him off gently, taking the flowers and squeezing his hand to calm his nerves. Or was it your nerves… what was Mark doing here? I mean yeah your heart is soaring at the fact he came- WHAT? NO!

He smiles at you wildly, pulling his hand away to engulf you in a giant rocking hug. You embrace him back, letting out the sigh you have been holding in for hours now.

This is fine.

Yup.

Your father cleared his throat loudly, a not-so-subtle reminder that they were watching.

“Alright, family picture time!” Seungcheol announced, clapping his hands together. “I’ll take it for you. Everyone line up!”

Your mom raised an eyebrow, her tone as sharp as ever. “We were just about to do that, actually.”

“Perfect timing, then!” he replied, oblivious to the sarcasm.

As your family reluctantly shuffled into position, Y/N placed a hand on Seungcheol’s arm. “Maybe... let them lead this one,” you whispered.

Seungcheol blinked, his enthusiasm deflating ever so slightly. “Right. Of course. Family moment.” He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Seungcheol backed away slowly, trying to make himself busy by staring at the nearby tree… which of course Mark just so happened to be standing by, watching the entire interaction, his body in mid turn, awaiting to retreat into the crowd. He was embarrassed to even show up… you’re happy right?

Their eyes met with quick anger and jealousy.

Mark’s arms filled with white and pink tulips- your favorite, and the build-a-bear box tucked in his palm.

Seungcheol was about to storm towards him but was quickly whisked away to take a picture with you.

You sported a tight lipped smile as his arm found it’s way to your waist.

As Mark watched you hug Seungcheol, he felt the familiar tug at his heart of seeing you and and him at Izaiah’s party the other week. Angst, hurt, and jealousy flowed through him, but most of all envy and cowardness.

Mark’s shoulders hung low, and he turned around trying to find the quickest and quietest exit.

“Mark, right?” he heard a small voice say from next to him.

He turned to see the build a bear employee from the mall.

“I could tell from the box, have you found her yet?” she asked excitingly.

“Yeah, I did,” he responds sadly.

“Well, why do you still have everything in your arms? I don’t know… give it to her, maybe?” she laughs.

Mark sighs meeting her gaze. Oh? She’s in a full graduation cap and gown, how rude of him!

“Oh! Uhm…ha, Congrats to you! My apologies for having you stop me while I burden you with my …problems,”

“Thank you,” she smiles with hands on her hips, “My name is Camille by the way.”

“Mark,” he says with a small smile.

“Like we didn’t already know that haha…” she pushes him lightly.

As Camille tried to convince Mark to approach you, he was so in his head that he didn’t notice the longing eyes from you just yards away.

So this is how he moves on, huh? And to think he cared! All this time, it was for his new girl…

The girl pushes him lightly causing him to chuckle and it feels like someone stabbed you in the stomach. She looks over at his bouquet and take it out of his hands, smelling the fresh tulips. It feels like someone is twisting a knife around in your stomach.

And the cherry on top of killing you slowly was watching him hug her tightly with his eyes closed.

Your aura was palpable to your friends and family, almost as they can envision the slow bleeding out of your heart as you watched the interaction.

“How about we head to dinner now, y/n,” Kathy says to you softly from your right.

“Who even is she anyways?” Izaiah says from your left.

“The new graduate is riding with me of course!” Seuncheol announces while slinging an arm around you, “just let me take care of something first.”

You nod lightly and walk over to your mom explaining the plans to meet up for the gathering. Seungcheol kept his smile plastered until you were lost in the crowd. His eyes narrowed as he pushed his way over to meet Mark.

“So what did you graduate with?” Mark smiles lightly before taking the flowers back from Camille’s arms.

“Got a lot of nerve showing up here, Big Shot,” Seungcheol hisses out while bumping into him.

“It was psychology…” Camille says with a questioning glare between the both of them.

“Thank god you moved on,” Seungcheol laughs before looking at Camille, “Careful with this one!”

“I think I see what’s going on here…” she says with a tight lip, “Mark, this will be an easy win for you don’t worry.”

Mark laughs lightly while taking in a deep breath, “Thanks Camille. Enjoy your day, congratulations again.” Camille walks off while shaking her head, but not without a hard shoulder check towards Seungcheol.

“Of course I would be here for her big day, I’ve been there every step of the way.”

“You were, now you’re not. Just give it up, bro,” Seungcheol says while moving closer to Mark, his own frame towering over him, “Look at her, yeah,” he turns Mark to align with you smiling with the balloons around you, “That’s the face a girl makes when she’s happy. That’s the face a girl makes when you treat her right,” if that wasn’t enough he whispers into Mark’s ear, “That’s the face a girl makes when she moves on from a little bitch.”

Mark shakes in pain.

You look so happy.

“Can’t you just let her go? For her.”

Mark’s hands loosen on the bouquet of tulips in his hands.

You look so much more happy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take these off your hands,” Seungcheol says with a smirk, “Thanks man, didn’t think she was a tulip girl,” he grips Mark’s arm as he seeths out a final, “Stay the fuck away from her. It would be a shame if you can’t perform due to…say a broken leg?”

Mark stands still as tears well in his eyes.

“Cheol!” he can hear you calling out for him.

“I’m coming babe!” he yells out and let’s go of Mark while walking over to meet you.

“There you are, time to go now,” you smile, not evening noticing Mark’s sulking in the background.

“Just had to surprise you one last time,” he grins and engulfing you in a hug, turning just slightly to wink at Mark.

“Tulips! How did you know they’re my favorite?”

Because of me. Mark tries to say, but his voice fails him.

Seungcheol sneaks a cheeky kiss on your temple, “Wait I think I dropped my keys one sec! You keep walking I know you walk slow in those heels.”

You roll your eyes and walk away, Seungcheol running up to Mark one last time, “Almost forgot!” He snatches the build a bear box right out of his hands, “Thanks Mark, you always did know what to get her!”

His eyes never leave you as you trot along in your heels towards the parking lot. Amidst the throbbing pain in his chest, a realization hit him.

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. So much so he bent over and leaned against the tree to hold him up. Maniacal, he sounded.

If you didn’t love him anymore, why did you wear those heels?

—-

The cool December air hums with laughter and the flickering glow of fairy lights were strung across the backyard. The scent of barbecue and freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mixing with the distant sound of chatter and music. It’s your graduation party—your moment. After the past year, after all the pain, the doubt, the nights where you thought you’d never make it through, you finally have something to celebrate.

So why does it still feel so… unreal?

“Hey,” Kathy nudges you, pulling you from your thoughts. “You should actually enjoy this, you know? This is everything you worked for.” She gives you a pointed look before taking a sip from her cup. “You deserve to be happy.”

You exhale, trying to let the words sink in, but there’s a part of you that still hesitates. You glance around at the people who have come to celebrate—your family, your friends, even the neighbors who barely know you but showed up for the free food. It’s all so perfect. Too perfect.

“It just doesn’t feel real yet,” you admit, voice quieter than you intended.

Kathy smiles, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Well, it is. And if you don’t start acting like it, I will personally make you.”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts through the air.

“Oh, come on, are we really just gonna ignore the elephant in the room?”

You turn to see Izaiah, standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head in clear disapproval. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice as he jerks his chin toward the other side of the yard, where Seungcheol is deep in conversation with your uncle.

“Because that guy? He’s the worst.”

Your stomach tightens. “Izaiah, not now.”

“Nah, now is the perfect time,” he presses, stepping closer. “We’re all thinking it, Y/N. I literally just talked to your brother about him. He sucks! You’ve been pretending to be happy, but you don’t have to force it. Yes, you have been out more, but it doesn’t feel like you. You’ve had a rough year, sure, but that doesn’t mean you have to settle for some guy who acts like a dick every time he speaks.”

Kathy chokes on a laugh, trying to play it off when you glare at her.

“Hey he’s funny!” Kathy chuckles, “He pulled our girl out of her funk.”

“Are dumb or are you stupid? She’s still in the funk! Girl open you’re eyes!” Izaiah exclaims.

“Zai, I’m fine,” you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

“Are you?” He doesn’t budge. “Because you don’t look like someone who just got their life back on track. You look like someone trying really, really hard to convince themselves they’re okay.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, your mom’s voice rings out from the deck.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s head on inside, it’s getting pretty cold. It’s time for presents!”

The conversation halts, tension still thick in the air. You force a smile and step away, feeling Izaiah’s gaze linger on you, filled with something dangerously close to concern.

“Everything is fine. This is what I have always wanted.”

“We’re not done talking about this.” Zai rolls his eyes and looks at Kathy, “Can’t believe you support dating this child of a man.”

“We’re not dating, yet.” you whisper.

“He’s hot!” Kathy shouts at him as she watches Zai pull a middle finger at her from behind his retreating frame.

Seungcheol was at the door girating his hips while beckoning everyone inside with some silly shouting.

Zai turns around one last time to shoot you both a disappointed glare.

“Well, he can be hot at times…” Kathy takes back.

As you make your way to the stack of neatly wrapped gifts, you push down the words you don’t want to admit are true. Maybe Izaiah isn’t wrong. Maybe you are pretending. Maybe you aren’t as happy as you want to be.

But tonight isn’t the time to think about that.

Tonight, you’re supposed to celebrate.

Even if you don’t quite know how.

You sit on the cushioned patio chair, a pile of torn wrapping paper and envelopes gathering at your feet as the night continues with your loved ones around you. Your dad stands nearby, his phone raised, recording every moment while your friends and family watch with warm smiles.

“Alright, last one,” you say, reaching for the final gift on the table.

The moment your fingers brush against the box, a flicker of recognition sparks in your chest. It’s a Build-A-Bear box—white with blue stars, the signature handle looped through the top. A few people chuckle knowingly, but you can’t bring yourself to look up just yet.

And then you see it.

“Whose this one from?” You raise an eyebrow at the only left suspect.

“Guess who!” he laughs uncomfortably.

You barely notice as you get up to sit next to him, “So which one did you get me?”

“It’s a surprise!” he says with a smirk.

Your hands feel a little too steady as you carefully lift the lid, peeling back the tissue paper inside. A plush bunny, soft brown fur, wearing a tiny graduation cap and gown. Your stomach clenches as you pull it out, holding it in your lap. There’s a faint weight to it, heavier than a normal stuffed animal.

“This is so cute!” Kathy gleams from the side holding her camera up, “look over here for a pic!”

Izaiah rolls his eyes again as you two get scooched together for a picture.

You turn the bunny to look at you, and you couldn’t help but have a wide grin.

“You like it?” Seungcheol asks oddly smug.

“Of course, I love it,” you say with a small peck to his cheek, “wait I didn’t know you put a voice recording in it!”

“Oh!” Seungcheol exclaims while grabbing the bunny out of your arms and holding it out of your reach, “Forgot about that sorry!”

“Well, let me hear it!” you say confused.

“Let’s hear it, lover boy!” your dad playfully yells from the side with his camera out.

“Uh… it’s a little personal don’t worry guys just a bit embarrassed…” he sweats.

“Just play the fucking bunny, y/n!” Zai shouts grabbing the stuffed animal out of his hands and throwing it at you.

The audience in front of you cheering for you to press it.

“Y/n, don’t-”

You press the little button on it’s hand.

The audio begins with an undeniable stutter.

A stutter that makes everyone go silent, you gasp.

“Is it on? Okay. U-uh hi Y/n, congrats. You finally did it. I can’t believe you’re already done. Just know that I have never stopped thinking about you. Every time I’m at the studio, practice – fuck I just wish I would have known that chasing my dreams meant losing you. I wouldn’t have picked this. It was supposed to be us, everything I sing, it’s about you. It’s so hard without you. But. This is the life we live in. I’m happy that you’re happy. This bunny represents your dreams and all starting. Y/n. I can’t wait to read your book one day. Just know I’ll always love y–.”

The audio cuts right before he finished. A silent sob overflows.

“y/n,” Seungcheol says while reaching out for you.

“Go home.” Zai says cutting him off, using his body as a barrier.

“I just-”

“Go home,” Kathy sighs while ushering him away.

“Alright party’s over everyone!” Your mom calls out solemnly gesturing for everyone to leave.

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

Seungcheol... i'm bout to beat you up!!!

hehe anyways, sorry this took so long :(

as always, lmk your thoughts, questions, predictions... lowk the more the better it makes me feel motivated to post these bc it reminds me that there are people who will actually read my works and it's not just a little hobby to satisfy my delulu <3

xoxo eva

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