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untitlzd · 3 months ago

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silence doesn’t stop rich boys

top!sim jaeyun x btm!male reader smut

Jake Sim's party invite arrives—thick cardstock, old-money cursive. You go because that's what people like you do. The champagne flows, his gaze lingers, and no one notices when you disappear into the penthouse's private wing.

continued in “rich boys don’t get dirty.”

warnings: noncon/dubcon, power dynamics, possessiveness, semi-public sex, oral sex, rough sex, breeding kink (implied), aftercare as manipulation, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Old money has a scent. A blend of expensive leather, French perfume, and promises sealed generations ago. In this closed circle, luxury isn't ostentation—it's routine. Watches worth more than cars, dinners in penthouses that don't appear on Google Maps, and last names that function as keys. And among them stands Y/n.

He was never exactly one of them, but he learned fast. The son of an influential attorney—the kind who turns crises into lucrative settlements—he grew up between silent meetings and champagne toasts before even understanding what was being celebrated. He didn't inherit a centuries-old fortune, but carried something nearly as valuable: influence. And in this game, knowing how to use it is what truly matters.

To others, Y/n belongs. He wears the right brands, speaks with the confidence of someone who knows the backstage dealings, and maintains that discreet smile of someone who never falters. But behind the shine lies a fragile structure. Exclusive parties hide unstable alliances, and anonymous messages circulate more frequently than truths.

Because in this world, what sustains you isn't having the most—it's knowing how to remain silent when everyone is watching.

Despite not carrying a surname forged by generations, Y/n was always there—at the most private parties, at invitation-only gatherings, at the center of the group where few truly belong. His mere presence was enough to calm any tension: when your father commands one of the country's most feared law firms, scandals tend to disappear before they even take shape. Having Y/n around wasn't just prestige—it was protection.

So it came as no surprise when Jake's name appeared linked to the next big party. Jake belonged to a nearly extinct type of social royalty: his family synonymous with political tradition, silent influence, and inherited power. Even among the most well-connected, Jake stood out. The typical good guy—or at least, he knew how to play one. Always smiling, always impeccable, always untouchable. No one dared confront him. And at the same time, no one seemed to care enough to try.

Y/n wasn't the type to decline a party, but the invitation from Jake caused some unease. Reserved, careful, molded by the image his parents insisted he maintain, Jake rarely exposed himself beyond what was necessary. Still, the news spread fast. A single anonymous post on the city's most venomous blog turned the night into an event:

"Party at the politicians' house? Seems the new generation decided to play at freedom. Closed list, open bottles..."

The warning had been issued, and as always, everyone would pretend not to care.

Y/n dressed in silence as he read the post. No surprise—just the sensation that everything was following its course. He and Jake weren't friends. Never had been. But there was a silent pact between them: a strategic coexistence, without excess, without intimacy. Both knew where they stood, and more importantly, where they wanted to remain.

At the top.

It was as if they respected, without ever saying it aloud, each other's places in that hierarchy. Neither wanted to take the other's space—it wasn't necessary. But somehow, there was a strange companionship between them. An implicit recognition that even amidst so many masks, you could trust someone who didn't try to be you.

Jake's penthouse occupied one of the oldest—and most discreetly luxurious—buildings on the Upper East Side. The pale stone facade, wrought-iron balconies, and silent corridors covered by time-worn red carpets all seemed part of a New York that refused to die. A place where power needed no ostentation—just permanence.

When the elevator opened directly into the main hall, Y/n was met with an expected scene: warm lighting, music perfectly chosen to seem spontaneous, uniformed waiters circulating with crystal trays, and a group of people who knew exactly the value of being seen—and even more, the value of pretending not to care.

Jake appeared immediately, with that classic, trained, millimeter-perfect smile.

"So glad you came," he said, extending a glass to Y/n. His voice was low, his gaze a bit too intense for the casual tone. He was impeccable, as always. Light linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cologne expensive enough not to be obvious. And there was something more there—a touch on the shoulder that lasted a second too long, a look that took too long to look away.

Y/n smiled back, with that kind of calculated lightness he used when he didn't want to seem surprised. The environment enveloped him easily: flowing conversations, muffled laughter, soundtrack alternating between sophistication and faux nonchalance. The penthouse view framed the city lights, as if the world outside were just a backdrop for what really mattered—what was happening here inside.

The hours passed almost fluidly, dissolved in sips of expensive drinks and conversations that said little. Y/n drank slowly, as he always did. But at some point, he lost count. Maybe because he was too relaxed, maybe because the drinks were stronger than they seemed. Or maybe because Jake made sure his glass was never empty.

The music had shifted to something more sensual, and the spaces between bodies grew smaller. Y/n leaned against the frame of one of the wide windows, feeling the night air against his skin. The alcohol's effects were showing: the edges of the room softened, voices blurred, thoughts slightly tangled.

And then he noticed.

Jake was still nearby. Too nearby.

All night, he seemed to be watching Y/n. Never directly—but from time to time, a quick glance, a directed comment, a constant presence in the same spaces. It wasn't aggressive, nor was it clear. But there was something there. An excessive care, a proximity that bordered on intimacy, even if wrapped in the same facade as always.

The strange thing was that this intimacy had never existed. They'd never been close. Not like that. And yet, Jake acted as if there were something between them that only he remembered. As if he were just resuming a familiarity that had never truly been built.

Y/n looked away, as if trying to regain control of his own space. But even without meeting his gaze directly, he knew Jake was still there, firm, smiling as if everything were perfectly in order.

And maybe it was. Or maybe not.

But in that world, that was the rule: you could never be certain of anything.

The night wore on, and gradually the number of guests began to dwindle. Those who knew the right time to leave—before the shine turned to weariness—began saying goodbye with soft hugs and empty promises of "see you soon." Y/n took the opportunity to circulate a bit more, exchange some basic pleasantries here and there, maintain the social posture he knew by heart.

But as the room emptied, other presences took up the space—more intense, more distracted. Certain substances began appearing naturally, passing between familiar hands, hidden behind loose laughter and wandering gazes. And suddenly, it all felt like too much.

Y/n needed air.

He wasn't the type to make a scene, much less allow himself vulnerabilities in public. So without anyone noticing, he slipped down one of the hallways until he found a slightly ajar door. He entered silently. It was one of the bedrooms—well-decorated, immaculate, almost impersonal, like the rest of the penthouse. He closed the door behind him and sat on the bed. A few seconds later, he lay down.

He wasn't exactly unwell. But he wasn't fine either. Everything felt stifling, as if the air had grown thicker. Jake's insistent gaze all night, the never-empty glass, the conversations that always demanded a response, a reaction, a version of himself. It was too much.

His head throbbed silently. The ceiling seemed farther away than it should. For a few minutes, Y/n let his mind go blank, float, trying to organize what he felt—or perhaps just distance himself from what he didn't want to think about.

And then, the door opened.

At first, Y/n didn't even register it. He was somewhere outside himself, numb, as if the world beyond had slowed to a crawl. He only realized he wasn't alone anymore when he heard the voice—low and sweet, almost too careful.

"Hey, Y/n?"

Jake.

He was there, beside the bed, his gaze too gentle for someone who—as far as anyone knew—never got this close. His presence, unexpectedly near, cut through the silence like a whisper loaded with something Y/n couldn't yet name.

And even as his body sank deeper into the mattress, motionless, his mind was now alert.

Because in that world, nothing happened by accident. Not even sincere concern. If that's what this was.

"Are you okay?"

Y/n nodded almost reflexively, his voice stuck in his throat.

"Just... not feeling too well," he murmured, quiet, as if speaking louder would upset what little stability remained. It wasn't a lie. His body felt too heavy, his head spun at an odd rhythm, and everything around him seemed slightly out of focus.

Jake didn't answer right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Y/n with an intensity that seemed kind but was something more. There was something hidden there—a concern that wasn't just concern.

"You drank too much," he said, almost accusatory. Then, softer: "Should've told me you weren't feeling well."

Y/n frowned slightly, trying to understand why, exactly, that would be Jake's responsibility. But he said nothing. Couldn't.

Jake continued:

"Enjoying the party?"

The question was simple, but loaded with expectation. Y/n blinked slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Before he could answer, Jake spoke again, his voice still low, sweet... but now a little tighter.

"Saw you talking a lot with that guy..." He tilted his head slightly. "You hook up with someone?"

Y/n took too long to process. The question felt misplaced, invasive. As if they were having a different conversation in a different context. He tried to sit up a little, but his body still weighed him down. And then he felt it.

That initial concern—so delicate—now sounded like something else. Control disguised as care. A subtle demand hidden in a sweet tone. As if every word had been chosen to seem harmless but carried something heavier underneath.

Jake kept his fingers there, lightly stroking Y/n's cheek. As if marking his presence. As if reminding Y/n—without saying it aloud—who was here, who had always been watching.

"Just wanna know if you had fun... with me around," he said, still wearing that contained smile.

It wasn't just curiosity. It was something between a warning and a reminder.

Y/n's stomach turned. His head was still foggy, his body still heavy, and now Jake was too close, too demanding. He was smiling, but it wasn't the same smile as before.

And in that moment, it became clear: this wasn't concern. It was surveillance.

And worst of all—Jake didn't seem at all inclined to leave.

Y/n shifted, restless. The discomfort wasn't just emotional anymore—it was physical. Jake's presence seemed to fill more space than the room allowed. What had been a quiet bedroom now felt claustrophobic. The air was thin. With a silent effort, Y/n tried to sit up, to push away the weight of the situation.

But the moment his elbows left the mattress, Jake acted.

One hand shoved him back down against the bed. Not a subtle gesture—direct, firm, making it clear this wasn't about care. It was control.

"Stay down."

The words were still polite, but the tone betrayed the tension beneath the facade. Jake's face remained aligned with the image of the perfect heir, the composed scion of old politics. But his eyes said something else: impatience, dominance. Something that wanted more than answers—it wanted certainty that Y/n knew his place.

Y/n stared up at him, surprised, his body still hesitant. His mind, muddled by alcohol and the night's atmosphere, struggled to process this clearly, but the alarm bells were ringing now. This was far from a normal conversation.

Jake leaned in, bracing one arm beside Y/n's head, closing even more of the space between them. His posture was carefully relaxed. But the proximity was invasive.

"You didn't answer my question." The words came sharp, with the coldness of someone who wouldn't tolerate being ignored. Not a request. A demand. "Did you hook up with anyone tonight?"

Y/n's silence was taken as provocation.

Jake didn't back off. If anything, he pressed closer.

"Because..." He murmured, that tense smile still on his lips, "honestly, I don't get what you're still looking for out there."

Then came the gesture that sealed it. Jake's hand went straight to Y/n's hair. His fingers moved slowly, almost as if fixing something out of place. But nothing was out of place—it was just an excuse to touch. An intimacy too familiar for the superficial relationship they had. Almost possessive. Almost a warning.

"You know there's no one here like me."

His voice stayed quiet, but weighted. There was a tension there, masked by the same veneer of good manners as always. Not an offhand comment. This was territorial.

Y/n swallowed hard.

The music, the laughter, the voices from the party seemed to have vanished. Everything now revolved around that presence—suffocating, constant. Jake was here. Too close. Too firm. And still smiling.

But there was nothing harmless in that smile anymore.

Suddenly, the hand that had been stroking Y/n's hair slid down to his face—fingers firm, pressing into the sides of his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

"Cat got your fucking tongue?"

The question cut through the air like a slap. No more polish, no more well-bred heir persona. Jake's mask had slipped, and what remained was pure, aggressive, direct control. The entire room seemed to shrink under the weight of those words.

Y/n looked away, his pulse racing, body rigid under a touch that was no longer ambiguous.

"Jake... you're drunk," he said, voice low, hesitant.

But it was obvious Jake was completely sober where it counted. His gaze was steady, his speech firm, his movements coldly calculated. No confusion or clumsiness in his actions—just intent.

Jake didn't respond.

Instead, his fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, to the first button of Y/n's white shirt. He began undoing them, one by one, without hurry, as if exploring territory he already considered his.

The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating. The room remained isolated from the rest of the world, time seeming to slow. The tension was palpable—and above all, dangerous.

Because Jake knew exactly what he was doing. And he made sure Y/n knew that here, he set the pace.

The air in the bedroom grew thick, charged with the scent of expensive whiskey and Jake's woody cologne. His fingers—always so careful in public—now worked with brutal efficiency on Y/n's buttons, like a merchant unwrapping a package he already owned.

"Bet sluts like you love attention, don't you?" Jake murmured, his voice dripping like poisoned honey. His breath was hot against Y/n's face as he leaned closer. "Show up and suddenly everything has to be about you, huh?"

The second button came undone with an almost inaudible snap. Jake smiled, his dark amber eyes glinting with a light that didn't belong to the room.

"Think a little toy can go around denying what its owner decides?" The word "owner" came out like a whip, just as his fingers found the waistband of Y/n's pants.

Y/n tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond—whether from the alcohol, the shock, or something deeper he refused to name. Jake chuckled low, the sound vibrating against Y/n's neck.

"Look at you," he whispered, the zipper sliding down with an obscene noise in the quiet room. "Don't even need help. Already know your place."

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, finding heated skin. Jake exhaled, as if rediscovering something long lost.

"All this time pretending you didn't want it..." His grip tightened possessively, making Y/n arch. "But your body always knew the truth, didn't it?"

The touch was both intimate and cruel, as if Jake weren't exploring but verifying what he already owned. His eyes never left Y/n's face, watching every microexpression like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Should've seen your face when I invited you," he continued, fingers now toying with Y/n's waistband, pushing it down in slow, deliberate motions. "Everyone watching. Everyone knowing." A calculated pause. "You liked it, didn't you? Knowing I wanted you here."

Y/n tried to speak, but only a rough sound escaped. Jake smiled, satisfied.

"Don't answer." His free hand gripped Y/n's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "We've got all night for you to learn to say 'thank you.'"

Y/n froze, his body tense yet strangely pliant, as if some deep part of him already understood resistance was futile. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, his gaze locked on Jake's face—half desire, half dominion.

Jake didn't waste time.

With one rough motion, he yanked Y/n's pants down, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom. He was already hard, precum glistening at the tip, and Jake didn't hesitate—he gripped the back of Y/n's neck and shoved his cock down that warm throat in one thrust.

"Open wider, whore," Jake snarled, fingers tangling in Y/n's hair as he pushed deeper, making him gag. Spit spilled from the corners of his mouth, tears springing to his eyes, but Jake gave no quarter.

"That's it, take it all, you fucking slut," Jake groaned, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt, his coarse pubes grinding against Y/n's nose. "This what you wanted? All that attention?"

Y/n could barely breathe, his hands fisting the sheets, his body trembling between shock and submission. But for some reason, he didn't fight. Didn't try to shove Jake away. Just accepted it, as if some part of him had always known this was inevitable.

Jake grinned, triumphant, yanking Y/n's head back to stare into his eyes while fucking his mouth without mercy.

"Gonna swallow every drop, pretty boy. Every last one."

Y/n didn't realize when he started sucking in earnest. It was instinctive, like his body knew what to do even as his mind scrambled to process. His lips sealed around Jake's cock, tongue lapping at the salty precum as his head began to move, trying to please.

Jake let out a ragged moan, his grip tightening in Y/n's hair.

"Fuck, you learn fast," he growled, pulling Y/n's head back just to slam forward again, dragging his cock over that willing tongue. "Already sucking like a trained little cockslut."

Y/n could barely think, his body hot and pliant, but when Jake thrust deep again, forcing his throat to open, he choked, tears spilling over. Drool dripped down his chin, making an even bigger mess, but Jake didn't stop.

"Swallow it, bitch," he ordered, pounding into Y/n's mouth with brutal strokes. "Take it."

When Jake finally pulled out, leaving Y/n gasping and dripping, he grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Now that you've got the mouth down," Jake murmured, rubbing the head of his cock over Y/n's swollen lips, "time you learned how to take a cock in that tight little ass."

Y/n's eyes widened, but Jake was already hauling him up by the hips, flipping him onto his stomach like a doll.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he whispered, spitting into his palm and slicking himself up. "I'll make it fit."

And Y/n, somehow, already knew there was no choice left.

When Y/n blinked, he was on his stomach, fingers clawing at the obscenely expensive silk sheets of Jake's bed. His tailored slacks—the ones that cost more than a waiter's monthly salary—were bunched around his knees, trapping him like fabric handcuffs, leaving only his ass exposed to the dim bedroom light. His skin prickled with awareness as Jake positioned himself behind him, a predator moving in for the final strike.

Jake took his time. Spitting into his own hand with a crudeness that would've been vulgar anywhere else but here, in this locked penthouse bedroom, felt as natural as pouring an 18-year-old whiskey. His wet fingers rubbed over Y/n's tight hole, making him shiver.

"Gonna hurt less if you relax," Jake murmured, his voice equal parts threat and promise, as the thick head of his cock pressed against resistant muscle. "Still gonna hurt, though."

When he pushed in, it was like a banker closing a hostile deal—slow enough to be deliberate, hard enough to brook no negotiation. Y/n bit back a scream, his fingers destroying the expensive sheets, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip until he tasted blood.

Jake gave him a cruelly short moment to adjust, his hands gripping Y/n's hips like handles. When he started moving, every thrust was a lesson, a territorial claim.

"Look at you," Jake rasped, watching Y/n's body give way beneath him, molding to his. "All prim and proper at the party, and now?" A sharp snap of his hips. "Just a ruined little slut on my cock."

Y/n tried to muffle his moans in the pillow, but Jake yanked his head back by the hair, forcing out a broken sound.

Jake wasn't gentle.

Every movement was a declaration, a brand made with his entire body—as if he needed to carve the truth into Y/n's skin: he was owned now.

And against all reason, Y/n stopped resisting.

The sounds spilling from his lips weren't protests anymore, but surrender, need. Broken, shameless, desperate—as if every noise was another piece of his defiance being ripped away.

This wasn't the Jake he knew. This was someone darker, more possessive, more real. And no matter how much Y/n tried not to think about it, his body responded like it had always belonged to him.

"Such a pretty little thing," Jake growled, crushing their mouths together in a wet, sloppy kiss. Spit smeared across Y/n's lips, mixing them together. "Finally admitting you're just a whore, huh?"

The pace turned punishing, each thrust deeper, harder, more claiming. Jake dug his fingers into Y/n's jaw, marking the bone beneath.

"Gonna come together, yeah?" His voice was rough, wrecked with lust. "Know you're close. Be a good toy for me."

Y/n could feel his own orgasm building, his body tightening in response to Jake’s relentless rhythm. He was so close—so close—and Jake knew it, his thrusts growing sharper, more erratic.

"Come on, baby," Jake panted against his ear, his voice breaking. "Come with me."

And then it hit them both at once—Y/n’s body arched, his release crashing over him like a wave, his moan muffled against the sheets. Jake followed instantly, burying himself deep as he came, his groan raw and unfiltered against Y/n’s skin.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the heat between them, the weight of Jake’s body pressing Y/n into the mattress.

Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake moved.

"Should go say goodbye to everyone," he said, his voice already smoothing back into the perfect host's cadence, like the last hour never happened. He stood, his cock still glistening where it brushed Y/n's thigh, and cleaned up with a casual swipe, like an artist wiping his hands after a painting. "Can't just disappear."

Y/n didn't answer. Couldn't. Just closed his eyes, his body heavy, his mind hazy.

Jake smiled, adjusting his shirt, his hair, everything back into place.

"Get some rest, okay?" Soft, almost tender. "I'll be back soon." A pause. "You were such a good boy. Did so well."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

From outside, Jake's voice carried, bright and animated, mixing with the remaining guests' laughter, the clink of champagne flutes, the soft music. As if nothing had changed. As if he were still just the perfect Jake everyone knew.

And Y/n, as sleep pulled him under, couldn't tell which version was real anymore.

Or if, in the end, they both were.

note: hey! that's my first time writing something like this, so please be nice :) english is not my first language, so im sorry if something sounds off or weird! bye

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triptuckers · 2 months ago

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lighthouse - cassian andor

Request: nope Pairing: cassian andor x reader Summary: after an undercover mission nearly ends very badly, you and cassian finally come to terms with what you are to each other Warnings: fighting, blaster shots, injuries, bruises, angst Word count: 3,2K A/N: listen. we need more cassian fics that aren't smut so rejoice !! my andor obsession is back in full force and I also read a book that shook me to my core so this is inspired by my love for cassian and a line I read. enjoy!

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you and cassian have been... something for a while. you don't know exactly what, but you're sure you're not just fellow rebels. it's in the lingering glances, the brushing of his fingers against yours, how he sometimes looks at you so intensely but never ends up saying anything. you'd learnt he wasn't a man of many words, but the ones he did speak always rang true.

you keep telling yourself you'll talk to him. after the next mission. then you'll pull him to the side and speak with him about whatever you were to each other.

but there's always another one. always a next mission. the rebellion is fast paced. people are sent off to the very ends of the outer rim, you learn to sleep when you can, and you're always looking over your shoulder.

but you know what you're fighting for, and you want to do your part.

luthen, who recruited you a while back, has noticed how well you and cassian work together, so you're often sent on missions together.

even though you know you shouldn't want this many missions, you'd rather see this war come to an end, you couldn't help but be at least a little pleased you could do them with cassian.

today isn't any different.

once again you tell yourself after this mission, you'll talk to cassian. about what's going on in his head when he can't tear his eyes off of you during a briefing.

your mission is simple. you and cassian are to infiltrate some fancy invitation only event, make your way one of the countless offices in the building, find a string of passcodes, and get the hell out without getting yourself shot at.

you'd done it a thousand times before. this wouldn't be any different or any harder.

how wrong you were.

it started well, despite your uncomfortable shoes. you hated dress codes but you had no choice this time. you would stand out in your comfortable clothes - very recognisable as a rebel or at the very least, someone who did not belong at such an event.

you only got distracted by the art hung on the walls for a short while.

when you were younger, you were very fond of your uncle. he'd travel the galaxy and come back with stories. as a child, you'd promised him that one day you'd collect stories of your own.

for a while, you did. you'd hear stories from people you'd meet, they'd tell you about their cultures, their art, their traditions, their history. you loved hearing those stories and passing them along.

cassian often listened to them when the two of you were traveling to the next mission.

when you slowed your pace walking past an interesting looking sculpture, it was cassian who nudged you to keep on walking. your time window was short, and there was little room for stalling.

once you find the right office, cassian keeps an eye out while you sit at the imperial's desk to find the passcodes. thanks to some good intel, it doesn't take you long to find them.

you quickly copy them, then join cassian at the door. the corridor appears to be empty when cassian looks around the corner. nevertheless, you bend down to get your blaster out of your leg holster.

'put it away.' says cassian.

'you've got your blaster out.' you observe.

'yes because I can tuck it back in my pants.'

'and?'

'and you can't very well subtly bend down to put yours back, can you?'

'I could if-'

'no time. put it away.'

other people would get offended by his sharp tone, but you know cassian. he's focused on the mission now. on getting out quickly and efficiently.

you make a show of putting your blaster back in your holster. telling him if you get shot because you can't return fire, it would be his fault. cassian merely rolls his eyes at you as he exits the office.

you follow him out, forcing yourself not to run. if anything would be suspicious it's two people suddenly breaking in full sprint.

cassian walks ahead of you towards the hangar where you'd stashed your ship. as he rounds a corner, you nearly bump into him as he suddenly stops walking.

you're confused for a moment when you catch him hiding his blaster, then see the imperial officer in front of him.

'you two are far from the party.' the man says.

you're quick to walk up to cassian's side and wrap a hand around his bicep.

'is there a problem, sir?' you say, choosing to play the part of confused partyguest.

'this corridor is off limits to guests.' says the imperial officer.

you give cassian's arm a quick squeeze, letting him know not to interfere with your plan.

'we're so sorry, officer, my husband and I were looking for the washroom.' you say, smiling at the man.

but instead of waving you off, he narrows his eyes at your hand on cassian's arm.

'I don't see a ring.'

'it's not part of our culture.'

'and there are clear signs pointing to the washroom.'

'there are? we must have missed them.'

'I'll ask again, what are you two doing this far from the party?'

you notice cassian tensing up beside you. it wouldn't be easy to convince this man you're supposed to be here.

the imperial officer takes out his comm device to alert someone else but cassian acts quickly, swiftly punching the man in the nose.

'there goes our last chance at this being a stealth mission.' you sigh, following cassian as he takes off.

you watch as cassian pulls out his blaster again. you quickly bend down to retrieve yours as well, stopping for a few seconds, then run to catch up with him.

while rounding a corner, you nearly twist your ankle. you loudly curse your forced choice of footwear. meanwhile, cassian is ahead of you.

'hurry up!' he yells over his shoulder.

'you try running in four inch heels!' you snap back at him.

as you're barrelling your way through countless corridors, forgoing all attempts at stealth, you nearly fall again.

you groan in frustration, shoot a look over your shoulder and deem it safe enough. you could take off your shoes quickly. it'll only be a second.

'are you fucking serious?' cassian shouts as he sees you yanking off your shoes.

'would you rather I break my legs?' you yell.

cassian reaches out and pulls you up as you duck to avoid blaster fire. the imperials had caught up with you.

you're so close to the ship, you push yourself a little faster. you're on cassian's heels as he enters the ship.

right as you enter the ship, a pair of blaster shots hit their mark. you feel a searing hot pain across your ribs as you hit the button to close the door to the ship.

cassian, who heard you yell out in pain, worriedly looks at you but you wave him off.

'fly the ship!' you yell.

your priority right now was to get the codes to the rebels. it wasn't your life. it was the brutal reality of the rebellion.

cassian seems to realise this as well. he takes one last look at you, before taking off towards the cockpit.

you press a hand to your side as you lay on your back, focusing on your breathing.

you close your eyes. you know that's not a smart thing to do, so you permit yourself three deep breaths. then you'd open your eyes again. you feel the humming of the ship beneath you as cassian flies away from imperial territory. you breathe through the pain, not daring to move, in fear of making your injury worse.

suddenly you feel a hard shove and open your eyes. cassian's worried eyes look into yours.

'I thought you died.' he says.

'good morning to you, too.' you grumble. 'I closed my eyes for a second. why aren't you flying the ship?'

'we're in hyperspace.' cassian says. 'that wasn't a second.'

you frown, then try to sit up to look at your ribs. immediately, a sharp pain shoots through your body and you fall back again.

cassian goes quiet as he runs off to get a medkit.

unceremoniously, he uses a knife to rip a part of your dress off. in any other circumstance you'd be appalled. but this was war. everyone needed to act quickly all the time, there was no time for modesty.

your eyes focus on the ceiling of the ship as cassian works on bandaging your ribs. you feel him poking around, checking your injury. you wince when it hurts too much and cassian mumbles an apology.

you close your eyes, but cassian pokes your cheek with his finger. you make an annoyed sound.

'don't sleep.' he says firmly.

if you were anyone else you would have found his harsh tone rude. but you've known cassian for a while now. you detect the undertone of worry.

'i'm okay.' you say, but you feel yourself slipping. a nap did sound very good.

cassian pokes you again.

'cassian.' you grumble.

'stay awake. I mean it.' he says. 'I'm nearly done.'

you're desperately trying to stay awake, when cassian speaks again.

'count down from three.' he instructs.

'why?'

'do it.'

you sigh, then count down.

when you're at two, cassian firmly secures the bandage around your rips, making you cry out in pain. you'd been shot before, but this was much more painful than any other time.

you let out a string of curses as cassian checks the bandages.

the sharp pain had weakened to a dull, throbbing pain. it was annoying and consistent, but hurt less than before.

'you need rest.' says cassian.

'i'm fine here.'

'you're not sleeping not on the ground.'

'i've had worse.'

'no.'

cassian leaves little room for argument.

you feel how he carefully slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. he may not have a very muscular build at first glance, but he lifts you without much visible struggle. the movement intensifies your pain and you try to blink the feeling away.

you desperately try to stay awake, to commit this feeling of being in cassian's arms to memory. but your eyelids are just so heavy.

cassian carefully sets you down on one of the cots on the ship.

'now you can rest.' you hear him say.

you want to thank him for taking care of you, but you're already asleep seconds later.

the journey back to base takes a couple of days. cassian has to take a creative route to make sure you're not leading imperials to the rebels. occasionally, you wake when cassian comes to check on you. he helps you drink water and you try to eat something, but most of the time you just sleep.

cassian is being even more silent than he usually is. you can tell his mind is racing. you want to ease his thoughts, but there never seems to be the right time to talk.

when cassian wakes you a couple of days later, you've made it back to base.

he helps you sit up. you insist on being able to walk on your own. but one attempt at pushing yourself up from your sitting position shows you can't.

cassian supports the biggest part of your weight as he slowly takes you from the hangar to your room.

you had a private room, which was a luxury. people you pass in the hallways send you worried looks, but they know cassian would explain it all in the debriefing.

with a series of practiced taps, cassian unlocks the door to your room and helps you inside. he carefully puts you down on your own cot and turns around to leave so he can give his debriefing of the mission as quickly as possible.

'cass.' you say, nearly asleep already.

his ears perk up. you've rarely called him that. the first time you did, it caught him off guard and you interpreted his surprised look as a sign he didn't want you calling him that. quite the opposite. he loved it.

'what's up?' he says softly.

'thank you.' you say.

'of course.'

'did I ever tell you you're my lighthouse, cass?'

he frowns at your words. what is a lighthouse? but before he can as you about it, you've fallen asleep. he decides to let you. he knows there's people waiting on him, and you need your rest.

cassian walks back to the room he's expected to give his debriefing of the mission. he thinks about your words on his way, but forces himself to think of the mission when he enters the room.

the debrief itself is short. he passes the copied codes along to someone else, so they can work with them. cassian updates everyone on your condition, and has a medical droid sent to your room to check on you.

then he sets off to find brasso. he's convinced he would know what a lighthouse is. but brasso can't give him an explanation, only his best guess. bix also doesn't know.

just as cassian is searching for will to ask him about the term, he runs into luthen, who has a new mission for him already.

cassian knows you'd be irritated with him if he'd stay back for your sake. you both know the importance of the rebellion. he doesn't want to leave you behind, but he does as he's asked.

the mission doesn't take him very far. he's joined by a handful of others. though he's only gone for a couple of days, he worries about you.

so when he returns, he immediately goes to your room, letting someone else handle the debriefing this time.

but when he opens the door, something's off. your room is empty and it smells of cleaning supplies. the bed is made way too neatly for you to have done it.

panic seizes him as he quickly makes his way to the small medbay.

one of the medical droids says you haven't been in since cassian left for his mission. they don't know where you are.

it's one of the new recruits that tells cassian you're probably outside.

their current base is located on a forest planet. the trees provide cover for your ships and base. cassian knew it was similar to your home planet, and you missed it dearly. you often spoke about your childhood home, and the big garden you loved when you were a child.

the feeling of panic slowly disappears as cassian makes his way to the back of the base, where the forest was blooming and green.

sure enough, he finds you sitting in a patch of grass rather than one of the benches. steam rises from a cup of tea in your hand. your head is tilted upwards, catching rays of sunshine on your face.

he closes his eyes and sighs softly. you were alright. just reconnecting with nature.

cassian walks up to you. you've got more color on your face than the last time he saw you, a good sign.

he wants to tell you he's so glad you're okay. he also wants to scold you for not being in your room when he got back, scaring him like crazy. but instead, a questions comes out when he speaks.

'what's a lighthouse?'

'you're back!' you say, turning around and then wincing, pressing a hand to your side. it seems you hadn't completely healed just yet.

cassian walks up to you and sits down beside you, accepting your hug. he looks at you with another one of his piercing gazes.

as you look at his face - searching for any injuries - it takes you a while to register his question from before. you'd been sleeping the pain off a lot, and sometimes your mind was a little foggy.

'I never told you?' you say.

cassian shakes his head.

'well. I was going to tell you all of this eventually. after the next mission, I kept telling myself.' you say, glancing at the trees ahead of you. 'but I thought that blaster shot would be my last.'

'it takes more than a few blaster shots to take us down.' says cassian.

you smile at his words.

'a lighthouse is a tall building on the edge of an ocean.' you explain. 'I saw the ruins of one once.'

'so I'm a tall building?' says cassian, not understanding.

'it was meant for sailors. if a boat would be out on sea and it was dark, the lighthouse would guide them back to dry land. keep them save, bring them home.' you say.

you sip your tea as cassian lets your words sink in.

'this war is intense. the rebellion is intense. it's hard to find your footing when you're never in one place for long and you don't know when you have to pack up and leave again. but I know, no matter where I go, you'll be there. you'll guide me home. so, in a way, you're my lighthouse.' you say.

'your lighthouse.' cassian echoes your words. 'I like that.'

you turn your head to look at him, not surprised to find him looking at you already.

'I had a feeling you would. how did your mission go?'

'alright. got what we came for. got back home.'

'you've never been a man of many words, have you?' you say, smiling.

he shrugs. 'sometimes you don't need many. how are you feeling? how are your ribs?'

'better.' you say. 'the medical droid said you did a good job at bandaging me up. though it still hurts. I sleep a lot. I was just going to take another nap.'

cassian frowns. 'why didn't you? if it helps with the pain?'

'I was waiting for you to come back.'

'you were?'

'I never really sleep well when you're out there and I'm here.'

cassian stands up and offers you his hand.

'where are we going?' you ask, allowing him to gently help you stand.

'to take a nap.' he says.

you smile and allow cassian to lead you back to your room, never letting go of his hand. he helps you when you lay down on your cot. you surprise him by gently tugging him down with you.

'you look like the mission was intense. you need your rest as well.' you say.

cassian nods, then takes off his boots and jacket. he lays down next to you, careful not to touch your ribs in fear of hurting you. you move closer, only wincing a little at the movement.

'do you have to go soon?' you ask him, feeling tired already.

'no.' says cassian, wrapping an arm around you. 'not for a few days.'

'good.' you mumble, burying your head in the space between his jaw and his shoulder.

you're nearly asleep when cassian whispers your name.

'yeah?' you say softly.

'you're my lighthouse, too.' he says.

you smile at his words. 'I know, cass.'

A/N: thanks for reading! everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. please do not copy, translate, plagiarise or repost my work! some of these are requested by other people and I spend a lot of time and effort on my works <3 much love, marit

#he is everything to me btw #can't wait to see some more insane acting from diego in season 2 #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x you #cassian andor fanfiction #cassian andor fanfic #cassian andor fanfics #cassian andor fic #cassian andor fics #cassian andor fluff #cassian andor oneshot #andor fanfiction #Star Wars fanfiction

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darkmatilda · 5 months ago

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𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

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

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

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m asking if it still tastes good.”

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

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

The photo in your pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help but snort.

“Stuffed with human guts instead of fluff?”

Spencer finally looked up at you, slowly.

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

“And stolen goods trafficking.”

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

“It’s fine. Got anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You took a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows shot up mockingly.

“You remember the number of a…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He literally gasped.

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

You gave a mock salute.

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

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

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

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

“He made you do… what?!”

Your raised voice filled the car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, back to where we left off.

“He made you do what?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I think so.”

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

“You’re kidding me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer took a breath before speaking slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slowly shrugged your shoulders.

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

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

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

A surprised sound escaped your mouth.

"Seriously? You want that?"

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

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

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

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

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

You knew how it would play out.

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

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

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

“If it’s what are we? I’m leaving.”

"It's your apartment. Just saying."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pressed your lips together.

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the sound of footsteps right behind you.

You heard them too late.

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

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

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

The buzz.

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

The pain in your head.

Oh, it was terrible.

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

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

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

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

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

Terror only hit you when you glanced to the side.

"Rebekah," you barely managed to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grunted again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert followed the order.

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

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

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

“It was me.”

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

You stopped when he aimed the gun at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please.

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

“Here,” Clinton muttered under his breath.

Robert quickly stopped looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You began to sink.

Water burst from your lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer nodded eagerly.

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

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

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

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

"Rebekah..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You’re safe now."

In the ambulance, they attended to your injuries.

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted it…”

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

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

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

“Really?”

“We’ll take hundreds of them.”

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nightingale-prompts · 9 months ago

Text

Batboy admits the Truth

First | Previous | Next

(Remember when this was cute and fun)

It was a tense reunion. Batman sensed it and left Nightwing to handle it.

Nightwing was of course not happy. He was downright pissed actually.

"Danny Nightingale-Grayson! Running away again?! After last time?!" Dick was about to go on a long lecture when Danny interrupted.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry! I was so worried!" Dick scowled as he tried to calm down.

"I know. I was just scared. You deserve an answer. A good one. I've never had to explain all of this so please just listen." Danny hoped that this was a good idea.

Dick huffed but this was the start that he wanted.

"I'm dead. Undead at least." Danny began.

"What do you mean? Like a zombie or…like Jason?" Dick asked.

"I don't really know. Jason is like me but I'm not like him. I'm more dead than him I guess." Danny didn't know how to nail that down, revenants are their own things. Several rungs down from where Danny was.

"And how did that happen?" Dick asked gently.

"It was an accident. I was just cleaning my family's lab. The portal wasn't working and I just wanted to take a look. I thought if it finally worked they would spend more time with us. But it turned on with me in it. I didn't learn until recently that a portal to the other side required a sacrifice and that was me. I made for a perfect sacrifice at that, children make for best ones." Danny tried to make a joke but it fell flat.

Dick saw stunned into silence. All this time…Danny you-" Dick was appalled that the same people who hated him for who he was were the same people whose negligence that caused him to be this way.

"Its fine though. They didn't mean for this to happen and I should have known better then to mess with the portal." Danny said defensively.

Despite everything he still cared about his parents at least a little bit.

"That is not fine Danny. You aren't fine Danny. They made you feel like you were not human." Dick said exasperated.

Danny shook his head his face contorted.

"Dick…I'm not human." He said simply. It was plain as day "I thought you understood that. I haven't been just human in a long time. When I had wings did you believe I was human?"

"That is not what I meant. You know that. I just-"Dick didn't know what he was doing. "I'm sorry. Continue."

"I got to play hero for a while. It was exhausting but I liked it. I defended the town from all sorts of ghosts. Then i learned why they were running from their home. All the while a monster like me appeared and he…" Dark Danny's memories flooded his mind. He wasn't a ghost or a human in Danny's mind. Monster was the only thought that came to him.

Dan had haunted him since. He would always be a version of Danny that's possible even if the Nasty Burger incident doesn't happen. All it takes is for Danny to suffer another loss. It almost happened again when his parents caught him.

"I learned a lot from that experience. More then that I earned a title that made me important to the other ghosts. They are actually really cool. But when I got home my parents told me that their real son was dead and I was just a ghost in his body. They called me a murderous monster and then they…cut me open." Danny took a deep breath. His throat felt tight as he held back tears. "I…ran. I escaped and lived with the ghosts."

Danny still remembered sobbing into Clockwork's arms while covered in blood.

"I saw a potential future where this happens but I had hoped it would not come to pass." He said holding Danny in his arms.

The problem with ghosts is while they can heal quickly they are damaged by mental pain far more. Danny healed slowly from his wounds and the scars remained.

Clockwork had taught Danny shifting to help improve the boy's mental flexibility and get heal in a better head space. He knew he had to ask Nocturne to take Danny's mind and spare him from further pain when he was kidnapped. Perhaps it was foolish but the event was going to happen regardless.

Dick took in this information as best as he could but it still made him irate. Danny had been through so much but he never let that mask slip until now. He still chose Dick to be his guardian even while he battled his fears of abandonment. Even after being betrayed by people he only wanted to love him.

Dick put a hand on Danny's cheek. The teen looked at him with the pain of a child left all alone. Danny, touched starved, leaned into Dick's hand.

"Danny, I'm so sorry they did that to you. You deserve so much better. I don't care what you are, you're my son." Dick said softly.

Danny's face twisted.

Son.

He wasn't fond of that word. Bring someone's son never meant much. No, when he had a sister who filled the role of his caretaker. Danny never needed a mom or dad before so the words felt hollow, like placeholders.

But Danny didn't say anything. He just wanted this internal fight to be over.

"Can we just go home?" Danny sighed.

"Yeah, sure kiddo." Dick reassured, "Do you want to go to Batburger on the way?"

"Yeah, can I get jokerized fries?" Danny immediately perked up at the sound of his favorite fast food.

"I think they don't sell those anymore." Dick tried to sound casual because no one had actually told Danny that the Joker was dead just missing.

Well everyone believed that he was missing. It was best not to tell the public that the one of the Bats actually committed murder. Thankfully no one is going to care if Joker doesn't commit another crime spree and won't ask too many questions. Honestly, Duke and Jason are having a fantastic time.

"Really? Why?" Danny asked tilting his head kind of like a puppy.

"….no idea." He shrugged.

(Now back to the regularly scheduled fluff, i swear.)

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #nightwing #dick grayson

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peachyprophets-blog · 5 months ago

Note

hey! Is it possible you could make part four of the story? I wanna see where it goes and I'm hanging on the edge of my seal lol. But if your busy it's fine or if it's discontinued sorry lol. Just wondering

DROWNED LOVE, LET ME SEE YOU AGAIN...

Various! Yandere/Obsessed! EPIC Characters x Reader

Content Warning: Yandere themes, Odysseus' obsession with you grows stronger, mention of themes

Description: While Odysseus meets the prophet Tiresias in the he learns about his future, but what about you? He has no answer to that (or does he not want to give an answer?). Meanwhile, Hermes visits Circe who wants to find out more about you, so Hermes decides to take you to Circe when Apollo, Athena or one of the other gods isn't looking and then things start to get different…

Part 4: Whispers of the dead and other ways of persuasion

A/N: here is the next part :3 I'm so sorry that none came, I'm currently in training and in exam phase, I try to upload at least one part every weekend. I am so grateful that you like this series (maybe I'm planning one-shots from other fandoms)

PREV / Part 5

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Odysseus POV:

The air is cold, voices echo from every corner and I have the oppressive feeling in my chest that I can no longer escape from here, from the underworld. Circe sent me and my men here, a prophet who can help us get back home. But I don't want to go home until I find (Y/N), I need her by my side. The souls of my deceased comrades are tugging at me, I can't stop thinking about the past events. A short time later I hear a familiar voice, but it can't be, "Mother?" I ask quietly as I see my mother's slightly glowing soul on the other side. "I'm waiting... Odysseus... (Y/N) when are you coming home?" her voice sang, I didn't know what to say or how to react. My mother and loved ones have died, what should I do? I said goodbye to my mother quietly and prayed to the gods that I would find (Y/N) here, but it was in vain, where was she? She must be here somewhere if Poseidon really killed her back then. (Y/N), where are you... I'm waiting..

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

While Odysseus let his gaze wander towards you, they arrived at the prophet, but what Odysseus said was not what he expected. The prophet who went by the name "Tiresias" spoke his prophecy without mentioning you in any of his syllables, like a secret that no one should guess. "I see a song of past love, I see the sacrifices of men, I see depictions of betrayal and a brother's last stand. I see you on the brink of death, I see you taking your last breath, I see a man coming home alive, but it's no longer you." Those were the words of the prophet Odysseus was shocked but his question about how you are, where you are and what your future looks like, are he and Penelope still a part of it, continues to circle around in his head but Tiresias apparently has no answer to that. The only thing he answers is "Your future is dark." After Odysseus was on his way out of the underworld, a slight glow appeared around the prophet, he had successfully completed the task of not telling Odysseus about your future, he can now also see your future without having to see Odysseus in it like a stain that tarnishes a beautiful painting.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Meanwhile, you are sitting in one of the magnificent gardens on Olympus, surrounded by every imaginable kind of flower, they shine in their full splendor and even glow a little. It is rare that you are alone at the moment, as you are usually always accompanied by a god or goddess. But right now you are completely alone, listening to the trees rustling in the wind in the garden, the quiet conversations of the nymphs and the twittering of the birds. While you are completely alone in this quiet moment, you don't know what Hermes is planning.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Hermes POV

I visited a good friend of mine again, Circe. The sorceress saw me and looked annoyed, to which I just laughed quietly. "What's that face for, my love!" I called out in a good mood. After she told me what had happened, I had to laugh quietly and shrugged my shoulders. "It was funny," I answered skillfully. But then her expression changed. "Tell me more about her." I knew what she meant and I'll be honest, I told her everything about her. We decided that I would bring her with me. I was aware that I had a challenge to get past the other gods. But please, I stole my brother's cows when I was a baby. I knew that our dear (Y/N) was alone at the moment, so why don't I take her on a trip to Circe Dawling.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Protected by the warm sun, you were still sitting alone in the garden until you felt a gust of wind. When you opened your eyes, Hermes was standing in front of you with a broad grin. "Lord Hermes?" you asked the god, but you couldn't say anything else. The god lifted you up in his arms and with a grin he said, "We're going on a trip now, Dawling." And before you could process it, you felt the wind blowing through your hair as Hermes ran off at his inhuman speed. In less than a few minutes you were already on a beautiful island, and in the middle of it stood a magnificent palace. The palace was not like the one on Olympus, but the palace was perfect for a goddess. When Hermes let you down, you felt the soft grass and the gentle wind. When you turned your gaze in the direction of the palace, you saw two white lions approaching you, but when you wanted to back away, he held you with a gentle grip, "Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you." The lions sniffed you curiously and led you towards the palace.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Reader POV:

I don't know how I got into this situation, I was just on Olympus and now I'm standing between the messengers of the gods Hermes and the sorceress Circe. Circe's fingers gently stroked my skin and her voice was soft and she cast a spell over me. "Don't be afraid, my love, you'll really like it here, I just hope Hermes was gentle with you too." These words penetrated deep into my heart, she seemed to be worried about me. At least that's what I thought, her eyes were full of affection. "Hermes has already told me so much about you, I just had to see you in person," she whispered softly to me. "And I must say, you are even more lovely than Hermes described you." I blushed at her words, these words touched my heart and spread a warm feeling. "Thank you Lady Circe..." I managed to say. I flinched when I felt Hermes' hand on my hip. I took a step forward out of reflex and felt Circe's arms wrap around me. "Hermes, not so rough, it could break." She warned the god and gently stroked my hip and whispered in my ear in a seductive tone, "Don't worry, my little flower, I'll make sure you're okay here." I felt the heat spread across my face, my vision began to change. Circe looked so beautiful and Hermes' proximity put me in a state that was hard to explain.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

As you stood between the two of them, you felt a pair of lips sliding over your shoulders. A slight shiver ran down your spine. "If it's too much, tell us, little flower." Circe's voice rang out before she lifted your chin with her fingers. You nodded in agreement, a slight gasp escaped you as Hermes began to kiss your neck. "Don't worry, my little flower, I'll make sure it's the best for you," Circe assured you with a gentle smile before you felt her lips on yours, her kiss was gentle and tasted sweet like honey...

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Peachyprophet

#epic odysseus #epic the ithaca saga #epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #odysseus x reader #poseidon #poseidon x reader #greek mythology x reader #yandere greek gods #yandere hermes #hermes x reader #hermes x you #circe x reader #yandere epic x reader #yandere circe

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tojipie · 6 months ago

Note

Crybaby gf x Toji explains my life so simply, and I’ve been reading them like once since day omg. I’m so obsessed with it. I was wondering if i could please request one where someone is passive aggressive towards her, maybe someone from the zenin clan?

content: crybaby reader, violence, blood, fighting, (happy ending :3 !)

what i've come to accept is that I simply cannot stop writing toji resorting to violence when reader's feelings get hurt

˚ ✧ ──────────────────

It had been years since Toji had attended a family event like this. a clan reunion dinner of sorts. You’d been cautious after receiving a sealed envelope with the Zenin crest last month, reluctantly passing it to Toji after he’d gotten home from work.

“How do they know where I fucking live… freaks,” he mutters, eyes scanning the parchment before blowing wide after reading what the invite was for.

“Wait, Naoya's engaged?” he laughs, folding the letter up and handing it back to you.

Naoya. You'd heard that name once or twice from him. Never anything good.

“What's so funny?” you ask.

“Nothing," He laughs. "Just didn’t think it’d be to a woman.”

˚ ✧ ──────────

Toji pulls your seat out for you, letting you scooch in until your stomach presses up against the table. The raven-haired man settles in the seat next to you with a sigh, drumming on the table absentmindedly as the rest of his estranged family files in.

You feel ten, maybe fifteen pairs of emerald eyes bore into you in the few moments it takes for everyone to settle. Servants in black and white uniforms weave in and out of the room, their heads low as they hand out drinks.

The family had barely tolerated Toji for years. The family reject bringing an outsider as his plus one clearly wasn't helping. You brace yourself for the cacophony of whispers from the other women at the table, slinking into your seat to try and appear smaller.

Except, the insults never come. A certain lithe blond had already captured the room’s attention, graciously greeting each guest with a confident smile.

“You’ve grown so much Naoya.” An older woman gushes, patting his cheek. He accepts the affection warmly.

He seems nice enough, you think to yourself. Watching as his smile morphs into a look of disgust as soon as she sits back down.

Right, never cast judgment too quickly.

Naoya acts fast, snatching a perfectly folded handkerchief from his suit’s front pocket, to scrub the spot she’d touched. He tosses the fabric to a passing waitress, stealing a glass of wine off of her serving platter before downing the entire thing in two gulps.

So this was the infamous blond. Toji’s bratty cousin and subsequent family nemesis. Interesting.

"So where's his fiance?" You whisper to Toji, trying to make yourself small at his side.

"Dunno," he snorts, "They probably won't meet each other til' their wedding day." He explains. Weird.

Newly inspired, you decide to take a sip from your own glass, wincing at the harsh aftertaste that blooms on your tongue.

“Too strong?” Toji asks softly. You nod sheepishly, thanking him as he switches your glass for his cup of water.

“Definitely the real stuff.” You mutter, trying not to gag.

“They’ve been aging this stuff since he was born,” Toji explains. “Family tradition, everyone gets a barrel that the family cracks open at one point or another.”

“So when are we opening your barrel?”

Toji pauses, a faint playful smile on his lips.

“Shit, you think the family dud gets a barrel?” He doesn’t look hurt at the admission, but the creases around his eyes tell a different story.

An older man saunters up to the two of you, clapping Toji on the back before you can say anything.

“How long has it been my boy?” He exclaims, pulling the younger man into a hug and stepping back to give him a once-over.

Maybe an uncle, you think. They share the same hearty laugh.

Toji chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Couple years at least.”

“This your lady?” The older man asks, shooting you a wink.

Strange, you realize this is the first anyone in the room besides Toji had acknowledged you tonight.

“You know it,” Toji remarks fondly, laughing as the Uncle makes a quip you can’t quite hear before returning to his seat.

Nayoa kisses his teeth loudly, locking eyes with you from across the table. His words are loud when he cuts in, the room going silent as he speaks.

“So were you trying to water down your bloodline when you chose her?” A few partygoers laugh.

Your eyes frantically scan the room, confirming your worst fear. Almost everyone was laughing at the two of you. Your vision blurs as tears gather in the corner of your eyes.

Naoya smiles coyly, leaning forward as he continues. “Or do you like the thought of children that are as useless as you ar–”

“You shut the fuck up when I’m talking.” Toji seethes, pointing the prongs of his fork in the direction of the blond. You feel every eye in the room bore into the both of you, jagged emeralds picking your every atom apart. Toji doesn’t seem to care, chest heaving as he waits for a response.

Naoya's smile fades. The younger man looks Toji up and down before taking a long sip from his cup of wine.

“I guess we have our answer.” He teases, reveling in the tauntful laughs that his joke earns.

Your stomach churns painfully, eyes zoning in on the glass of wine Toji had stolen from you earlier. Would downing the whole thing somehow get you drunk enough to forget this entire ordeal? If there was a time to leave, it would be now.

“Baby,” you mutter, tugging on the waist of Toji’s dress pants. “Let’s just go.”

“Fuck that,” your boyfriend spits, glaring down his shit-faced little cousin. You glue your eyes to the floor.

“Say it again.” He commands, his tone incredulous.

“What? That whatever spawn you two crank out will be duds?” Naoya asks innocently. “You can’t possibly be mad at me for pointing out the obvious?”

You feel Toji’s warmth leave your side as your boyfriend launches forward, knocking plates out of the way as he barrels over the table and tackles his cousin.

The table erupts in hysterics, the older men in the room urge the two of them to break it up while the women stare into their plates, horrified. You swear you hear a baby crying.

“Let me go you fucking ape!” you hear the blond grunt, driving his knee into Toji’s ribcage repeatedly as your boyfriend attempts to hold him down by the shoulders. Crimson rivets of blood leak down from Naoya's nose, accentuating the cracks in his lips.

You scurry back from the table, hand over your mouth as you take in the debacle. That churning feeling in your stomach has been replaced by something… much different.

Something thick and viscous in the depths of your soul. Something saccharine sweet that makes your head swim.

Toji looked, for lack of a better word, fucking hot like this.

His hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead, blood splattered across his cheek, face contorted in a manic smile so wide that the corner of his lips threatened to split. And he was doing it in defense of you. His sweet girl.

Your boyfriend manages to pin Naoya’s arm behind his back, pressing his weight forward and bending it at an angle that elicits a yelp from the younger man. Toji grabs him by the scruff of his neck, angling his head so Naoya is forced to look you in the eyes.

“Apologize.” He commands his voice a low, menacing rasp that sends a chill down your spine. The others in the room feel less important as the gravity of the situation washes over you.

Naoya laughs like it's the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“For what?” he spits, glaring at you through silky black-tipped bangs.

You flinch as the blond’s head is slammed down onto the tablecloth, his cheek squished into the plain linen by a hand large enough to dwarf his entire skull.

“I said, apologize,” Toji states plainly, his tone harsh and unwavering.

Naoya pants, eyes darting around the room as if searching for someone—anyone—brave enough to intervene. No one moves.

The younger man seems to mull it over, giving in as his arm twists to its limit.

“I’'m-- shit! I'm sorry,” He grunts, gasping in relief as your boyfriend releases him from his grip.

The room remains silent. A few relatives exchange horrified glances. The tension is suffocating, yet you can’t help but feel a flicker of triumph.

Toji saunters back into his seat like nothing happened, glancing up through his hair to address the room.

“Eat,” It isn't a suggestion.

The scraping of utensils against plates resumes hesitantly, the family too shaken to address the elephant in the room.

You sit quietly, your heart still racing. Toji’s hand finds your thigh under the table, his touch firm and grounding.

The rest of the meal passes in awkward silence, punctuated only by the occasional cough or clink of silverware. Naoya sits at the far end of the table, mercilessly scrubbing at the blood that stains the front of his pristine white dress shirt.

When the meal is over, Toji doesn’t wait for the formalities to begin. He stands abruptly, helping you to your feet. “Get up,” he commands, a tender hand finding its home on the small of your back.

The two of you stride out of the room, the weight of a dozen judging stares on your back. The moment you’re outside, Toji lets out a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

“Did you see his face?” he says, grinning like a man who’s just won the lottery. Toji holds his arm behind his back just like he had done to his cousin, forcing an exaggeratedly pained look.

You can’t help it—you laugh, a real, unrestrained laugh that shakes the tension from your body.

“You’re insane,” you manage between giggles.

"Maybe,” he smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the car.

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viperwhispered · 6 months ago

Text

Notes on Jamil's speech patterns

I was supposed to just pick out some examples of typical Jamil lines. How he speaks, the vocabulary he uses, things like that. Something I could easily refer to when writing to get the tone right.

But then it kinda blew up, oop – because it’s hard to talk about how a character speaks without also dipping into why they say whatever they say.

Plus then I wanted to get examples of Jamil in different moods, and could not resist some poignant things that were more related to his character or backstory rather than strictly the speech patterns themselves, so… It expanded a bit.

Anyways. Some things I noticed he tends to do:

Sighs (more than I realized)

Snarks

Tch (though could be a more general twst writing choice too)

Stutters when he’s flustered / embarrassed / caught of guard (what a cutie)

Goes ahem like an old man when he’s trying to get back on track in those off-kilter moments

Kinda formal with his manner of speech and choice of words (especially in servant mode) (I always worry I exaggerate this but he sure does do that)

But there’s still some animatedness with the way he emphasises words, for example

(so long-suffering and ready to bark out directions to Kalim oh boy - the way the directness just comes through when he loses it)

sugarcoating his opinions if he doesn’t feel like he can say them plainly (tyrant becomes rigorous, etc.)

sarcasm, sometimes with a side of deadpan, sometimes with a smirk

“Good grief” (another thing I didn't realize was that much of a catchphrase)

Very mild on the level of insults & swears honestly, (I mean, "drat"?) but I imagine this is more of a result of the game's rating (I guess for in-game reasons we can say he's been very conditioned by his upbringing)

I put the screenshots that seemed telling, and some related notes, on to a google sheet. That way one can filter and order it in various ways.

The sheet is probably best viewed on a computer or another larger screen, the screenshots might make it a bit difficult to navigate on mobile.

I did go in with the assumption that Jamil might speak differently pre-overblot (when the servant mask is firmly in place) and post-overblot (at least those occasions where he allows himself to be more honest). Like, there’s the sycophantic (as Leona calls it) flatterer, versus when Jamil’s honestly voicing his own thoughts. Which also shows in how I chose to categorize the screenshots.

Of course events are a bit wibbly wobbly in relation to the main story so can’t be placed in the timeline in the same way, but there are still those occasions where it seems you can tell the difference between the servant mask and a Jamil who’s not saying things just for the sake of appearances.

So, to explain the logic of the sheet:

First column has a screenshot of something Jamil says. The second two columns give the source.

The column for whether or not this happened before or after the overblot is only really used for main story things, since event stories are kinda murky timeline-wise.

Next is whether Jamil seems to be putting on the servant mask or speaking more honestly. This is where get more to interpretation territory, and I’ve not applied it to every screenshot (either because that didn’t seem like the relevant part for that line, or because I couldn’t tell).

The last column of the sheet is where we get most to my personal interpretations. So of course you might read these lines differently than I do, and that’s completely fine, these are simply the aspects that seemed poignant to me. Some notes are simply pointing out specific word choices or style of speech, others delve more into character analysis side of things.

Totally fine if you want to copy this file or modify it to your own needs. All I ask is that you don’t pass off anything I wrote as your own thoughts.

Order of lines is based purely on the order the pics were in my screenshots folder, so guess this is also an insight on the order I played things in, lol.

Tagging some jamil peeps in case y'all find this useful:

@crystallizsch @diodellet @moonyasnow @twstgo @lex752

@majestickitty @viperbunnies

#ner talks #ner makes #twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twst resources #I'm sure I could keep on fiddling with this further and maybe pare down on the things / find some more poignant examples #but I'm trying to practice good enough is good enough #and honestly I found it quite useful to do a bit of a closer read like this on his speech patterns #so hopefully this'll be useful for others too #because there were certainly things I didn't notice before (like that “good grief”) that were quite interesting to spot

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madridfangirl · 9 months ago

Text

I'm taking you home NOW!

(Jude Bellingham one-shot)

Summary: Jude sees his girlfriend at a club, tries to control himself as he watches her have the time of her life, but ultimately decides to take the matter in his own hands.

Inspired from an anon request.

Impromptu plans with the team was not a frequent occurrence for Jude. Their schedules just didn’t allow that.

So when the training was cancelled for the next morning and the team was wrapping up from Courtois’ documentary release event, a smaller (younger) group decided to extend the festivities of the night.

That’s how they ended up in the private section of a high-end club in Madrid. It had a separate entrance, separate kitchen and a whole separate floor for the more ‘esteemed’ guests. With a tinted glass wall separating them from the section below. The glass was see-through from their side - they could enjoy the atmosphere outside but still be hidden from outside view, keeping their privacy intact.

They had arrived late and the place was already buzzing. Music at high-decibels, along with the energy and vibe.

As they waited for their large table to be set up, Jude looked through the glass at the upbeat scenes on the dance floor. The place was fairly crowded, yet no one seemed to mind. The DJ was top-notch, pausing the music in the middle to get people to sing along. Rallying them into stadium-like Mexican-waves. Taking their requests. Getting them to dedicate songs to each other. The mood was lit AF.

Just when he was about to turn around to find a seat, his eyes landed on a red dress. A very familiar fitted red dress. On a very familiar body.

The girl had his back to him, leaning over the counter to get the attention of the fit bartender amidst all the noise and crowd.

Once he noticed her, the bartender leaned even closer, trying to make out the drink she was asking for. That went on for a good while, and he finally grinned at her, pulling out the tequila glasses.

Jude was frozen in his spot. He didn’t need her to turn around to know that it was his girlfriend that the bartender was entertaining. That back, those curves, that hair, that ass, those legs - he could pick her out of a line-up in his sleep. And that dress. He had bought that fucking body-hugging dress for her. Something he hadn’t seen her in yet. Until now.

He was too occupied to hear his teammates calling him from behind. Ultimately, Cama had to come over & smack his arm to get his attention. Before he could follow Jude’s line of sight, the boy recovered quickly, an impeccable smile donning his face. Most of the seats were already taken up. Jude had to find one with a clear view of the floor. So he had to manoeuvre (practically manhandle) Fran away from a corner seat, plopping next to Brahim. A confused looking Fran walking away to find another spot.

What the fuck was she still doing at the counter? How long does it take to pour a fucking tequila shot? How was this guy a professional?

Maybe he’s taking it slow on purpose.

The bastard.

He craned his neck to get a better view. The guy was holding out salt & lemon in front of her, as she downed her shot. Smiling widely when she appeared to thank him. Jude nearly puked at the sight.

He felt a smack on his arm again, turning around to see Brahim waving the drinks menu in his face.

‘Whatever you’re having.’

He quickly dismissed the interruption & turned around, but she was gone. And the bartender was gone.

Before his mind could run wild, he thankfully placed her making her way through the crowd to the rest of her group, falling happily into her roommate’s arms as she lost her balance. Roma steadied her, and the girls giggled along like maniacs.

Yeah, she was drunk. Pissed drunk. And Jude knew how silly & carefree she got when she was so out of it. But at least she was with Roma, and a couple of other girls Jude could recognise from her pics. Looked like a fun girls night.

They had missed quite a few because work had been super hectic. Even this morning she was certain it would be a long night in office. But looked like something opened up for them as well.

Good for her. She deserved to let her hair down once in a while. And paint the town red.

If only she could do that with him.

Once his profile shot through the roof since the world cup, and especially since the swashbuckling move to Madrid, Jude had been craving the everyday things he used to be able to do earlier. Like chilling at public places - clubs, cafes, amusement parks - without causing a stampede.

And since she had come into his life, the craving to go out & do regular couple stuff had intensified manifolds. But they had kept their relationship private, wanting to avoid the madness that would come from people getting to know. He couldn’t even take her out for a nice meal - some camera somewhere was always catching him. People constantly filming on their phones, even in the private sections sometimes.

Watching her live freely right now made his heart full - like he was living vicariously through her.

But it also made him ache - wanting to join her & be a normal 20 year old boy. To put his arms around her in a way that leaves no doubt that she was taken. If only he could have that once, just once.

The need to have her dance like that with him, swaying her hips against his body, was physically painful. Not that he was much of a dancer but he knew she’d make it work. Maybe he could throw a small party at his house, invite a few teammates who didn’t have a loose mouth and could keep a secret. And who had girlfriends / partners. Brahim & Fede could be good options. Yeah - he’d try to convince her. They could all dress up & have some fun together. Like regular young couples.

While his mind concocted all these wishful plans, he subconsciously downed every drink Brahim put in front of him. On to his fourth one now. In less than 15 mins.

‘You may wanna slow down, buddy.’

No response.

‘Jude.’

No response.

Jude had not turned his face fully, to not draw attention, but his eyes were still focused on her through his peripheral vision. He had been casually turning around and nodding in the middle to appear interested, but mentally he wasn’t present.

‘Boss might drop you in the next game. For Ceballos.’

Still no response.

Brahim laughed & elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Owww what the fuck?’

‘Who is she & where is she?’

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘Yeah, cut the crap. Someone has clearly caught your attention. Now who’s the one?’

Brahim rose from his seat to try to look behind Jude’s frame but Jude caught him & pulled him down. Others looked at them curiously but Jude just laughed it off, saying he was drunk. They bought it; they were drunk too.

But not Brahim. He was a tanker.

‘Don’t.’

Jude gritted out slowly.

‘Oh boy - you know her from before don’t you?’

Who the fuck made him this smart in such matters? He wished one of the other boys were there instead - they would have laughed it off with ‘I bet she’s hot’ or something.

But not Brahim. He caught on. He observed as Jude shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to make a decision. It was like watching a golden retriever attempting to do trigonometry.

Brahim laughed. Jude narrowed his eyes at him. The group called for another round of shots, still oblivious.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Your pathetic cover up.’

‘Oh shut up.’

Jude gulped his 5th drink - he wasn’t even sure which mix it was.

‘I…it’s complicated, mate.’

Brahim’s face softened.

‘Hey, it’s fine. Don’t need to say anything. Let’s talk when you are ready.’

Jude wanted to. Talking to someone on the team would really help. They were the only ones who would get it. Maybe he could get some useful advice on how to handle the public aspect of the relationship. Brahim was just the guy for it.

But, not now. His mind was too scattered with her thoughts now to have this deep conversation.

‘Thanks.’

Brahim smiled & nodded softly.

‘Must be a special lady.’

Jude smiled back.

‘But seriously, get a hold of yourself if you don’t want others to notice.’

The boys grinned at each other.

Jude turned to admire his special lady once more, who was waving to the music happily. A big smile on her face. Making her look all the more beautiful. The red looked gorgeous on her - the dress, the heels, the ruby lips.

He couldn’t wait for the night to be over so he could take her home.

With that thought, he let her be. And went back to his mates. For real this time.

Next 30 mins passed peacefully.

And then, the DJ decided to screw with Jude. By playing salsa tracks. A romantic dance. A partner dance.

The floor cleared quickly and only the couples remained, dancing to the fast tunes in a close embrace. And, just as his luck would have it, he saw his girlfriend emerge on the floor with Roma, both giggling uncontrollably.

The girls held each other close, and started dancing like the other couples, taking turns on leading their partner.

Jude could’t take his eyes off Ananya. His breath hitched when he saw her spinning & shimmying & dipping in that atrociously tight dress, which kept inching up her thighs with her highly paced moves. She didn’t even notice. But he did. And he knew other guys around her would notice too.

If only he could build a shield around her. A barrier which no one could see past.

If only he could hold her tight and be the person she was dancing so sensually with. Separating her from the crowd, their wandering eyes and sweaty bodies.

Unaware of how she was torturing her boyfriend, Ananya kept dancing like her life depended on it. Swaying in sync with the beats, drawing attention to her firm round butt.

Jude looked down at his pants, as if willing his body to behave. And counted back from 100 to 1 to not do something stupid. Like walking over to her right now.

She’d probably murder him, but at least this torture would end.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the music moved to lifts. The couples followed the beats, and the men lifted their partners off the ground in a variety of moves.

The girls obviously couldn’t do that. And Jude breathed a sigh of relief. But it was too soon.

An ugly, disgusting asshole approached Ananya, offering his sweaty, small hand to be her partner. She obviously refused, like Jude knew she would. But that split second was enough for Jude to lose his shit.

The longer that pig stayed around her, not getting the clear no, the harder Jude gripped his glass. Brahim covered for his friend, knowing he was out of it right now.

The girls smartly decided to move to their table. Where their bags were. And Jude took the opportunity to dial her immediately.

He saw her pull out her phone and smile adorably when she saw it was him calling. Both moved away from their tables, making excuses, finding a corner in their respective sections. His eyes still firmly following her.

‘Heyy babyy.’

She slurred on the line, while blowing kisses through the phone. Jude was unmoved.

‘A bra would have been nice with this dress.’

It hit her like a bucket of cold water.

‘Erm….what?’

She looked around rapidly, the movement making her head spin.

‘Especially if you intended to dance like that.’

She didn’t know if this was real or if she was hallucinating.

‘How did…where are you?’

‘Look up - straight ahead.’

She did. It looked like plain glass but she could make out enough lights beyond it to figure that it was a section divider.

Ofcourse.

How long was he watching her? What was that tone?

And why was it making her nervous? She was just minding her own business. Having fun. What’s wrong with that?

‘Meet me outside in 2 minutes. Ask for the back door.’

‘What?’

‘We are going home right now, Ananya.’

She was crazy about him. But that boy could be so pigheaded at times.

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me. Not calling it a night yet.’

‘Oh yes you are.’

She loved his domineering attitude in bed, but not so much in day to day life.

‘Jude - I barely get time with my friends.’

‘You work with them. You are with them all day. But your nights are mine.’

Despite being mad, that sent a shiver down her spine. Darn that bastard.

But no - she’ll hold her ground here. She won’t give in. He needed to learn that he can’t always get his way. And he most certainly can’t boss her around.

‘Look - I’m gonna need 2 hours, yeah? How about I come to yours after?’

‘How about I come down, throw you over my shoulder & take you with me?’

She should be mad. She should be raving mad. But her skin started to heat at his words. Her treacherous body refusing to comply with the commands of her brain.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

She whispered, hating how small her voice sounded.

‘Try me.’

His was cocky and confident, as always. That made her recover quickly.

‘Do that - and you can forget about taking me home. Not tonight. Not any night.’

Heavy breathing at both ends. Jude changed tact, not one to accept defeat.

‘I sat here watching you, wanting you, waiting for you. Paid no heed to my friends. And you’re picking yours OVER ME?’

He made it sound like the worst tragedy in the world. Like she had wronged him in a thousand different ways. She saw right through the attempted manipulative wordplay. It may have worked with his other admirers, not with her.

‘Gosh I’m not picking anyone over you. Just wanna chill here some more with my friends.’

Jude being Jude pushed further, like he always did when he wanted something badly. Giving up was not in his dictionary.

‘Yeah? Chill with that bartender maybe? Have some more shots?.’

Ananya stilled. She did flirt a teeny bit with that guy to get her drink faster, and she could tell the guy reciprocated disproportionately. Giving her extra shots on the house. But she quickly left after, nipping it in the bud. It was all quite harmless, really.

Then why was guilt washing over her in waves? Why couldn’t she come up with any half decent response?

Also, how the fuck did Jude catch that from a distance?

Jude could see he had hit the nail on the head. This was his window to double down.

‘Outside. NOW.’

‘1 hour.’

‘Nope.’

’Ok 50 mins. Take it or leave it.’

’15 mins - and I get a strip tease when we get home.’

‘Please Jude.’

‘Save that for when I pound you into the mattress tonight.’

She had to sit down, unable to handle his onslaught in her drunken state. Feeling hot all over with just his words.

’30 mins. Final.’

She needed some consolation win.

He stayed quiet for a few moments.

’30 mins. And strip tease.’

She evaluated silently, realising that’s the longest window she’d get. Before he actually does something stupid to draw attention to them.

‘Fine. But I’m going for brunch tmrw with my friends.’

They usually spent Saturdays cooped up in his bedroom since he had late training. Not tomorrow though - she’d take pride over pleasure. And she really wanted to take him down a peg.

‘Sure - if you can walk.’

‘Oh you…….you little……..I HATE YOU.’

‘Then why are you getting wet right now?’

She nearly dropped her phone. At his audacity, and the fact that he was fucking right.

Tonight was going to be a long night, and he’d make her make it up to him. Make her be a ‘good girl’ for him.

Somehow, despite crumbling on her will to resist him, it didn’t feel like much of a loss. Because she knew he’d make it worth her while too. Like he always did.

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

I could not stop thinking about this scenario & wrote this in the little time I got this weekend 🥹

Thank you dear anon - this was too good to not be written :)

For those who don't know, the characters are from Star Crossed Lovers.

Parts of Part 2 of this one-shot covered in Ch 12.

#jude bellingham #real madrid #bellingham #jude #jb5 #jb #jude bellingham smut #jude fanfic #bellingham x reader #star crossed lovers #jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham blurb #desi girl #jude bellingham angst #jude fic

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lavenders388 · 5 months ago

Note

hiii!! i was thinking of a scenario of where gi-hun comforts the the reader after they have a panic attack/ptsd/nightmare? something sweet and romantic <3

~morning sun~

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ seong gi hun x reader

requested 💌

a/n gi hun is so underrated in his OWN SHOW! theres like 5 fics of him for season 2 I'm glad i can add one more!! keep requesting him plsplspls!!! our little sad mullet man -matcha

tw: ptsd/panic attacks, mentions and descriptions of death/blood (typical squid game tw fr), allusion to vomiting but no description

scenario!!!: after getting out of the games with gi hun, you both face lingering struggles from what you experienced as you fight to stop the games for good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

as you stood with the 16 remaining players on the lifted platform in what appeared to be a circus tent -or a skyscraper it felt like- you trembled as the sickeningly sweet recorded voice announced what this game would entail. you were relieved to be second to last as the pink-suited guard confirmed that the number on your chest determined the order in which you would cross the glass panels. you were even more relieved when you remembered that your husband was behind you; and would be going last. the thought of crossing the glass tiles in front of him scared you, and you knew it scared him more.

you crossed the tiles slowly, trying to avoid looking down. down to what could easily be your death, your husband's, the deaths of the people in front of you, the people who died so you could then move on and see the remaining tile that would keep you from meeting the fate of them. "16 people." you thought. the fear of all the events of the past few days reverberating in your brain making it unable to focus on just one thing. you and your husband found yourselves in a group of 456 during the first game; now, even after starting this game as a group of 16, there were 4.

"at least we are all going to make it." you thought solemnly; wanting to say it to the group, or even just your husband. you watched as sangwoo crossed; jumping on the last tile with no issue and leaping onto the finishing platform. then say byeok; also getting to safety without issue. and finally it was your turn to jump onto the last tile like they did. cementing your survival and your husband following suit.

you tried to hide your shaking as you situated yourself to make the jump. you looked at your husband behind you and gave him a soft smile, knowing that your impending safety is a large relief to him. you turn, and jump. as you land on the last tile, you stabilize yourself. but something doesn't feel right. this doesn't feel like the last step to safety. you feel the tile buckle below you.

you start to turn to your husband, not having enough time to meet his gaze as the tile completely shatters below you; glass shards cutting into your bare feet as you plummet to meet the same fate as everyone on the ground.

when you jump forward with a gasp he's already awake next to you. in your horror you don't realize at first that you're safe and in your bed; the feeling of falling to your death lingering in a way that makes your stomach burn. you stumble as you throw the covers off and try to get to your shared bathroom as fast as possible; nothing around you seeming real yet. you fling open the door and fall onto the cold tiles; the feeling of the cold hard ground below you all too similar to what just happened in your dream. the feeling makes you grip the sides of the toilet, not just because you're about to throw up; but because you still feel like your falling to your demise in a dark, fake circus tent as the masked men who bet on your lives watched. like you're there again.

as you tried to catch your breath and wipe your mouth, you feel a soft touch on your back. still not being fully there, you jump; gasping in horror. "y/n! y/n! its me!" your husband yells as he goes to touch you again, trying to comfort you without startling you anymore than he already has. "sweetheart its okay, everything is okay." he says softer. "its me, its gi hun." in a different situation you'd laugh at him reminding you, his wife, of his name. this morning though, you just fall into his arms as you cry.

you don't have any explaining needed on why you woke up in such a panic. he does the same thing every now and then; its been happening more frequently to the both of you as you've been enwrapped with desperate attempts at finding the recruiter before the games were set to begin again. he just holds you as you cry, just as you do to him when he wakes up from a nightmare. you dont hear what hes saying as you continue catching your breath. you know its sweet comforting words being spoken softly into your hair as he supports the back of your head as you breathe into his chest; his other arm caressing your back. he cringes as he feels your chest lurch with every breath.

"just breathe, its going to be okay. you're okay, i'm here and we're home and safe. were at home." you hear him say to you as you breathing quiets a bit. "i'm so sorry." you cry into his chest. you don't what all you're apologizing for. a mix of being sorry for waking him up in such an abnormal and stressful way, being sorry for all you've both been through, as well as even being sorry for him having to watch you die in your dream; knowing he didn't actually.

mornings like these have continued to replace the slow mornings waking up in bed with your husband. before the games, the two of you would wake up in each others arms, feeling the warmth of the morning sunlight coming through the curtains and resting on your exposed skin. you would stay in bed as long as possible, waking up slowly as you held each other. eventually you'd start to get up, kissing each other as one of you would try to keep the other in bed. you'd slowly make your way to the kitchen and you'd drink tea and make each other breakfast.

now, mornings looked different. a lot of times it would be gi hun waking up startled; sometimes it would be you. you could tell it bothered him so much more when you'd wake up that way. he never says it, but you know he feels responsible for you joining the game in the first place; you doing so to help him pay off his debts and for his mothers hospital stay. you try to remind him as much as possible that yes, that's true, but he's also the only reason you made it back from the game. you still stayed in bed together for a little bit; the time becoming shorter and shorter as the time crunch for finding the recruiter narrowed. and in the hotel setting you found yourselves living in you didn't exactly have a kitchen to cook breakfast.

the love you felt during you and your husband's morning ritual, raw and unconditional, has remained unchanged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game season 2 #squid game s2 #gi hun x reader #seong gi hun #player 456 #seong gi hun x reader #gihun x reader #seong gihun #player 456 x reader #squid game angst #squid game fluff #squid game imagine #squid game gi hun

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5trrr · 1 month ago

Text

☀️Bob Reynolds One Shot☀️

“no funny business” pt. 1/3

PT2 , PT3 , masterlist

summary: You and Bob are left at the tower while the rest of the team goes on a mission after Bob and you have an accident, totally unrelated to an arm wrestling match a week prior. Taking your frustration out on a punching bag turns into taking it out on him...and more of him.

warning: smut, handjob, he’s pathetic in like every possible way in this…whoops finger slipped ig, Y/N is kind of a bully, idk how to do this, this is my first post, send help

word count: 3956

"No funny business," Bucky spoke as he entered the elevator. He turned, standing with Yelena as they waited for the rest of the team to join them. "I mean it. If I come back to another broken limb, when you're not even in danger..." He paused, glaring between the two newest members of their team. "How does that even happen?" Bucky whispered more to himself than Yelena, but the woman was happy to answer anyway.

"Funny business." Yelena grinned, winking at you two.

John and Ava finally appeared from their hallway. The man stopped just before he could enter the elevator, the Captain America shield shining in the dimming light as he turned to the two of you next.

His eyes scrunched, "You look like shit." They landed on you, standing behind the couch, a cast on your right hand.

You glared back and raised your chin. "You're a fake. Asshole."

"Yeah? How's house arrest treating you?"

You jolted forward, and a hand wrapped gently around your forearm. Your glare found the man behind you. Bob. His eyes went wide as he released you. "Sorry." He whispered as you ripped your arm from him.

"Why don't you two spar while we're gone?" Alexei finally piped up, his grin wide as the elevator doors began to slowly shut. "You're a cripple and you, a wuss! Pretty even!" His accent was thick and his voice loud. The two of you could hear it even with the doors shut.

You growled as you stomped away, arm held tight to your stomach. The other waved wildly as you spoke, Russian slipping out, punctuated with each forced footstep. "Are you coming or not?" You shouted, now heading down the stairs.

Bob sighed. He leaned down and grabbed the water you left behind before beginning to follow. He almost didn't want to, but he knew he didn't have a choice. It was his fault you were forced to stay in the tower, after all. The least he could do was spar with you and try not to break the other hand.

The events of last week ran through his mind for probably the millionth time. They thought arm wrestling would be a good way to erase their boredom, to get through the quiet hours of the morning...The only thing it ended up erasing was your wrist. He cringed. He could still hear the snap of it when he won, his arm slamming yours down on the table. Since then, you have been stuck in the tower, with even less to do than before.

Bob tried to hurry on his way down to the basement, the sounds of rhythmic beats already echoing up the stairwell. He finally made it to the bottom and could immediately see you on the opposite end of the room. You swung your left arm, and it snapped quickly against the punching bag. Your right hung loosely at your side. He could see the struggle in your shoulder, the tensing each time you remembered you couldn't swing it. Frustration was flooding through you, quick and forceful like your voice as you snapped at him.

"Hey!" You barked, chest puffing with effort. Your eyes glanced down at the bottle held in his hand. "Gonna break that too?" She moved forward and snatched it from his delicate hold. He took the snarky remark. He couldn't blame you. He had broken you, literally.

You, on the other hand, were seething. The rest of the team was out there helping, and you were stuck here...with him? God, you wanted to rip his hand off. Make him stay on the sidelines for a month. Give John another reason to be an asshole. Alexei, another area to poke, as if it was fun to watch you wince and shout.

You spun, and your left hand slammed the bag again. Your fist was off center, your feet at an awkward angle. Your hand made the wrong sound against the thick material, and so did you. The grunt of breath didn't escape you this time, but a pained yowl as you clenched it tight against your chest.

"Y/N!" Bob gasped at the sound. His feet moved before he could stop them, and his hand landed gently on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

As soon as his hand landed on you, you turned. Your unbroken hand pushed roughly at his chest. "Don't touch me!" You growled. Your hand clenched and unclenched around nothing as you followed his clumsy steps. "You got me stuck here." You spoke harshly, eyebrows furrowed as you glared up at him. You pushed again at his chest. Again and again until his back hit the wall. He inhaled sharply. "I have one working fucking hand." Your face scrunched. "I'm..." You huffed and puffed, blinking hard.

Bob didn't say anything. Not with his words, at least. His eyes, however, were louder than even your shouts. They were wide and kind, not a spark of blame or anger in them. You didn't expect that. You thought he would have done something by now. Yelled. Pushed back. Cried. Something. Anything. His silence only angered you more.

"Say something!" You hissed.

He only blinked his eyes at you, until finally, "I didn't mean to hurt you." His voice was so quiet, you could barely hear it over your breathing. "Really. I didn't realize how hard I had pushed your arm." His words were slow and calm, breathy, as his eyes followed you. "I was just...I thought we were having fun. I-I'm sorry."

You froze. Your breathing calmed, and it almost felt like the whole room had hit pause. A pang of guilt and regret built up inside your chest. It grew from a small spark to a blazing fire, roaming from your mind and into your bones. You almost released him. Your hand loosened, and you sighed. Then, his hand reached out and brushed your arm. The anger flooded back to you in an instant, and you pulled. You pulled and pulled until both of you landed on the sparring mat below.

Pain jolted up your right arm as you pushed yourself onto your knees. You groaned softly, glancing down at the cast, pushed on the ground. You leaned back on your knees in time to see him crawl onto his knees as well. You glared, a warning. Warning him not to come closer. To not worry like he cared.

"Y/N..." He whispered again. "I don't think that's...Is your hand okay?"

"That's obvious." You spat. You leapt forward, left hand landing on the bottom of his jaw, pinning his head hard against the mat. "Don't act like you care. You did this."

Bob let out a gasp as he was pushed down. He didn't fight back. He knew he could. Yes, you were a Red Room assassin. Yes, you had extraordinary combat skills, but he was...Bob. He could have flung you into the ceiling and buried you under it without breaking a sweat. But he didn't. Bob stayed beneath your hand and legs, letting you yell at him. He just kept reminding himself, it was the least he could do.

"I'm already looked down on in this team." Your chest puffed as you held him there. "John takes every chance he can to fuck with me. Ava doesn't acknowledge me. Yelena doesn't want to get close. She feels guilty for..." You panted. You could feel your throat tighten.

Bob stared up at you with nothing but sympathy. His hands found you again, gently resting on your elbows. He could see the effort it took for you to say this. He pushed up, just barely, giving support, showing he was listening. He was, truly. He listened to every word leaving your mouth, nodding slowly.

"You..." You choked out. "You..." You couldn't find the words. He looked almost pathetic under you. You had berated and abused him all day, and he looked like a dog under you. Waiting so patiently for another.

"W-What do I do?" You didn't miss the crack in his voice. His hands tightened slightly. "Tell me. I'll fix it. I'll make it up to you."

Dazed by his words, you only stared down at him. Your face relaxed, and you let your upper body lean more into his. Your own actions surprised you, and you tightened back up, raising your chin high until he could barely make out your face.

"I never wanted to hurt you or..." He swallowed thickly, and your eyes followed the way his Adam's apple bobbed. "whatever it is I did to make you hate me." Your mouth fell slightly open at his admission. You couldn't help but shake your head. "Yes." He nodded again against your hand. "Tell me, please."

"I..." Your voice was shaky, hand loosening on his jaw. He still didn't move. He stayed where you left him, waiting and waiting for your answer. "I don't hate you." Bob's brows furrowed at your words. Yours followed suit. Your words left you just as surprised as him. "I just feel...useless." You couldn't believe you were admitting this. Why were you? You didn't know. "I'm only on this team because Yelena and Bucky feel bad for me. Now, there's no point. I can't help feeling I'm going to come back after going out and my shits going to be on the sidewalk." The words poured out of you like a flowing river, and you snapped a hand over your mouth.

You stared in horror down at Bob. His eyes were just as wide as yours. Though they held a gentleness yours never could. Your breathing grew heavier again behind your hand. Admitting all of that felt like a weight had lifted off your shoulders. But a new one quickly replaced it. He still hadn't said anything. Your thoughts raced, blinding you with what he probably thought of you now.

Bob's hands reached up. You froze as he slowly peeled your hand from your mouth. Your breathing fanned across his hand, and he shivered. You could feel it. His abdomen twitched from below you, and you only now noticed the position you put yourself in. You were straddling him. The poor man you had been scolding like a dog all day. And, he allowed it with no complaints.

"S-Say something." You repeated your earlier words. They were much gentler now. Softer. Kinder. It felt odd coming from you.

Bob smiled. It was a boyish grin, like he had already forgotten everything you'd done to him. "You're not useless." His hand released yours, and your whole upper body followed it. "They care about you so much more than you think." His hand landed on his chest, and yours quickly accompanied it. "You're probably not going to like this, but I care too." His voice was so quiet. It sounded like a sentence only you were ever meant to hear. You liked that, and it seemed your body did too, your chest dropping onto your hands until your faces were so, so close. "I'm sorry."

"Shut up." You whispered.

He whined at your words. The sound was so sudden, he was even surprised by it. "I-I'm sorry." He quickly repeated. A slight blush bloomed on his neck.

"Shut up." You repeated, and before he could snap his mouth shut or whisper another whiny apology, your lips pressed against his. The kiss was hesitant and messy. Neither of you knew when to pull away. Your lips mashed together like two stiff sticks until you finally pulled away, panting. "I should be the..." You paused to breathe, nose brushing against his. "I should apologize. I've been terrible to you all week over an accident." His lips moved to your cheek, leaving a peck as you continued to speak. "You're just...so nice. I don't know what to do with myself when you compliment me or, god forbid, try to help me."

Bob hummed as his lips trailed down to your jaw. "You're not terrible. You're hurt and tired and frustrated." He moaned softly when one of your hands buried in his hair. "Because of me."

"No." Your hand tugged at his wavy brown hair, and his head fell back. "You haven't done anything but be a kind person." His mouth fell slightly open as your lips pressed just below his Adam's apple. It bobbed as he swallowed. "I've been nothing but an asshole.”

"We've both been assholes." He whispered, voice raspy. "Just..." His hands gripped your waist. "A-Agree to disagree."

You laughed at that, nose poking against his throat. "I suppose." You whispered, lips trailing up until they met his again.

It felt more natural this time. Your lips pressed and moved in time together. His mouth opened to moan, and you swallowed it, your tongue sliding into his. His hands tightened at the intrusion, sliding down to your hips. He squeezed, and you shivered.

The need grew between you two, hands unable to stay put. Yours slid down to his chest, slowly working at the buttons of his shirt. His hands replaced yours when you finally pulled away from him. Your chest heaving with your breath, eyes following his hands as each button revealed more of his surprising muscles. He could see it in your eyes, the surprise.

His hand wrapped around yours, and he brought it to the skin just above his waistband, dragging your hand up his skin. You could feel the muscles tense under your touch as you passed them, and a faint smile spread across your lips. He unwrapped his hand from yours, but you kept going.

Your hand travelled up and up until your hand could wrap around his chin again. It was gentle this time. You didn't push or shove his head into the mat. You gently swiped your thumb across his bottom lip, eyes finding his. He kept his mouth shut, letting you explore. His eyes did all the talking. They were wide and pleading, stuck on you and only you. No one had looked at you with such attention before.

You leaned down and pressed another gentle kiss to his lips. "You're so pretty." The words were slurred into his mouth as you struggled to speak around the force of his lips. He pushed up, trying to keep the contact between you as you pulled away. Your hands moved at the same time. You pushed him down, and he tugged gently on your shirt.

"Can I..." He paused. His hands played with the material between his fingers. You didn't answer his question, but you reached down and pulled the shirt over your head. His eyes widened, scanning across your now bare skin. "A-And you called me pretty." The words were accompanied by a sly smirk that you kissed away.

Your entire body shivered when his hands landed on your waist. They slid up and down your skin, feeling the goosebumps they left in their wake. Your lips trailed back down onto his neck, sucking gently. His hands tightened at the feeling, and you grinned against his skin. "Sensitive?" You hummed, moving to the spot below his ear.

"N-No," Bob whispered. His voice was quiet and meek. You could feel his skin warming below your touch. "It's cold."

"Cold?" You felt his body arch against you when you nipped the skin. "You feel pretty warm to me." You giggled faintly, and he groaned. "Maybe you have a fever." Your left hand found his forehead while the right was laid limp next to his head. "Should take you to the infirmary." You pulled away, and his arms wrapped securely around you, bringing you flush together.

"I'm fine." Bob panted. "Don't. Please." His words were rushed and panicked, like he actually thought you were going to take him. You huffed at that. No way that was happening, not with the way he looked so needy beneath you. It was too pretty of a sight to pass up.

"I'll stay." You whispered in his ear. He nodded quickly, head bobbing. Your hands found his stomach again, trailing between the divots before teasing gently across his waistband. "If you really want me to, that is."

"I do, I do." He rushed his words as he felt you tug at his belt. He could feel you undoing it and couldn't bring himself to say anymore. He knew it would be a mess anyway.

"Is this okay?" You asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. He nodded, and you stopped, ignoring the whine that left him. "Use your words."

He shivered at your tone. He swallowed thickly before complying. "Y-Yes." He pushed his hips up, wishing and waiting for your hand to return. "It's so okay. Nothing else could be more okay." Your hands tugged again, pulling it from the loops of his jeans. He shuddered as he watched it go. "Can I touch you?" He asked lowly, eyes unable to decide whether to stare at you or your hips as you settled against him.

"Please, do." You laughed, and he got right to work.

His hands slid up your stomach and over the sides of your torso. His hands itched closer to your chest. He was almost there, but something stopped him. He glanced pleadingly up at you again, his thumbs grazing the side of your breasts. You huffed, wrapping your hands around the back of his. You pulled them flush to you, and he groaned. His hands cupped you so perfectly, his eyes trained on his hands around your bra. You released him, and his hands moved around until they found the clasp. He didn't ask for permission this time, instead immediately struggling with the hooks.

"I, uh..." He sat up to glance around, and you pushed him back down.

You reached back and undid it, giggling as the flush on his face grew. His hands found your breasts again. He squeezed gently before pulling you down until you were flush together. He kissed between them first, then moved to the left one, slowly taking it into his mouth. You gasped, and his eyes shut. His hand found the free one, pinching it between his thumb and finger. The hand buried in his hair tugged, your body curving around him.

"Was that..." Bob panted, eyes filled with slight worry. His mouth slid off of you with a dull pop. "Was that too hard?"

You pressed your lips against his, hard. He sounded so sweet and sincere. Concerned about your poor skin after you had been yelling at him all day, not a care in the world for how he must have felt. "It was perfect." You mumbled into his lips. "You're perfect." A moan escaped him. "So sweet." His hips pressed up, lifting you slightly as he groaned. You smiled, watching the struggle and want in his eyes. "Needy, too." You hummed.

"Please." He panted when you finally pulled away. "I'll be whatever you need me to be." His hips pressed up again, and you couldn't deny the warmth growing in your stomach. It was there and so, so loud in your body, but you ignored it. "I'll be perfect. I'll be sweet. I'll be..." His eyes squeezed shut as your hands loosened in his hair, gently patting it down. "I'll be your punching bag. You can hate me and yell at me. I'll take it. I will." His words were so rushed and whiny now, you could barely make them out. "Just, please...touch me."

"Bob." You whispered when his mouth opened to continue. You leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I'll never yell at you again. I'll never take out my anger on you." You pecked his lips, and your hands danced down to his waistband. "Never let me do that again." The button clicked, and he shivered as he heard the zipper. "But, let me make it up to you?" Your hands stopped, and he let out a shaky breath.

"You don't have to make it up to me. I did break your arm." He tried to keep his voice even. "But, you can do that if you want to." His voice finally shook, his head falling back as your hand moved onto him. He gasped as your palm brushed against him.

Bob fought to keep his hips still, to let you touch, but it was too gentle, too unaware. His hips jolted forward, and you watched curiously. Your hand moved with his hips, keeping your touch nearly nonexistent. You leaned back on your knees to watch. He looked so pretty like this. His eyebrows furrowed, face flushed, mouth blabbering pleas that echoed off the concrete walls to greet you a second time.

"P-Please don't tease me." He whispered, hips bucking into the feeling. He groaned as he watched your hand rise, staying just barely on him, barely grazing where he wanted you. "I'll do anything. Please, just touch me." You would have made some remark about how you were touching him, but you didn't want to interrupt the flow of his words. "I'll never ask you to do this again. Just this one time."

Your hand added more pressure, just enough for him to notice. "You only want to do this once?" You pouted your lip, and his head shook frantically.

"No, no. God, no." Bob panted. "I want this every day. Every night." His back arched as you rewarded him with another ounce of pressure. "As long as you want. As long as you need. I-I'm yours."

That was it.

Your hand pressed down firmly, cupping him through his boxers. He gasped. His hands found your hips, gripping desperately as his hips bucked. "Oh, yes." He whimpered.

The whimper broke something in you, and your hand was suddenly in his boxers, tugging him free until your hand could wrap around him. Your right arm itched to help. To touch. To feel. You had barely made it halfway to the lines of his abs before he grabbed it. His hips rolled up roughly, his eyes squeezed shut, but he held your cast in his hand like it was a flower. So delicate and careful, as his hips bucked like an animal. Your hand sped up at the sight. At the care he put into holding your hand.

"I-I'm gonna..." His voice was broken and ruined. He looked wrecked, and it was only your hand. "Y/N...please, d-don't stop."

"Shh..." You shushed quietly. Your hand was held between you as you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. "I've got you. I'm not stopping." His face tightened, and his hip movements grew erratic. "I don't know if I could anyway." You whispered, swallowing his whimpers and moans as your lips danced together. "You're just too pretty."

His legs tensed, and you could feel the muscles below you tighten. Your hand continued to stroke him, coaxing as much as you could get from him. He arched as he came, his thick, white ropes coating your clothed thighs. You wanted to watch, but you felt pulling away from the kiss now would be cruel. Instead, you could only feel his hips stutter and slow until they stopped. His whole body shuddered as you gently stroked him one last time, and he twitched in your hand.

You finally pulled away when his breathing evened out. He followed, leaning up on his elbows to glance you over. His eyes trailed over the mess he made on your sweatpants. He glanced apologetically up at you. "I'm sorry about that." He whispered.

You only shook your head. "You don't ever have to apologize to me."

#marvel #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #bucky barnes #bob reynolds smut #yelena belova #alexei shostakov #ava starr #john walker #captain america

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nariism · 1 year ago

Text

wherever you are, wherever you may be — i. rin

soulmates (name au) + "i'm done waiting."

synopsis. itoshi rin meets you under a sky full of fireworks. he spends the next 6 years of his life trying to convince himself that he doesn't love you. you spend the next 6 years giving him every reason why he should.

wc. 12.4k (i need to close my eyes and sleep for a while)

notes. huge thank you to ellie (@hyomagiri) and mari (@saetoshi) for helping me with this 🥹 this fic actually put me through it and i'm so grateful to both of them for their support 💗

— for my beloved @ode2rin 💐 | event masterlist ✉️

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

Every year on the seventh day of the seventh month, Itoshi Rin finds himself standing at the daunting entrance to his local shrine.

The tradition is completely beneath him—something childish that he grumbles about under his breath despite letting you drag him all the way out here with soft eyes watching your smile.

Tanabata is the festival of stars. Of love.

It is a story his mother used to whisper to him as they watched the night sky in awe, pretending that the galaxy was collapsing in on itself to allow for a romantic midnight rendezvous between two lovers.

It’s something far too sappy for his liking.

But the food is okay, he supposes, and it’s a good opportunity to get out of the house and spend time with you which he seldom has time to do now that he’s back in his training season.

There were too many things about it that he loathed: the screaming children that would bump into his legs; the way his ears would stay ringing for days after the festival ended; how you could always convince him to come as if you were some sort of hypnotic devil in disguise, and how thoroughly wounded his pride would be at that fact.

However, his least favourite part of the festival by far is writing down his wish for the year on a scrap piece of paper and hanging it around a bamboo tree. One, because he can never for the life of him think of anything meaningful to wish for. And two, because he isn’t sure he even believes in that sort of thing.

Rin is struggling again this year, pencil lightly scratching his temple as he thinks.

He’s painfully aware that he’s never put so much thought into this before, but you seemed so excited to come all the way here before heading to the festivities that he couldn’t possibly let you down.

His wish dawns on him then, something he wants to do before the next time he makes the climb all the way back up here 365 days from now.

“Hey,” your voice calls out quietly. “What did you wish for?”

“What did you wish for?” Rin quickly refutes.

You cast your narrowed eyes from the side, tilting your little slip of yellow paper away from him.

“Only if I get to see yours first.”

Normally, he would give in to you right away. His resolve when it comes to you is embarrassingly weak. But there’s no way for him to explain himself. No way he could show you the words he’s written lest he hurt his ego.

He stubbornly folds up the piece of paper and shoves your face away. All you do is laugh and he feels terribly warm.

“No peeking,” he tells you when you kiss across his fingertips.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2018

A name appeared for Itoshi Rin when he turned thirteen years old.

He remembers the day well—it was hard to forget, anyway. As much as he wanted to focus on the burning of the name etching its way down his skin, he couldn’t. Not when he was blinking snow out of his lashes and watching his brother’s retreating back.

Rin likes to think that the universe fucks with him in any way that it can.

Maybe he had done something terrible in his past life and this was its karmic retribution, or maybe he was just unlucky.

What he does know is this: the name on his pinky only reminds him of all the things he ever lost.

Every syllable struck needles into his heart—a painful memory of crawling after the tracks of the wheels Sae left behind with his luggage until gravel and ice were stuck under his nails. Or worse, the clawing of his throat as they sat across from each other at dinner—the way he didn't even smile when Rin announced to his parents that his soulmate mark had appeared while his mother cried out in joy.

In fact, Sae didn’t talk to him for the rest of his visit. He remembers that hurt the most.

The name had haunted him for all the remaining years of his life—a forced memory that he wished he could forget. There came with it a feeling of loneliness that crushed him despite the proof on his pinky that there was another soul wandering the earth that would fix him.

He refused to believe it.

Only revenge would fix him. Only proving himself better would heal the cracks in his heart. Only beating Sae. Sae, Sae, Sae. His brother’s name had been repeated so many times that it was easy to ignore the other burning his skin.

In all those years he found it easy to cast aside his soulmate. To ignore it even if it hurt.

So he wonders why it’s so bad tonight.

He’s done everything he could think of: slathering cooling ointment down his finger to stop the searing, wrapping it in a cast to prevent himself from admiring it for too long, even tying a wish to a piece of bamboo hoping it would disappear.

A finger snaps in front of his face, drawing his attention to his teammates in front of him. Both look equally amused.

“You’re dreaming,” Isagi muses. “You’ve been spacing out all night. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rin mutters, swatting his teammate’s hand away from him. He had been staring again, longingly eyeing the way the letters danced down his skin. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“None of your business.”

“Yeesh, it’s not good to keep things bottled up, you know?”

“You’re annoying,” Rin glowers before it melts back into indifference. “I’m fine,” he reiterates.

Isagi seems unconvinced, as he usually is when Rin is being mysteriously vague about what’s on his mind. He and Bachira share a tentative glance before sighing and shaking their heads.

“Well… okay,” he finally yields. “We’re going to get some snacks before the fireworks start. If you’re going to sulk then at least stay put and do it here so we can find you again.”

“Yeah,” Rin grumbles, already making an escape plan. “Whatever. Will do.”

As soon as the boys are out of sight, he turns heel and hurries away. The crowd is driving him crazy and he needs somewhere quiet so he can stare at his hands until his eyes are dry.

He comes to a pond situated just outside of the festival grounds, deep water glimmering under the moon and the passing lanterns.

Plopping down on the bench, he hunches over onto his knees with his elbows and takes a deep breath. It instead comes shallow, as if someone has just punched him in the gut.

It’s then that he realizes he’s not alone.

Your yukata is muddy, fabric soaked and dripping at the sleeves though you don’t seem to care or even notice. You look frustrated for some reason, lip curled into a concentrated frown while you plunge your hands into the mud around the edge of the water.

Away from the crowds of people, he can hear the summer song of cicadas chirping all around. Your hands dip in and out of the water, quiet splashes filling the rest of the silence on top of the distant buzz of children laughing.

It’s just you and him. Something primal inside of him rages, pounding against his chest until it feels like he’s suffocating.

Run. Run. Run.

His legs jerk, urging him to stand up and leave, but he feels glued down to the bench—tethered where he sits and forced to watch you repeatedly sink your hands into the muddy waters.

No more than five minutes must pass as you both ignore each other, yet it feels like an eternity stretches by.

Finally, you pipe up.

“You’re scaring them,” you tell him plainly.

His head whips in your direction at your voice, soft and careful. His teal eyes narrow at you. “Huh?”

Your frown deepens, turning to look at him with your hands still submerged. “The frogs.”

“Come again?”

“Your vibes. It’s scaring the frogs away.”

His eye twitches.

“Ever consider that you’re just dogshit at catching them?”

“Excuse me?”

“And look at you, making a total mess of yourself. Don’t you care that you have to go home looking like that?” He presses, leering at you like an insect he’s about to crush under his heel. You simply stare at him, expression blank.

Huffing, you tear away from him and sink your hands beneath the mud. “No. I don’t.”

He watches in silence as you sift around for a moment before pulling your hands up, a smile slowly morphing into your face.

“I got one…” You breathe, looking more elated than he thinks you should. “I really caught one.”

“First time?” He quips sarcastically. A part of him wonders why he hasn’t gotten up and left you altogether yet.

“Cut me some slack,” you complain, eyeing him from the side again. You gently run a finger along the back of the frog, trying not to scare it away. “I haven’t done this in forever.”

“Clearly.”

You snort. “Yeah. Clearly.”

Rin looks at you quizzically, puzzled at your sudden change in demeanor. You seem… softer. Less agitated, at the very least. You’re gazing at the frog adoringly, as if it had somehow solved all of your problems and was dragging you into another world.

Any retort he had ready to shoot at you dies in his mouth. The anger rising in his chest extinguishes in the blink of an eye, and a deep hush settles over you as he watches in curiosity.

For a moment, the universe goes quiet. He’s gotten so used to having everything on his mind all at once that the silence is almost unnerving.

He once believed that his world would end with an injury that never healed quite right, or when he was too old for any team to want him.

He once believed that his world would end when he could no longer imagine the feel of a ball between his palms.

He once believed that his world would end the day he couldn’t play football anymore—that the only thing that would ever kill him was if the chance of standing alongside his brother died with him.

But he was wrong.

Itoshi Rin’s world ends with the bellow of a firework.

In a few years, he would think of this stretch of a few seconds fondly. He would squeeze you a little tighter with his chin resting on your shoulder, staring up at a colourful sky. He would think it was poetic, in a way, that you were the one who painted his world in the same hues of shimmering gold.

Rin remembers, though, that only one thought had crossed his mind.

I’m so screwed.

He can see every fine detail of your face, illuminated in all the colours of the rainbow. And he can’t help but think you are the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He can trace each intricate curve of your nose to your chin to the surprised parting of your lips; the way your lashes flutter as you blink rapidly, tensed from the sudden explosion.

The light fades faster than it appeared, yet it feels like a millennium has passed. The reverbing echo of the firework crackles across the sky, thundering in his ears so loud that he can feel it pounding in his chest.

(Or is that his heart? He can’t tell. He feels dizzy.)

Darkness envelops your bodies again, save for the dim glow of distant lanterns. Every part of you is seared into his memory, a floating image when he blinks.

The frog leaps from your hands back into the water, leaving nothing but ripples behind.

You stay there with your hands outstretched, looking lonely under the dark sky. Another one goes off above your heads, signalling the start of the display.

“There you are, Rin!” Bachira and Isagi come rushing over from the path, excited smiles and mirth bubbling in their laughs as they approach. “We thought you went home without us already!”

Rin slowly blinks out of his reverie. For a second, he glances in your direction again just to catch your eyes.

“I almost did,” he grumbles, forcing himself not to stare.

“Fireworks are starting!” Isagi yanks Rin to his feet and begins dragging him away before he can even protest.

Without turning around, he can feel the weight of your eyes in the back of his head. There’s an unfamiliar ache in his chest, and the name etched down his pinky burns infinitely hot.

Later at home, he stares at the spot where Sae used to sit back when he still came to Japan for anything other than to take a new passport photo.

“My soulmate’s name showed up,” he had mumbled that night to break the tense silence. It was strange that he still felt like he owed his brother that much—to make his visit as normal as possible despite having his heart carved open.

Sae only looked at him blankly, spoon halting just above his bowl. He was eerily still, quietly deciding how to react. Then,

“Good for you,” he said. And nothing more.

Rin squeezes his eyes shut and he feels warmth rolling down his cheeks. He quickly wipes the tears away, pretending as if they never existed.

He spends the rest of the night trying to forget your face.

(And the next year trying to recreate it in his dreams.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2019

Rin makes it another 275 days before he finally remembers every piece of the puzzle that is your existence.

He saw you in his sleep. The back of your head, anyway.

You were sitting in his favourite café, at the table he claimed for himself right by the window. You ordered a coffee but let it sit for so long that the ice melted. Then, you wiped up the condensation rolling down the frosty glass with your finger.

Rin watched you from afar, observing you the way he wished he did last summer.

Maybe then he could have dived deep into the recesses of his brain to remember why exactly you struck him so. But there he was, stuck watching the back of your head as you gazed out the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your fingers drummed mindlessly against the wooden table, reciting a rhythm just slightly louder than the pounding of his own heart.

“Can you leave me alone?” He finally called out, hoping it would stop your incessant beating.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You’re annoying me,” he hissed. Annoying for disturbing his peace and quiet. Annoying for plaguing his dreams even after all these days.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Seriously,” he grunted, standing up from his seat so fast that the chair scraped horribly against the wooden floor. Still, you didn’t pay him any mind, instead more interested in the faceless people walking by. “Knock it off!”

Tap.

He bit the inside of his cheek in hesitation, the itch in the back of his mind ever present. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

You finally turned his way. Slowly. Agonizingly slow. And Rin was right—you were still so beautiful, 275 days later.

Grinning at him big and bright, you almost seemed to collapse in on yourself with joy. Like a star about to implode, or maybe more akin to a firework.

Either way, his breath was stolen from him.

You silently mouthed your name, making sure he saw every vowel and accentuated syllable. Warmth flooded him in every way—probably brought on by the racing of his heart.

It was impossible that his soulmate was someone like this. Someone whose smile looked like it could heal even the deepest wounds.

You grabbed his attention again with a big wave of the arms, and he watched in anticipation.

“You’re—”

Rin followed your mouth as you sounded out the words without a voice.

“—smiling!”

He reached up to run his fingers along his bottom lip. And you were right, he realized, as he traced it midway up his cheek.

(When did he start smiling?)

(Why?)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Rin thinks about you just as much in the waking world as he does in his dreams.

It’s spring, though snow is still settled over the eaves of homes that he passes on the way to the grocery store. Apparently the winter cold is supposed to be especially long and bitter this year, permeating until mid-May.

He stares at his feet as they mark the virgin snow, decorating his sneakers white and making his feet cold.

Did you walk through the same snow this morning?

Then, when he’s going through the motion of smelling the bottom of pineapples at the store:

Do you like pineapple? What if you’re allergic?

(He shakes his head and puts them away. He suddenly isn’t craving it.)

His obsession with you has only intensified as the year has gone on. If you ever peered into his mind, he would receive a well-deserved slap across the face.

The soulmate mark engraved down his pinky has never bothered him so badly.

It’s like you’re constantly with him—a ghost haunting him, or perhaps more like a curse. Thinking about you takes up unnecessary space in his head. Space that should be dedicated to football, and football only.

He's about to go home so he can make a list outlining the ways he can forget about you.

(Ironic, he knows, but in all honesty he already exhausted all of his options from his first list.)

But then he comes to a stop outside of his favourite café. It looks the same, even has the same advertisements plastered in the window as the last time he was here.

He hesitates at the door, but when he walks in it smells the same. It's decorated the same. Not a single table is out of place.

He walks up to his regular spot, runs his fingers along the wood where he remembers you tapping in his dream.

There's no sign of your existence here.

Rin shakes his head in annoyance, cursing himself out in his head because he was stupid enough to think he would run into you here.

Then disappointment floods his body, like a dam had been released in his chest and it's flowing unstoppably to every piece of him.

(Wait, why is he disappointed? He really needs to take a nap.)

He runs his hand through his hair as a nervous reflex, simultaneously relieved and irritated that you're nowhere to be seen.

It takes him a minute to recollect himself, to realize that he probably looks like a crazy person just standing beside an empty table like a lost child who doesn't know where to go, and decides to just go home.

He pulls into the line to get a drink for his walk home when—

"Thanks!"

His heart drops.

You waltz out of the back, tying your apron around your waist as you exchange spots in the break room with one of your coworkers.

Rin is about to die, seriously. You must be new here, since he's been to this café more times than he can count and he's never seen you before. Or was it that he was specifically looking out for you this time?

Whatever the reason, he's dumbfounded.

“Hey,” your acknowledgment makes him freeze in his spot. “Frog guy?”

He looks at you stupidly, rubbing his eyes like a cartoon character as if he’s imagining you standing right in front of him.

His gaze drifts down to your name tag, fresh and newly printed with white marker. Signed at the end is a little flower, petals swirled into tiny hearts.

Your existence before him is undeniable.

"Um. Yeah," he sputters in disbelief.

"I..." You clear your throat, looking as bewildered as he feels. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

'You're my soulmate. Of course we'd run into each other,' he thinks to himself. Out loud, though:

"Yeah. Me neither."

The person behind him in line coughs quietly, impatiently tapping their foot. Rin takes the hint and quietly tells you what he wants. You lean in across the counter to hear him better, and his face grows warm.

Once you fill in the boxes on the cup, you place it down and move it to the side for someone to fill. It catches his eye immediately.

Itoshi Rin is scribbled neatly down the side of his cup.

“How did you...?”

You awkwardly shift in your spot, evidently embarrassed as you fiddle with the strings of your apron. Then, with your own hands.

“W-Well…”

His eyes dare to drop down to where your thumb is nervously slathering up and down the name on your pinky.

“Oh.”

"Sorry, I just figured—"

"It's fine," he interrupts. Your mouth snaps shut.

Tense silence stretches thin in the air, ready to shatter at any moment. But for some reason, he feels as though he's choking on nothing.

You fumble over the emptiness, quickly snatching up the cup to make his drink yourself after deciding it's too awkward to just stand there.

He watches you in a daze, half shaken and half in awe. Never in a million years would he have thought a dream would lead him back to you.

When you turn back around with a full cup, you look equally stunned.

“Itoshi—”

“Rin. It’s just Rin.”

You look at him in surprise, lashes fluttering rapidly as you let it sink in.

It's not your fault. You don't know that it's a sore spot that he just so happens to share the same last name with the person he despises most in the world.

It's not your fault that he has a quick temper and his voice raises slightly, enough to make you flinch back just a tiny bit.

And it's definitely not your fault that it stings so much—that he had expected you to speak to him as if you'd already known him for a lifetime and not as if you were just two strangers looking at each other from across a bar counter.

“O-Okay," you take a deep breath, cheeks puffed out and expression unreadable.

You slide the cup across the counter and he catches it in his hand.

He debates whether or not he should say more, like apologize for snapping at you. But then someone calls you by your name, and the way it rolls so beautifully off their tongue catches him off guard.

"Sorry. See you, Rin," you smile sweetly. Maybe a little awkwardly, a small step toward the one he dreamed about. And his heart is set in motion.

Rin decides that today won't be the day.

Another day, he'll be brave enough to crack a joke so dry that you try and scrub his name off your skin. And another day, he will ask for your number because, yeah, you might be the most alluring person he's ever met.

As he turns to take his leave after just staring at the spot you were standing in for a solid few seconds, he can hear some of the other baristas clamouring for you.

He doesn't want to look. Really, honestly, he doesn't.

But he does anyway.

It's just a quick glance over his shoulder—nothing more than a fleeting moment as he takes the chance to look at you one more time.

Those two seconds is all it takes for him to realize just how much trouble he's in.

You're laughing big and toothy, waving your hand in front of your face dismissively as your coworkers poke fun at how flustered you are. Then your hands are clasped over your stomach and you've doubled down a little in your awkward fit.

His heart has never beat so loud in his own ears.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Itoshi Rin used to smile just for the sake of smiling, once upon a time.

He had aunties who would pinch him by the cheek and fawn over him, cooing about how he looked just like his mother. How his face would cherub and the apples of his cheeks were bright red. Even when he grew out of his baby face, people would tell him how wonderful his smile was.

Sae rarely ever smiled, so it was something exclusive. He never felt like he was standing in his shadow. It was special—the kind of praise only one Itoshi would know.

Rin has forgotten how to smile like that.

He smiles to be polite to his family, if ever. Even then, it's not like he owes them that much. At some point, it became too much effort. And he had no reason to do it.

It was always a tiny thought bothering him in the back of his mind:

I'll never meet my soulmate if I'm always scowling like this.

He thought that was what he wanted, anyway. He wouldn't need to worry about running into his soulmate if no one ever looked his way. If everyone feared him enough not to spare him a second glance.

He doubts everything he ever thought as he sits on the edge of his bed staring at his desk.

It's lit up by a single lamp, shining down on his empty coffee cup like a spotlight opened up by the heavens themselves.

Your phone number is written just below his name.

Rin had almost tossed it into the trash without a second thought earlier in the day. He would have, if it weren't for the loose dog that blitzed by him and made him drop it.

Fate just loves to mess with him.

He picked it up and his thumb had stopped over the number. It was written so small, as if you had wanted him to miss it. Or perhaps you wanted to test destiny yourself—to see if the planets would align and he would discover your seven digits there for him to find.

And now he's home. He's been home, just looking. Contemplating. Stressing.

He migrates from the edge of the bed and settles into his desk chair. Then he gets up, moves back to the bed, and flops down. An endless cycle, back and forth, pushing and pulling.

Rin plops down onto his desk seat and sighs in frustration, ruffling his hair around before his forehead slams into the table.

Every part of his mind screams at him to stop. To toss the cup away and forget today ever happened. His head raises from his arms and he stares at the set of numbers illuminated on the paper, taunting him.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, sitting up straight and reaching for the cup to toss. His fingers delicately brush along your phone number.

“So dumb…” He huffs, eventually finding his phone instead and opening his contacts.

It’s nearly midnight. He tries to imagine your face as you wait by your phone for a message from him, that stupidly hopeful glimmer in your eyes, and he feels sick to his stomach as he sends it.

Rin: hey. it’s rin.

He throws his phone down on the desk again, screen down so he can’t cringe at himself. A few minutes pass in complete silence as he sulks.

He considers that you may have gone to bed already, or you were offended by the fact that he ignored your offer to connect all day and instantly blocked him. Maybe you thought he never saw your number at all.

Then his phone buzzes. His body moves on autopilot, snatching it up faster than he can realize what he’s doing. He’s halfway through the embarrassing thought that he just immediately read your message after you sent it as your text sinks in.

Unknown: hi! it’s great to hear from you ヾ(〃^∇^)ﾉ

Unknown: i was starting to think you were never gonna text lol

Rin: i wasn’t

He chews his lip for a moment before quickly following up:

Rin: but i changed my mind. just cause.

Unknown: hahaha got it got it. ‘just cause’ (˘◡˘)

Unknown: rin

Unknown: wait nvm

Unknown: whatever

Unknown: rin

Rin: what

Unknown: let’s get coffee ^ ^

He stares at the screen in disbelief, watching the typing bubble pop up and disappear again and again. He can imagine again what kind of smile you must have on your face right now, or maybe you look flustered, or maybe this all means nothing to you at all and this is your way of being polite.

Regardless of the reason, he eventually types out his response.

Rin: ok

Christ, he’s so tepid.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2020

He comes to memorize every part of you, like how the sun kisses the horizon and the moon knows the tides.

Intimately, almost—if he didn’t overthink the way your touch lingered on him he could easily ignore the way it made his heart pound in his ears.

Rin learns the feeling of your fingers against his skin as you compress an ice pack to his knee. He knows your laugh—can pick apart sarcasm from genuine cheer unlike most other people he encounters. He’s never been good at reading people yet for some reason you’ve become an open book for him.

It’s not fair that you’ve ensnared him this way, that he can’t seem to run from you (because his favourite coffee is from your café and he can’t be bothered to find a new place). That he finds himself instinctively reaching over to his phone when he can’t sleep (he has to make sure his alarms are on, might as well text you goodnight while he’s at it). And you’ve become annoyingly comfortable (he doesn’t have an excuse for this one—your lap is just conveniently a very nice place to rest his head).

He must be an open book, too.

At some point he probably stopped trying to hide his growing feelings for you, though you either didn’t notice his sudden shift or you didn’t care.

Vulnerability has never been a part of Rin, even before Itoshi Sae ruined his life.

He despises how you so easily pry him apart, skinning him alive with your hand lathering down his chest as you laugh.

Still, he’s grown accustomed to your fingers stringing through his hair, to the way your head tilts when he explains football plays to you, to the obvious way you fluster when he attempts (poorly) at flirting with you.

He’s gotten especially fond of the way you meet him at the end of his practices with such sweet, wandering hands—pushing the hair stuck to his forehead from sweat away from his eyes; using a towel to wipe up his neck; the squeeze you give his palms as you examine them to see if there are any new cuts and bruises.

Usually, he’s the epitome of confidence in his plays. Today, however, his cheeks burn as you approach him with the same honeyed smile.

“My shots were shoddy,” he admits before you can even get a word out. You only raise a brow, hands faltering in front of you. “That was lame.”

“I think you’re good.”

“Good,” he frowns. “But not great?”

“The greatest,” you quickly correct yourself, smiling at his cravings for praise. You’re armed with a fresh towel like you always are, reaching up to clean his face as if it’s the only thing you were born to do.

He relishes in your gentle touch, peering at you through his lashes while you prattle on about how amazing he was even though he missed half of his shots.

You were so blindly supportive, it sickens him.

Not because he felt you were being disingenuous, but because he’s not deserving of your praise.

For the first time in a long time, it feels as though his soul is disconnected from his body. He used to walk the earth this way—uninterested in his surroundings and obsessed with only one thing.

Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae.

Suddenly, he’s thirteen again and gasping for air; screaming into his pillow and trashing their shared awards until his mother comes rushing in to stop him. He’s alone in a field, abandoned and crushed.

It’s not like he’d never lost before, even in front of you. Loss was just a part of football as much as he hated it.

But your praise only makes his stomach turn, because he knows you mean it.

You truly do believe he’s the best, when really he’s been futile in his attempts to catch up with the big brother he admired so much as a kid.

“Stop,” he gently interrupts.

Rin tries to use his hair to hide the wetness of his eyes, with little success. You can see right through him, unfortunately. It’s a talent he wishes you didn’t have.

“Rin?” You say softly, reaching up to brush the hair out of the way. He doesn’t try and back up or swat your hand away, instead letting you see his miserable expression. You sigh quietly, looking more exasperated than surprised.

“Sorry,” he mutters halfheartedly.

You shake your head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Shame boils in his stomach at your reassurance. There is something to apologize for. Here you are, supporting him with all your heart, and all he can think about is his stupid brother. How he’ll never catch up. How he’ll never be good enough.

Doesn’t your kindness warrant his attention at the very least?

“Come on,” you tug at his hand. “Let’s get you a pick-me-up.”

Rin abides silently, body following yours off the field and onto the streets though his mind has floated off elsewhere.

He tries to count how many steps you take in between the field and the destination, but loses count somewhere around three hundred. Then he moves on to counting the hairs on the back of your head. He loses count at one hundred. Eventually, he gives up and opts for staring at your conjoined hands while he lags behind.

When you come to a halt, he nearly bumps into your back.

The ringing in his ears stops as he blinks at his surroundings. Waves crash against the shore of the sandbank, singing the song of the ocean. It had been so long since Rin walked down this stretch of the shore, he almost forgot what the sea looked like.

“Wait here,” you urge as you hold him by the shoulders then disappear around the corner.

He collapses at the wall separating land from sea, swinging his legs under the railings to sit comfortably as he remembers doing when he was a kid. His gym bag is abandoned behind him, cleats and all.

When you return, you shove a popsicle into his hand.

He’s confused at first, just looking absently at the packaging. It must be for a concerning amount of time, because you eventually pipe up.

“Do you need me to open it for you?”

Rin glares at you and your teasing smile. Carefully, he unpackages the treat and pops it in his mouth.

Sweetness melts over his tongue and he exhales sharply through his nose. You watch him in amusement with your own treat stuck in your mouth.

Silence engulfs you, eating Rin from the inside out until he feels ill. He holds his half-eaten popsicle in front of him, watching it melt down his hand.

You stare at him for a second before nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“I was being serious. You were really good. I can’t even imagine playing like you do.”

Rin’s stomach turns. The last thing he wants is your pity.

“You don’t have to be so nice,” he mumbles, resting his chin on the railing. “42 percent.”

“42 percent?” You echo, peering over the railing to get a better look at his face.

“The percent of shots I made today.”

“Come on,” you urge gently. “Aren’t you being too hard on yourself?”

“If I’m not hard on myself, I’ll never—” he stops, choking lightly on his spit. When you don’t interrupt, he shoves the popsicle back in his mouth. “Whatever. You wouldn't get it.”

It’s quiet again, save for the crashing of waves upon rock. Rin thinks for a moment that maybe he had gone too far, or that his little meltdown had freaked you out.

But when he finally dares to look at you again, you’re smiling.

“Maybe not,” you admit with a whisper. “But I do know this…” You reach over and cup his cheek with your free hand, thumb sweeping the expanse of his cheek soothingly. “There is no one—and I mean no one—who works harder than you do.”

He swallows thickly, subconsciously nudging his face a little further into your palm.

“You deserve to be a little kinder to yourself.”

The way his heart catches in his throat is strange. He can’t describe it. The warmth in his belly is foreign, but it’s pleasant.

For the first time in the year he’s gotten to know you, the thought crosses his mind:

I think I’m in love with you.

Rin’s mouth opens with the idea, but he forces it shut just as fast.

Fear grips his lungs and squeezes, stealing his air and forcing him to pull away from your touch.

“Okay,” he breathes in resignation.

You seem stunned by his sudden retreat, smile faltering ever so slightly. But you recover quickly, hugging yourself as you slouch over the railing.

Conversation moves on just like that. He appreciated that about you, too. He never had to dwell.

It feels nice, everything about this; to have his legs dangling over the edge of the cement, feet barely ghosting over the surface of the water; to have a popsicle melting between his teeth while he listens to you talk.

For some reason, it feels as though he’s reclaiming lost time, reliving a moment he thought he would never have again.

When he checks his popsicle stick, it tells him he’s a winner for the first time since he was thirteen.

(He finally allows himself to believe it when your knee gently knocks into his.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2021

“Frog cotton candy?”

“Frog shaped cotton candy,” Rin corrects, peering around the giant fluff of candy to look at you quizzically.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “But why?”

He grumbles quietly, cheeks a soft shade of pink as he shoves the treat into your hands.

“I thought you’d like it. Nevermind,” he deadpans, turning around to toss it into the garbage.

Your laugh crescendos and he feels his heart squeeze with affection. When your hand stops him by the forearm, he thinks he might explode.

“It’s cute.”

You pick apart the floss ruthlessly with your fingers, and he watches almost in a trance—hypnotized by just your existence.

(When you finally pop the sugar into your mouth, he imagines it melting on his own tongue. The thought makes him unbearably warm and he forces it away.)

His fascination with you doesn't end there.

There's a certain charm to you that he can't understand—something that draws him in, tantalizing but terrifying at the same time.

He can't help the way he watches in a daze, the way you've ensnared all his attention and taken up the space in his mind.

Rin has never been good at being kind, but here he is.

Here he is, bringing you cotton candy because he thought it was stupid but cute.

Here he is, rolling up the sleeves of your yukata with a gentle scolding when you rush over to catch goldfish.

And here he is, letting you cling to his arm as if he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

He really, really hates it—how mushy you make his brain feel.

He's halfway through re-rolling your sleeves with a half-hearted scowl on his face when you stop him, hand pressed to his forearm.

“Listen, Rin.”

“Hm?” He leans down so that he can peer at your face hidden behind your almost nonexistent candy floss.

“I have to show you something.”

Rin stops dead in his tracks, raising a brow as he fully turns toward you. “What is it?”

“Can you close your eyes for me?”

His heart does a somersault in his chest. “You’re not doing anything weird, are you?”

“Who do you think I am?” You sputter.

He lets out a long sigh before complying, squeezing his eyes shut. After a long silence, he considers peeking a little bit.

That is, until he feels your breath gently fanning over his parted lips.

Nearly leaping back, he wills himself to stay grounded and slowly slides his hands up your arms until he gets to your shoulders. As he imagined, your body is impossibly close to his.

It takes every bit of concentration he has not to waver. If he really tries, he can focus on how your breath smells sweet of candy. How your hair blows softly with the summer breeze, tickling his cheeks. How you smell. How you breathe.

(Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart is about to beat out of his chest. Is that okay?)

You tense up in his hold and suddenly you’re retreating from him, swiftly pulling out of his arms. Just as he’s about to ask you what happened, there’s a piece of candy shoved into his mouth.

“You wanted to try it, didn’t you?” You ask rather breathlessly. He opens his eyes, looking at you curiously.

Rin has never seen this expression on you before, lips pulled tight in embarrassment and pupils blown. You look more like a wild animal caught in a cage than someone who just made a move on him.

He gingerly takes the empty paper cone from your hands and folds it up, no longer able to meet your gaze lest he explode on the spot.

“Yeah,” he says softly, shuffling over to dump it into a bin. “Thanks.”

When he turns around to look at you again, his breath gets caught in his throat.

Why are you laughing?

You giggle into your palm, hiding your gleeful smile from him as you double over slightly.

“Your face is all red!” You holler.

He grunts in embarrassment, using the back of his hand to hide his own face. “Shut the hell up,” he spits.

“It’s almost like you wanted me to kiss you!”

“Oh my god, please drop it.”

“No way! I’ve never seen you look like that before!”

(‘Speak for yourself,’ he thinks.)

“So what if I did?”

Your laughter halts as if it was swallowed into the pits of your stomach. Slowly unraveling to stand up straight, he sees another expression he’s never been able to imagine on you, but he can’t quite place it.

“Did what?” You murmur.

“Want you to kiss me.”

Your face is warm under the glow of lanterns, eyes shimmering with the overhead lights. Rin watches your mouth open and close repeatedly as you try and formulate some sort of response.

A firework explodes atop of you, and he wonders if it just saved you.

You seem jarred for only a moment more until you jolt, grabbing him roughly by the arm and giving him a pull.

“I just remembered,” you gasp. “I actually did have something to show you!”

Rin doesn’t get a word in before you’re dragging him along by the arm. With each boom of an explosion, your footsteps pick up, building into a full blown sprint out of the festival grounds and through the thicket.

You tug him along, guiding him by the hand through the winding path of trees and logs. His stamina is better than yours but you’re pushing up the hill despite your huffing and puffing—it makes him laugh with you.

When you break free of the forest, Rin’s eyes focus on a field of plush grass and buttercups.

You let go of his hand, flinging yourself forward and spinning on your heel to exaggerate how wide the opening is with your arms.

“Isn’t it great?” You shout over the fireworks. “Away from the crowd!”

He rushes up to you so that you can stop yelling, invading your personal space until you can hear him just at his normal volume.

“It’s perfect,” he tells you earnestly.

You grin up at him widely before pulling him along to the edge of the clearing. You plop down together, eyes glued to the sky as the fireworks rage on.

Rin only lasts a few seconds before his eyes drift to the side, trying to drink in your expression. It’s become a habit of his to try and imprint your very existence into his brain.

Against his better judgment, his hand creeps toward yours until your fingers are overlapped.

Thankfully, you don’t use the opportunity to tease him about it, instead shifting a little closer until you’re practically burrowed into his side. If it were anyone else, he would have shoved them away.

(When did he stop trying to push you away?)

When your pinkies slowly close together, he feels as if he can’t breathe properly.

Mark-to-mark, it’s as though he is full of all the love he’s ever felt for you from every life—past or future. Like there’s a love that exists within him that transcends lifetimes, if it were even possible.

If he were to peer into another dimension, would you still be together like this? Would you be plucking buttercups and mindlessly twirling them between your fingers? Would he be itching to envelop you in his arms just to devour you?

His thoughts cease when you take a deep breath.

“I used to come here alone,” you admit.

“No one took you?” He asks. Your gaze is piercing the night sky, never leaving the show. He can see the bloom of colours in them.

“Not since I was little, but I always loved it here.”

The question burns hot in Rin’s mind: even if it was a little lonely sometimes?

He remembers back to the night that he first saw you, with your hands dipping into the murky waters of a frog pond and an air of desolation surrounding you. Then he remembers how he couldn’t sleep that night. Not with the image of you crouching there alone burned into his memory.

“Did you know this festival is a celebration of love?” He suddenly asks.

Oh what the fuck? Oh, god. Why did he say that?

That was so lukewarm of him. So stupid. So pointless and lame.

He just wanted something to say to you, something that would make him stop thinking about how you might have been alone for all that time before you knew him.

The silence burns between you, tense and awkward until he starts stuttering out something else to fill the void. But then you look at him, slow and intrigued and so damn amused that he can feel heat rising to the tips of his ears.

“I had no idea.”

There’s a longing in your expression that tells a different story. A twitch of your pinky against his that gives away your blatant lie.

And, damnit. Here he is again, four years later under the same stars. Under the same fireworks. Only this time, he’s able to see your face even closer as it lights up a million different colours—teal like his eyes; rose like his cheeks; golden like the heart he’s tried so hard to protect.

Four years later and he still thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen: pinkies interlocked, sheepish smile on your face, an undeniable shake in your voice that means you have more that you’re too nervous to say.

For a moment he considers finally letting go of all the things keeping him bolted and chained where he stands, swallowing the key to the cage surrounding his fragile, thumping heart. And for that fleeting second, he feels as though he’s the bravest man alive—that nothing could stop him even if you were to turn away and snub him out with the heel of your foot.

But how could he open his mouth and tell you anything when all he feels is the sick twisting of his stomach, the daunting glare of the older brother he adored so much, and the coldness of snow soaking his clothes as he sits in a field and cries?

There’s a burning, raging fire within him. Something primal and afraid and unchanging despite how much he wants to fall into your arms the way your shared etchings say he should.

It screams at him: run away. Run. Run. Run. This will only end in hurt.

He’s too fucked up. Too messed in the head and too quick to anger because he’s actually soft at heart, easy to betray—

“Rin.”

Your hand swiftly captures his face and he’s dragged unceremoniously out of his reverie.

Of course you would be able to pick out his turmoil by expression alone. By the droop of his lips into a frown—not the annoyed one he would flash his teammates, or the grimace he would scare children away with. The kind that’s sad and slow and timid, like an animal caught in a net.

“I’m really happy that we’re friends.”

“Friends?” He breathes, half confused and half incredulous.

Deep down he knows that it’s an attempt to comfort him without being too sappy. Maybe you can sense it somewhere in your soul that he would probably break down and sob if you were to make him feel any more vulnerable than he already is with you. It’s an effort to take away whatever guilt he feels and give him a chance to relax.

However, he can see a different tale in your eyes.

Loneliness as empty as the sky on a cloudy night. A yearning for more, for someone, for him, to fill the gap. I’m tired of waiting. That’s all he can read beneath the sea of colour exploding in your irises.

It only makes him feel worse, but he allows himself to be lied to anyway if only to feel the warmth of your skin against his just a bit longer.

“Yeah.”

Your pinky twitches again. He can feel the brush of your name against his, the grate of your matching soul marks. Your eyes tear away from his and are glued to the infinite sky above once more. To the stars you know are there but are covered by smoke and fire.

Rin only stares at you. He can’t focus on the explosions of fireworks anymore, not when you’re right in front of him looking so perfect. His summer treasure.

“Yeah?”

He knows he sounds dumb, repeating everything like an oaf who can’t fathom what’s being said. You giggle and it floors him.

“Just being able to stand here with you—” you glance at him again, only for a second. He can see the exhaustion in that moment, but he’s too selfish to pry. “—I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Even if…” He swallows harshly. It feels like shrapnel cutting down his throat. “Even if I can’t be more?”

“Even so.”

There’s a pause and you open your mouth to say more, maybe to give him an ultimatum or to elaborate on your feelings, but then you’re interrupted by the end of the display.

Counteless fireworks explode above you in the finale. Rin can hear the awestruck gasps of families down the hill, the distant cries of children and the faint shutter of cameras filling the air.

He realizes then: he’s been smiling. His cheeks hurt from how big it’s gotten. And you’re smiling at him, too.

(The fireworks rage on, but in the end, all he can look at is you.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2022

Falling in love with Itoshi Rin was one of the most foolish, most wonderful things that could have happened to you.

He was an enigma in and of itself, a mystery of a soulmate who was able to love you wholeheartedly and push you away at the same time.

There were nights where you would stay up wondering why he was your soulmate when it seemed like all he wanted to be was alone. Other times, you fell asleep smiling to yourself knowing that somewhere deep down you both belonged to each other.

The universe chose you. The universe chose him. It was indisputable, yet you still had doubts.

Tonight is one of those “foolish” nights. It seems as though you have been stood up.

For three hours you’ve waited in the same spot at the gates of the festival, watching families and couples pass by but never the one person you’d wait until the end of the world for. The sun has long since gone to sleep over the horizon and the streets are fully lit up with lanterns for the festivities.

6 pm. That was the time Rin promised he would meet you. In the past, he was always late but at least had the decency to tell you beforehand that you could go ahead without him. Only when you arrived and sat down to wait for him had he finally messaged you.

Rin: gonna be late. see you at 7.

7 pm. That was the rescheduled time. It was when you expected to see him walking up to you in his yukata that you begged him to wear this year, matching adoringly with yours. And at 7 pm you would tell him. You would tell him everything.

For months prior you had practiced almost pathetically so, recited and perfected your speech while staring at your reflection in a mirror. You’d written him a letter, too.

7 pm. You were finally going to thank Rin for everything. For accompanying you to such a silly festival even though you know he loathes it. For meeting you under the stars and the moon and the fireworks time and time again. For bringing life back into a childhood memory that you had long since hated.

7 pm. You were going to tell him thank you. You were going to tell him you loved him, just as it had been written in the stars many years before you were born.

It’s 9 pm, nearing 10 and the start of the fireworks show. He missed the entire night without explanation.

At 9:58 pm, just as you’re about to give up all hope, you finally come face to face with teal eyes and a stupidly handsome face sheen with sweat. It shouldn’t hurt so much, the way he looks at you so dismissively as if he hadn’t blown you off all night.

“Sorry,” he mutters disingenuously, attempting to brush past you without a second thought. “Let’s go, I’m thirsty.”

He has his gym bag slung over his shoulder and a windbreaker over his uniform. No sign of the yukata you had picked out for him to wear.

You don’t follow him, staring at his back in disbelief. When he realizes you aren’t trailing behind, he turns on his heel and raises a brow in question. “Are you coming?”

“I was waiting for you all night,” you tell him coldly. I was waiting for you all this time and you never showed up.

He swallows thickly, suddenly overcome by guilt because of your downcast expression. “I know. I lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” You scoff incredulously. Your mouth opens as if you have more to say, but you’re interrupted by a bang.

Rin’s eyes flutter closed. He can’t listen to this. He can’t watch.

He knows this all too well. He knew it all along.

The universe was wrong. Itoshi Rin was never cut out to be someone’s soulmate.

“We’re missing it…”

Your back is turned to him but all he can imagine is the terrible expression you must be making right now, twisted in sadness and anger. The worse image is a completely blank face—unfeeling and cold. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

Booms echo in the distance yet all he can focus on is the faint hum in his ears, the horrible churning in his stomach and the fog of guilt clouding his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly that he’s sure you can’t even hear him under the deep, bellowing explosions over the horizon.

He doesn’t remember the last time he apologized for anything like this. Being cold and aloof was just in his nature. Never before had he felt like it was necessary to be remorseful for the way he is—for how he was made to be.

The slight tremble of your shoulders and the way you use the back of your sleeves to wipe tears from your eyes force the words out of him before he can stop it. He tells you again,

“I’m sorry.”

He weakly attempts to grab you by the arms, holding you from behind so he can make you look at him. You jerk away fast as lightning, knocking him away as you swivel around to glare.

“Why didn’t you come?” You demand. There’s anger shaking in your voice. Rin doesn’t know how to respond to it, not when you’ve always been so understanding and kind. Perhaps he was too cruel for you if he was going to break you this way.

“I got caught up with—”

“With football, right?” You laugh bitterly, taking a generous step back. Hurt pours from every inch of your expression and all it does is make his heart ache.

“Stop,” he suddenly snaps. You flinch at his tone and shrink back, only adding to his guilt. He always had the worst temper. “Don’t be like this. You know it was important,” he explains, gentler this time. Softer, trying to coax you back over.

There’s a beat of complete silence, save for the hollowed explosions in the distance. Rin blinks at you a couple times before his frayed nerves finally calm again. And then he realizes something terrible.

The look in your eyes, the deflation of your shoulders—this is what utter defeat looks like. For a moment deja vu rushes through his blood, bringing him back to a time when he too felt as miserable as you.

Every year he’s had the opportunity to read your expression: I’m tired of waiting. But he always foolishly assumed you would still wait around for him forever. That your patience would be as infinite as the stars in the sky. That just because he had the privilege of having his name scrawled down your pinky, he would be guaranteed to have you.

It was disgustingly selfish.

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize again, you storm up to him and shove the piece of paper roughly into his chest. With the closed gap, he can clearly see the tears streaming down your face illuminated by warm lanterns.

“Just forget it.”

“Wait—” He catches your wrist as you push past him, stopping you in your tracks again despite your struggle to get away. “Come on, I said I’m sorry!”

“Rin,” you sniffle, voice breaking with just the syllable of his name. It makes him falter. “I’m tired.”

“But—”

“You can’t even spare me one night? Just this one night in the entire year?” You breathe, no longer trying to dance around the subject. “What is it with you? What are you so afraid of?”

Being put in the spotlight never bothered Rin before. It was easy enough to ignore when all his life he was watched carefully. But it’s different with you; you’re the only one looking at him in this moment yet it feels like the weight of a million pairs of eyes at once.

An answer comes quickly to his mind, almost natural. He knows exactly what’s wrong with him.

He’s afraid of being left behind again. Of being hurt. Rin is terrified of love and being loved because he’s too pathetically fragile.

The pieces of his heart are clumsily glued together and he’s scared that even the smallest turbulence would send it shattering into a billion shards again. He doesn’t know how to put himself back together properly anymore.

Itoshi Sae permanently fucked him up.

Though they were on slightly better terms now, the scars would always haunt him. The simple solution is to shut everyone else out, to protect the weak heart he harbours.

If he told you that, would you understand? Or would you try and claw his name off your skin?

You take his silence as an answer and pry away from him again, holding yourself protectively—guarding yourself from the catastrophe that follows Rin wherever he goes.

“Goodbye, Rin.”

He doesn’t watch you go.

The nearest bench becomes his temporary home. He could do hundreds of plays in a football game and never tire, but for some reason your disdain has sucked every ounce of energy from his body.

It doesn’t register that he’s still holding the paper you forced into his hands until it crinkles in his hold. He slowly unfolds it revealing ink sloppily smeared across the page.

And then he reads it. Again. And again. And again, until it’s shaking in his hold. Until the dull ache in his heart feels like the pierce of a knife.

Rin doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s always had one clear goal for his entire life, but now everything is all muddled. Messy, like everything else he touches.

He turns everything into a disaster.

Does he chase after you and risk having his fragile heart broken all over again? Does he risk being left behind or does he close off the gate for that option entirely? He could sit in his cowardice and never change, preserving his heart forever in this moment of time; a polaroid in the slideshow of his mortality.

There’s a familiarity to this all. Perhaps he had lived through this decision a million lives before this. Maybe he would live through it again an infinite amount of times, so long as it was your name etched into his skin.

Was he as messed up in this life as he was in every other?

If he had ruined everything in this life, if he made the wrong choice and drove you away in hatred until you drew your last breath, then maybe he could make it all up to you in the next one.

Or, if that were the case, maybe he was born into this world only to love you—to make up for the millenia where he ran away.

Rin’s legs have never moved so fast. Not in football. Not even from his brother. If you were the light at the end of the tunnel then he would keep chasing you forever, he thinks. Until his wounded heart gave out.

Of all the stupid decisions he’s made in his life, have any of them amounted to anything? He’s going to give it one last try. One more chance to prove to himself that not everything he touches burns to ashes.

“Wait!”

You visibly startle, eyes wide as you turn to see Rin dashing toward you. He doesn’t give you even a moment to ask questions, to wonder why he’s coming back to break your heart again.

You’re engulfed in a hug faster than you can blink, stumbling back from the force of his body colliding with yours until your sandals get kicked off your feet.

“Rin?” You murmur his name in disbelief, breathless even though you weren’t the one sprinting down the road.

“Just give me one more chance,” he stammers out. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders as he holds you and fights for air simultaneously. Your hands twitch at your sides but you remain lifeless in his arms.

He tries again: “Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that it wasn’t some freak accident that led me to you. That my name on your skin is meant to be there.”

“Don’t do this,” you tell him quietly, lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “I don’t want to be loved and feared at the same time.”

“But…” Rin squeezes your body against his, almost desperately. Clinging to what he has ruined. “For once in my life, I want something more.”

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

You hesitantly shift, hands slowly trailing up his back until your body is curling against his. He can trace the outline of your body against his, like a puzzle piece that he was missing slotted perfectly in his grasp.

“I thought my soulmate would only slow me down and break me. I was wrong. I know that now.”

He slowly rocks your bodies back and forth. You pull away until your eyes meet his, red with tears. It’s the messiest he has ever seen you, but his heart refuses to be still. It aches.

Beautiful. It’s the only word he can describe you with. It didn’t matter if you were lit up under the wondrous sky, or handing him coffee in a crowded café, or sobbing in his arms.

You would only ever be his infinitely beautiful soulmate.

It’s the only constant he would have in this life and every other, even if you were to break his heart. It would be the single greatest achievement in his time, above football, above any of his petty competitions—that your name is etched down his pinky.

It scares him. It thrills him.

With the distant roar of fireworks, he kisses you. And you allow him, hiccuping against his lips as you cry.

You stay like that for a long time, listening to the hollow shockwaves of fireworks exploding miles away. He’s the first to draw back, raking in shallow breaths. You chase him, finding solace against his lips once more but not fully indulging him with another kiss.

“Do you fear me?” You whisper into his mouth.

“More than anything,” he tells you.

“Do you love me?”

After a moment of contemplation, he answers,

“More than anything.”

You nod slowly, awkwardly pulling away from him and taking a step back. It’s your first kiss and you don’t know where you’re supposed to look anymore. Rin stops your nervous shifting with his hand swooping under your chin.

“One year. I promise.” You look at him in confusion, so he continues. “Next year, when the season and my contract are over, I’ll meet you there. At the pond.”

You seem skeptical still, with your brows knitted together and a lost haze in your eyes. He raises his pinky, the one with your name forever grafted into the skin, and offers it to you.

“I pinky promise.”

It’s so ridiculous, wearing his heart on his sleeve with something he learned about on playgrounds when he was a child. A pinky promise shouldn’t mean any more than the words he has already spoken. But for some reason, your eyes light up.

He feels nothing but relief when your pinkies lock together.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Rin.” His name leaves you in a breathless laugh that makes his world spin. It sounds so tired yet so sweet. “I’ve been waiting all my life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says once more for good measure. You nod. A wordless acceptance.

Itoshi Rin is your soulmate. It’s not like that fact will ever change no matter the time, no matter the distance.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2023

Fate is a funny thing. Soulmates are a funny thing.

The universe threw Rin curveball after curveball, beating him down until he was nothing but a husk heavenly built for one purpose only: beat Sae. Beat Itoshi Sae.

There were times when he would lay awake at night wondering why he was given this life, why he was thrust into hardship and hurt and betrayal. How could something so perfect, something so all-knowing, be so cruel?

For as long as the name had been grafted into his skin, he resented the idea of a soulmate.

He hated the idea that only one person in the world would be his eternal weakness. That one day, one person would hold every piece of his soul in their hands. Even then, his soulmate was the other half of him—his salvation. His downfall.

They would know every inch of his skin. Every bleeding wound of his heart. Every bruise and scar along his legs from cleats and nails and gravel. Having a soulmate meant having every part of him exposed, to be judged and worshiped at the same time.

At your hands, though, he’s certain this is what he was born for—to spend the rest of his days by your side even if you were doing something as mundane as catching frogs together.

“You’re scaring them,” you hiss quietly.

Your fingers sink into the pond and Rin watches your reflections ripple as water fills your palms. Your faces contort and meld into one being. In some ways, it’s a familiar feeling—to have been intertwined with you since his very conception.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“It’s your fault!”

“Right,” he deadpans. “You haven’t caught a single one all night.”

“You were late,” you remind him with a huff, cheeks inflated. “Before you got here I was catching frogs all night. Coincidence?”

Rin makes another noise, something akin to a snort. But he doesn’t acknowledge your statement, instead reaching over to gingerly roll the sleeves of your yukata up to your elbows.

“Are you always so sloppy? Your sleeves are getting all wet.”

You glare at him from the side, delivering a deadly warning. “Are you always such a pain in the ass?”

“I get it, I get it. I said I was sorry for being late. Nii-chan really wanted to try that new ice cream place downtown.”

Your gaze drifts to him in the shimmering reflection, watching his smile soften at the mention of his big brother. It was wonderful that they were trying to patch things up.

Sae had decided to come home after all, promising Rin that they would play together again once they both took a well deserved break.

You could tell that Rin was trying his best not to make a big deal out of it, but the way he cried into your shoulder later that night said it all.

“I feel bad having you come all the way out here just to see me. Your brother is back in Japan isn’t he?”

“Yeah. And he wants to meet you.”

You nearly fall over. “What?”

“Please don’t look so starstruck about that. I feel sick.”

Laughing, you recentre yourself, sitting back on your heels with your hands on your knees. “Sorry, sorry! It’s not that…”

Rin raises a brow. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just—” you fumble, cheeks burning hot at the idea of being introduced to Rin’s family after all these years. Formally, as his partner. His soulmate. The name they had all known since he was thirteen. “What would I even say to him?”

He looks at you in bewilderment. Then, he snickers, only laughing harder when you smack his arm.

“Don’t worry about that,” he assures, reaching out to pat the top of your head. “Just be yourself. My family will love you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, studying your reflections in the water with a soft smile. You’re staring right back at yourself, but Rin is only looking at you.

“I haven’t done anything special.”

“You lit up my world,” you laugh, turning back up to look at him properly. You make a mini explosion with your hands. “Boom! Like that. A firework.”

“You’re too corny,” he murmurs in embarrassment, turning his head away to hide his flushed face. “Can’t you explain it like a normal person?”

“No can do,” you tell him, voice gentler this time. After a pause, you shuffle your sandals around in the mud and take a deep breath. “If you want me to be totally serious…”

You lunge over and tackle him into your arms. He nearly loses his balance holding the both of you upright, stumbling back on his heels before he catches your waist. You don’t seem to share the sentiment of staying pristine, knees digging into the dirt as you squeeze him tighter.

Rin feels his heart catch in his throat the same way you’ve made it for the last six years.

“Thank you. For letting me love you. For being my soulmate.”

His hand is automatically in your hair, scratching your scalp as he smiles into your shoulder.

“I’m sure I gave you nothing but a hard time,” he grumbles.

“But I still love you.”

“Even though you had to wait?”

“Even so.”

“And that I’m a pain in the ass?”

“Even then, I do.”

Rin burrows himself into your neck, hiding his face again. It does a poor job at masking the kind of expression he’s making, though, considering how warm his skin is.

“What if I’m not good enough?”

He feels terrible—guilty that he needs to keep having this conversation with you. But you always comfort him the same way. He hopes you always will.

Drawing his head up with your muddy hands, you dirty his cheeks just to get a glimpse of him. You murmur a half-hearted sorry for making a mess.

Then you’re kissing him.

“I’ll be here to remind you how much I cherish you.”

You nip his bottom lip and he opens wider. You whisper into his mouth,

“And how happy I am that Itoshi Rin was born into this world.”

Itoshi Rin, broken. He who thought that he could never be put back together.

Itoshi Rin, vengeful. He who believed the only happiness that existed for him in this world was to surpass his brother.

Itoshi Rin, who did not believe in his soulmate while staring right at them. And Itoshi Rin, who finally allowed himself to love you wholly, completely, as it was written in the stars.

“I love you,” he says, as if just those three words could encapsulate everything he feels for you.

“Always?” You giggle. He rolls his eyes.

“Wherever you are, and wherever you may be, I will.”

You kiss him one more time for good measure.

“That was corny.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

“No peeking.”

Rin folds up his piece of paper and hangs it from the bamboo tree. You’re tugging him along before he can even properly check to see if it’s been secured.

“Come on, I don’t want to miss the fireworks!”

He wouldn’t miss them for the world. You’ve always looked the most beautiful under the brightened summer sky.

The wish he scribbled down blows softly in the breeze as both of you rush by, back to the festival where it all began.

7 July 2024. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I love you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

extra notes. hi! if you made it this far, i'd like to give you the warmest most grateful thank you ever ( ´ ω `)

so, here it is. i've been working on this since last september-ish... for some people that amount of time is not much, but genuinely, i've never devoted so much attention and time to one single fic and i hope i did this one justice. rin has always been a guilty pleasure of mine to write for. i hope this man stays far far away from me until i can stomach even looking at his name again LOL ‾́ ◡ ‾́

also i finally admitted defeat and took out all my pictures and dividers because tumblr was fighting my posts that had any. so... sorry the formatting looks like this

additional tags: @jenoutof10 @hanrinz @itoshiexx lol hi guys it made it out of the drafts i hope you like it

#— whispers in the wind: 1k event ✉️#blue lock x reader #blue lock #blue lock fic #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk fic #itoshi rin #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #itoshi rin x y/n #itoshi rin x you #itoshi rin fluff #rin itoshi fluff

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