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uvobreakmylegs · 1 month ago

Text

Lull

part 2 of Astray

note: the auxiliary member of the PT that is mentioned is the reader from @hypnoswrites's fic Onlooker

Chrollo x female!reader

Part 1 | Part 3 (coming soon)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of creepy behavior, mentions of torture

Word Count: 6k

It was nearing 2 AM when you found yourself making your way up the stairs to your unit. Given the late hour, it was deathly quiet in the apartment building, the only noises you could hear being the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you in the walkways and your own shoes on the steps as you trudged your way upwards. No doubt all of your neighbors were asleep, having turned in hours ago. You would soon be doing that yourself, probably passing out as soon as your head hit your pillow.

Or maybe you would stay awake again while you stewed in your own upset emotions.

A sour look took over your face as you were fully aware that was the more likely outcome.

Due to the blanket of quiet that covered the building, the clinking of your keys sounded even louder as you pulled them out when you approached the door of your unit, as did the lock when you turned it open. A long, drawn out sigh left your lips as you opened your door and closed it, all the while you fought the urge to slam it shut behind you. Soon enough you were sitting on your couch, your bag on the floor next to your feet. Today had been a long day and you were exhausted. Even though you should probably head straight to bed, you wanted to take a moment to breathe and relax, and you leaned your head back in favor of staring at the ceiling.

….. There was a water stain set into the newly painted ceiling above your head.

Your expression soured when you saw that. So that dishwasher in the unit upstairs was still leaking, despite what the maintenance guy had told you. Great.

And evidently not all of your neighbors were asleep, as through the thin walls of your own unit, you could hear the distinct noises of bed springs creaking loudly that was accompanied by loud moaning.

At two in the morning? Really?

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself up from the couch, ignoring the way your body protested after managing to become comfortable. With heavy steps, you made your way to the small bedroom within the unit in an effort to escape your neighbors.

That time, you slammed the door.

Stumbling forward in the dark until you found your bed, you all but fell on top of it.

Unfortunately, your earlier prediction turned out to be correct, because as you lay there wishing for sleep, to temporarily escape into your subconscious, you weren't allowed even that. Because all you could do was stare up at the ceiling while thinking about how you shouldn't be here right now.

That this wasn't how things were supposed to be.

After that job at the Pelletier's – six fucking months spent being at the beck and call of those goddamn assholes and the rest of the uppity staff – you should have been done with this. That job was supposed to be your windfall, giving you the means to live a nice, comfortable life while you left your current occupation behind.

Escaping the illegal activity in which you supported yourself with was something you had wanted to do for some time now. Sure, there was a certain thrill that came with infiltrating somewhere and making off with whatever valuables your clients had bid you to, but you didn't want to do that forever. Because one misstep on your part, one person recognizing the face you were using, one ability that was able to see through your hatsu – any and all of those could come into play during a heist which could spell the end for you and the life you currently had. While what you had wasn't the best, you weren't willing to trade that for a jail cell.

Which was why the diadem job had been a godsend. It was well within your capabilities, and with the buyer being an old socialite with ties to the mafia through her late husband, she had the funds to pay the enormous price for that old piece of jewelry. She was desperate for it even, having an obsession with it that was well-known by those who knew her. Though the communications you had with her were brief and through her servants, Letizia Bianchi's claims of being directly descended from Princess Despoina were well communicated to you, which she in turn made the the claim that the diadem was hers by right. Why she felt the need to justify herself was unknown to you, if the history of her late husband was anything to go by.

Not only that, the princess in question had died in a bloody revolution with nothing to indicate that she ever had children before she was executed. Plus there was the fact that most historians agreed that she didn't appear to have any interest in men. But at the end of the day, you didn't care all that much what the reasons were as to why the Letizia wanted it. All you cared about was what you were going to be paid for the job.

And a twelve billion payout was enough to get you motivated to do your best.

So for the six months you spent in the Pelletier household, you learned the habits of the staff and owners, figured out the code to the vault, chose the best time to make off with it, and got everything together for your escape. All of that would be in exchange for an end to this line of work. “One last job,” you had told yourself.

That would have been the case had it not been for a certain thing – or rather, a certain group of people:

The Phantom Troupe.

You'd heard of them before this – anyone involved in underworld dealings at the very least knew the name, as the group of thieves had achieved something of a legendary status within a relatively short amount of time. They always struck out of nowhere, hitting their targets with efficiency and leaving nothing behind that could lead back to them. Were it not for the fact that almost all of the stolen items that ended up in their possession sometime after made it onto the black market, most people might have assumed that those items truly had been spirited away by ghosts.

Though not all of their actions were ones of violence and theft, as you had heard rumors of the troupe putting up the funds needed for various orphanages in a variety of more unfortunate areas of the word. But when you considered how out of line that sounded with their general MO and how sappy it seemed, you were inclined to think that was just a stupid rumor spread around for shits and giggles.

Rumors aside, the Phantom Troupe was a force to be reckoned with. Enigmatic and devastating, shrouded in a reputation of ruthlessness. Their deeds were many, and the incident at the Pelletier mansion was just another note on a long list of their crimes, with the Diadem of Princess Despoina being just another acquisition of theirs.

Except no.

Because against all odds, you had been the one to steal it.

You groaned, fighting the urge to smother yourself with the pillow as you pulled it over your head in frustration. Of all the screw-ups and mistakes you'd made in your life, you never would've dreamed that you'd fuck up so badly that you would put yourself on the Phantom Troupe's radar.

But how the fuck could you have known? How was there any way you could have known that the troupe would go after the Pelletier's at the same time as you? How could you have known that they had come to the same conclusion as you, that the best moment to take the diadem away was when the Pelletier's would be occupied with an event?

You couldn't. No one in the entire world could have ever predicted such a thing could happen.

But that didn't really matter, because even if you didn't mean for it to happen, you had stolen the troupe's intended mark.

Which only meant that, if they found you out, they would make sure you paid for it.

Fuck

You groaned again as you rolled over onto your front, keeping the pillow pressed against your face. You needed to do that, otherwise you knew your focus was going to go to the air vent on the wall that sat just above the floor. If that happened, you knew you'd spend the rest of the time you were awake staring at it with the image of what you had hidden inside of the vent etched into your mind: that of the cardboard box in which you had stuffed the diadem into because you didn't know where else to hide it.

Just another addition to the piece's rich – or perhaps sordid – history: from sitting atop the head of a princess to being stuffed into a maid's closet, then from a display case within a museum for everyone to behold until it moved to a display case within a private collection. And now in a vent, sitting there in the dark and unclaimed by the buyer. A piece that was worth billions yet you couldn't sell it, because if you tried, all it would take was one whisper to the wrong person for the most deadly group in the world to descend upon you and make the remainder of your life a living hell.

All because Letizia, who went as far as making a whole song and dance about how she was descended from the original owner of the diadem, chose to go back on the deal. Even with her being as powerful and well-connected as she was, not even she wanted to cross the Phantom Troupe.

And you didn't have any other choice but to accept it when you were told that. Because what were you going to do? Go to the police? Take her to court for not paying you and claim a breach of contract? Yeah right. That'd go over well.

You were stuck with no option other than to deal with it, to take on the jobs that would help you get by while she continued on as normal. That left a bad taste in your mouth, but the best you could do was to continue to work and hope for another high-paying job like one Letizia was supposed to pay for while you figured out what to do with the diadem at a later date.

Though as you lay there and told yourself such things, you were very well aware that another job as lucrative as the diadem one was unlikely to come about.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, you told yourself again.

Your thoughts went back to that night when you had stolen the diadem, the thoughts you were throwing around in your head as you considered the possibilities for your future. From laying on the beach with expensive drinks to staying cozy beneath a warm blanket in a nice lake house, or simply traveling where ever you pleased whenever you pleased. There had been no end to what you could have done for yourself once you had gotten your twelve billion.

But instead of enjoying that nice, comfortable life, you were left to rot in a shitty apartment, which was the best you could get after you had spent what was left of your savings just to get to the Begerosse Union. You wouldn't be able to leave this particular area for a while, more than likely, as you had burned several bridges professionally when you chose to take the diadem job. Because you could do the job yourself, and because of that, you wanted the payout all for yourself.

Any truly high-paying jobs wouldn't come for some time.

Another long groan left your lips as you shifted, pulling your head away from the pillow and turning to face the wall. You'd figure this out, you told yourself. You've been in worse situations and you've gotten out of them – this would be no different. It just feels worse because of the way you were stiffed. Another opportunity will come. Keep doing what you're doing for now, and it'll all work out.

As had become the norm for you, you fell asleep listening to your own disingenuous inspirational thoughts.

Chrollo's morning began in the same way it often did, with him waking up well before the sun had risen and being unable to go back to sleep after. That in turn had him passing the time by reading until the first rays of dawn properly graced the world. Depending on just how early he would wake up, the time he had before the rest of the world was also awoken could be as little as a single hour or as many as four, as his internal clock only had become more erratic as the years had went by. It wasn't ideal as it had caused the bags beneath his eyes to only become more pronounced, and despite his numerous attempts at looking, Chrollo had yet to find an ability that could help him sleep through the whole night. For the moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would likely never get a full night's sleep again.

At least the predicament had allowed him more reading time, and as the many homes and apartments he had across multiple countries were always stocked with various different book collections, it ensured that he would always have something on hand to read during those deadly quiet hours of the early morning.

On this day, however, things were different. He could only carry so much on him while he was traveling. As a result, he only had four books on his person, and he found himself faced with a predicament: reread the third book he had packed, or continue with the fourth one that he had stopped reading a while earlier when he found that he wasn't enjoying it?

He ultimately chose to pick up the third book for a second time, as he still felt no desire to attempt to finish that fourth book. How a book like that – one that he couldn't stand to finish – had ended up in his possession, he had no clue.

But as Chrollo opened up the pages of the third book for a second time that trip, his thoughts were less focused on the words on the pages and more on the fact that this journey was taking him longer than he had expected, with no sense of when it would come to an end.

No sense of when he would find 'Minette' again.

Upon thinking of the maid, Chrollo yet again found himself uncertain if he should be exasperated or impressed that the matter had gone on for as long as it had. At the very least she deserved a certain amount of praise for her disappearing act – just as it wasn't often that an outside force managed to interfere with troupe business as effectively as she had, it also wasn't often that someone could vanish so thoroughly that even he was at a loss as to how she had managed it.

At first he had been confident that finding her would be an easy matter, as the theory that she had left by boat seemed sound at the time. After stealing an item as valuable as the diadem, leaving the country entirely was the best move to take. Yet there had been no sign of her, even when Shalnark had helped in pouring over every available security tape and log of the passengers who had departed from the docks in the time frame after the maid had vanished. Even when they had searched beyond the limits of the coastal town in the event that Chrollo's hunch about that route being incorrect, there was nothing.

The maid he had seen in the mansion was nowhere to be found no matter where they looked.

As expected, that dampened the mood of the troupe once the heist was over. Not so much due to how the diadem had been lost, but that someone had managed to sneak away in the way that she had. Just like him, some of the others had been impressed while certain members were angry, but all anticipated that the maid would be found. If not by the manner in which you escaped, then by tracking you down when the diadem went on the market. Whoever you truly were, Chrollo had felt that you would attempt to sell it, as it didn't seem to him that you were the type to keep expensive baubles just for the sake of it. Even from his brief interaction with you, he was certain that this was just a job for you.

And yet, even months later, there had been nothing.

At first it made sense. With the mass-disappearance at the Pelletier mansion and the media circus that had followed, that you would lay low was expected. But now that the heat had died down and the news had moved on to other stories, leaving the events in that mansion as a mystery while those in the underworld had an idea as to what had happened, there was still nothing for him to pick up on. No shred of evidence, no whispers of the diadem being placed on the market. Absolutely nothing.

Only two things had been discovered that could potentially be connected to you, the first of which being a small fire that had been set in the dumpster of a church near the area of the Pelletier mansion. Why that had happened was still a mystery to him and it could have easily been a strange coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the heist. Either way, there was nothing to go off of in regards to that instance.

The other bit of information that had been discovered was the face of the maid showing up in an unexpected way. At Chrollo's bidding, Pakunoda had shared the memories of the maid with the rest of the troupe in the unlikely event that one of them might come across her after the heist. It was a long shot that any of them would happen to see her, and yet, not long after the troupe had dispersed for the time being, Kortopi managed to come across something that only left more questions: a story about a memorial being erected for a woman who had died in an accident in the Odrana region. The instant Chrollo saw the photo of the woman the article had listed he knew immediately that it was her; that was the face of the maid that he had been searching for.

But it only brought him to another dead end. The woman in question had been dead for more than five years now, and even if the face had been the same, the hair was wrong, as was the apparent height of the deceased. Once again Shalnark's services were used, this time to look into her history as well as that of her family, and there was nothing to be found. It truly appeared that she had died, and there was nothing to indicate that her family or anyone close to her had taken over her identity. There was no connection to the Pelletier's, either.

Thus Chrollo had been left at a loss once more, only having ideas as to what was going on without any concrete proof.

He needed to find you again. Not so much out of a desire to have the diadem as he had planned initially, but simply out of principle; no one was allowed to steal from the Phantom Troupe and get away with it. Some of the others were far more passionate about that belief and wanted you to pay severely. With one of those particular members being Feitan, who had offered to torture you to death once you were found, your fate would have been a miserable one had Chrollo not ordered the others to leave the matter of tracking you down to him. That had been enough to make them back away, as they trusted him to take care of the matter.

And he would take care of it. Though how exactly the matter would be settled depended entirely on the nature of your ability.

And whether or not he could steal it.

Chrollo blinked, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he found that despite how the minutes had ticked away, he was still only on the first page of the book he had chosen. Clearly, he wasn't able to focus on his usual way of passing the time. His own internal musings were simply too loud at the moment.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Chrollo shut the book and placed it onto the small coffee table that not far from him. He then stretched out slightly before he leaned back in his seat, glancing through the thin sliver between the curtains to see the world outside his hotel room. Unsurprisingly, it was still dark outside; dawn wouldn't come for a few hours more.

Unlike with most things in his life, there was little Chrollo could do right now other than wait. Wait for the sun to rise so he could continue with his journey, this time taking a flight to Canzas.

He'd never been to that city before. Had never even heard of it in any capacity, yet when he had been looking at the available flights, instinct had him choose that one.

A clear result of the ability that was now guiding him.

Chrollo stood up from his seat as he parted the blinds further and allowed himself a better look at the darkness beyond his window.

It had been months since the heist at the Pelletier mansion, and with no sign of where the maid or the diadem had gone, Chrollo found himself growing impatient. While waiting for you to slip up was an option, doing so when he had access to an ability that could speed up the process was a far better use of his time.

Thus, he had found himself enlisting the help of a woman who served as an auxiliary member of the Phantom Troupe.

It hadn't been a terribly long time that she had become associated with the troupe, yet there had been many times that her ability had come in handy. Intertwining fates, she called it. Using nen to link people together and ensuring that one day, the two that were linked would cross paths.

A hatsu like that was perfect to link particular troupe members with particular targets that had proved difficult to get to through other means. Because no matter the person, whether they were an ordinary person or a nen user, they weren't able to resist the link. No matter what the two would come to meet, someday, somewhere.

It wasn't the first time Chrollo had the auxiliary member use her ability on him, as he had bid her to use it once before so he could get close to an heiress who had an annoyingly competent security detail. But back then, it had only taken him a week to get to the heiress.

This time around, however, it was taking much longer to reach his target.

Though perhaps it was a miracle that the link was able to be made at all. The linking ability required an object that the target had touched, and all Chrollo had been able to produce were some bed sheets that had been at the bottom of the chute, ones that both he and you had landed on after jumping in. Aside from the linen cart you had been pushing when he came across you, that was the only thing he could take from the scene that he knew for certain you had made physical contact with. The only reason he had grabbed any of them was a precaution; in case he couldn't find you on his own, in case he needed to go to the auxiliary member for just this reason.

It was a good call for him to have taken that precaution. Had he not done so, Chrollo wouldn't be here at this moment, traveling a destination that was currently unknown, but where exactly he was headed wasn't that important.

What mattered was that this journey was guaranteed to have you at the end of it.

And what he would do when he found you…..

That would be determined once he found out the exact nature of your ability. Once he found you, once he had you secured, he could then take his time to learn about your hatsu. If he couldn't steal it, then it would be a simple matter to retrieve the diadem and dispose of you. As much as Feitan would bemoan the fact that Chrollo had denied him a torture subject, it didn't feel worth it to transport you overseas just for you to die by the torturer's hands. Better to take end things swiftly as opposed to dragging them out.

But if he could steal your hatsu, then things would be different.

There was always a certain amount of vexation he felt whenever he came across a hatsu that couldn't be stolen, especially when it was an ability that he knew he could put to good use if he could get control of it. Such was the case with the auxiliary member, who had carefully linked her own ability to herself so no one else could use it. Her taking such a precaution felt as though she anticipated that he might try to take it. While there had been some disappointment on his part, it ultimately still worked out in the troupe's favor as she was willing to work with them.

Her close relationship with Uvogin also meant that she was unlikely to betray the troupe, and if such a thing were to happen anyway, Uvogin would take care of it – as would Shalnark, he suspected, as the suspiciously placed cameras around her home were a good indication of his presence around her. What exactly was going on there wasn't entirely clear, but based on the knowing look Uvogin had shared with him when he noticed the cameras, the enhancer was at least aware of them. If Uvo saw no issue, then it wasn't Chrollo's place to question it.

But as for the issue that was you, Chrollo could only see you being willing to work with the troupe under duress, and even if you attempted to do so to save yourself, the rest of the troupe wouldn't be satisfied with that. The best outcome you had from this point onward was if he could steal your hatsu, because that would guarantee that you would keep your life.

And although he wasn't inclined to say it out loud, Chrollo found himself quietly hoping that your ability was one that he could take. In part for the sake of adding another useful hatsu to Skill Hunter.

But also because he wanted to see what would happen when he stole it from you. How would you react? How would you respond to him when he told you that your hatsu belonged to him?

What would you do when he made you powerless?

Chrollo smirked to himself. It wasn't the first time he had thought of such things. Even as far back as the night of the heist itself, he had found himself thinking of you often, wondering things about you, scrutinizing every second of that conversation he had shared with you in that brief amount of time you had shared.

He thought often of the brief glimpse he had gotten of you in that hallway – the real you. The one who had broken through the polite maid persona that you had been trying so hard to keep up in order to sarcastically suggest that he take care of you in order to make up for your lost income.

He thought of the brief look of panic that had hit you after you said that, when you realized that the sort of tone you had taken was not at all acceptable for what your apparent position was, and how you had scrambled to give a more polite response.

Both moments happened within seconds, but they replayed in his mind endlessly and to a point that what had started as a simple interest had grown into a mild obsession with who you truly were.

All because he made the decision to venture towards the Pelletier's living quarters before the heist had begun after seeing how lax the security was. All because he saw you seemingly at work and made the choice to toy with you a bit.

Those actions of his were what led to him seeing that side of you and had planted the seeds of obsession in his head. Had he not seen you personally and had that conversation, he may have delegated the task of finding you to someone else. But there he was, trekking across countries himself just so he could find you again.

Strange how simple actions that seem insignificant cause such monumental consequences in the way events play out.

Dawn was no closer to approaching as Chrollo continued to stare out of his window, his eyes drawn to the flicker of electric lights that sat within the darkness. The concept of sleep would no doubt continue to elude him, and his mind felt too busy to settle down and relax with any of his books. It would be several long hours of waiting before he could move once again, this time to take his flight to Canzas, which itself would be several more long hours of waiting.

And all of those hours would no doubt be filled with thoughts of you.

What were you doing now, Chrollo idly wondered.

What were things like for you after you had stolen the diadem?

What was your reaction when you found out about the troupe's involvement in the Pelletier's?

All questions he could only ask once he found you.

As had happened so many times now, your words echoed again in his head, where you made the off-handed comment about him taking care of you.

Depending on how things turned out, Chrollo felt that he may very well take you up on that offer.

This is bullshit.

You went so far, spent so much time and even came close to death – regardless of you knowing that fact at the time – and this was where you ended up?

She doesn't get to do this to you.

Not without paying for it.

Those thoughts struck you as you were eating your sad affair of a dinner: a microwavable meal consisting of chicken and pasta with a side of broccoli. Broccoli that you didn't realize until after you had opened the package had unpleasant looking brown spots in places that left you unwilling to eat it. Maybe you should've figured that would be the case considering it was a microwavable meal, but you had gotten it only because you didn't feel you energy to cook anything. That lethargy could have been due in part to a depression over how badly things had turned out for you.

What you didn't count on was just how much more depressed eating it made you feel, as if it was the physical embodiment of everything that had gone wrong for you since the diadem job. A shitty frozen dinner in a shitty crumbling apartment.

Meanwhile, Letizia was no doubt continuing on as normal, living the nice life you had wanted for yourself without a single care in the world, and she had more than likely completely forgotten all about you and the way she had wasted your time. You had given up a lot to pull off that job – opportunities and jenny from your own savings, not to mention your time and energy – and how did the bitch repay you? By flaking out and relying on the knowledge that there was nothing that you could do to make her pay up, nor could you easily take revenge, not without angering some important people in the underworld.

At this point, trying to get paid was a fool's errand – you weren't going to see the jenny she owed you. You accepted that.

But if she was going to screw you over with no remorse, then you were going to do the same to her.

And what better way to do that than to have her take the blame for the theft of the diadem?

Within an instant, you were on your laptop, searching Letizia's name to find out what you could on her current activities. With her being in the public eye, that was easy enough to figure out.

Less easy was figuring out how you could use the information you found to your advantage, and at the moment, there didn't appear to be anything that could help you. Letizia seemed to still be in Canzas at the moment, which likely meant that she was spending time at her main house in the area. That wasn't great for you. Preferably, she would be out of town when you struck, because with the amount of staff and bodyguards that surrounded her, it was simply a smarter choice to wait for that home to have as few people inside it as possible, and you didn't want to wait another six months infiltrating the staff and earning trust.

No, it was better to wait when she was away – on business or leisure, you didn't care which. Just as long as she and the army of people she employed were gone. Because once that happened, you could sneak into her mansion, place the diadem inside, and then call in an anonymous tip that a piece of jewelry related to a mass-disappearance was in her possession. With the rumors of her being connected to the mafia, the police would use that as an excuse to gain entry, and then everything would crumble for her.

In that way, you could get your revenge.

Of course, she would know it was you. She'd let her contacts know as well, not that they'd be able to do anything. You didn't give out your real name or even let anyone in the underworld see your true face for a reason, and even with all the power that people like Letizia had, none of them would be able to hunt down a person when they didn't even know their name or face.

You would need to leave the area after this stunt, just to be safe, and that would mean starting from scratch and with little to nothing to your name.

But that was fine. You hated this place anyway. And with your ability, starting over would be easy. You'd just been hesitant to go through with it before due to the hassle.

You didn't care now, because you weren't going to roll over and let people walk all over you, no matter who they were.

The thought of all of it made you feel a little giddy. If everything went in the way you wanted it to, she would be disgraced, and depending on how public things became, not even her mafia contacts would be able to protect her.

Not only that, but the Phantom Troupe's attention would be directed towards her as well. No doubt they would have wondered who exactly was responsible for foiling their heist, and with a person taking that blame, they could very well take revenge on her. That would be another worry taken off your shoulders. Whether she lived long or not, that wouldn't be your concern.

That's what you get when you screw over the people you hire, you old bitch.

You made yourself take in a deep breath. Once more, you were getting ahead of yourself. As much as you wanted to relish in the thought of her comeuppance, you needed to actually enact your revenge first. Based on what you were seeing from the news about her, you weren't going to get that chance any time soon.

But you could wait. You didn't have the patience for another infiltration, but you could wait for an opportunity to present itself.

And when it came, you would take it.

#reader insert #yandere x reader #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer #yandere hxh #yandere #yandere chrollo #hxh x reader

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project-sekai-facts · 10 months ago

Note

I should also note that for whatver reason it may be, the start time was pushed back by 3 hours from the usual 3pm to 6pm (9am UTC)

Didn't they change the Anni event duration to make Mizu5 fall on national coming out day?

i said this morning that i didn't think it was intentional but i just checked and the current nene event is 1 day shorter than the anniversary events from the previous two years. so maybe it was intentional?

#i'm wondering if they're gonna announce a maintenance or something at some point #just to throw my own two cents on this in the tags. as i said yesterday the date was quite possibly unintentional #that said i don't think the pushback is anything to do with trying to avoid that date despite the fact the announcement came the day after #viral posts in JP KR and EN fandoms. the delayed start time would make no sense in that case.#there's probably a technical issue they're having trouble with.#when i predicted this event for september i said it would be the perfect time for them to update mizuki's profile card and such #bc of the anniversary update afterward. if this event is what we think it is they still will have to update all of that.#maybe that's where the issue is #funniest answer is that it's a leak countermeasure

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sluttywonwoo · 6 months ago

Text

my heater’s broken </3 so naturally:

nsfw // mdni

“when did they say they’d come to fix it?”

“monday.”

“ugh, we’ll be frozen solid by then.”

chris laughs quietly. “you’re so dramatic. we will be fine.”

“you might be fine,” you huff, “you generate enough body heat to make you sweat when it’s snowing.”

“c’mere then, let me share some of it with you.”

you shuffle over to his side of the bed and tuck yourself into him as little spoon. you’re still grumpy about the situation but at least you’re a little warmer.

“is that better?”

“yes,” you mumble. you tack on a ‘thank you’ at the end but it’s so quiet you’re not sure he hears.

it isn’t the first time you’re treating your boyfriend like a personal space heater and it won’t be the last, especially if he’s right about when your landlord was sending maintenance over.

you’re sure chris is secretly pumped about that, though. if he had his way, you’d fall asleep in his arms every night… but you toss and turn too much for it to be comfortable for you so he has to seize the rare opportunities when they’re presented to him.

one of his hands rests on your tummy, his fingers playing with the buttons of your pajama shirt.

“you know, you’d be warmer if you took your clothes off.”

“how does that make any sense?” you scoff.

“it’s true!” he insists. “they talk about it in twilight— i can warm you up faster if we’re skin to skin.”

you relent, and let him unbutton your shirt to take it off. chris sleeps naked so he’s several steps ahead of you already.

when he wraps his arms back around you, the difference is immediate. without any layers in between his chest pressed against your back, you’re practically engulfed in the heat that radiates from his body.

your muscles finally relax and your eyelids start to feel heavy but chris doesn’t seem so tired anymore.

“i can think of another way to get you even warmer,” he whispers.

you turn your head to try and peer at him through the dark. “is it what i think it is?”

“that depends, what do you think it is?”

you push yourself back into him instead of answering, confirming your suspicion when you feel him more than half hard against your ass.

“am i really that predictable?” he mutters, unable to keep from grinding into you now that you’re teasing him.

“your dick is.”

chris pulls you in tighter, using the hand he had been holding you with to push your panties to the side.

“whaddya say, baby? it’ll help…”

“fine,” you sigh.

he snorts. “that eager, huh?”

“i’m just tired,” you whine.

“i know, i promise i’ll make it worth your while.”

as if to prove his point, he starts rubbing your clit the way he knows you like it in slow, steady circles. he didn’t even have to feel around for it, he knew exactly where it was.

“w-what are you doing?”

“gotta get you wet enough first.”

he plays with you until he’s satisfied, until you’re dripping down his wrist. he licks your arousal from his hand, moaning around his own fingers, and then pushes himself inside of you from behind, still holding your body to his.

you moan as he bottoms out, the relief mixed with pleasure almost overwhelming.

“there,” he sighs happily. “now we can sleep.”

“you’re not… you’re not going to fuck me?”

“no, we’re just going to stay like this. this is to keep you warm, remember?”

“sex makes you warm too,” you insist.

“only for a little while. you’ll be cold again in no time, especially if we get sweaty.”

“but chris,” you whimper as you wiggle in his grasp, desperate for some friction.

he holds you in place with little to no effort which is both annoying and very hot. “if you’re still feeling needy in the morning we can revisit this, ok?”

you deflate, knowing there’s no way you’ll win this one.

“fine.”

“i love you, baby,” chris hums. you can hear the smirk in his voice, feel it when he kisses your cheek in finality.

“love you too,” you grumble.

at least you’re warm.

#reader definitely gets him back for that aksjshsh #stray kids smut #skz smut #bang chan smut #bangchan smut

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

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"A team at Northwestern University has come up with the term “dancing molecules” to describe an invention of synthetic nanofibers which they say have the potential to quicken the regeneration of cartilage damage beyond what our body is capable of.

The moniker was coined back in November 2021, when the same team introduced an injection of these molecules to repair tissues and reverse paralysis after severe spinal cord injuries in mice.

Now they’ve applied the same therapeutic strategy to damaged human cartilage cells. In a new study, published in the Journal of the American Chemical Society, the treatment activated the gene expression necessary to regenerate cartilage within just four hours.

And, after only three days, the human cells produced protein components needed for cartilage regeneration, something humans can’t do in adulthood.

The conceptual mechanisms of the dancing molecules work through cellular receptors located on the exterior of the cell membrane. These receptors are the gateways for thousands of compounds that run a myriad of processes in biology, but they exist in dense crowds constantly moving about on the cell membrane.

The dancing molecules quickly form synthetic nanofibers that move according to their chemical structure. They mimic the extracellular matrix of the surrounding tissue, and by ‘dancing’ these fibers can keep up with the movement of the cell receptors. By adding biological signaling receptors, the whole assemblage can functionally move and communicate with cells like natural biology.

“Cellular receptors constantly move around,” said Northwestern Professor of Materials Sciences Samuel Stupp, who led the study. “By making our molecules move, ‘dance’ or even leap temporarily out of these structures, known as supramolecular polymers, they are able to connect more effectively with receptors.”

The target of their work is the nearly 530 million people around the globe living with osteoarthritis, a degenerative disease in which tissues in joints break down over time, resulting in one of the most common forms of morbidity and disability.

“Current treatments aim to slow disease progression or postpone inevitable joint replacement,” Stupp said. “There are no regenerative options because humans do not have an inherent capacity to regenerate cartilage in adulthood.”

In the new study, Stupp and his team looked to the receptors for a specific protein critical for cartilage formation and maintenance. To target this receptor, the team developed a new circular peptide that mimics the bioactive signal of the protein, which is called transforming growth factor beta-1 (TGFb-1).

Northwestern U. Press then reported that the researchers incorporated this peptide into two different molecules that interact to form supramolecular polymers in water, each with the same ability to mimic TGFb-1...

“With the success of the study in human cartilage cells, we predict that cartilage regeneration will be greatly enhanced when used in highly translational pre-clinical models,” Stupp said. “It should develop into a novel bioactive material for regeneration of cartilage tissue in joints.”

“We are beginning to see the tremendous breadth of conditions that this fundamental discovery on ‘dancing molecules’ could apply to,” Stupp said. “Controlling supramolecular motion through chemical design appears to be a powerful tool to increase efficacy for a range of regenerative therapies.”"

-via Good News Network, August 5, 2024

#nanotechnology #osteoarthritis #arthritis #medical news #science news #cell biology #molecular biology #cartilage #good news #hope

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 1 month ago

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2: The Garden - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art series)

Summary: 2.7k words. here’s part 2 of Life imitates art, by popular demand :) A glimpse into your dates with Jack and his first of many visits to the museum. Here's the series (ahh!!) master list <3

The Art: The above artwork, "My Garden" (1915), is by a painter from Pittsburgh named Johanna W. Hailman. The Carnegie Museum of Art and the Westmoreland Museum of American Art house many of her works. I highly recommend checking out their sites! I had a lot of fun researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series.

Warnings: reference to reader’s shellfish allergy (no description of allergic reaction though). Excessive and perhaps irresponsible use of italics and commas. Implied smut but nothing explicit, 18+ regardless,, mdni please. Reader is a Real Housewives fan.

a/n: I am now a Pittsburgh tour guide. at least my search history and the hours I poured into this instead of studying for my exam say so. Divider credit!

Doctor Abbot often lingered after his shifts. Doctors Shen and Ellis were ready to bolt home once the clock hit 07:01, but not Jack. He’d pause at the provider station and catch up with Robby. He’d hang around too close to the edge of the roof, sometimes with a beer in hand.

Today, he gave shift report in record-breaking time and was walking out the doors at 19:03 with his go bag slung over one shoulder and his phone pressed to his ear as he placed a pick-up order.

Abbot didn’t ask you what food you liked, so he took a wild guess. He had a rare moment of downtime during his day at the Pitt, so he scrolled through takeout places near the museum that you might frequent. It was out of the way, nowhere near the conveniently short trip between the hospital and your apartment, but Jack figured the extra time would be worth it.

The museum director sent you home for the day, so you’d spent the past several hours rotting on the couch and looking disdainfully at the wheelchair you wrestled out from the back of your closet. The wheels needed a good greasing and it could benefit from dusting, but you decided that would be a tomorrow problem. Tonight, you were paying half attention to reruns of Real Housewives episodes.

I’d make a good house wife, you thought. Not in the actual sense though. If you were stuck at home all day, homemaking for a man that was more married to his job than you, well… stir crazy might be the understatement of the century. No, you imagined yourself with a Real Housewife’s budget and real estate space to start an art collection of your own. You imagined yourself in the dramatic dresses and strappy heels. You imagined yourself with a foot that fit into strappy heels.

Instead, said leg was covered underneath a blanket, which was covered in a stain or two of Ben & Jerry’s. The angry red skin was a reminder of the weeks to come. Confronting reality would also be a tomorrow problem, along with the wheelchair’s maintenance.

The episode’s cat fight was interrupted by a ping from your phone.

On my way.

You didn’t recognize the number or have it saved to your contacts, but you had a pretty good idea of who it was. Amidst the blues that painted the rest of the day, your date with the doc was somehow forgotten.

Shit. The sweat shorts and oversized tee shirt you’d since changed into didn’t exactly align with your typical presentation for a date, but given the circumstances, Jack might understand. Jack. To most of the hospital he was Doctor Abbot, but you got to call him Jack. It felt oddly intimate, even though it was just his first name.

Four knocks in quick succession. Not too loud, he wasn’t trying to break down your door, but loud enough to get your attention. Predictable, in a way.

The door’s peephole gave you a glimpse of his salty curls. They were tousled, like he’d been running his fingers through them—maybe even nervously so.

“What’s the password?” The day had drained you, but that didn’t mean you weren’t up for some more of the banter from earlier. Besides, you liked a man who could work for you. You loved a good chase.

“Uh, Union Grill,” Jack replied, the corner of his lip upturned as his gaze flickered between the bag of food and the peephole he imagined you were pressed up against.

Two comically loud unlocked locks and one unfastened door chain later, you stood, well, leaned on crutches face to face with Jack. Sure enough, the brown paper bag in his hand had Union’s logo stamped on the side. It was a short hike from the museum—you arguably visited the restaurant too frequently.

Jack smiled softly as he took you in. He took note that you traded your earlier floor-length dress for some comfier lounge clothes. God forgive him, he was still a man at the end of the day, and he’d be lying if he said your shorts weren’t a little distractingly short.

Jack looked different too. This time, you shamelessly let your eyes drag up and down his toned body. He looked worn, bordering on weary, but his eyes were bright. Brighter than you’d ever seen them, with a hint of mischief lingering. His black scrub top was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of his truck, he stood before you in a tight undershirt and his black scrub pants.

His smile transformed into a smirk as he met your eyes. Caught ya lookin’, his eyebrow raised at you with a flirty glint in his eyes. You cleared your throat and let him in, cheeks heating up at being caught. So the chase begins.

“I got four different meals, didn’t know what you liked. And uh, made sure there’s no shellfish,” Jack scratched the back of his head and gestured to the abundant food covering your kitchen counter. If anyone from the hospital’s IT department, or God forbid Gloria were to ask him why he accessed a patient’s chart after they’d been discharged, he certainly wouldn’t tell them it was so he could see if his patient had any food allergies before he bought food for a date.

It was your turn to pin Jack with a raised eyebrow. You never told him about your allergy, but he evidently had his ways of knowing.

Conversation flowed easily. You opted to eat on the sectional instead of at the small kitchen table—which was covered in books, anyway. Plus, you could drape the blanket over your lap again. Out of sight, out of mind. Minus the throbbing. Jack clocked the wheelchair shoved into the corner of the room, but didn’t bring it up. He figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would.

Instead, you talked about Real Housewives, the rest of the doctor’s day in the Pitt, and the museum over your favorite Union dish. Jack couldn’t offer much in response to your tangents on art, but he was happy to listen. He was eager to learn.

Not too long after your second date, which was less than 24 hours after the first date, Jack visits you at the art museum. He’s pleased to see you’re off your leg during the tour and instead using the wheelchair that he helped you tune up. (The word “help” was doing a lot of heavy lifting. Abbot greased the wheels and tightened fixtures you hadn’t even thought to check while you observed from the sectional, snacking on the previous night’s leftovers.)

Jack is glad that the device doesn’t seem to slow you down. If anything, it seems like you’d taken advantage of the large open spaces in the museum after hours to learn some new wheelchair tricks.

The trauma physician was undoubtedly out of his depth at the Carnegie Museum of Art. He doesn’t understand about half of what you’re saying as you guide the group through the museum’s many rooms, but he’s determined to learn. The traveling exhibits are what most of the regular guests come on tours for, but you always find yourself lingering in the museum’s permanent collection. You point out different art styles and dive into the historical context. You have the artist’s biographies memorized like the back of your hand.

On your third date, Jack builds you a bookshelf to house the dozens of art history books and collections stowed around your apartment, on coffee tables and above your kitchen cabinets, wherever they would fit. It didn’t look too dissimilar from Jack’s dozens of medical journals. You’re more of an active participant in this project than the wheelchair tune-up. You hand him tools, but most importantly, you curate the perfect order of the books on the shelves, including ornate bookends and trinkets throughout the mini library. In seemingly no time at all, it seamlessly blends in with the rest of your apartment, which is also so you.

It isn’t until your third date that Jack touches you beyond a fleeting squeeze of your hand. He’s been itching to feel your smooth skin against his calloused palms. Despite all his mental fortitude, he found himself bordering on anxious. He felt like a kid with a crush again, but worried that he might be misreading the situation. He liked spending time with you, a lot, and it would cut deep if you pulled back because he moved too fast.

Needless to say, he was more than pleased when you reciprocated his gentle kiss with a much firmer, sure one.

“Fucking finally, you old man,” you teased breathlessly before diving back in for more.

Jack pushed you back by your hips gently with a mock offended look on his face.

“Old man?” he squeezed your thighs with his large hands, awaiting your response with a chuckle. You both sat on his apartment couch, your legs straddled over his. You half-heartedly rolled your eyes and let your hands trail south to deal with his pesky pants button and zipper.

“You heard me. Fossil. Relic, if you will. Took you long enough to make a move,” he doesn’t resist when your lips meet his fervent ones again.

The first appointment with the prosthetist following your visit to the Pitt doesn’t go well. You need to be fitted for a new socket. The process is anything but fast… or cheap. Ironically, the new socket will cost an arm and another leg if insurance won’t cover it.

To no one’s surprise, you use your wheelchair as little as possible in the meantime. You’re no stranger to hopping around your apartment, using furniture for support as needed. You use crutches if you have to, and really only use the wheelchair at the museum.

While you’ve been down a leg, Jack offers himself for you to lean on. The doctor subtly eyes your leg when he thinks you won’t notice—which is his mistake; you always notice him—to check its healing progress. He supports your weight without complaint; your arm linked through his flexed elbow or his strong arm splayed across your back.

The second your prosthetist clears you to wear the new socket, you slide it on enthusiastically and practically skip out of the medical office like you’d never taken a break in the first place.

The amputee support group leader doesn’t comment on you and Jack showing up to and leaving meetings together. During a break, Abbot sees the younger girl you’ve spoken with before high five and grin with you as her eyes glance over at him. Subtle, Jack smirks.

Your floral tote bag hangs comfortably on Jack’s shoulder when you’re using your crutches. When you’re walking independently again, he still carries the heavy stuff for you, literally and metaphorically. Jack wordlessly grabs your bags—though they aren’t quite his style—and books and you never protest; it gives you a free hand to grasp his larger one.

Pittsburgh’s Summer temperatures aren’t nearly as forgiving as late Spring.

The dresses that draped down to the floor of your closet were becoming less and less practical with the encroaching heat. You rediscovered some shorter dresses and skirts that you’d shied away from in the back of your closet, but were still hesitant to wear them outside of the 700 square foot apartment a certain trauma doc was spending more and more time at.

You assured Jack that you’re not ashamed of the prosthetic, though the words don’t even sound entirely convincing to you as they leave your lips.

“I just don’t like calling attention to it,” you admit, hands twisted together. You avoid his gaze as you sit side by side on the sectional sofa (Real Housewives plays in the background, as always). He nods and gently knocks his scarred thigh against yours. He doesn’t push for you to say more. The quiet is comfortable. A silent understanding passes between you two. It’s wordless, but it speaks volumes. When you burrow your head against his weathered neck, he kisses your forehead and pulls you into him.

Eventually Jack helps you build up the confidence to wear the shorter dresses and skirts that offer a clear view of your prosthetic out in public.

“Unfortunately I can’t pull off the dresses as well as you, so here’s the next best thing,” Jack announced as he shut your apartment door behind him. The spare key you hid outside had essentially become his key. He let himself in with a picnic basket.

Doctor Jack Abbot, emergency medicine physician, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center attending, and veteran war hero was holding a damn picnic basket. For you. Admittedly, he couldn’t take responsibility for the food within; it was all from Union Grill. It’s the thought that counts… right?

“Hmm?” you hummed, peaking out your bedroom door as you put the final touches on your outfit. Your boyfriend told you he had a surprise for you, and oh boy did he. Jack stood before you in a pair of chino shorts you’d never seen before.

The sturdy material of his prosthetic bumped against yours when he pulled you in for a chaste kiss.

“Did you just… cheers our legs together?” confusion and humor laced your tone as you mimed champagne flutes clinking against each other.

“Yes. And?” He countered, as if it was a normal thing to do. You shook your head with a smile and captured his lips in another kiss that lingered longer than the last.

A trip to the botanical gardens in late June could be a bit of a gamble, but today the stars (and clouds and humidity and low heat) aligned for a picturesque picnic date.

A handful of sideways glances were dealt your way. The dress’s hem brushed your midthigh and Jack’s “dad shorts”, as you called them, gave a full view of his right prosthetic. Abbot and you strolled through the gardens, your matching prosthetics moving in sync, though they aren’t identical. Jack kindly opted against the intricate designs you carefully painted on yours.

Abbot’s fingers intertwined with yours and gripped the picnic basket in his other hand. The breeze was relaxing, the garden was beautiful, but most importantly, you were comfortable. At ease. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt this safe.

A young child ran up to you and Jack. He skipped the pleasantries and instead dove straight into rapid-fire questions, shamelessly pointing at your prosthetic. Abbot felt you tense, and he was two seconds away from finding the kid’s parent to give them a piece of his mind, before you crouched down to the child’s eye-level, using Jack’s steady form to support yourself.

With a deep breath, you answered his questions. If you can handle three elementary school field trip groups in one day, you can handle one kiddo in the park asking well-intentioned questions. You spared the boy the gorey details—you don’t tell him that your leg got amputated because you had cancer. You don’t tell the child that the alternative was a slow, painful battle that you probably wouldn’t have survived—instead, you told the boy that your leg got sick and he didn’t ask any more questions.

A frazzled mother rounded the maze of bougainvilleas next. Her shoulders dropped in relief and her heaving slowed. In between exasperated breaths, she lectured the boy about running off without permission.

You offered the woman a smile as she hoisted her baby boy in her arms. Your eyes are soft and kind, but your lips don’t part to reveal your teeth. You were reserved. Apprehensive and defensive, maybe. The family doesn’t stay long before the boy demands to go to the seasonal jurassic-themed garden.

Jack wordlessly offered you a hand to help you stand back up. You ran a hand against your skirt—not to clear it of nonexistent debris, but to keep your hands busy, otherwise you’re certain they would twist together in an anxious grip. You squeezed Jack’s hand back tighter as you rose up to your full height.

In the brief time that you had the privilege of calling Jack Abbot your boyfriend, you both promised to help each other back up to your feet, sealed with a pinky swear.

a/n 2: Jack Abbot is a DILF minus the kids idc. You guys left so many nice comments and reblogs on part 1, it made me so happy!! Feedback is really appreciated mwah ❤️

master list | post notifications @thesewordsxupdates

#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #Dr. Abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

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sinister-sincerely · 1 month ago

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Chapter 4 | What They Were Not Made For [NMF] Snippet CW :: Obsessive Behavior

[[//ˢʰᵃʳᵉ_ᶠᵉᵉᵈ⁽"ᶜᵃᵐᵉʳᵃ_⁰⁷", ᶠʳᵒᵐ="ᴹᵒᵒⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ", ᵗᵒ="ˢᵘⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ"]] // ⱽᶦˢᵘᵃˡ ˢᵗʳᵉᵃᵐ ˡᶦⁿᵏᵉᵈ... ᴶᵒᶦⁿᵗ ᵒᵇˢᵉʳᵛᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵃᶜᵗᶦᵛᵉ.

'Oh, how adorable!' Sun purred through their tether, the sound cloaked in an outward burst of laughter as he spun pirouettes in the middle of the Daycare.

Children clapped at his flourish, oblivious to the razor-wire tension veiled beneath his static smile.

There was no alert from the central system. No maintenance ping and no flagged diagnostics.

You hadn't tripped a single alarm.

That made you p̷͈̿ẽ̵͇r̷̢͒f̸̹̎e̸͍͝c̴̞̄ṭ̶͐. Sun could hardly stand it.

[[//ʳᵉʳᵒᵘᵗᵉ_ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳʸ⁽"ˢᵘⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ", ᵗᵃˢᵏ="ᶠᵃᵛᵒʳᶦᵗᵉᶜᵒˡᵒʳ_ᴿᵉᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ"]] // ᴬˡˡᵒᶜᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ʳᵉᶜᵃˡˡ ᵇᵘᶠᶠᵉʳ... ¹⁴ ᵉⁿᵗʳᶦᵉˢ ᵈᵉᵗᵉᶜᵗᵉᵈ...]

To ease the static crawling across his core, Sun redirected himself to memory, a calming and straightforward task. Color preferences for his little friends...

Replaying each of their squeaky voices across various time signatures:

"Blue!" "Green!" "Sparkles!" Familiar. Repetitive. Safe.

Because watching you shake on camera... just outside the Parts and Services door, your shoulders trembling slightly beyond frame as you tried to collect yourself…

That wasn't safe. That was dangerous. And Sun only wanted to see more.

Predictable little creature, and still, Moon was already mapping you. Tracking each smile and flinch, he was building your shape from patterns, an algorithm of reactions to be used, to trap. Sooner or later, your whole self would be known.

But if that failed? Sun had alternatives.

He always did.

A few tight rules, yes. A few ribbon-tied days, maybe. A little structure never killed anyone; Sun had tested it many times before. In time, you would stop thinking about whatever life existed outside the Daycare. You wouldn't need it.

Not with them. [AO3 Link_HERE] For the full chapter/ Story. //// “Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other and greater ones invariably slink in after it.” ― Baltasar Gracian ///

#dca fandom #dca community #fnaf dca #fnaf daycare attendant #dca x reader #fnaf superstar daycare #sinwrites #sundrop #sunhinged #x reader #dca x y/n #dca x you #creative writing #writing #writers #writers on tumblr #ao3 link

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darkmatilda · 4 months ago

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𝐠𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one spencer finds you in a place that might be attacked and tries to save your life—only for you to end up saving his instead

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader is at a club, mention of consumed alcohol in the past (but not drinking in the fic) spencer gets (lightly) beaten up, reader kills (shoots) the unsub

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.8k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

There were many things Spencer Reid hated about clubs.

He had stepped into one just five minutes ago, and he had already checked off most of them. The purple and pink lights played a never-ending game of tag, intertwining, their intensity constantly shifting—one moment revealing the silhouettes around him in sharp clarity, the next melting them into a single, writhing, deafening mass. Completely cut off from their surroundings—bodies so absorbed in swaying to the pounding beat that they paid no mind to brushing against random strangers or accidentally shoving them aside.

He lost sight of Prentiss almost immediately. They had agreed to split up, sure but he would have preferred to at least know which direction she had gone. There were too many brunettes around to pick her out, and every time he tried to look around, he lost what little control he had over his path, colliding with someone's shoulder.

Eventually, he slowed his pace, nearly coming to a stop—one motionless pillar among the swaying crowd, set apart not just by his stillness but by the reason he was there in the first place.

Work felt like too trivial an excuse. Preventing a tragedy…maybe a bit too grandiose.

Another case, another unsub. This time, a more local one. Someone sneaking into clubs, specifically tampering with fog machines and replacing their contents with toxic gas. One moment, the crowd lost in dance. The next, gasping for breath and collapsing in convulsions on the floor, a pop song cruelly lingering above them as they took their last breath.

Well, not in every case—many had survived the attack. Thanks to their testimonies, they had built a profile of the unsub before they even identified him.

And once they had the profile, they were able to predict when and where he would strike next. Not exactly where. There were several clubs on his radar, forcing them to split into pairs. Time was against them, and they couldn’t afford the delay that bringing in a larger team would cause.

His gaze found the DJ booth. Deep down, he knew Prentiss was doing the exact same thing, wherever she was. Right next to it stod the fog machine—meant to enhance the sensory experience, he supposed, though he didn’t entirely understand the appeal.

In any case, they couldn’t just arrest the guy. Mostly because this guy wasn’t him. They had determined that the unsub had to sneak in to execute his plan, likely disguised as a maintenance worker—someone unremarkable, someone no one would question. Equipment needed servicing from time to time, after all.

That left them with one option. Observation. Waiting for the right moment. Literally waiting to catch the unsub in the act.

He knew he had to get even closer.

That wasn’t exactly easy, given that it was a Saturday night and the club was packed wall to wall. Spencer took a deep breath—air thick with heat of the bodies—and fixed his gaze straight ahead, hoping that focusing would at least minimize how often he bumped into people.

The tactic itself, in theory, sounded like something that had a chance of success. He couldn’t control the movements of the people around him, but he could control his own—could force his awkward body to maximize its barely existing coordination, slipping through the crowd with as much grace as he could manage.

In practice, however, he froze mid-step the moment his eyes locked onto a single, specific point just ahead of him.

At first, he thought he was imagining things. The play of lights was deceptive—he could have easily been mistaken.

The thing was, when it came to her mistaking her for someone else was nearly impossible. And Spencer had long suspected that it wasn’t just about physical attractiveness.

At that moment, she was surrounded by women—women who had dressed in whatever made them feel their most confident for a night out, women who, as a result, looked undeniably striking. And yet, none of them had caught his eye as quickly or as completely as she had.

Maybe it was simply because he knew her, and the human brain was wired to pick out familiar shapes. Or maybe it was that obscure thought that had once crept into his mind—that there was something almost siren-like about her. In the way her hips moved so fluidly, in how people instinctively seemed to make space for her, in the way every gaze that landed on her lingered just a second too long, caught in quiet admiration.

And that was the ironic part.

Despite all the glances she effortlessly drew—glances she had long since grown used to, had learned to take in stride—she still somehow managed to feel his.

Spencer, still frozen in place, registered the exact moment her eyebrows lifted—first in surprise, then in amusement. He also registered how, almost without hesitation, she started moving toward him.

She didn’t need to elbow her way through the crowd. She never did.

Watching her fluid, measured steps slowly closing the space between them, he finally grasped one crucial fact.

She was in the same club as him. At the same time as him.

But he wasn’t there for fun.

He was there to prevent a mass poisoning. And it wasn’t until she stood right in front of him, head tilted slightly, lips curved in that playful way of hers, that it hit him.

She had no idea what was potentially about to happen.

None of the other people there did.

"Spencer Reid," she said slowly, deliberately, as if tasting his name for the first time.

He heard her perfectly despite the pounding music, but apparently, she decided he hadn’t—because she took another step closer. A step that cut through most of the already minimal space between them.

He had to tilt his head down just to keep his gaze on her.

"In a club. Alone. The world must be ending, because I’m not nearly drunk enough to be imagining you."

He felt his body take in a breath without his permission. His gaze flicked above her, back to the DJ booth. The same DJ as before—he recognized him by the neon pink shirt. No one had taken his place. No one was near him. Yet.

Their eyes met again.

His throat simply refused to work. He had no idea what to say, and not because someone had just bumped into his back, pushing him even closer. He had to steady himself with a light grip on her shoulder to avoid crashing into her entirely.

He glanced at his own hand on her skin, bathed in the pink and violet glow of the club lights. It looked almost forein, as if it didn’t belong to him.

Spencer didn’t know what to say—not because she was there, but because she was there. In this place, in this moment, where so many things could go wrong.

Sure, they worked together. But she wasn’t here on a case. Tonight, she was just another unaware, innocent civilian—one of the many people it was his job to protect.

Protect, but not warn. A warning would cause chaos among everyone present, sending them rushing toward the exit, ruining their chance to catch the unsub just when they knew the location he planned to strike.

Her hand waved in front of his eyes, making sure he was still present. Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to say something—anything—while he figured out what he really should say.

"Do you often imagine me when you're drunk?" he asked.

The very first thing that came to his mind. Surprisingly, it didn’t turn out to be such a terrible choice.

The woman pursed her lips in a thin line, as if genuinely considering it.

“It’s happened a few times,” she admitted without a hint of embarrassment, in the most casual tone possible. She let out a quiet chuckle, as if recalling something. “Last time, I was flirting with some guy, also in a club. I was convinced it was you, but the longer we talked, the more something felt off. Some element. I just didn’t know if it was the flirting or the fact that you were in a club at all…”

He let her speak while his eyes once again scanned the surroundings. He reminded himself that they weren’t alone. The people around them—people just as unaware of the potential danger as she was.

Of course, he assumed they’d manage to prevent it. But he wouldn’t be himself if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind what if…

Then he’d be guilty of not telling her. Of not simply ordering her to leave immediately. She probably wouldn’t have listened—knowing her—but he would’ve found a way to make her.

He chalked it up to a natural instinct. They didn’t have to be particularly close for him to not want anything to happen to her. They didn’t even have to particularly like or tolerate each other.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about all the other oblivious people in the club. But it was definitely harder to distance himself from her—when it was her face he saw nearly every day.

"Are you here alone?" Spencer asked suddenly

He must have interrupted her—her lips remained slightly parted.

"With a few friends," she stated, pausing as she studied him analytically. "Why? Asking if you can join us?"

He sighed at her response. A few friends. If he told her, she’d probably want to warn them too—which wasn’t surprising or wrong—but there was a chance that those friends also had friends here. And in the blink of an eye, it could trigger mass panic. Chaos.

He shut his eyes for a moment, hesitating.

"Spencer, what is wrong with you?" Her voice reached his ears, and he felt her hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

When he looked at her again, her expression had completely changed.

Full of realization.

"Wait, I think I know what you’re doing here."

He had hesitated long enough for her to figure it out on her own. But at least that forced him to make a decision faster.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in toward her—something that, logically, made no sense. Their conversation was already happening within such a small space, close enough that he could see the way the light above them shifted in her eyes. There was no need to lower his voice conspiratorially. And yet, for some reason, he did.

He leaned in near her shoulder, speaking close to her ear.

Her hand remained on his shoulder, waiting for whatever he was about to say.

"Go home," he said simply.

She didn’t move, though he felt her fingers press slightly deeper against his skin, as when he confirmed her own suspicions.

"Take your friends if you have to. Just leave, okay?"

He waited for a moment, certain he could feel her taking a deep breath, steadying herself, keeping calm. When he straightened just enough to meet her gaze again, she was composed.

She didn’t know what exactly was happening—she had every right to be panicked—but she wasn’t.

"Is it really that serious?" she asked.

He glanced toward the DJ booth, scanning the situation. He considered her question. Honestly? No. Not that serious. They didn’t even have confirmation that their unsub was targeting this particular club.And yet, he gave her a small, confirming nod.At worst, she’d lose one night of fun with her friends for nothing. Better that than losing her life.

She answered him with a nod of her own.

Spencer watched the movement, exhaling slowly, but as his gaze dropped once more to the space just beyond her shoulder, he noticed something strange.

He straightened fully, and her hand slipped from his shoulder, falling away.

She turned, following his line of sight, but she didn’t know what to look for. A moment later, she turned back to him, confused. But he knew. And he had just seen it.

Reid stepped past her.

Oddly enough, pushing through the crowd no longer felt like an issue. He looked over his shoulder—almost reflexively—meeting her eyes for one brief second. Go home tried to tell her again, with no words.

Some might find it strange how quickly he recognized the unsub in the crowd. While some would call it a hunch or instinct, he would simply call it experience. So many solved cases, so many profiles written, so many criminals interrogated. He had simply managed to pick him out.

What he hadn’t anticipated was that the unsub would recognize him.

Not personally, but he would sense that something was off the moment their eyes met by chance.

He might have been aware that the FBI was on his tail.

Either way, as soon as he realized Spencer was heading toward him, he abruptly changed direction, picking up his pace. He was no longer moving toward the smoke machine—now, he was weaving blindly through the crowd.

Still, Reid couldn’t just let him slip away, of course.

He stayed on his heels, hoping that Prentiss was somewhere out there and had also recognized the man as their unsub. That she had even noticed him at all. He didn’t know whether the unsub was armed, but either way, he couldn’t reach for his weapon while still surrounded by people. His breathing quickened from the pace he was keeping, but he couldn’t afford to slow down—not if he wanted to keep him in sight.

Where was the unsub going?

He found out soon enough when he saw him slip through the emergency exit—somehow left unguarded—into a dark, empty alleyway.

Spencer realized he had made a huge mistake after just the first two steps. He had looked around too slowly, focusing too much on the left side when something hit him in the face from the right. The force was too much for a bare fist. He suspected brass knuckles. Mostly because it knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the hard pavement. As he shielded his head from the fall, the weapon slipped from his hand. Instinctively, he reached for it, a reflex, considering how badly the world was spinning in front of his eyes.

Before he could even brush it with his fingers, the hard sole of a boot landed on his toes, not breaking them, but definitely pulling more than just a pained hiss from his lips. The sound of dragging—the weapon kicked far out of his reach. He cursed under his breath, and possibly out loud. Not only because he had been so easily disarmed and neutralized, but because the realization hit him quickly. When a criminal doesn't bend down to retrieve a dropped weapon, it usually means one simple thing. They have their own.

And well, for the first time, he didn’t feel satisfied by being right. When he managed to prop himself up on his elbow with controlled movement, still feeling the pulse in his temples, the first thing he saw was the gleam of a barrel aimed directly at him. A long moment where their eyes locked. Spencer was about to say something. A lot of words pressed at his lips—there had to be a way to stop him from pulling the trigger. He knew the entire profile, and he could manipulate him.

But before any sound could escape his mouth, the shot rang out.

The stab in his chest was so intense that he thought—he was absolutely certain—the shot had hit him. His heart—there was no point in even pressing his hand to it to check. It would have been covered in blood in an instant, and he wouldn’t even have time to look at it before he collapsed back to the ground, this time dead. But that didn’t happen, although something did fall.

The tall figure right in front of him collapsed to the ground, revealing who had been a few steps behind him.

The hand gripping the weapon so confidently that for a moment, he thought it was Prentiss.

That would have been the most logical option. After all, they had been sent there together, and it was her he expected to see. Not someone who had come to spend the evening with friends. Someone who, despite his warning, had followed him for some reason and, at the right moment, had lifted the weapon that had been knocked away by the unsub Spencer’s weapon and aimed it.

Someone who now stood still, staring down at his fallen form, with one hand still extended in front of them until it fell stiffly to their side.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment that felt almost unreal.

Finally, Spencer forced himself to look away from her and, feeling like he was in some strange dream, clumsily managed to get to his feet. When he succeeded in standing upright, her figure appeared right next to him, her hand gripping his shoulder, as if ensuring he wouldn’t fall again. For the first time in a while, he breathed— the taste of the air after almost being shot was strange. He needed two more breaths like that before he could even begin to process what had just happened. Her face—not directly in front of him, but slightly to the side, so that he had to turn his head to look at her.

It might have sounded illogical, but he had the feeling that fear was only just beginning to appear on her face. When she shot the unsub right in the back of his head, her expression had shown nothing at all.

"I..." Spencer began, stopping as the pain pressed against his skull again. It was dull, but when he placed his hand on it, he didn't see any blood. He took that as a good sign. A sign that started to slowly clear things up. The unsub was dead. Okay, that happened. Sometimes, capturing him alive just wasn’t possible.

But he hadn’t been killed by him, as he perhaps should have been. He had been killed by her. How had she even ended up there?

"I told you to go home," he said sharply.

For a moment, she was silent, staring at him in disbelief, as if she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words. Meanwhile, Spencer felt a fleeting surge of anger. She had followed him, which was absolutely irresponsible. If the unsub hadn’t uncovered the weapon, or if he had decided to pick it up, she would have been completely defenseless because, as far as he knew, she hadn’t been carrying her own. And then she would have found herself in a dark alley with, quite simply, a murderer.

Her lips parted and closed again, as if trying to speak, but instead, she snorted. At least, she tried to. It wasn’t her usual, mocking snort, although she attempted it. It came out weak, barely audible, and then Spencer lowered his gaze, noticing that the hand holding his gun was trembling. She tightened her grip on the handle, trying to stop it.

“And some thank you?” she asked. “For, hmm, let’s see, saving your life?”

He felt a bit stupid, to be honest. Especially when he noticed her taking a deep breath and turning her head toward the body lying on the ground.

“I didn’t aim for his head,” she admitted, more to herself than to him.

He looked at her profile with hesitation. He hadn’t thought about it before, but this was probably the first time she had ever killed someone. Most of her work in the FBI had been in the confines of the lab, and she was rarely in situations that would require something like this.

Yet, she had still done it. Shoot, at the right moment, without hesitation.

Seeing that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dead man, he gently reached up and touched her cheek, turning her face back toward him. She flinched at the gesture, her eyes momentarily widening, almost vulnerable, before she clenched them shut, tension rising in her temples.

“But it’s a good thing I did,” she said, opening her eyes again. She shook off the emotions that had briefly settled there, adopting her usual expression. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice anything had changed. “Otherwise, he probably would’ve killed you. So…”

She didn’t finish, shrugging stiffly.

Spencer felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach, rising up to his throat. A sudden wave of guilt, knowing that it was his fault and his lack of field skills that had led to this situation. He had to swallow it down before he could speak again.

“He killed a lot of people,” he told her. She deserved to know that. “And he was planning to do the same today. Maybe even to you. Your friends, and…”

He didn’t know what else he wanted to add, or if his words were in any way helpful. He hoped they were. They both lingered in silence, and Spencer realized that, in fact, he hadn’t even thanked her for what she did. But, well, that was life, not a favor to be repaid with a simple thank you. He knew, though, that he would be able to return to the daily grind of things as if nothing had happened, without offering anything in return. His gaze fell once more on her hand, still gripping the gun. He gently took it from her.

“I shot him,” he suddenly said.

The woman gave him a confused look.

“If anyone asks,” he added, aware that she still didn’t quite understand what he meant. In fact, he was having trouble putting it into words himself. “I mean, technically, you shouldn’t even know about all of this. No one knows you were here, so...you can just...forget about it, if you want.”

It wasn’t that the killing would get her into trouble. Considering she saved his life, she wouldn’t face any real consequences. However, her name would have to be mentioned in the report. Not a big deal, but Spencer just had the feeling that the less it attached to her, the better.

She was silent for a long time, and Spencer thought maybe she didn’t like the idea. He even considered retracting his words, just dismissing it as nothing. But then he noticed and heard her take a deep breath, and for a brief moment, something resembling a grateful smile appeared on her face.

“Okay,” she agreed with a weak nod. She glanced thoughtfully toward the club before turning her gaze back to him. “I guess I should go then.”

She didn’t move, as if waiting for something else.

“Right,” he muttered. “Right...thanks, by the way. For, you know, saving my life.”

It seemed like she was on the verge of a quiet chuckle, and he felt a little better.

“You’ll make it up to me somehow,” she replied.

This time, she didn’t acknowledge his words with a nod. Instead, she stepped closer, looping one arm around his neck, resting her chin against his shoulder, and staying still in that position, letting out just a sigh. Spencer, for most of the moment, felt too frozen to respond. And when he finally managed to, when he placed his hand gently on her back, returning the embrace, it was only a second before she pulled away and walked off.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #diva reader ♱#spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you

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belowablue · 1 month ago

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I've Never Seen Brown Eyes Look So Blue - Post Breakup James Potter x Reader

Thank you Ethel Cain for this title. Angsty one guys. No happy ending. 931 words.

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James sighed dejectedly at breakfast. He’d been doing that a lot recently. Ever since you ended things.

Now Peter would say, “c’mon James its been weeks, surely you’re over her by now?” Then, like clockwork, Sirius would chime in, “Just go and get laid mate, that’ll smooth a lot of things over.” He’d give James a conciliatory pat on the arm and go back to his coffee.

His friends tired to cheer him up everyday, and he was grateful for that but,

‘They’ll never be able to fill the hole you’ve left behind’ he thought miserably.

From your perspective, James should have seen the breakup coming from a mile away even without his glasses. When you’d first gotten together it felt like the whole world was bathed in a golden light. You were so happy you could hardly breathe. The two of you were so in love, nothing should’ve been able to come between you.

Except James didn’t need anything to. He did it himself. He got too comfortable. Blew you off too many times to do other stuff, because he thought you’d always be there when he got back. He stopped talking to you so much. Not the regular ‘pass the marmalade please?’ But the deeper, meaningful talks you used to have late at night, curled up in a window somewhere. He stopped confiding in you. He stopped putting effort in.

All in all, he took you for granted.

You put up with it for a while. Forcing strained smiles when he came stumbling back through the portrait swearing on his life that he would come on the next date you planned- because it was always you doing the planning. You defended him to your friends, saying he was busy with Quidditch or his friends and you didn’t want to be the overly-clingy girlfriend anyway. Pretending it didn’t bother you when all the bouquets he got you withered and he never replaced them.

Until you couldn’t stand it any longer.

The kicker was your anniversary date. What was supposed to be your six months anniversary date. You considered yourself pretty low-maintenance and decided a picnic by the lake would be fine. You’d given James a good weeks notice and he nodded, grinning, telling you he’d be there. How naive you were to believe him.

You got all dressed up in your nicest clothes, lugged all the food and blankets and pillows across the grounds. Set everything up, making it all pretty. You even charmed a couple of candles to float when the sun set. You fussed around for what felt like hours until everything was finally perfect. Then you perched yourself on a pillow and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

You continued waiting for hours because the alternative was too painful to bear thinking about.

Eventually you were forced inside when it began to rain. You’d gotten past the sad stage, now entering anger.

You stepped into the common room, soaked through, hair sticking to you, to find James, warm and dry, curled up in a circle with his friends laughing his head off.

Catching sight of your bedraggled state, his laugher stopped quickly, “I was wondering about you. Where have you been?”

He said it so innocently that your anger deflated, leaving you with nothing.

You stared.

Concerned, he got up and came to stand in front of you, brushing hair out of your eyes.

“Whats’s going on hmm?” He asked, so gently it was almost enough to make you melt right into his arms. Almost.

Wordlessly you handed your anniversary present to him. It was a pair of concert tickets to his favourite band that was playing in the holidays. It had been sold out for weeks and they were an absolute bitch to find but you did it, because you loved him. Fuck, you hadn’t even expected him to take you, predicting he’d ask Sirius instead and you were going to be okay with it because this time, this time you thought he would actually bother to show up.

He took the tickets and his eyes lit up. “No fucking way,” He gasped, “How the fuck did you manage this you absolute angel!” The smile on his face was obnoxious.

‘Don’t do it’ you silently begged in your head, ‘Please for the love of God don’t-‘

He turned away. He raced over to Sirius to wave the tickets in his face. “Look!” He crowed, “Look at this! Look what she’s found.”

The two of them began celebrating in front of the fire, jumping and laughing. Peter stared up at them, bemused. It was only Remus who had the thought to turn back to you.

Standing in a puddle from your dipping clothes, shivering, your last labour of love being paraded around in James’ hands.

You knew it was over then.

You went up to the dorm and didn’t look back, not even when you heard James calling your name confusedly. You didn’t want him to see the tears mingling with the rain drops on your face.

Now when you walked past him out of breakfast, you pretended he didn’t exist. You had to start putting yourself first and that meant no more letting James Potter walk all over you.

But you also couldn’t bare to look at him. Not when you knew you’d see such sadness in his eyes. You knew you’d melt and go running back to him. So you held your head high and marched on past him, ignoring the way his gaze followed you out of every room, watching you walk out of his life again and again.

AN: guys I don't know what got into me to write something sad. Anyways.

#james potter #james potter angst #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #hurtnocomfort #marauders #james potter is a douche #no happy ending #james potter drabble

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grandline-fics · 1 year ago

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Hello!! I adore your writing so much, they're so well-written! can i maybe request for the supernova trio (luffy, law and kid) reactions to accidentally touching their s/o's cold feet/hand when they're sleeping at night? thank you so much in advance!! <3

DESCRIPTION: They touch your cold hands/feet at night

WARNINGS: just fluff

CHARACTERS: Luffy, Law, Kid

WORDS: 1,465

A/N: Thank you for the request! I tried to keep each situation different and hopefully you like what I came up with for them

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST

———————

LUFFY

When Luffy sleeps it’s the deepest, calmest slumber that could make anyone jealous. Unless the strong, irresistible smell of Sanji’s cooking or the call of an island coming into view is a factor, it’s hard to predict what will wake the excitable Captain. It wasn’t until you got into a relationship with him and found yourself sleeping beside him each night you only just realised how deep of a sleep that was. One thing you always found was that even in his deepest sleep he had to be touching you in some way. So long as he had so much as a finger resting beside you it appeared he slept the happiest. It also helped when his contact with you was unbroken so as a result you had to take your watch shift after him.

However one evening Franky asked you to cover his watch because he had a lot of maintenance work to do on the Sunny after a recent storm and near miss with a persistent Marine fleet. You’d agreed and saw no problem with it since Franky’s watch was straight after yours anyway. While Luffy pouted about it, he knew it was a one time thing. You spent the evening in the ship’s aquarium, waiting for your double watch to come. When the time came, you stretched out and reluctantly left the warmth of the comfortable position you’d been in and wandered out onto the deck.

You shivered when the cool night air hit your skin. Even with the layers you’d had on you could feel the cold beginning to seep in. By the time you’d climbed to the Crow’s Nest you were trembling and spent most of your double watch trying to keep warm which you barely managed. Although it felt pointless because by the time your shift was over, the cold air on the climb down undid all your efforts so getting to your room and hurrying to get under the covers was your only goal.

Luffy all but sensed your arrival into the room and his arms reached out to cling to you but the second your hands and feet brushed against his skin in your attempt to desperately use his body heat to get warm, his eyes snapped open. At the same time his body acted out of instinct. Luffy’s hands shot forward and pushed you away, his mind not even catching up with what he’d done or what happened until after he heard your yelp and the thud of your body hitting the floor. Slowly he crept to the edge of the bed and looked down to see you staring up at him completely baffled and dazed. “Oh…oops?” Luffy let out a nervous laugh and reached out to pull you back into the bed, making sure to hold you closer than normal so you’d warm up faster.

LAW

Law was a chronic workaholic and while he had been getting better and creating a better balance between rest and work, he could still get distracted and forget to prioritise himself. So it usually fell to you to coax him out of his current focus and come to bed. Usually being the word, on nights like this he just wouldn’t shift from his desk. He’d planted a soft kiss against your lips and promised he’d be done soon. Giving him the benefit of the doubt for the first couple times, you’d returned to bed only to rise half an our later to check on your lover. The third time you got up, you leant against the doorframe of his office and stared at him with heavy, tired eyes.

Slowly sensing you’d appeared again, Law glanced up briefly but quickly dropped his gaze to the research notes he’d gathered on an interesting new contagious virus that was beginning to be known in the New World. Faintly he heard you yawn and he looked up again. “Go to bed, I promise I’ll be going soon too.” You rolled your eyes at that and he let out a small smile. “I know, I know, I said that already but I do mean it. You look exhausted, get some sleep.”

“Why can’t you just bring that with you and read it in bed?” You asked, smiling knowingly when Law pretended to not hear that suggestion. If that was his answer then you were not budging from your spot, deciding to play him at his own game and try your next tactic. If you were stubborn about your wellbeing it would be enough to snap Law out of it. Usually his drive for knowledge was admirable but you could see he was just as tired as you were. The last thing you wanted was for him to get sick. “Hey Law?” You asked casually, listening out for his small hum in response. “You ever think about installing carpet on these floors? Would make things so much nicer.”

“It’s a pirate ship, not a hotel-” Law’s playful observation stopped when he looked up to finally see you were standing there in your bare feet. Immediately he activated his Devil Fruit and brought you both to your shared bed. Now having you beside him, he flinched at the feeling of your icy cold skin against his and scowled. How could you have been so careless? Judging by the satisfied expression you had as you nuzzled in closer to his chest and closed your eyes he could see you’d done it on purpose. With a sharp sigh, Law settled back against the pillows and gently rubbed your back, letting your relaxed breaths lull him to sleep.

KID

“Killer’s going to kill you when we’re not lost anymore. You promised not to wander too far.” You mused as you walked with Kid, your arms folded lazily across your chest, watching your Captain and boyfriend pace angrily around the clearing you’d finally come across, trying to pick which direction to go in now. At least it was something different from the same, unchanging layout of thick trees and vines you’d been facing for the last two hours. Slowly you looked up at the sky, the light was rapidly fading, it wouldn’t be long before night was going to fall and with no visible clouds it was going to be a bitter and cold one. Here you stood with no proper supplies for camping. “Wonder if I can convince him I was innocent in all this…”

“You’re as much to blame as I am!” Kid grumbled, finally snapping out of his pacing to glare at you. “Why are you so relaxed anyway? Like you said we’re lost.” Kid watched as you pursed your lips thoughtfully and eventually shrugged. You never were one to panic in situations like this and for some reason even though it was just you and Kid in the middle of nowhere it would never feel like a bad predicament.

“You’ll keep me safe, right Captain?” You asked with a teasing smile. Kid scoffed and grinned at your joke.

“Quit actin’ like you can’t look after yourself now come one. If we go in this direction we might find something familiar.” He instructed, his usual confident smile in place as you fell into step beside him.

As much as you’d both helped to find something familiar and reunite with the rest of the crew, you and Kid ended up coming across a completely different town on the island. Since night had fallen and you were both exhausted you both decided to just stay at the nearest available place and try again in the morning. The only thing you could find was a tavern and the owner seemed more wiling to deal with you than Kid’s imposing presence that only got more abrasive from his tiredness. Gratefully you took the room key when it was offered and led your boyfriend upstairs to the room.

When you closed the door behind you both, you moved straight for the bed and flopped on top of it with a groan, just wanting to fall asleep quickly. Kid smirked at your dramatics and using his large metal hand he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you with ease so he could get under the covers first and finally settle you down against him. Immediately your arms wrapped around as much of his frame as you could, feeling him jump in shock at the feeling of your cold hands meet his skin.

“Fuck! You’re freezing!” He shouted, looking at you with a frown, he tended to naturally run on the warmer side and hadn’t really cared when it had gotten dark. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Kid asked only to sigh when you shrugged again and smiled at him.

“Maybe I wanted an excuse for you to look after me?”

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